Wicked White
Page 26
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I think about the tablet I have in my suitcase in my room, knowing there’s no Internet connection available for miles around here, and just decide to do the easy thing and head back to the library to use their computer terminal.
After I get dressed, I make my way out to Gran’s car and hop inside. The car cranks alive on the first try, and I carefully back out of the parking spot in front of my trailer and pull onto the street leading to the main road.
While driving, I sing some of my favorite show tunes to pass the time, since the radio in the car is broken and picks up only AM stations. I lift my chin as I sing one of my favorites from The Phantom of the Opera and remember to adjust the way I hold my body to reflect that I’m proud of the way I sing.
Once I park my car in the small lot in front of the library, I make my way inside and sit down at the first open terminal I see. I pull up a web browser and enter Ace Johnson into the search engine. Within seconds, millions of hits on Ace Johnson pop up. I begin clicking through the list, but each link leads me to a person who is not the Ace Johnson I’m looking for.
After going through two pages of links and not finding a social media page, mug shot, or anything on Ace, I decide to try clicking on the image tab to see what my search yielded.
I scroll down the sea of pictures, ready to give up, until a bearded man with similar features to Ace’s catches my eye.
I click on the picture, and it leads me to a tabloid website with an article about that missing rock star that Birdie and I were talking about a couple weeks ago.
Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly’s report focuses on the mysterious Ace White, who has been missing since he stormed off stage before playing to a sold-out crowd in Detroit. It goes on to say that no one has heard from him since then. The last part of the article catches my attention.
“Any information regarding the whereabouts of Ace White can be reported to the LAPD. Mr. White’s tour manager, Jane Ann Rogers, is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to finding Ace White.”
I lean back in the small swivel chair and stare at the screen, completely shocked by what I’m seeing. Is it possible that my new hunky next-door neighbor is this missing rock star, Ace White? The name fits, and the features, and banging body, but the man pictured in this article has long hair and a beard. It’s possible it might not be him either.
Before I start jumping to some major conclusions, I open a new tab on the browser and search the name “Ace White.” The first article I select shows Ace at a concert, singing from center stage and staring out to the crowd. His russet eyes are focused on the people he’s singing to, and as I stare at his face, I know without a shadow of a doubt this is the man I’ve been pining over for the last few weeks.
This is what he’s trying to protect me from? The media? There has to be something going on for him to walk away. I mean, he’s living in my run-down rental when he can afford a swanky hotel. This man can have anything he wants. Why is he running from it?
Whatever it is, it must’ve been bad, and he obviously doesn’t want to be discovered.
Everything starts to click now—his freak-outs when I question him about his past, how he knows so much about performing, the sexy way he carries himself, the vibe I got when I first laid eyes on him that he’s far too good to be in a place like Willow Acres.
Quickly I close down my web browser before anyone notices what I’ve just been looking up, and I log out of the computer.
Despite the omission of the truth about his past, Ace is still someone I care a lot about, and if he doesn’t want to be found, I’m going to help him keep his secret.
ACE
It’s an unseasonably warm day in Ohio for November. Growing up here, fall was one of those times of year when it seemed like Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted to freeze Ohio’s residents to death or cause them to run up their electric bills by cranking up the air conditioning. Today seems like she’s doing the latter.
Sweat drips down my back as the afternoon sun beats down on me. After a solid couple of weeks of mowing the grass around the trailer park, I’m finally on the last section of weeds.
After a couple more swipes I’ve managed to cut all the nearly knee-high grass around the place, and I feel good knowing that’s the last time Iris will have to worry about it until next spring.
I cut the engine on the mower and then grab the hem of my T-shirt and bend to wipe the sweat from my face with it.
“Honey, come on over and get you a glass of lemonade. You’ve been working hard,” an older female voice calls to me.
I glance up and notice a heavyset, gray-haired woman sitting under the metal awning attached to the front of her trailer. I guess you could consider it as being a porch. It’s the trailer that I’ve learned over my short time here belongs to Birdie’s grandmother.
The lady stands and goes to the pitcher sitting on the table next to her and grabs a red plastic cup from the stack sitting next to it.
When I don’t immediately head toward her, she glances in my direction as she pours another glass of lemonade. “Well, come on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I chuckle at her bossiness, and it reminds me of my mom and the way she never gave me a choice in the matter if she thought whatever she was ordering me to do was in my best interest.
The moment I approach her, she holds the glass out to me and smiles. Deep wrinkles set around her eyes and face tell me time hasn’t been kind to her, but her pale blue eyes have a pleasantness about them. She’s wearing a pair of worn jeans that appear to be so thin that they could tear any moment. The shirt she’s wearing is the same way.
After I get dressed, I make my way out to Gran’s car and hop inside. The car cranks alive on the first try, and I carefully back out of the parking spot in front of my trailer and pull onto the street leading to the main road.
While driving, I sing some of my favorite show tunes to pass the time, since the radio in the car is broken and picks up only AM stations. I lift my chin as I sing one of my favorites from The Phantom of the Opera and remember to adjust the way I hold my body to reflect that I’m proud of the way I sing.
Once I park my car in the small lot in front of the library, I make my way inside and sit down at the first open terminal I see. I pull up a web browser and enter Ace Johnson into the search engine. Within seconds, millions of hits on Ace Johnson pop up. I begin clicking through the list, but each link leads me to a person who is not the Ace Johnson I’m looking for.
After going through two pages of links and not finding a social media page, mug shot, or anything on Ace, I decide to try clicking on the image tab to see what my search yielded.
I scroll down the sea of pictures, ready to give up, until a bearded man with similar features to Ace’s catches my eye.
I click on the picture, and it leads me to a tabloid website with an article about that missing rock star that Birdie and I were talking about a couple weeks ago.
Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly’s report focuses on the mysterious Ace White, who has been missing since he stormed off stage before playing to a sold-out crowd in Detroit. It goes on to say that no one has heard from him since then. The last part of the article catches my attention.
“Any information regarding the whereabouts of Ace White can be reported to the LAPD. Mr. White’s tour manager, Jane Ann Rogers, is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to finding Ace White.”
I lean back in the small swivel chair and stare at the screen, completely shocked by what I’m seeing. Is it possible that my new hunky next-door neighbor is this missing rock star, Ace White? The name fits, and the features, and banging body, but the man pictured in this article has long hair and a beard. It’s possible it might not be him either.
Before I start jumping to some major conclusions, I open a new tab on the browser and search the name “Ace White.” The first article I select shows Ace at a concert, singing from center stage and staring out to the crowd. His russet eyes are focused on the people he’s singing to, and as I stare at his face, I know without a shadow of a doubt this is the man I’ve been pining over for the last few weeks.
This is what he’s trying to protect me from? The media? There has to be something going on for him to walk away. I mean, he’s living in my run-down rental when he can afford a swanky hotel. This man can have anything he wants. Why is he running from it?
Whatever it is, it must’ve been bad, and he obviously doesn’t want to be discovered.
Everything starts to click now—his freak-outs when I question him about his past, how he knows so much about performing, the sexy way he carries himself, the vibe I got when I first laid eyes on him that he’s far too good to be in a place like Willow Acres.
Quickly I close down my web browser before anyone notices what I’ve just been looking up, and I log out of the computer.
Despite the omission of the truth about his past, Ace is still someone I care a lot about, and if he doesn’t want to be found, I’m going to help him keep his secret.
ACE
It’s an unseasonably warm day in Ohio for November. Growing up here, fall was one of those times of year when it seemed like Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted to freeze Ohio’s residents to death or cause them to run up their electric bills by cranking up the air conditioning. Today seems like she’s doing the latter.
Sweat drips down my back as the afternoon sun beats down on me. After a solid couple of weeks of mowing the grass around the trailer park, I’m finally on the last section of weeds.
After a couple more swipes I’ve managed to cut all the nearly knee-high grass around the place, and I feel good knowing that’s the last time Iris will have to worry about it until next spring.
I cut the engine on the mower and then grab the hem of my T-shirt and bend to wipe the sweat from my face with it.
“Honey, come on over and get you a glass of lemonade. You’ve been working hard,” an older female voice calls to me.
I glance up and notice a heavyset, gray-haired woman sitting under the metal awning attached to the front of her trailer. I guess you could consider it as being a porch. It’s the trailer that I’ve learned over my short time here belongs to Birdie’s grandmother.
The lady stands and goes to the pitcher sitting on the table next to her and grabs a red plastic cup from the stack sitting next to it.
When I don’t immediately head toward her, she glances in my direction as she pours another glass of lemonade. “Well, come on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I chuckle at her bossiness, and it reminds me of my mom and the way she never gave me a choice in the matter if she thought whatever she was ordering me to do was in my best interest.
The moment I approach her, she holds the glass out to me and smiles. Deep wrinkles set around her eyes and face tell me time hasn’t been kind to her, but her pale blue eyes have a pleasantness about them. She’s wearing a pair of worn jeans that appear to be so thin that they could tear any moment. The shirt she’s wearing is the same way.
