by D. A. Bale
“Jack and Coke,” I said. “Straight up for the banker.”
“Make it a double,” Thing One commanded without blinking. “And I’m in investments, not banking.”
“Oh really?” I challenged. “Where?”
Under the stare of friends, Thing One finally squirmed. “I office out of First National.”
Raucous laughter filled their end of the bar. I raised my hands in triumph after setting his drink on the counter.
“I rest my case,” I said.
I didn’t even get the teeniest drop of acknowledgement or praise – and little more than a paltry tip when Thing One laid down his cash. Yep, cheapo banker dude. Won’t hesitate to spend money to make himself look good but maintains a death grip on the wallet around others. I’d hate to be his server at a five-star restaurant.
The music level rose as I bopped my way down the bar to help other customers. I loved my job. Besides Janine, I felt like I had real friends for the first time in my life instead of those plastic banana smiles and wimpy hugs followed by blazing gossip I’d encountered growing up in the church.
Life was hard enough without the stage performance every Sunday. Being noticed all of the time because of personal affiliation and under constant scrutiny by the holier-than-thou club made me suspicious of motive when anyone tried to weasel their way into my world. I hated how cynical I’d become, which was why I’d decided to make some serious changes in my life. I wasn’t interested in riding the hypocrite train like my dad or being fodder for gossip ala Mrs. De’Laruse. After all those years, I’d bled enough from repeated back-stabbings by supposed friends.
Here at the club I’d found real friendships – and the occasional one-night-stand. But I was finished with those. For now. At least for a little while. In the club I felt at home. At peace among the pulsating beat, the neon lights and the white silk streams hanging down from the ceiling against the backdrop of black walls. Grady had strategically placed the silk along the ceiling close to the air vents so it writhed like ethereal specters in the night.
I’d love to do something like it in my apartment bedroom, but the look would be completely out of place in my outdated hole. If I started on the bedroom, the whole place would need a major overhaul, something I could scarce afford. The landlord might not take too kindly to such an eclectic look either if I ever moved out.
Now Mr. Yummy from Saturday night? I could definitely see such a look fitting in with the industrial and sexy motif of his condo.
“Hello again.”
“What’ll it be?” I started again in my bartender banter.
Could’ve wiped the floor with my jaw when I glanced up to see the hunky Saturday night sleepover companion sidled up to the bar. The mussed hair looked just like it did when I’d awakened Sunday afternoon to the walk of shame. But this time the brown locks hung over his forehead instead of brushed away from it. Definite GQ material screaming off the pages.
‘Cept this one was live and in the flesh – with a sexy Aussie accent to boot. How could I have forgotten those ice-blue eyes? A girl could get lost in them.
Waking up Thursday morning in his apartment, I realized once again that I had. At least this time I remembered Nick’s name.
Chapter Four
“Every night this week?”
Janine’s eyes threatened to pop out of her head. Instead of drool she dribbled popcorn onto my outdated couch and stopped petting my kitty on her lap to pause the movie. Even in our mid-twenties it was still fun hanging out in our PJ’s eating popcorn and Oreos and talking about boys like two pre-pubescent girls. ‘Cept now it was men.
“Not every night,” I corrected.
She pursed her lips like a true De’Laruse.
“Just since Wednesday,” I grudgingly admitted. “But tonight I’m spending with you.”
The gigantic popcorn bowl came between us. “Don’t get any ideas there, princess. I may still be a virgin, but I have eyes only for men.”
“Very funny,” I said, reaching into the bowl and hammering Janine with a popcorn bombardment.
Slinky launched off her lap with a yowl and skittered across the floor away from the battle. Served my traitorous tabby right. The popcorn fight kept us occupied for about thirty seconds until the bowl emptied. Hey, not like it’s cookie dough or anything. Get the vacuum cleaner out and two minutes later, voila. Popcorn gone without a trace. It’s the best food fight money can buy.
Janine ran her finger along the empty bowl’s edge and licked off the last vestiges of the butter from her fingers. “Seriously though, are you boyfriend and girlfriend now, or are you just hooking up with Nick? When do I get to meet him?”
“Whoa there, Nellie. None of that there ‘b’ word. That’s a flippin’ curse word among these here walls.”
Truth be told, I was rather ashamed of myself for my lack of willpower when it came to Nick. There was something about the way his ice blue eyes penetrated mine, the way his luscious and pouty lips would curl just before he captured my lips, not to mention the heat that sucked away the air from around us ‘til I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was in a trance when he neared. Our bodies were drawn together like magnets and nothing would force us apart.
Until I awoke the morning after. I had yet to stick around for him to wake up, much less share breakfast after our nightly romps. That bespoke an intimacy I no longer wanted to entertain. Ever again.
I continued, “I’ve always been a sucker for yummy accents.”
“Not the only thing. Seems you’re a sucker for yummy…”
“That too,” I interrupted. “But there’s more to life than just sex.”
Did that statement just pop out of my mouth?
“Ugh, I have no life.” Janine groaned.
I’m not sure what I did would at times be considered a life either, though it somehow held a glow of merit to Janine. Call me Mary Magdalene to her Virgin Mary.
“Hello,” I responded, tossing an Oreo her way. “Who’s the little miss getting a doctorate while one of us plays bartender?”
“Exactly! Teaching Dr. Husingkamp’s students by day and studying by night makes for a mundane existence.” Kernels of unpopped corn peppered the carpet as she tossed the bowl aside. “I’d give anything to let it all go for one week and live a life of freedom like yours.”
“What do you mean? You visit at the bar some Saturday nights.”
“Yeah, and have to race home by midnight before I turn into a pumpkin,” Janine whined. “I can’t even drink anything but pop or risk my mom’s wrath. That woman can smell alcohol tinged breath in the next county.”
“Living with the parents must suck.”
“I’m so tired of being treated like a twelve-year-old. I want to have some fun without worrying about repercussions. Smoke a cigarette. Drink myself under the table – or into someone’s arms. Experience a night of unbridled passion.” Janine sighed. “Do you think doctors could put a hymen back together once it’s broken?”
“Not like it’s Humpty Dumpty or anything.”
Janine slumped against the armrest pillows like a drama queen. “I’m doomed to forever remain a virgin, Vicki. My only hope in this world is living vicariously through your adventures and amorous activities with your boyfriend.”
“No boyfriends,” I cautioned. “The last one cured me of that title.”
“Keeping options open, are we?” Janine’s brows went north so fast they almost crossed the Mason-Dixon Line. “Anyone I know?”
The innocent act never worked with me. I knew what the less-than-subtle girl was getting at – something to do with an F-150 driven by the pastor’s son.
“Bobby’s married, remember?” I reminded. “And a pastor.”
“It won’t hurt to look. Y’all have a history, if I do recall, only now Bobby’s got an SUV instead of the F-150.”
“He’s got a pregnant wife. As in till-death-do-us-part.”
&nbs
p; “Pish-posh,” Janine returned like a true De’Laruse.
“I don’t do married men, Janine.”
“Well, there was that time…”
“He conveniently forgot to mention that and failed to wear a ring,” I huffed. “And we agreed never to speak of it again.”
“Fine,” Janine grumbled.
Attention returned to the sappy movie Janine had brought with her. After suffering through my collection of mystery, horror, sexy slasher, and shoot ‘em up cop thrillers over the years, my best friend made me suffer through hers in return. She had a more delicate and sensitive palate in need of girlie romance where love triumphed over all.
They just made me gag. Romance was bo-o-ring, and so unrealistic. Where was the action? Adventure? The blood?
Janine piped up again. “What’re you gonna do when you see him at church in the morning?”
“Smile and say ‘howdy’ like a proper Texan,” I said.
The movie held her attention for all of thirty seconds before Janine whispered, “I got to see him this week when he was setting up his office.”
“That’s nice.”
“He’s still got all his hair.”
For a split second the movie shifted and all I could picture was my fingers entwined in blond hair in the bed of that F-150. A phantom ache started in my lower back – until it dropped even lower.
Janine interrupted my scandalous memory. “He’s even more handsome than he was in high school.”
“Hey,” I said, scratching my hip. “I’m watching a movie here.”
“No you’re not. You hate romance.”
“Then stop bugging me so I can sleep through it.”
Moments later. “Nervous about seeing him again?”
Nervous? Try terrified. Showing up at church tomorrow after an absence of two years would provoke a chorus of wagging tongues loud enough to interrupt Heaven’s chorus of angels. However, I was not going there to put on a show for anyone else’s benefit. I was not attending church tomorrow for the first time in years to play the saintly hypocrite. After avoiding one another following the firestorm from eleven years ago, coupled with the lack of Bobby’s return after college, I simply felt it was time to set things right between us. He needed to know I’d forgiven him and moved on. What better place to offer that than in church, surrounded by ten thousand witnesses?
“Nervous?” I repeated. “Nah.”
Lord, don’t strike me down for lying.
***
It’s amazing how territorial the human race can be. Even after my lack of church attendance since moving out, my parents still sat in the same seats – third row from the front, left of center section. I’m not sure if Mom saved the extra theatre-like chair every Sunday in hopes of seeing me attend again, or if she did so this time because she knew I was coming.
In order to avoid the unpleasant fakery of my dad and the surprised glances of the holy huddlers, I made a point of dragging in late with a worried Janine. The rock concert atmosphere of flashing lights and strobe effects while the band performed for the masses kept most eyes from focusing in on us. Janine hauled me down center aisle, making a beeline for our families like a wide receiver clutching the pigskin and barreling toward the end zone. The glacial stare she received from her mother as she took her seat among the De’Laruse clan in the row ahead explained the rush more than words ever could – not that you could hear over the music anyway. I received a smile from my mother while avoiding a glance from Mr. Sperm Donor.
Another thing I was thankful for? I didn’t have to endure the pressure of conformity to a household standard – well, a standard that applied to everyone ‘cept my dad. Or me, since moving out on my own. But I felt sorry for Janine. Our tardiness was my fault, centered on a selfish agenda of avoidance. I hadn’t stopped to consider how our late arrival would create a problem for my best friend. Her constant references of the time should’ve been my clue.
Am I dense sometimes or what?
Don’t answer that.
For the next hour or so, I stood and sat in the right places, clapped and tried to remember the words to the songs – most of which were new to me – and tried to avoid vertigo while staring up at Pastor Dennis’ image on the massive movie screens surrounding the auditorium. It took concentration to keep my eyes fixed on the real-life image on the stage directly ahead instead of succumbing to shiny-object-syndrome and mindlessly staring at the screens like watching TV. With all the effort, I couldn’t begin to tell you the content of his sermon. If the past was any indicator, it probably went something like blah, blah, blah, give, blah, blah, blah, money, blah, ask, blah, get – and don’t forget to leave your wallet on the way out.
That last part was my paraphrase, but you get the drift. Same dance. Come back next week. And be sure to bring a new wallet full of Benjamins.
When the lights came up after the final song, the congregants jostled en masse to make way for the third service. The whole thing really was like a movie theatre or rock concert experience. I’d forgotten some of that in my absence.
Janine grabbed my arm once again and shoved me through the throng to the gathering point, a three-story glassed-in tower everyone congregated in before and after each service. It acted kinda like a cattle holding pen with a trough of refreshments. When you’re talking about a room that seats ten thousand and three different services, you’ve gotta have some place to safely direct the incoming and outgoing stampede.
At first I suspected Janine’s quick maneuverings were to avoid the coming very public verbal flogging by one Mrs. De’Laruse because we were late. But when I saw the shock of blond hovering above the cookie crowd, I knew the ulterior motive wasn’t for her benefit.
I wish I was as thoughtful as my bestie.
The passage of eleven years had been oh so very kind to Bobby – I mean, Pastor Bobby. Pastor Robert Vernet. The tall scrawny star of the Christian Bible Fellowship High School’s state championship basketball team had grown nicely into his six-foot-six frame. Broad man-shoulders towered over most, his genuine smile lighting up the room like the star on top of a Christmas tree – and that’s considering a Texas-sized tree like my mom always liked. Bobby definitely had Texas-sized down pat – in every way imaginable.
Believe me. Visions of F-150s danced in my hell-bent head.
“You wanna bib?” Janine asked, disrupting my precious memories.
“Huh?”
“You know, to soak up all that drool.”
Lord, I was going straight to Hell. Here I’d come all this way to make amends for the past, and all I wanted to do right then was repeat it. Bad girl. Bad, bad…
“Vicki!”
“What?”
“You’re in church, remember?” Janine reminded.
“Right,” I muttered.
In church, surrounded by the gossiping gaggle, members of the pastoral staff, and my first summer fling – who was now a pastor as well. Married. Had a child on the way. I mentally slapped myself and followed the welcoming committee forward toward the prize.
I mean pastor. Followed them toward the pastor.
Janine snickered like she had a front row seat to my mental musings and rolled her eyes. I gave her my best evil eye and got my ribs poked in the process. I was almost twenty-six, not fifteen.
“My, my, my. Who do we have here?”
It didn’t require turning around to recognize that voice. It sent chalkboard chills down my spine and got my hackles up before Janine could say bitch-alert. Kansas has the Wicked Witch of the West. Texas has Lorraine Padget, all five-foot ten-inches – counting her hair – of a former Miss Texas runner-up who clawed her way under the crown when some scandalous pictures and videos involving the original winner came to light.
In some parts, that would’ve thrust the real winner to instant stardom. Here in the south though, we still want our beauty queens to be prim, proper, and pure. Or in Lorraine’s case to at least have t
he smarts not to get caught with photographic evidence.
Did I mention she was also the on-again-off-again high school girlfriend of one Bobby Vernet? AKA the senior pastor’s kid. AKA the new children’s pastor. AKA my virginity stealer – though it’s a well-documented fact I gave it willingly.
After her half-year stint as the Miss Texas title holder – albeit too late for the Miss America pageant, thank God – Lorraine went on to become a journalist. With her newfound notoriety, she slept her way into a local co-anchor position and recently landed an older, but rich, fish. All techniques learned from her mother, I imagine.
She’s also the daughter of one of my dad’s many conquests. Yup, Saturday night sleepovers with Lisa.
“Lorraine Padget,” I said, turning around and pasting on a matching too big grin.
“As I live and breathe.” The plaster coating of make-up on Lorraine’s face threatened to splinter and crack around the Botox smile. “I always had faith you’d leave behind your harlotry ways and return to the fold. Glory hallelujah!”
Takes one to know one, but I wasn’t about to give Lorraine the pleasure of acknowledging the harlotry comment.
“Just here to say hi to an old friend,” I said before smiling at her companion. “Care to make introductions?”
The pious Padget shot me a glare before remembering the baggage on her arm. The guy looked like he’d never survive to Christmas, though I had to give the white-haired codger another ten years benefit of the doubt – if only to see Lorraine suffer. The rock she flashed almost blinded me.
“My manners,” Lorraine said, tilting her hand to make sure I got a good look at the stone. “Sweetheart, this is my dear friend from high school days, Miss Victoria Bohanan. Victoria, meet my fiancé, Mr. Derek Summers.”
“Bohanan?” Mr. Summers wheezed. “Frank’s girl?”
I gripped the bony and weathered hand. “How do you do, Mr. Summers? Yes, Frank Bohanan’s daughter, if he still claims me that is.”
That earned me a cackle, though I was afraid the pronounced cough might send him into cardiac arrest. Lorraine gathered him up to get him a drink, though I suspected Mr. Summers went for something a little stronger than water with that bulbous red nose. Most oilmen of that generation always did. Any generation really. It gave them something to talk about besides the price of crude.
