Body Movers Books 1-3

His affinity for poker had landed him in debt up to his neck—and hers. And he’d been foolish enough to borrow from some unsavory characters. A henchman for one of the loan sharks had come to see her at the department store a few months ago, threatening bodily harm to both of them if Wesley didn’t make a payment. Inadvertently, her brother always seemed to drag her into his messes, but every time she’d considered telling him that he was of age and to hit the road, she couldn’t. She couldn’t abandon him as her parents had, yet the knot of worry in her chest never eased. She agonized over what trouble he might get into next, and how they might stay afloat.

Carlotta sighed. One of the worst things about living paycheck to paycheck was imagining Angela Ashford having a one-hundred-dollar lunch with her friends—many of them girls Carlotta had gone to school with and had once considered her friends—saying, “That poor Carlotta Wren, still single and working retail, can you imagine?” But if it was the price she had to pay for a hefty commission, so be it. If Angela spent true to form, the commission on this sale alone would be enough to pay this month’s mortgage and electric bill.

Or at least last month’s.

Carlotta opened the door to the dressing room to find Angela sitting on a bench, half-naked, drinking from a silver flask. She quickly swallowed and wiped her mouth. “Just getting a head start on my two-martini lunch.”

Carlotta remained silent but knew that anyone who packed their own booze had a problem. Her mother had kept a similar flask in her purse for whenever the urge struck for a “drinkie-poo.”

“I brought shoes,” Carlotta said brightly, wheeling in the bounty.

Angela pushed to her feet shakily enough to tell Carlotta that she’d taken more than one “drinkie-poo” in Carlotta’s absence, but apparently it had given the woman enough energy to embark upon another spending binge that included six outfits, eight pairs of shoes, including a pair of tall, exotic black boots that Carlotta coveted, plus a rather astonishing array of risqué underwear (“Peter likes me in black”). Angela even ventured into the men’s department where she chose an exquisite cashmere jacket with a crest embroidered on the lapel—Peter’s favorite brand, Carlotta recalled fondly. And the charcoal-gray would look great on Peter with his fair hair and dark skin. From the size, it appeared that he had filled out a little in the shoulders.

She hadn’t seen him in ages, only once in the mall a couple of years ago. He hadn’t known she was standing a mere ten feet from him while he ordered a double latte from a coffee shop. She had wanted to call out his name, to smile and say how nice it was to run into him, that she’d seen his and Angela’s wedding announcement and photo in the Atlanta Journal–Constitution Sunday Living section and, hey, congratulations. But in the end she hadn’t wanted to force an awkward exchange, to see the pity in his gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes for the way her family and lifestyle had imploded, so she’d simply watched him tip the clerk and walk away, her body straining after him.

Brushing her hand over the fine fabric of the jacket, Carlotta ignored the vibrating cell phone in her pocket and listened while Angela told her about the lavish parties that she and Peter threw at their palatial home located in a gated subdivision within the exclusive neighborhood of Buckhead. And how with the recent addition of a pool, spa and alfresco kitchen, they were the envy of their neighbors. And how well Peter was doing in his job at Mashburn and Tully Investments—which had once been Mashburn, Tully and Wren. The irony of Peter working for the same firm where her father had once been a partner seemed comically cruel.

“Did I mention that Peter was given a huge bonus this quarter?” Angela slurred as Carlotta rang up the enormous sale.

“Yes, I believe you did mention it,” Carlotta said smoothly. The encounter was nearly over—she could afford to be nice a little while longer, even if it killed her inside.

Angela smirked. “Of course, Peter makes all of his money legally.”

Carlotta clenched her jaw but decided to allow the sly reference to her father’s crime slide.

“Whatever happened to your parents?” Angela pressed, her eyes glinting with a gossipy light.

Carlotta wet her lips. “I really don’t know.”

“You mean you’ve never heard from them all this time?”

“That’s right.”

Angela made a pitying noise in her throat. “What kind of parents could just run off and leave their kids like that?”

Carlotta had her opinion but decided not to respond.

“I feel so sorry for you, Carlotta. I mean, it must have been hard for you to go from having everything you wanted to having nothing.”

From the triumphant look in Angela’s eyes, Carlotta could tell that by “everything,” the woman meant Peter. Carlotta wanted to say that it hadn’t been easy, especially since all of her so-called friends had seemingly vanished into thin air along with her parents. She and Angela hadn’t been best buddies, but they had run in the same crowd—the crowd that had turned on her by high-school graduation. Angela had gone on to Vandy, which was where Carlotta assumed the woman had hooked up with Peter. Had “poor Carlotta” been a common topic of conversation?

“I managed just fine,” she murmured.

Angela leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s why I always buy things from you, Carlotta, because I figure that you need the commission. It’s my little good deed.”

The scent of gin burned Carlotta’s nose like the fiery mortification that bled through her chest. Years’ worth of pent-up frustration suddenly flared to life. Her hands halted in the middle of ringing up the sale. “I don’t need your pity, Angela,” she said, her voice shaking, “or your effing money.” She gave herself ten points for the verbal filter.

Angela’s expression grew haughty. “You don’t have to be nasty—I’m only trying to help.”

“You’re trying to make me feel like a charity case.” And dammit, she was succeeding.

Angela swept her hand over the pile of merchandise that cost as much as Carlotta’s car. “So you’d be willing to turn your back on this sale because of your stupid pride?”

Carlotta hesitated—she desperately needed the commission—and in her hesitation, knew Angela had won. As she looked into the woman’s slightly unfocused but gloating eyes, comebacks whirled through Carlotta’s mind, ranging from “Screw you” to “You’re right” to “You got Peter—what else do you want from me?”

She wanted to throw something, to hit something, to push the Rewind button and be seventeen again, before her life had taken such a detour. To her horror, moisture gathered in her eyes. She blinked furiously and opened her mouth. “I—”

Her phone vibrated against her side and she pounced on the diversion. “I’m sorry, Angela, I have to take this call.” But when she withdrew the phone and glanced at the caller ID, fear bolted through her chest. Atlanta Police Department.

Her heart lodged in her throat as images of Wesley’s mangled body ran through her mind. He’d finally gotten himself killed on that damn motorcycle of his. She stabbed the Incoming Call button, missed, and tried again. “Hello?”

“Hi, sis,” Wesley said, his voice tentative—like at age ten when he had put sugar in their neighbor’s gas tank “just to see if it really would freeze up the engine.”

It had.

Her initial flood of relief that he was alive was immediately overridden with a different kind of anxiety. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do you assume something’s wrong?”

She glanced up to find Angela listening intently. Carlotta turned her back and walked a few steps to be—she hoped—out of earshot. “Because, Wesley, the police department came up on the caller ID.”

“Oh.”

“So…what happened?”

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I kind of got arrested.”

Carlotta felt faint. “What? You kind of got arrested, or you did get arrested?”

She could picture him on the other end of the line, stabbing at his glasses and weighing his answer. “I did get arrested.”

She closed her eyes and mouthed a curse.

“I heard that.”

Okay, minus ten points for swearing at her kid brother. She counted to three, then exhaled. “What were you arrested for?”

“Well, it’s kind of complicated. Maybe you’d better come down here.”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“The jail at City Hall East.”

Christ, what did it say for her that she knew exactly where the jail was? She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “What am I supposed to do once I get there?”

“Uh…ask for inmate Wren?”

She clenched her jaw and disconnected the call, then gave Angela a flat smile. “I have to go. Someone else will be happy to ring up your purchases.”