Once a Charmer

by Sharla Lovelace

  “You need to go home, Al,” he said, his voice thick. “Before what we’re trying to avoid happens right here on this stage.”

  Holy mother of shit storms, that shouldn’t have been hot, but everything inside me lit up at those words. Just the imagery of primal, naked, wild and uninhibited sex with Bash under the stars was enough to take my breath away.

  He ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “Before it feels too good to stop.”

  It was already there in my book, but he was right. We’d just said all the right things, and understood all the same boundaries, just to fall back into each other mouths again two seconds later. Plus some. Every time we did this, there was a plus some.

  “Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes as he stepped back from me and I slid down to my feet, dizzy and unsteady with no blood in my head.

  I instantly missed him. The cool air had nothing on the awkward chill I felt without Bash wrapped around me. He walked me to my Jeep, and because I lost my spine somewhere back when he was groping me, before I got in, I turned and walked into his chest, wrapping my arms around him. I just wanted—I just needed to feel him one more time. To hug him, feel the solid warmth that I’d know was him in my sleep. He wound his arms around me and held on for longer than we probably should have, pressed a kiss to my head that he probably shouldn’t have, and finally made sure I was in my Jeep and safe just like he always had. All without saying a word.

  That embrace could have been any other day, month, or year in our lives, but it wasn’t. It was the one after the make out after the kiss after the nothing that meant everything. None of which should have happened, because while yay, great, we were open about it now, we still hadn’t mastered how to make the things work. Things we needed each other for, as part of that can’t-afford-to-lose business that kept getting pushed aside for magic tonsil hockey.

  And it was going to happen again, of that I was certain. Because it was a horrible idea, and that seemed to be in our wheelhouse.

  I was still trembling when I walked through my front door, and I shook my hands out.

  “Angel, I’m home,” I called out, trying to get my body back under control and stop reliving the feel of his hands roaming my skin and getting lost in his mouth.

  “Kitchen table,” she said, her voice sounding odd.

  Alarms went off in my head, and I almost ran around the corner as my heart sped up. Something was wrong. Something was—

  Angel sat there like a mafia princess, her hair spilling around her shoulders as a backdrop for my torn and ragged grocery bag full of money laid open on the table.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said. “Nice evening?”

  I stared at the money, still shocked every time I looked at it. Really shocked to see it sitting in front of her like a sacrificial offering. My eyes finally met hers.

  “You did laundry?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Really?” Angel said. She picked up one of the bundles of hundreds and waved it at me. “Laundry is the shock value here?”

  “That’s—”

  “That’s a shit ton of money,” she said.

  “Watch your language.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I don’t know how to talk when I find a hundred thousand dollars in our dryer.”

  Look calm.

  “You counted it?”

  “I’ve had some time,” she said. “You were busy.”

  I pulled out a chair and lowered into it, scrambling frantically for a spin. I was caught. I was busted. But I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that her Pop had a secret stash of cash his whole life, cash he’d found in a cave on the island of misfit toys with his magical friends. I couldn’t tell her it was mine, either. Or that the diner was in trouble. I rested my face in my hands and prayed for a believable answer.

  “It’s not my money,” I said. “I’m holding it.”

  “In the dryer?”

  “Let go of the dryer thing, Angel. It was a last minute—”

  “Is it illegal?” she asked.

  “No!” I cried. I didn’t think so. Mostly. Probably not. “It’s—Pop’s.” Okay, now what? “He won it on a big bet. A while back. And—I’m holding it for him because you know, he’s not really all there anymore, and so…”

  She was looking at me like I was a loon.

  She wasn’t far off.

  “And it’s not in the bank?” she asked. “It was where—his underwear drawer?”

  I clamped my lips together before I blurted out just how close she was.

  “I didn’t know about it, okay?” I said, deciding to go for a little truth. All the best lies have a foundation of truth. “I was surprised, too, and he asked me to take it and keep it safe.”

  “Safe from—what?” she asked.

  “He’s a gambler,” I said.

  “He’s housebound,” she retorted. “He had to be keeping it someplace better than the dryer.”

  “Angel,” I said, rubbing my face. “It’s been a really long day, followed by a whiplash of a night, so can we just agree that I stashed it someplace I figured you’d never go, and now we can put it somewhere better and go to bed?”

  She shook her head and got up from the table.

  “You—you are nine kinds of crazy,” she said.

  “And don’t mention this to anyone.” My eyes went wide. “Angel, you cannot tell anyone we have this kind of money in the house, do you hear me?”

  She gave me a look. “I’m aware, Mom.”

  “Not Aaron. Not anybody.”

  “I didn’t!” she said. “And I won’t. I was too terrified we were hooked up with the mob or something to tell anyone.”

  “Oh God,” I said on a sigh, laying my head on my arms. “If only it were that simple.”

  “You’re delirious,” she said. “Did you ever eat?”

  “No,” I said into the table.

  “Do you want some fruit or something?” she said, sounding genuinely worried for my mental state. “Um, a sandwich?”

  “A sandwich would be nice,” I said. “Fine. Good. Delicious.” I started to laugh a little maniacally. “Hey, can you be my assistant on Saturday and help me change my clothes in the middle of the park?” I asked.

  “My mom has gone insane,” she whispered on the way to the fridge.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  * * *

  “Kerri, Carmen Frost is coming by,” I called out on the way to my office after making my post breakfast rush rounds. “Send her back, please.” Saturdays were always crazier for breakfast. Everyone and their mother, aunt, cousin, and secret baby snuck out on Saturdays for someone else to cook for them. Not that one could ever be blamed for wanting that someone else to be Nick. He could make toast exciting.

  I always did my best to make it around the floor, helping the waitresses pick up and clean, filling drinks, ringing up orders, even helping Nick in the kitchen if he was swamped. With the easy stuff, anyway. I never wanted to short anyone on the exciting toast.

  Some owners—one I knew in particular—preferred to stay in the back and make worksheets and lists. Sometimes I had to do that, too, but I felt more in tune with my customers and just more alive while I was out there.

  Or I did before Lanie and Nick had a giant poster made for the bar and the door with my picture and VOTE FOR OUR VERY OWN ALLIE GREENE FOR HONEY QUEEN!

  “Ugh,” I said, passing it. Lange would have taken it down immediately if he’d been here, and for once I would have actually agreed with him.

  “You have my vote tonight, Allie,” said Mr. Wilson as I picked up his napkin for him.

  “Thank you,” I said, squeezing his shoulder and swallowing past the tennis ball-sized lump in my throat.

  The noise from t
he diner floor dulled to a low chatter as I circled into the back and pulled my door partially closed. I sank into my office chair and clicked my computer to life.

  “An assistant,” I muttered. “What the hell do I need an assistant for?”

  I’d been meaning to look for the e-mail for the past two days and hadn’t had a chance (or forgot), so tonight being the night, and Angel being by my side, I thought I’d better get this Girl Friday thing figured out.

  I scrolled frantically through my e-mail, looking for the idiotic message from Vonda. Or Kia. Or whoever sent me the crazy message rambling about quick change dividers in the park and assistants and did they think this was the Miss America Pageant or something? Seriously, this was about being a matriarch of honey. In Charmed. Bash made sense. His business actually was honey. He should be king. I wondered if he’d get to hold a staff and go shirtless.

  There was a knock on my office door, and I waved whoever it was in, grateful for the reason to shut my mind up. With Lange out, it was so much more freeing. Like it was just my diner again. Good Lord that seemed like a long time ago.

  “Hey you,” Carmen said, making me turn and smile. “You rang?”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “I have a favor to ask, and thought giving you a free meal might sweeten my odds.”

  “Uh oh,” she said, tossing her keys on my desk and landing on a stool. “What are you bribing me into?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Where’s MP?”

  “Man Purse is out of town till tomorrow,” I said, clicking on a message that might be the one. “And it’s about the contest tonight.”

  “I’m not taking your place,” she said casually. “No matter how tasty Bash looks in a suit. And I don’t know how to twirl fire batons.”

  “No fire batons,” I said. “They nixed the talent competition, thank God. But no, I’m not asking you to take my place. I’m supposed to have an assistant, and Angel said she’ll do it, but—” I paused. “She’s not the most reliable person. Can you possibly be on standby?”

  Her eyebrows lifted in amusement. “You need an assistant for this thing?”

  “Evidently,” I said. “I’m looking for the e-mail that’s supposed to tell me why. The only thing I know for certain is that I have to do a quick change behind some flimsy divider in the park before the grand finale, and I might need some help there.”

  “Getting naked in the park?”

  “Basically.”

  “I bet Bash would be glad to lend a hand,” she said, crossing her legs.

  And we would never make it to the bleachers.

  “Please?”

  “Of course, silly,” she said. “I’m just messing with you. I’ll even come hang out if Angel does come through. Sounds like an adventure.”

  “Sounds like the Twilight Zone,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “Ironic that you say that,” she said. “Sully said you had an—odd experience at Bailey’s place?”

  I dropped my hands and looked at her. “Carmen.”

  She was shaking her head. “Unexplainable?”

  “To any sane person,” I said.

  “What’s with the posters?”

  Carmen and I both jumped at the sudden presence of Landon Lange in the doorway.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Knock, maybe?”

  “To my own office?”

  “Uh, to my office,” I said. “I share out of the kindness of my heart. And Nick brought those posters to rally customers for the contest tonight.”

  “Isn’t that conflict of interest?” he said.

  “It’s a contest for business owners,” I said. “It brings attention to the diner.”

  “I don’t know if it’s the kind of attention we want,” Lange said.

  “It’s a small-town contest, representing a small-town diner, in a small town,” Carmen said. “It’s pretty much tailor made for what you should want.”

  Lange looked at her without blinking and then walked to the corner I’d put together for him with a table and chair so he’d stay away from my desk. He pulled a small laptop out of his man purse and sat down.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “I thought you were out of town.”

  “I was,” he said, tapping on the keyboard. “Came back a day early.”

  “I have something I need to talk to you about later,” I said. I didn’t want to waste any more time, but I couldn’t venture into the money with Carmen there.

  “Send me a calendar notice,” Lange said. “I had some mock-ups of new sign ideas made. I’m e-mailing them to you.”

  My jaw tensed. “I told you no.”

  “I told you it needed to change,” he said. “I’m being nice in giving you an opinion on choices, but I don’t have to. I’m happy to do it all myself.”

  “Lange—”

  He closed the computer in disgust. “That’s another thing. It’s Landon, which I’m perfectly fine with, or Mr. Lange, but we are not in the military or a locker room. I realize you grew up just short of barn level, living in a trailer park and all, but please don’t refer to me like that.”

  Speech failed me.

  “What the hell did you just say?” Carmen said, coming to her feet faster than I could even process the words.

  “Mom?”

  Carmen and I both spun around.

  “Angel!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just—walking around town, and thought I’d come talk to you for a minute,” she said, one eyebrow raised at Lange. “See if you’re ready for tonight.”

  “You were just walking fifteen blocks?” I asked. “You don’t walk three blocks.”

  “Well maybe I wanted some exercise,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Or maybe you’re grounded and you’re looking for any way to get out of the house, even stooping so low as to come see me.”

  “Wow, thank you for thinking so highly of me,” she said.

  “Thank you for thinking I’m a pushover,” I said.

  “I’ll thank the both of you to please stop bickering,” Lange said, not looking up.

  Angel pulled a smirk. “Who’s the gripey guy with the purse?” she whispered loudly.

  “Excuse me, it’s a messenger bag,” he said. “And the gripey guy owns this place, so…”

  She looked taken aback, and I wanted to go lunge onto on Lange’s laptop and slam his fingers in it.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “My family owns this place. My pop, actually.”

  “No,” Lange said, his tone disinterested. “He doesn’t anymore. I own more of a percentage. He’s a minority owner.”

  “What?” Angel said.

  “Angel,” I said. “This is business, honey. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “It’s basic math, Allie,” Lange said. “I own fifty-one percent. Your father owns forty-nine, and so do you by proxy.”

  Angel shook her head slowly. I felt like that’s what I looked like when I found out.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not right. Why—”

  “Oliver defaulted on some money owed,” Lange continued droning on as he stood and walked past her to the door, as if he were talking to an adult and not my teenage daughter.

  “Stop,” I said, getting to my feet. “Lange—Landon.”

  Carmen looked at me with a troubled expression as she attempted to corral Angel.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go out here. Let them talk business for a minute.”

  “And now I own a diner,” he continued, turning back to her, and unfortunately causing her to dig in her heels. “You’ve learned about business in school, right? It’s the American way. See how that works?”

  He disappeared through the doorway. If ever in my life there was a time to feel blinding rage-filled murderous thoughts, it was then. I didn’t even feel
that much hate toward her father when he left me alone and pregnant.

  Angel blinked and jerked her head at me. “Pop owed—no!”

  “Angel.”

  “No, Mom, he has money! You know he has money!” she said, running after him. “Hey!” she yelled.

  Oh, fuck.

  “Angel, quit,” I cried after her, glancing at Carmen and trying to keep her from overhearing. The staff from overhearing. The friggin town from overhearing. The balls were getting difficult to juggle and this was about to go very bad. “This stays at home!”

  “Mister!” she yelled from behind the counter. I ran up behind her just as Lange turned around. Along with about twenty other people. “You don’t have to do this, we can pay you. My Pop has—”

  “Stop.” I said through my teeth.

  She whirled around. “Mom, this is important,” she said, tears in her eyes. Damn it, she actually cared about this place. “You just let him take our diner? That money Pop won, give it to this dude!”

  I closed my eyes as I envisioned every ear in the restaurant going on super radar mode, and every mouth priming for afterward.

  “I will talk to him privately,” I said in a clipped tone under my breath. “Please stop making a spectacle.”

  Her jaw set and that cliff sensation hit me again. No.

  “We have Pop’s money,” she blurted, walking toward Lange. “Cash. It’s yours. Put it toward whatever he owes you and—”

  “Angel Elizabeth Greene,” I said, raising my voice. “Go. Home. Now.”

  The look she gave me ripped me apart. Like she didn’t know me at all. Sometimes I had that same look lately when I was getting ready in the mirror.

  “Seriously?” she said, two tears falling down her face. “You’re just—”

  “You don’t know all the facts, Angel, and you’re making it worse, so please stop talking,” I said, seething with anger. With embarrassment. With about as much self-loathing that could still fit in with everything else.

  “No, please,” Lange said on a laugh, holding up a hand. “Don’t stop on my account. This is entertaining.”

  Angel’s eyes turned to slits of pure disgust before she turned them on me. “This guy?” she whispered in a broken voice. “You’re giving it all away to this guy?” Her chest heaved with a frustrated sob. “You tell me to have integrity and not sell myself out, but you just sold our family out.”