Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1. Stephanie Bond

“That was someone else. Have you ever known me to jog?”

      “No, but I’ve never seen you gaga over a guy before either, like the way you are with Peter Asshole.”

      “Be nice. And I’m not gaga over him. We have … history.”

      “He dumped you when you needed him most and now—after you’ve made it on your own—he expects you to take him back?”

      Carlotta retrieved the cigarette and drew on it hard. “Made it on my own? That’s a laugh. My life is a disaster.”

      “What? And his is something to brag about?”

      “He’s successful.”

      “And conspicuously rich. Yeah, I noticed. He was also in a dysfunctional marriage which ended when his wife was murdered. The man has issues, Carlotta.”

      “Don’t we all?” she murmured, finishing the cigarette, then grimacing as she snubbed it out. Peter would hate her smoking, even sporadically. Then she glanced at Hannah in her black-leather getup and acknowledged there were other elements of her life that Peter would have a hard time accepting—her friendship with this good-hearted oddball being one of them.

      Yet he seemed eager to try….

      “You know there are drugs for what you’re going through.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Antidepressants. They’ll take the edge off.”

      “I don’t need drugs, I need normalcy.”

      “Like that’s going to happen. You need to get laid. And not by Peter, that’s way too messy. Don’t you know someone who’s good for a night of hot sex with no strings attached?”

      Why did Jack Terry’s face emerge in her head? “No one comes to mind,” Carlotta said sourly.

      “Too bad. Sex is great for working out the mental kinks.”

      “If that’s the case why are you so messed up?”

      “Very funny. Quantity doesn’t necessarily equate to quality. Seriously, Carlotta, you should at least consider seeing a shrink.”

      Carlotta sighed and rubbed her temples. She was going to have to do a better job of checking her emotions if she were going to keep her father’s call a secret from Wesley and Jack Terry. She could really use Wesley’s poker face right about now—especially since with his promise to her, he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She tried not to think about what mischief he might have gotten into with Chance last night. Hopefully it was something harmless, like beer and girls. Wesley was an adult and she had to stop obsessing over his whereabouts, but old habits died hard.

      Hannah glanced at her quiet cell-phone screen and slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Why hasn’t he called?”

      Carlotta lifted an eyebrow. “Which of your married lovers are we talking about?”

      Hannah smirked. “I’m referring to Coop. I thought he would’ve called by now to have me help him move a body.”

      Since Hannah had a huge crush on Wesley’s boss, Carlotta chose her words carefully. “Maybe he had a funeral today. Or maybe Wesley is out with him. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

      “I hope so. I can’t wait for my first assignment.”

      “Hannah, I’m not so sure that body moving is the kind of job that one should feel so enthusiastic about.”

      Hannah waved off her concern. “Death fascinates me. I guess that’s why I’m so intrigued by Cooper—you have to be a special person to work around bodies all the time. Do you think he has a casket at home?”

      “I certainly hope not.” Even though his job of running his uncle’s funeral home and moving bodies for the morgue was creepy, Cooper Craft was a surprisingly normal-looking guy. Attractive, even. He’d hinted, as Jack Terry had said, that he was interested in Carlotta, but Cooper was so intellectual, he intimidated her.

      Of course, nothing earthbound intimidated Hannah.

      “I’ve always wanted to lie down in a coffin, you know, just to see what it’s like.”

      Carlotta grimaced. “We’ll all know soon enough, Hannah. You can let me out here,” she said, pointing to a mall entrance.

      “Okay. Do you need a ride home after work?”

      “No, thanks. I hope my car will be ready by this evening. But if not, I can take the train.”

      “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay to work today?”

      Carlotta managed a smile. “With a mortgage and loan sharks to pay, I don’t exactly have a choice.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes. Mortified, she tried to blink them away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

      “Hey, don’t apologize,” Hannah said, looking concerned—and panicked—at the sight of tears. “Promise me you’ll call later.”

      “I promise,” she said, then jumped out before she completely broke down.

      Maybe Hannah was right, she thought as she dabbed at her eyes. Maybe she needed to talk to someone with professional objectivity, someone who could give her advice on coping with disillusionment, on how to let go of the past.

      But that would have to wait. For now she needed to decide whether to tell Jack Terry about her father’s phone calls.

      She was hanging her clothes in a locker in the employee break room when a familiar male voice said, “I heard Lindy nailed you yesterday.”

      Carlotta closed her locker door and smirked at Michael Lane, friend, coworker, and self-proclaimed queen of the shoe department. “She confiscated my phone. I have to go to her office and ask for it back like a good girl.”

      “Yikes, good luck with that.”

      “Thanks a lot.”

      “I was kidding. You’re one of her top salespersons. Lindy’s not going to fire you.”

      “Was one of her top salespersons,” Carlotta corrected, feeling dangerously close to tears again. “I’ve been toppled by Buckhead Barbie.”

      “Oh, you’ve met Patricia.”

      “She was following Lindy around yesterday like a shih tzu.”

      “Funny you should say that. You know Patricia’s only doing so well because of the new line of doggie wear in accessories. Those little inflatable bathing suits are flying off the freaking shelves.”

      “No, I could be doing more. I’ve lost my touch.”

      “You’re just in a slump.” Michael gave a dismissive wave and glanced over a memo he was holding. “Hey, you’re in luck. Lindy’s off until Wednesday.”

      Carlotta blinked rapidly. She wouldn’t be able to get her phone back, wouldn’t know if her father had called again. There was a way to check messages from another phone, but she had never set up a PIN to access the system remotely. She’d told herself she’d decide whether to tell Jack about the calls after retrieving her phone, but another forty-eight hours of torture loomed before her.

      “There, there, it’s just a phone,” Michael soothed.

      “It’s not just the phone,” she murmured. “It’s … personal.”

      “With all this business of Angela Ashford’s murder behind you, I figured you’d be skipping and singing.”

      “No skipping and—lucky for you—no singing.”

      He angled his head. “Is your brother in trouble again?”

      Poor Wesley. Everyone automatically assumed he was the root of all of her problems, even now when there were so many more potential culprits. “No, it isn’t Wesley.”