A Shot of Sultry

by Macy Beckett

  She freed her hand and rested it in her lap. “What did you have in mind?”

  He dipped his chin, giving her a pointed look. “The opportunity of a lifetime. A dream job.” When she widened her eyes in surprise, he continued. “I convinced my dad to finance a documentary on the corruption and greed within military contracting. You know, paying crooks a hundred dollars an hour to drive supply trucks and billing the taxpayers for it.”

  Bobbi straightened. “There’s a reason they’re paid so much.” She’d seen pictures of servicemen and women—both civilian and active duty—recovering in burn wards. They earned extra pay for navigating land mine-filled roads because nobody else wanted the task. And Trey. They hadn’t discussed his salary, but she hoped he was being well-compensated for risking his life in Dubai.

  “Yeah.” Derek sniffed in that arrogant way of his. “Because Uncle Sam keeps feeding the fat cats.”

  Fat cats? Who actually said that anymore? She shook her head.

  “Hear me out, Beebs. We’ll co-shoot it, and I’ll give you top billing. This’ll put you back where you belong.” With a casual but cautious shrug, he slid a flirtatious glance at her to test the waters, the kind that used to melt her insides. “And I’ve missed you. Imagine it: you and me in the Middle East, taking on The Man. We’d make a great team.”

  She could picture it, but the mental image left her cold. The thought of spending months in Derek’s close company turned her stomach, and not in a good, somersault kind of way. But she couldn’t dismiss this opportunity based on emotions. That was just as irresponsible as her previous mistake of trusting him blindly.

  “I can’t give you an answer right now,” she said. “Let me think about it.”

  He wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled garbage. “What’s to think about? I just gave your career back on a silver platter. If we do this right—and you know we will—we’re talking award-winning material here. It’s a no-brainer.”

  “It’s not that simple. I can’t just take off.” She bit her lip, then confessed, “I’m in a bind.” Over the next few minutes, she explained her Garry Goldblatt predicament while Derek listened, nodding in businesslike understanding. “So,” she finished, “I have to give him new episodes, or repay the advance. Maybe a penalt—”

  Derek cut her off with a wave. “Not a problem. I’ll have the old man bail you out.”

  Her arm froze in place, mid-reach for the ice water. “What?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  Bobbi managed to lower her arm, but she couldn’t form an articulate response. Holy greenbacks. How much money did his family have? And if cash was no object, why the hell hadn’t Derek offered to pay her attorney’s fees, or help cover a portion of what the judge had awarded Smyth after the lawsuit?

  “Beebs,” he said, “let me do this for you. I spent the last year feeling like pond scum for what happened.”

  She couldn’t think. Too many conflicting thoughts were pinging off the inner walls of her mind. “Give me a minute to process this.”

  He smiled and sat back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself. “Sure, babe.”

  The waiter arrived bearing drinks, and Bobbi’s vodka tonic barely made contact with the table before she scooped it up and nursed it like an addict. As she sipped the tart libation, she listed the pros and cons of accepting Derek’s offer.

  While it would give her what she’d wanted most—career redemption—she wasn’t sure she agreed with the message behind the project. Wouldn’t that make her a hypocrite? Did that even matter? People committed far worse atrocities to get ahead in life. If she really wanted to succeed, maybe she should do whatever it took.

  She swirled the frigid drink in her hand, listening to the ice cubes tinkle and clink against the crystal. Her mind told her to accept Derek’s offer, but her spirit begged her to reconsider. She glanced at him, still uncertain of what to say, when a baby wailed from a nearby table and tore her attention away from business.

  When she glanced over her shoulder toward the clamor, her fingers went slack. She dropped her drink. She heard Derek scramble to dab at the mess with his napkin, but nothing, not even the icy liquid pooling in her lap, could tear her gaze away from the dimpled cheeks of the blond infant peering at her from above his mother’s shoulder.

  It was her baby—the spitting image of the son she’d envisioned during her brief pregnancy scare. In an instant, all the emotions she’d battled in Trey’s bathroom the night she’d lost that phantom child swelled inside her until tears pressed against her eyelids.

  The boy wailed again, and his mother bounced him in a soothing rhythm that quieted his cries. The woman sat opposite her husband, who handed a pacifier across the table and murmured something that made his wife laugh. They looked so happy together—one lid, one pot, and the breathtaking life they’d created together.

  Bobbi’s chest burned with an envy she couldn’t quench, and it was then she knew what she truly wanted. Not a stellar reputation or a shelf lined with Golden Calf awards. She wanted her other half, and that was Trey. No one else would fit. And someday, she wanted to bear his towheaded son. She saw her future play out like studio footage—Trey carrying her over the threshold of his home, their first Thanksgiving meal at his tiny kitchen table, his hand resting atop her rounded belly during their first ultrasound—the images so striking and poignant it sent one, plump tear trailing down her cheek.

  “Hey.” Derek tugged at her sleeve. “Where’d you go?”

  Slowly, she returned to him and used her napkin to blot the tonic dripping down her legs. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  “Breeders.” He nodded at the family and snorted disdainfully. “It’s not enough that they ruin the planet with their giant eco footprint, they have to ruin our meals too? They shouldn’t let kids in here.”

  Trey had been right, Derek really was a dick. But then she realized that if it weren’t for Derek’s lies and the Smyth catastrophe, she never would have agreed to film Sex in the Sticks to begin with. She never would have met Trey.

  The translucent hair on her arms stood on end. Bobbi had never believed in fate, but now she saw her life’s most devastating obstacles had served a greater purpose. They’d led her to Trey. To her one and only lid.

  Smiling so widely she must have seemed insane, she told Derek, “No.”

  He searched her face a moment. “No, what?”

  “I don’t want the job.” She grabbed her handbag and stood from the table, sending an errant ice cube to the floor. Forget lunch, she had a proposition for Garry Goldblatt, and it couldn’t wait another minute. “I forgive you, so forgive yourself.”

  “Beebs,” Derek asked, holding out one hand in concern, “are you okay?”

  “Not yet.” She wouldn’t feel whole until she’d won back her Golden Boy. “But I will be.” Before leaving him stunned and alone, she added, “Thanks, Derek. You changed my life.”

  Chapter 20

  Trey foamed his cheeks with shaving gel, careful to avoid the sensitive bruise along his jaw that had lightened to the shade of a ripe avocado. As quickly as he could manage without nicking himself, he tugged a razor over his thick stubble. His guesthouse roommates stirred outside the bathroom door, pressuring him to hurry. He hadn’t shared a toilet or shower with anyone since his army days, and he missed having a big, quiet house to himself. He missed a lot of things.

  With a sigh, he rubbed one hand over his buzz cut. The blunt edges of his fuzzy, shorn hair felt odd against his palm, another reminder of his time in the military, but hey, at least it didn’t hang in his eyes anymore. He had to look at the bright side—take pleasure in the small, unexpected aspects of life now. Otherwise he’d throw himself into the path of a freaking bullet.

  After he’d finished shaving, he shook some talcum powder onto his bare chest and dusted his belly, hoping to ward off any more chaffing. It seemed h
is friends, Kevlar and the fierce Dubai sun, had conspired to skin him alive, the hateful bastards. He tugged on his uniform: black T-shirt, black cargo pants, black beret, and black combat boots. Even his Jockeys were black. He looked like a damned mercenary.

  As soon as he opened the bathroom door, one of his new buddies, a tank named Anders, rushed inside, bumping Trey’s arm so hard he spun a half rotation like a clumsy ballerina.

  “Sorry, man,” Anders called while barreling to the john. “Gotta piss like a racehorse.”

  Trey rubbed his triceps. Five dudes and one bathroom. It was gonna be a long deployment.

  He shuffled to his bunk, stepping over piles of dirty laundry, spare boots, discarded towels, and scattered magazines—both of the girlie and ammunition variety. Bunch of slobs, the lot of them. Trey’s home may not have been a showplace, but he’d kept it tidy.

  He opened the footlocker at the base of his bed and pulled out his cell phone to check messages. Once he went on duty, he’d have to stow it again. A quick glance at the screen told him he had no new voice mails but four unread texts. Scrolling through the inbox, he skimmed repeated apologies from his mother, along with requests to call home, but he wasn’t ready for that. Despite what Mom had done, she deserved respect, and he wouldn’t speak to her until he’d calmed down enough to control his tongue. Which might take until Christmas.

  What he’d really wanted was a message from Bobbi, but after a month, maybe it was time to give up hope.

  Just as he poised his thumb to swipe the power button, the phone chirped, alerting him to a new text. Like Pavlov’s pooch expecting a treat, Trey’s heart jumped, and he tapped the screen with his trembling index finger while searching for her name. His shoulders slumped. Not her. But it was the next best thing.

  Hey, asshole, Luke had typed, call me so I can apologize.

  Trey’s mouth twitched in an involuntary grin. It sure had taken the cantankerous butthead long enough to extend the olive branch. He checked his watch, noting just enough time for a quick call.

  Luke picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  Trey grasped one hip. “Let’s hear it then.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Luke recited in their typical fashion. “I’m sorry. We cool?”

  “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  “Cool.”

  Usually, their ritual apology would end there, but Trey needed to say, “I’m sorry too. If it makes you feel any better, she wasn’t a fling. I really cared about her.”

  “Cared? Past tense?”

  “No.” Not that it mattered, because she didn’t feel the same about him. “Present.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you broke two of my fingers. The splint I’m wearing makes it look like I’m flipping people off.”

  “Which you probably are, on the inside.”

  Luke chuckled. “You know me well.” Then he turned the subject from rude gestures to a matter Trey didn’t want to discuss. “You gonna come to your senses now and take your house off the market?”

  Trey exhaled a puff of air into the phone. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because wherever you are, your sister will turn up. “It’s time to move on.”

  “Not good enough.” When Trey couldn’t provide a better reason for leaving town, Luke threatened, “I’ll make sure the place doesn’t sell. Hell, I’ll pay a computer geek to hack the sex offender registry so it looks like you’re located smack-dab in the middle of Pervert City.”

  “I’ll bet the neighbors will appreciate that.”

  “Did you even think about the kid?” Luke’s voice darkened, taking Trey’s mood along for the ride. “When Carlo asked why you’re selling the house, I told him it’s because you want to build new when you come back. He said he wants to help.”

  “Oh, shit.” Trey’s stomach clenched. “Tell me you’re making that up.”

  “You should’ve seen his face. He thinks Rainbow Skittles shoot out your ass! What was I supposed to say?”

  “Damn it.” Trey pressed the heel of his hand over one eye. But he couldn’t really blame his best friend. While Luke shouldn’t have lied to Carlo, Trey shouldn’t have left him with the impossible task of breaking the news to the boy.

  “Let’s talk about the real reason you won’t come home, you wussy,” Luke said. “You’re afraid of running into my sister.”

  As usual, Luke nailed it. Trey remained silent, not bothering to deny the truth.

  “Well, you got nothin’ to worry about,” Luke continued, “’cause she’s a wussy too. I’m gonna have to fly to California to visit her from now on.”

  “Good to know she’s avoiding me,” Trey said sarcastically. But if he moved back home, he’d still see her ghost in Sultry Springs. He’d never be able to pass the coffee shop without thinking of her, or use her old guest room without remembering how he’d tied her to the bed with that silky black scarf and made her come so hard she’d cried. He’d never be free of her. “How about this,” he offered. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  “Fine. But don’t wake up till you change your mind.”

  Trey snickered. “Can’t live without me, huh? Who’s the wussy now?”

  Luke told him to do something anatomically impossible, then ordered him to stay safe and keep in touch. They disconnected, and Trey stowed his phone safely inside his footlocker, feeling lighter than he had in a month.

  After donning his bulletproof vest and weapons holster, Trey clipped a small communications device to his shoulder and set out for his morning inspection of the property, a five-acre, private residence of Dubai’s wealthiest resort mogul. The guy had two other local homes—a penthouse in the heart of the city and a beachfront condo—but Trey hadn’t left the main house since his arrival last month. According to rumor, the whole security staff would accompany their employer to the beach in a couple of weeks. Trey looked forward to the change in scenery. He couldn’t deny this job was boring as hell.

  Still, he needed to be vigilant. His boss had made a lot of enemies when he’d sold townhomes to foreign investors without disclosing one crucial bit of information: the development bordered a reeking sewage plant. And not just any foreign investors, either—members of the Russian mafia. To make matters worse, his boss had spilled secrets to the American military to aid their operations in the Middle East, something local terrorists wouldn’t appreciate if they knew. The U.S. government wanted to keep this man alive and snitching, and they’d paid Trey’s contractor top dollar to guarantee his safety.

  Pushing open the back door, Trey slipped on his Oakleys and shielded his eyes from the nuclear sun. It was only eight in the morning and already hotter than two minks screwing inside a wool sock. The lawn beneath his boots was unnaturally green in this barren land, one of the clear indications of wealth, announcing to all that passed, Blow me, suckers! I’m watering something I can’t even eat! Seemed like a waste of sparse resources to Trey.

  He’d just reached the wrought iron fence that bordered the property when the speaker affixed to his shoulder squawked, “Give me your status, Lewis.”

  Sounded like his supervisor, a gruff man of few words. Trey muttered in the receiver, “Lewis reporting from the southeast border. All’s well.”

  “Roger that. Report to the front gate. We’ve got a disruption.”

  “On my way.” Trey double-timed it and prepared to draw his weapon. “Disruption” usually meant a persistent salesman trying to get past security, but casual assumptions could cost lives in this line of work.

  However, once he approached the guard station and recognized two of the alleged disruptors, he stumbled over his own feet and released his Glock in a dumbfounded stupor. He reached down to retrieve his fallen weapon, so worthless that a Girl Scout could’ve taken him out with a peashooter.

  It was Bobbi’s motley crew—that mammoth, blue-haired Asian d
ude and the blond stoner who looked like Shaggy from Scooby Doo. They stood outside the gate, filming him through the iron bars as if nothing had changed. A long, fishing pole microphone drooped over the spires to capture Trey’s stammers of, “What the hell?”

  His gaze moved to a third figure, a woman dressed in a long, loose turquoise tunic over white linen pants. In the local custom, she’d used a white silk scarf to cover her hair, but one glimpse at her green eyes told him this was no native. Though it took several seconds for him to believe it, he was gawking at Bobbi.

  His heart went south as his eyes continued to absorb the graceful curve of Bo’s cheeks, her lush lips, and the pert nose she’d just begun scrubbing with the back of her hand. Good God, she was even more stunning than he remembered, so gorgeous his ribs ached.

  Trey’s supervisor jerked him back to reality. “You know these clowns? I keep telling ’em they can’t film on private property.”

  “Yeah,” Trey managed, “they’re—”

  Bobbi cut him off, pointing a folded document at the guard. “And I told you it’s public domain out here. Besides, we’ve got a permit!”

  Trey couldn’t stop his lips from twitching in a grin. Typical Bobbi. “Buzz me out,” he told his supervisor, “and I’ll handle it.”

  “Fine,” came the terse response, “but I don’t want them filming the house.”

  After Trey stepped onto the driveway and shut the gate behind him, he took a few steps behind the camera crew, forcing them to turn away from the main house if they wanted to keep filming him. Out of habit, he scanned the area for suspicious activity before settling his gaze on Bobbi, who stood close enough to touch. He folded his arms to keep from reaching out and stroking her face.

  “So,” he said to her, trying his best to fake a disinterested tone, “what’s with all this?” He hitched a thumb at the camera.

  Bobbi’s tanned cheeks drained of color. She quit scratching her nose only long enough to wring her hands and wipe her palms on her tunic. Tiny beads of perspiration popped to the surface of her skin, while her eyes darted back and forth between him and the lens. Trey knew it wasn’t the heat that had her sweating bullets. A sick, heavy feeling uncurled in his gut as he wondered what awful news she was about to dump on him.