Tor Maddox: Mistaken

By Liz Coley

Grab a flotation device and welcome aboard for more shenanigans, villainy, and romance in this third book of the Tor Maddox "pink thrillers" series.

Eight leotards and a ball gown—that's what Tor Maddox packed for her summer ballet intensive in New York. Pity she never arrived. Kidnapped once by the good guys and once by the bad ones, Tor finds herself involved in a high seas adventure featuring princesses and pirates, a wedding ring, and the guy she thought she'd never be allowed to see again, junior man-in-black Rick Turner.

Tor's employee ID badge promises: "Your Fantasy Starts Here." It couldn't be more mistaken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Coley
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311930538

Liz Coley

Liz Coley's short fiction has appeared in Cosmos magazine and speculative fiction anthologies. Her passions beyond reading and writing include singing, photography, and baking. She plays competitive tennis locally in Ohio to keep herself fit and humble. With a background in science, Liz follows her interest in understanding "the way we work" down many interesting roads. Pretty Girl-13's journey into the perilous world of dissociative identity disorder is one of them.

Book preview

Tor Maddox:

MISTAKEN

by Liz Coley

Tor Maddox: MISTAKEN

by Liz Coley

Copyright Liz Coley 2015

Published by Liz Coley at Smashwords.

Cover by Liz Coley, image licenses purchased from Bigstock.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted without express written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotes for book reviews or critical articles.

Ebook edition License Notes: This ebook is published for your enjoyment and should not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this story with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the copyrights of authors and other hard working content producers.

FOR SOPHIE & VALERIE

& MIRANDA & REBECCA

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to everyone who read this story along the winding path from notion to print, especially to first (and second) reader Rachel and those who cast final probing eyes over it: Barbara, Deborah, Clare. Special thanks to YA Books Central, Eden Gray, Tez Miller, and Heidi Ruby Miller for help in promoting this series. Thanks to Joanna Volpe, who lifted the very first Tor Maddox manuscript out of the slush pile. Thanks to Nancy Coffey, who saw the promise in this story and family of characters and continued to believe in them through thick and thin. Thanks for unflinching support and friendship from my writing communities: Northern Ohio SCBWI, Cincy YA, Ohio YA Writers, and Binders Full of YA Writers. Finally, thanks to all the readers who have invited Tor Maddox into their lives.

CHAPTER ONE

A CHANGE IN THE WIND

The summer wind had shifted. Instead of blowing inland, drawing in thick fog from the San Diego shoreline, the desert was pushing hot dry air back across the parched Pacific coastal canyons. The fire risk index was already off the charts, and July had barely started. But unlike the westerly wind, tomorrow morning I was heading east, off on a dreamlike and unexpected adventure—one that promised only blisters and bloody toes.

Much tamer than my usual escapades.

My phone dinged with a message from Felicity. Yes, we were on a regular texting basis now, hard as that is to believe, given our sketchy history. Sure, I had just saved her grandpa Abuelo from deportation to Mexico, and our bizarre duet audition tape had gotten her into the New York Joffrey Ballet summer intensive. She had every reason to thank me. But this change in our interpersonal barometric pressure followed a lifetime of mutual snarkiness and straight out competition at the barre. The détente, that is to say our verbal cease-fire agreement, was unexpectedly comfortable.

Hey Tor. You there? How many dresses ru packing?

Me? Dresses? Zero. So far.

The smashed sedimentary layers in my suitcase included the pointe shoes and sneakers epoch on the bottom, the jeans and capris era in the middle, and on top, the upper crushables—black leos, pink convertible tights, booty shorts, wide-necked slouchy tops.

That audition duet (with her as the tiny, delicate waif and me, a five-ten female, playing the strapping ballerino) had gotten me invited to Joffrey as well, even though I hadn’t actually applied until asked. To be honest, my big dreams for the future had more to do with black suits and mirror shades than pink spandex and tulle. Still, no one who has Nutcrackered since she was six says NO to Joffrey.

I texted back: No dresses. You?

The reply: Theatre, dinners, stuff. I have 3.

I didn’t even own three dresses. I had precisely one in my closet—the ball gown I wore to the Inauguration last January—where I danced with two governors, the Attorney General, and my dad. But not with Rick, because Rick Turner, college guy and man-in-black-in-training, was most definitely not allowed to dance with me after that incident with the secret goodbye kiss that wasn’t so secret, and wasn’t, as it turned out, goodbye.

And now, after I nearly blew myself up in the service of my country and then crawled through a collapsed tunnel to unbury Rick, he wasn’t permitted to think of me. Not after Dad gave him his marching orders, like, March right out of this house, young man, get yourself back to Georgetown, and leave my unpredictable, uncontrollable, and unmanageable teenaged daughter alone.

Rick had made one last phone call to confirm my worst suspicions. He respected Dad; he would honor his wishes. Exit Rick. Enter gaping hole in heart, sleepless nights, really bad love poetry (never sent).

This escape to New York was supposed to distract and wear me out. So far, not working.

I’ll bring my one dress, I replied. Shop more in NYC.

Felicity signed off with: Totally! YOLO.

That matter settled, I draped the winter-ivory long dress back and forth into my suitcase. Out of the black-tie-ballroom context, it was a bit too ceremonial for a night on the town, but Felicity could help me accessorize it down or even dye it a sadder shade of blue. I definitely would not imagine dancing in Rick’s arms in it, because that would be futile and stupid and self-indulgent and…oh, spit.

I allowed myself one more completely decadent minute (which is not to say a minute that felt like a decade, unfortunately; it was all too fleeting) to dwell on our last moments in the collapsed tunnel. Once upon that time, Rick had clung to me as hard as he’d clung to life and kissed me like no one was watching (except actually my brother Rody was). Then reality hit us upside the head and sent us separate ways. Me back to the end of sophomore year in high school. Him back to sophomore year in college.

What was four measly years compared to the age of the universe? Too much, apparently. A Grand Canyon of years.

I zipped up the suitcase fiercely. Then I unzipped. How could I have forgotten? Miss Cynthia, my ballerina Barbie named after my first ballet teacher, had sat on the dresser and patiently watched me grow from an awkward six-year-old pink princess into an overly tall, boyishly slim (okay, that’s the polite way of saying flat-chested), not half-bad dancer (I’m going to Joffrey!). As my constant inspiration, Miss Cynthia deserved to come to ballet Mecca with me. I patted her blonde bun, a little frizzier for the wear, and slid her between the chiffon folds of my gown.

Six feet pounded up the stairs. With only a token knock, Rody and Cocoa burst into my room. Rody was the one who knocked. Cocoa battered the door open with his square, brown head and plunged through. He danced around my suitcase, his terrier genes enticing him to sniff and bark at the mysterious new blue object in his world. He whined. I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his fur.

If he was going to cry, I’d be toast. Cocoa, you silly. It’ll be fine. Really. I’ll be back in only four weeks.

Rody just stood there with the weirdest expression. So yeah. You’re going. What time?

Crack of the crack of dawn, I answered. I rose to meet Rody eye to eye. He’d caught up with me somehow when I wasn’t paying attention. Fifteen-year-old boy hormones. I don’t expect you to see me off.

Right. He shuffled awkwardly. Well, I might anyway. I mean, I’ll set my alarm. In case. I mean, I don’t have anything better to do.

What was he saying? He was going to miss me, too? It’s only four weeks, I repeated, touched beyond words. "You’ve got tons to do anyway, with getting your fifty hours in-car, and…and your Roundup by Rodeo gardening thingy." He’d worked for a nursery last summer. Now he wanted to be his own boss.

No rain, no weeds, he said with a shrug. No grass to mow.

No steady paycheck, I commented. You could always babysit for the Yeagers. They give generous hazard pay.

He shrugged. Just going to be kind of quiet, he muttered. Stuck with Mom and Dad.

I gave him an inept big sister hug, not sure whether my arms were supposed to go above or below his now we were on even ground. We ended up uncomfortably diagonal. I patted his back.

Yeah, well I know it’s been a little more exciting than normal lately. But that’s not the usual. Not my fault if his leaping into my shenanigans had turned him into an adrenalin junkie. I’m looking forward to the simplicity of perfecting my jetés. Or so I told myself.

He had already let me hug him far longer than necessary. Really? he asked. You’re not sneaking off on some awesome secret assignment without me?

I wished! I released him with a laugh. With a ball gown and eight pairs of tights?

He cocked a sideways grin. You’ll probably turn that into a parachute as you leap from the top of the Empire State Building to foil a terrorist plot.

It’s glassed in, I countered.

See, you’ve already considered it, he said.

Caught me. I punched him lightly in the arm. No seriously. It’s just kind of cool to be doing something like this. It’s so…

Unexpected?

Yeah. And Mom and Dad—

Aren’t looking over your shoulder, worrying and wondering what’s next?

I nodded. That too. A side benefit. A break.

He grew thoughtful for a moment, and whatever he was thinking sent a blush across his cheeks. "You’re okay about, you know, him?"

Sure. I pinked up, too. Maybe. Eventually. No. Not really. Not at all. But I have to be.

That was about as much heart-to-heart as I could stand without flood-tears breaking over my sandbags of denial. I stared out my window and blinked till everything was clear again. Okay. Scram. I have to shower before dinner.

Rody took his hand off my shoulder and scrammed. I turned on the water in our shared Jack-and-Jill bathroom and turned off my brain. It would be good to dance and dance and dance and not think about anything else.

Especially Rick.

My straight, dark hair was still short enough to dry quickly, long enough to twist into a ballet bun at the nape of my neck. I floated down to the kitchen.

All packed, Tor, hon? Mom asked. She handed me a bamboo cutting board. Garlic bread’s in the toaster oven. Can you rescue it?

I unwrapped the foil-sealed loaf while Mom finished tossing the salad with balsamic vinaigrette. Rody, she called in the direction of the family room TV. Can you drag your father back in from the garage?

Rody crossed through the kitchen and sniffed, hand on the inside garage door. Lasagna? Cool. He opened the door and yelled, Dad! Lasagna!

Mom frowned. You know, Rodeo Loudspeaker Maddox, I could have done that myself.

Oh. Why dincha then? he asked, his face the most perfect mixture of innocence and sarcasm a fifteen-year-old guy could devise.

Mom swatted him with an oven mitt.

I transported water glasses to the table, along with the bread and salad. Mom spatula-ed gooey, melting cubes of deliciousness onto plates. Dad slid past the crowd to the kitchen sink to wash black greasy stuff off his hands.

Paper towels, Mom warned.

I know, Sunshine. Dad grinned at me with raised eyebrows. Remember what I did to the towels last time?

What are you doing in there, anyway? I asked.

Cleaning and lubing the old bike chain, he said. I’m thinking about working up to the triathlon for old dudes.

You’re not that old, I said. I didn’t ask if it was a special triathlon—didn’t need to. Dad never took any concessions for the foot he lost fourteen years ago on foreign soil.

Want to go for a sunset ride with me after dinner? he asked.

That was unusual. First of all, I didn’t own a bike—I’d have to borrow Mom’s. Second, father-daughter time usually meant walking Cocoa to the dog park, where Dad could pretend to watch the animals frolic while he asked me awkward questions or handed out advice. Even Mom had a curious look in her eye. Rody, on the other hand, let it pass as he grabbed three slices of garlic bread.

Mom’s spinach, mushroom, and gorgonzola lasagna slipped into the empty spot inside me, comfort food for the soul. Then she waved me and Dad out the door into the oven-dry air.

Sweat didn’t stand a chance. Really, Dad? We’re biking in this?

Wimp, he teased. Come on. Just round the lake. Be a sport.

As our bikes were already strapped onto the rack on his car, I got the sense this was a done deal. A plot.

Wimp? I grabbed a Padres cap from the pegboard on the garage wall, secured it over my damp hair, and slipped into the passenger seat.

Dad hummed as he drove toward the three-mile walk/bike trail around Lake Poway. So obviously his object wasn’t to get me alone in the car for some sort of pre-trip lecture. He set a good pace up the dirt trail, like he really was training for a triathlon. Even with over-muscled dancer quads, I had to downshift to make the steep parts. But the reward was topping the rise, sailing along in Dad’s wake with that topaz blue lake below us. He jumped off his bike and paused before the downhill glide to the parking lot. I pulled up alongside him.

Gorgeous, I commented, breathing harder than I would like to admit. Dance is not an aerobic exercise, believe it or not.

Dad handed me the water bottle from the yoke of my bike and took a deep swig from his own. Gonna be a nice sunset, punkin, he commented, checking out the western sky.

A few clouds had moved in, but it wasn’t late enough for the falling sun to tint them. Yep.

So.

Aha, here it comes.

You’ve never been away from home for so long, he began.

Dad, I’m sixteen, I retorted. Not six.

He smiled. Yeah, I know. Sixteen going on twenty-six. Still. Be careful, okay? New York takes a different kind of savvy. Savvy?

Groan. You know we’re supposed to be well supervised, I said.

That, my dear, has never stopped you.

Okay. He was right. I’d been pretty good at extricating myself from sensible adult influences in the past. That’s when the good stuff happens, after all.

Here. He reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. I have a feeling you’ll need this. Don’t tell Mom.

Five crisp hundred dollar bills! Is this why he wanted to get me alone? Oh my gosh. Thanks, Dad! I gave him a sweaty hug as best I could without tipping my bike over.

I’m not saying it’s a good feeling, he muttered. Just a feeling.

Oh Dadly. Don’t worry so much. I’ll just be dancing.

Promise? he asked, eyebrows arched like brown rainbows over brown eyes.

Chah. Of course. Something deep inside my head crossed its fingers. I mean, you never really know, do you? But playing the odds, all I’d be doing with Felicity in New York for the next four weeks was dancing, shopping, dancing, eating, dancing, sleeping, dancing and maybe going to a show or two. And changing the bloody Band-Aids on my feet.

Dad steadied my bike. So, anyway, don’t tell Rody, but we’re planning an early birthday surprise for him. Rody was turning sixteen in August, a scant and suspicious nine months behind me, close enough that both of us would be juniors together in high school. We’re going to come out to New York for a bit of family vacation at the end of your intensive—pick you up, see the sights, head over to Broadway, take in some concerts and museums.

Um, Dad, not to rain on your parade, but that doesn’t exactly sound like Rody’s thing. It sounds like Mom’s.

Fear not. I’ve got a line on Yankees versus Red Sox tickets. His eyes danced with mischief.

Nice. Very nice.

Okay. Keep that money on you for emergencies.

Will do, Dad. I suppose he meant figuratively. I couldn’t exactly stuff it in my leotard. Or in my bra, like Gramma does. Mine isn’t big enough.

We pedaled to the parking lot with the sky shading to violet as the sun dipped behind the hill. One star winked in the sky—Venus, actually, masquerading as a star. Seemed like an omen, Goddess of love the first bright light in the heavens. Yes, I know. Shut down, I told my internal Jiminy critic. Venus is always the first evening star.

At the airport, Mom secretly passed me an envelope in the ladies’ room. Just in case, she said. Don’t tell your dad.

I smiled. More dollars. My parents were so cute.

Felicity had never flown before. Her entire family came to see her off—Mom, Dad, Abuelo and Abuela, and her two little brothers, who I’d only seen looking bored at dance recitals. They both had toy airplanes and were flying them on extended arms as they ran in circles in the airport. The humorless TSA agent who took our luggage to screen scowled at them.

Then we had to part ways with lots of hugs all around. Rody, in fact, had gotten up early to see me off and insisted on coming to the airport. I had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out the birthday surprise. Rody and I couldn’t easily keep secrets from each other anymore, not after all we’d been through together.

Give Sioux a hug and a kiss for me, I said. My BFF and his girl friend, one and the same. On the cheek, I added, demonstrating.

Rody blinked in surprise.

Felicity and I vanished into the long security line, flashing our licenses for ID. She grinned up at me like a girl who had just gotten everything she’d ever wished for. I envied her. I should have been wearing the same smile. What was wrong with me?

Oh my God, Tor. This is going to be amazing! she said. You! Me! New York! Her eyebrows lowered over intense and ludicrously captivating dark eyes. They’d better not lose our luggage. I’ve got two pairs of custom pointe shoes in there. Her feet were tiny, like the rest of her, and those shoes probably cost her dad a week’s salary. They would last six weeks, tops.

But it turned out that after half the crowd had left with their bags and Felicity had hers safe in hand, I was the one scanning the conveyer belt in baggage claim, wondering how mine could have gotten separated when we checked in together. A long gap passed with no new bags.

It’s probably on the next cart, I muttered.

Oh my God, Tor, Felicity squealed. Incredible cuteness at one o’clock.

What? I glanced at