Dethroning Crown Read online

  I worked myself thin until the emails were all answered and sheer exhaustion demanded I heed its call.

  The next day was more of my peaceful norm. I dressed in a pair of jeans and an old Southeastern University sweatshirt and set my sights on an antique chest of drawers. I’d bought it at a flea market in Lafayette and it just begged me to repaint it. Anything could be made new—all you had to do was take the time to take off the ugly layers and replace it with something beautiful. Plus, I had nothing but time. I only worked jobs that wouldn’t take me away for too long and only about one per month. I could make tons more money if I wanted to, but I hated the fast and loud life those jobs would make me have. I much preferred to live simply and work as little as possible. There was too much reading and living to do for a full time job.

  On those jobs, I made enough to save up for my get out plan, so there was no need to work a regular job when what I was doing worked.

  I dragged the faded mint colored dresser outside onto a tarp. After applying paint remover, I began the therapeutic job of scraping all the horrible paint off. The laborious activity gave me an outlet for my pent up nervous energy and I was sure the fumes helped in the process.

  After it was completely stripped, I went inside and cooled myself from the horrid humidity with a tall glass of iced tea and reveled in the sincere silence of a job well done.

  That’s when the walls started to shake.

  ~~

  “I’m sorry, Lyra. There were some necessary improvements that we had to make, last minute for the new tenant. He’s just had knee surgery and requested a few changes. It will only be one day of work and I will take it off next month’s rent.”

  Eric, my landlord, had always been good to me. For the first three years I’d lived here, his wife, Chela, would check on me every week and invite me to go to their home for supper on Sundays. They reminded me of my parents—the way they touched each other’s shoulders or winked at each other.

  Well, my parents before the shit hit the ceiling.

  Eric’s voice was purely apologetic and sincere. I shouldn’t even have called. I felt like a bitch for doing it, but I had an aversion to loud noises just like I did most things that disrupted my silent life.

  “Eric, I thought we had an arrangement. I pay the rent for this part of the duplex and the other side to ensure—to make sure that—you know I’m a whack job, Eric. You know this. Why are you doing this to me?”

  I played the whole thing off in a joking manner, but we both knew it was the truth.

  He relayed my thought, which he thought was funnier than I did, to Chela, who laughed in response.

  “I know, Lyra. Again, I’m sorry. But he was in a bind, and it will be a few months. Plus…”

  I’d never known Eric to stutter.

  “Plus, what?”

  “Well, I know that he is getting out of jail soon, like in a few days. I didn’t think it was a bad idea to have a guy next door. Just his presence could serve as a—deterrent.”

  Fear pierced my heart as his words funneled through me. Eric and Chela knew enough about who I was to know that putting a man within that close of a distance, sharing a roof and—an attic—was the very peak of the things that would cause me terror. I felt betrayed. They’d always been so protective of me—so very compliant of the things I needed to stay on this side of sane. Then again, he had a point. As long as this guy stayed on his side, I guessed it would be fine.

  “Now, Lyra. I can hear your breaths from over here. This is my nephew. He’s a good kid. Rough around the edges. He will only be here for three months and is ready to get back to his career. He won’t try anything—especially since he’s busted his knee up so badly that he can’t play.”

  Grasping the wall next to me with my free hand, I steadied the wobbliness that had begun to take over out of fear. I was practiced at quelling panic—paranoia, not so much. Then again, panic and paranoia aren’t that far apart on the nuttiness scale.

  “Okay. Thank you.” Somehow I had drummed up a perky tone.

  Stilling myself, I looked around my place, desperate for some distraction from the noise and the valley of impending doom I’d buried myself in. The only way to get out of this mess was to bombard myself with music and words. Most people these days had iPods or some other music device that plugged in easily and gave them millions of songs. That was too easy for me. I had a record player. Music on vinyl sounded better anyway.

  There was also that little thing about me being terrified of anything digital or computerized to boot.

  I found comfort in my chaise lounge and plugged into Fleetwood Mac on vinyl with headphones plugged in and grabbed a book to keep my eyes from darting from the door to the windows and back to the door—making sure the boogey man wasn’t spying on me.

  It didn’t help.

  Hours later, I tested the waters, pulling one headphone away from my tired and squished ears. The only thing I heard was silence. I did a little dance in my chair, fists pumping in the air at my regained comfort zone.

  Silence is eerie to most people. But after years of hearing the robotic movements and footsteps above me, silence was my solace.

  And it was mine again.

  Jerking the wire out of the record player, I let Stevie Nicks finish up singing about the Seven Wonders sans headphones while I cooked dinner. As I stirred the concoction of garlic, onions, and olive oil, my stomach rumbled at the thought of pasta.

  Any girl’s woes could be cured, or at least calmed by a bowl of pasta.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I shouldered the phone while I continued to stir.

  “What’s up Tip?”

  “I hate when you call me Tip. I’d rather you go back to Pippi Longstocking.”

  “How was work?”

  Tippi worked as an accountant, hiding in a cubicle all day.

  “Boring. But I’m used to it.”

  “I’m cooking. You sound like you need pasta.”

  “Give me ten.”

  I hung up the phone and strained out the Campanelle. My chosen pasta always reminded me of gladiola blooms in the spring. Plus, if given the choice, I would always choose the prettier of options. Visual aesthetics were important in enjoying a meal.

  At least, that’s what my mother had always taught me.

  Ten minutes later, Tippi walked in. She had a key. I trusted her above the rest.

  “It smells phenomenal.” She respectfully waited until she got into the room before speaking to me. I hated people who chose to yell at each other from one side of the house to the other instead of getting up and actually speaking to someone face to face.

  Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t have very many friends—I was too high maintenance.

  I’d become picky about everything in my teens—it was the only way I could cope—being in control of everything.

  I refused to use that O.C.D. term for myself, even though, in my mind, it was more than fitting.

  “Thank you. You mind setting the table while I finish up here?”

  My friend leaned against the counter with her eyes closed, hold onto the edge of the counter. She looked like she was desperately trying to let go of the stresses of the day—and failing.

  A hefty sigh blew her raven bangs out of her eyes. “I’m on it.”

  Grabbing the plates, forks, bowls, Tippi finished the table and settled a sliced, toasted loaf of bread around the edges of each plate.

  For a while, we ate in silence. We took advantage of a bottle of red wine. After a half bowl of food, Tippi warmed up and told me about her day. She’d been contacted about doing personal accounting for some hotshot athlete but had turned it down. She didn’t want to be involved in anything remotely close to working directly for a man—a pompous, famous man at that.

  I’d just begun to tell her of my day when a new round of banging and bumping began in the place next door. Whoever this new tenant was ruining my semblance of a nice dinner.

  “Oh what fresh hell?”

&nbs
p; I wasn’t one to get angry quickly.

  But enough was enough.

  I stomped to the front door and wretched it open, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. There were two moving vans in the driveway with teams of men carrying in what looked like a mansion-full of furnishings and belongings.

  “Sorry for the disruption, Ma’am. We got paid extra to get everything in before morning.”

  Propping a fist on my hip, I sneered at the man. “Oh yeah? What, does it all turn to dust in the morning?”

  I’d spoken a little louder than I’d intended to, judging by the laughter that followed from all the men within hearing distance.

  “Not sure, lady. Just following the boss’ orders. We’ll be done as soon as we can. ‘Been asked to unpack everything too.”

  My anger wilted at the man’s tone. He was obviously just as put out to be working that late as night as I was being interrupted. He probably had a family waiting at home while this entitled tenant made demands of the landlord and now the moving company.

  “I’m sorry. We were just having dinner.”

  “I understand Ma’am. Like I said, as soon as possible.”

  I went back inside, ashamed of my behavior. It was just one day. I could handle one day of noise.

  Just one day.

  Tomorrow everything will be back to normal.

  The movers didn’t finish everything until a little after two in the morning. By then I was thoroughly annoyed. The guy must’ve had fifteen thousand articles of clothing because the movers were constantly opening and shutting what sounded like dresser drawers.

  Mostly, the piercing sound of the drills kept me awake.

  I needed to know what they were drilling holes into and why.

  Holes in the ceiling?

  Holes for wires.

  I shuddered in my bed thinking of the trouble drills could get someone into.

  With the help of a swig of Benadryl, I put myself to sleep, determined not to look like a death soaked demon when I got to Italy on Saturday morning. The company I was modeling for had scheduled a jet to take us to Florence, flying overnight.

  I would be boarding a flight in less than twenty-four hours.

  Friday morning, my alarm sounded at seven. Without a second thought, I smacked the button on the archaic device, needing more sleep than it gave me and went back to sleep.

  My eyes were closed and I’d just drifted into that river between wake and sleep when a roarous vibration rocked me out of my lull and into full awareness. A rhythm reverberated through the walls, even causing my headboard to buzz with the grotesque beat.

  What fresh hell is this? Someone is going to die today.

  If I had anything hanging on the walls, it would’ve all fallen down with the earthquake happening next door.

  As I stomped through my apartment, my eyes still at half-mast and my anger at full-mast, I tightened the belt around my robe and tore through the place in search of my nemesis.

  I reached my new neighbor’s door in record time and banged on it with so much force that I had to cradle my wrist afterwards. I’d tried, in vain, to knock in between booms of bass, thinking that was the only time I would be heard. Several minutes later, the music still at levels that would make people’s ears bleed, the door opened. I took three or four steps backwards at the shock of the perpetrator.

  His eyebrows were bunched together in an expression of that I understood as aggravation at my interruption.

  Well, that was just too damned bad.

  He wheeled himself toward me, only to be stopped by the threshold of the door blocking his way. His mouth moved, saying something to me, but whatever it was muffled by the continuous molestation of the air around us. I’d heard the word bitch more times in the last three minutes than I had ever heard it before.

  This dickhead seriously was trying to talk to me over that noise.

  His jaw just kept flapping without a care while he looked me up and down like I was delivering a stripper-gram.

  I’d had enough.

  Without approval or giving a fat rat’s ass, I grabbed onto the arm rests of his chair and wheeled him backwards until there was room for me to scoot past. I found the wretched ear raper in question and pushed every button I could see until finally the only noise left in the room was the ringing in my ears as they tried to repair the damage.

  He hadn’t said a word since I stormed in and his only movement was to turn his chair around and gape at me some more.

  In a word, he was gorgeous. Straight out of a men’s magazine gorgeous with come hither gray eyes and lips that should be cast to make mannequins.

  Those bastards would be able to sell anything that was put on them.

  I took in the space around me, refusing to talk first. It looked like some sort of futuristic bachelor had moved in. Every piece of furniture was either black lacquer or black leather. And for the love of all that’s holy, he had a round glass coffee table with gold accents around the bottom. He shouldn’t be playing rap music around this stuff, he should be playing seventies porn music.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  His face betrayed him and me. That face, perfectly tanned with a rigid jawline read gorgeous gentleman, but the mouth on him and the attitude that coupled with it read cocky douchebag.

  My rage coiled around me. “Keeping the peace. I don’t know where in outer space you came from, but around here, we don’t try to raise the dead through bass. That’s what we have voodoo for.”

  “Sweetheart, if you wanted to see me, all you had to do was say so. You don’t have to come over here with some bullshit excuse. Look at you, all ready to go.”

  He ticked his head at the direction of my mid-section and as I looked down, I realized in my fury, my robe had come undone. Tying it back quickly and way tighter than comfortable, I zeroed in on him. This guy was one tacky bastard.

  “Look. I don’t know who you are and I really could give a sh…crap. Here’s the thing. I don’t like loud noises and loud music. Ever since I got word that you were moving in there’s been nothing but noise. Keep your worthless music turned down to a reasonable level or I’ll call the cops next time.”

  I didn’t even mention what Eric had said about this guy being here to give the impression of me being protected. Maybe he didn’t even know. I got the feeling this guy did a lot of things simply for show. I thought I’d done pretty well at a threatening tone, something I had absolutely no practice at, but as soon as the spiel was finished a new, more menacing smile took over his features.

  “Mmmm…” he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and I couldn’t help but be captured by the sight. “I didn’t know you Cajun women were so aggressive. I kinda like it.”

  If he thought that worked with any woman, he was so wrong.

  “You’re disturbed. You’re obviously physically incapacitated. Maybe you took too many loopy pills this morning. Either way. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  He jerked the wheels of the chair and maneuvered himself into the door, blocking me from exiting. That smirk returned. I’m sure he’d won over tons of people before with that same tug of his lips, but not this girl.

  “Baby, trust me, it’s only my knee that’s hurt. The rest of me is perfectly primed and—alive.” The promise of crass behavior twinkled in his eye. I knew the look well.

  I could practically feel the slime oozing off of him and onto me.

  Looking towards the door, I surveyed my options and chose the least violent.

  Approaching him, I put on my most sultry look, and as I got closer and closer, he took to appraising me again which made me shudder. This guy was a real perve.

  The last thing I needed in my life was another perve.

  He wheeled himself closer as I gained ground, not even knowing that he was giving me my way out.

  “Oh, baby, I can tell how alive you are.”

  And then, while his gaze was trained on things other than my face, I slip
ped right past him and out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Crown

  I’ve got friends in no places.

  As soon as she left, I deflated. I’d bowed up in defense as if she’d violated me. The truth was, she’d shocked the hell out of me. When she knocked on the door, I’d expected one of my friends or someone from the team checking in on me—maybe even Uncle Eric.

  Instead, I got a raging case of PMS in a drop-dead suit of a woman. Every time she spoke her hands would flitter in the air, making motions that matched her words. People in California didn’t do that.

  There were some serious jazz hands when she talked about voodoo.

  Jesus, she was beautiful—and a real wench.

  My worthless music—how dare she.

  Apparently she was heavily medicated or just blinded by the wheelchair to see who I was. I mean really, my face was plastered over every sports station and most news stations.

  Too bad you didn’t make money from pure fame alone. For some reason, Geraldo and Gina always turned down opportunities for me to interview or appear on television live. I didn’t know why. Sooner or later, I’d just turned it around on them, claiming that I refused to do press to save face.

  Recuperating from whatever just blew through my place, I realized how bored I really was. I’d checked my phone over and over again for e-mails or texts, but none were coming through. It must be this small town. Maybe they don’t have good cell service—which is totally unacceptable.

  I was sure my e-mail was piling up as I sat there like a bump on a log.

  After getting sick of seeing my face all over the screen of my 80 inch curved screen TV, I decided to work out my arms on the stupid machine that looked like a stationary bicycle for biceps. That took up a whole half hour of my time.