Hometown Hero
Page 8
Finally, Russ and Bart returned from the judging room and Bart hobbled to the microphone. “The judges have their winners,” he announced.
Some suspense. Heather had clearly been the most talented and most beautiful among a multitude of talented and beautiful models. She’d win this, just as she had won everything she’d competed in her whole life.
“For businesswear, the award goes to Millicent Wanks.” Bart ran down the list. A professional won the lingerie competition, but locals won the other three events. Even the judges looked surprised. All except Russ. Heather batted zero. How was that possible?
Cynthia’s brain whirled as she tried to figure out what it meant. Could Russ have voted against Heather as a way of making a statement? To prove to himself--or maybe to Cynthia--that he was no longer attracted to her?
She forced herself to dismiss the idea for the ridiculous fantasy it was. Russ wasn't about to break things off with Heather. He had made it perfectly clear that their kiss had been a horrible mistake.
She was so busy worrying about what Russ’s judging meant to her that it took her a while to notice what it meant to Heather.
As Heather took the stage to present the five-hundred-dollar gift certificates, Cynthia had a delayed a-ha moment. Heather hadn’t been surprised, and she, of all people, would know that she had deserved to win. Which meant the entire thing was a fix.
As a reporter, she should have been offended by blatant cheating--except that Heather had fixed things so she wouldn't win, letting the prizes go to the other models. The prizewinners--all but one local residents--would go home feeling better about themselves, feeling more sexy and more secure in their relationships. And that feeling just might translate into reality. Their added confidence might let them make decisions that fear could keep them from.
Cynthia knew Heather wasn’t being completely altruistic. The good will she created here today would translate into sales at her store. But she didn’t believe Heather was being completely mercenary, either.
It would have been a lot easier to hate Heather if she was keeping Russ through manipulation, through hiding her evil self, through some sort of deceit. Instead, she was just a smart, beautiful, and generous woman. Despite herself, despite the desire she felt for Russ, despite the jealousy she felt toward the woman who had claimed him, Cynthia had to like the woman who did so much for their town.
And the whole time Cynthia had been watching the fashion show, she’d secretly been wishing that Heather would trip over her high-heeled shoes and fall facedown on the runway. What did that say about her?
The judging was followed by a wine and cheese reception.
Cynthia made sure Andrew would attend so they wouldn’t miss any part of the story, and then headed out. She knew she was being unfair. She should be happy that Russ and Heather had found one another. The two really were perfect together. But somehow, she just didn’t want to spend the evening watching them interact, listen to them complete each other’s sentences, experience them hobnobbing with the rich and powerful from all over Missouri and the Midwest.
She got in her Mini and thought about going home.
What she needed, she decided, was a dog. A good dog is a faithful companion, thinks you’re beautiful, and doesn’t care if you’re not Heather Cochran. A good dog also gives you someone to go home to.
Going home to an empty apartment was about as exciting as sharing a French kiss with her pillow. Solitude had never bothered her before. Her aunt had spoken to her only when Cynthia had needed correction. For the decade she’d lived with her aunt, silence had been a mark of acceptance—and rare. She had learned to treasure it. Until now, she had treasured her time alone in her apartment.
But Russ had destroyed the peace of silence. Just as he had been transformed by a roadside bomb, his kiss had transformed her. Being alone now seemed like admitting defeat, like running away from what she hoped to become.
Cynthia hung a ‘u’ turn in front of her apartment and headed for the Ugly Spot. That bar was just outside of the Shermann city limits and was a regular hangout for farmers blowing off steam, truckers caught in the middle of Missouri when they were too tired to pound out a few more miles into Kansas City or St. Louis, and locals who wanted a change of pace, or just a couple of cheap brews.
The Ugly Spot was hopping.
A double-row of pickup trucks and dusty SUVs performed sentry duty in front of the gaping door to the bar. Locals climbed from truck to truck, swapping news, discussing the weather and how planting was coming. Teenagers copped a few kisses and gropes when parents were distracted.
A couple of the guys called out greetings to her as she headed for the corrugated metal building decorated with faded political slogans from the 1950s and neon beer signs. She waved and said her hellos to men she’d been in school with or covered when they’d been on trial for various minor crimes.
Fortunately for her eardrums, the Ugly Spot had live music only on weekends. The jukebox was blaring, but a person could still talk if they wanted.
She kicked her way through sawdust, trying to breathe through her mouth to keep from smelling the musty odor of stale spilled beer.
Despite the crowd, the bartender was ready for her so she ordered a beer and looked around for a place to sit.
Several empty tables butted up against the dance floor and she entertained a momentary thought of grabbing one.
A horrible flashback to her high school days dissuaded her from that idea. How often had she sat near the dance floor then, pretending to be covering the event for the Shermie, but secretly hoping that someone, preferably Russ, but realistically anyone at all, would ask her to dance?
She’d lost count of the number of dances she’d attended that way, but could remember perfectly how many times she’d actually been asked to dance. Once. Once in four years. And she’d learned later that Heather had talked Russ into it, had noticed her sitting there, alone, and urged her boyfriend to have pity on the unpopular and chubby student.
She sat at the bar.
“Hey, babe. Come here often?”
She whirled around. “Charlie? What are you doing here?”
Charlie Daemon shrugged. “I come here all the time. Once you’ve been married, the house feels empty when it’s just you. I come here, have a few beers, and sometimes I flirt with a pretty girl to take my mind off things.”
She wasn’t sure about meeting someone at a bar, but Cynthia resonated with the rest of what he was saying—except she’d never been married, never had someone waiting at home for her to rush back to. Could Russ’s kiss have transformed her so completely, so instantaneously?
“Does it work? Can you beat the loneliness by hanging here or cozying up to a stranger?”
He laughed. “Not really. I come here and I’m lonely with a bunch of people around me.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s still better than being alone.”
“Maybe.”
He glanced at the nearly empty dance floor. “Want to dance?”
“Why?”
“’Cause we’re here.”
It wasn’t a very good reason, but although Charlie had a beer in his hand, he didn’t seem drunk. And she’d just been feeling sorry for herself because no one had asked her to dance in high school. There had been a time when she would have paid everything she owned just to have even Charlie invite her to dance.
“Okay.”
“Good.” He walked over to the jukebox and pumped in some quarters. Moments later, the oldie ‘Love the one you’re with’ poured from the speakers.
“Let’s go.”
Charlie danced like a pro. He knew all the moves, hit the beat like a metronome, and brought about as much joy to the act as a flattened armadillo.
When the song was over and he asked if she’d like another dance. He didn’t look like me meant it, though. He was going through the motions as much as she was.
Cynthia shook her head. “Maybe later, Charlie.”
“Cynthia. Did you see me? Is this great or what?”
Millicent Wanks brandished a monstrous trophy over her head. “I am the goddess of Shermann. You should have seen Kenton's face when I showed him this trophy. I told him the winner of the businesswear modeling show doesn’t have to spend her life taking crap from a bum like him.”
“Good on you,” Cynthia said. Kenton Wanks was a pure jerk but Millicent had never pressed charges, had always gone home to the husband who abused her. “I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Too late. Already taken care of.” Charlie appeared with two overflowing pitchers of beer; a waitress followed with a tray of mugs.
“You look familiar,” he told Millicent.
“I was a freshman when you were a senior.” The ‘goddess of Shermann’ grabbed one of the beermugs and let Charlie pour for her.
“I thought so. Sit down and tell us what that trophy is all about.”
Millicent and Charlie? Yeah, Cynthia could see it. So, all right, Millicent was married and Charlie was on the rebound. But for right then, anyway, the two bonded.
Which left Cynthia alone. Again.
* * *
Heather picked up her cell, spoke a few words, then put it back in her bag.
“Hey, Russell. Ever want to be a father?”
He froze. He should know this. It was one thing to forget his high school or even his parents. But not remembering even the most basic things about himself—what made him unique as a human being—that was purely wrong.
“Hey, it’s not a trick question. I’m asking because I think you just became one.”
Was Heather pregnant? Maybe that had been her doctor with results of a pregnancy test. He should be elated. What man wouldn’t want to have a baby with a perfect woman like Heather?
“I—“
“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost. That was Millicent on the phone. She says she feels like she’s been born to a whole new life, thanks to you and the other judges. I know this place is a dump, but Millicent is there and Charlie is there. So, let’s go down to the Ugly Spot and help her celebrate.
Russ nodded slowly. Millicent had won one of the modeling competitions. As a judge, he supposed he owed it to her to help celebrate. As Heather’s fiancé, he supposed he owed it to her to spend time with her, to get acquainted, to see what he could do about rekindling the desire and love he must once have felt for her. As a man, he felt like none of the above.
“Great. Uh, where is it?”
“I’ll drive. You coming, Andrew?”
Andrew nodded. “If Millicent is coming out of her cocoon, I want to see it. Kenton is a jerk and he’s always done his best to cut off her contacts with her friends, any activities, anything that could make her less dependent on him. I don’t know if I can do a story on this, but I’d have to say you did good, Heather. Millicent has needed this for years. You, too, Russell.”
The three of them trooped to Heather’s car, a royal-blue Lincoln Navigator, and headed toward the outskirts of town.
Heather tossed Russ the keys and climbed into the front passenger seat, letting Andrew scramble into the back.
She gave him directions, acted as if it didn’t bother her that her fiancé didn’t even know his way around the town where he’d spent his entire life.
The Ugly Spot was aptly named. The parking lot might have been covered with gravel at some point, but years of rain, snow, and heavy truck tires had done a number on it. Now, the lot was a quagmire of mud and mud-covered trucks.
Fortunately, there was a parking place near the door and Russ didn’t have to engage the Lincoln’s four-wheel drive.
He got out, then walked around to the passenger door where Heather was patiently waiting.
Andrew beat him to it, opening the door and offering his arm to hand her down.
Should he feel jealous? It was obvious that Andrew had a major crush on Heather. He probed, but found a big emptiness.
“I can’t walk on this mud,” she said. “One of you big strong men is going to have to carry me in.”
Andrew jerked forward, his arms out, then pulled back, as quickly as if he’d hit a repulsion field. “Uh, I guess that’s your job, Russell. People might look at me funny if I came carrying in another man’s fiancée.”
Russ wanted to tell him to go ahead. But he knew he was sabotaging himself. How was he going to reacquaint himself with his fiancée, how was he going to rediscover his past, if he didn’t even try?
“Of course.”
Heather was tall with finely toned muscles. Still, she fit into his arms comfortably enough.
She threw her arms around his neck and snuggled close into his chest. “I’m ready, oh powerful beast of burden. Carry on.”
Since he’d parked close, it was only about a thirty-foot walk to the Ugly Spot’s front door. The mud slithered under his feet, but he managed to keep his balance even though Heather wiggled as she waved to different friends they passed.
Andrew pushed ahead to open the door for them and smiled, but Russ was certain that smile hid something less than happy. Andrew was jealous. He wanted Heather in his own arms. Well, Russ supposed that most of Missouri felt that way.
A wave of applause greeted them as he stepped into the bar, knocked the mud off his shoes, then placed Heather gently on her feet.
“You’ve always been my knight in shining armor,” she whispered in his ear.
He didn’t feel like a knight, though. He felt like a fool. He wasn’t doing right by Heather, by Cynthia, or most especially by himself.
Heather led her two-man entourage to the table where Millicent was holding court, air-kissed both the men and women there, and quickly summoned a waitress, ordering drinks for everyone in the house in celebration of Millicent’s abrupt liberation from abuse.
Russ recognized Charlie Daemon from the poker game he’d attended the night after he’d gotten together with Cynthia. Then, Charlie had been drunk—easy prey for the other poker players. Now, though, he seemed drunk on Millicent’s attention.
After the waitress delivered drinks, Charlie invited Millicent out to the dance floor and Heather pulled on Russ’s arm. “Come on. I want to dance too.”
He couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so gathered her up in his arms and stepped into a waltz.
She nestled close to him, her chin level with his shoulder, her long legs bringing her hips even with his own so her sex pressed lightly against his own.
It should be sexy, dammit. He was dancing with his fiancée, her perfect body pressed against his own, and he felt precisely nothing.
He dipped, then twirled her around. The curse of his amnesia had struck again. He remembered how to dance, all of the moves, the ways to make his partner look sexy and talented, the ways to make their bodies flow together in a simulation of lovemaking. But he couldn’t remember how he’d learned, who had taught him, or anything else about the people or places of his past. His mind was filled with useless information, but was missing everything it took to make him whole.
He twirled Heather again, then pulled her back to him, into the intimate clasp of the waltz, and saw Cynthia.
He froze.
She looked at him, at Heather in his arms, and tried to smile.
If a hand had ripped into his gut, grabbed hold of everything there, and jerked it out, he couldn’t have felt more pain. He didn’t want Cynthia to have to be brave for him, he wanted to support her.
Heather gave him a sharp look, then followed his gaze. “Oh. Hi Cynthia.”
Cynthia’s brittle smile faded and her chin gave the faintest of wobbles. “I was just—“
“Cynthia, I—“ he let his voice trail off. He what? Could explain? What was to explain? He was dancing with Heather. There was no law against that. Was there?
“You know, all of a sudden,
I think I should go.” Heather yanked herself out of his arms and snagged her keys from his tuxedo jacket. “See you around, Cynthia. Good bye, Russell.”
He stepped toward Cynthia. “We were celebrating—“
“You know, Russell, you don’t owe me anything. I understand lots of guys like a bit of action on the side. I can’t understand why you’d want me when you could have Heather, but I suppose I should be honored that you picked me out of all the women in Shermann. It just turns out that’s not what I’m looking for. Don’t worry, though. A hometown hero like you should have no problems getting laid.”
She ran toward the bar’s door, reaching it only seconds after it had slammed behind Heather.
“Good job, man.” Andrew offered him a brimful mug of beer. “I guess one of the things you forgot when you got that amnesia was how to deal with women. You used to be smooth.”
“Yeah? You really think I messed that up?”
Andrew missed his sarcasm. “Oh, yeah. Let me tell you just where you went wrong. You see, Cynthia is a nice girl. She works hard for the paper and she’s been handed nothing but grief her entire life. She doesn’t need more. So, fair warning, you give her more trouble and I’m going to come looking for you.
“I wish it were my job to protect Heather, too, but it isn’t.” He smacked his hand on his forehead in a faked gesture of surprise. “Hey, guess what, that’s your job. Good thing she’s tough. She doesn’t need a protector. She can make your life completely miserable all by herself, without any help from a guy like me.”
Andrew was crowding him, moving into his personal space in a way Russ recognized as male aggression. If he’d been in the right, he would have pushed back, let Andrew know he was fighting way out of his weight class. As it was, he knew he deserved everything Andrew threw at him.
“Hey, I’m feeling better already. Any other positive thoughts you want to send my way?”