Body Movers Books 1-3

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She laughed and in the wake of the cozy moment, she considered asking Wesley about the postcard she’d found from their parents. It had been a long time since they’d really talked about their parents. Maybe it was time to reopen that can of worms.

“Wesley—”

The chirp of his cell phone cut her off. He lunged for the tiny device sitting on the counter. “Hello?” He smiled. “Yeah, man.”

Carlotta wondered if it was that Chance Hollander, calling to lure Wesley into some kind of Friday-night trouble. Rich little bastard. He surrounded himself with people like Wesley who were impressed by the toys and good times his money could buy—people who would do his bidding.

Wesley grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a napkin. “Got it. I’ll get there somehow.” Then he disconnected the call.

Carlotta set her jaw, gathering verbal arguments for Wesley not to meet up with his troublemaker friend.

“That was Coop,” Wesley said breathlessly, his eyes shining. “We have a job.”

“Oh,” she said, her arguments vanishing as her thoughts turned foolishly to how she would greet Cooper Craft now that she knew he thought she was cute.

“But there’s one little problem.”

At the catch in her brother’s voice, she was instantly on alert. “Oh?”

Wesley chewed his lip, then sighed. “It’s a residential pickup, and Coop was close to the address when he got the call. Would you mind driving me there?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Well, I could drive—”

“You know you can’t drive on a suspended license!”

“I can’t get there on the train.”

Carlotta acknowledged that her brother was right, and felt herself wearing down. She’d hounded him about a job, and now he finally had one. It wouldn’t kill her to drive him; it wasn’t as if she had something better to do. “Okay, just don’t make a habit of this.”

He whooped. “Thanks, sis. I’ll grab my backpack while you put on a bra.”

She glared and swatted at his arm as he walked by, then pushed away from the table. The things she did for love. She went to her room wondering what would be appropriate to wear. She surveyed her flare-leg Levi’s, Juicy Couture T-shirt, Michael Kors high-heeled Mary Janes, and decided the outfit would have to do. She donned a bra and added a brown shrug sweater against the evening chill, then slid chocolate-pink lip balm onto her lips to keep them from getting chapped, not because Cooper Craft thought she was cute.

“Come on,” Wesley said from the doorway of her bedroom. “You’re dropping me off. You don’t need lipstick.”

“It’s lip balm.”

“Whatever, come on already.”

She swung her purse to her shoulder. “You owe me for this.”

“Yeah, well, add it to the list.”

They blew by Mrs. Winningham who was weeding her flower bed. “Wait! I want to talk to you two!”

“Some other time, Mrs. Winningham!” Carlotta promised the woman as they ran for the garage.

“But someone has been parking on the street and watching our houses! Don’t you care?”

“No!” they yelled in unison, ducking under the opening garage door and bolting for the Monte Carlo.

“Christ,” Carlotta muttered under her breath. “It’s probably that Detective Terry snooping around.”

“Yeah, probably,” Wesley said in a noncommittal voice.

Or any one of several other undesirables, she conceded miserably. “Do you have the address?” she asked as she backed out.

“Yeah, it’s in Buckhead.” He read off the street name and number and Carlotta frowned. “Hmm, that’s a nice area. Did he mention the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, it’s Martinique Estates. Know it?”

She frowned. “Maybe. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” She’d probably crashed a party there sometime, but didn’t want to say so in front of her brother. Besides, those days were behind her—no more party-crashing. She’d made an exception the other night and it had put her in the path of Peter Ashford, a scene which may have caused the humiliating takedown today at work. Her skin crawled at the memory and she touched the tender place on her throat. Thank God Lindy hadn’t called the police or the situation could have spiraled into something much more messy.

“Did someone have a heart attack in their home?” she asked.

“Coop didn’t say, but that’s a good guess.”

Unbidden, her parents came to mind. They would be in their mid-fifties now. If her mother was still drinking, she couldn’t be in good health. And her father had smoked like a chimney and enjoyed his bourbon. Occasionally she wondered if she and Wesley would even be notified if they were sick…or worse. But according to the postcard that Wesley had kept hidden, they were still kicking.

She glanced sideways at her brother in the dark cab of the car, unspoken words simmering on her tongue. But his face was a mask of concentration. It wasn’t an appropriate time or place to bring up their parents’ latest communication.

Ten minutes later they were winding through the community of Buckhead, Atlanta’s premier address, featuring enormous tree-laden lots and even more enormous amenity-laden houses. Old money met new money behind the soaring gates of the private communities where residents lifted a collective nose at the rest of Atlanta. Carlotta knew, because she’d grown up in just such a neighborhood.

“You missed the turn,” Wesley said, exasperated.

She frowned and looked in her rearview mirror. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s so dark out here!”

“Turn around!”

“Shut up and put on your seat belt!”

They bickered until they pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Martinique Estates. A squad car with a silent, flashing light sat next to the gatehouse.

“Lot of commotion for a heart attack victim,” she said, impressed.

A security guard accompanied by a uniformed police office approached the car as she rolled down the window. Wesley leaned forward and flashed an official-looking badge with his photo and something about the medical examiner’s office. The policeman looked at it, then handed it back and signaled for the gatekeeper to let them in.

Recalling all the tickets that Wesley had counterfeited for her, she frowned. “Is that a fake badge?”

“What? No. Coop gave me this. I’m official. Turn here.”

She did and again had the feeling that the street name was familiar for some reason. She stared up at the monstrous brick houses that looked more like compounds than homes and, God help her, she felt a stab of envy. Money didn’t buy happiness, but it made certain aspects of life a whole hell of a lot easier. She’d lived on both sides of that wrought-iron gate, so she knew.

Wesley was craning for house numbers, but that became a moot point when they both caught sight of a squad car and an ambulance, lights flashing, and various other official-looking vehicles parked at angles on the curb and in the downward-sloping driveway. The megamansion sat below curb level, judging by the way the land fell away and by the downward gaze of the onlookers. “I think we found the right house.” She guided the car closer, picking up an approaching cop in her headlights, then stopped and zoomed down the window.