Things We Do For Love

By Gail Johnson

THE LITTLE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE

 

Fixing a special meal. Listening to a favorite song. Writing sweet little sticky notes.

Stealing a loved one from the cemetery.

What?

 

Okay, it's just an urn with ashes, but Cassie misses Mitchell. After all, he's her fiancé. Unfinished business and guilt wreak havoc on Cassie's heart, so she carries Mitchell's stolen ashes with her every day while she drives a taxi. But someone 'kidnaps' Mitchell right from under Cassie's watchful eyes. When the police suspect a connection to a botched cocaine heist, and assign a hot detective to Cassie's case, she secretly develops feelings for the hunky officer. Opening her heart to a new love is not on her to-do list, but she'll consider a few fun 'rides' with no strings attached.

 

The investigation gets complicated with a rogue monkey abandoned in Cassie's taxi. And if she didn't have enough to deal with, the man she gave her virginity to—the man she desperately wants to forget—just returned to town, and he's doing all his own little things for love to win her back.

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gail Johnson
• Release date: May 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223710509

Book preview

Things We Do for Love

Gail Johnson

Things We Do for Love

Copyright © 2023 by Gail Johnson

Previously titled Don't Let the Monkey Drive the Taxi

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Y'all That Graphic/Kate Farlow

Contents

1.Bunny Butts and Ho'ticulturists

2.Where's a Cricket When You Need It?

3.Peeping Patties

4.Monkey Business

5.Well do tell!

6.Pur...ple Streaks

7.Close Encounters, Relatively Speaking

8.Driving Miss Daisy

9.Digging Up a Fiancé

10.Don’t Let That Thang Loose!

11.Looking for Tattoos in All the Wrong Places

12.Little Secrets, Big Lies

13.The High Road or the Low Road

14.Abandoned Package

15.Not a Cat, Too

16.The Hokey Pokey

17.Penis Germs

18.Mr. Pickle

19.Potato Gun Fun

20.Not Your Average Family Reunion

21.Gone Monkey Gone

22.Some Days are Diamonds and Stones

23.Shut Up, Vagina!

24.Secrets to the Left,Truth to the Right

25.No More Monkeys Driving Taxis

26.Candy Bunnies, Anyone?

27.Here Comes the Flower Monkey

28.Lost and Found

29.Burying a Fiancé

Notes from the Author

Also by Gail Johnson

Chapter one

Bunny Butts and Ho'ticulturists

My eyes drift to Mitchell, riding shotgun, and guilt punches my stomach. I wonder what Mamaw would say about this little thing I’d done. Digging Mitchell up. Because of love. My heart itches for her to be proud, but my mind aches with a different answer. Stealing him from the cemetery would probably not rank high on her list.

It’s the little things, Mamaw always said. "The little things we do for those we love. The things which cost more thought and time than money. Things we don’t feel the need to share with the world in order to get credit for. Acts of kindness from the heart. Like cooking someone their favorite meal. Leaving them love notes. Letting them have the last piece of their favorite pie. Mitchell rides with me now. He doesn't rest in a grave. I love him and he belongs with me.

Up ahead, traffic skids to a standstill with a crash sound echoing through the air. I slam on my brakes and steer toward the shoulder to prevent hitting the car in front of me. I stop just inches from the rear bumper but woo hoo, we missed him. Behind me, the loud screeching of cars frantically hitting their brakes causes me to worry they won’t stop and might cause a pile-up.

On the right-hand side of the road, a partially demolished flower bed looks like someone took a razor and gave it a burr haircut. The Naked Lady flowers in the front row are dead and gone. The ones in the back are holding their own, but they will never grow right.

Wait. What’s that swinging in the oak tree? By its tail? A monkey?

Oh, my gosh! It is! He plucks a handful of the mashed flowers and stashes some in his backpack before dashing across the street with three between his teeth. Two kids on the sidewalk spot him and give chase, yelling for him to stop! What next, a street rodeo? I nearly laugh as I think about Mayor Mom having to deal with that.

Those Naked Ladies won’t win Mr. Nelson any awards in the county fair’s flower show next week. He’s won for the last three years, and Mrs. Dawson isn’t happy with him because she’s his main competition. How lucky for her the accident makes this her year to win.

In the middle of the flowers, a white Ford station wagon with a red Chevy truck T-boned into its passenger side door emits a loud bang before dying. The station wagon’s hatch must have popped up during the collision and spilled boxes across the highway. Yellow, blue, and orange-dotted marshmallow-like smidgeons of gunk speckle both lanes and the yard. Marshmallow Easter candy? Does someone have a candy fetish, or what?

A crowd forms, so I get out of my car to see what’s going on. Squish. I’ve stepped on one of those specks, and it’s stuck to my shoe. I punch nine-one-one on my cab company cell phone but wait to hit the send button as I squish-step-squish to the wreck. Has anyone called the police?

Five heads nod.

Anyone need help?

Five heads shake.

That’s good.

It takes three rakes against the curb until the sticky stuff clings to it and not my shoe. Good riddance. From the closest house, Mrs. Potter watches from her porch swing. I stroll in her direction.

Hi, Cassie! She fans herself with what looks like one of those church cardboard hand fans the Sacred Baptist Church passes out at revivals. It’s hotter than normal for this time of year, so she needs it. Stick around. With all these dented cars, somebody will need a cab.

Can’t, I say. Got a customer to pick up.

Even though Elizabethtown’s a small city, I don’t recognize any of the people involved in the accident. Gold letters imprinted across the station wagon driver’s door imply it belongs to Heaven Sent Southern Baptist Church.

My foot sticks on the sidewalk. Ick! How’d I step on another blob of candy? At least it drops off when I raise my foot. The street looks like a candy chaos of yellow chickens, blue bunnies, and orange pumpkins. Squished ones and whole ones, all melting on the heated concrete. Why would a church buy so much candy? Maybe I should start attending there. Ha.

A skinny, skyscraper-sized woman gathers handfuls of undamaged packages and tosses them into a cardboard box labeled Best Bourbon Around as if she’s afraid someone will steal them. A Southern Baptist church vehicle. A cardboard alcohol box. Let’s see, usually Southern Baptists are non-alcoholic believers. Somehow, I feel the box doesn’t mesh with the vehicle. Marshmallow candy is my favorite, but I don’t love it enough to swipe it from a car wreck scene. That candy holds some kind of significance for that woman, but hell if I know what.

A battered, green Toyota pickup truck straddles the ditch to the left, its front covered with candy polka dots and a cracked windshield. Damn monkey, a man next to the truck yells. It ran right out in front of me.

Tricky little bugger, adds a lady walking up from a Buick wedged in the ditch on the other side. I thought I’d hit him for sure.

Had the monkey caused the accident? Where’d a monkey come from? There’s no zoo near here. Down the street, the traffic coming this way completes U-turns at the intersection to avoid the jam. A black Ford pickup follows a green Honda. The Ford might be Darby since it’s time for him to visit his parents before the next semester begins. Or he might have graduated by now. I’d like to see him, but then it would be hard to keep the promise made to Mitchell. Anyway, the police will arrive any second, so I return to my vehicle and say to Mitchell. We’ll be late if we don’t start rolling soon. Can’t have any bad reviews for Cassie’s taxi, can we?

I don’t expect an answer. Mitchell can’t talk, and if I thought he did, I’d be in serious mental trouble. Not that my mother isn’t convinced I already am, and she hasn’t found out Mitchell rides with me. How I kept it a secret from her for two years is beyond me, and she’d better not find out either or I’ll be in deep poo-poo. And not just with her. I’m sure hauling around Mitchell’s urn would make his mom mad, too. After all, she thinks he’s still in the cemetery. I hate that I deceived her, but I just couldn’t part with Mitchell yet. From time to time, I still feel Mitchell’s presence. Often, I even think he’s giving me answers I need. That’s possible, right? I say to him. Of course, there’s no verbal answer, but I think he agrees.

Sweat sticks my hair to the back of my neck, so I remove my Elizabethtown Panthers baseball cap and grab a scrunchie from my purse to pull back my hair. I tug the rearview mirror to check that the ponytail’s not crooked. No time for makeup this morning, but it’s not as if my customers care. They just want to get where they’re going.

Do you hear something, Mitchell? I lower the window.

Sirens.

An ambulance, a fire truck, and three cruisers race our way.

When they arrive, the police shift oncoming traffic to a side street. We’re motioned to the shoulder on our side of the road. Woo hoo, we’re up to a whole 5 m.p.h. The colored-candy trash sticks to tires and flies off now and then, adding more dots to the vehicles on the side of the road.

The car in front of me flicks a blue blob into the air and it splats against my windshield. Reflex kicks in and I duck. Great. The blob blocks my view with a cute blue bunny face peeking at me. I bet it makes my windshield sticky. I tap the wiper button and water sprinkles into the mess. A bit of light sparkles inside the sticky gunk as the blade smooshes it across the windshield.

What’s that shiny thing hanging out of the candy bunny’s butt? Glass? The blade screeches, moves ever so slightly, before completely stopping and hangs in the middle of the windshield. Traffic slows to a standstill again, and I decide to clear my windshield. I switch the blades off, open my door, and reach up to pull the wipers free. A tiny gob filled with specks of glass slides down the windshield and off the car. Pieces remain, but at least I can see.

Horns blare behind me. Yeah, right? That always speeds clearing up a wreck. I wave as I get back in the car. Mitchell’s seat belt hangs loose, and he leans toward the floor. Can’t have you taking a dive, can we? I adjust the belt and pat his flag-covered cold middle section. The American flag I chose for his urn would have made Mitchell happy, and he loved chrome. He said chrome made him feel strong and purposeful.

I snap on the radio for entertainment and a Savage Garden song blasts through the car. The volume is so high the dash bounces with the beats. There’s our favorite song, ‘I Knew I Loved You.’ I miss you so much, Mitchell. Then my throat tightens. I didn’t love Mitchell enough. That’s why he resides in the urn and why I don’t speak to Darby anymore.

It’s the song we danced to at our senior prom. Remember how Darby tried to convince the principal to dance on the table with him? As if I’m happy, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the music, just as the traffic moves again, though it’s just a crawl.

And my brain crawls through the memory of what Darby and I, mainly me, did to Mitchell. More than just a friendly hug. More than just a peck on the cheek. More than just casual sex because I loved Darby. Not Mitchell. My fiancé.

My cell phone vibrates, interrupting my thoughts.

Shit. Mom. I don’t have time for another lecture on why I’m driving a taxi and not going to college. Her eternal conversation about me giving up my career for Mitchell is getting pretty old. He gave his life. I give mine. Things you do for those you love. And she harps on and on about how dangerous driving a cab is for a young female. Her opinion, not mine.

I punch the answer button on the phone and speak as fast as I can. Mom, I’m-in-the-middle-of-picking-up-a-customer. I’ll-call-you-back-later. Bye. I hang up without giving her a chance to speak. Just as I finish, traffic moves faster. Woo hoo.

Mitchell, she doesn’t really believe someone will slice and dice me. She just hates my job because she considers it ‘inappropriate’ for the mayor’s daughter. Definitely not proper for a former Ms. Kentucky contestant. Probably not any girl.

The phone rings again. Mom. No surprise. I let it go to voice mail. Up ahead, Officer Mattingly directs traffic. He’s kind of cute with that yellow splat sticking to his left arm. Hey Matt, I shout out my window as I near him. What happened?

Berserk monkey, he yells back.

I giggle. Can’t wait to see that story in the newspaper.

We’ll still on time to pick up the next customer and whoever he is, he expects promptness. He’s using a fake name, for sure. John Smith? Puh-lease! Lots of people don’t want to use their actual name when calling for a cab. Guess they don’t want everybody knowing their business. I understand that.

Perhaps this guy’s a movie star, or the governor, or some important person who just doesn’t want anyone to discover he graced Howie’s Gardenside Nightclub with his presence. He instructed me to park in the staff lot behind Howie’s, so that’s where he’ll find me.

A pothole covers the entire entrance into Howie’s, and my Studebaker, AKA Cassie’s Taxi, shimmies left and bounces right. Hundreds of smaller potholes fill the rest of the driveway. You’d assume a nightclub would be rolling in the dough and have a smoothly paved driveway. I play dodge the potholes, missing some, but not all. The car wobbles in and out of the holes, rattling the front fender. I’ve got to fix that. When? No clue.

Oh, wonderful. The only parking place left is in front of the overflowing dumpster, but that’s okay because that means the puke-colored cinderblock building sits behind me, out of my sight. The color always reminds me of the grainy stuff the janitor sprinkled on vomit in elementary school. My stomach tosses, causing me to gag.

Thank goodness, I have Mitchell and the radio to keep me company. Shania Twain sings I Feel Like a Woman. The purple Studebaker’s engine purrs while I sing along, but the dumpster’s stench of decaying garbage overrides my fun. Using my hands, I attempt to fan the smell away. Doesn’t help. A pizza box dangles from the dumpster by one corner. Bits of crust hang from the side next to a hairy blob with a long, skinny tail. A dead rat? Ick. Don’t want to know, don’t want to know.

The song is followed by the local news, which runs a story about someone anonymously giving money to people down on their luck. And several reports from Juicy Burgers of an unknown person ‘playing it forward’ by paying for people’s to-go orders behind them. Isn’t that nice, Mitchell? Hope they find us.

I check the time. Gee. I’ve been here ten minutes already. If the customer doesn’t show soon, I’ll have to go inside for him. The news ends and a traffic report featuring the monkey and the wreck takes over the air waves.

A blue jay perches on the car hood and hops onto the windshield. He stares at me and plops poop as he tugs the stuck-on candy and swallows it.

Shoo! I knock my fingers against the dash.

The bird squawks, spreads its wings, falls over, and slides off the hood. What the hell? Was something in the candy that killed him?

Five minutes later, the customer still hasn’t shown, so I punch his number into my cell. The number you dialed is no longer in service. Hang up and—

Strange. It worked this morning. Maybe I misdialed. I recheck the paper and try again. The numb—

Damn, Mitchell. That guy stressed that we were not to leave without him. I shut off the Studebaker, remove the gun from the glove box—never can tell when it will come in handy, especially since we’re not in Elizabethtown’s best neighborhood. The keys clang against the gun when I drop them into my purse. This customer had better just be late and not a no-show. No-shows don’t pay the bills. I make my way to the back door at Howie’s Gardenside Nightclub. Howie’s makes Mom’s top five on her Cardinal Sins List, along with going out in public without makeup, dating guys who chew tobacco, showing up at family events without a date, and number one — her only child driving a taxi. If she gets wind, I set foot inside the nightclub, I’ll be on her nag list for weeks.

Stationed by the back door, a cigarette butt container in the shape of a naked woman and filled with ashes, gum, and who knows what else, overflows onto the steps. Butts scrunch under my shoes. Hope none of the marshmallow yuck still clings to the bottoms. I check. Clean. I thought I’d have to knock on the door to gain entry or go to the front, but nope, it was unlocked. Go figure.

A sign indicates hours of operation begin at six p.m., so it’s probably quiet right now. In the hallway, thick, red plush carpet provides a jaunty spring to my walk to the front desk. Mouth-watering peppermint-scented candles grace the granite counter next to a champagne glass of mints and a desk bell. I ding the bell.

A platinum blonde swishes my way in a tight, split-front top on an extra short red dress. She’s got a single-digit body mass index. Except for her boobs. And her butt. Those are triple digits. The dress whooshes left and right and up and down.

Wait. No panties? Did I just see hair? Down there? Surely not. I imagine she’s just wearing a thong. Umm. If she is, she’s got it on backwards. And her top barely covers her nips. With the newest technology in boob enhancement, anyone can sport ginormous, jiggling breasts nowadays. If she swings those girls just right, seismologists will have to issue an earthquake alert.

The sparkly letters on her name tag spell out the word Sugar. Her voluptuous fanny wiggles as she walks, perhaps by her design or maybe inspired by her snazzy polka-dot pitch-me-in-the-ditch shoes.

They are uncomfortable. I should know because the shoes in my last beauty pageant matched them. Mitchell hung out with me for hours, helping me find the right shade. Another contestant owned the same pair. Rumor floated among the contestants that a top contender spent lots of time out of her size five shoes while entertaining a judge. Ha! I still beat her without sleeping with the fat old fart of a judge she dallied with.

Sugar points a manicured finger at me and speaks in a Betty Boop voice, Hi, I’m sure you’re here to apply for the entertainment associate ad in the newspaper.

Yep, Sugar. I rush to the classifieds every Sunday to find out whether there’s a job opening at Howie’s Gardenside Nightclub that I qualify for. The ads brag the hottest girls in town perform here. Their special skill isn’t waiting tables, or so I’ve been told.

No one has ever figured out how the word gardenside got attached to the name since there is no garden. Howie says his girls are tender like hot-house plants, but most folks in town just call them ’ho-ticulturists.

Imagine my mom’s reaction if I took a position here. One of us would be dead. I bite my lips, contemplating which one.

Sugar must have mistaken my reaction as doubt at being pretty enough for the job and pats my arm. Oh, Honey, with your long, curly red hair, some makeup, and a daub of eye shadow to pop your baby blue eyes, you’d win a beauty pageant.

My mom tells me that all the time, Ms. Sugar. If it weren’t for Mom’s insistence, I never would have entered a single contest.

Ms. Sugar shuffles papers on the counter. Now, where are those applications? And you should fit into one of our uniforms easily.

Uniform? That’s what she calls that piece of nothingness?

The skirt will need to be altered, since you’re shorter than most of the other girls. You’re around five feet, right?

Yes, Ma’am. Thanks much for the employment offer, but I’m already employed. A guy who gave the name of John Smith called for a cab. I’m here to provide service. Probably not a good word choice. Uh… Is he here?

Oh, honey, everybody is John Smith here. I’ll see if Howie’s available to help you, and I’ll also find an application, just in case you change your mind. She wrinkles her nose, raises her shoulders, and smiles. You’d think we’re best friends or something. Just a sec, and she clip-clops down the hallway.

A few minutes later, a bald man with a football player-sized torso accompanies Sugar to the counter. A dozen imitation gold chains dangle around his thick double neck, and he’s decked out in a skintight, one-piece, red velvet pantsuit, the cut on the front matching Sugar’s uniform. He couldn’t be impersonating Santa Claus, could he? Elvis? No, he’s not a hunk of burning love, for sure.

Honey, here’s Howie.

Howie’s eyes sweep from my boobs to my face and then scan down. I read desire in his demeanor. My body tingles as if it’s been probed, even though he hasn’t laid a finger on me. Oh, super, Sugar probably told him I’m applying for the open position. I wonder what’s first up in the application process and my stomach pitches. Ick.

Before either of us speaks, the front door bangs open, and a woman dressed in a black Elvira Halloween costume enters. Underneath her sexy high thigh split skirt, black pants cover her legs. How strange is that? And those soft-soled shoes do nothing for the outfit.

On her left arm, she’s carrying a massive out of style handbag from which she pulls a dangerous-looking double-barrel Derringer and points it at us. A duck mask conceals her face. Elvira in a duck mask? This is almost funny. Well, except for her gun. Can I wrestle it from her? Forget that. She’s built like a woolly mammoth.

This will probably make the newspaper. Words to my eulogy appear in front of my eyes. Much to the Mayor’s disgrace, her daughter died applying for a job at Howie’s. My heart rate skyrockets.

Sugar skedaddles behind Howie. Her super-sized bosom wiggles in and out as she hyperventilates. It looks like she’s giving herself CPR.

Good morning, shoppers, quacks the thief. Her voice resembles Donald Duck, so she must be using one of those voice-disguising microphones. She points her gun at Howie. I’m searching for a safe full of money.

Howie rests his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest, imitating a bully cruising for a fight or bluffing someone away. You need to leave before the cops get here. I pushed the alarm button.

Howie, Howie, Howie, quacks the duck. The alarm doesn’t work today.

Why doesn’t it? Howie slings a nervous glance under the counter. Fuck!

The robber snickers. I’m the smart one here. She motions her pistol toward the counter. Cell phones there. She inclines her head at me. Ms. America, put your pocketbook there, too.

Ms. America? Does she know me? Who is she? She’s wrong. It was Ms. Kentucky, and I lost. Can I reach my Ruger? Nope, not with her gun already aimed in our direction. Fear dries the spit in my mouth.

Howie slams his phone on the counter. Sugar sets hers next to Howie’s as if she’s handling a fragile item. A shriek resembling a dog’s squeaky toy sneaks from Sugar’s throat. I set my stuff there too, pissed because my gun is too far away from me now to be useful.

Let’s open the safe in your office, Howie. The thief waves her pistol toward the hallway.

Howie examines the floor. Has he lost something? He whispers the word, Vicious.

Is he calling the robber vicious? Nothing vicious yet. Hope everyone stays calm.

We march single file down a hallway and into an office in the back. A lackluster, black lacquer desk and a scruffy overstuffed leather chair face the door. A framed painting of a red rooster smoking a cigar as he leaves a chicken coop full of eggs hangs on the wall behind the desk. Is that a sexist message or what? Five metal cabinets line the right corner of the room. On the left, a closed door fills the space. Is that a closet or is it, hopefully, a way out?

Sugar leans against the desk and swallows three more gulps of air while I move to her side, my muscles tense, and my legs so weak I’m wobbling. My nose twitches. Where’s the scent of roses coming from? Crap. I’m going to sneeze. I’m allergic to — Achoo.

Allergies? asks the robber, squinting at me but keeping the gun trained on Howie.

Is she talking to me? Yes, I say. A robber concerned with my health? This is weird. A sicko for sure.

Howie stands on Sugar’s right, wiping at the beads of sweat lining his upper lip. You’re wasting your time. There’s no money here.

With her gun-free hand, the thief shoves the office door shut. Holy shit! Pink handlebars stand out against the black ink of a motorcycle tattooed on the robber’s wrist. Did anyone else see it? I don’t think so. Where have I seen her tattoo before?

The thief positions the gun’s nozzle toward Howie’s crotch. Move the file cabinet or I’ll give you another piece of jewelry. How about a nice shiny bullet decorating your dick?

Sugar slaps her chest with her palm and teeters, nearly rocking off her high heels. Howie steadies her, wipes his hands against his not-so-sexy adult onesie, and pushes a cabinet away from the wall, revealing a sawed-out square in the wood floor. How’d the robber know this? Howie steps back and squeezes his husky hands into his pockets.

Quit wasting time. The thief moves closer. Are you sure money is more important than your shriveled thingy here?

A massive vein pops out on Howie’s neck, and he angles toward the robber. You bitch.

Sugar bites a fingernail. Howie, please just do what she says.

Would the thief