Opposite of Frozen

by Jan O'Hara

  And then what, Page? Then what?

  Aye, there was the rub. Because borrowing money meant paying it back. Always. Especially and without exception if you borrowed from seniors. And paying it back at the pay scale earned in the nomadic life, meant maintaining ties over the long term.

  Right now, Page was already tempted to weep. If she could feel like this after three nights of luxurious living in the bosom of an adopted family, it would destroy her to cut loose in a half-year.

  No, she had to face it. Her three consecutive months in Charlottetown had made her soft as a dropped apple, and the time with the oldsters and Oliver had added the worm.

  She took a deep, shaky breath and set her chin. Because of the robbery, she had left nothing behind at the hotel. There would be no need to put herself through the pain of saying goodbye. Time to get on with the rest of her life, Maddux-style.

  She stared at the horizon, at a particularly beautiful spot where the sun shone on snow-encrusted mountains. “I’m coming, Nan, I promise.”

  Even if it meant taking off her clothes in a house of ill repute.

  She fluffed her hair and, unzipping her jacket, pulled her sweater off one shoulder.

  The interior of the Wobbly Dog was a dark cave of cheap paneling and dingy walls. While AC/DC pounded over the sound system, a few patrons hunched over nachos and burgers. Near the stage, which boasted two stripper poles, a bartender stood at the far end of the counter.

  From behind, the barkeep was bald and gigantic, with the bubble-shaped muscles of a steroid aficionado. From the front, he had a gap-toothed grin and wire-frame glasses that were too round for his face. Whereas Oliver’s dark frames made him look smart and sexy, the barkeep merely looked short-sighted.

  He nodded a greeting as Page slung her coat onto one barstool and slid onto another. “I’m Shep. Need a menu?”

  Shep? Working a place called the Wobbly Dog?

  He didn’t look the type to handle a joke about his name, so Page channeled her energy into what she hoped was a full-wattage smile. “Nope. I’m after a high-test drink on a low-ass budget.” She slung down the leftover change from the thrift store debacle. It was all the money she had left in the world. “What’ll that buy me?”

  His pierced eyebrow went up as he counted her coins. He whistled. “A whopping three-eighty. You fussy?”

  “Not in the least.”

  He held up a finger and turned away, returning with a shot glass of bile-colored liquid.

  Page tossed it back without a preliminary sniff and soon had cause to regret it. When she could talk, she let go some language to match the blue stripes in her hair. “Crème de menthe?”

  He grinned and upended the bottle. “You might as well finish it. Not much call for grasshoppers around here.”

  Page toasted him with the drink and slung it back, pounded her chest as it burned its way down. When she recovered her breath and could feel a pleasant fuzziness enter her veins, she dug in. “I hear you’re short-handed.”

  “Could be.”

  “I need a night’s work that’ll pay cash. Legal,” she amended, in case he misconstrued.

  Until now their interaction had felt fraternal, but at this, he put down his rag and leaned both elbows on the bar. His gaze sharpened and scoured what he could see of her. “You’re a dancer? No offense but you don’t seem the type.”

  “I told you, I’m not fussy,” she said, rather than answer the question directly.

  He straightened and folded his arms over his chest. “Uh-huh.”

  She stood so he could inspect more of her and gave a hip wiggle and a shoulder shimmy. “Try me out. If I don’t pass muster, what’ve you got to lose?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You’ll be getting naked.”

  “Understood.”

  “You’ll be by your lonesome on that stage. One of my girls is on holiday. The other called in sick.”

  She didn’t have to fib for this response. “I like flying solo.”

  “You’ll need a G-string.”

  “I’m sure someone in this town can loan me an eye patch. Or dental floss.”

  His teeth were a white flash in his head as he laughed. “Okay, you win. You go on at midnight. In the meantime, fill this out.”

  A clipboard spun across the bar. It held a form requiring her social insurance number, driver’s license, and other documents no longer in her possession, thanks to a geriatric thief no one but Page had seen.

  Her nervousness at accepting the job suddenly accelerated now she might lose it. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

  He shrugged. “Boss wants it.”

  “It’s just…I don’t have ID.”

  He could probably smell the desperation coming off her. “And I don’t see a problem. You’ll be gone before he discovers you’re a pathologic liar.”

  “Works for me.” Page pulled the clipboard forward as the barkeep drifted away. She tapped her teeth with the pen as she contemplated the space intended for her name. If she was going to make up an identity, let it be someone who wouldn’t be all alone in the world.

  A face swam before her eyes. Amanda Purcell, a girl Page had known in ninth grade. Amanda with the four brothers and three sisters and the house teeming with friends.

  As Page filled out the spaces, out of the corner of her eye she could see a masculine figure in blue jeans claim the stool to her right. Her traitorous heart leaped like a flea on crack until she turned her head and saw the rest of him. His greasy hair was topped by a ball cap, and from the shine of his eyes, the pint he was nursing wasn’t his first. This guy was no Oliver.

  On the other hand, he was here.

  “Heard you talking to Shep,” he said with a leer. He leaned in close enough that, given enough time, Page might be able to discern what he’d eaten for breakfast. “You…uh, dancing tonight?”

  Page suppressed a sigh. Shep was keeping a watchful eye on her, no doubt wondering if she had the fortitude to handle the job. She didn’t dare dump a drink on one of his regulars, no matter how tempting the prospect.

  She leaned her elbow on the bar and propped her chin in her hand, fluttering her lashes. “Sure am, darlin’.” She was a little shocked at the accent coming out of her mouth but decided to roll with it. “I’m Luscious Lurlene.” She extended a hand. “You gonna come and stuff my garter with bills tonight?”

  “I might.” His hand came with the grease-stained nails of a mechanic. “Curtis. What’s your signature song, Lurlene?”

  “I believe in versatility.” Mostly because she hadn’t had time to think it over. “There’s a jukebox over there.” Far, far away from me. “Why don’t you tee it up with musical options?”

  When he obeyed with a sloppy grin, she rolled her eyes and turned back to the clipboard, nearly falling off her stool when a voice—a velvety baritone that could reach down inside and tug on your innards—spoke from the stool to her left.

  “I know Southern, darlin’, and you ain’t it. Now, why don’t we get you out of here?”

  Chapter 12

  One of the many things Oliver liked about Page was that she was quick to laugh and quick to forgive if you threw a little humor and humility into your apology.

  Tonight, though, she was having none of it. She gave him a dirty look as he slid onto the barstool next to her and went right back to filling out an employment form.

  The strains of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me filled the bar. Over by the jukebox, the mouth-breather who had been sitting next to Page, howled and punched the air. He took a weaving path toward his stool.

  “You don’t need to do this, Page,” Oliver said.

  “Oh, I disagree.”

  “You already have a job with me.”

  She snorted and carried on writing, which turned out to have its advantages. As the mouth-breather approached, Oliver fed him a glance full of menace.

  The guy’s eyes widened. He grabbed his beer and turned tail, wandering over to a table with a couple of oth
er ball-capped guys.

  That’s right, buddy. She’s with me. Oliver turned back to Page, who had remained oblivious to the interchange. Her jaw had acquired the set he had come to know and dread as a sign of formidable will. A frisson of panic traveled down his spine. He had worried about finding her before she vanished, but he hadn’t worried about her reception. What if she wasn’t prepared to forgive him?

  “Besides,” Oliver said, “I’d pay your way to Vancouver before I’d let you do this.”

  She looked up then, her eyes cool and distant. “Spoken like a man who thinks money fixes everything. You honestly think I’m a novice to stripping?”

  Oliver pushed down a feeling of sudden breathlessness. “You aren’t?”

  “I’m a survivor. What do you think?”

  It was the slight tremor in her voice that betrayed her. She didn’t want to strip any more than Oliver wanted to drive her to it.

  He stood and grabbed the clipboard from under her hand, the pen streaking across the page, gouging the paper. “C’mon. Let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll apologize thoroughly and buy you a proper drink.”

  Her nostrils flared and she jumped to her feet. “For someone who’s supposed to be groveling, you’re awfully high-handed. Give it back.” Her eyes tracked the clipboard as he moved it out of reach.

  “When you threw that baseball, you didn’t know, did you?”

  “That you’re a raving donkey’s bottom?” she said. “If I wasn’t certain before, I am now.”

  “About my career,” he said gently.

  She looked at him then, let him hold her gaze long enough to glimpse the depth of her utter puzzlement.

  Relief ran through him, sweet and energizing like a cold Gatorade after a workout. Once again, he had utterly misjudged her. She had no idea what she had been doing when she pitched that sidewinder.

  A line had appeared in the middle of her forehead and he reached out and traced it, which turned out to be a mistake. A look of sheer panic charged her features.

  She growled and lunged for the clipboard, coming close enough that her scent momentarily crowded out the smell of stale fries. “Give it back or I’ll introduce my knee to your family jewels.”

  The bartender, who’d been giving Oliver the side-eye as he loaded the dishwasher at the other end of the bar, headed toward them. “All right, pal. Time to go. You’re disturbing my staff.”

  “Yes. Go. Away.” Page bit out each word distinctively.

  Even in the old days, with Bart and Riggs and his other teammates by his side, Oliver would have thought twice about standing up to the roid-rager coming at him like a bald locomotive. But now, with the ghost of a headache in Oliver’s left temple, reminding him what was at risk, defiance wasn’t an option.

  Still, it made his stomach sour to set the clipboard down and back up with his hands in the universal position of surrender. “No worries. I’m leaving.”

  “About time,” called the mouth-breather, who got a round of backslaps from his buddies for the nominal defiance.

  Once, Oliver hadn’t been able to go anywhere without being recognized and showered in adulation. Now, he could feel the crowd’s censorious eyes upon him, seeing just another loser and coward.

  Heck, he would be, if that was all the fight left in him. Oliver had done wrong by Page. He needed to redeem himself.

  He dropped his arms and took a step toward her. “Give me two minutes. I promise to explain everything.”

  She turned her back to him and flipped her hair over her shoulder as she bent to the clipboard. “You’ve had three days.”

  “Awww. Guess the lady’s not interested,” the giant said as he laid a weighty paw on Oliver’s shoulder and gripped him by the parka. The next thing Oliver knew, he was being frog-marched towards the exit.

  “Page,” Oliver shouted. He put out his arms to grab either side of the door, feeling the strain in his shoulders as the giant grunted and shoved. But Oliver couldn’t let her go without a final best effort, even if it meant public humiliation. “Page, I’ve got PTSD.”

  * * *

  ✽

  Oliver waited, counting on Page’s curiosity or pity to bring her outside.

  In a reflection of his mood, the afternoon sky had turned leaden. Large flakes of snow were falling, blanketing everything in an inch of clean white. He had nearly trampled it out of existence on the sidewalk near the Wobbly Dog—nearly given up—when she emerged.

  The woman facing him wasn’t quite his Page. She was stony-faced and strangely detached.

  “So…PTSD? You’re a vet?” Skepticism laced her voice.

  “No. God. I’m no hero.” A wooden bench stood to the right of the door. He dusted it off with a glove and offered her the end with more shelter. “Come sit out of the wind.”

  She ignored him and pulled her coat tighter about herself. “Then what? A firefighter? Paramedic?”

  “A retired MLB player.” At the incomprehension in her eyes he almost laughed. How could he have been so utterly wrong? “Major League Baseball. Until my head injury, I spent five years as center fielder for the Arizona Stingers.”

  “Why keep it such a big secret?”

  He sighed. “Trust me, people get weird when they know you’re in pro sports.”

  She snorted. “This is Canada. Unless you push it around with a stick or play it on ice, we don’t care.”

  That wasn’t remotely true. He’d been swamped for autographs in Montreal restaurants, had cleat chasers pursue him in Toronto. But now didn’t seem the time to argue the point. “My mistake.”

  After a pause, she inclined her head. “Go on.”

  “A year and a half ago, I was hit with a ball. I got concussed, had a retinal detachment—”

  “You weren’t wearing one of those helmet things?” She finally came to perch on the arm of the bench.

  “It’s changing, but back then, we usually didn’t during a game. Not unless we were at bat.” He couldn’t help the mild exasperation that colored his voice but she picked up on it, of course.

  “Okay then,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  “Look, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said as she stood up. “I’m getting touchy again. This wasn’t a happy time for me and I don’t like reliving it, never mind talking about it.” Never mind having his nose rubbed in what he’d never get back. “Will you let me choke this out without interrupting?”

  She said nothing but her face had softened. In fact, he couldn’t be positive, but before she ducked her head, he thought her eyes were filling with tears.

  “So, yeah…I went through a bunch of medical procedures.” Stuff that creeped him out whenever he thought about it. “And I was lucky. I got back most of my sight. But I was left with this visual field defect.”

  She looked up and smiled. “Deficit,” she supplied, then shrugged when his jaw dropped. “A few years back, I did medical transcription for an ophthalmologist.” She came to sit beside him. “Anyway, you were telling me why you’ve been acting like a prime butthead…”

  “Deficit, then.” He dropped his elbows onto his knees and hunched over, rubbing his head with his hand. This was the hard part to explain. “Whatever you want to call it, it ended my career. Since then, I’ve been…floundering. I went through a period where I was probably drinking too much―” Call it like it is, Oliver.

  He sat up and looked at her straight-on. “No, I was drinking too much. When I finally smartened up, I knew I needed direction. I tried a few things, work-wise, but they didn’t pan out. Meanwhile, the friends and family who stuck around were getting concerned.”

  “As they would be,” she said.

  He shrugged and stood. “I guess.” He started to pace. “I keep telling them I’ll figure it out, to have faith, but that’s not fast enough for some people.” He paused in front of her. “Like, I’ll show up at a restaurant, thinking I’m having burgers with a friend. But the place is full of Little Leaguers, and they’re expecting me to coach. That’s just
one example.” A few people had become so chronically manipulative, he’d had to ditch them altogether.

  “So today, when I threw the ball at you,” she said slowly, “you thought I was one of them. That I was disrespecting your right to grieve.”

  She understood. Relief flooded him. “Exactly. Plus, I felt stupid and embarrassed. I’m a former pro, for God’s sake, and I can’t even catch an easy throw? But—” He took a deep breath of frigid air. “—that’s no excuse for my behavior. I shouldn’t have made assumptions. I shouldn’t have fired you without giving you a chance to defend yourself. And I should have stayed and handled the financial stuff.”

  There was a beat of silence as she stared at her boots. “That would have helped. But I understand now. Thank you for explaining.” She stood and, after a moment, held out her hand. “Goodbye, Oliver. Take care of yourself. I hope you find your happiness.”

  He didn’t get it. Under his jacket he had sweated through his shirt, and if anything, she looked more remote. “That’s it? I tell you more emotional crap than I’ve said to anyone, including Shawn, and you want to shake hands and say goodbye?”

  She retracted her hand. “Okay, guess we’ll leave it at that.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “God, Page, I don’t know why you’re still pissed—”

  “I’m not, exactly, but—”

  “But what?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Let’s just say it’s best if we part ways now.”

  “Don’t go back in there,” he said. If you won’t take money from me, at least let Avis or Mavis help you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t owe you any answers.” She pursed her mouth and shrugged. “Maybe deep down I’m like you. I don’t like meddling.”