“I’m telling ya, Bets, I can’t stand this stooooooooopid job even one more minute,” Ali hissed into her cell, thumbing miserably through a battered copy of Us Weekly that was at least six months old.
“So don’t do it,” was her cavalier reply. “Stop settling for crap. Sing. You love it.”
“Hand me the winning lottery ticket and a recording contract.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“It should.”
“I don’t write the rules, ducks.”
“Tell me how to bend ‘em. Better yet, just promise to spring me from jail when I finally crack…”
“What wankery are they up to this time?”
“I was doing inventory. So Sophie and Laurie both take off on their lunch together, and leave the fitting rooms unattended. Raven runs over and bawls me out, nags me over there to harvest all the stuff from the rooms that no one returned to the racks, and then nags me back in the opposite direction to handle returns at the desk! I was THAT close to just banging my head repeatedly on the register keys…”
“Might’ve left a mark,” Betsy mused, her voice garbled as she slurped up a chow mein noodle. “Can’t have that. Might look a little off tonight. Come out with Emma and me.”
“Wish I could. I’ve been so busy lately.” She tapped her kitten heels against the floor restlessly, imagining she felt the floorboards of Harry’s lounge beneath them instead, dancing her heart out. “Talk me into it.”
“You know you want to come.”
“Shit! Bets! You’re supposed to be reminding me that I’m too busy! And tired, and up to my neck in bills…”
“And haven’t been laid in months.” Betsy grinned silently. She could practically hear Ali roll her eyes.
“Meanie.”
“You love me.”
“I love you. Pick my tired ass up at eight.” Betsy squealed and made kissy noises into her handset.
“Boob tops and jeans. Makeup. Big hair. You know the drill.”
“Can’t wait.” She really couldn’t.
Elsewhere:
“HURGGKKHH! HAUUUUWWKKKKHHHH!” The choking gasps tearing themselves from Jean’s throat echoed back at her from the porcelain bowl of the spa restroom.
It was hopeless…
Saltines. Sucking lemons. Ginger ale. Candied ginger. Sea-Bands. Emetrol. Not a damned thing helped.
Morning sickness sucked. And it lasted all day, she grimaced to herself, leaning her forehead against her folded arms. One moment she’d been placing an order for new towels for the steam room, and the next, she’d run through the lounge like a bat out of hell, barely locking the door after her in time to greet her breakfast hello. Again. And again.
She was just so tired.
Jean lurched up from the toilet to check her reflection in the sink. She was pale, and the faint shadow of circles smudged around her eyes stared back at her.
“Thought it was supposed to make you look radiant,”she griped, running some cold water and holding her wrists under it a moment before wetting a paper towel. She daubed her face and wiped her mouth, swishing it out to clear the swampy fuzz from her tongue.
She took solace and cold comfort in the fact that Scott wasn’t making it difficult to divorce him. His calls to her office were perfunctory and clipped, reminding her to sign the paperwork as his attorney drew it up. Everything was orderly and letter-perfect. He wanted nothing else from her, and she was keeping the house. Since her own job guaranteed her the income she was “accustomed to,” they weren’t fighting over alimony.
She retrieved a diet 7Up from the break room vending machine, knowing it was futile, but the effervescence and scent of it comforted her as she punched open the top. She ruminated over it in front of her PC screen, scrolling through membership figures for that month. At least business was good.
It was growing harder to keep up with the house. She began cleaning during the wee hours of the morning, since her morning sickness and her insomnia were duking it out.
Pietro…was a slob.
No, back it up.
He was a FUCKING slob. Let’s not mince words…it had taken her six, maybe seven months to train Scott out of his habit of leaving his socks in the living room, or snack plates on the coffee table. He took out the garbage without being asked. He separated lights and darks. He actually emptied the dishwasher. Opened mail never laid in a homely pile on the kitchen table instead of being tucked neatly into the bill rack hanging on the wall.
She allowed a harsh chuckle to escape her. It was like housebreaking a new puppy.
She was relieved to be at work, for the moment. She didn’t envy Pietro the daunting visit with Crystal after work. His ex had made it clear early on that Jean was persona non grata when it was his turn to come and pick her up, practically staring her back out the door of her apartment when they’d both walked up after being buzzed in.
An adorable voice sang out “Who isssss it?” from the other side of the door, following the thud of little feet. Jean heard a harried voice, nearly the same age as hers, admonishing her not to run. The deadbolt slid back, and Jean and Pietro came face to face with the biggest obstacle to their fledgling relationship.
Luna’s cherubic face wore a petulant look, her eyes topaz blue chips. “Who are you?” she pouted in lieu of a proper greeting. “Why did you bring her?” Her gaze swung over Pietro as she interrogated them with a litany of questions. “Why are you holding my daddy’s hand? Mommy, why did SHE come here?”
“Luna, that’s enough. Go get your shoes. Go now.” She flounced off, mumbling “I don’t WANT to” under her breath.
“She could have had her shoes on by now,” Pietro pointed out.
“She was finishing up her lunch,” Crystal snapped crisply. “Unless you want to take a hungry, cranky five-year-old out the door for the afternoon. Be my guest next time.”
“We were going to take her to the live Dora the Explorer show downtown. We already have tickets,” Jean explained, smiling in an attempt at civility. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Sure. Tell her that you’ll go without her if she makes you a few minutes late. She’ll really believe you.” Jean’s smile dropped as though she had been slapped. Crystal was nonplussed; she followed her daughter into her living room without bothering to invite Jean and Pietro inside. Pietro tugged Jean along with him by the hand, easing the door shut behind them. Jean’s eyes roamed the tiny foyer, noting the framed pictures. Almost all of them were of Luna in varying stages of infancy and toddlerhood. She was photogenic early on, and clearly pampered.
One four-by-five in the center of a photo collage frame caught Jean’s eye. Pietro was in the hospital room, holding a tiny girl swaddled in a pink blanket and matching cap as he peered down into her reddened face. He looked uncomfortable, as though he didn’t wish to have his picture taken, even as he capably held the tiny infant in the crook of his arm.
Jean’s mouth went dry, and her throat worked convulsively as she listened to Crystal lecturing Luna in the background, over the dull roar in her ears. She rubbed her temple to chase away the vestiges of a headache that would last all day.
“We’ll bring her back around eight,” Pietro promised, taking Luna’s mittened hand in his, having to drop Jean’s when she rejected the one he offered her. Jean stepped aside nimbly, offering Luna a smile. She didn’t return it, leaning into Pietro’s side and rubbing her nose on his pants’ leg.
“Her bedtime’s at eight-fifteen. Try to get her back by seven-thirty.” Crystal’s voice was imperious. “We leave early for a road trip to Pensacola tomorrow. Luna’s in the finals for a Fantastic Faces Little Miss pageant.” She puffed out her chest with pride as she nodded to a breakfront with a glass-doored cabinet. There were three trophies on the top shelf, and in the center, in the place of honor sat a small rhinestone-studded tiara.
“She does pageants?” Jean inquired.
“Commercials. Modeling. Children’s theater. She was in the Nutcracker last winter.”
“That’s wonderful that’s she’s performing and developing confidence so early, but-“
“She’s gifted,” Crystal interrupted, her face a stiff, mulish mask. Her smile did not reach her eyes.
“I’ve never wanted to enter my children in pageants, if I have any,” Jean finished. “Seems like a lot of pressure to put on a child.”
“If you have any,” Crystal retorted icily. Jean felt Pietro’s fingers tugging her sleeve and felt the draft from the door swinging open on a low creak.
“Oooookaaaaay…let’s go ahead and go, Jean. C’mon, Luna.”
“Why can’t Mommy take me to the show? I wanna go with Mommy.”
“You can come home to Mommy tonight and tell me all about it,” Crystal promised. It fell on deaf ears. Luna was already allowing her body to turn into a limp noodle, dragging her feet and letting her knees buckle. For Pietro, it was like trying to hold onto a lump of wriggling Jell-O. She was already screwing up her face for battle.
“Maybe we can do something some other time,” Jean suggested hollowly, before she bit her lip.
“This is Pietro’s visitation weekend. He won’t get another chance until next week,” Crystal snapped. “And it isn’t up to you.”
“I was just suggesting-“
“Goodbye,” Pietro barked, hoisting Luna up into his arms. “Jean, get the door. Say goodbye to Mommy, Luna!”
“Wanna stay here, wanna watch cartoons, want MOMMY! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“Bye, baby,” Crystal crooned, giving her daughter the only smile Jean had seen on her face since they’d arrived. She allowed it to drop as Jean peered back, right before closing the door and securing the deadbolts.
The day was a trial by fire. Jean felt as though she had been run through the gauntlet. Luna alternated between ignoring her all night and comparing her to her mother. Jean took it in stride, glad that she’d had some practice talking with children after babysitting her sister’s kids, Gailyn and Joey, on the odd weekend when Gail needed some “me time.” They just never resented her so much…
The show was cloying but cute. Luna clapped her hands and sang along with the songs. She nagged her father to get up and dance with her, pouting when he sat back in his seat, telling her “you go ahead, sweetie. Daddy doesn’t want to dance.” When Jean offered to dance with Luna, she was told curtly, “No, not you!” with a flounce and toss of her strawberry blonde pigtails. And that was that.
Dinner was a relatively quiet affair. Fast food, which Jean deplored, but at least Luna had graduated from an unwilling kidnappee to a bubbly chatterbox, humming bars of the songs as she pored over the jokes and games printed on her Happy Meal bucket. Jean merely nibbled at her fries and dry McChicken sandwich, sipping her Diet Coke to keep it from tasting like sandpaper on her tongue. Her appetite had been a little off.
Luna stared at her as Jean tucked the remainder of her food into the bag. “You didn’t finish your dinner,” she pointed out.
“I’m not very hungry,” Jean replied politely, against attempting a smile.
“Mommy says you don’t get dessert if you don’t finish dinner.”
“Oh. I guess I don’t get dessert, then,” Jean agreed solemnly. “I do believe you’re correct, Luna.”
“Whatever,” Pietro sniffed. “I’m getting dessert. Thought we’d head to Baskin Robbins.” Jean was about to cry foul that she was only going along with her mother’s rules, whether they were hers or not, but Pietro and Luna shared a grin beside each other as they discussed the merits of bubble gum ice cream versus rainbow sherbet. Jean silently fumed and took the rest of her soda with her on the ride to the ice cream parlor.
Thankfully, Luna was fast asleep by the time they got her home. Jean begged off when Pietro asked her if she wanted to come with him to drop her off. She watched him carrying Luna in his arms into the building once he was buzzed in, rubbing his daughter’s back in small circles, and felt a wistful pang. She wished someone would carry her home and put her to bed, too.
~0~
Now came the hard part. Pietro thought that she had the flu.
~0~
Ali hated the last hour of her shift in menswear. On the one hand, the misses section kept her hopping all day long, harvesting clothing and returning stock that had been exchanged. She never had the chance to get bored, because she was always busy.
On the other hand, menswear was sooooooooo dull. Folding dress shirts. Asking “is there anything special I can help you find, sir?” Hanging neckties on little racks. She’d sooner watch paint dry. Weekends more often than not brought couples into her department, looking for special occasion gear, the girlfriends and wives leading the way and arguing unwilling victims into submission. That was the only entertainment she got, and it was killing her.
Auditions were too few and far in-between. She needed to use her pipes before she got rusty, or just plain went postal.
“Al…” Sophie whispered, sidling up to her slyly from the other side of the circular rack of oxford shirts.
“What?” she carped under her breath, her nose still out of joint from the incident with Raven and getting stuck at the service desk.
“Check him out,” she hissed, nodding toward the sportswear. Ali peered in that general direction, following Sophie’s finger.
“Real subtle,” she nagged, then smothered a low “holy shit” as she spied Scott Summers, looking grumpy and rumpled in his work blues, rifling impatiently through a rack of nylon tees.
“Now THAT is hot,” Sophie informed her smugly. “No wedding ring,” she sang under her breath.
“He’s separated,” Ali hissed back, shushing her. “Ugly divorce in the works. You DON’T want to mess with him and what he’s dealing with right now!”
“Pfffft. No ring and no old lady at home means no problem!” Sophie ducked behind a rack to straighten her bra, adjusting the straps and throwing out her chest as she straightened up and let Victoria’s Secret’s underwire support do the talking. Ali snorted, going back to tagging and sorting the shirts. She heard Sophie’s trilled “How can I help you today?” as she continued her task, muttering to herself how Sophie would really like to help him, and help herself.
She was startled from her reverie moments later, never hearing the soft footsteps on the track carpeting.
“Do you always mutter to yourself at work?”
“GAH!” Ali almost dropped the shirt hanger on the floor, doing an air-fumble with it before she steadied herself, staring aghast at Scott’s grin. His eyes were tired, she noticed, but crinkled with amusement and warmer than she remembered. “You scared me!”
“Sorry. You looked deep in thought. Or something along that line.”
“Pondering theories of relativity, and all that crap.”
“Ahhhh…”
“You off?”
“Yup. Need clothes.”
“What kind?” She warmed to the subject, sizing him up. Scott was tall and lean, his frame tapering from a pair of broad shoulders that begged to be leaned on, down to his narrow, toned waist. His short-sleeved scrubs showed off rippling biceps that benefited from regular trips to the gym, and his neck was corded with wiry sinew. He would look good in anything he wore.
“Something to kick around in. I’m tired of polo shirts. Just tossed out a whole bag full of them at Goodwill. Jean…” His voice hardened. “She threw out a bunch of my old tee shirts after we moved in together.”
“Women’s prerogative. Your side of the closet is her side, too. Face it, buddy, you’re a life-sized, walking, breathing Ken doll.”
“Gads…anything but that. Find me something that WON’T make me look like a Ken doll.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes, clearly not enthused by the task.
“Oh, goodie!” She hooked her arm through his and dragged him back to the casual wear, grinning like an evil elf. “You’ll be putty in my hands!” She pealed off a maniacal laugh that made her breasts jiggle enticingly through her snug, lightweight pink sweater.
“Er…Ali? Be gentle.” He mentally tightened his grip around his wallet.
“I’ll do better than that.”
~0~
“Logan? How many of your friends are flying out with us?”
“Dunno. Vic said he could get time off. Pete might show and bring Sage. Wasn’t really plannin’ on bringing an entourage, darlin’.” His voice was rumbly and delicious as he nibbled her collarbone. They were bundled up beneath the covers in Ororo’s bed, staring at the piles of brown cardboard boxes lined up along the walls. Logan had given notice on his old apartment, but managed to decline the contract and skipped signing the lease on the new unit by Salem Medical Center. His old furniture was currently in storage until they decided which pieces they wanted to keep. The flatscreen TV was already downstairs; they’d moved Ororo’s smaller set to the bedroom, and they were enjoying an old episode of CSI on low volume from the comfort of the bed. Logan was plastered over Ororo, his head cradled against her breast as they let themselves unwind after a long day of packing and unpacking. His muscles ached, but it was worth it to have it all finished, even though they were anticipating another move over the next couple of months.
They had an appointment to look at a house in two weeks.The following weekend was already marked on the calendar with a big, red “Vegas” scrawled in Logan’s jagged handwriting. Ororo squirmed and giggled when Logan’s mouth nibbled a steaming, ticklish path down her throat.
“I’m trying to make plans here,” she complained, but her hips bucked beneath him, rubbing against the throbbing, solid feel of him beneath the covers. His body molded to hers, sinuously rubbing her, and she responded with a low moan, her fingers caressing his broad, bare back. She pulled him closer, returning his grin in the dark, illuminated by the faint glow from the television. He was solid, his body a melody of smooth muscle, and his skin warmed beneath her touch as she tugged his lips down to hers for a liquid, thorough kiss.
“Got plans of my own,” he murmured. “Let’s get ya outta these,” he suggested, working the hem of her pajama top up over her ribcage. She stilled his hands, snickering as he assured her, “Look; look at that, yer nipples are all hard, ya want me, ya horn dog!”
“They were fine a minute ago,” she countered, and she squealed as he lazily tickled the straining peak and nipped it through the cotton top. She continued to squirm; his hands pried hers away from herself and gently clamped them up beside her temples as he nuzzled at her, tugging the top up all the way with his teeth. His tongue swirled a velvet trail around her nipple, and her response was loud and long.
“Mmmmm…” he groaned, taking his sweet time.
“Not fair,” she cried, but her lips trailed over his hairline and temples, and her hips cleaved to him, coddling him against her and straining for contact.
“Yer gonna complain no matter what,” he huffed, drawing back and whipping off the covers, exposing her. He eased back on his haunches and yanked at the waistband of her bottoms, tugging them off in one long, quick swish. “I grab ya, and ya tell me ta stop. I taste ya, and ya tell me ‘no fair, Logan,’” he growled, his voice mimicking her ridiculously. Chuckles resonated in her chest, making her breasts bounce. He crawled back up her body, lapping at her briskly through the tiny scrap of cotton. He paused a moment, grinning at what he saw. “Betty and Veronica?”
“Had the Underoo set when I was seven,” she explained. “Had to have these, too.”
“Works for me.” He peeled her like a banana, shucking the panties and tossing them onto the heap building at the foot of the bed.
“Right…we can talk…later,” she moaned, her voice muffled by her top being worked over her head and flung aside. Logan’s mouth claimed her, and she clutched him to her, instinctively thrusting up against him, coveting the full length and weight of him with her tingling skin. Her fingers curled themselves in his thick waves of hair, and she sighed into his mouth as he kissed her with hunger and passion.
Their coupling was urgent; she responded to him easily, craving him now after the preliminary banter was out of the way. His fingers stoked her slick flesh, testing her supple folds and probing her tight sheath, and she bucked against his hand, leaning into him. Her head was flung back as he readied her, rubbing his thickness against her dewy entrance and cursing under his breath at the sight of her, lips crying his name.
“Love ya when yer like this, darlin’!” he hissed, thrusting into her and nearly coming undone as her walls opened for him, drawing him in and welcoming him home. She was always a perfect fit. She always loved him with everything she had. They’d been inseparable since they exchanged rings, as though someone had flipped a switch. Making love to Ororo had always been addictive and special.
Now it was as important as air. Food, shelter, money and other nonsense were moving further and further down the list as he thrust himself into her, over and over, her arms and legs twined around him. He made a mental note to adjust the headboard; it was almost distracting, just banging into the drywall like that. Plaster of paris to patch it was one more thing to add to their trip to Home Depot when they prepared the house for sale…
“Feels so good,” she rasped. “More, Logan! Oh, God! So good!” Her hand twisted in the sheets beneath them until he captured it and drew it to his lips, consuming her, nipping the pulse in her wrist until she acquiesced, stroking him again. Her fingers whispered over the contours of his face as he brought them closer to their peak. Pleasure spiraled in her womb as he stiffened, jerking within her when her hands clutched his ass, squeezing it and holding onto it as an anchor…
“Ahhhhh…shit! Oh, shit!” he cried, and his mouth dropped open on a long, shuddering growl of pleasure as his hips jerked, spasming as he spilled himself into her depths. “Holy MOTHER OF GOD, ‘RO!” She came shortly after, her rhythm synching with his during his final tremors, his last pulsing thrusts shoving her over the edge with a brusque drop-kick.
She stared up at the ceiling, her face smeared in sappy bliss as she held him; his chest was heaving and various muscles in his body quivered at her touch.
“I’m inviting Anna and Remy,” Ororo informed him breathlessly, getting back to her topic. Logan shrugged and nodded, stroking her sweat-dampened hair back from her face and kissing her soundly.
“Yup. Told Remy about it already. Should be good ta go. They’ll be there with bells on. I don’t want anything fancy,” he warned.
“I don’t want anything but you in front of the church in a tux, and you in a hotel room after out of it.” His answering grin was wolfish, and he growled at her, gobbling up her neck.
“Any family ya wanna invite?”
“My mom. Maybe my brother,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Guess that leaves one last question, though.”
“What?” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Who’s gonna give me away?”
~0~
“These make my ass look big.”
“What ass?” Betsy was making dead fish lips at the mirror as she put on her mascara. She craned her neck around from the vanity, peering at Ali’s outfit. “You look fine, ducky.”
“I feel so…blah.” Ali’s eyes were still riveted on her reflection, and she patted her backside in dismay, smoothing the simple denim capris over her curves impatiently. “I’m old and dried up.”
“Bullshit. This is just the beginning. If you’re old, then I’m old. And I’m not old,” Betsy informed her. “Tell me if my hair looks okay in the back.” Ali approached and appraised Betsy’s rich, aubergine purple locks, cascading past her shoulders in full, careless waves. She tousled the front of it and scrunched in some more hair spray. Ali took the pick from Betsy’s bathroom counter and fluffed out the back, evening out the fullness. “Thanks.”
“I’m hopeless. Might as well go.”
“Not til you feel like you’ll rock the house as soon as you walk in. Come here, you.” Betsy appraised Alison’s jaw-length blonde hair briefly, tugging at a lock of it before deciding what needed to be done. “This has got to go,” she announced, spinning Ali to face the mirror and unfastening her barrette pulling it back from her face.
“Hey!”
“Too tame. We agreed on big hair,” Betsy harped, plugging in her curling iron and reaching for her wide-toothed comb. “Time to get wild,” she warned.
“You’re scaring me.”
“…muahahahahaaaaa,” Betsy crowed, raking her fingers through Ali’s blonde waves and grinning at the possibilities. This was gonna be fun!
Harry’s was packed. A handwritten poster shouted from the front lobby that Lila Cheney and Cat’s Laughing were playing out on the patio at nine. Ali, Betsy and Emma breezed through the door, shivering from the breeze outside. Ali was getting a major draft from the halter top that plunged in the front and the back, revealing acres of toned, creamy flesh. The Lycra weave was nearly the same blue as her eyes, and she wore a pair of chandelier earrings she borrowed from Emma, dripping with Swarovsky crystals.
She felt exposed, and for the first time in months, vulnerable. She rubbed her nape absently, then picked at her French manicured nails before Betsy nudged her to stop.
“It’s packed,” Emma remarked, stunning in her tiny white halter dress, her platinum hair teased at the crown for more volume. All three women wore scarlet-glossed pouts and were dressed to kill. “I’m thirsty,” she nagged.
“You mean you want to get drunk,” Betsy corrected her, searching for a free stool at the bar, urging them forward even though she hadn’t found one yet. They pushed and eased through the crowd, drawing leers and appreciative glances, ignoring them in favor of wetting their collective whistle.
Ali approached the bar first, squeezing in beside a tall, dark-haired man and leaning around him to signal the bartender. “Excuse me, can we get a pitcher of margaritas?” she called out, waving a twenty folded between her two fingers. She caught a small motion beside her from the corner of her eye as the man she was bumping elbows with turned around to stare at her.
“Ali?” Her earrings jangled as she spun to face him.
“SCOTT? Shit! Hi!” Her smile was broad and incredulous. “Look at you!”
“Look at you. Wow.” His walnut brown eyes swept her from head to foot, taking in the artfully styled hair, vamped, teased and curled to within an inch of its life, framing her heart-shaped face in a golden cloud. Her outfit left little to the imagination and made his hands itch to feel the soft texture of her tiny top, and to stroke the creamy skin revealed so…abundantly. She turned to the bartender and repeated her order, and then gave Scott her full attention once more, admiring what he had on. A black Lycra Nike tee with a red swoosh embroidered on the collar was stretched tautly over his deep chest, complementing his dark chestnut hair and those eyes, which had lit up when he recognized her. Black denim jeans hugged him snugly enough to make Ali drool, a nice departure from all the younger men in the bar that wore them sagging, looking like escapees from the FUBU catalog. His hair was slightly longer than he usually wore it, careless waves falling over his eyes.
She brushed them back before she could stop herself. He smelled good, she realized. She cleared her throat, but ended up leaning in more closely than before when she was buffeted by some people behind her that wanted to approach the bar to place an order.
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Didn’t plan on coming. Art and Rory talked me into it,” he explained.
“Ah. Got it,” she agreed, smiling at the bartender when he brought her the pitcher and set it beside her along with a handful of plastic cups. She paid him and her eyes scanned the lounge. “Where are Emma and Bets?”
“Over there,” he informed her, nodding toward the opposite corner. Emma was sidled up to a dark-haired young man with olive-skinned good looks as Betsy fiddled with a pinball machine against the wall, showing it who was boss. Betsy caught her eye and waved, and Ali felt a pang at having to join them to bring them their drinks.
“I’d better bring this over there,” she decided, brandishing the pitcher by its handle. “Scott?”
“Yeah?” He sipped his Tanqueray and tonic, biting into the lime wedge. The gesture drew her attention to his mouth and the sharp, chiseled notch in his upper lip. His hands were long and strong, his fingers slender and dexterous with knuckles thickened from hard work. “Invite them over.”
“There isn’t enough room,” she reasoned. She was bumped again, nearly spilling her pitcher. Scott reached for it and pried it from her grasp, setting it back down.
“No problem,” he assured her before turning away and cupping his mouth with his hands. “BETS! C’mere a sec,” he called. Betsy turned from her pinball game and strode over, leaving a trail of gaping mouths in her wake. Her black corset top left little to the imagination, nor did her pencil-slim black pants adorned with little silver zippers.
“Hello, ducks. Hi, Scott!”
“Thirsty?” he inquired, holding up the pitcher. “Take these,” he offered, handing her the cups. “Tell Emma I said hi.”
“That’s fine,” she agreed. “Ali, have one.”
“I’ll get her a drink,” Scott urged. “See you in a bit.” Betsy’s brow shot up, but she smiled knowingly at Ali over Scott’s shoulder once his back was turned, spinning on her heel and returning to Emma, who had found them an empty table. Leaving Ali and Scott alone.
Or, at least as alone as they could be at a crowded bar…
“Scott, you look nice,” Ali murmured. They sat so closely that their knees bumped from their perches on the slender barstools, sending a pleasant little shiver of excitement into her stomach. Ali noticed a small bowl of beer nuts and nudged it toward him, taking a few for herself.
“You dressed me,” he commented.
“I didn’t think you’d take me seriously. I like it.”
“I’m glad. Figured I can trust someone who goes out the door looking pretty sharp herself.” She flushed to the roots of her hair.
“Thanks.”
“Let me get you that drink.” He signaled the bartender.
“Lemon drop?”
“As many as you want.” This time, Scott wasn’t worried about his wallet. Ali’s smile was wicked, a delicious pout glossed in red, looking ripe as an apple. “Needed a night out with the girls?”
“If you wanna call it that. Got stood up a while back. Needed to get some ya-yas out. Shake my booty.” She did an experimental wiggle in her seat that made him guffaw.
“I’d pay to see that!”
“You might want your money back!”
“Stood up, huh?”
“Yep.” She didn’t mention that Art conveniently left her a voice mail that sounded like he made it up off the top of his head.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he reminded her. “Don’t waste time on someone that strings you along, Al.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
“Hey, you don’t get opportunities like this every day,” Scott growled, pulling an indignant face that she didn’t believe for a second. “I’m a guy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how guys think.”
“So you’ll give me the guys’ eye view?”
“If you want.”
“Okay. Why did I get stood up?”
“Eh. Guy could have hooked up with someone else at the last minute. Another possibility is an Eagles game he forgot about and his Tivo DVR went out. Could’ve even lost your phone number.”
“Laaaammmeeee,” she sang with a roll of her eyes. Scott grinned, tracing patterns in the condensation of her glass and stirring the ice cubes with his fingertip.
“Or he could have just punked out.”
“Or he could have just punked out,” Ali repeated. “Right. We’ll go with him losing my number, since that option makes me feel the least like shit.” Even if it wasn’t true. Voice mail, she fumed. Jerk.
“Killer,” Scott agreed, gulping down the last of his gin. “Wanna refill?”
“God, yes.” The first one was going to her head, making her feel warm and buzzy. She swayed without thinking to the music drifting in from the patio, and her arm grazed Scott’s. He studied her from hooded eyes, and she blushed under the intensity she saw there. His skin felt so supple, the fine mat of hair tickling her, heightened by the drink and the press of bodies all around them. Arousal bloomed in her belly, and she felt her cervix squeeze itself into a knot before mentally shaking herself.
This was Scott, for cryin’ out loud. He was the Boy Scout. He worshipped at the Temple of Goddess Jean. Well, then again, not anymore he didn’t. But still…
Jean was Jean. Scott liked his women grounded and organized. The kind of women who knew things about china patterns and the difference between Thomasville and Ethan Allen. On Ali’s salary, she couldn’t even afford the Todd Oldham line at Target. Ali could readily admit it. She was scattered. Her grocery list consisted of Special K and hair spray. She sang in the shower and anywhere else that someone would listen, waiting for that big break
Ali admired his patrician profile in the hazy glow of the dimly lit bar. His nose was long and straight, not prominent enough to detract from those gorgeous eyes or sensuous mouth. He had a long and narrow jaw, and she noticed that he was actually sporting a hint of shadowy stubble that made the sharp angles stand out even more.
Once again, she couldn’t help touching him. “You didn’t shave.”
“Didn’t feel like it today.”
“You look dangerous.” She didn’t recognize her voice, and she didn’t expect him to hear it over the din of the pub.
“I feel dangerous,” he admitted, surprising her. His eyes smoldered as she traced his jaw with the backs of her fingers. His skin was hot; his stubble rasped against her and made her tingle. The bartender brought their drinks. He slid hers into her her hand. “Bottoms up.” Wordlessly she obeyed, tipping it back and gulping its contents. It burned on the way down. He never took his eyes from her as he finished his own. They were leaning so closely that her arm was tucked along his against the counter, almost intertwined.
“I could use a dance.” He rose from his stool and laced his fingers through hers. Her heart slammed inside her chest, and she seemed to have misplaced her stomach…she found it, there, where it dropped into her shoes. “So could you.”
She nodded. “So could I.” Damn. They abandoned their perch at the bar and wove their way through the crowd to the patio. Scott’s grip on her hand was firm and sure, and she felt oddly safe.
Lila was working the crowd, crooning a cover of “Beast of Burden” that turned Ali’s insides to maple syrup and loosened her up. She swayed to it before Scott even pulled her to him to dance on the fringes of the crowd. Her arms slipped up around his neck, and her hips felt right in his hands. She grinned up at him, faintly tipsy but enjoying the way he smelled. His chest was solid and firm, and he moved with fluid grace, falling into step with her as though they had always danced like this.
I'll never be your beast of burden
My back is broad but it's a hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
I'll never be your beast of burden
I've walked for miles my feet are hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
I'm not too blind to see
I'll never be your beast of burden
So let's go home and draw the curtains
Music on the radio
Come on baby make sweet love to me
Ali found herself languorously humming the melody as she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against his chest. Her body moved instinctively, his flesh seeming to ripple and flow together with hers, even through their clothes. Scott’s hands crept to rest in the small of her back, caressing her satiny skin, and she purred like a satisfied cat. She heard the crack of his smile above her ear.
“You’re good,” he murmured.
“At what?” She was too content to care. I’m good, she thought. Tra-la-la…He felt exquisite beneath her hands.
“You can sing.” Her eyes snapped open.
“Shit…I wasn’t even paying attention. Sorry. I know some people find it annoying when you just ‘bust out into song.’ Sorry,” she repeated, and the rapport was diminished somehow as she fought for composure.
“No. You can really sing. Jean never mentioned you can sing.”
“She wouldn’t have said much about it, anyway. Once in a while, we used to hit the karaoke bars. We had fun.”
“Nothing’s stopping her from having fun now,” Scott muttered bitterly.
“How are you holding up, Scott?” She drew back to really look at him. His jaw was clenched, and he radiated frustration. She was pleased as a bit of tension eased from him when she lightly stroked his neck.
“I’ve gotta be honest, Al. I’m not. Hurts.” Her brow furrowed, and she leaned back into him, and gave him a hesitant pat. “It was like someone just kicked me in the balls.”
“No shit. With size sixteen boots,” Ali grimaced. “Ouch.”
“I don’t know how long or how often she was with him. He’s moved in. I moved out. Our lawyers do all the talking. I can’t wait til this damned mess is over.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a mess. It was supposed to be happily ever after,” Ali mused. Her hands absently stroked him, and he relaxed beneath her touch. Her hair tickled his lips, the fragrance enticing him. “Or even dysfunctionally ever after. Whaddever.”
“Whaddever,” Scott agreed. “Something like that. We did all the things that you do when you fall in love with someone. You become infatuated with them at first sight. You call. You date. You shop for groceries together and spend more time at their place than yours. You practically abandon your friends and try to convince them you won’t. You get wrapped up in their baggage and decide, what the hell, might as well bite the bullet. You’re in love. Love makes you do crazy things.”
“Loving her wasn’t a crazy thing. Her loving you sure as fuck wasn’t crazy, Scottie boy.” Ali smiled to herself. Jean had baggage? Hm.
“How about Cain?”
“No. Cain was crazy. Loving him was like shooting myself in the head.” Scott threw back his head and guffawed. Ali grinned against his quaking chest, and felt a cool little jolt of pleasure when Art and Rory showed up outside, wending their way over when they noticed Scott. She didn’t look away when they approached, and she even smiled at Art, enjoying Scott’s firm embrace around her waist.
“We’re headed to Crazy Horse,” Rory announced, nodding at her. Art’s expression was mild, but she caught the way his eyes roved over her as if to regret breaking their date.
“I’m gonna stick around for the next set,” Scott replied. Rory shrugged, and he and Art departed, leaving Scott and Ali to ease back into their rhythm, edging closer to the tiny stage. They slow-dragged and followed Lila’s sultry vocals, losing themselves in the lyrics and whining bass guitar.
“You should be up there,” Scott murmured thoughtfully. His breath stirred the hairs at her temple and tickled the crest of her ear. Ali shivered.
“Never happen,” she replied, but she felt a pang of regret and longing.
“Never say never,” he shot back, catching her attention. Her body cried out in protest at the loss of his warm bulk as he whipped around and headed toward the stage, Ali in tow, almost stumbling to keep up with him in her kitten-heeled sandals.
“Scott, are you nuts? What’re you doing?”
“Hey, you don’t get opportunities like this every day,” he answered, repeating his advice from inside the bar. They made it to the tiny platform, and Scott leaned over and motioned to the bass guitarist, tapping him briefly. He waved him down to mutter something in his ear, and his face beamed briefly as he looked down at Ali, smiling appreciatively at petite body and flamboyant looks. He strode over to Lila while she was in the middle of announcing her number.
“I’m feeling a little nostalgic tonight, folks! Some of you weren’t even born when this next song came out. Some of you might have been teething on your daddy’s old eight-track tapes when this came out on cassette!” The crowd roared, and a few young punks up front piped up, “What’s eight-track? What’s a cassette?” She thumbed her nose at them playfully, amping the crowd up. Her bassist tapped her on the shoulder and conferred with her for a moment. Her eyes swung in Ali and Scott’s direction, and she smiled widely.
“Rumor has it, folks, that we have another little songbird in the house tonight. Think she can sing?” There was a loud chorus of cheers and stamping of feet. “Bring her on up! Don’t be shy, kiddo, come on up here!” Lila’s dark eyes danced mischievously. She was decked out in black mesh and leather, her black hair short and spiky, revealing multiple silver hoops in her ear. She waved Ali up, inviting her onstage.
“This is nuts, this is SO nuts!” Ali breathed, looking absolutely petrified.
“Pretend it’s karaoke,” Scott cajoled. “Lemon drops on me,” he added, sweetening the pot.
“Ohmigod!” she squeaked, as she was pushed up the short flight of steps. The crowd continued to clap, approving of the hot blonde in the snug jeans and little sweet nothing of a top.
“Do you like Alannah Miles?” Lila’s smile was infectious.
“Do I!” To Ali, it was like Christmas came early. Lila nodded back to her drummer, and he clacked his sticks together. The soulful licks of the guitar took Ali back, and she cut loose, a bubble of delight filling her chest. Her fingers stopped trembling once the microphone was held snugly in her grip.
She caught Scott watching her, a look of awe and admiration plain on his face. He stood with his arms folded, rocking back on his heels.
”Up in Memphis the music's like a heatwave
White lightening, bound to drive you wild
Mama's baby's in the heart of every school girl
"Love me tender" leaves 'em cryin' in the aisle
The way he moved, it was a sin, so sweet and true
Always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for
Lila joined her for the chorus, and they nearly brought the house down.
Black velvet and that little boy's smile
Black velvet with that slow southern style
A new religion that'll bring ya to your knees
Black velvet if you please
Lila’s voice was sultry, gritty and deep, evoking whiskey and tangled sheets. Ali’s voice was lighter but true, still tempting anyone with ears to sin right along with her, belting out one of the songs she loved best. It was a rush.
“What’s your name, babe?”
“Ali. Allison Blaire.”
“This one’s one to watch, right here! You saw her here first!” The applause made her euphoric. “Give her a hand! Hope you enjoy the rest of the show, folks.” Ali handed her mic back to the bassist, who placed it back on the stand. Lila drank from a water bottle sitting atop a nearby wooden stool before snaking her hand out to catch Ali before she left the stage.
A business card was pressed into her hand. Cat’s Laughing Internet site address was printed neatly across the bottom, as well as Lila’s mobile phone and email. “Hope to hear from you.” Ali’s jaw nearly hit the ground. She felt numb, tingly, and dizzy with shock. She turned and walked off the stage in a daze. Scott was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“That good, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded, handing him the card. He whistled.
“Nice! This calls for a drink!”
“They liked me. Lila liked me.”
“You were fantastic,” Scott assured her, giving her an “oh, please!” look as he took her hand. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.” If they were inside, her smile would have lit the room. Instead, it competed with the stars overhead, and some voice in Scott’s head shouted that he was a goner. They found a seat more easily at the outdoor bar, since the crowd was still surrounding the stage. Scott remained standing while he snagged Ali a barstool, and she was surprised and thrilled when he rubbed her back companionably as he ordered their drinks. A warm, giddy flush moved her lips. “I feel so high right now.”
“Oops…guess you’ve had enough?”
“Still thirsty,” she amended. The bartender slid their drinks over the counter, and Ali was grateful to notice a loose pitcher of ice water and some spare plastic cups beside a tray of drink garnishes. She helped herself to some water, pocketing a chunk of ice in her cheek. She plucked it from her mouth and ran it over her neck to cool herself.
Scott’s pupils dilated at the sight. “Mind if I have some?”
“There’s plenty; here, let…me…” He gently removed the ice cube from her fingers, brandishing it between his finger and thumb. Her offer to get him a cup of iced water evaporated on her lips as he followed the same trail she drew on her neck with the cube, proceeding at a more leisurely pace. She shivered at the sensation of fire and ice kissing her skin, and her eyes drifted shut on a small moan.
“Let me,” Scott husked, popping the ice cube into his mouth and crunching it into shards, before he captured her chin between his fingers, dropping a kiss on her forehead, anointing it with his icy breath. “Feel any cooler?”
“N-no,” she quivered.
He feathered his lips down the bridge of her nose. “Now?”
She shook her head. He reached around and rotated the seat of her barstool until he could easily step between her knees. Her blood zipped through her veins like lightning, quickening her pulse. Her hands trembled as she reached for her glass of iced water. “Still thirsty,” she pleaded, and she fumbled in the liquid for another cube. She prized one from the cup and lifted it to her lips, her eyes on him as she sucked it between them, her eyes closing as she drew on it. “That’s a little better.”
“I’m thirsty too.” She peered up at him through her lashes.
“Open up.” She lifted the morsel to his lips, heedless of the bracing liquid dribbling down her wrist. Voices of reason screamed that this was insanity, this was her friend’s soon-to-be ex-husband, her friend of several years…
Desire swirled in her belly, heat pooling between her legs as his lips engulfed the ice and pursed hotly around her fingers. He cleaned the gleaming trail of liquid from the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist, enflaming her. She stopped fighting the passion bubbling inside of her when she saw it reflected in his eyes and felt the insistent tug of his lips at her flesh. His thumb stroked her pulse. Oh, screw it…
“Cool enough yet?” A hint of a smile teased his lips. She shook her head, studying his face for one fleeting moment. His broad palm cupped her face, tilting it to give himself access before tenderly laving the column of her throat, his tongue slicking her flesh with cool fire. She was glad she was sitting down, or her legs would have given out. She ignored the chortled “Get a room!” from random passerby.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Scott.”
“You still look overheated, Al.” Without preamble, she reached for more ice. His arm slipped around her waist, and she fisted her free hand in his hair, the strands silky and cool when her fingers slid through it. She nearly yelped at the feel of his cold fingers grazing the bare flesh revealed by the cropped halter top, but her eyes screamed sin as she teased his lip with the ice, finally poking it between his lips. She heard the low crunch of his teeth pulverizing it before he murmured “Gonna hafta do something about that.” He breathed a cool puff of air over her eyelids before kissing one, then the other, nibbling the crests of her cheekbones, exploring the contours of her dewy skin with his lips before he captured hers. The kiss was langorous and thorough, and she whimpered helplessly into his mouth. She didn’t fight it when his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, twining around hers sinuously. He emitted a sound of longing and need that made her heart skip.
“It’s…it’s getting close in here,” she rasped when they came up for a breath.
“Out here,” he corrected her.
“Whatever.” She reached up to wipe away a smudge of her lip gloss from his mouth.
It felt surreal, Ali mused, when a familiar, clipped voice announced “Well, that didn’t take long.” Her stomach plummeted right back into her shoes as Jean and Lorna stood before them, staring them up and down. Lorna looked chagrined, standing behind her and holding her rum and Coke and Jean’s club soda. Jean’s eyes swept accusingly over Ali, and her arms folded themselves beneath her breasts.
Scott was the first to speak. “No. You’re wrong, Jean. It took a while. Months, if I remember it right. However long you were keeping secrets.”
Ali cleared her throat, knowing whatever she said would come out wrong. “How have you been, Jean?”
“That’s probably none of your business now,” Jean purred. “God, how could you even ask? Do you know how this looks?”
“Jeannie, let’s go,” Lorna begged, trying to pull her aside.
“It’s a free country. He doesn’t own the bar,” Jean hissed. “We came here to have a good time tonight.” She directed her next words at Scott. “I won’t let you ruin it for me.”
“Do what you want. It won’t have any effect on my night at all.” His eyes swept the patio as though he were looking for Pietro and noticing he was absent. Jean’s eyes narrowed.
“I guess I’m not surprised.” She shook her head and laughed humorlessly. “She’s just your type, Scott. A little damsel in distress for you to rescue. Have fun dodging phone calls in the middle of the night from Cain.” Hurt clogged Ali’s throat, but she mastered it.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Ali snapped. “Leave Cain out of this.” Ali refused to go on the attack, even though the night of Jean’s housewarming party still blazed like a firebrand in her memory. “Scott happened to be here. And I don’t feel like I should have to explain myself.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” Scott backed away from Ali long enough to tug her from the barstool. His fingers laced through hers possessively as he announced “Enjoy yourself if you can, Jean.” Her face twisted into a parody of a smile.
“That’s great. That’s just great. Run off.”
“I should have run a long time ago. Whatever you think broke us up, Jean, has nothing to do with me. I did everything I was supposed to do. Now you can do whatever you want.”
“Cute little speech…Scott…oh, my God!” Jean’s eyes watered, and she clapped her hands over her mouth, spinning and darting off. Lorna set their drinks on the bar and ran after her, sidling up to her as Jean choked up her accounts, vomiting into a potted shrub. She rubbed her back, wincing as Jean gagged, drawing the attention of the busboys. Lorna uttered soothing words, and Ali felt a pang of concern.
“Hold on a minute,” she begged, patting Scott before she let go of him and she approached her one-time and current friends, respectively. “Lorna, is she gonna be okay?”
“Just fine,” Lorna cooed. “Just got a little worked up. Naughty tummy. Not to mention a little morning sickness that doesn’t know it’s after nightfall.”
“Oh. Oh my.”
“I’m fine,” Jean snapped, wiping her mouth with a napkin Lorna purloined from the bar. She pinned Ali with her bloodshot gaze. “It’s none of your business anymore. Go back to Scott.”
“I wish you the best,” Ali managed. “Bye.”
“Fuck off,” was her snarled reply. Lorna shot Ali a brief look when Jean’s back was turned, mouthing “call me” before she retrieved their drinks and led Jean back inside. She turned back to Scott, who was watching the scene unfold with a look of irony.
“Normally I’d call that a mood killer.”
“What? The drama, you being cussed out, me being told to fuck off, or Jean puking?”
“One or all of the above. Normally,” he emphasized. “Ali?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
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