Take a stand. Dump these two.
As she clambered to her feet, Jeremy’s laughter faded and his eyes widened in lecherous appreciation.
“Wow. If I didn’t know it was you—”
“Stand up, you idiot, and quit trying to look under her skirt.” Susan yanked on his arm, hauling him to his feet. “What do you think of her outfit?”
He ran a slow gaze down her body, making her feel dirty and shamed and damned uncomfortable. Just say no. These aren’t real friends.
“If I were drunk in a bar, I’d hit on you,” he declared. “Love the wig. Hot, hot, hot.”
“High compliments, indeed,” Midge muttered.
“Are we going or not?” Susan demanded. “If we hurry, we can get to the club before the DJ sets up.” She snatched her purse from the bed. “Once he starts spinning tunes, it’ll be impossible to find a table.”
Jeremy draped an arm around each of them. “If any guys from my unit are there tonight, I may have to tell them I’m dating you both.”
“Cut the crap. It’s irritating.” Midge shrugged off his arm and sank to the edge of her bed to remove the torturous boots.
“What’re you doing?” Susan screeched. “You have to wear those. They’re part of the outfit.”
Midge glared up at her. “I’ll wear your wig and this hideous outfit, but I am not wearing these boots. Give me your heels or I’m staying home.”
Faced with that ultimatum, Susan grudgingly complied. Wearing four-inch heels didn’t help Midge’s equilibrium, but at least her legs could breathe. She took a fortifying lungful of air and picked up her small black leather purse—a birthday gift from her father and stepmom.
“Let’s go before I lose my nerve and run for the shower to get this gunk off my face.”
“I’ll join you in the shower anytime, hot stuff.” Jeremy waggled his eyebrows at her.
The thought curdled her stomach. She curled her fingers into a fist, ready to plow it into his solar plexus if he dared come near her. A sibilant hiss from the doorway drew everyone’s attention and saved Midge from a response. Hades stood there, back arched, black fur puffed out and yellow eyes huge. He hissed again before leaping to his accustomed perch on the windowsill. Tail curled around his legs, he continued to watch her, emitting little angry chuffing noises.
“There’s a critic in every bunch,” Susan said. “And get these rid of these damn glasses.”
She had them off before Midge could stop her.
“Are you crazy? I can’t see without those.” She also couldn’t see what Susan had done with them. Everything was a fuzzy blob—like a picture in desperate need of focus.
“Put in your contacts.”
Jeremy edged toward the door, rubbing his right hand. He must have done something to deserve that scratch. Hades didn’t lash out unless someone he didn’t like invaded his space.
“I don’t have contacts,” she answered.
It was a lie, but she was careful about when and where she wore them—and certainly wouldn’t in this town. She kept her guard up for a reason. It was one of the things she’d sacrificed to keep attention off her—and one of her biggest regrets. In reality, it was a small price to pay for her peace of mind.
“You look like a nerd. No way.” Susan caught her arm and dragged her from the room.
“I can’t see.” Midge squinted. Her surroundings were a blur at best.
Susan gave her a little shove. “Go.”
“Don’t worry, cutie-pie.” Jeremy followed. “We’re your friends. We’ll take good care of you during your birthday bash.”
Midge winced. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The Lost Oasis was within walking distance of her place, but maybe they could get a cab. Navigating the two miles without glasses and in four-inch heels wasn’t the smartest thing to consider, but if this night went further downhill, she was out of there. As a Marine, she’d handled worse on forced marches.
With ‘friends’ like them…
Chapter Two
Pounding drumbeats shook the dance floor. Couples swayed to the beat, eyes closed, lost in the music and each other. Despite the ban against smoking, thick clouds of cigarette smoke tinged the air blue—a haze charged by spinning strobe lights. Too many hot bodies in a crowded club made the atmosphere stifling. The Lost Oasis was open for business—and business was booming.
Kurt Davidson slumped over a table and surveyed the crowd, looking for his target. Couples jostled for space, trying to stake out prime locations for the evening. He examined each new face carefully. It was past nine. His target should be arriving soon. This was her usual time, and from her victims’ statements, she never deviated from that pattern. She’d also never used the same name twice. But the look was still the same—red hair, dressed for sex and wearing thigh-high boots.
He scanned the packed dance floor and bar, shifting his focus from face to face. Not her. Not yet. Where is she, damn it?
The club’s clientele varied. Locals sought a change from the pool table and darts bars, excited to check out a new venue. Marines crowded in, eager to get away from the neighboring Marine Corps base, enjoying the music and the opportunity to dance with someone who wasn’t in uniform. Most would party until the wee hours of the morning. Their energy made him feel old at thirty-two.
He caught his reflection in the table’s mirrored surface. The older he got, the more he hated disguises and undercover assignments. The hairpiece was a nondescript shade of brown, meant to stay in place in a hurricane. Dark brown contacts and matching beard applied with spirit gum that too often gave him a headache completed his club-hopping persona. The jeans and long-sleeved green shirt were all him, though. Anything else would have made him stand out too much. His target had to be attracted to him and comfortable enough to consider him easy to fool.
The worst thing about the evening’s attire was the lifts in his shoes. They added two inches to his five-foot-eleven but killed his arches and aggravated the year-old injury to his thigh. He never knew how women could stand to wear high heels for hours at a time, though he loved the look of a tight calf they created. Having had to don heels a time or two in his career, Kurt would have to say women deserved a medal for wearing them.
People described him as an imposing man, often intimidating, focused. He thanked his acting skills for creating that impression. Those tools had served him well. Most times that meant going undercover.
Kurt generally enjoyed his work and believed what he did was important for the integrity of the military, as well as the civilian community. Investigating crimes and felons was difficult and often dangerous, but he craved the thrill of the hunt and the challenge of finding the perpetrator before his own identity was discovered. What he didn’t like was the isolation.
Few knew the real man beneath the layers. He hid his frustrations well from most, though his struggle to get back in shape after the previous year’s injury was starting to tell on him. He’d put on weight while he’d been convalescing from bullet wounds. Working out wasn’t helping him lose it. His dad had warned him that once he hit thirty, he could kiss lean and mean goodbye. His father hadn’t lied.
Where have the years gone?
It seemed like yesterday he’d been a sophomore at University of Southern California, depressed over having lost another acting gig. He’d been ready to chuck it all when new options had opened to him, appealing not only to the patriot in Kurt, but also offering the thrill of challenging work as a special agent for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. He loved uncovering the pieces in a criminal investigation and reassembling them to find the truth beneath the lies. The job was the best of all his worlds and had led to some great adventures. That was also how he’d met his closest friends, Zach and Claudia Taylor.
Odd how the world maneuvered people together. He’d quietly freaked out when he’d heard they had orders to Okinawa, then fell to his knees and thanked all the world’s deities when Zach’s promotion to major got those orders
canceled and they remained in Twentynine Palms. He knew one day the Marine Corps would send them elsewhere. Kurt didn’t want to think about that, much less deal with it—especially when the couple was expecting their first child. He grew lonely just thinking about them being gone.
The waitress inched toward him among the dimly-lit tables. She narrowly avoided getting bumped by two giggling women with enormous margarita glasses.
“Sorry it took me so long to reach you. What can I get you to drink?”
“Whatever’s on tap.” Kurt pulled a handful of bills from his jeans pocket and handed them to the harried woman. “Thanks. Keep the change.”
Smiling, she sidled off as fast as the limited space allowed. One of the margarita drinkers edged up to his table, tracing dagger-like silver fingernails along its edge.
“Don’cha know it ain’t good to drink alone?” She slurred each word and ogled him through glassy eyes. “We think a good-lookin’ guy like you should have some company.”
She offered up an inebriated grin and angled her chest so her generous cleavage was exposed to its best advantage. If he’d been the least bit interested, her display would have turned him off. He didn’t care for women who showed off their assets. He rather liked the mystery of clothing and discovering what was underneath.
Her companion leaned heavily on Kurt’s left arm, sloshing her red concoction out of its glass and forming a puddle on his table. The air was redolent with the sickly-sweet smell of strawberries and cheap tequila.
At least I can’t smell the cigarette smoke.
“Yeah, baby, you look like you could take care of us both, no problemo.”
She yanked up Kurt’s shirt, exposing his stomach. Both women gasped and giggled, then pursed their lips as they oohed and aahed.
“Yum, yum,” Fingernails said. “A six-pack.”
She reached over to stroke Kurt’s stomach. He intercepted her wrist, holding it immobile.
“Sorry, ladies. I’m already taken.” He added a phony smile, turned on the charm and stroked the molester’s hand with his thumb. “And she’s very possessive.”
He slipped on his role of the regretful but appreciative boyfriend. It settled over him like a comfortable shoe, well-worn and familiar. If only it were true. He was tired of being alone but had little energy to correct that situation. A recent attempt at flirting had proven he’d lost his touch. Her ignoring him had probably been for the best, despite the sting of rejection that refused to go away. What woman would put up with the things he had to do for the job? Still, her snubbing his efforts had cut a little deeper than he wanted to admit, and he hadn’t taken the rejection with grace, either. In fact, he’d been pretty nasty about it, dashing any hope of winning her over.
“Too bad, hot stuff. You look like more man than one woman could handle.” They cackled like witches over a cauldron, feigned pouts and made obligatory noises of disappointment before staggering back to their table, drinks in hand.
Kurt sighed. Undercover work wasn’t sitting in a car with a sack of donuts, waiting for the perp to show. Sometimes things got tricky.
Jess Alderman was going to love hearing about this little undercover incident. Instead of finding the femme fatale of the desert, the intrepid hero ends up getting harassed and groped by a pair of drunken bimbos.
Six young Marines at the bar began a boisterous beer chug. One sunburned contestant gulped beer from a yard glass. His buddies pounded the bar in time with each gulp and broke into a roar when the last of the foamy brew slid down his throat. Kurt winced at the thought of the hangover to follow. It hadn’t been long since he’d been at bars like this one, playing the same stupid games with his buddies and paying the price the next morning. Thank God he’d gotten beyond that point in his life.
The waitress reappeared, bringing a frosted pint of beer and a small dish of pretzels. She smiled as she set the glass on top of a bar napkin inscribed with the palm tree logo of the Lost Oasis.
“The pretzels are fresh. Took them out of the bag myself. Give me a holler if you need another beer.” She edged her way toward the next table, order pad ready.
Kurt took a drink of his beer and grimaced. Flat. Damn. He started to signal the waitress when he saw her step into the club’s entryway, red hair shimmering in the lights like a flame. It had to be her. The description was too perfect to be anyone else. He smiled.
Showtime.
“I can’t believe it took us so long to get here,” Susan shouted over the music.
She dragged Midge through the crush of people toward the bar overlooking the dance floor below.
“I never should have let you talk me into getting a cab. He took as long to come to your house as you did getting dressed. Look at this fucking crowd.”
“Cinder-Midge was almost late getting to the ball,” Jeremy quipped behind them. “Should have brought your vehicle. We could always catch a cab back later.”
Midge stumbled, wishing she could tell them both to go to hell and stay there. “Will you slow down? You know I can’t see well.”
Jeremy groped her ass.
She swung her fist around, stopping short of his chin. “Pull a stunt like that again and you’ll be shitting your teeth.”
He snickered. “Hey, don’t blame me for trying.”
They pushed their way forward. Susan kept waving at people Midge couldn’t see clearly. The dim light didn’t help. It felt like being in a walk-in closet with four hundred strangers.
She silently cursed Susan for convincing her to leave the house without her glasses—and herself for allowing it to happen. Maybe it was time to revise her stand on contacts. She could wear them off-duty. Getting LASIK surgery sounded even better. She stepped over a pair of long male legs that threatened her progress and glanced up at their bearded owner, ready to offer an apology. Her heart skipped a beat or two as he pulled his legs back and leaned into her space. He was close enough to see, and the look in his dark eyes—something between surprise and curiosity—mesmerized her. He reached for her arm, lips parted to speak.
“Over here.” Jeremy motioned them to a nearby table overlooking the dance floor.
Susan hooked her arm and tugged. “Come on.”
Midge stumbled. The man’s quick reflexes caught her before she could fall. She stared up at him, absorbing the feel of his arm around her waist. He was warm and hard in all the right places. He had that look again, probably a match to her own. His hair was brown and appeared soft. His short, neat beard added sophistication. The urge to kiss him overwhelmed her. It didn’t help that his gaze was on her lips—or that he wore the same sandalwood aftershave as Davidson. Her body came alive, lost in those nightly fantasies where he had a starring role.
“Come on,” Susan shouted.
Midge longed to tell her to go fuck herself. Instead, she thanked her hero.
“My pleasure.”
He released her little by little, as if he hated to let her go. His smile devastated her senses. She missed his touch. He’d said the words as if he meant them, not as an attempt to get into her panties. Here was a real gentleman, a nice man, who made her hotter than hell.
“Midge!” Susan shouted.
“Sorry,” she mumbled to him.
“The night’s young,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
His smile sank into her veins. Reluctantly, she joined her associates, squinting until she reached them. All the chairs were taken. The high heels were killing her feet. Her toes throbbed with every beat of her pounding heart.
“Where do we sit?”
“I’ll snag some chairs after I get us drinks.” Jeremy’s fading voice indicated he was already aiming for the bar.
“Isn’t the music great?” Susan danced around the edge of the table and leaned over the railing that separated the bar from the short drop to the dance floor. “I can’t wait to get out there.”
She jiggled her bottom to the music, drawing heads their way. The tight jumpsuit highlighted every bounce.
Embarrassment overwhelmed Midge.
“Here we go.” Jeremy set an overloaded tray on the table. Shot glasses brimmed with gold liquid. “Drink up, ladies. A toast to our birthday girl—wishing her a successful evening.”
Midge hated tequila. “Didn’t they have any red wine?”
“It’s a celebration. Live outside your box for once.” He threw the contents of the shot glass into his throat then slapped the empty glass down on the table. “Aaah. Tequila.” He leaned too close and gave her a stupid grin. “Happy birthday, Midge.”
Susan raised her shot glass. “To adventure, and to men who’ll keep us in the style to which we’d like to become accustomed.”
Midge glared at the vile liquid. Just leave. Get up, call a cab and leave. “You were going to get us some chairs?”
The DJ chose that time to crank up the volume.
“Let’s dance.”
Susan hooked Jeremy’s arm. He stumbled, knocking Midge’s purse off the table. She squatted to pick it up. When she stood again, purse in hand, Jeremy and Susan were halfway to the dance floor and the growing crescendo of the new set.
“Excuse me.” A Texas drawl drifted over her shoulder. “Since your friends left you, would you like to come over to the bar and sit with us?”
Midge stared up at him, unnerved with how near the man stood. His close-cut hair identified him as a Marine with an unfortunate taste in clothes. He was wearing a godawful shirt in clashing colors of red, purple and yellow that had palm trees patterned all over it. Nothing like the mysterious and alluring stranger two tables away.
“Come on over and sit with us.” He tugged at her elbow. “My buddy and me are saving a seat just for you.”
She wavered. Sitting down sounded like heaven. Her feet were really starting to complain. Calling that cab sounded even better.
Beneath the Layers Page 2
