The Devil Wears Tank Tops Read online

  The Devil Wears Tank Tops

  Copyright © 2014 by Angela Corbett

  Cover design by Ink and Circuit Designs, LLC

  Interior design by Novel Ninjutsu

  Editing by InkTip Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America by Midnight Sands Publishing, Utah

  Printed in the United States of America

  For the women who

  aren’t afraid to show a little shoulder.

  And for the mouse who met my mother,

  and gave me the mouse-tie story.

  There was a photo, though I’ve been threatened with

  “no more cookies for life” if anyone ever sees it.

  Some days I love being a reporter, other days I hate it. Then there were days like today.

  “Gary Smith’s chickens got out again! I’m tellin’ ya! We can’t just have chickens runnin’ around willy-nilly in the middle of the street chasin’ kids and cars. They’re birds, not dogs!” Norm Crane, Branson’s resident rabble-rouser was standing at the podium in front of the Branson Falls City Council, trying to incite chicken-hate furor.

  Jessie Green, a Branson Falls City Councilman, pounded his fist on the table. “Dang those chickens!”

  Dale Call, another council member, barely looked up over his brown, plastic-rimmed eye glass frames as he raised his hand and said, “Second.”

  All of the commotion in the room stopped as everyone’s heads swiveled simultaneously in Dale Call’s direction.

  Finally, Councilman Mark Brady spoke up, “Shoot, Dale! That wasn’t a motion! You can’t dang chickens!”

  I sat listening to the ridiculous discussion, and taking notes. City council meetings weren’t usually this lively and I could generally browse the celebrity gossip sites on my phone in between discussions about the latest tractors, or whether ATVs should get their own lane on the road. But thanks to the chickens, today’s meeting was more animated than usual.

  “First, people start tryin’ to take our guns away, then men start marryin’ men, and now chickens are runnin’ citizens off the road. This country is goin’ to heck in a handbasket!” Norm threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

  I stared at Norm through his outburst, trying to figure out what in the world gun rights and marriage equality had to do with chickens. No one else seemed to be able to make the connection either. “We’ll talk to Gary about constructing a better cage,” Councilman Brady said.

  Norm huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, I guess that’ll have to do. In the meantime, I’ll just pray for the second comin.’ Nothin’ else is gonna stop the madness.”

  My eyes were huge as I watched the crazy back and forth in utter disbelief. I’d considered skipping the meeting and going home to binge watch TV shows on Netflix. Now, I was happy I’d been there to witness it all in person instead of asking one of the other reporters to cover the meeting.

  Suddenly, Councilman Brady remembered me sitting in the back of the room and the blood drained from his face. “You listen here, Kate,” he said, pointing at me with a stern look, “that chicken thing? That’s off the record.”

  I smiled dutifully, and nodded my head. The Branson Tribune certainly wouldn’t want to be the cause of a scandal by reporting that people were upset about chickens crossing roads. Though, I was mighty tempted to ask our graphics guy to make a comic about it for the opinion page. I was also pretty sure everyone in the meeting would get the council’s message back to Gary Smith and every other person in town before tomorrow morning, let alone the Tribune’s next printing in a week.

  Brady adjourned the meeting and I gathered my things, smiling at June Tate, a Branson resident who’d been sitting next to me. She’d come to complain about increased traffic by her property. Her house sat next to a highway, so there wasn’t much the city council could do. “I’m sorry they couldn’t help you,” I said to June, noticing her white shirt under a matching lavender skirt and jacket. She looked very put-together in the business attire.

  She shrugged. “We bought the house before the highway was there. I guess we should have moved before it got so busy.” She was in her sixties and she and her husband had lived in Branson Falls all of their lives. “I just don’t know why it’s picked up so much during the last six months.”

  “Well, if it’s only happened recently, maybe it will slow down again too,” I offered, trying to make her feel better. With the population growing in Branson and neighboring towns, I had a feeling it probably wouldn’t be getting better.

  June fanned herself as she stood. It was August in Branson, and still hotter than the ninth circle of hell. The city council met in a building that was constructed sometime around the extinction of dinosaurs, and didn’t have central air, or even a swamp cooler. “Aren’t you dying of heat?” I asked, looking again at her very professional, but stifling layers. “I don’t know how you can stand it. The less clothes, the better I say.”

  “I agree.”

  The deep voice brought me, and everything south of my navel, right to attention…even though I wasn’t particularly happy about it. June looked at him the same way as every other woman on the planet…well, every other woman except me: with complete adoration. “Dylan Drake! I thought I saw you sneak in,” June said with a warm smile. June had seen him sneak in and I hadn’t? Observant reporter fail.

  “What are you doing at the meeting tonight?” June asked.

  Drake gave his winning politician’s smile, practiced over years of working in the Utah House of Representatives. “Well, when I heard you were going to be here, June, I cancelled all of my other plans.”

  June waved a hand in front of her face, blushing. “You’re such a charmer, Dylan.” I did a double take at the use of his first name. Most people—me included—called him Drake because that’s what he’d been known as on the football field. June put her hand on his forearm. “If I was thirty years younger, you’d be in trouble.” She gathered her things. “I better get home before Paul burns the house down trying to cook dinner.” She glanced at me, eyes twinkling. “You two have a nice night.”

  I wrinkled my nose at that twinkle, and wanted to correct her and say there would be no “two” of us at all, but she was surprisingly spry for a sixty-something year old, and already out the door. I turned my attention back to the man who’d snuck up on me—something he did frequently. His thick, dark hair framed his perfectly sculpted square jaw. Broad shoulders filled out a grey polo shirt and his black slacks draped over his lower body like fabric temptation. I shook myself out of the haze he almost always seemed to create in my head. I blamed it on his serious excess of testosterone. My ovaries just needed a minute to calibrate with the new hormones in the air. Eventually, they’d calm down and get blood back to my brain.

  “Hey, Drake,” I said, picking up my own things and trying to avoid eye contact. Locking gazes wouldn’t help my ovary situation. But once I had my purse, camera, phone, and notebook, there was nothing else to do unless I wanted to start folding up chairs. I took a deep breath and looked up at the six-foot-three extremely attractive giant in fro
nt of me.

  His smile was slow and deliberate as his eyes trailed over me, taking in my teal ruffled skirt that fell four inches above my knee, and my lacy grey tank top showing a bit of cleavage—none of which met Branson’s conservative dress code. I was a rebel. Drake didn’t seem to mind the rebelliousness at all—at least, not when it came to my clothes. “Katie,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on mine. “Will I see you at the parade this week?”

  I stuffed my notebook into my purse and searched for my keys as I answered, “Probably not.”

  “You’re not covering it?”

  “No, I am. But I’ll be reporting from the parade route, not a float.”

  Drake’s brow lifted. “That’s a bad move on Spence’s part. He’d get a lot more Tribune subscribers with a pretty girl in the front seat.”

  I fought back a blush. Because as much as I didn’t want Drake’s flirting to affect me, it did. When I was younger, I’d dreamed about him saying things exactly like that to me. Now, I knew his reputation—even if my ovaries hadn’t gotten the memo. “I’m making it a goal to not draw attention to myself.”

  I tried to skirt by him, but he laughed and followed me outside to my car. A move that would undoubtedly start the Ladies’—Branson’s version of The Real Housewives, with less money, perms, talon-like fingernails, and the ability to ruin a person’s reputation in less than an hour flat—gossip phone tree. You know, because they didn’t already have enough information to terrorize me with. As a prerequisite to becoming a Lady, you generally had to be perky, pretty, and popular in high school. I was none of the above, and I would never want to be a part of their gossipy group.

  Drake gave a hearty laugh. “Good luck with that. Do you know who your mother is?”

  “Ha, ha, Drake,” I said with my best glare. “I’ll also be avoiding you.”

  His lips slid into a hurt frown. “That’s not nice, Katie.”

  I tried my best not to be nice to Drake. He pushed every single one of my buttons, both good and bad and I had a hard time managing him, and my completely conflicted feelings about him. My strategy so far had been constant offense that bordered on hostility. I’d learned it in elementary school. “I assume you’ll be on a float, fake-smiling and waving to people, trying to get votes for something?” Drake was Branson’s district representative for the Utah House of Representatives. He was also a lawyer. I despised him on both counts.

  He shook his head. “You’re confusing me with the Branson Falls pageant royalty.”

  I smirked. “Am I? Because around here, everyone seems to think you’re Branson’s version of Prince William.”

  His mouth widened into a grin. “And you would make the perfect Princess Kate.”

  My stomach fluttered and my eyes narrowed in anger at my tummy treason. My stomach wasn’t supposed to flutter for Drake, regardless of how obsessed I’d once been with him. Drake’s five years older than me, but he’d been my teenage crush. Though he claimed to remember me from our youth, I didn’t buy it for a second, and he’d never given me any proof to back up his claim.

  “Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “That would never happen. I couldn’t stand to wear the panty hose, and I’m far too opinionated. I’d offend people left and right, and probably start wars.” He laughed, and I got in my dark blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. “Night, Drake.”

  He leaned back on his heels. “I’ll see you soon, Katie.”

  “You know that’s not my name,” I said.

  “You’ll always be Katie to me.”

  I shook my head as I pulled away. I could see him grinning in my rearview mirror all the way to the end of the street.

  Frosted Paradise, the pastry shop with my favorite doughnuts in the universe, was already closed, so I decided to stop at the grocery store on the way home instead. Every situation could be made better with comfort food, and an encounter with Dylan Drake practically required carbs. Plus, I thought maybe if I gained enough weight, he’d stop talking to me completely. That would certainly make my life easier.

  I was pulling into a grocery store parking spot when I heard a loud explosion. People pushing grocery carts to their cars stopped in their tracks, looking around, some even ducked. I jumped out of my Jeep, searching for what might have caused the noise, but couldn’t see anything. Less than thirty seconds later, another explosion sounded. People started yelling to take cover from the unknown threat as an eerie, flickering orange light began glowing west of town. “Forever in Blue Jeans” started singing from my phone—the Neil Diamond ringtone assigned to my boss, and publisher of the Branson Tribune. “Spence! What the hell was that?”

  Spence’s voice sounded tense. “Not sure yet. The only info I have is that it happened at the sugar factory.”

  “I’m on it.” I hung up, pulled out of the parking lot, and started for the sugar factory in the industrial area of town.

  The sugar factory was surrounded by other industrial plants making everything from diapers to yogurt. Most people in town were employed at one of the factories. Whatever had happened had sounded serious, so I hoped everyone had gotten out of the building safely.

  I pulled in behind several fire trucks, and ambulances. My friend, Officer Bob, was on the scene. “Hey, Bobby,” I said, lifting my camera to take some pictures of the firefighters battling the blaze. It was already hot, and the heat from the fire was making the men battling the blaze even hotter. Taking photos of muscled, sweaty firefighters is definitely a job perk.

  “Kate,” Bobby said, glancing at me before turning back to watch the burning building. Flames were shooting out of every window on the bottom floor.

  “Do you know what happened yet?” I asked, taking out my notebook and pen.

  He stared at the scene, light from the flames coloring his pale skin. “Not sure; it’s too soon to tell. But if ya want my guess, I’d say sugar explosion.”

  I lifted my pen from the paper and rolled my eyes. “Seriously, Bobby. If you don’t know yet, you can just say so.”

  He winged a brow, amused. “I’m not kiddin’ Kate. It’s a factory full of sugar. I’d bet sugar exploded.”

  I narrowed my brows, still not believing his story. “How?”

  “Sugar dust is highly flammable, Kate. Don’t you watch the Science Channel?”

  I widened my eyes in surprise. “I wasn’t aware there were shows dedicated to sugar.”

  He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “All it needs is a little spark, and poof! Dust explosion.”

  I had no idea that was possible. “What do you think would have caused the spark?”

  Bobby shrugged. “We won’t know till the firefighters can get in and investigate. No one was in the building that we know of, but it could’ve been vandals, or someone goofin’ around who didn’t know the trouble they could cause. I suspect it was a piece of machinery, though. With that much dust, it wouldn’t take more than a tiny spark.”

  “But there were two explosions,” I pointed out.

  Some firefighters rushed by with more hoses as Bobby nodded. “The secondary explosion. The first explosion probably caused the second by putting more dust in the air.”

  The fact that I was getting this lecture by Bobby—who’d slept through even the most interesting classes in high school—kind of made me feel like I should have paid more attention in science.

  Other Branson residents had started showing up. They’d undoubtedly heard about the explosion on their police scanners—which assisted in their efforts to be as nosy as possible.

  “Was anyone hurt?” I asked, concerned.

  “Don’t think so,” Bobby said. “The workers were all home when it happened, but there’s a chance someone else could’ve been inside.”

  “Well, I’m glad the employees are all accounted for at least.”

  Bobby nodded.

  “Is the owner of the factory here?”

  Bobby reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of gum. He offered me a stick, but I declined. “It’s Kory Gr
eer,” he said, unwrapping his gum and putting it in his mouth. “We called him, but he’s out of town right now. I can email you his contact info.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I’d have to call him when he got back. I stayed on the scene for almost an hour, snapping photos and talking to residents, the fire chief, and other factory workers. I got some quotes, and then called Spence to update him.

  “The fire is almost contained now,” I said, after explaining the situation. “They’re not sure what caused it yet, though. I also want to talk to the owner, so I’ll follow up on both of those things.”

  “Thanks for covering it,” Spence said. “I didn’t know sugar could be so dangerous.”

  “Me either,” I answered, stuffing my notes and camera back into my bag on the way to my Jeep. “Now I need food.”

  “I’ll bring treats in the morning.”

  I smiled. “Then I’d have to kiss you.”

  Spence laughed. “Could you do it in front of the Ladies? Because that would really help my reputation.”

  Spence is gay, but I was the only person in town who knew about it. I snorted. “Yours, but not mine.” The Ladies already thought I was sleeping with Hawke and Drake, and seemed to have suspicions about Spence as well. I didn’t need to add to those theories.

  I hung up, and drove back to the grocery store. After a sugar explosion, I needed carbs even more than before. A Drake encounter mixed with fire was a stressful combination.

  I made my way to the cookie aisle and found it crammed full of people—a surprise considering a whole building had just exploded. An event like that usually caused the entire town to descend upon the area of news, though, thinking about it, the number of people at the fire had been surprisingly small in comparison with other town news-making events. The residents also hadn’t been at the city council meeting and had to deal with Drake’s pheromones, so I knew their reasons for needing treats must be different than mine.