Team Tee: Tee Travis Book 2

By D J Merritt

Tee, Frank and Cyn are in the thick of it again, visiting New Orleans on spring break. When the city's vampires claim Tee for their own, it's up to the trio to unravel a thirty-four year unsolved murder, proving Tee's innocence and her humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483554563

Book preview

9781483554563

Prologue

Confronting the specter of my kidnapping wasn’t nearly as stress-inducing as the effort required to ignore the tension radiating from my two friends, both scrutinizing my every move lest I succumb to a half-expected, full blown flashback, Hollywood-style. Nearly three months before, while attending an auction in this same repurposed warehouse, a 1960’s era bank robber snatched me from the lobby, attempting to reclaim his share of a treasure he would not believe I did not possess, leading the police and my friends on a merry chase to a local mall. Not your stereotypical gun-toting Texan, unlike my friend Cyn, I couldn’t exactly go postal on the assembly today, no more than I could have defended myself against my kidnapper back then. But scrambling between the folding chairs, stabbing people in the throat with my pink gel pen was apparently a possibility, judging by the air of watchfulness that bracketed me.

Bookend number one was that previously mentioned friend, my BFF since high school, Cynthia Miller, Cyn for short. No pun intended, even though I stood a half-head taller than her pale-skinned, coppery haired, five feet and small change. We represented our grandmothers at the sale; both owned competing antique stores in different parts of the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area, and in their golden years found shopping to be tedious and physically difficult. Plus, we really enjoyed ferretting out treasures, like urban big game hunters, especially if we could stalk bargains together. We planned buying excursions around my hours waiting tables at a small family-owned restaurant in our home town of Mansbury, Cyn’s efforts leading the local middle school PTA, both of our motherhood duties, and our mutual sun worshipping sessions. And lately, Frank’s shifts at the firehouse.

Which leads me to bookend number two. Francis Albert Severino, who, unlike others, I refused to call by the moniker Brooklyn, sticking to the less colorful nickname he grew up with: our friend, my boyfriend, uh manfriend, significant other, whatever you want to call him. For me, that was Frank. For three long years I resisted the advances of this six foot five hunk of fireman, a dead ringer for Tom Selleck, and now that I had given in to Cyn’s matchmaking and what he referred to as his charm, we were mostly inseparable, during the day. Said eye candy was currently ignoring me, intensely leaning into his bidding, head nodding agreement as his very New York yo rang out with the auctioneer’s suggested raises.

The blond they flanked was me, Theresa Irene Travis, Tee to those that loved and cared for me, Tits to those who didn’t. Except Frank, he had special dispensation – for a lot of things. Five foot seven, athletically built and well endowed, it was easy to see why I had such a tough time leaving that old school epithet behind. Growing up defended by Cyn, her husband Steven, and even my ex, Dave, I won many battles, but the war continued.

So there we were, on a typical Saturday, with dozens of other local merchants, vying for bargains from the bits and pieces of other people’s pasts. While Cyn and I focused on smaller shelf items, Frank was a big ticket buyer, looking for restorable furniture that would market well in his sister’s antique store back in his native New York City, and lately in my Gram’s shop, too. Since relocating to Texas three years ago, Frank devoted his summer vacations road-tripping a truckload of furnishings home to Brooklyn, (hence his nickname) visiting family and old friends. Sharing his preliminary plans for his June trip on the drive north this morning, I had the niggling feeling he was hinting at my joining his next sojourn. The possibility of meeting Frank’s very large, Italian, Catholic, New York family was far more likely to give me night terrors than facing my demons today.

This estate sale had quickly dispensed of the smaller lots Cyn and I targeted – hand-stitched table linens, a sugar dish and creamer matching china currently on display in my Gram’s shop, a shoe box full of vintage costume jewelry, a couple of Navajo rugs, and several Jackie O-worthy ladies’ hats – and moved on to the armoires and tables, so now I was in crowd-minding mode, no longer interested in procurement. Most of today’s attendees were the usual suspects, but there were a few unknowns along the fringes. One of those strangers skulked in the shadows in the far corner, bidding against Frank on a delicately carved, free-standing walnut jewelry chest with cherry inlaid trim. Try as I might to dodge Frank’s constantly moving, broad and buff frame, I could not get a clear visual of the dark-haired man in black, but the wriggling did earn me a needle-sharp elbow to the ribs from Cyn.

Tee, if y’all need to pee that bad, don’t wait for me, just get up and go, Cyn drawled, shooing me like a fly before returning to her conversation with the dealer beside her, still under the delusion propagated in high school that girls could only urinate in groups.

I don’t have to pee, I responded, in my nice, Midwestern lack-of-accented voice. Even though I’d lived in Texas since high school, nearly twenty years, I’d never embraced being a Texan, mentally or linguistically. And, the not needing to pee was actually a little white lie, but it wasn’t my primary motivation for fidgeting, so I didn’t feel guilty about my reply. I’m trying to see who’s bidding against Frank.

Her interest piqued, Cyn joined in rubbernecking, but no matter how we gyrated, the man loitering in the shadows face eluded us, only his dark-skinned hand gripping a bidder number periodically flashing into the light. But apparently Frank’s pockets were deeper than his opponent’s, or his desire stronger, and my man celebrated his victory with a dazzling toothy grin before planting a kiss on my glossy lips. I fleetingly wondered which Frank relished more, an auction win, or a bedroom romp. Then my mind drifted back to Wednesday’s afternoon delight, and decided to put that checkmark firmly in the nookie column. My musing on his smooth, hard body and feather-soft lips was interrupted by Cyn’s elbow, once again buried in my ribs. Apparently I missed the announcement dismissing the spectators, asking everyone to settle up with the cashier and collect their booty.

Ready to divide and conquer, Frank and I made a beeline for the auction floor, while Cyn opted for the far less physical job of standing in line to pay our debts, merrily networking with other successful auction participants. Collecting our goods from the four corners of the huge, timeworn building was harder work, but I reveled in any time spent with Frank, and the sweatier, the better. Plus my proximity warded off the auction sluts and cougars who tracked my handsome companion, kinda like flashing a cross at vampires.

First stop was Frank’s last purchase, the jewelry chest. After quickly reconnoitering the contents, Frank temporarily sealed the doors and drawers with tape from a little tool kit I carried in my bag, preparing it for transport. Then we split up, fetching assorted boxes and bags elsewhere in the large building, gathering it all around that wooden anchor. Slipping back with the last of our loot, I spied a man tearing off the recently-applied tape, hurriedly rummaging through the drawers like he was in search of something specific and familiar. The unseasonably tanned, tall, lanky, dark-haired stranger looked suspiciously like the man bidding against Frank, and he must have caught wind of my return, as he turned tail and rushed toward the exit as soon as my Hey echoed through the air.

In his haste, the man blasted right by Frank, strolling up, arms overflowing, from the other end of the warehouse. He heard me cry out and glanced where I pointed, but his reaction was too slow and his burden too heavy to interrupt the man’s flight. Reuniting, I explained what I witnessed, and he quickly scanned each drawer, not immediately finding anything to have grown legs. Finishing his investigation, Frank drew one piece out for a closer look.

Hiya, Tee, I dint notice it before, but this cameo looks a little like you, he said, cocking his head and inspecting the pendant dangling from his hand, his eastern phrasing as always bringing a fond smile to my lips.

I stepped into his personal space drinking in the scent of his fading aftershave, welcome relief from the wet concrete and stale cigarette smells dominating the building, and reached out to halt the slow spin of the necklace. An antique shell cameo, white image in relief against a blush background, framed in a teardrop-shaped gold filigree setting swung from a long golden chain. The delicate woman’s profile with high pony tail did indeed resemble me, in a vague sort of way.

Here, lemme hook you up, he said, green eyes sparkling while he quickly opened the clasp with his long, dexterous fingers, reaching over my shoulders to reconnect it beneath my own long, blond ponytail. Frank’s full mustache swept a path up my neck and his lips gently brushed the lobe of my ear before drawing back to admire his gift, nestled in my generous cleavage. Frank smiled, fully aware of the faint shiver and goose bumps that, as usual, erupted at his touch.

A transporter beam couldn’t have re-assembled our molecules in my home in Mansbury fast enough.

Chapter One

Mornin’ Tits.

The creak of springs and pressure on my mattress roused me before Frank’s whisper announced his presence. The big man folded himself behind me, adjusting to make six foot five inches of male perfection fit on less than six feet of available mattress, arm curled around my waist to snug me into a perfect spoon. Or at least as perfect as someone his size can spoon another ten inches shorter. Eyes closed, I nestled my curves into his angles, relaxing as the familiar fragrance of Nautica overwhelmed the lavender scent of my sheets, followed by the calming wave of body heat seeping through several layers of bedding. I was only half-joking when I kidded Frank about being part werewolf; his body always felt ten degrees warmer than mine.

My visitor’s feet wrapped beneath mine, like second soles on my feet, his bare toes raking the grey cotton comforter, straining to tickle my arches through the multiple layers of fabric and batting. His effort was futile, but the gentle brush of mustache and affectionate attentions of his lips on my ear yielded the desired result; I giggled, then tilted my head back, encouraging his nuzzle.

Normally, being addressed with the dreaded nickname would enrage me. But, in the fall, when we officially began dating, Frank and I negotiated a truce, allowing him to call me, that, in private only. So far, he’d stayed true to his word, no slip-ups. After several months of exclusivity I still felt, for many reasons the least of which was he had literally saved my life, this exception to my long-standing rule was well worth permitting.

The lifesaving occurred in November, after unlocking the mystery of an infamous fifty-year-old bank robbery. Kidnapped by the murderous thief hell-bent on collecting his cut of the loot after five decades, it was this man’s quick-thinking, with a little help from Cyn and my son, Mason that allowed the police to capture my assailant and rescue me, mostly unharmed.

On this cool north Texas morning a faint, fragrant spring breeze wafted through my partially open window, swelling the lacey white sheers with each breath. The morning’s fifty degree start was bracingly pleasant, making Frank’s body heat all the more welcome. Golf and a barbeque, activities perfect for today’s forecast, would be on tap if we stayed in Texas. Since my near-death experience the twenty year rift in my relationship with my mother had been bridged, and Sunday family dinners were perfunctory. Golf lessons with Thomas’s senior and junior, my father and older brother respectively, were my man-friend’s new Sabbath pastime, when he wasn’t fulfilling his deep-blue hero commitment at the firehouse. To me, today’s eight hour drive wasted a perfectly good chance to tan.

The songbirds were serenading the rising sun, merrily beginning their day, melodies overlapping like a Simon and Garfunkel song. Nature’s version of Scarborough Fair. We both watched, Frank’s head nestled in the crook of my neck, lips skimming my collarbone, as two finches flitted between bushes within sight of the open window. The contentment they fostered threatened to cool my ardor. To waylay my plan.

Arms bound within my bedding, I shimmied inside the freshly laundered, pink Egyptian cotton chrysalis that embraced me, twisting to face him, trying not to appear frustrated with my lack of grace - no smooth seduction here. I blinked, momentarily blinded by the rising sun reflecting off the mirror atop the ancient oak dresser standing sentry beside my door. Like most of the furnishings in my home, it was second-hand, well cared for, but not particularly valuable.

As my vision cleared and eyes focused, Frank’s handsome, rugged features weren’t where my gaze landed first - not his mahogany sweep of hair, heavy arched brows, angel wing mustache, perpetual five o’clock shadow, trio of dimples, or charismatic, triangular smile. Nope, not any of the parts that reminded me of the Magnum PI lunchbox my little brother carried in elementary school. Frank’s two-of-a-kind sea green eyes were where my blue orbs always came to rest first. As usual, I was momentarily waylaid by their gentle warmth, marveling at the color, like the aged green turquoise in my grandmother’s squash blossom necklace. This morning they looked weary, jewels set in circles of age-darkened metal, but still gleamed, as always, when gazing back at me. To gain time off for this trip, he’d worked two double shifts this week, which for a firefighter entailed forty-eight straight hours at the station each stint. Meaning I also endured several more Frank-free days than I was used to, and I hated to admit, even to myself, that I’d missed him.

You had a job this morning, I whispered, finally face to face, acknowledging the faint odor of smoke I detected. That scent, differing from my patio oak and pinon fires due to the chemicals usually present, clung to his hair, not shampooing away with a single wash. Not content to stay outside with the johnny pump or merely on the pipe, Frank was, and probably always would be, a nozzle man, the closest to danger. A fact I was learning to deal with, with marginal success.

Um hmm, house fire, another old space heater left unattended. No injuries, but we could only save the basement, which in basement-less Texas meant a total loss. Frank peppered his answer with butterfly kisses on my cheeks and nose, obviously distracted. He stretched to his full length, until his feet extended off the end of my bed, like a Grand Canyon overlook, then trussed me tighter in the covers, gathering me close. Nose to nose, his lips caught mine. He tasted warm and comforting, bacon and coffee. I hoped my stomach didn’t rumble, a real mood-killer.

Do we have time for a shower? I inquired, in what I hoped was a seductive whisper, drawing my arms out of my Chinese finger trap, stretching my limbs overhead contentedly like one of his cats, arching my back, pressing even closer. I shrugged the covers from my shoulders, reaching out to tidy up his wave of hair, brushing a loose strand back into place, relishing the silken texture. Until I first touched his mahogany locks, I assumed Frank’s hair was stiff from styling product. But not only was the wave natural, his hair was softer than mine. Of course, he didn’t spend eight months a year torturing his mane with sunlight and chlorine, and the other four months overconditioning to repair the damage.

Playing hairdresser drew his attention to my bare shoulders, part of my plan. Frank’s eyes zoomed in on my naked flesh, flashing cartoon-wide. He left off fondling my backside, his hand gliding up to tug on the front edge of the comforter, peeking within to confirm my unclothed status. His eyes scrolled deliberately to join mine, the corners of his mouth spreading into a broad, mischievous grin, dimples like two wells sunk into fleshy cheeks.

You’ve been tanning, he reported, jerking me flush to his body, his kiss feverish, tongue probing deeply despite my probable morning breath. Rolling forward, pressing me into the mattress, his sudden passion wiping all thought from my brain as the air was crushed from my lungs. Just before I passed out from lack of oxygen, he broke away, heaving a weighty sigh, answering the question I forgot I’d asked.

You do, but we don’t. Besides, Mason’s home, he reminded, a hint of regret in his eyes and voice. We mutually agreed to uphold a no sex in the house when Mason is home rule, but that didn’t mean I had no second thoughts, now and then. And I was counting on Frank to feel the same this morning. My gentle giant rolled to his side, left hand propping up his head, right cupped firmly to my bottom, keeping our bodies on a parallel course and maintaining an easy kissing distance. Like most of his actions, Frank’s lips were thorough in their ministrations. Intense, passionate, and unhurried, he was the kind of man that read every page in a book, never skipping chapters.

After a three months of dating I bequeathed Frank a front door key so he could come and go as he pleased, which apparently included making morning stealth attacks. My home had become the logical meeting place after my weekday breakfast shifts at Jim’s Family Restaurant, usually Cyn and Frank waiting for me to scrub off the leftovers before attending auctions or cruising garage sales. And sometimes, without Cyn, helping out at my gram’s antique store, or for the more than occasional roll in the hay. As gram would say, we were joined at the hip at least one of his two days off between shifts on the job.

Frank’s superior time management skills meant he finished chores like laundry, cleaning, or mowing the lawn quickly, unlike me. I took twice as long to accomplish half as much, even with a teenage boy to delegate to. Therefore, the majority of Frank’s free hours were frittered away with Mason and me, often pitching in so we could all relax together. Nights Frank slept at his rental, only staying over when my son was with a friend, or his father, which was infrequent. Although Mason was nearly sixteen, and surely savvy enough to guess we were sexually active, I avoided confirming that truth.

Mason’s asleep, he won’t hear anything if we’re quiet. It could be a really long week, I coaxed, not even mentioning how long the week had already been, not willing to admit how much I missed him. One eyebrow quirked incredulously at my mention of being quiet, so I thrust my lip out in a pout, and pressed my index finger into the cleft in his chin, inching it down, over his Adam’s apple, and on south to explore the dark brown forest just visible between the lapels of his bright green Hawaiian shirt. Typically, only one of these actions was enough to bend Frank to my will, but this morning I pulled out all the stops. I stared into his eyes, questioningly, temptingly, putting every ounce of vixen I could muster into my hungry gaze. My fingers slid around the top button of his shirt, releasing it, tangling my fingers in the curls on his chest as my lips stretched to meet his. I was a raging inferno that only this fireman could extinguish.

Before I could whistle Dixie, or in what Frank would call a Noo Yawk minute, he hopped off the bed, yanking my covers loose, and with a flick of his wrists sent the sheet soaring, billowing into the air, a percale parachute. He lunged forward, powerful hands grasping my waist, and tossed me ass over teacups onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry before my bedding even touched down. Rubbing noses with the squawking beak of a too-bright yellow parrot gracing the back of his shirt, my long blonde hair dangled and bounced off the khaki pockets on his extra firm tushee. A squeal, somewhere between shock and excitement, escaped before I remembered my vow of silence. I wrapped my arms around Frank’s waist, freshly manicured fingers loosening his belt to speed the shucking of his cargo shorts.

Shhh. You’ll wake Mason, he chastised, and playfully smacked my hands away from his waistline as he maneuvered through the doorway into the master bath.

Frank bowed, depositing me inside the tub, planting my feet on the footprint stickers installed to prevent soapy-water-induced pratfalls. I stood, shivering, feeling as naked and exposed as I looked in the unforgiving glare of track lights. Or maybe it was the trail of his lips across my hipbone as he stood, or the path scalded up my backside by his warm, firm hands that elicited the reaction. Frank expanded to his full height, smiling down at his bird’s eye view of my full, perky breasts, while his hands continued to travel upward through the channel between said breasts until they came to rest cupping my cheeks. The high ones. He ducked under the curtain rod and across the tub edge that separated us, his kiss aggressive, tongue sparring with mine. My hands slid from his shoulders, intent on further unbuttoning his shirt, when Frank once again stayed my progress. He released my lips, smiling roguishly, displaying his Selleck look-alike dimples, again, before smacking me on the behind and stepping away from the tub, drawing the shower curtain across the void between us.

Hurry up, Tits, or we’re gonna be late, Frank growled over his shoulder, that Brooklyn accent more pronounced from suppressed passion as he drug the bathroom door closed behind him, heading for the kitchen. My perfect eye roll was completely wasted on the sheet of pink plastic I stood staring into.

Resigned to another week of celibacy, I dialed up the water, adjusting the temperature a little on the cool side, thankful I wasn’t a man and my condition didn’t include contending with an erection. Callously, I wished that Frank did. A big, painful, persistent and embarrassing hard on, as payback. I was so stressed, I detected the telltale tenderness of a pimple sprouting on my chin. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. As I relaxed and lathered my hair, my mind cleared by the refreshing tea tree scent, I heard the distant chatter of my favorite masculine voices and realized that Frank’s adherence to my rules had once again saved me, this time from myself.

Chapter Two

Thirty minutes later I was a little embarrassed, but clean, dry, with my toiletries packed and ready for the road. My sun-kissed hair was pulled high and tight into a sleek pony tail that brushed my shoulder blades, cheekbones lightly blushed and lips glossed, dressed in my most comfortable pink Pink sweats, t-shirt and flip flops; a perfect driving ensemble. My sense of smell guiding me down the hallway to the kitchen, like following Pepe le Pew’s trail, I joined my two favorite men filling travel mugs with Pike Place roast for the first leg of our journey. My entrance obviously interrupted their dialogue, and I wondered what the playful-sounding back-and-forth was about that had paused on my account.

Mason’s newly deepened Hey, Mom, greeted me as I emerged from the hall; Frank’s shit-eaten grin displayed his orthodontically perfect teeth when he handed me a hot beverage in my preferred travel mug. He tentatively bent to place a chaste kiss on my lips, but I turned my head slightly at the last second, forcing a landing on my cheek.

You smell good enough to eat, he whispered, discreetly inhaling my clean, brown sugar scrub scent.

Too late. You already passed on dessert, I breathed back, my scowl withering his Cheshire cat imitation. Frank backed away with a shrug, and scooped up his own travel mug, looking suitably chastised. My mom-eye worked better on him than my teenage son. Go figure.

I leaned against the counter, doctoring my brew with sugar and creamer, an amused smile slowly supplanting my frown, as I witnessed the return to negotiations over the assorted Mrs. Baird’s donuts I bought for the road.

I hear what you are saying, but I still think you should have these, Mason waved a package of gems under the bigger man’s nose, enticing him to take his bait. Mom calls little chocolate-covered donuts the ‘breakfast of champions,’ so, Brooklyn, I think these should be yours. At your age, trying to keep up with us young guys this week, you’ll need the extra boost, Mason chided, face full of sincerity, laying that same tubular package on the counter and scooting it toward Frank, an offering. My son quickly resorted to inspecting his Nike slippers, then adjusted his baggy gym shorts, tucking in his t-shirt in an attempt to maintain his fading poker face. Only the thunking of the spoon knocking the sides of my plastic cup broke the silence as Frank formulated his response.

Thought dat was Wheaties? Frank asked, looking to me for clarification. I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders, content to be observer, not a participant, in this discussion.

Well, young grasshopper, Frank started slowly, turning away from me and tipping his head in acceptance of Mason’s challenge, his New York accent mangling grasshopper to grasshawpa. Your assertion’s only true if they’re washed down wit a brewski, according to the late, great John Belushi, which it’s way too early in the morning for, unless you’re from Jersey. Which I am not. So fuggedaboutit. You’re the bomb in this house, and I’m a mere shlub, keep the chocolate ones, I’ll settle for powdered sugah. Patting Mason on the shoulder, universal guy language for better luck next time, he fed the package of white gems into the beak of the lemony parrot gracing the pocket of his shirt. I buffed my nose with my coffee-free hand to conceal my entertainment, as Frank turned and sauntered toward the garage.

It was such a relaxed scene, I wished I could rewind and watch it over and over from the beginning, like Mason replayed the Orc decapitation scene at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring. I test sipped my coffee, wondering if this was a representative sample of what life might be like every day, if Frank were here on a more permanent basis. Many women I know would have moved him in lock, stock, and cats after seeing each other for only a month or two. I shook the idea from my mind, recognizing the thought for what it was: a daydream. This man hadn’t shown any interest in changing the status quo, and I was convinced it was only a matter of time before he moved on. The thought was like a loose tooth I couldn’t stop worrying: this waitress was too awkward, life too lackluster, to sustain fireman Frank’s attention for much longer.

Not that I wasn’t easy on the eyes: attractive in a slightly naïve girl-next-door sort of way, naturally tanned when the weather allowed (no fake baking for me), with a genetically perfect smile and a naturally flirtatious personality. Not the brightest bulb in the fixture, but never the dullest, either. Well read, but not highly educated. Frank was by no means superficial, despite the assumption many made from his first impression, including me, based on his painstakingly groomed appearance. But my mind cautioned it required more than an average package, even with double D’s, to keep a toehold on Mr. Perfect. In laywoman’s terms the man was hot: not just tall, dark and handsome, but smart, funny (not just funny sounding because of his accent), with a perfect six-pack and, what might have been his most attractive feature, a self-confidence that never tipped to arrogance. Not one of these admirable qualities could I match.

I felt like the second string right-fielder on a farm team in contrast to Frank. Women begged to bat clean-up for him; fake boobed and botoxed, garbed in their teenage daughter’s clothes, they waited on deck wherever he went. These future draft floozies especially proliferated at auctions, where coincidentally we first met, when Frank rescued me from a nest of power cords I stumbled into, dumped in my path by a negligent film crew documenting the sale of abandoned storage units for one of those cable TV shows.

Cyn was encouraging me to reinvent myself with a trendy hairstyle and more fashionable wardrobe, which she assured would help me feel more, well, more worthy of Frank. But I refused to bow to my insecurities and change for any man, especially one I expected to stray off like an unleashed dog in the park, soon. Besides, unlike my friend, I couldn’t afford the spas and boutiques she frequented, even with the friends and family discount.