by Virna DePaul
He returns my smile but his isn’t quite real, and I know he’s confused and trying not to show it. As we make our way back to my VW van, we hold hands, and I take comfort in the fact that Declan hasn’t pushed me to talk about whatever it is that’s going on in my mind. He’s letting me be, and I am so grateful.
Carter never let me be. Carter demanded to know every thought that went on in my head. He forced me to act a certain way, he controlled my work, my passion, my life.
Declan hasn’t been controlling my creativity—he’s been encouraging it. It makes my shoulders feel less heavy just thinking about it. I can be me. I really can.
It’s so refreshing to be just Kara to Declan, not Kara Hester. With him, surprisingly, I can be the girl I wanted to be before the business almost destroyed me.
For now, at least.
I’ve been drifting for so long that I’m not even sure I know how to make a real friendship that can sustain the test of time. All my friends from my days as a superstar disappeared from my life when I ran away—which told me clearly that they were not my real friends. And while I was still in touch with my parents—and saw them occasionally, even though I still held resentment that they’d tried to push me so hard to be a superstar—deep and lasting friendships weren’t easy to make when you’re on the road. I’d stay in a place for a couple of weeks, become friendly with some of the locals, but the minute I thought someone had recognized me, I’d pack up and head out.
But something about Declan has me hanging on to him—not clinging to him, but more like together we’re walking side by side, enjoying each moment as it comes and goes.
He’s good for me, I realize. And that makes me happy. So happy I wish I could keep that feeling.
Keep him.
Turns out, Declan’s completely incapable of managing an outdoor shower on his own, and I giggle endlessly as he struggles to angle his body under the cold stream that sluices away the saltwater.
A half hour later, we’re both squeaky clean and in a fresh change of clothes, and I get behind the wheel as Declan sticks his bare feet out the van window and clicks on the radio, cranking up the tunes. We don’t know where we’re going, but I’m enjoying the slow pace of the small beach towns, so I point the van south and keep the ocean on my left shoulder, taking back roads. When we stop at a gas station and I fill the tank, Declan gets snacks and coffee, then hops back in. Breakfast is a mishmash of stale donuts, bananas, and potato chips, and it’s delicious. The coffee not so much, but I’m not complaining—not when a gorgeous man is feeding me chips as I drive.
Three hours later we come to another small beach town, this one a little bigger than Mudflat Landing.
We grab some turkey sandwiches for lunch and eat at a picnic table in a little park that looks out over the ocean. The sun is warm and the gentle breeze coming off the ocean feels good on my skin. When I’m done with my sandwich, I’m about ready to go dip my feet in the water, but a tinkling sound catches my attention.
“Look!” I point, excitedly, at the ice cream truck driving slowly along the road fronting the beach. Declan is all smiles, and he races over and gets us two ice cream cones, chocolate for him and strawberry with rainbow sprinkles for me.
We enjoy our ice cream cones under the warm sun, and as I pop the last little bit of cone into my mouth, Declan leans toward me.
“You have a spot…” He gently dabs at a spot near the corner of my mouth.
I can’t stop myself from touching his finger with my tongue. His eyes darken. My belly tightens, and I have a feeling if it weren’t broad daylight in the middle of a park, he’d haul me into his arms and have his way with me.
I shiver. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he did try something right here and now.
He just smiles, like he knows exactly that I’m thinking.
I hop off the bench, a burst of energy filling me. Declan follows me, not protesting that I have yet to figure out any particular destination. We wander through town, and I love leaning against him as we wander aimlessly up and down the sidewalk.
When I see the sign—Community Sock Hop Fundraiser! All Welcome!—in the window of a local bookstore, I stop, a memory hitting me. Back when I was first starting out, right after I signed with Carter, I’d been asked by the town council in my hometown to appear at a fundraising masquerade bash, one of those events where you dressed up and wore a sparkly mask. The council thought my name would be an attraction and they’d get more money for the new after-school program they were putting together. I was excited, especially because my biggest crush in high school had asked me if I’d be his date.
But then Carter told me that big stars didn’t go to small-town events like that. It would diminish my reputation to be seen at something that hokey and that small. I was destined for greater things, he’d said. I had my image to think about.
He’d made me turn down the offer and tell the boy I couldn’t go. I was bewildered at first, and then heartbroken when Carter told me the boy who asked me only did so because I got a record deal.
“Everybody wants something from you, Kara,” Carter had told me. “I’m here to protect you.”
I’d believed him then, only to realize a few years later that the person who wanted the most from me was Carter and protecting me was the last thing he wanted to do.
Something coils in my belly: longing, sadness. It’s stupid, but I hate that I didn’t get to have fun like a regular teenager. I missed out on so much because Carter and my parents were determined to make me a star. My childhood had disappeared overnight before I could blink.
Declan touches my arm, forcing me back into the present. “Do you want to go?”
I shake my head automatically. But I can’t say the denial out loud. Still, my gaze is drawn to the sign. I can’t help it. I just want to feel like that wide-eyed girl again. I want my innocence back, I guess.
“There are a few things I do well,” Declan says, “and dancing is one of them.”
I give him a look. “Don’t tell me you know how to swing dance.”
He grins and nods. “Sure do. I’m great at it. We should go,” he says excitedly. “Let me show you what I can do with you on a dance floor. Besides, I can tell by the way you were looking at the flyer you want to go.”
“I mean…”
He grins, his eyes lighting up with the idea. “Let’s do it. Come on, don’t you want to live a little, Kara?”
He’s clearly teasing with the “live a little” line, given how I’ve dragged him from one town to the next and almost gotten us arrested, not to mention our awesome time painting last night and having sex under the stars. We’ve been “living a little” together for two days.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I say, excitement buzzing in my belly.
“Excellent.” He takes my hand, and I can’t help but laugh. I’m giddy with happiness.
“We can’t go dressed as we are,” I say.
“We passed a vintage shop a block back. Maybe we can find something there. A pretty dress for you, with petticoats.”
“And an orange tuxedo for you,” I tease. “In polyester.”
Declan groans. “Pretty sure they didn’t have those in the fifties, and pretty sure I’d look awful in anything orange, but let’s see what we can come up with.”
With our hands still joined, we head back down the street, as if we’ve been a couple forever.
Chapter 9
DECLAN
* * *
Kara drags me into the vintage clothing store, which is really just a thrift store with lots of clothes with indeterminate scents. When the lone salesclerk comes over to ask if we need any help, Kara sends her a blinding smile. “We’re going to the Sock Hop tonight and need outfits. Is this all you have left?”
The salesclerk nods. “I’ll look in the back. I think there are a few new things we haven’t put out yet.”
When the salesclerk leaves, I go to Kara’s side. She grins and holds up yellow material that’s more tutu than dress.
“How about this?”
“For me?” I drawl. “I’m flattered, but I’m not a big fan of showing my knees.”
She sticks out her tongue right as the salesclerk returns with a few more dresses. Kara takes them back into the dressing room, leaving me to wander around the store.
Oh God. There it is. I could spot that ‘80s powder blue color from a mile away. The tuxedo is so damn ugly I can’t help but smile. Sure, it doesn’t fit the 1950s theme, but it’ll do, especially since it’s the only tux in the shop. I grab it off the garment rack and take it to the dressing room, glad it doesn’t smell of mothballs. I’m both surprised and pleased to find that it mostly fits. It’s a little tight in the arms, and under the glaring fluorescent lights of this dressing room, I look like I’m ready for Easter. Might as well grab the neon shoelaces and Tom Cruise style Ray-Bans while we’re at it.
Both Kara and I emerge from our rooms at the same time. When she sees me in the tux, her beautiful blue eyes go wide and she bursts out laughing.
“That’s amazing.” She pats the ruffles on the shirt and admires the matching bow tie. “I mean, truly amazing. In a garish, 1985 kind of way. What do you think of my dress?”
I take her in as she twirls. The yellow dress is sleeveless with little straps over her shoulders and a tight bodice that accentuates her curves. The skirt is wide and full and has layers underneath it that swish around her calves. Her tattoos are vivid against the sunny yellow, which is such a lovely complement to her golden skin. She looks like a naughty version of Sandy from Grease, yet at the same time, it’s totally her.
“I love it.”
Before she can protest, I kiss her. She tastes like her strawberry ice cream, and she makes that little noise in her throat that I love. I deepen the kiss, until I hear the salesclerk clear her throat behind us.
I pull away and give the salesclerk a conciliatory smile. “Sorry, but my date is simply irresistible.”
The saleslady just sniffs and heads to the register.
Kara and I are trying to restrain our laughter until we leave, but it’s a close call. By the time we get our bags of terrible clothes and burst from the shop, we’re laughing like maniacs.
We manage to find shoes at a little shop down the way, and when I pull out my AmEx and pay without even asking Kara if she minded that I got this one, I notice Kara giving my card and then me a strange look. I’m reminded that for all she knows, I’m a beach bum.
We change in the van, bumping into each other and laughing, both of us resisting the temptation to set the rig a-rockin’. I can tell this event is something Kara’s excited about, and I want to give her all the fun she can take in. Besides, there’s always later tonight, when I can get her alone and slowly unzip her dress, watching as her breasts spill out, ready for me to take her nipples into my mouth and—
I shut down that thought and shortly after we’re at the community center where the Sock Hop is being held. Community members dressed in fun outfits—everything from long evening gowns to zoot suits or poodle skirts—are wending their way inside. At the door, I pay for our tickets and drop a hundred-dollar bill into the glass donations box. This time Kara’s too busy checking out the other participants to notice how much the beach bum donated.
This was my idea at first, but Kara totally has it in her capable and amazing hands. All I’ve got to do is follow along and be her hot, sexy date in the powder blue tux. As she takes me by the arm, I feel like I could go anywhere with her. We could forget going to the Sock Hop and instead head back to the car, pick a destination, and just drive there. The horizon has opened up, there are no rules, there are no routines, there are no ‘shoulds’ or ‘have-tos’. I’m going where Kara is going, and that’s perfect with me.
A live band is already playing, making the community center walls almost shake from the bass. Sounds like Chuck Berry. We follow the sound of music and voices, eventually ending up in a large auditorium that has been decorated with streamers and ribbons with a disco ball hanging overhead.
An Elvis song starts playing, and Kara turns toward me. “Wanna dance with me?”
Did I ever.
Kara’s a great partner, even though her experience with swing is non-existent. She’s eager to learn, though, and has a great sense of athleticism, so some of the more intense swing moves are easy with her as a partner. We garner a little attention, but some of the couples on the floor were around in the ‘50s and can really put on the moves in an authentic way. One couple is so charming, and the way the husband swings his wife around and gathers her back up in his arms, love shining in his eyes, makes something squeeze in my chest.
The band takes a break and recorded music comes on, something not conducive to partner dancing, and Kara and I break hold and let loose to the beat.
I love watching Kara dance, her hair falling down around her shoulders. She dances like no one is watching, and it’s mesmerizing. Throwing herself totally into the music, she closes her eyes and moves her body to the rhythm. She’s so full of life that I envy her.
Here I am, killing myself with work, and for what? To send myself to the hospital with exhaustion and dehydration and be forced to take a vacation because I’ve pushed myself too hard?
It makes me want to reevaluate my own life, which is both terrifying and exhilarating. Kara makes me think things—consider things—that never crossed my mind before. I’m not sure how she does it, but maybe it’s because I want what she has.
Freedom.
More and more I understand why she left the business. If what she said in her one interview was true, she was totally stifled. Controlled. Probably miserable and angry, if I had to guess. Nobody abandons a career as big as hers without good reason.
The song ends and a new one comes on, one with a slow tempo and a haunting refrain. It reminds me so much of Kara’s big hit. That “Fingerprints” song, the one about leaving fingerprints of love on the heart. Yeah, it sounded like this.
I sweep Kara into my arms. She moves with me, her cheek against my jacket lapel, her hips swaying along with mine. I hold her tenderly. My arms circle around her back, and my hands are on her waist. Her warmth is all I need, just her being here. I start humming along with the song, and I think to myself, that I would actually love, in this tiny, perfect moment, to tell her I know who she really is.
But that would ruin everything.
I know what she’d do. She’d run from me. She’d leave, when all I want is for her to be closer, to get her closer. I open my mouth to say it, because I really don’t want to live this lie anymore. But then, I don’t. I don’t say anything.
Kara pulls back and kisses me. It’s beautiful, kissing her like this, with the disco ball lights dappling us. The feel of her cheek under my finger, my other arm circled around her dress. It’s just perfect. When the kiss ends, she rests her head on my shoulder and presses her body close to mine as we sway to the beat of the song.
I find myself quietly singing along, a song I recall my parents singing to each other when I was young. Five years ago my mother died, and remembering the time when I still had her chokes me up. I stop singing.
“You’ve got a good voice there,” Kara says dreamily when the song ends. “Did you take lessons?”
“Um, guitar lessons, yeah. Early stuff—Beatles, Elvis. I just like to sing, is all.”
She snuggles against me. “Me, too.”
I want to say I know. I know you can sing. You have one of the best voices I’ve ever heard. But instead, I just nod and half-shrug, and say the lamest thing I can think of. “That’s great.”
Yeah, Declan, you really are becoming more and more of a schmuck. That’s the thing, though. Every time I want to tell her who I am and that I know who she is, I find some good reason not to.
Don’t run, Kara. You’ve run from Carter and run from your own passion for music. I don’t want you to run from me.
I realize the music has faded away and the crowd grows silent. All eyes turn to the stage, which is em
pty except for a drum set and the microphones.
I glance at Kara to see her wearing the same questioning look I have. People who’d been dancing next to us start murmuring and shuffling where they stand.
Suddenly an older woman appears on the stage and heads to one of the microphones. “Um, ladies and gentlemen,” she says, then stops speaking when the mic squeals. She backs up a step and I hear Kara whisper, “Closer. Get closer to the mic or it will squeal again.”
Another squeal, then the woman starts again. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Mayor Caldwell. We have a great turnout tonight, and we still want to give out prizes for the best dancing couple, but unfortunately Bob got sick and Dell’s taking him to the hospital. So I’m sorry, but—”
She stops speaking when a collective groan goes through the crowd. “Hold on, folks, we’re exploring a couple of options.” She then steps off the stage to confer with a group of people I’m thinking is the town council.
As the crowd murmurs, I pick up from bits and pieces of conversations that Bob was the singer and Dell the guitarist.
I turn to Kara, wondering if it’s time we call it quits and head back to the van, hoping she’s not too disappointed.
Kara, though? Her eyes are bright, excited. She flashes me a grin.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
Right back? I reach for her, but she’s gone, wending her way through the crowd of dancers. I’m not sure where she’s going or what she plans to do, but by now I know Kara—whatever she’s planning on doing, it will be fun.
A couple of minutes pass, with the crowd slipping away from the dance floor to the refreshments table. If the mayor and town council don’t come up with a plan, they’ll lose their crowd, and maybe the donations they’d hoped to gain tonight.
