Bad Girl

by T. E. Woods

  She let her mind drift back six months. She’d been living, but just barely. Most days getting by on one cheap meal and free coffee refills. Sleeping wherever she could find. Because of what Alden York, Denton Fulcraft, and the Church of Today taught her, she now had a secure place to come home to every night. Good people who smiled at her when she came to church on Sunday. A job she was good at, a savings account with two thousand dollars in it, and another hundred in cash in an envelope tucked in the bottom of her underwear drawer.

  Fulcraft leaned back. “You get closer every day to having everything you want. Everything God wants you to have.” He kept his eyes on her for several seconds. “Which brings me to another topic.”

  His shift in tone put her on high alert.

  “Tell me about Chuck Colby.” His voice left no room for dissent.

  “How do you know Chuck?”

  “Tell me about your relationship with him.” Miranda had never heard him speak in such a stern way.

  “Chuck’s a good old boy. Works with me down at ImEx.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “He keeps the grounds lookin’ good. MidWest ImEx covers a lot of space. Grass and parking lots. Chuck works the crew that keeps it all clean and lookin’ nice.”

  “Is he the head groundskeeper?”

  Miranda recalled his earlier words. When the bishop talked about a certain station. She was suddenly embarrassed for Chuck. “No. Chuck’s the guy behind the broom. Or the snow shovel. Depends on the season.”

  Denton J. Fulcraft was silent long enough for Miranda to squirm in her chair. Her cheeks flushed. She looked away, hoping to keep her obvious shame from the bishop’s gaze.

  “Tell me about your time with Chuck. The time you spend in the maintenance shed behind the warehouse.”

  Miranda’s humiliation burned down her spine and turned her legs to molten rubber.

  “Is this the thanks you give Alden?” Fulcraft roared. “Or me?”

  Miranda swallowed hard. “This got nothin’ to do with how grateful I am to you and Alden. But I’m a grown woman. And a woman’s got needs.”

  “Is Chuck Colby the man you want beside you? On top of you? Are his calloused and stained hands the ones you want to feel against your skin?”

  She said nothing, too ashamed to even meet his gaze.

  “Answer me!”

  “I…I don’t know. All’s I know is I’m workin’ as hard as I can.” She fought against her own humiliation. With every pounding beat of her heart she felt a growing indignation for the bishop’s effort to defame her. She raised her eyes to meet his. “I can’t deny who I am. Or what my body needs. If you’re about to tell me it’s a sin, I gotta tell you I heard it all before. From the PTA ladies back home to the preacher on the corner. But I can’t believe God would give any of us such a longin’ just to set us up to burn in some fire-and-brimstone scary tale when we act on what He put in us! Maybe Chuck ain’t who you think he oughta be. Hell, maybe he ain’t even who I think he oughta be. But he’s here. He’s young, like me. He gets the same itches I get, and we scratch ’em for each other. I don’t bring him out to Alden’s place. I got enough respect for the man and his house.”

  She stopped her rant, suddenly aware that if she overstepped whatever line the bishop might have in his mind, she was one phone call away from being turned out of ImEx and that comfy guesthouse by the pool. She realized she should probably bow her head. Let the bishop think she was sorry. But her survival instinct had kicked in. She needed to keep her eyes on him to catch his next move the moment he decided to make it. It was several long minutes before he spoke.

  “Miranda, do you recall the promises I asked you to make when you decided to enter into our Each One Teach One program?”

  “I do.” Where was he going with this? “Never lie. Never steal. Never refuse to do all I can to benefit from all God wants me to have.”

  “Do you recall what I promised would happen should you ever break one of those promises?”

  She nodded. “I’d be asked to leave. That day. No second chances. But you never said nothin’ about sex. And when you asked me, I told you. Straight up.”

  The bishop reflected on her words. Then he nodded. “I should have been more explicit.” His tone was kinder now. “Miranda, I’m aware of a young person’s needs. I was twenty-four once myself. How about you and I strike a deal? I’ll not pass judgment on how you meet your…let’s say your fundamental needs if you promise never to fill those needs in any way, at any place, or with anyone who might bring disgrace to you. Promise me you’ll honor what God wants for you in every regard. Even…perhaps especially in this one. Can you promise me that?”

  Miranda nodded.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard.

  “And are you a woman who keeps her promises, Miranda?”

  She was eager to get out of that office. She pulled herself up and out of the chair, straightened her spine, and stood as tall as she could. “I’m a woman who always knows that what I want is mine for the taking. And I’m a woman who always keeps my promises.”

  Chapter 9

  Sydney wiggled under the covers, inching her way closer to the warmth of Clay’s sleeping body. She curled herself into his side and pulled one of his arms around her waist.

  “Your butt is cold.” His deep voice rumbled against the back of her neck.

  “It won’t be in a second. Go back to sleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Hush,” she whispered. “It’s Christmas Eve morning. One is never allowed to look at a clock on Christmas Eve morning.”

  “Is that a New Testament thing?”

  “It’s part of the Santa Code. Now go back to sleep.” She glanced out the windows of her high-rise. Soft rays of pink brightened the gray dawn. She closed her eyes and focused on the rhythmic pattern of Clay’s breath.

  Perfection. Just us. No worries. No drama. Just me and Clay in each other’s arms.

  She felt him draw even closer to her. His hand pulling away from her waist to caress her bare shoulder. His lips on the back of her neck.

  “That’s not the way to get back to sleep,” she whispered.

  His hand found its way down her arm. Then back to her shoulder where it lingered for a moment before tracing her body downward to her waist…her hip. A warm, fluid sensation drifted through her. Her already relaxed body melted even more.

  “How about you turn around?” His throaty request was tinged with urgency. His fingers had found their way to her thigh, teasing the hem of her silk nightgown. A deep moan escaped her own throat. She rolled to face him. For a moment, their breaths mingled. She saw the glaze of desire in his gray eyes before he lowered his lips to her neck. Her body surged forward into his, and she surrendered to a craving as eternal as the Christmas star.

  * * *

  —

  Twenty minutes later they resumed their earlier spooned position. Drowsiness disappeared, replaced by the languid ease that always accompanied their lovemaking. She ran her foot up and down his leg as they drifted in a cocoon all their own.

  “How late is the Low Down staying open tonight?” she asked him.

  “Eight o’clock. There’s no headliner. It’ll just be me on the piano. I figure we’ll be slow. Maybe a few last-minute shoppers wanting to come in for a sip of sanity before starting the holiday fuss. How about you?”

  “Hush Money’s open from five till eight. We’re doing something different tonight that will let me close the doors right at eight so my crew can get home to their families.”

  “What about the Ten-Ten?”

  “That’s another story. Roscoe wasn’t buying the whole close-early plan I suggested. It took every persuasive argument I had to get him to finally agree to close on Christmas Day. He says cops and firefighters need to know t
he place is there for them when they get off shift. Christmas Eve is a busy night for first responders. Roscoe wants to stay open. His crew does, too. We’re not advertising it, but we’ll have those same trays of food folks are paying for at Hush Money available free to whoever wants to drop by the Ten-Ten.”

  “That’s nice. So what’s our plan?”

  “I can brew coffee.”

  “Not for breakfast. I mean for tonight. It’s our first Christmas, Syd. Let’s meet back here at nine o’clock. I’ve got a special bottle of wine perfect for celebrating. We can sit in front of the fireplace, light the tree, and share gifts. Then we can get right back in this bed. How’s that sound?”

  He didn’t invite her to his house, and she was grateful. She’d made it clear to him that while she was happy to visit his home for dinner or game night, as long as Steel was staying with his father, she wouldn’t be sleeping in the room across the hall.

  “What’s Steel up to tonight?”

  “He’ll be with Miranda. She’s got something planned. I’ll see him Christmas Day.”

  She knew Clay and Steel’s Christmas plans revolved around dinner with Miranda, but said nothing. She’d told Clay about crossing paths with Steel and his mother while she and Ronnie were shopping. A brief, uncomfortable discussion had followed. Sydney made it clear she didn’t like hearing about Clay’s date with his ex-lover, who happened to be the mother of his son, from Miranda. Clay countered by saying he kept it quiet in an effort to avoid just the kind of awkwardness in which they found themselves.

  “What choice do I have?” he’d said. “It’s the one thing Steel asked me to do. The kid’s had nineteen holidays without his mom. If sharing a dinner table with Miranda for a couple of hours means fulfilling my son’s wildest fantasy, I’m sure as hell going to do it.”

  She’d chastised herself for succumbing to some jealous tug she knew she had no business indulging. They hadn’t mentioned Christmas Day since.

  Sydney lifted her head off the pillow and looked toward the clock.

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock!” She tossed back the covers and scrambled out of bed. “I’ll hop in the shower if you’ll make the coffee. How’s that sound?”

  “Let’s grab breakfast down on the square.” Clay stretched himself long and slow while still tangled in blankets and sheets. “We can relax over eggs and watch the harried frenzy of this joyous season bustle around us.”

  She gave him a grin before heading into the master bath. “You’re one sick man, Clay Hawthorne.”

  * * *

  —

  Anita Saxon was the first to greet her when Sydney walked into Hush Money. Though it was just past three-thirty in the afternoon, Anita wore a floor-length, one-shouldered sheath of ivory velvet, which accentuated her ebony skin in a way that turned her into a walking piece of priceless sculpture. A braided gold belt wrapped around her slim waist. Her only other adornment was her heavy sommelier’s medallion, which hung from her neck like an Olympic medal.

  “We’ve set the tables with small plates. Forks only.” Anita handed Sydney a printed list of suggested wine pairings. “You’ll see I’m making limited suggestions. The wines are superb and will be a smash with each of Chef’s creations.” Anita’s Kenyan accent lent a musical lilt to her speech. “Things will be as simple as possible for our guests. I’m sure they have many other things to fuss over on this particular night.”

  Sydney nodded. “Not to mention it will lighten the load on the back of the house.”

  “Precisely. If we keep up the pace, close the doors at the stroke of eight, I see no reason why everyone couldn’t be out of here by eight-twenty. You look especially lovely, by the way.”

  Sydney looked down at her own emerald satin dress. It hugged her body before flaring out at a hemline that hit just above her knees. “Thank you. I wore my sparkliest earrings in a salute to Christmas trees everywhere.”

  “I like your hair up like that,” Anita commented. “You have the neck of a swan. You should showcase it more often.”

  “Syd!”

  Sydney turned to see her mother hurrying across the dining room, a look of grim determination on her face.

  “I’ll double-check the stemware,” Anita said. “This looks like a crisis headed your way.”

  Sydney touched a grateful hand to Anita’s shoulder before turning back to greet her mother.

  “Merry Christmas, Mom!”

  “You won’t think it’s so merry once you step into that kitchen.”

  “Roland?”

  “Come on. But stay behind me. I’ve lived my life. If things start flying, I’ll shield you with my own body.”

  Syd wondered if Roland Delmardo’s penchant for the dramatic was rubbing off on her mother as she followed her into the cavernous Hush Money kitchen. Her kitchen staff clustered together at one end of the space. On the other side, looming tall behind a long stainless steel counter, like a giant chocolate monster about to destroy a village, was her award-winning chef.

  “Merry Christmas, everyone.” Sydney gave what she hoped was a confident smile to the staff at the east end of the kitchen. “And especially to you, Chef.” She stepped toward him. “Anita tells me your array of tempting delights is beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.”

  “That has been transformed into a nightmare!” Roland boomed. He ran a hand over his bald head as he turned one flawless pirouette. “No! Something even worse. It’s become a…a…” He snapped his fingers rapidly in the air. “Someone provide me with a cataclysmic image beyond nightmare!”

  “How about that guy in the hockey mask from those horror movies?” An acne-scarred kid called out across the room. All eyes turned toward him. Sydney recognized him as their newest hire. Xander. A junior at West High. He’d started as a dishwasher a week ago. “Man, if that dude ever crept up on me, I’d drop a load for sure! How’s that?”

  “Yes!” Roland howled. “A masked fiend has invaded my kitchen! Slashing his way through! His knife finding a home in my heart. I’ve slaved weeks designing this menu. Agonized over spicing and saucing. Perfection was my intention, and of course, it was fully realized. I would overwhelm each guest with the pacing and building of tastes and aromas so that even the miracle of God taking the form of an infant in a manger would disappear from their collective minds. There’d be no hope for carols or hymns. No interest in gifts or tradition. They’d be focused only on the brilliant repast Roland Delmardo had created for them.”

  “Just what did this slasher do to you?” Nancy asked.

  Roland slid a large pink pastry box down the slick counter. Nancy blocked it from going over the edge with her right hip. Sydney stepped forward and opened the lid.

  “What the heck is this?” She pulled out what looked like a red-and-white striped fan, no larger than her thumbnail. The fan drooped at one end. It was one of dozens in the box. At first Sydney thought they were plastic. But as she held the grotesque blob, her fingers became sticky.

  “That is supposed to be a delicate snowflake. I must have rejected thirty designs before I found the exact one I wanted. I contracted with the finest candy maker in the county. Each little snowflake was to adorn my demi-cup of white chocolate mousse. A whimsical piece of peppermint lace accenting the perfect Christmas Eve dessert.” Roland turned a venomous glare to his staff cowering on the opposite side of the kitchen. “But someone put the box on the shelf next to the oven. When it was time to decorate the mousse, all was lost.” His defiant stare became a pout when he turned his attention back to Sydney. “They each deny their crime. You’ll need to bring in a lie detector. Or grab a cop right now from the establishment at the other end of that hallway of yours.” He stabbed an angry finger at his crew. “Nobody moves until the detectives arrive!”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Sydney looked again in the box. “Somebody get me a plastic bag. Something with a ziplock to
p.”

  “That’s right, girl.” Roland slipped into the Southern patois of his youth as he always did when he felt morally superior. “Bag that evidence for the po-lice. Keep the fingerprints in place, too.”

  No one moved.

  “We open at five o’clock!” Sydney said. “Get me that bag. Now!”

  One sous chef broke away, went to a drawer, and returned with a quart-sized bag. Sydney thanked her as she transferred the peppermint globules from the box to the bag.

  “I need a mallet,” she said after she zipped it tight.

  Roland Delmardo fluttered a hand to his chest and stepped back. “You can’t beat them all! You’ll get blood all over that gorgeous ensemble! Let the five-o handle this.”

  Sydney ignored him. “Windy? A mallet, please?”

  The sous chef pulled a seafood mallet from a hook overhead. “This do?”

  “Perfect.” Sydney took the heavy tool and hammered several times on the bag. She stopped, surveyed the contents, then took a few more whacks.

  “Roland, bring me one of those demi-cups.”

  Her chef kept his eyes on the mallet in Sydney’s hand as he stepped over to the glass-fronted refrigerator and pulled out one of his desserts. He slid it down the counter, seemingly not wanting to get any closer to the deranged woman wielding the steel hammer.

  Sydney held up the cup. “You’re serving it in this? Not on a plate?”

  “Just like that,” Roland answered. “It’s hors d’oeuvres night, remember?”

  She nodded. Then she reached into the bag and pulled out a pinch of what was now tiny chunks of peppermint. She used her fingers to allow them to drift onto the top of the whipped froth of Roland’s dessert. When she was finished, she held it up for his inspection. “Voila! White chocolate mousse with peppermint snow. Now. Everyone. It’s Christmas Eve. Can we please get through this with as minimal bloodshed as possible?”