Running On Empty (Fleur de Lis Book 2)

  Running on Empty

  A.L. Vincent

  Running on Empty

  Copyright © 2017 by A.L. Vincent.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-996-2

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-996-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This one is dedicated to two badass women in my life. Zelda and Colleen D. This one’s for you two. “Here’s to Us.”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

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  “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

  —Hemingway

  Chapter One

  Grace

  Grace Delchamp stood center stage. Head lowered, she stared at the yellow wires taped to the stage through a veil of black hair. The spotlight focused on her, its heat magnifying the sultry air wafting in from the open doors of the Bourbon Street bar.

  Brent Mouton, the band’s lead guitarist and other singer, played the first few bars of their signature song. Grace lifted her head and began to sing. The first part of the song was acoustic—her vocals that some had called “haunting” rang through the crowd accompanied only by the sound of Brent’s guitar.

  Her voice rose with the chorus. As she sang, the crowd melted away, along with any residual nervousness. It was simply her and the melody. Nothing else.

  Grace lived for that moment. The crowd didn’t matter. The applause didn’t matter. For her, this was it. She thrived on it, ate it up, and gave it everything she had.

  Her voice trailed off as the song ended. She grinned and nodded as the crowd applauded. The next song on the set list was a fast one, a hard rocking song from the ’80s. Grace threw her hair back and played with the audience, making eye contact with the obviously single guys and winking, getting the girls in the bachelorette parties to sing along on the mic.

  When everyone joined in, Grace knew they were all having a good time.

  Song after song, the show continued, until Grace was slick with sweat and euphoria. Adrenaline coursed through her, firing her up even more.

  She and Brent belted out the last few bars of the Def Leppard hit “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and then it was break time. She walked off the stage, white towel in hand, to the bar. She needed something cold to drink.

  She held the towel to her neck with one hand while she sipped the drink with the other. Feeling a presence lurking behind her, she turned, one eyebrow raised, ready to let a drunk tourist have it.

  Seeing her older brother and his best friend’s smiling faces behind her, she shouted, “Joey! Carly!”

  “You surprised?” Joey asked. His dark hair was, as always, slightly disheveled. Usually in t-shirts with off-the-wall sayings, tonight he had chosen to wear a Saints monogrammed pullover and khaki shorts.

  “Yes!”

  “Carly won ghost tour tickets in a writing contest, so we all came up.”

  “I’m so excited!” Carly said. “And we’re staying at the Gilded Lily again! I hope I see a ghost this time!”

  Carly had also dressed up for the night out. Her blonde hair, usually in a ponytail, floated around her shoulders. She wore a cute flowered sundress. She was often compared to Drew Barrymore, and tonight Grace could see the resemblance.

  “Come on,” Joey said, tucking his hand under her elbow. “Em and Noah are here. Come meet us!”

  Grace followed Joey and Carly to the courtyard area away from the crowd. For Noah, Grace knew. Noah, an Iraq war veteran, still had issues that would probably never go away. Dealing with crowds was one. The fact that he was in New Orleans on Bourbon Street on a weekend was a testament to how much he had changed since he and Emily had been together. Emily’s quiet and calm presence probably had a lot to do with those changes. Emily had recently followed her dream and opened the Bon Chance Catering Company. She was now traveling all over southern Louisiana setting up jobs. Noah had chosen to work with his hands in solitude. He ran his own construction company. In Grace’s opinion, the two could not be more perfect for each other.

  One summer years ago, Carly, the imaginative one, had christened the group “The Boonies.” The Boonies was loosely based on an ’80s movie that had sent them all on a search for Jean Lafitte’s treasure. That, and the fact that in their teens they had considered the small coastal town of Bon Chance to be in the boondocks. It was far removed from all the action in the big cities of New Orleans, Baton Rouge, or Biloxi.

  Emily and Noah were the oldest of the group. Carly and Joey were next in age. Carly was Noah’s younger sister, and Joey was Grace’s older brother. Carly, Joey, and Noah had gone into business together the year before, opening Snapper’s Bar and Grill.

  The youngest and biggest group was Grace’s circle. It consisted of Grace, Ryder, Gabriel, and Benjamin. Benjamin, Carly and Noah’s younger brother, had passed away a few years ago in an oil rig accident.

  “I see your friends are here,” Brent said, walking up behind Grace.

  Grace stiffened and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Things with Brent and her had become tense lately. He kept asking her out for dinner, for drinks, for sex—all of which Grace kept refusing. The man was much too self-absorbed and arrogant for her taste. Grace could see the train wreck that getting involved with him would be from a mile away. Brent had grown up in Pointe Shade, a small town just down the road from Bon Chance. He was a Mouton, and that meant trouble. His uncle thought he owned the town, and probably did own most of it. As a result, his kinfolk thought everything else belonged to them too. Even women.

  “Yes, Brent.”

  “We’re here for a ghost tour and Bourbon Street, of course,” Carly chimed in, always ready for a party. Brent’s eyes shifted to the blonde beauty.

  Oh Lord, Grace thought, here we go.

  “Well, hello, Carly. You look amazing tonight as usual.”

  Grace cut her eyes to Joey, who was frowning. But then again, so was Noah. But Carly could handle herself.

  “And don’t you look…sweaty,” Carly said, smiling with a wrinkle of her nose. It was a jab, and Grace resisted the urge to laugh.

  Brent frowned, his blue eyes narrowed. He turned to Grace. “Well, we’re back up in f
ive minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Brent disappeared back through the crowd in the bar.

  “What was that all about?” Carly asked as soon as he was gone.

  “Oh, he’s being an ass. He gets more conceited every day. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. And doesn’t like taking no for an answer. No matter how many times you turn him down. It’s getting aggravating.”

  Carly shook her head. “Men!”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Grace said, downing her drink as she looked at her phone. “Well, guys, it’s time for me to get back up there. I’ll see y’all soon,” she said, hugging them. “Have fun!”

  Chapter Two

  Grace woke up to the alarm buzzing on the nightstand. Feeling lightheaded, she blinked in confusion. Her eyes widened when she realized she wasn’t alone. Who was in bed with her? She glanced over to see Brent lying beside her.

  She sat up in bed, shaking her head and blinking. Her head felt like it was full of cotton. Looking down, she realized her state of undress. She grabbed the sheet and covered herself. Her head swam with the unfamiliar dizziness. This was not what drunk felt like. She took deep breaths to keep from vomiting as her stomach heaved in turmoil.

  What happened?

  “What did you do?” Grace whispered to Brent, fearing the answer.

  “You don’t remember?” Brent asked, smiling.

  Grace scanned her memory. The band had gone for a few drinks after practice. Later, only Grace and Brent remained. They had toasted to a good show. They’d listened to a few songs and made a little small talk about new music selections. That was it. How had she gotten back to her apartment? She closed her eyes, trying to remember.

  Nothing.

  Had she walked?

  Nothing.

  Her heart began racing. What had she done? Her mind was hazy, the memories shrouded like a curtain.

  “What did we do?”

  He climbed out of bed and started pulling on clothes.

  “Brent! I never would have slept with you. I told you no repeatedly. What did you do?”

  “I’ll never tell,” he said. “Bye, sweetheart. It was fun.”

  Grace searched her memory again, the fear chasing the fog from her mind. She remembered drinks, the round of shots Brent had brought back from the bar. The shots. That was the last thing she recalled.

  “You put something in my drink, didn’t you?”

  “Does it matter now?” he asked. Now clothed, he walked toward the bedroom door.

  “This isn’t over,” she whispered as another wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. “I will make sure you pay for this.”

  “What are you going to do? Who’s going to believe you? And don’t forget Sheriff Mouton is my dear uncle. I won’t pay for anything. Where do you think the stuff came from?”

  Grace grabbed one of her high-heeled black leather boots off the floor beside the bed and threw it across the small room.

  “You aren’t going to do anything. I’ll see you tonight at the show.” And he walked out the door.

  Grace’s heart pounded as she stared at the closed door. Adrenaline pushed away the nausea and the fog. Looking down, she saw the match to the black boot she had thrown at Brent. She picked it up and threw it at the door.

  “I’m not going to do anything?” she yelled at the door. “Watch me.”

  Grace jumped out of bed and grabbed some clothes out of her dresser. Looking at them, folded and clean, she shuddered. She couldn’t put them on yet. Not without showering. She stalked into the bathroom and turned the water on the hottest temperature. When she was finally convinced she had scrubbed all remnants of the encounter away, she stepped out and toweled off.

  Still in a towel, she went back in the bedroom. She saw the rumpled bed. She strode over to it and grabbed the black sheets. With a tug, she pulled everything off the bed, throwing it into a pile in the far corner of the room. When that was done, she stomped on them. Once. Then twice.

  Her lips curled in a sneer. She took one last glance at the sheets and turned to get her travel bag.

  “See me tonight? I don’t think so, Brent.”

  Then, in a whisper, “And yes. I will see that you pay for this. Somehow.”

  She tossed a few changes of clothes and toiletries in the bag, threw it over her shoulder with her guitar, and walked out the door.

  ***

  Empty.

  On the side of the quiet highway, Grace kicked the motorcycle and cursed. The gas tank was empty. The gas gauge had been acting up for weeks and Grace hadn’t had the chance to take it in. In the chaos after waking up with Brent, she hadn’t topped it off with fuel.

  She had only three miles to go and she’d be home in the little town of Bon Chance on the Louisiana coast. Three miles to the safety of her childhood home, best friends, and family.

  She glanced at her phone. She should call Joey or Ryder and have them come get her rather than walk on a mostly deserted highway. Asking for help had never come easily. Three miles would not be a long stretch. She expended more energy than that performing with the band on stage or on a morning run along the canal. Besides, the exercise would be welcome. She palmed the pepper spray hanging from her keychain and thought of the knife in her boot. God help the man who chose to mess with her today.

  Grace pulled off the motorcycle helmet and felt the long braid fall against her back. She threw her guitar case and travel bag over one shoulder. She unzipped the kennel bungee corded securely to the passenger’s seat and took out the small white and brown dog of indiscernible breed and nuzzled him to her face. His white fur contrasted with the wisps of black hair that had escaped and fell across her face.

  She had rescued the dog as a puppy. She had found him eating out of a dumpster behind a bar on Bourbon. A small, dirty ball of matted hair, she brought him home, bathed and fed him. She named him Furball, or Furby, for short.

  She placed Furby back in the kennel, cradling it to her chest. He squirmed until she unzipped the top so he could poke his head out.

  As she walked alone down the old highway, Grace let herself be comforted by the familiar sights and the warmth of the sun on her face. She passed the old cemetery with its white tombs jutting up, casting shadows on the grass.

  When she passed the kayak and boat rental store, she knew that soon, the gulf would be in view. She could already hear the seagulls calling. It was sweet music calling her home. Slowly, the town she loved came into view. She passed the open air market where farmers displayed their produce. Familiar faces smiled as she waved. She walked by the one grocery/convenience/gas station where everyone went for coffee and the day’s gossip. Snapper’s Bar and Grill was next. She would stop by later to have a drink and visit with the regulars. She would also text Ryder. Maybe a few drinks with him and a few spins around the dance floor would help her regain a sense of security.

  Not far from Snapper’s was Joey and Carly’s house. It was the classic coastal camp, elevated on stilts and slightly weathered grey from the salty air and wind. Their parents had left it to them when they had retired and moved to the Florida coast with Carly and Noah’s parents. Her brother’s shiny black Jeep and boat were nestled underneath. He wouldn’t go into the bar to cook until later. She walked up the steps and crept quietly to her former bedroom, relishing the familiarity. The same rock posters hung over the bed as when she was younger. The same blanket laid on the bed, the same pictures of friends and family were on the dresser.

  “Look, Furby. It’s my old room.” She let him down and he ran around sniffing everything while she took off her boots and got undressed.

  Exhausted and feeling dirty from the road but too tired to shower, she dropped the beat-up leather traveling bag and guitar case on the floor by the bed. Furby, having found everything to his satisfaction, jumped up on the pillow beside her head and they slept.

  ***

  Grace jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. Heart racing, her eyes popped open.
She saw her brother’s face. Her fears were chased away by her brother’s dimpled smile.

  “Grace? What are you doing here?” He stepped back from the bed and she could see his rumpled dark hair in the light from the open doorway. He wore the Saints pajama pants she had bought him for Christmas and a battered t-shirt that had once bore a witty saying, but had faded to something indiscriminate.

  “I needed a place to think,” she said. She could not tell Joey what happened with Brent.

  “You okay?”

  Unable to lie to him, she said, “Not really.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Needing to change the subject, Grace told him about the bike. “Can I borrow your truck to go get it?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll go grab Noah and we’ll get it. Don’t worry about anything, get some rest. You look like hell. Come to Snapper’s later and I’ll cook you some lunch.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He ruffled her hair like he’d done so many times in the past. “See you in a bit.”

  After he closed the door, Grace grabbed her bag and pulled out running shoes. She glanced at the knife she normally kept hidden in her sock. She didn’t need that here. She was safe.

  Soon, Grace and Furby were walking along the beach. She unleashed Furby to let him run, and she followed suit.

  As she ran, she thought of Brent and the band. She was not going back to New Orleans. Not after what Brent had done. It would put the band in a bind while they looked for a replacement, and she felt bad for her friends, but it was Grace or Brent. And if she went back to New Orleans, one of them would be arrested.

  Grace increased her pace to almost grueling. Her heart pounded and her lungs begged for air. She scanned her memory again, hoping to remember what had happened, terrified it was futile. What if she never remembered what happened? What was she going to do?