Wrong Turn: Miss Fortune World: Mercy on the Bayou, #1

By Kamaryn Kelsey

When Mercy Hazeldine agreed to run an errand for her grandmother, she knew things might go south. But she didn't realize she'd wind up in Sinful, Louisiana. However, a stolen car and a missing package leave her stranded and out of options.

Ida Belle and Gertie, suspicious of the newcomer and her reasons for coming to Sinful, are unwittingly sucked into her dilemma, together with a reluctant hero Mercy picked up in a bar—restroom. Before long, Mercy quits counting the wrong turns her life takes. All she wants is to fix the mess and leave. But one has to forgive her optimism; It's her first time in Sinful.

This book does not feature Fortune Redding as the main character.

Authors note: This is Fan Fiction. It is not written by the original author, but by a fan who has special permission to create stories using the author's characters and locations.

Special thanks to Jana DeLeon and J&R Fan Fiction for making this possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J&R Fan Fiction
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386430506

Book preview

Author's note:

This is Book 1 in the Mercy on the Bayou Series. This series does not feature Fortune Redding as the main character.

Other than Jana DeLeon's original story elements, the characters and names are creations of the author's imagination.

Events, timeline, and descriptions in this book/series may not coincide with those in the original Miss Fortune series.

Special thanks to Jana DeLeon and J&R Fan Fiction for making this possible.

Also Kit Dawson, Hybrid Beta Reader.

Chapter 1

Mercy Hazeldine slowed her car and squinted at the road sign. This couldn’t be right. Shouldn’t she be getting close to—With one eye on the road, she grabbed a sheet of paper from the passenger seat. Oh, yeah. Mudbug. How did she forget that odd name?

Since crossing the state line, it seemed she passed through hundreds of tiny settlements and wondered why they didn’t build in one central place and expand like a normal city. Sooner or later they were bound to bump into each other. As if agreeing with her, a sign right outside the last little community advertised two nearby towns. The arrow aimed to the right announced Asphalt was a mile in that direction. The other arrow pointed toward Faultless, two miles away.

What was straight ahead? Isn’t that where she should be headed? Mercy narrowed her dark eyes to the suspiciously quiet GPS. It seemed to have stopped working. Or maybe it was confused. After all, her car spent its whole life in and around Denver, the same as Mercy. She could navigate her way through rush hour traffic in a snowstorm without breaking a sweat. Maybe the sweltering heat outside was responsible for the GPS malfunction and her impatience.

Her left foot rapidly bounced on the floor, and she knew those three cups of coffee and a bottle of water accounted for the latter. And without a clear idea of how far she was from Mudbug, Mercy decided she couldn’t wait. Faultless or Asphalt? She flipped on her blinker and turned, praying Asphalt was more than a grouping of houses and an overly optimistic sign claiming the status of a village. Ah, there was a gas station! She braked hard in the tiny lot and jumped out with her purse, leaving her keys in the ignition. This wouldn’t take long, and there was no one else in sight.

Five minutes later she raked her hand through her dark hair, exasperated and angry. Who would steal a domestic sedan? More importantly, HER domestic sedan? It wasn’t just the car theft that upset her. Along with a package for Loyal, her laptop, clothes, and other personal items were in the vehicle. Adding to the insult, the clerk inside the gas station had waved her off when she ran in screaming about her missing car. His response? What do you expect me to do about it? The only bright spot was she at least had her purse.

Outside she scowled at the weather-beaten gas station sign, tempted to pull out her pistol and finish the job nature started. In her opinion, she’d be doing unsuspecting travelers a favor.

The nasty toilet was a biologic threat, and Mercy decided she’d rather squat in the weeds next to semi-trucks speeding down the highway, blowing back the grass and nearly tipping her over than touch the porcelain fixtures in the tiny gas station bathroom. Filthy drab green walls, a light switch stained with fingermarks, a spotted mirror (which was a mystery and not one she wanted to solve, given the fact that the faucet didn’t work), and a roll of liquid stained toilet paper. Again, something better left unanswered. Those terrible discoveries sent her back to the counter with her legs squeezed together.

Desperation led her to purchase the stale snack cakes that mocked her as she reached for her cell phone. After the failed restroom episode, she hoped the cakes might act like a sponge in her bladder. Instead, they fell out of her bag and hit the cracked concrete. The plastic tore and crumbs spilled out. Mercy jumped when a group of birds swooped in to score the treat.

The front door of the gas station jingled, and the spotty young clerk hollered, No feeding the birds! They crap all over everything. Then the door closed and Mercy restrained herself from giving him the finger. Compared to the bathroom, the neglected parking lot looked like a sterile environment.

She rubbed her sweaty neck and brushed the brown hair from her flushed cheeks. Where in the hell was she, anyway? Oh, yeah. She snorted when she read the small sign that said Welcome to Asphalt. Southwestern Louisiana- her personal gateway to hell. The whole town appeared to be about nine blocks square, and she wondered how her car disappeared so quickly.

Never mind, Mercy! Just call someone for help. But who? Did this town even have law enforcement? Her brown eyes rolled back to the gas station where she saw the clerk through the glass, picking his nose and thumbing through a dirty magazine. Mercy wondered if his crooked eyes made him see double or only half of the magazine. Don’t go there! The kid probably has handcuffs and a fake cop badge stuffed under the counter. She grimaced and dialed 911, waiting patiently as the operator cheerfully greeted her. 

After Mercy explained her dilemma, the chatty woman decided it wasn’t a dire emergency. Well, I’m just as sorry as can be, she offered while Mercy stared at her phone in amazement. Honey, are you sure you’re in the right parking lot row? It’s so easy to lose a car. What’s your number?

Huh?

You know, the sign number. Or maybe it’s a letter. I always forget these things, but if you look at the nearest post, you should know if it’s the same one where you parked your car.

Through tight lips, Mercy replied, The nearest sign is on the street, and it says no parking.

Well! There’s your problem, dear. You’re in the wrong spot.

Take a really deep breath, Mercy! No, ma’am. You don’t understand. My car is missing from the spot where I parked. In other words, someone took it.

I see. Have you checked around the corner? Sometimes the local kids like to pull little pranks like moving a car.

Mercy gritted her teeth. No, I haven’t checked around the corner. But I can see most of the town from where I’m standing and my car isn’t here. The only car in sight is parked down the street. It’s not mine.

The operator giggled. Those darn kids! They’ll find the sneakiest places to hide those vehicles.

Ignore it, Mercy! Uh, about my car? she reminded the woman, who interrupted to introduce herself. Okay, Rose. Someone stole my car. Please send help. The clipped sentences came out like a telegram message. Without profanity. For now.

Hon, what’s your name?

Finally! Mercy—

Squeal. Why, I bet that’s short for Mercedes!

You’d lose that bet, Rose. Mercy wiped her forehead, and the phone’s low battery signal warned her she was nearly out of time. Wait, was that a squad car approaching? She whipped off her huge round sunglasses for a better look. Yippee, it was. Releasing a deep sigh of relief, she disconnected and waved frantically to attract attention. The vehicle nearly stopped, and the moon-faced kid masquerading as a police officer smiled and blushed before returning a tiny finger wave and pressing the gas pedal, leaving Mercy staring open-mouthed with her forefinger in the air, preparing to speak.

Get back here! It was hotter than the summer she worked a fryer inside a trailer at the beach when she was seventeen. Although she wore sandals with heels, she would have qualified for the Olympics had they clocked her as she chased the stupid cruiser down the nearly deserted street. In futility. Unbelievable. Mercy felt trapped in a modern version of The Twilight Zone.

A few pickup trucks huddled together in front of what was likely the local bar. At least she could order alcohol to disinfect the toilet. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped into the dim room, her eyes taking a moment to adjust. It was cool and smelled of fried food, stale beer, and cigarettes. Three men sitting on stools turned to see who entered while the bartender hastily stubbed out his cigarette and moved the ashtray under the bar. Mercy didn’t care if they peeled off their clothes and did a naked fan dance as long as the place had a bathroom.

Help you, ma’am? the bartender called out.

Do you have a restroom? she asked, approaching the bar.

For paying customers only, he said warily.

Mercy lifted her brows at the three stool holders and tossed a twenty on the bar. Another round of beer, she said, hoping the price of beer wasn’t as distorted as everything else in this hamlet.

The man closest to her grinned. Bathroom’s that way. He pointed to a small hallway at the back of the place and Mercy smiled.

By now she would use a plastic pail set in the corner if that’s all they had. I’ll order when I’m done, she told the bartender as she rushed to the back of the bar, crashing through the wooden restroom door. Tears of relief and pain filled her eyes as she squeezed her butt cheeks and bunny hopped to the stall, ignoring the tall woman washing her hands at the sink. She fumbled with her zipper and prayed she wouldn’t wet her pants and flood the floor- not when she was this close. Finally, the zipper on her pants was down, and she dropped onto the seat.

Straining, she crossed her eyes, worried her muscles had seized up and someone would find her internally drowned on her own urine with her butt still clenched and her eyes bugged out. Drip, drip. D-r-i-p. The trickle turned into a torrent and she moaned in relief. Thank God!

Ma’am, are you okay in there?

Mercy nearly fell off the toilet at the sound of a male voice. Indignantly, she shouted, What are you doing in here? Get— Her eyes closed in agony. The restroom didn’t have two sinks