Bahama Mama Read online

  Bahama Mama

  Book 2 of the Key West Escape Series

  Tricia Leedom

  Copyright © 2018 by Tricia Leedom

  Rights held by Firefly Hill Press, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, Subject Line: "Attention: Permissions Coordinator," at company's email address below.

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  Firefly Hill Press, LLC

  4387 W. Swamp Rd #565

  Doylestown, PA 18902

  www.fireflyhillpress.com

  [email protected]

  Print ISBN: 9781945495021

  E-Book ISBN: 9781943858125

  Books in the Key West Escape Series By Tricia Leedom

  Rum Runner - Book

  Bahama Mama - Book 2

  Passion Punch - Book 3 - Coming 2019

  Bahama Mama is dedicated to my mama, Joyce,

  and my godson, Steven, with love.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  The Key West Escape Series Continues with Passion Punch Available 2019 - Preorder Today!

  Review Request

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One S’more Summer: Book One of the Campfire Series

  Chapter One

  Red Rocks Canyon, Mojave Desert, Nevada

  Anders Ostergaard would be the first to admit he’d lived a golden life. From his high school years as star quarterback to his first hit country record at the age of 21 to multiple CMA and Grammy awards. Nothing seemed out of his reach—except for the piece of limestone protruding from the cliff above his head.

  He had the long arms to match his 6’2” frame, but the smooth, rounded handhold jutting from the overhang was four feet beyond his reach. He’d dealt with this boulder problem plenty of times in the gym with a plush mat beneath him ready to break his fall. He needed to launch himself toward the handhold and grab on, but out in the open, with nothing but a rope, a few well-used bolts, and the Lord on his side, the risk to his life was significantly greater.

  “Come on. You got this!” The words of encouragement shouted from some distance away echoed his own thoughts. His friend and trainer, pro mountain climber Jack Moser, stood on the cliff’s ledge 100 feet below, belaying the rope and ready to brace himself in the event Anders made a dumbass mistake and fell.

  They’d started early this morning when there was still a nip in the desert air, but it was approaching noon and the sun was on his back, baking through his thin cotton T-shirt. He’d gotten cocky and hadn’t bothered to clip the last carabiner when he had the chance. Now, eight feet above that safety point, he was wedged into the crease where the overhang started, his left hand jammed into a crack and the fingertips of his right crimping a one-inch ledge. His left foot was braced securely while his right sought purchase on a pucker in the sheer wall.

  “Shake it out!” Jack called up to him.

  Anders shifted his weight to the left so he could remove his right hand from the ledge. His tense arm dangled by his side and his muscles sighed with relief as he shook them out. The lyrics to one of his hit songs ran through his head. You break my chops. You strike a nerve. You drive me up a wall ’til I’m hanging off a ledge, trying not to fall…

  He’d written it about his ex-wife but it applied to today just fine.

  The view sure was pretty. Jutting rust-colored peaks and dusty valleys patched with green spread out beneath an endless blue sky. A man could breathe out here. He took a deep breath to illustrate the thought and smiled.

  He reached back and crimped the ledge again, then let his weight settle into his lower body. His core muscles locked and he crouched a bit, coiling his leg muscles tightly and making ready to spring. “Gimme some tension,” he shouted to Jack.

  The rope pulled tauter but still gave him enough slack for the big move he was about to attempt.

  “You got this,” Jack shouted up to him. “You can stick it.”

  “If I don’t, give my love to my fans.” Anders meant it as a joke, but a sudden tightening in his gut made him add a little hoarsely, “And my son.”

  He lunged for the handhold, cleared the four feet, and caught the rounded protrusion cleanly. There wasn’t much to grip, but his hands were strong and the chalk on his fingers reduced the slippage. Adrenaline shot through his body, making him feel weightless as he dangled more than one hundred and fifty feet above the canyon floor.

  This was what he sought. This was why he climbed. He did it to feel alive. To feel free. To feel what it was like to be himself and nothing else.

  He shifted his body from side to side, building momentum until he could swing out to the right and catch the nearest handhold. The heel of his right foot hooked a foothold. He pulled himself over and settled into a more secure spot where he could rest a moment and then let out a big whoop. “Did you see that?”

  “Hell, yeah, I did! You should give up singing and do this full time.”

  “Become a climbing bum?” Anders laughed. “Hell, I reckon there’s better money in singing.”

  “But the women are hotter in climbing. Nothing better than a tight ass and a firm grip.”

  “You got a point there.”

  Still chuckling, Anders raised the rope and reached out for the carabiner near his left shoulder. Before he could clip the rope through the gate, his left foot slipped and he started to slide down the cliff face. Tiny bits of dirt and rock came loose as sharp edges snared his clothes and scraped his skin. He scrambled to grab another handhold, but he was moving too fast. Suddenly he was airborne.

  His stomach dipped, threatening to expel the granola bar he’d snacked on twenty minutes ago, but he kept it down and steeled himself waiting for the rope to stop his fall. His teeth snapped together as he was jerked backward violently. Slivers of fear darted through his system when the world tilted upside down. His head slammed against something solid and pain blasted through his skull just before everything went black.

  “What happened?” was the first thing Anders had asked when he came to in the medical helicopter. Jack was by his side, his round baby face filled with concern. He’d explained that the foothold had crumbled beneath Anders’ weight. He’d fallen fifteen feet, flipped upside down, and slammed into the cliff wall. He had a nice lump on the back of his head along with a concussion.

  By the end of the day, the tabloids had reported his death, distraught fans were holding vigils, and his record sales had skyrocketed. D
espite a pounding headache and a bruised cut on his right cheekbone, Anders managed to take a half-decent selfie and Tweeted it with the words: I’m not dead yet. Or so they tell me.

  A couple days recuperating in the hospital were more than he’d needed, but his record label had stuck their noses in. They’d never been crazy about his choice of recreational activities and they were less than thrilled to learn he hadn’t been wearing a helmet. As punishment, they demanded he stay put for a full week. They also postponed the next two months of concert tour dates and ordered him to take a vacation. A relaxing one. No extreme sports allowed. So, he’d upgraded his Vegas hotel room to the presidential suite and settled in for an extended stay on their dime.

  But one week into his convalescence, Anders was already growing itchy.

  “Come with me to the club that’s opening tonight.” Casey Conway knelt on the bed in front of him in a pink camisole top and G-string, biting her cherry-red bottom lip. Five days ago, the young starlet had sought him out when she’d learned they were staying at the same hotel. She’d ditched her friends to party with him and the paparazzi had already snapped some pics and labeled them the next Hollywood “it” couple.

  They were hardly an item. She was beautiful—the typical tight, blonde California girl—but she was at a different place in her life. Young and ambitious, Casey was hungry for the spotlight while he was more interested in keeping a low profile when he wasn’t on tour. He’d been there once himself though, and he understood Casey’s goals even if his were no longer the same. She was a fun person be around and a pleasant distraction but nothing more.

  The feeling was mutual. Casey was getting what she wanted—a career boost from all the free press generated just from being spotted with him.

  Plucking his guitar, Anders lounged back against the leather headboard in nothing but his boxers and a pair of white cotton socks. It was mid-afternoon though it felt like midnight. Time was irrelevant in Vegas. He used to like that about the city, but now it just made him feel tired.

  Bright-eyed and restless, Casey tugged on his knee. “C’mon. Let’s have some fun.”

  “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing.”

  Her earnest expression melted into a soft, sexy pout. “We don’t have to stay long. We’ll walk the red carpet, have one drink, and then bail.” Her hand brushed his inner thigh and headed north. “I’d be very grateful.”

  “Yeah? How grateful?

  “Well, I can give you a little preview now.”

  He stopped strumming when cool fingers dipped beneath the loose leg of his boxer shorts and cupped his partial erection. At thirty-seven, he didn’t recover anywhere near as quickly as he did when he was twenty-two, but his body was trying. His heart wasn’t in it though.

  He rested a hand over the lump in the front of his cotton shorts to hold her hand still. “The downside to dating a man fifteen years your senior is longer breaks between tango sessions.”

  “Then you’ll go with me?” She gave a squeeze that made him gasp and not in a good way.

  A knock at the door saved him from having to answer. She sat up. “Finally!”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “Room service. I called while you were napping earlier.” She leaned forward for a kiss and he obliged. She had a nice mouth. “Sleepyhead.”

  “Can’t help it. You tucker me out.” He grinned.

  “Mmm,” she purred and then gave him a mischievous grin. Mocking his Alabamian accent, she said, “Come to the party with me and I’ll tucker you out until the cows come home.”

  “I don’t talk like that.”

  “Yes, you do, and I like it.” She kissed him one more time before she climbed off the bed. Sliding on his abandoned T-shirt, she padded barefoot out of the bedroom.

  Anders set his guitar aside and followed.

  “Took you long enough,” she said to the male server who was wheeling in a cart containing a covered plate and a bottle of champagne with two glasses.

  The chubby guy was busting out of his uniform and staring at Casey in awe. Very unprofessional, but then again, Casey Conway was a total knockout. How could he blame the guy for looking? His name tag said “Kwame.” An unusual name for a pasty-faced white kid, but what did Anders know? His friend’s sweet baby daughter was named Jezebel.

  When Kwame’s gaze lingered a bit too long on the lady’s bare thighs, Anders cleared his throat. The server’s head snapped up and his eyes bugged out of his head as if he was surprised to see Anders there.

  “I called almost an hour ago,” Casey said as Kwame placed the cart in front of the sofa and nervously struggled to uncork the champagne.

  “I’m sorry it took so long, Miss Conway.” He reached back to tuck an escaped shirttail into his pants.

  Casey relented, treating him to the smile that was making her famous. “I know it’s not your fault. The kitchen in this place is ridiculously slow.”

  Kwame paused over the still-uncorked bottle to stare at Casey again. He used the cloth napkin that was wrapped around the bottle to mop his forehead.

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Casey turned her pretty grin on Anders. “I charged it to the room.”

  “I don’t mind.” He came forward, took the bottle away from the server, and uncorked it himself in two efficient moves. The poor guy was sweating like a pig in a smokehouse. Anders put a hand on Kwame’s shoulder and escorted him to the door where he offered him a couple of twenties. “For your trouble, boss.”

  “No trouble at all, sir.”

  Anders winked as was his habit and closed the door. When he turned around, Casey was already sitting down to eat.

  “You’re too nice.” She reached for the bottle of champagne. “He couldn’t even do his job properly. Seriously. Where do they find these people?”

  As Anders watched her fill a flute glass, he had a PTSD-style flashback to his honeymoon in Cabo. Greer’s complaining drove him nuts. He’d ended up sleeping on the couch that week just so he could fall asleep without having to listen to her bitch about her day. That should have clued him in to how the rest of their marriage was gonna go, but he was too damn stubborn back then to admit he’d made a mistake. He shook off the memory and reminded himself that what he and Casey had was only temporary. “What did you order?”

  “A burger. You want a bite?” When he made a face, she said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m a strict pescetarian.”

  “What’s that one again? I forget.”

  “Like a vegetarian, but I eat fish.”

  “Oops. My bad.” She snapped open her linen napkin and draped it across her lap before reaching for the mini ketchup bottle beside her plate.

  “It’s all right. I’ll order something after I take a shower.”

  “It smells awesome. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  He hadn’t eaten meat since he was fourteen, and he wasn’t about to start now. “I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

  “So, you’re coming to the party with me?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but I guess it won’t hurt to stop in for one drink.”

  Casey let out a little squeal of delight and clapped her hands. “I heart you, Anders Ostergaard.” She blew him a kiss.

  He caught himself mid-cringe. Only temporary. Snorting instead, he gave her a wink and ducked into the bathroom.

  Reaching into the marble-walled stall, he turned on the water before slipping out of his socks and boxers. He took his time shaving in front of the mirror above the sink, wiping the glass down when it started to fog up. Dropping the hand towel, he studied his reflection in the glass. He looked tired. And old as shit. Well, maybe not that old. But he was getting up there. The crow's feet around his eyes could attest to that. His twenties were long behind him now and forty was staring at him from the other side, way too close for comfort.

  Sitting around doing nothing was starting to get to him, but he wasn’t growing restless for the limelight. He wasn’t missin
g the road or the thrill of being on stage performing to 40,000 fans like he thought he would. Maybe it was time to start focusing on other goals. Touring was a little easier now that he owned his own plane and could fly everywhere he needed to be. If he cut back to two or three months a year on the road, he could focus on getting his indie label up and running and signing a few new artists. It was something to consider. It might take the edge off his boredom and fill the void that had started eating at him long before his accident.

  His face was still covered with splotches of shaving cream when he finally stepped into the shower. As the steaming hot water hit his back, he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. God that felt good. Maybe he just needed a vacation. A real one. Someplace remote and tropical where he could kick back with a frosty umbrella drink and a fishing pole and recharge his batteries. He’d received an email invitation to his brother’s wedding in Key West. It had been sitting in his inbox for the past couple months but he hadn’t bothered to respond. Mostly because he hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to attend. He needed to decide soon because it was coming up in a week. A jaunt down to the Florida Keys would help clear his mind so he could figure things out. His brother Jimmy was an enthusiastic supporter of island therapy. Anders chuckled. It would be good to see his little brother again.

  He still couldn’t believe Jimmy of all people was getting married. Just the thought of being shackled to one woman again gave Anders hives. He scratched the imaginary itch on his collarbone and then lathered an armpit with soap. He’d thought he was ready for wedded bliss once, but the daily drama of trying to compromise with a demanding woman who was way too serious had been exhausting. The relationship with Greer had never come easy, and it only got harder with marriage. Part of him wished things had worked out differently for Obie’s sake, but it was better to grow up with two happy divorced parents than two miserable married ones. He knew that better than anyone.