Darlin’

1. Lost and Found

Lost and Found

"Oh, my..." The warmth and skill of his soft, masculine hands make my toes curl, and my head dang near spins from the euphoria of his expert touch. "Right there...a little harder." A trembling moan escapes my parted lips as he increases the pressure. "Oh, yes. Right there... harder... harder?—"

"Savannah Jean Kingsley!" Shoot . I snap open my eyes, twisting my neck toward my mother's scolding voice as she pointedly glances up at my masseuse. "I apologize for my daughter's"—she glares at me, shimmying up her massage table—"inappropriate outbursts."

"Nothin' to apologize for Mrs. Kingsley." Zackery chuckles under his breath, continuing to hammer out all the kinks in my shoulders. "All it tells me is that I'm doing a fine job, ain't that right, Savvy girl?"

"Mhmm," I hum, my mother's icy gaze lowering the temperature in the room by several uncomfortable degrees.

Momma raises a meticulously plucked brow. "A simple 'you're doing a good job' would suffice, would it not?"

"You're doing a good job, Zack," I mutter under my breath, resting my cheek against the raised pillow head on the table. I glare at Momma. "Better?"

"Much," she says. "See? Look how easy it is to be a lady."

"Right, a lady," I grumble, suddenly much more tense than I was prior to the massage. "Remind me again why I agreed to this mother-daughter outing?"

"Because, Savannah, preliminaries are two months away, and if we're to win Miss USA, then I need you to be relaxed ," she replies in a clipped tone, pursing her ruby-red lips.

"Seriously, child, you're looking like a hunchback these days.

" Her gaze skims down my bare spine and she clicks her tongue.

"Posture matters, Savannah. You think the judges are gonna crown you queen if you look like you have a part-time job scaling the sides of Notre Dame? I don't think so."

Miss USA. It's all I've ever heard since the moment I could comprehend the English language.

Momma made sure that she used my entire childhood to prepare me for this coveted title.

Honestly, I find the idea of stuffing pageant flippers into a child's mouth totally ridiculous, but the trophies on my shelf prove that it's essential for a win.

Twenty-one years of waving, smiling, and twirling for judges does a number on a girl, mentally, physically, and posturely ...is that word? Screw it. 'Tis now.

"If relaxation was the goal of this little bonding day," I say, scowling, "then I'm afraid to tell you that you've failed. I do not feel relaxed right now."

"You seemed rather relaxed a second ago," she notes. "Perhaps too relaxed."

"Well, that was short-lived," I mumble. "Now I'm stressed again. Thanks, momma."

"There's relaxation, Savannah, and then there's fornication," she states with a huff. "We're at a massage parlor, not a house of ill repute."

Here we go again.

"A house of ill repute?" My jaw drops. She's somehow becoming more uptight as the years drone on.

"That is just plain rude, momma." I crane my neck up to Zackery.

"Do I look like a lady of the night to you ?

" I wiggle my brows, tossing him an air kiss.

"Would you pay for some of my sugar—" I pause, giggling. " Sugar ?"

"Savannah!" Momma gasps, swatting my shoulder. She rolls over and jerks upright off the table, pupils alarmingly wide. "I think it's time for us to leave now." She wraps the cotton sheet around her torso, nodding to the door. "You, gentlemen, are excused. Thank you."

"We've still got twenty minutes left, though," George says, stepping away from Momma's table as he glances at Zackery. "Y'all sure you don't wanna finish up here? It's paid for already."

"We're fine," Momma says, dismissing the boys. "Forty minutes of listening to my daughter moaning and groaning seems to be my limit these days." She blinks at Zackery and George as they hover awkwardly around us. "Well? Go on now. "

"Right away, ma'am," Zack mutters, hustling out the door with George in tow.

"That was a bit unnecessary, don't you think?" I hop off the table and stride toward the dressing room. I drop the sheet around my ankles and grab the baby blue sundress off the hanger, slipping it over my head. "I could've kept quiet for twenty more minutes."

"Could you?" Momma's incredulous laugh floats into my stall. "Really?"

"Yes," I state with absolute confidence as I struggle to zip up my dress.

I check the sizing tag and frown. Did she really return this dress for a smaller size? Is this supposed to motivate me?

"I highly doubt that," Momma says. "The last time you stayed silent for more than ten minutes was when you had laryngitis, and even then, you sang like a croaking bluebird."

"Sometimes I wish you'd get laryngitis," I grunt, strapping on my heeled sandals before whipping open the changing room curtain. I glare at my mother as she straightens out the broach pinned to her blazer. "Perhaps then we'd finally know world peace ."

"Save it for the judges, Savannah," she sighs, looping her handbag over her forearm as she passes me my purse. She studies my designer bag with a scrutinizing gaze. "I don't like all the chains on this. It's very demonic, not at all feminine."

I roll my eyes, yanking the purse from her hands. "Sorry, Momma, let me just call the designer and express your deep, deep satanic concerns." We make our way out of the room, turning down the hallway toward the exit. "Perhaps his next release will include rainbows, kitties, and housewife Valium."

"Watch your tone, Savannah.” She frowns as we reach the parlor's cafe. "You're not too old for the wooden spoon."

"You wanna spank me, momma?" I ask in a sultry tone, turning to the blushing barista and giving her a wink. "I do love a good spanking. Really puts me in my place, ya know?" I let out a yelp as my mother pinches my side. God, she's no fun. "Ow!"

"Just order already," she huffs, checking her phone. "Your daddy's waiting for us at home. He wants an early dinner tonight before he heads back out on the campaign trail."

"Mustn't keep the sire waiting," I say under my breath, reading the selection of tasty drinks. "Mmm... I'll get a medium mocha with whipped cream, please."

"She'll have a small latte," Momma pipes up, gaze fixated on her phone as she texts away. "Non-fat."

I flash the barista a tight-lipped smile. "On second thought, I guess I'll have a latte." The barista gives me a sympathetic look before getting to work on my mother-approved beverage. I lean on the bar edge, glowering at my momma as she scrolls through her phone. "You're not ordering anything?"

"You know I don't eat between meals," she says, shoving her phone screen in my face. I blink at Marla Mayweather's professional headshot. "Look at this poor girl. You just know she's got ten pounds of makeup on, and yet you can still see the bags underneath her sad little eyes."

"I think she looks good." I shrug, zooming in on her makeup. "I don't see any bags."

"How cordial of you." Momma rolls her eyes.

"We need to book an appointment at the studio for some new photographs.

The ones you have now are outdated. You've definitely lost a pound or two since those were taken.

" The barista places my drink on the counter, and before she can say a word, Momma waves her hand.

"Charge it to our account. It's under John Kingsley.

" A proud smile spreads on her smug face.

"My husband, John Kingsley . You know him, right? He's running for governor ?"

"Yes, ma'am." The barista sighs. "How could I not?" She points out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the parlor toward the plethora of my father's campaign posters plastered on telephone poles. "Kind of hard to miss."

"That's the point." Momma winks, pulling a promotional pin out of her pocket and slamming it on the counter. "A vote for John Kingsley is a vote for lower taxes and higher accountability."

"Right." The barista feigns a smile, picking up the pin and twirling it around as she stares at my father's picture. I cringe, looking away. I told him to go with the other photo. This one makes him look like he's running for governor of Kentucky...Fried Chicken, that is. "A man of the people."

"Exactly." Momma beams. "Would you like to hear about his platform?—"

"Alright, that's enough, momma," I say, grabbing her arm. This Hillary Clinton complex is getting out of hand. "Aren't we running late for dinner?"

"I'll be back with pamphlets," Momma says to the barista, waving goodbye as I drag her out of the parlor.

Once we're outside, she breaks free of my grip, frowning.

"Next time I'm in the middle of canvassing for your daddy, do not interrupt me!

He needs to win this race. I've had my sights set on that gorgeous governor's mansion for years now. "

"Such wholesome intentions," I sneer as we stroll down the sidewalk. "Might want to keep that little tidbit to yourself."

"Oh, hush child.” She keeps her nose in the air as we pass dozens of artisanal stores.

She smiles at everyone. Friendly. Always so freaking friendly.

"Now, about the pageant. We've got eight weeks to prepare.

I've contacted Jeffery, and he said he's not available for consultation because he's working with Miss Georgia , so there's a tiny conflict of interest." She lets out an airy chuckle.

"I'm sure it's nothing a little extra cash can't fix. "

"You're going to poach Marla Mayweather's consultant?" I ask as my phone rings, and I reach into my purse. "That's quite unethical." I twist my lips, reading the unfamiliar caller ID on the screen. "What area code is two one three?"

"How would I know?" Momma shrugs, stopping to say hello to the local florist. "Hi, Nancy!"

"How would I know?" I mimic under my breath as I answer the call. Probably spam. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm looking for a Miss Savannah Kingsley," a deep male voice says. "Is this the correct number? "

"It is..." I draw out, stepping off to the side. "Who might this be?"

"My name's Dylan Moore, and I work at the California office for Calvin Investigations?—"

My eyes bug out of their sockets. No flipping way. I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch, but I haven't heard from my PI in almost a year.

"Calvin Investigations?!" I whisper harshly into the receiver. "You work for Mr. Calvin? Is there an update?" I look over my shoulder, making sure Momma isn't listening. "Did you find him?"

"We did..." Dylan says, a tinge of hesitation in his voice.

Trepidation seizes my spine as I attempt to decipher his tone. "A..." Please, baby Jesus. Please. "Alive?"

"Yes, he's alive, but?—"

"Ah!" I exclaim with deepened relief, and my mother whips her head at me, scowling. "Hold on a second, Mr. Moore." I press the phone against my chest, addressing my mother. "I'll meet you at home, okay?"

Momma's brows furrow. "Don't dilly dally, Savannah. I expect you home in ten minutes. No later, understand?"

"Yes, yes," I say, quickening my pace as I press the phone against my ear. I've been waiting three years for this call— three . "Hello? Mr. Moore? You there?"

"I'm here," he says.

"So you found him?" I ask, hopeful. "Is he okay? Where is he? What's he doing?"

"Well, he's here, in California?—"

"California?!" I ask, voice rising. Beau never talked about the west coast. He was a southern boy through and through.

"What on earth is Beau doing in California?

" I frown, chewing on my bottom lip. This better not be like last time when they thought they found him.

I can't handle another letdown. "Now, Mr. Moore, my brother has been MIA for nearly three years, and Mr. Calvin said it was highly unlikely that you'd ever find him, so I need to know.

..are you sure it's him? Like absolutely positive?

Because I really don't want to get my hopes up again.”

"Well, the mug shot matches his ID photos," he states. "Fingerprints too."

"I beg your pardon?" I freeze, my heart dropping out of my chest. "Did you just say... mug shot ?"

"I did." Dylan clears his throat. "It seems as though your brother got into a bar fight a few weeks ago."

"A bar fight?!" I gasp. "My brother? My brother, who was homecoming king and varsity captain? That brother?" I release a string of giggles. "Now, I know you must be sorely mistaken. My brother would never be in a bar fight. Ever!"

"Sorry to shatter the illusion, Miss Kingsley, but it is your brother," he says, unfazed. "He was arrested alongside a couple of other members of the Sons of Sorrow."

I blink, head spinning. "The who now?"

"Sons of Sorrow," Dylan says again. "They're a biker gang out of Hawkridge?—"

"Biker gang?" I place my hand over my chest, knees weak. "Did you just say... biker gang ?"

"Yes, a biker gang."

"I think I might throw up a little," I whisper softly, bile rising in my esophagus. "Tell me this is a joke. You're joking, right? This is a prank? "

Dylan sighs. "Listen, Miss Kingsley, I know this is hard to hear, but we've done our job. We found him. You should be happy, okay? Could be worse. At least he's not dead."

"Right, at least he's not dead..." I swallow, unable to process that my baby brother—my sweet, innocent little brother—is somehow mixed up with...a gang?! Oh, my word. "Mr. Moore...what do you uh—what do you recommend as the next course of action?"

"Next course of action?" he asks. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean 'what do I mean?'" I frown, turning onto my street, our craftsman-style house coming into view. "We can't let him stay there, can we? We need...an extraction. Isn't that what it's called?"

Dylan lets out a roaring laugh. "Miss Kingsley, we're PIs, not Navy Seals. There will be no extraction ."

I blink. "Then what am I to do with this information, Mister Moore?"

"That's up to you," he says nonchalantly. "I'll email over everything we've uncovered, as well as the final invoice for our services."

"But—"

"Take care, Miss Kingsley," Dylan says, "and thank you for choosing Calvin Investigations."

The call disconnects, and I'm left in shock, staring at a black screen.

I paid these bastards thousands of dollars, and they will not assist me any further?

! That's it? We found him. He's joined a gang.

Okay, bye. Seriously? That's all? What in the world am I supposed to do now?

Tell my daddy, ask for his help, tell momma?

! Hah. Laughable. Truly comical. Beau might as well already be dead to my parents, and now that he's a criminal?—

"Savannah?" Momma calls out my name from down the street. Dang, she walks fast. "Who were you just talking to?"

I blink as she catches up to me. "Oh, umm...that was uh?—"

Lying's a sin. Lying's a sin. Lying's a sin.

"Well?"

"That was uh—" I swallow, putting on a smile. Screw it. I'm sure there's some kind of exception for these sorts of things. "That was Beau."