Chapter 1

"You're full of shit! I'm calling your bluff on this one."

I saw the rest of the table – and half the cafeteria – turn to look at me as I pondered just why The Smirking Bastard was sitting with us. I knew none of us who usually lunched together liked James Thompson, aka The Smirking Bastard.

The conversation had started benignly enough. I'm not even sure what the topic was. In fact, everything was going smoothly – despite having Thompson sitting across from me – until Susan Weathers mentioned a song that had run through her head all day.

"I heard Liz Larimer's song 'Tuesday' on the way to work and I can't get the lyrics out of my mind," she had said. I'm not sure what look had crossed my face but whatever it was, it caused her to turn to me.

"What?" she had asked. "Have you heard it? Of course you haven't. You don't listen to country music."

She had been right. I didn't listen to country music. I preferred jazz or oldies rock.

"I went to school with her," I had answered. I couldn't have imagined my statement would create the amount of excitement it did. But, of course, I had forgotten that The Smirking Bastard was sitting with us.

Every office has a James Thompson. You know him: the person who knows everything and is an expert on every subject under the sun. All the employees know instantly the person is full of shit but the bosses never quite figure it out.

For almost four years, I had ignored him and his cronies. I'm not sure my response had anything to do with Liz Larimer. I think a part of it did, but most of it was the fact that I was sick to death of the guy.

"Fuck you, Thompson," I said, standing up quickly. "You know I don't give a shit about your opinion on a single fucking thing. But if I hear you call me a liar again, I'm going to stomp a mud hole in your dumb ass."

I stood almost half a foot taller than Thompson and I was far more physically fit. It was a bit heartening to see his eyes widen in terror. He had long known I could throttle him. But he just figured out that I was willing to do it, too.

"Problem, Mr. Blakely?" a voice said from beside me. I glanced down at the woman who ran our section of the office.

"He threatened me!" Thompson answered before I could.

"You never know when to shut up," I said. My voice was about three times my normal quiet volume. "I told you and now I'll tell your protector here."

I turned to Jennifer Clement, the head of the marketing department of St. Joseph's Hospital.

"If your boy there runs his mouth one more time, he's going to be real happy he works for you," I said, "because the intensive care unit is on the same floor as our office. Forget it. I'm taking a personal day."

I spun on my heel and departed before Clement could get the shocked look off her face.

It was probably for the best.

Instead of heading to my house, I drove westward to the beach. It was March but the sun still felt good.

I couldn't place my finger on exactly why I had snapped on James Thompson and Jennifer Clement. I knew part of it was his comment about a woman I hadn't seen or even thought of much in 15 years. But there was more.

I liked my job. I really did. But I didn't like that the majority of the work was done by four people. Jennifer Clement was a walking anachronism. She was hired as the advertising director for the hospital back when the job consisted of taping together pretty ads for the newspaper.

The industry had changed and so had marketing. Jennifer had not. She still focused her attention – and the attention of two-thirds of her staff – on the dying (if not dead) print media market.

The hospital no longer needed to bring customers to the door. A series of buyouts and mergers, along with a sweet deal from the area's major health-insurance provider, had accomplished that feat. She was lost when it came time to recruit and retain quality physicians and nurses. She continued to send Thompson and his cronies to job fairs to find people looking for work.

I had argued that doctors and nurses are not exactly the types to be heading out to the local YMCA to seek employment opportunities. She countered by showing me the stack of resumes Thompson always managed to return with. She had no answer when I asked if any of them were real or if any of his "recruits" had actually accepted a job with us.

I knew Thompson used the job fairs as his personal travel agency. But Clement seemed content to turn a blind eye. We stayed within our budget so no one breathed down her neck. That was all she worried about.

So while Thompson and his cohorts traveled in the vain hope of landing professionals, the four of us who didn't have that perk got to do the work of actually making sure the personnel department had qualified applicants for openings. That often meant long evenings and early mornings at the office.

The frustration of watching idiots and assholes running amok finally got the better of me.

I am not known for my temper. Oh sure, I have one. However, I learned long ago to channel my anger into something more positive. But I was still angry when I got to work the next morning – and was promptly summoned to a meeting with the personnel director, another dinosaur who hadn't learned that the world was different than it was in the 1990s.

There was a woman with whom I dealt frequently in the outer office and she offered a rueful smile when I entered. Then she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

For a reason I don't understand, I gave her a wink and entered Everett James's office without knocking. He was less impressed with me than even a few minutes prior.

Oh well.

"You asked to see me," I offered.

"Sit down," he ordered. "We need to discuss yesterday's incident."

"Why?" I asked, remaining on my feet. "There is nothing to discuss. I think the 'incident, ' as you term it, is pretty straightforward. Thompson is a douche bag and I'm not going to put up with him any longer."

"Mr. Blakely, I do not tolerate language like that in my office!" the man yelled.

I chuckled.

"What?" I asked. "Douche bag? That was tame compared to what I could have called him. Look, it's like this. I have had all I'm going to take from Thompson and his ass-kissing cronies. If you don't like it or Clement doesn't like it, fire me. It won't be for cause, so I'll sit back and collect unemployment for awhile as I look for work.

"I'm good at my job. If you don't believe it, ask your staff who finds you all your new doctors and nurses. I'll find work with or without a reference from this place. So if you're not going to fire me, I have things to do. God knows Little Jimmy and his crew were probably too upset to bother with actually doing their jobs after I went home yesterday."

I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Go back to work," he said. "But there will be a notice in your personnel file."

"So what?" I shot back. "It's not like you give raises in this place."

The rest of the crew was in the marketing department when I got back. Jennifer Clement walked straight toward me.

"I hope you plan to apologize to me and Mr. Thompson for your outburst," she said.

I rolled my eyes.

"And I hope you plan to kiss my rosy red backside during the May Day parade," I replied. "Because that is what it will take before I consider apologizing to either of you. Anything else?"

She spun on her heel and headed back to her small office while I plopped down at my desk. I'm sure she was wishing for the thousandth time that she had the authority to fire someone. But she didn't.

The three people I considered friends were looking at me wide-eyed. I smiled at them.

"So, what needs done?" I asked.

I was greeted by silence.

"OK, tell me what an asshole I am first," I said. "Then tell me what needs done. I'm sorry I embarrassed you guys yesterday."

"Embarrassed?" Rick Weller asked, a hint of incredulousness in his voice. "Jesus, Trav, that was awesome. I don't think there is anyone who has met that jerk who hasn't wanted to say that to him. The same for her. But I never expected it from you."

I offered a shrug. I hadn't expected it from me either.

"I believe you," Susan Weathers said quietly. "I mean, that you went to school with her."

"I did," I said simply, assuming that would be the end of the discussion.

For about three weeks, it was.

The world returned to normal and life went on. Thompson went on another of his "recruiting" trips that was certain to put a dent in the budget but do nothing about the gaping hole in our nursing department.

I had a dentist appointment on Monday so I took the day off. I had personal days and comp days coming out of my ass and I'd already decided that I was going to take every last one of them.

Jennifer Clement and the human resources department seemed content to pretend I no longer existed. I didn't give a shit – so long as my paycheck was deposited every other Friday morning.

I saw a group of people huddled around Sarah Costello's desk as I exited the elevator but all conversation stopped and every eye turned in my direction when I walked into the room. I immediately checked my fly.

The people scattered from around Sarah's desk as I approached and she looked up at me with a sad smile.

Then she slid a piece of paper across the desk to me. It was a printout from Liz Larimer's web site. It said she graduated from a school outside of Nashville.

"James passed those around yesterday afternoon," she said.

I looked at it and shrugged.

"So what?" I wondered.

"You said you went to school with her," Sarah prompted. "We all know you're from Ohio."

"So is she," I answered. "Look, she got a record deal when she was 16. I knew her from the time we were kids until she moved to Nashville after 10th grade."

"Prove it," a voice said from behind me. I closed my eyes and Sarah reached out to grab my wrists to keep me from turning around and throwing a punch.

"Sure, Asswipe," I said instead. "Let me see, maybe I can just pull out my phone and call someone I haven't seen in a decade and a half. Maybe I should just book a flight to Nashville and show up on her doorstep. How in the fuck do you want me to prove it? I guess I can call my mother and have her confirm it or maybe even send me an old yearbook if there are any in the attic."

Thompson had backed out of range of a punch – not that I wasn't willing to hurdle a desk if I needed to – but he still wore his smirk.

"She's signing autographs at the Convention Center this morning," Thompson said. "I think we should go. I'll bet you 200 bucks that she won't have any idea who you are."

"She might not," I admitted. "Like I said, it was 15 years ago. I'm sure her life at my high school dims in her memory after the life she's had since she left there. Keep your money."

"Just as I thought," Thompson said.

"Oh, no, I'll go," I said. "I don't give a shit if she remembers me or not. I'll ask her if she went to high school in Ohio before she moved to Nashville. When she says yes, I get to punch you right in the face – no charges, no recriminations, no retaliation. Oh, and no flinching from you. I get one free shot to punch you in the mouth. I'll bet you a week's pay. So, put your mouth where your money was."

Thompson was wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open.

"What?" I asked hotly. "You're so sure I'm lying to you. What do you have to lose – except a few teeth?"

"Fine," Thompson answered. He was pressed into a corner and he knew it. "I'm going with you."

"You're damned right," I replied. "Because I am going to drop you like a hot rock right there in front of everyone."