Shoot Out (The Baltimore Banners Book 7) (9 page)

Nicole read the email for the third time, hoping the words would somehow miraculously change. But the message was the same, no matter how many times she blinked or squinted or tilted her head.

The message was always the same.

Thank you for your interest, blah blah blah.

Admire your work, blah blah blah.

Not interested at this time, blah blah blah.

She closed the email then backed out of the program before disconnecting from the internet. Disappointment surged through her. The short email hadn't been worth the hassle of trying to get connected, of waiting for the ancient dial-up to actually work. She should have waited and used the wi-fi at the hospital, or taken the bus to the coffee shop or even to the library. Any of those things would have saved her time instead of fighting with the old system. But it was all she had, and that just barely since it was always a crapshoot whether or not or her mother remembered to pay the phone bill with the money Nicole gave her.

Just another lesson learned.

Had she really expected to hear anything different? No, not really. Not when the answers had been the same for entirely too long. Everyone liked her work. Her photography had promise. She had talent, a unique eye. But everyone seemed to be looking for someone with more experience, more published credits, and that was the one thing she didn't have. Not even freelance experience.

Well how was she supposed to get experience when everyone wanted her to have experience before giving her a chance? One break, one shot. That was all she needed. Just one tiny little break, one tiny little chance.

Volunteering at the hospital, taking the pictures, broadening her expertise with the different computer programs out there…all of that had helped. But she couldn't use those pictures—wouldn't use those pictures. They were private, meant for the kids and their families. So none of that counted. Which didn't matter, because that wasn't why she was doing it.

But everything else had come at an expense. The expensive laptop, the different programs and add-ons, all of it. And even though they were expenses she couldn't really afford, they had all been worth it.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself. But she couldn't afford anymore expenses, not when she was trying to save enough to move out, get her own place. The divorce had cost more than she thought it would. And the trip to New Orleans had been a splurge she probably shouldn't have taken. But she wanted to celebrate her new freedom, wanted to visit someplace exotic and different and exciting. So she didn't regret it—couldn't regret it. Any of it.

But God, how she wished it was easier to save. She wanted her own place. Some place nice, that didn't have holes in the walls and floor or rust stains in the toilet and tub. Some place that didn't smell of stale cigarettes, cheap perfume and even cheaper booze.

Guilt weighed down on her as soon as she had the thought. Her mother was trying, in her own way. Nicole knew that. Just like she knew her mother didn't have to let her move in here. It was an adjustment, for both of them.

No, her room wasn't much, barely large enough for her single bed and makeshift desk. But she didn't have much, and it was a hundred times better than living on the street. A thousand times better than where she'd been before.

That didn't mean she was willing to give up, to resign herself to the same life her mother had accepted. And maybe Nicole hated her job, hated working at the club and fending off unwanted advances and knowing that the men who came in thought she could be bought. But the money was decent, cash tips at the end of each night, some nights better than others.

Nicole propped her elbow on the plywood then rested her head in the palm of her hand. Yeah, some nights were definitely better than others—when she didn't overreact and throw money back in someone's face. But how could she have known Mat's intentions had been innocent? Not just innocent, but actually honorable. At least, she'd thought they could be called that. He was so different from other men in her experience. Real, genuine. And he'd been so shocked, appalled even, at her accusation, at learning what she'd first thought when she'd seen the large tip.

So what did she do? Throw it at him and accuse him of thinking she was a whore, someone who could be bought. And if that wasn't bad enough, she turned around and acted the part later that night when he'd done nothing more than offer her a ride home.

Heat spread throughout her at the memory, tingling along her nerves and settling into a damp pool between her legs. What was wrong with her? She'd never acted that way before, never done even half of what she'd done the other night. Never even thought about doing things like that before. Sex had never been about her pleasure; it had been about being controlled.

She wasn't sure what surprised her the most: the fact that she'd done the things she'd done, or the fact that she wanted to do them—and so much more—again. With Mat. But why? What was it about him that brought out this side of her, a side she'd never even expected she had?

Maybe because he seemed as genuinely surprised as she had been. And maybe he was lying to her, trying to make her feel better or something, but she actually believed him when he told her the things they'd done had been new to him as well. Not that what they'd done had been all that extreme, not really, not compared to some of the other things she heard the girls talk about at work. So yeah, maybe he was just trying to make her feel better.

Or maybe she was just trying to prove to herself that she could enjoy sex. That it was something pleasurable for both parties. Not something to be demanded. Not an act where she was at another person's mercy, forced to relinquish control, forced to endure or suffer even worse. Was that what she was doing? Taking control, choosing her own experiences? Or was she just fooling herself into thinking that? She thought it was the former—hoped that was the case.

Or maybe she was still that gullible naïve girl she'd been all those years ago, willing to fall for any line that made her feel better.

Her hand closed around the crystal hanging at her throat, the familiar warmth of the stone and coolness of the metal soothing against her palm. Calming, reassuring. No, that girl was gone, any remnants long since washed away by the cold pummeling of reality. So maybe that meant she was nothing more than a fool for believing him, for convincing herself she was finally in control.

For some reason, she couldn't find it in her to be get upset about that. Not after New Orleans. Not after the other night.

"Nikki! Is that all you can do now, sit in front of that silly computer?"

Her mother's harsh voice startled her. She jumped back, her hand dislodging from the pendant as she tried to keep her balance. How had she not heard her mom coming up the stairs? Had she been that lost in her thoughts and memories?

She swallowed back the words that wanted to tumble from her mouth. It didn't matter how many times she tried explaining, her mother would never understand. To her, Nicole's photography was a nuisance. A worthless hobby that cost precious money and meant nothing. She didn't understand Nicole's hopes and dreams, her desire to one-day start making money with it. Not much, just a little. Just enough so she could prove to herself that she could do it. To prove that hopes and dreams really mattered.

No, her mother would never understand, no matter how many times Nicole tried to explain. So she said nothing, just reached out and powered the laptop down.

Footsteps shuffled behind her, the scrape of worn slippers scratching against the cracked linoleum floor. A sigh, long and heavy, followed by the sagging creak of aging bedsprings. Nicole closed her eyes, fingering her pendant once more as she searched for patience. Her mom never came into her room, never sat down on her bed—which meant something must be on her mind, that she wanted to talk about something. Whatever it was, Nicole didn't think she wanted to hear it.

"You came home late the other night."

"Uh, yeah. I saw you had company, didn't want to intrude." That was putting it mildly. Nicole had noticed right away when Mat pulled in front of the house. It was hard to miss the two shadows so clearly outlined in the living room window. That was why she'd asked Mat to keep driving. And she wasn't going to complain, not after what that drive had led to.

"Oh." A shaky sigh, ending in a cough. She heard her mom rustle in the pockets of her frayed robe, heard the click and spark of a lighter. Nicole turned in the chair, frowning.

"Mom, can you not smoke in here please?"

Her mother took a long drag from the cigarette, watching her with impatience as she exhaled a stream of smoke. "It is my house." But she looked around, her eyes settling on the glass of water Nicole always kept next to her bed. She reached over and tossed the cigarette in it with a small hiss.

Nicole closed her eyes, her hand tightening around the pendant again as she made a mental note to throw the glass out. Completely out. If she didn't, her mother would just leave it sitting there.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Always grab that necklace like you do. You'd think you were a Catholic with a string of rosary beads or something the way you're always playing with it."

Nicole took a deep breath, trying not choke on the lingering smoke that hung in the still air. There was no way she could explain to her mother the sense of calm she got from fingering the crystal. How just looking at the small dragon filled her with an odd peace. It was a whimsical design, the dragon carved from pewter or silver or some other metal, his majestic head held high, his wings folded around his body and his intricate tail wrapped around the oddly shaped milky crystal. She bought it when she was still in a high school at a mall kiosk that sold cheap jewelry and dragon sculptures and an assortment of other trinkets. It had been pure impulse that she still, to this day, didn't understand. And if she didn't understand, how could she possibly even try to explain to her mother?

She couldn't, so she just shrugged. "I don't know. Just a habit, I guess."

"Well I don't understand it."

"Mom—" Nicole stopped herself, knowing it would just lead to an argument. She took another deep breath and forced a smile. "Did you need something?"

"No. I was just worried about you. Where did you go?"

Nicole hoped her shock didn't show on her face. Her mother, worried? "Out with some friends."

"Oh. That's good." She ran a hand through her hair, nodding. "That's good."

"Yeah. Mom, I need to get going—"

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Nicole's mouth dropped open in surprise. Yeah, there was no way she could keep the shock from showing on her face. Since when did her mom ask personal questions? Since when did she care?

And she wasn't sure how to answer. Maybe, technically, she was seeing Mat. Maybe, if you stretched it. They'd seen each other a grand total of three times and two of those times had turned into a sex marathon. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but Nicole didn't know what else to call it. Did that mean they were seeing each other? The sex aside, she had enjoyed spending time with him. He was different, so different, from any other man she'd ever met. There was something about him, something besides his rugged good looks, something that pulled her. Yes, she could definitely see herself falling for him. But was that something she wanted to do? Or something that would just lead to more trouble down the road? And what if her instincts about him were wrong?

Nicole reached for her backpack, digging through it so she wouldn't have to look at her mom. "Uh, maybe. I've gone out with him a few times." And she was going out with him again this weekend.

"Is it anything serious?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe. Probably not." Nicole put the pack aside and turned to face her mom, wondering at the sudden questions, wondering why her mom was suddenly so curious. "What's up with all the questions, Mom? You never worried before."

Her mom wouldn't look at her, her attention focused on the ragged cuticle of her thumb. She picked at it, a frown deepening the lines on her face. Long minutes went by before she shrugged and glanced at Nicole from the side. "I just think you need a man in your life. Someone to take care of you."

Not again. Please, not again. How many times had they had this conversation? Too many. Nicole shook her head and grabbed the backpack again. "No, I don't, Mom. I don't need anyone to take care of me, not when I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"Nicole Lynn Taylor, every woman needs a man."

God, she couldn't do this again. If she had to sit here and listen to this, she'd end up saying something she'd regret. She shook her head and stood up. "Mom—"

"What about Donnie? Have you thought of getting back with him?"

"What?" Her brain was going to explode. That had to be the only explanation for the sudden terrible pounding in her head. How could her mom even say such a thing? "No! No, Mom. Never. I should have never gotten with him in the first place."

"But he's a nice man—"

"Nice? Nice?" The words were barely audible, lost in the shriek of her voice. "No, Mom, he's not nice. He was never nice. Or don't you remember all the times he smacked me around? All the bruises and marks he left?"