My Fiancés New Best Friend

By H.T. Night

For fans of Freida McFadden, Leslie Wolfe, Nicola Sanders, and Lucinda Berry... be prepared for a thrill ride you won't soon forget. Being the new guy in town is always tough. Luckily, I find a job working for a local attorney named Jack. He has me fixing up his rundown classic cars. Each day I work on the cars, his fiance Tawny makes her way out to the backyard where I'm working and gives me a glass of iced tea. We talk about our lives but not about our secrets. I'm careful not to say too much about myself. It could jeopardize my new employment with Jack. Jack is hard to read because he's constantly giving me mixed signals. Some days he acts as if we are best friends and other days he seems to despise me. On the outside, Jack and Tawny seem to have the perfect relationship. But as I get to know them both, I'm certain trouble lurks on the horizon. Secrets and lies seem to be the norm. I'm finding myself increasingly caught up in the middle. Hopefully, I don't reveal too much about my past; if so, I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do. After all, there's a reason why they are called buried secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rain Press
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224384549

Book preview

MY FIANCE’S NEW BEST FRIEND

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PROLOGUE

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The wailing of police and ambulance sirens echoes through the night sky.

I know that when the police show up, they’ll go all out at the crime scene in front of the massive house. All I can do is lay here, holding the shooter down with all my strength. I can’t let the person go because I am sure they will run.

My right arm aches, but I have to use it to pin the shooter down. Blood oozes out of the gunshot wound in my arm, soaking everything around me. I look at the other person who was shot. It doesn’t look good, considering where the bullet went through the body. I pray that the paramedics can do a better job of saving them than we did.

Then, in an abrupt burst of force, the first police car enters the property, maneuvering as close as possible to the crime scene. Three more police cars follow suit, with an ambulance bringing up the rear.

The first officers step out of their vehicle, using their open doors as shields while brandishing their weapons in our direction.

No one has a gun! I yell at them. The gun has been taken away from the shooter.

Let the person go! the police officer yells at me.

The one I’m holding is the shooter. They shot me and the victim on the ground.

Everyone who can move, the officer on the left side of the car calls out, get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head!

Reluctantly, I release my hold and the three of us who are able to comply with the officer’s instructions. We drop to our knees, placing our hands behind our heads.

Then one by one, the officers rush us. They quickly grab all three of us and shove us into the dirt. The officer that has me screams, Don’t move! He cuffs me and says, Where is the gun?

It’s near the door, I reply, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. I’ve been shot in my right arm. Please be careful.

Then a female officer who is wearing gloves walks over to the gun and gingerly puts the gun in a plastic evidence bag.

They then separate me from the others for further questioning. I’m escorted to the paramedics’ van parked at the rear. The officer removes the handcuffs and begins to inquire about the events that unfolded tonight.

I know I am completely innocent, so I have no problem telling them what happened. I proceed to explain the dramatic events that transpired tonight.

ONE

DEAN

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Well, this isn’t good. Here I am, running on fumes with a measly ten bucks in my pocket. On the bright side, I’m a good 300 miles away from New Jersey.

As I keep driving, a sign pops up, proudly proclaiming, Welcome to South Cove, North Carolina. Something tells me this is where I need to make a pit stop. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m on the verge of running out of gas and starving.

I’m shitty at panhandling because I have tattoos all over my body. Don’t ask me why the average person feels entitled not to give me a dime when I ask for change. It’s mind-boggling. People love to give me unsolicited advice, telling me I should’ve spent my money on something other than tattoos. Seriously, it’s not like I’m dirt-poor just because I rock some ink.

I’m not exactly poor. I work hard, and I save my money like any good member of society. Unfortunately, my money is hidden in a junkyard in New Jersey.

Why didn’t I take it with me? Well, I did try before I left, but when I went to collect it from the junkyard where I buried it for safekeeping, the place was swarming with cops. My stomach growls angrily to remind me of more current and pressing issues. Ten bucks is enough to grab a bag of chips to at least satisfy my hunger in the meantime and grab a beer at a local bar. That will give me an opportunity to gather some information about where I can make some money in the city of South Cove, North Carolina.

As I exit the highway and drive into the small town, I experience a distinct change in scenery and atmosphere. The surroundings become more peaceful and relaxed, and the hustle and bustle of the highway fade away.

As I continue driving, the change in landscape is apparent. The buildings are quaint, with the sidewalks lined with trees or planters. There are only a couple of cars on the road. I quickly spot a twenty-four-hour Quickie Mart. I pull into the parking lot and park.

I exit my Ford Mustang and quickly go in and grab a bag of Funyuns and stand in line. I loved Funyuns as a kid, and frankly, there still isn’t a better chip on the market.

The cashier is a man in his early twenties with long hair. He looks bored to death. It is eventually my turn at the counter, and I put my bag of chips on the counter in front of him.

Hey there, I say.

Is this all? he asks, without even recognizing my greeting.

Looks to be that way.

He rings it up and says, That will be $2.23.

Damn, chips get more expensive every single day. I hand the guy a five-dollar bill from my beaten-down brown leather wallet. Is there anything to do at this time of night in this town?

He stares at me for a good five seconds and finally says, The bar is usually happening on Wednesdays nights. And if you’re hungry, the diner is open till 2:00 a.m.

Great, I reply as he hands me my change. I exit the Quickie Mart and jump into my Mustang.

I drive down the main street in town and see both the diner and the bar. I need to go to the bar because that will be an easier place to maybe try to find some work. I make a right turn into the bar’s parking lot. Surprisingly, there are a lot of cars sitting outside of the bar. The cashier wasn’t kidding. It is likely a popular gathering spot for locals. So, I’m going to need to be careful because locals aren’t too kind to strangers, especially at bars. But I need work, and I need it fast. I need to present myself in the best way possible. This is probably the most desperate I have been since I left New Jersey three months ago.

I park my Mustang in the parking lot near the back. It does need some work. Every time I drive the damn thing, I feel like it is going to be the last time it starts. I know exactly why it keeps breaking down because I’m a mechanic. I just need some money and some time to work on it. But, right now, I need to spark up some conversations inside the bar and see if anyone needs their car worked on for cheap. I’m to the point I will charge half of the price a normal mechanic charges. Maybe even a third. The fact that the bar is this busy on Wednesday night intrigues me. Maybe it’s ladies’ night. In that case, I might be able to find some work pretty quickly.

Checking out the exterior of the bar, I step out of my car. The bar is unassuming and simple, with a modest facade. There is a sign above the entrance that reads Cranky’s. I imagine the name has an interesting story behind it. The bar is a single-story structure made of brick and wood, with a few windows along the front. It has a nice paint job. So, whoever owns it wants people to think it’s well taken care of, from the outside appearance at least.

I straighten myself out and walk towards the bar entrance. The sounds of laughter and conversation greet me as I approach. It indicates that a good time is being had inside. Happy people are a good thing when looking for work. I step up to the door, and the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol is noticeable. Small towns sometimes are very lax when it comes to smoking.

Stepping into the bar, I notice there is no man checking ID cards at the door. I guess they card you at the bar if they think you’re too young. I’m thirty-five, though I wear my years well, I shouldn’t have a problem. The inside of the bar is full of energy and excitement. The steady and rhythmic strumming pattern of a guitar coming from the speakers gives it an immediate country bar feel.

I look around the bar and notice everyone seems to be having a good time. I’m envious. It’s been a long time since I have been able to unwind and have a fun night out.

The lighting in the bar is dim but gives off a warm and cozy ambiance. Whoever owns this place knows what they are doing. The walls are filled with sports memorabilia, neon signs, or vintage photographs. It all adds to the overall atmosphere and character of the place. There are tables and booths throughout, and every seat seems to be filled.

The bar area itself is made up of a long bar top and a scattering of stools in front. Behind the bar, an attractive woman is mixing drinks, pouring beers, and shaking cocktails. She is juggling multiple orders at once. They don’t seem to serve food, as the only thing I see folks eating are pretzels and peanuts. My stomach growls, reminding me that Funyuns aren’t enough to satisfy the hunger of a grown man.

There’s a back room with three pool tables, plenty of dart boards, and video poker for anyone who wants to waste their quarters on games that don’t give you actual money back when you win. Just points.

Yeah, I need actual money. Points don’t put a roof over my head, fill a gas tank, or an empty stomach.

I scope the place out and notice almost nobody seems like they are alone.

So, I decide to go up to the bar and sit on a bar stool and possibly spark up a conversation there with somebody.

The bartender is attractive in a small town type of way. She looks like the girl next door, but there is a hard life behind those pretty brown eyes. The kind of life I’m way too familiar with. The life of hard knocks. She looks to be around my age. She exudes a youthful yet confident demeanor that I’m sure catches the eye of anyone who enters the bar. Her long, wavy brown hair falls in loose curls around her face.

As she moves behind the bar, her tattoos on one side of her arm are on full display. The intricate designs are a mix of black and colorful ink, depicting a variety of images that seem to tell a story. The tattoos add a touch of edginess to her overall appearance, but they also seem to complement her beauty in a unique way.

She is dressed in a black tank top that shows off her toned arms and a pair of tight-fitting jeans that hug her curves in all the right places. Her movements are graceful and confident as she mixes drinks and chats with customers.

She seems to have a cool confidence and approachability.

My kind of woman.

She sees me from the other side of the bar, our eyes make contact, and she gives me a friendly smile. A smile that resonates with me and allows me to instantly feel comfortable in my new setting. She knows what she is doing. I’m sure this is how she looks at every man who comes in here for the first time. Her allure is definitely a part of the charm of this place.

Hey, handsome, she says when she walks over to me. What can I get you?

What do you have on tap? Tap beer is usually much cheaper than bottles of beer in a place like this.

Everything, she responds. Foreign, domestic, local.

Local? I laugh.

Yeah, there are a couple of guys who make their own beer in town.

Is it any good?

If you like beer, then I hear it’s pretty good.

You don’t drink beer? I ask, not even trying to mask my surprise.

AA, she quips.

Wow, and you’re a bartender?

I went to bartending school and discovered I’m pretty good at it. So, why waste a good education? Half the people in here go to the meetings. Our bar is pretty much the most happening place in town. Folks tip well here, and I don’t judge.

Tip really well? She will be lucky to get a dollar tip from me because I’m so broke. I guess I’ll take some of the local stuff.

Which one? We have two kinds. One is flavored, and the other is straight beer.

Flavored? I ask incredulously.

Pumpkin spice and apple.

Yeah, I’m not feeling that adventurous. Give me the regular beer.

You got it. She takes a chilled glass from the freezer and pours me a beer. She places the glass in front of me. That will be three dollars.

I reach into my pocket and pull out three raggedy dollar bills.

She reads me pretty quickly and says, The first beer is on the house.

No, I got it.

I can tell you’re new in town. It’s something we do. We want to start you off right. She grabs a clean bowl from under the bar, fills it with some peanuts, and puts it in front of me.

I nod my head in thanks. I’m a little embarrassed, but I try not to show it. If this is something they do for every new person that comes in here, well, it seems a little far-fetched. But I’ll take it.

She smiles at me and walks down to a couple at the other end of the bar that are trying to get her attention. She obviously knows them because they immediately jump into a familiar conversation.

I help myself to some nuts, nod my head, and try to groove to the country song blaring on the jukebox. I’m not exactly a big country music fan, but in the right situations, I don’t mind listening to it. And this is the perfect ambiance for some country tunes. I can’t tell if the singer is singing about his girl, his dog, or his gun. Well, whatever it is, he sure is heartbroken over it.

I nurse my beer. It is too bitter for my taste, but what are you going to do? It’s a free beer.

I look around, trying to find someone I might be able to approach for some quick work. I’m pretty good with people when I first meet them. My ex-girlfriend once told me that I am great at first impressions. It’s my second and third impressions that need work.

There is a lot of activity around the three pool tables. It appears that all three tables are playing doubles. At one table, a guy is being really handsy with a girl he seems to be teaching how to play pool. Not sure if they are on a date or they just met tonight. One thing is for sure, this isn’t his girlfriend or wife because no man is that patient with their significant other. He is definitely trying to score tonight. There is something about the guy that annoys me, and it isn’t the fact that he is trying to get laid. It’s the fact that his hands are all over her, and she seems to be uncomfortable with his affection. She is trying to be nice because I imagine this guy is buying her drinks. Clearly, he is trying to get her good and drunk, so it makes it easier for him to make his move later on tonight. There is always a part of me that wants to intervene when I see a situation so blatant. But I made the mistake of intervening once, and it cost me greatly. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

I shift my attention to another pool table, and damn, the game going on there seems way too intense for my liking. It’s clear they’re putting some serious bets on each game because no one gets that laser-focused unless there’s money involved. They may be good buddies, but there’s a lot of cash flying around.

Now, I’ll be honest; I’m not exactly a pool shark. That’s why I never take a lady to a pool hall for a date. I mean, who wants to look like a total idiot, right? My go-to move is taking a girl out for a round of miniature golf. It’s light-hearted fun, and nobody expects us to be pros at it.

Over at the third table, it seems like two couples are on a double date. The guys are busy yapping away at each other, completely oblivious to the fact that their ladies are dying to catch their attention. Not a great look, fellas. The ladies have to shoot their balls without any support.

There’s a rowdy group of guys throwing darts. They’re probably drunk off their asses because they’re cracking up like there’s no tomorrow. From the sounds of it, they’re deep into a football conversation. Those might be the guys I should approach if I want to get some local work. Gotta love finding common ground, right?

I turn my stool back around and face the bartender. I take another sip of my beer and shake my head.

The bartender must have seen my discouraged look because she walks over to me and asks, Why so glum?

Is it that obvious?

Not necessarily. I can tell something is annoying you. I’m pretty sure a guy like you is out of the league of any women in here, so it can’t be you’re scoping the place out for some tail.

I laugh. You think I’m out of the league of everyone in here?

Not everyone. There are a lot of hot guys in here. But I don’t think that is the team you play for.

Really? Why don’t you think I could be gay?

Look, if that is your preference, I absolutely have no problem with it.

That’s good to know. I would hate for my bartender to be homophobic. I smile at her.

So, which is it?

Wow, right out of the gate, you want to know my sexuality.

Let’s just say I’m asking for a friend.

And what friend would that be? It seems like every woman in here is on a date of some sort.

Why do you think it is a woman? Now who is being homophobic?

I wink at her and raise my glass to her. Touche.

I dig women, I finally answer her.

Women. All right, that is nice to hear.

Nice, why?

I don’t know. You’re kind of cute. We don’t get too many good looking drifters in here.

The bartender is officially flirting with me. I smile at her. Although I am very flattered, I’m here to see if I can find some work. Not to bum off a woman who is working her ass off making ends meet.

Is there any work in this town? I ask.

Depends, she says. What is your expertise?

I’m a pretty good mechanic. I specialize in classic cars.

Really? she says, smiling.

Yes, really.

"Oh, no way! We have this regular customer who’s always hanging out here, Jack, and he was just talking about that the other night. The guy shows up like clockwork every other night just to escape from his overly attached fiancé. He’s a lawyer and a big-time car enthusiast. I’m talking about owning not just one but four or five classic cars. Impressive, right?

So, he’s on a mission to make all of his beauties street legal. He wants to cruise them down to car shows and show them off to the world. The thing is, the cars are in working condition and all, but he’s dealing with this smog and emissions stuff that’s giving him a headache. I mean, who wants to be stuck with bureaucratic red tape when you’re itching to hit the open road? Am I right?

Think he might be by tonight? I ask, almost too desperately.

It’s possible. He wasn’t in yesterday, and he likes coming in on Wednesdays. He likes to reset himself for the rest of the week.

Okay, I’ll stick around for a while to see if he comes in. I finish the rest of my beer. I’ll take a Miller Golden Draft this round. That last beer was more bitter than eating straight cocoa beans.

Sorry about that. She takes my glass and puts it in the sink. Then grabs me another chilled glass from the mini freezer behind her. Because you suffered through that beer on my recommendation... this one will be on the house too.

I wouldn’t call it suffering. Just not a malt liquor kind of guy.

Do you mind if I tell Johnny, the guy who makes the beer, that you loved it? He gets really discouraged when I tell him customers wince when they drink it.

No problem. You really don’t have to spot me another beer.

I don’t mind. I enjoy talking to new folks. As you can imagine, it gets pretty monotonous serving the same people night after night.

Okay, but this is the last one, I say. I don’t want to start feeling guilty. I look at her and take her in. So, what is the deal with the bar? Who owns it?

My uncle does.

Wow, okay.

He is completely hands-off and lets me run the bar the way I want.

That’s cool. So, what’s with the name Cranky’s?

That’s what his kids called him when they were little.

He really let his kids call him that?

It started with his oldest kid thinking that was his name because their mom always called him Cranky. You know how nicknames go. They just stick sometimes. She stops and eyes my arms. So, what is the deal with all your tattoos?

You think I have a lot?

Not necessarily a lot, but your sleeve is beautiful. I like all the bright colors. Most of the guys in here have a lot of boring tattoos. Yours seem to pop.

The colors probably ‘pop’ because I have had just about every tattoo on the right sleeve done within the last three years.

She studies me and says, You look to be what? Thirty-two years old.

Good guess. I’m thirty-five.

Well, guys our age got most of their tattoos by the time they were twenty-two or three.

Yeah, three years ago, I suddenly realized I wasn’t the kind of guy who would want a job where they gave a shit if I have tattoos going down my arm or not.

Well, if you ask me, they are sexy.

Thanks. I nod at her. Someone else at the other end of the bar gets her attention. Your tattoos seem to work for you.

Work for me? she laughs.

You know, adds to your mystique.

My mystique? I never had anyone tell me I had a mystique before.

I just mean you pull them off.

Well, thanks, she says. So we have established we like each other’s tattoos.

You have a name?

Can I go by Mystique?

Isn’t she the blue chick from the X-Men?

Is it? she asks.

Yeah. So, what is the name folks around here call you?

My name is Julia. And yours? she asks, walking backward.

Dean. My name is Dean.

I take a deep sip of my beer, and oh my God, it’s ten times better than the last beer.

Over the next hour, I notice Julia goes to the back of the bar a couple of times as well as helps a number of other customers. She keeps my bowl of peanuts full, which I am highly grateful for. Then, I notice that the front door opens, and a clean cut man walks in. Julia waves and looks over at me, and nods her head. The man cases the joint first. Then his eyes meet mine, and he starts walking in my direction.

The usual? Julia asks him.

Yep. He then sits down on one bar stool over to my right. Julia pours him a Coors Light. It’s a sensible beer, and I wouldn’t have expected anything else.

So, Jack, Julia says. My new friend Dean here works on classic cars.

You would have thought someone pinched him extremely hard on his ass because he suddenly perks up in an exaggerated manner. You do? he asks, looking over at me with newfound respect.

I sure do, I answer.

That’s awesome. I have a few rare beauties. Four, to be exact. He then decides to sit right next to me.

Julia smiles and gives me a wink. I give her a slight nod as if to say ‘thank you.’

So, how long have you been working on classics? he asks.

Well, my dad was a Chevrolet guy. He loved all the classics. I started working on cars by the age of ten. He had his own shop in Newark.

New Jersey?

Yes, sir, I say.

I think New Jersey gets a bad rap. I visit there all the time and love the state. So, where did you grow up?

Newark, I answer, finishing my beer.

So you pretty much were born and raised there?

Sure was.

Hey, what are you drinking? Let me get your next one.

I know not to refuse when a man offers to buy you a drink. Especially when you’re hoping that guy will offer you a job. I’ll never say no to a free beer. I’m drinking MGD.

Great beer. Hey Julia, get my new friend here another one and add it to my tab.

Julia takes my glass and refills it, and helps someone else at the end of the bar.

So, I say. What are we talking about? With your cars?

I love the classics. Don’t get me wrong, I drive a sensible car when it comes to my day to day driving. But I adore my babies.

I smile after he says ‘babies’. I know any guy who refers to their cars as ‘babies’ wants them to be fixed up just right.

To start off, he continues. I have a 1971 Dodge Viper.

Very nice, I say. That is a beauty.

That car needs the least work. I just need to get the emissions checked and fixed. It won’t pass.

How do you know that is all it needs?

I took it to a local guy in town about six months ago. They wanted two grand to get it to pass. I wasn’t sure if they were going to fix it or just claim they fixed it. You know how some of these guys are just plain crooks. The guy mechanic rubbed me the wrong way. I had a bad vibe about him, so you know what I did? I just said screw it and brought the car back home without even getting it fixed. Sometimes you gotta trust your gut, you know?

Two grand sounds steep. I hate to say it, but usually smaller towns have that problem. Newark is a big enough city that you need to be honest as shit, or you never get repeat business.

Jack nods at me. Yeah, fewer options around here.

So, what else are we talking about here? Please, don’t tell me you have anything European.

Are you kidding me? No foreign cars here. American all the way.

Good. I prefer domestic cars. I don’t even like to work on Volkswagen bugs. Who the hell puts an engine in the back?

Jack laughs and raises his glass to tap mine. I oblige and tap his glass. There we go. A man after my own heart. My other three cars are a 1991 Dodge Viper, a 1970 El Camino, and my baby is a 1963 Corvette. I want to get more. But I figure I need to get these four street legal before I invest in more.

Well, I can definitely work on the four cars you mentioned. I charge half what a local mechanic would charge you. I just need the parts, and everything depends on the necessary work.

That would be awesome. Jack looks at me and tries to figure me out. He’s a lawyer, so I know he reads bullshit easily. Not that I make a habit of bullshitting people, but I also know I need to take this very carefully. I don’t want to promise too much, otherwise he won’t believe I can do it and look elsewhere. I’m going to be honest with you, I need the work. And the sooner, the better. I prefer to work on the property, so you don’t even have to leave your residence.

He nods and says, How does tomorrow sound?

That sounds great. I try to hold in my excitement because I don’t want to give off an aura of desperation. If he senses that, he might not think I am capable of handling the job. He might think I’m just a guy that promises the world and can’t live up to expectations.

So, for the next two hours, Jack buys me nearly half a dozen beers, and he doubles up every beer I drink. This guy can knock them back. He is at least on his twelfth beer by now.

I look at my phone to see the time. It’s pushing two in the morning. Wow, time has gotten away from us.

Shit. You’re right, he laughs. My fiancé is going to be pissed.

You’re engaged? I ask. I forgot Julia told me that earlier. This guy has spoken to me for two hours and never mentioned it. Not that I’m surprised because we have been talking about cars.

Yep, four years. We have a daughter.

Really? That’s great. I don’t know much about being engaged, but four years seems like a long time to me.

The daughter part is great, he continues. The fiancé part is a little much to handle. Hence, I’m hanging out at a bar till two in the morning on a weeknight.

Last call, Julia says, looking in our direction.

We’ll take one more each, Jack calls out to her.

I’m good, I say, holding up my hands in protest. I have to get a room at a motel in town. Truth is, I don’t have enough money to do that and will have to find a place where they let people sleep in their cars. Walmarts are usually good about letting you sleep in their parking lot. I saw one as I drove into town.

You don’t have a room? His mood suddenly changes. He then stares at me in a way that I can tell he is trying to get a read on me. You’re not one of these shady drifter types, are you?

Of course not, I answer back with some indignation in my voice.

Sorry, I didn’t want to imply that you are, but you can never be too careful these days. Also, I’m pretty drunk.

Can I call the both of you a cab or an Uber? Julia says, interjecting into our conversation.

I’m good, Jack nods.

You know you’re not, Julia snaps back. Let me call you a cab. Especially if you’re having one for the road.

I need to take a piss, Jack says, stands up, and heads to the bathroom in the back.

Hey, Dean. Help me out here. Jack never drinks this much. He was really enjoying your conversation, so I let him drink way too much. I want to get him home safe and sound. And frankly, I think you need a ride too. You didn’t drink as much as him, but the two of you have had too much to drink to get behind the wheel.

Okay, I say. I don’t want to tell her that I don’t have a place to sleep.

Julia looks me up and down and says, I don’t want to offend you, but do you have a place to stay?

Yeah, sure, I will get a place in town.

Not at this hour. All the motels in town shut down service at midnight.

I’ll be okay.

Julia shakes her head at me.

Look. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. I will be okay.

She once again stares me down with the scrutiny of a middle school teacher.

Jack comes back, and Julia places one more beer