Bad Billy Culver

Bad Billy Culver

by Judy Gill
Bad Billy Culver

Bad Billy Culver

by Judy Gill

eBook

$2.99 

Available on Compatible NOOK Devices and the free NOOK Apps.
WANT A NOOK?  Explore Now

Related collections and offers

LEND ME® See Details

Overview

Billy Culver, handsome as sin and bound for just that, son of the housekeeper to the wealthy Lambert family, grew up poor. Arlene Lambert, granddaughter of Billy's mother's employers, grew up rich and lonely. As children, she and Billy were friends. As teenagers, they became lovers, then he was scorned and condemned for something of which he was innocent, and driven out of town.

Now, rich and powerful and bent on revenge against everyone who hurt him, but mostly Arlene, Billy Culver is back. When he sees her again, however, memories of the past, guilt and pain torment him-- along with desire.

Arlene never stopped loving him, missing him, yearning for him, but it is a love she must deny. For to let him know means revealing a secret so terrible, so shameful, she'll risk losing Billy himself rather than destroy him with the truth.


Product Details

BN ID: 2940011189692
Publisher: Judy Gill
Publication date: 01/18/2011
Sold by: Smashwords
Format: eBook
File size: 290 KB
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Judy Griffith Gill lives on Canada's west coast--the Sunshine Coast of BC--with her husband of (mumblety-five) years. Over those years, they raised two beautiful, successful daughters both of whom are married to fine men and have blessed the Gills with three grandchildren. She is writing less, but enjoying it more, along with summers afloat aboard the cabin cruiser she and her husband own. When not out boating or enjoying dock parties with friends, she grows everything from blueberries to raspberries, interspersed with herbs and plenty of flowers, on her patio. Her oldest daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter live nearby--near enough her granddaughter willingly waters the plants when Judy is afloat.

Read an Excerpt

Billy Culver. Bad Billy Culver. He was back, twice as handsome and three times as charming, driving an expensive foreign import which, someone in Tulane's said, he'd probably rented for the day, just to show off. Somebody else hooted that idea down. Didn't they read the papers? Billy Culver was filthy rich, and as far as anybody knew, had gotten that way legally.

Billy didn't go into Tulane's, which was surprising. He'd been thrown out of the bar on more than one occasion. But he never tired of trying to convince the bartender that he was over twenty-one--when everybody in Oakmount Village knew he was nothing of the sort. It was a game to him. But then, most things were a game to Billy Culver. Maybe that explained why, now that he was definitely of age and then some, Billy didn't go into Tulane's: There wouldn't have been any sport in it.

What he did do was go to the Oakmount Village Public Library, where he leaned negligently on the counter, bent over and said softly, "Myrtle ... oh, Myrtle, darling..." His singsong voice brought Miss Quail spinning around in her swivel chair, indignation brightening her normally paste-pale cheeks.

She gaped at him for a moment, then stood quickly, not smiling. Not quite. "Billy Culver! To you, it's Miss Quail. And what might I ask are you doing here?" The crisp tone was completely at odds with the momentary softening of her eyes.

He handed her a book he'd had tucked under his arm. "Returning this. It's a bit overdue."

Miss Quail took it, opened it and blinked. "Yes," she said. "Seventeen years overdue." She squinted at the date again, her mouth tightening. "Thank you, Billy." Her tone was dry. "I'm happy to have itback." She turned away, marching, stiff-spined, back to her desk behind the counter, dismissing him.

"What about the fine?" There was laughter in Billy's voice. She glared at him. "The book was written off many years ago. I'll simply treat it as a new acquisition. A donation." Once more she dismissed him by turning away and taking a huge ledger from a shelf over her desk and opening it across her blotter.

"I can afford the fine," he said, but Miss Quail merely addressed herself to the task at hand and wrote up the "new" acquisition.

What in the world had Billy Culver been doing with a volume of W. B. Yeats' poetry when he was only twenty? She considered asking him. She knew he hadn't left, knew, without having to look, that he was still leaning on the counter, grinning that cheeky grin of his, that his black curls were tumbled over his broad, intelligent brow. And she knew that she would find herself softening toward him again if she turned.

She turned. "What are you doing here?" she asked again.

"Visiting my favorite lady," he said, leaving the counter and sauntering in behind it to sit on the edge of her desk.

Perched there, Billy looked into her eyes with the directness she'd always liked in him, and smiled that old knock 'em dead smile that had gotten him out of trouble all his life. "It's good to see you still here, Miss Quail," he said, and she heard the ring of sincerity in his deep voice. "I was kind of hoping you'd welcome me back."

With a sigh she patted his hand where it lay on his hitched-up knee. "All right, Billy. It's good to see you, too, but I'm one of the few who will say that. You don't have much of a reputation in this town. You're not staying long, are you?" She thought of poor little Arlene Lambert and hoped that Billy would do whatever he'd come to do--surely it was more than just returning an overdue library book--and go away again.

"A week, maybe. It depends," said Billy noncommittally. "I just got here. Are you trying to get rid of me so soon?" Miss Quail didn't respond to that. She glanced out the window and gave his cream BMW an austere look. "I suppose that fancy toy is yours?"

"Like it?" He grinned with the same kind of pride he'd shown when Jenny, his mother, had given him that ugly secondhand bike for Christmas the year he was eight. Oh, she'd dressed it up with bright red paint, but that peeled off in a matter of days. Billy hadn't cared. He loved that bike and beamed as he went racing past, laughing with glee while popping wheelies, as the children called the dangerous practice.

"Did you earn it honestly, Billy?"

His grin faded as he met her gaze. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am, and I worked hard."

For the first time since he'd come in, Miss Quail smiled at him. "Then I like it, Billy. I like it fine. Your mother would be proud of you."

Behind them, the door buzzed and two women entered, glanced quickly at the darkly handsome man sitting on Miss Quail's desk, and came to a halt, staring openly. Slowly, Billy leaned forward and kissed the librarian on the cheek, then got to his feet. Fingers in his hip pockets, palms facing outward, he strolled out from behind the counter, nodded politely to the women, then went on out the door and got into his BMW. It purred to life and was gone, leaving Miss Quail twittering and pink-cheeked as she hadn't been since Admiral Forsythe had kissed her at the civic luncheon last August, when she received the award for Citizen of the Year.

* * * *

As the two women wandered through the stacks, Miss Quail sat at her desk, thinking back to when she had been librarian in the Island's private school, Oakmount Academy, which Billy had attended from kindergarten to the end of eighth grade. For the first few years he was in school, Billy's quick intelligence and sharp wit had delighted every teacher who dealt with him. Sure, he was full of mischief, and often went too far, but that was simply chalked up to his being a little bit too smart for his own good. He had to test the limits, not only of the rules, but the limits imposed on him by his own body. He was athletic, and too daring, and had to be the best at everything. He was the first child in his group to "ride the chute" on his bike. Some said he had discovered the chute, perhaps even created it.

The trick entailed screaming along a narrow track through the woods, flying blindly off the edge of a short drop, landing exactly right on a plank at the bottom of a wide ditch, then shooting straight up the other side and onto the highway with no warning to oncoming motorists. Everyone was scared to do it, but Billy had done it so the others had to follow. It wasn't until Kevin Morrison II ran smack into the side of the baker's van that the practice was stopped. Billy, of course, was blamed for Kevin's broken arm and concussion, just as he was blamed four years later, when the boys were thirteen and Curtis Hamilton dove headfirst off the swinging bridge into the rocks of Skyline Creek Canyon instead of into the deep pool he'd been aiming for. If Billy Culver hadn't encouraged the other boys to dive there, Curtis would be alive today. At least, according to the gospel of Janine Hamilton, Curtis's bereaved mother.

* * * *

Billy drove slowly through Oakmount, frowning at what he saw. Empty storefronts, newspapered windows, signs reading Valuable Commercial Property for Sale, or Business Premises for Rent or simply, grimly, Closed. On his way into town, he'd noticed how shabby everything had become, and how many For Sale signs dotted the residential streets. Of course, he'd heard all that from his advance team; he'd known Oakmount Village was ripe for the picking. But knowing it intellectually and seeing it firsthand were two different things.

He recognized faces, realized with shock that they belonged to people he knew, men and women who had been the boys and girls he'd gone to high school with. Only these people, many of them, looked, well ... old. This was what Oakmount had become, then, a dying town populated by people without hope, with old gray faces, old gray lives. Before, the despondency he'd heard about, the imminent death of the town, had been nothing more than a piece of good news to him, a set of circumstances that would make the council more amenable to his plans. He knew the sawmill had gone from three shifts to two a couple of years back, and last year, to one, with the distinct possibility that within a few months it would close altogether.

But hell, he thought, shaking off the insipient sympathy he felt creeping up and putting on a burst of speed as he came parallel with the end of the bridge that led to Oakmount Island. That wasn't what he was there for. He didn't know exactly why he'd come, but it certainly wasn't to take a sentimental journey and start feeling any kind of pity for anybody in Oakmount Village or Island.

Each community, in its own way, had shot Billy down as soon as it had a chance. First, the Islanders, because he was poor, because he was the son of a servant, because he didn't fit in exactly right. Then, after welcoming him, making him feel whole again, the Villagers had turned against him because he was supposedly too smart. He made them look and feel stupid, he'd been told. So to hell with them all. He flung back his head and laughed. "Let the bastards squirm."

Billy continued on around town, popping up here and there. He arm-wrestled with Stefan in the hardware store, and lost, of course, but with a grin that suggested he'd let it happen so as not to hurt the old ex-wrestler's feelings. He shot a few marbles in the dust with Carlie Malcolm's six-year-old twins outside her run-down dry cleaning business, then ducked into Mrs. Gaudin's dress store, of all places, and bought a bright pink silk scarf. Wherever he'd gone, he'd left folks laughing in his wake, or shaking their heads with questions in their eyes.

What was Billy Culver up to? Why had he come back? And who'd he bought that pink scarf for?

He had dinner in the Markham Inn, the only "tablecloth" restaurant still open in town, served by Ellen Ames. She'd have served him more than dinner if he'd shown the least bit of interest, Billy thought. And he'd been pleased to see her, at first.

"Hey, Ellen! Hello. How's it going? It's a surprise, seeing you still here. I'd have thought there was a lot more of the world than Oakmount you'd want to see."

"I saw it," she said, her eyes growing predatory as she gave him the once-over--twice. "But I didn't find anything like you out there, Billy Culver. If I had, maybe I'd have stayed away. But last time I got married, it was to Pete Mortimer. When his old man died, he decided to come back here and run the garage."

She smiled archly at Billy and cocked one hip, putting her belly too close to his face as he sat at the table. "Remember when you used to work there? Remember that black Ford van you test-drove after you repaired it? And you took me along? That was some test run, Billy Culver."

He nodded, wishing he could honestly say he didn't remember Ellen and the back of that van Amos Larson had rigged out for camping. "I didn't know old Mortimer had died," he said. "I'm sorry to hear it. How's Pete doing?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not married to him anymore. He's not like you. He's content to run a garage for the rest of his life, and I can't stand a loser. I'll be gone again just as soon as I get a little money together. Or find somebody who wants to take me away from all this," she added breathily with another arch smile, thrusting her hips an inch or two closer to him. Her black skirt was tight and short and her white blouse cut low. Flesh spilled out of it. The dimples in her thighs showed even through her black fishnet stockings.

"I'm sure it won't take you long," he said.

"Damn right it won't. Then it's Vegas, here I come." She lifted her over tweezed brows toward the roots of her too-black hair. "You ever been to Vegas, Billy?"

He had, but shook his head, wishing she'd get down to the business of waitressing. He was hungry and not for what she was so blatantly offering.

"There's a good time to be had in that old town," she went on. "Tell you what, you say the word and I'll get in that pretty car of yours with you and show you the sights of Vegas. And a few other things as well." She laughed so he could take her words as a joke if he chose, and she wouldn't lose face at his refusal.

He laughed too. "Why don't you show me the menu instead," he asked softly. "Then I can get out of here."

"You see that guy over there?" Ellen asked half an hour later when she set his plate of pan fried red snapper in front of him. "The scrawny little bald guy having the drink in the corner by the fireplace?" He glanced over at the man she indicated. "That's Dr. Sam Burgoyne. A psychiatrist. He came here about ten years back and set up shop. He wanted a quieter life. He sure found it here, but I bet you'll never guess who he's going to marry, Billy."

"Who?" he asked, looking up at her from unwrapping the foil from his baked potato.

"Arlene. You remember Arlene Lambert, don't you?"

He swallowed dryly. Even if, by some miracle, he'd managed to forget Arlene, his wanderings through Oakmount that day would have provided a dozen reminders. Most people had mentioned her. Seemed she was a real heroine, beloved by all. He'd gotten sick of hearing what wonderful things she was doing, of how she had pulled herself up and become a real power in the community in spite of her reduced financial circumstances. He hadn't bothered to tell anyone that if Arlene had made good, she'd done so at his personal expense, by cheating him of what was rightfully his.

"Of course I do." His tone was bland, but his thoughts were sharp and spiky, hurting as thoughts of Arlene always did. Sly, cheating Arlene, who, as he should have expected, had grown up just like the rest of her family, greedy in spite of having everything handed to her. Or maybe because of it. Or maybe because of having lost it all when she did. Whatever. She had cheated him, and he couldn't forgive that.

"Sam's my therapist, and we spend more time talking about Arlene than we do about me. She gave back his ring a couple of months ago, but he says she'll come around. She's just being coy. When I think about her and Sam together, I have to laugh. I mean, who'd have ever believed it?" Ellen said, openly gloating.

"Remember when she thought she was better than everybody? Like when she wouldn't even go to that dance with you when you'd told everybody that you were bringing her?" Ellen smiled a sly little smile.

Billy remembered that night, though it had been Arlene's grandpa, not Arlene, who'd refused him. He'd eased his hurt feelings in Ellen's eager softness. He wished now he could forget that, too. But how could he with her standing there so bold and open and clearly offering herself to him. Not that he took it personally. Ellen had always been man-crazy.

"Well, now she's like the rest of us--worse off, really. She's stuck with that shriveled-up old man, and teaching school for a living, and running a day care in her big, posh Island house. Poor Arlene," Ellen said, but her expression belied the words and tone. "Does she know you're back?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Do you plan to see her?"

"My plans are ... flexible, Ellen. Look, I think that couple over there is trying to get your attention."

Flexible, hell, he thought, watching the provocative sway of Ellen's hips as she sauntered away. The one thing he did not intend to do during this short stay in Oakmount was drive over that damned class-dividing bridge to Oakmount Island and see Arlene Lambert, though he sure in hell could if he wanted to--he had The Key. But he didn't want to. Not for one solitary second. If she wanted to see him, she'd find out easily enough where he was staying. Hell, she probably knew now. A dozen people or more could be counted on to have rushed to the phone to tell Arlene that Billy Culver was back.

He put her way into the back of his mind and finished his dinner. Then, with nothing better to do, he went to the room he'd already booked in the Cozy Cabins Motor Court.

As he lay on his surprisingly comfortable motel bed, Billy thought again about his motives for coming back to Oakmount Village. He hadn't needed to be there. Everything was being done through intermediaries, and all was going as planned. He hadn't intended to come until the shouting and breast-beating was at its peak, so he could enjoy it to the utmost. How those Islanders were going to howl!

Billy laughed, linking his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. If only they knew, those Islanders, Arlene first among them, that at any time he'd chosen within the last nine years, he could have come back and destroyed their peace of mind. But he hadn't done it. He'd waited, biding his time until he was fully capable of doing what he had long wanted to do. Now he was ready, and what he intended was something a lot more complex than destroying their peace of mind.

He was going to destroy their way of life.

He was finally rich enough, powerful enough, to do it. He liked being rich, for the most part, except that sometimes it was boring. No more good challenges. Another reason for coming back to Oakmount. To raise a little hell again, and to sit back quietly and watch it being raised, while nobody knew that he was the one to blame this time.

They'd always been so ready to lay the blame at his feet for anything, everything.

He scowled, wondering about Arlene, about how long she'd gone on hating him for what he'd done to her. That time, he had been the one at fault. He squelched the pang that always rose up when he thought about his last day on the Island, when he thought about Arlene, lying weeping in the grass. About him, walking away.

Too bad about her. She'd had her revenge. Now it was his turn.

He grimaced and rolled over, reaching for his second cigarette in three years. The first had been an hour after dinner. This one was no better, he discovered as he lit it, drew deeply, coughed hard, and blew smoke out his nose. It stung. More of Arlene's revenge for what he'd done to her? If it was, it was unwitting, of course. She couldn't know that he'd quit smoking and now, just being within a mile of her had driven him to buy a pack of damned things and start puffing away.

He snorted in disgust and took another deep drag that tasted and felt no better than the others. Never mind; now the revenge would be his. It was going to be very, very sweet.

Dammit, he couldn't keep his mind on that for some reason. Arlene kept intruding. Did she look as hard and as tired and as desperate as Ellen did? Or had she matured into the beauty her girlhood prettiness had promised? At thirty-four, she could be at the peak of her womanly perfection. She could be experienced enough to know what she wanted from a man, and how to get it. Did she get it from that damn shrink she was engaged to?

The thought of Arlie coupled with that scrawny, baldheaded man suddenly made him sick. It made him mad enough to want to shake her silly, ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. Surely, she could do better than that? He hated thinking about it. He sucked in smoke again. That thought had sent him out to buy the damn pack in the first place.

Oh, what the hell! What did he care? But waste bothered him. He ground out the half-smoked cigarette in one of the coffee mugs provided. As was his habit, he'd asked for a no-smoking room, hence, no ashtrays.

Sure. If waste bothers you so much, how come you're paying for a motel room when you have a place of your own to stay?

Because I can afford it, he answered, but that left him facing the question of whether or not he thought he could afford to go out to the Island.

"Of course I can," he said aloud, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and getting to his feet. He shoved a hand into his pocket, where he carried The Key. He had carried it now for many years, like a talisman, and he always thought of it with capital letters. His lodestone, it had drawn him onward, upward, guided him when he might have faltered, and it had brought him back. It proved to him and to anyone else that he had a right to go to the Island. Open the gate, drive across the bridge, and do whatever he pleased.

"I can do anything I damn well please," he affirmed. "Arlene Lambert is the guilty one. She's the one who should be scared. And that place is mine." He fingered the key to the gate that kept out the rabble, the key to a way of life always available to the likes of Arlene Lambert. And now available to Billy Culver, by right of ownership, not simply because his mother performed a service or two for another landowner.

"I have as much right to cross that bridge as Arlene does," he told himself.

And if he didn't get up and cross it, he knew he'd go crazy lying there thinking about her, wondering, wondering, wondering....

From the B&N Reads Blog

Customer Reviews