7. Who let the drunk llama inside?
Chapter 7
Who let the drunk llama inside?
LETTIE
I ’ve got half a mind to file a formal complaint with the Decatur County School Board about their choice of curriculum. Perhaps James will let me hop on one of his laptops so I can type out a strongly worded email.
With endless potential subjects, what did they go with? Not lipreading or how to avoid getting roofied in a bar.
Nooo .
Square dancing.
That’s the skill they thought would best prepare us for adulthood.
What brain trust came up with that humdinger?
In an effort to distract myself, I allow my mind to picture the scene.
After grueling days of heated discourse, the school administrators have yet to agree on the last elective. They resort to bringing in an impartial judge.
His entrance heralded by clip-clopping down the hall, in breezes the one who will decide the fate of the children of Climax.
A drunk llama with one eye.
Well, one can only assume he’s drunk from his unsteady gait. He also smells like whiskey, and his shoes don’t match. The Mardi Gras beads are another dead giveaway.
The superintendent sticks a marker in the llama’s mouth and points him to the grease board. Naturally, as drunk llamas are known to do, it stumbles around, clanking into the table, and shitting in the corner.
Eventually, he draws something resembling a square on the board. Square dancing, clearly. For it hath been decreed by the drunk one-eyed llama of legend.
Confetti cannons blast. Champagne bottles uncork.
As you’d expect, the llama chugs an entire bottle instead of sipping sensibly.
Now, I can’t be entirely sure this is how it all unfolded, but my ADHD thinks it’s a solid possibility. As an added perk, this outlandish thought roller coaster has distracted me so well that I haven’t pitched a solid gold shit fit despite being alone.
Yet.
If James doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I’m not sure even a drunk llama could stave off my impending freak-out.
As my heart rate spikes, I take two steps toward the front door then fall back to the window instead.
I shouldn’t need to go out there. He’s mere feet away. I could tap the glass, and he’d be by my side two seconds later.
Just breathe, Lettie. You’re perfectly safe. No one is going to get you.
With that thought, I glance over my shoulder for the eightieth time, expecting to see someone sneaking up behind me.
Stupid, Lettie.
I nibble on my thumbnail while studying the scene on the lawn. With all my freaking might, I struggle to interpret what they’re saying without the needed lipreading skills. Not that it would help, since James has his back to me.
But it would still be better than square dancing.
A lump forms in my throat as the large man backs away, retreating to the SUV.
Good job, giant. Go on, now. Get! And take your little boss friend with you.
Dang it. He ain’t takin’ him.
Through the windowpane, I barely make out what he says as he slips into the car. Well wishes, it seems. That’s nice.
As I play back what I think I heard, one word stands out above the rest.
Tomer.
Did he say that? What does that mean? And why does it ring a bell in the foggy recess of my mind?
Oh well. No matter. I probably misunderstood him. At least I heard enough to know that his coworkers aren’t still pissed at him.
And now it looks like James and his boss are having a heart-to-heart talk.
Sumbitch. Hurry up before I lose my shit.
On the bright side, it’s nice to see James getting support from these guys. They seem nice enough, even if they are of the male species. I appreciated the little wave and kind smile Big Al shot my way earlier.
Having chewed my thumbnail to the nub, I switch to the other hand.
I need another distraction before I rip my nails clean off my fingers.
Run free, thoughts. Run free.
“Square dancing,” I mutter aloud when no other distraction presents itself.
Maybe it wasn’t a drunk llama who came up with the curriculum. If I think about it, there are two obvious suspects. Both of whom have their faces plastered on a billboard smack dab in the middle of town. Leigh Ann and Duane Jordan, the Climax square dancing champs. If anyone was behind this travesty, it’s them.
Well, I hope they’re happy. Instead of self-defense, I learned the pass through and allemande .
Can you imagine if I’d have thought to use those skills to fight off my attackers this weekend?
Good luck trying to catch me while I promenade and roll away to a half sashay.
Apparently, my ADHD squirrel has settled into the driver’s seat of my mind and is taking it out for a spin in la-la land—not the musical.
All in all, I can’t complain about the distractions. It’s far more pleasant to visualize crazy shit like fictitious school board meetings than to relive real-life shit like waking up naked in a dirty room with my arms in chains.
Score one for squirrels and llamas.
Oh goodie . Looks like they’re wrapping it up.
Finally. Freaking finally.
A chill ghosts its way down my spine. My feet lurch me three inches off the ground as I’m zapped with a jolt of fear. Shit . It was only the air conditioning kicking on and blasting cool air from the vent over me.
Nonetheless, that’s officially enough alone time for Lettie today.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m cracking open the front door and poking my head out. Instantly, a wall of heat and humidity smacks me in my face.
The scalding Florida afternoon heat won’t stop me, though.
Despite walking into an oven humidifier combo, I inch farther outside. The pull to be close to James is too strong to resist, especially with the chill creeping around behind me. Metaphorically and physically.
It’s an odd feeling as I wait for him to turn around. Fear of staying alone in the house battles it out with fear of going outside or getting too close to the men. Even if they’re leaving and James is there.
I’m not brave enough.
With one foot inside the house and the other on the front porch, all I can do is nibble my lip, waiting for him to turn around. Paralyzed with indecision and fear.
You know what? Today, I’m giving myself a pass to be a chicken shit.
My vision catches on James’s back and the curve of his shoulders. Lord, his posture is so defeated that I fear he might have lost his job over me.
Once he turns around, I’m hit with a fervent need to comfort him. He looks as broken as I feel.
“James, are you okay?”
He clears his throat and offers a plastic grin, which doesn’t fool me. “I’m fine, sugar bear.”
Once his legs eat up the few feet between us, my hand reaches out instinctively. He takes it as soon as he’s within reach, immediately pulling me into the safety of his chest. His arms surround me, holding me close and swaddling me in love. Fuck the temperature out here; I’d gladly get heatstroke to stay like this forever.
“You sure you’re all right?” I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt.
He kisses the top of my head. “Everything is good. Let’s go inside.”
Loosening my hold, I keep his hand in mine before heading back inside, never straying more than a foot from him. When we flop down on the couch, I crawl onto his lap.
And I wait him out.
“Want to finish the movie?” he tosses, voice monotone and emotionless.
“Forget the movie. Talk to me.”
The cracks in his facade begin showing, second by second. I break through it the rest of the way when I join our lips for a chaste kiss. Pulling back, I search his face and finger-comb his hair at the sides.
“Sugar, they brought some resources for you. Gave me shit about not telling them before getting you out. Let me know a little about what they’re doing to find the people involved. That’s about it.”
“You sure?”
He folds his lips inward, lowering his forehead in a slow nod. “They’re sending a bodyguard over to provide some backup. Extra protection for you.”
My muscles tighten with a sharp flinch.
He slopes his head at an angle, eyes warming. “On the outside of the house only.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. “Oh sure. No problem. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cool.”
“Very convincing,” he teases with only a hint of sarcasm.
“I promise I’ll be back to normal eventually,” I volunteer, unsure if my words are true.
Dammit. I want them to be, though. That’s gotta count for something.