Dirty Little Lies

1 Just because Lacie Jo Baxter was a beauty queen didn't mean she was a pushover. At least that's what she told herself. It was pretty good advice when it came to the upbeat, look-for-the-silver-lining-in-every-gray-cloud department. Almost as good as the cheery little speech about self-esteem, personal responsibility, and the use of God-given talent she'd made only a short time earlier at the grand opening of the new Mercer's Drug Store in downtown Klaber Falls. Too bad all that talk about the sunny side of life was a little hard to swallow at the moment. Just like the possibility of the kind of warm and fuzzy, joy-to-the-world happy ending she'd always believed in was looking more and more remote by the second. It wasn't like her to be so negative, but then, she figured that for once she had a good excuse. Being locked in the trunk of a speeding car had that sort of effect on a girl. "Not a pushover. Not a pushover." Lacie did her best with the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar chant. Better to listen to that than to the nagging, terrified warnings inside her head that threatened to overwhelm her. Her breathless voice bumped over the words while the car--as badly in need of shock absorbers as it was of a muffler and a serious tune-up--smacked into a pothole and flew back up again. Lacie's rhinestone-studded tiara banged against the inside of the hood, and when she smacked back down on the thin, scratchy fabric that passed for carpeting on the floor of the trunk, it felt as if every single one of the beads and sequins and pearls on her perfectly fitted, perfectly styled, perfectly breathtaking evening gown were being drilled into her skin. She didn't have a whole lot of time to think about it. The car made a sharp turn, and if Lacie's five-foot-seven body hadn't been folded into a four-foot-eleven space, she would have rolled with it. As it was, there was barely room to move and her legs were cramped. She could feel the telltale tug of what was surely the beginning of a run in a brand-new pair of pantyhose. Lacie was tempted to grumble one of the curses she'd heard her sister, Dinah, use. She actually might have done it if her face hadn't been shoved up against the spare tire, so close that she could taste the rubber on her lips. Then again, if she were anything like Dinah, even a mouth full of steel-belted radial wouldn't have stopped her from letting loose with every expletive in the book. But if she were anything at all like Dinah, she wouldn't be Miss Kansas Summer Squash in the first place. And she wouldn't have been making that personal appearance at Mercer's Drug Store this evening. And she wouldn't have stayed around long after the store closed to talk to the nice folks who'd shown up to meet her live and in person. And she wouldn't have left after the crowd was already gone. And she never would have been in the parking lot alone. Which meant she never would have been grabbed and tossed into the trunk of this car before she ever had a chance to let out a scream for help. None of which was the least bit of consolation. Not when the baton she'd used to give the crowd a demonstration of her mean twirling technique poked her ribs, a tire jack jabbed her thighs, and the tall, thin heel of her left shoe was hooked at a funny angle on the wires of the car's rear lights. Those same lights flicked on and off when the driver stepped on the brakes, then let up on them again. The car slowed, turned, and Lacie heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels. The next second, the car skidded to a stop. So did Lacie's heartbeat. The engine cut off. The driver's side door scraped open. Lacie held her breath. Not a pushover, huh? Now all she had to do was convince the six-foot-whatever, two-forty-something gorilla in the ski mask who had snatched her. The trunk lid popped open and LaciLane, Connie is the author of 'Dirty Little Lies' with ISBN 9780440237471 and ISBN 0440237475.