by D. A. Bale
More like two, but I wasn’t even going to attempt a correction.
“Yes, Victoria.” Janine leaned forward and batted her baby-doll blue eyes. “Do tell.”
Before I could voice the smart-aleck retort bubbling up inside me, a swift kick to my shin lodged a piece of chicken avocado sandwich in my throat. All I got out was a quick cough before Mom stole my moment right out from under the table – literally.
“She’s still trying to get that boss of hers to let her off earlier on Saturday nights.”
My mom was either a more practiced liar than I’d given her credit for, or she’d convinced herself of its truth to assuage that pesky mother’s guilt. The pain in my shin, however, had me leaning more toward the former instead of the latter.
Mrs. De’Laruse nearly snorted tea into her lungs. “I don’t see why you feel the need for a job in the first place. A woman of good breedin’ needs only a good man.”
Janine’s eyebrows came close to disappearing into her blonde hairline. “Hear that, Vicki? A good man.”
If I could’ve untangled my new tangerine pumps fast enough, I’d have sent a little of Mom’s message to Janine’s shins. ‘Cept in her case, I’d have gone in with both barrels.
Her mom beat me to the punch. “What would you know about a good man, Janine? You’re wastin’ away chasin’ this doctorate dream of yours. Look at you. Almost thirty and turned down every prospect you’ve ever had.”
“I’m only twenty-six, Mama.”
“And unmarried still,” Mrs. De’Laruse continued with nary a breath. “What’s the world come to, my dawling Audra, when young ladies refuse to marry until they’re beyond child-bearin’ years?”
“Mama!” Janine’s face reddened – and probably not from the heat and humidity this fine Texas summer.
Mom interceded. “With good health and diet these days, women are still within child-bearing capacity well into their thirties and forties.”
Chalk one up for intelligent, well-informed mothers everywhere. Part of me begged for my mother to use the word fertile. It kinda has a bit of a sexual tone to it, don’t you think? That’s something my mother doesn’t like acknowledging. Hell, neither mother used the term pregnant and instead referred to women as with child, as if all pregnant women were as virginal as the Virgin Mary.
“Speaking of children,” Mrs. De’Laruse continued like a dog chewing the last morsel from its bone. “Were you aware that Pastor Dennis’ son, Robert, has returned from parts unknown?”
Robert? Did she mean my Robert – er, Bobby? The man I gave my virginity to who summarily turned tail and ran away from home, leaving me to face the firing squad alone? That Robert?
“And,” Mrs. D resumed, “he brings along a wife with child.”
What’d I tell you?
“Why no, Mrs. De’Laruse,” I responded, raising a brow in Janine’s direction. “No one told me.”
“Robert is married,” Mom emphasized between bites of spinach leaf and strawberry salad. “With a child on the way.”
As if I was deaf.
Janine picked up where her mother left off. “Pastor Dennis wants to start the process of grooming him to take over the senior pastorate at the church when he retires someday.”
That stopped the teacup on the way to my mouth. Good thing I hadn’t yet taken a sip, because I’d have ended up spraying it all across the table. Mom tried teaching me good manners – honest she did. In my case, it wasn’t so much the teacher as the student.
“Bobby’s a preacher?” I finally blurted out.
“Really, dear,” Mom clucked. “Do you listen to nothing I say? He graduated from seminary several years ago.”
“I thought you said he went to the cemetery.”
There were times after Bobby left that I wanted to personally put him there. In a grave. Dug to China. But I’d finally gotten over the heartbreak and forgiven him. Cross my heart. After all, I knew firsthand the pressures he’d faced under the watchful eyes of the sanctimonious saved and couldn’t blame him for wanting to escape. However, now the thought of seeing him again sent an involuntary flutter from my heart all the way to my nether regions. But Bobby – a pastor?
Janine interjected before my mother could berate me further. “He’s going to start as the pastor of the children’s department.”
“But he’ll quickly move up to somethin’ more worthy of his family name,” Mrs. De’Laruse finished.
Janine smiled over the lip of her teacup – a devious, cunning, and very wicked smile directed my way. “Will that get you up for church next Sunday, or what?”
Or what indeed.
***
I have an innate ability to walk into Neiman Marcus and zero in on the party-girl section – you know, where they keep the leathers, laces, and things that make you want to go bump in the night.
In this case I mean dancing. The stuff that comes later doesn’t involve clothes.
The shopping assistant met us inside the store and after introductions, whisked us off toward shoes – which took Mom and I right past my favorite department. A momentary slowdown offered a view of a great leather sheath dress that would be perfect at my job. Pair it with some thigh-high boots, and I’d look like a dominatrix right out of a movie. ‘Course Mom would never agree to such attire – not willingly, that is.
During the last few years of working at the bar, I’d had to get creative with my wardrobe. What was a tasteful, long top or blouse to Mom became a mini-dress to me. A peek-a-boo lacy overlay? Forget the underlying camisole and let the lace speak for itself, I always say. What good are colorful and decorative bras if you don’t get to show them off once in awhile?
“You coming, Victoria?” Mom called, having stopped up ahead.
“Yeah,” I responded, somewhat despondent. “These new heels aren’t as comfortable as I thought.”
Don’t judge me for the little white lie.
Mom looked down at the new tangerine pumps she’d purchased just that morning to go with the appropriate summer dress she’d bought me the week before. When it comes to shopping, luncheons, or just leaving the house, Mom always says a woman should look her best because you never knew who you’d chance to see. Hell, every Tuesday’s outing I looked dressed up enough for Sunday church. Too bad my attitude didn’t match the attire.
Mom tsked. “We’ll have to find a more appropriate pair while we’re here.”
The solution to everything in Mom’s book? Dispatch the old and buy something new. Sometimes I missed the days of not having to worry about balancing a checkbook or saving for new tires on the Vette. But freedom came with a price – one I was glad to pay if it meant not having to deal with the sperm donor. The clothes Mom bought me every week? Let’s chalk that up to the price a mother wished to pay to spend time with her daughter. I really tried not to take advantage of her generosity – most of the time.
While checking out at one of the registers toward the end of our shopping excursion, Mom noticed a lovely little floral number she just had to try on, which left me standing there with a pile of clothes and shoes that rivaled the heights of the Matterhorn. I nearly piddled in my panties when she handed me the black, no-limit AmEx and waltzed away with the personal shopping assistant toward a dressing room. My eyes locked with the clerk.
“I’ll be right back.”
With a potential three to five minute window, I sprinted across the store in my brand-brand new tangerine pumps. I grabbed the size four black leather sheath and saw the matching studded bolero jacket I just had to have – hey, it was part of an ensemble. Then my roving eye caught the platinum-colored, barely there lace dress they happened to have in my size as well. New bar-appropriate attire in hand, I raced like a pursued purse snatcher back to the previously vacated register.
I was surprised someone hadn’t sicced security on my fast fanny.
The register clerk cast a knowing grin when I handed over the confiscated ite
ms and asked her to ring them up ASAP. The good sales chick even hid them between several other items among my hang-up bag.
Somebody needed to give that girl a raise.
Mom returned as the clerk finished subtotaling the existing pile then added in the flowing pink dress – probably something for church or the ladies Thursday luncheon. Like a dutiful daughter, I then handed over the credit card to my mother.
“You seem winded, Victoria,” my mother observed. “Do you need to use my inhaler?”
I smiled. “I’m good, Mom. Just excited over some new clothes.”
Am I a little dickens or what?
Don’t answer that.
Chapter Three
Wednesday nights at the bar tended to rev up kinda slow, the band’s music levels allowing orders placed in an almost normal tone of voice. My boss slow to rev? Not so much. I recognized the press of Grady’s warm lips across my bare shoulders. Even though I knew it was coming at some point, it still made me jump every time he snuck up on me like that.
“Nice to see you too, Grady,” I responded.
Deep brown eyes penetrated mine like liquid chocolate you just wanted to dive right into. A lopsided smile tipped one edge of his mustache higher than the other. The man oozed charm – and pheromones. He was gorgeous and knew it, but I had a rule about tangoing between the sheets with the man who signed my paycheck. Well, it’s direct deposit, but I’m still not getting involved with the boss man – no matter how much my noodle-like legs protested.
Grady trailed his finger lightly down my arm as he leaned against the bar. “You can see more of me anytime ya want, Vic. All ya gotta do is say the word.”
I shoved his hand away and busied finishing a customer’s cocktail. “Some might construe this as sexual harassment.”
“What would ya call it?” Grady’s husky voice whispered in my ear.
I shivered and nearly dropped the drink as I handed it over to the patron and collected payment.
Every night it was the same, this dance of ours where Grady advanced and I retreated – like a waltz in two-two time instead of three-four time. After the last two and a-half years, I’d come to enjoy our little repartee. All in good fun without letting things get complicated. Plus, on the rare occasion when Grady didn’t start the evening out this way, I knew he was pissed about something – or at someone. Sometimes I did things on purpose just to get a rise out of him. Showed him I still held some power, even though he could fire my lily-white butt anytime he wished.
I ignored his last question in favor of one of my own. “What’ll you have tonight, boss?”
“The usual.”
Without glancing away from his stare, a flick of the wrist to insert the shot glass into my cleavage before I grabbed the Jack to pour. I’d perfected this little technique so well I didn’t even have to see the glass to know when the whiskey reached three fingers – and I never spilled a drop. It might present too much temptation for Grady to mop up the drips from my chest with his tongue. Or maybe that was too much temptation for me.
The other side of Grady’s mustache joined the first as he retrieved the glass from its resting place between my boobs. The feather brush of his fingers against my skin sent chills up my spine. He stared down the length of me before knocking back the drink in one swallow.
“New dress?” Grady asked.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “A gift from my mom.”
Not quite a gift per se. Mom never would’ve willingly purchased the strapless sheath that hugged me tighter than a lover and pushed up my Texas-sized bosom until it was almost spilling over the top of the black leather. We’d have to chalk this one up to yesterday’s ingenious planning – or just downright sneakiness.
Grady brought my musings back to the present with another appreciative glance at my leather-clad cleavage. “Your mom’s got good taste.”
If he only knew about my in-store sprint. “Speaking of my mom, I’m gonna need off this Saturday night.”
That earned me a groan.
“Come on,” I prodded. “In two and a-half years, when have I asked for a day off?”
“Countin’ last month?”
“Besides that.”
Grady pushed back his Stetson and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “You’re killin’ me, Vic.”
“Everyone’s here on Saturdays. You’ve got Bud and Wanker for behind the bar, and Rochelle and Baby can handle the guys on the floor without me for once.”
“The guys come just to see what you’ll do next.”
My turn to groan. The list of my Saturday night antics was long and distinguished – or not. Dancing on the bar in barely there skirts resulted in actual monetary bets placed of Guess the Color of that Thong. Kissing contests, drinking contests, and impromptu wet t-shirt contests from accidental beer spills completed my repertoire. Maybe it was time to come up with some new material.
I turned the bottle of Jack upside down and let two fingers of smooth whisky slide down my throat. Grady held out his shot glass and joined me in downing another round.
“Was the dress a bribe to get ya to church on Sunday?” Grady asked.
“You might say that,” I responded.
An exaggerated sigh. “Go make your mom happy then.”
I gave Grady a kiss on the cheek. Then he handed me the empty shot glass and left the bar area to mingle with some of the regulars before heading to his office to do paperwork. It gave me a chance to watch his tall, slender form from the backside.
The back. I meant from the back.
A trio of guys sauntered over and sat along the bar looking as ruffled as the Cowboys offensive line after a quarterback sack. All three appeared frayed at the edges after long days of slaving away in the corporate world, young egos bruised by reality. Time to have a little fun.
“What’ll it be?” I began in my tired bartender banter. Before any of them mumbled an order, I put up a hand. “Wait. I’ll bet I can guess.”
That brightened their attention and earned me a smile from one, a smirk of derision from another, and a penetrating stare from the third.
“Prove it,” the third challenged.
Thing Three loosened his run-of-the-mill cobalt tie and unbuttoned the two top buttons of his white Perry Ellis dress shirt. The black straight-off-the-rack suit jacket screamed department store, while black hair sported a classy cut and style of one trying to impress his elders. The steady gaze from blood-shot eyes and the firm line of the lips bespoke a customer who knew how to play it cool and close to the chest while in the midst of an all-nighter of poker – or chicken. A confident character. Someone unafraid of facing life’s challenges.
I laid down a napkin in front of him and leaned forward. His dark eyes didn’t leave mine even with my pushed-up assets in view.
“Lawyer,” I began. “New associate with a big name firm and equally big aspirations. Putting in the hours and plan to make partner by the time you’re thirty.”
The stare never wavered, though a brow hiked up ever so slight. “Nice.”
I’m pretty sure he meant my guess and not the assets. I offered a grin before pulling away. “Though you might consider having that suit tailored before your next court appearance.”
His veneer cracked just enough to offer a tilt of a smile in return. “I’ll do that. Now what about that drink?”
Smooth and cool drink for a smooth and cool customer. “Scotch on the rocks.”
That earned me a full-blown smile and a slap on the bar. “Make it so, counselor.”
“How’d you do that?” Thing Two asked with an incredulous smile.
“A good magician never shares her secrets,” I said as I poured then handed over the drink.
“Okay, you’ve gotta do me next,” Thing Two said in a silky and sexy voice.
Do him next? No problem.
Relaxed. Easy-going. Thing Two nonchalantly rubbed his earlobe like a rabbit’s foot or some other good luck cha
rm. Deep impressions flattened his amber hair as if a pair of glasses had sat there all day – or a headset. A kaleidoscope of color meandered across the rumpled button-down with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows. I’d noticed it hanging untucked from his jeans before the trio had bellied up to the bar. A fun guy who didn’t put on airs, with a voice made for television and a wardrobe made for radio. I liked him already.
I wiped down the spot in front of him and stared into cornflower-blue eyes before finalizing my decision. Too comfortable in his own skin and not neurotic enough for television. And with that voice?
“You’re in radio.”
Eyes widened before he threw his head back with a husky laugh. “That’s uncanny.”
“So I’m right?”
“Creepily so. I do the Live on the Drive at Five segment and all the other shit they throw at me down at the station.”
“How’d you get on the air so early in your career?” I asked as I popped the top of a Sam Adam’s Summer Ale and set it before him.
Thing Two – no, Radioman – took a deep pull, giving me a view of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. The movement sent tingles to my nether regions. And I’d thought his voice was enough to curl my toes.
Yeah, I’d definitely be willing to do him next. Hmm…
He finished the swig and stared at me over the rim. “Must be my voice.”
“I’ll bet.”
The timbre had me purring already as I leaned an elbow on the bar and rested my chin in my hand. Radioman followed suit – and didn’t hesitate to let his gaze wander downward before drawing up to mine again with a lazy grin.
“I’m still waiting,” Thing One called out.
After breaking the trance Radioman had placed me under, I wasn’t in the mood to size up the final patron. But one glance told me this guy would be the easiest to peg.
Practiced smile didn’t reach calculating eyes. Chilled but not yet glacial. Sell out his mother but not his best friends – yet. Fair hair already thinning and plastered against an oily forehead coupled with a clenched jaw bespoke the stresses of middle management. The impeccably tailored midnight-blue suit along with the still well-anchored tie gave new meaning to the words stiff and uptight. Probably a bit OCD – or a lot – but a definite hard drinker when the day’s work was done. How else could this guy relax and forget the misdeeds of the day?
