Bikini Season

by Sheila Roberts

  A fourth band member stood with his back to her, tuning his bass. Wait a minute. She knew that back. He turned around and smiled at her.

  “Since when do you play the bass?” she demanded.

  “Since I was seventeen,” said Dan.

  “I never saw you,” she accused.

  “I was a closet player.”

  “He’s damned good,” said Gary. “Great at vocals, too.”

  Erin fell onto the leather footstool. The dog came to her, laid its head on her lap, and looked up at her. And then put a muddy paw on her other pant leg. Lovely.

  “Martin, damn it,” said Gary. He walked to the door and yanked it open. “Get your muddy dog butt outside right now.” The dog tucked its tail between its legs and walked out the door and Gary said, “Sorry. He’s still a puppy.”

  Erin forced herself to keep smiling and nodded.

  Gary climbed onto his drum stool cowboy style and picked up his drumsticks, giving one a twirl. “Okay, you know Dan. And this is Jake and Larry. Jake sings lead and plays rhythm guitar. Larry plays lead.”

  Whatever all that meant. “What kind of songs do you play?” Erin asked. As if it mattered. At this point they could play nursery rhymes and she’d hire them.

  “Oh, we’re kind of a variety band. We play eighties, classic rock, some country, a little R and B, Santana, Marc Anthony.”

  “No rap,” said Dan. “No hip-hop. We’re too white.”

  “Wanna hear something?” asked Gary. Without waiting for an answer, he counted them off and the band jumped into playing “Message in a Bottle.” Suddenly it sounded like the Police were right there in the room.

  “You guys are great,” she said when they’d finished.

  “Want to hear something slow?” Gary offered.

  She didn’t need to hear anything more. They’d be perfect. But before she could say as much they launched into a Bryan Adams song. And then Dan started singing.

  This time the choice was “When You Love Someone.” He sang about loving someone so much he’d do anything, and the words crawled inside her ear and began waltzing around in her mind. He sang on, about sacrificing, risking it all and not thinking twice, and the words slipped down and twisted around her heart. This was like trying not to listen to the Lorelei. She stared at her knees and wondered when Dan Rockwell had become a host body for a rock star. And was it hot in here?

  They finished the song and she jumped up from the footstool and fumbled the contract out of her purse. “You guys are great. You can play Friday and Saturday night and for the Sunday afternoon show, too. If you’ll just sign this contract.”

  “Cool,” Gary said, and happily scribbled his name. “You better make sure you get that Saturday and Sunday off, Rockwell.”

  “I will,” Dan said easily.

  “Dan says you need a band for your wedding,” Gary said to Erin.

  “Oh, well, we haven’t—”

  “We’ll play it for you for free,” Gary offered.

  —quite decided. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Hey, the Slugfest will be great exposure for us. It’s the least we could do. Right, guys?” They all said yes, but she noticed Gary was looking right at Dan.

  All the words he’d sung were using her brain for a mosh pit. She couldn’t think. She let instinct take over, and instinct said, run. “Well, thanks,” she managed, and started for the door. “Everything you need to know is in the contract, but if you have any questions feel free to call me. Gary,” she added. She didn’t need Dan calling her.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Dan said, slipping off his bass.

  “That’s okay. Don’t bother.” She opened the door and ducked out.

  But she was barely onto the porch before he was beside her. “It’s dark out there, and Martin’s probably waiting to jump on you again.”

  Neither dog was anywhere to be seen. Dan was right about one thing, though. Once they got away from the porch light it was dark. No streetlights out here—just trees and sky and stars.

  She cast around in her mind for something to say as they picked their way across the spotty grass. “You guys are really good.” Cute. She sounded like a groupie.

  “We’re okay for a garage band,” he said.

  “You’re a lot more than okay.”

  She was suddenly very aware of the yin and yang of them as they stood there in the darkness—his strong male lines, her softer ones, his low voice, her high voice, his hard muscles, her … mushy insides.

  This was ridiculous. What was she doing? Those Bryan Adams lyrics had programmed her to start thinking like a thirteen-year-old.

  She opened her car door, stumbled around it, and fell onto the driver’s seat. “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’d better,” Dan agreed. “McDoodoo is waiting.”

  “That’s McDreamy,” she corrected him. And he wasn’t waiting for her. He was home with his head stuck in a medical book. She shut the door and started the car. And then, because her brain was mush, rolled down the window to talk some more. “You really saved me tonight. Thanks. I owe you big-time.”

  “No problem. And you don’t owe me anything. I like helping you.”

  “Well, thanks again,” she managed, then stuck the car in gear and got out of there.

  And all the while someone’s voice—Bryan Adams? Who knew anymore? Her head was getting so damned full of them!—kept crooning, “When you love someone,” over and over again.

  I do love someone, she told herself as she drove away, I love Adam. Of course she did. And Adam loved her.

  And what would Adam say when he learned they’d gotten a band for the wedding reception for free and that it was Dan Rockwell’s? She let out an angry breath. Dan Rockwell, closet bass player. Why hadn’t he stayed in the closet where he belonged?

  Suddenly, for no reason, Erin had a burning desire for Fritos.

  Don’t do it, cautioned her inner mother. You’ll never fit in your wedding dress at this rate.

  I’ll get back on track tomorrow, Erin promised. Right now she needed to grind something between her teeth.

  Megan looked around her at the dingy office space. It was small, the hardwood floor was worn and paint spattered, and the windowsill looked like it had been painted shut since Roe v. Wade. Dust motes danced on a weak sunbeam, taunting, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha—this is all you can afford.

  “You won’t find a bargain like this in the city very often,” said the property manager at her elbow.

  There was a reason for that. Megan nodded. Could she fix this place up so it didn’t look like Sam Spade’s office? Okay, use your imagination. Picture new paint, some nice rented art.

  She sighed inwardly. Even her imagination couldn’t fix this place. She needed an office that would impress clients, not scare them away. “I’ll have to think about it,” she lied.

  “Okay, but don’t wait too long,” cautioned the property manager. “Space like this is hard to find.”

  If space like that was hard to find, how would she ever find a really good office space? She left the building completely disheartened. Maybe Pamela had been right. Maybe she had been crazy to leave the shark tank. She should have at least waited until she had more than one client. At this rate she’d blow through her savings in six months. And then where would she be? Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back.

  Her cell phone rang, and she looked at the screen. Pamela. Maybe the sharks had given her Megan’s partnership.

  Pamela didn’t bother with greetings. “Where are you?”

  “I’m out looking for office space.”

  “Have you found one you like?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good, because I’ve found one for you.” Pamela rattled off an address, commanded Megan to be there in ten minutes, and then hung up.

  Like I’m going to be able to afford that part of town, Megan thought. But she went anyway. She hadn’t talked to Pamela since that day in the bar and it would be nice to see her and catch up
on what was going on over at the firm. And, speaking of the firm, why wasn’t Pamela at work?

  The building was slick—all steel and turquoise glass. The lobby was full of gigantic metal sculptures. Everything about it said money.

  And money says success, Megan reminded herself. But on her limited budget she couldn’t afford this much talking. What kind of sick joke was Pamela playing?

  She rode the elevator up to the twenty-first floor and got off. Directly in front of her she saw a sprawling insurance office with an impressive reception area. She turned right and walked down the hall in search of 2106. And there it was, a big, open space with huge windows looking out over the city. And standing in the middle of the room was Pamela, wearing her lawyer pinstripe suit and looking like a navy blue Bic pen with blond hair.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked.

  Megan looked around in amazement. “It’s great.” But she’d never be able to afford it.

  “I think the space will work quite well for us.”

  Us? “Am I missing something here?”

  Pamela raised an eyebrow. “Your offer’s still good, isn’t it?”

  She wouldn’t have to go it alone after all? It was all she could do not to jump up and down and scream. She beamed. “Absolutely.”

  “Well, then.” Pamela spun around, arms out. “Welcome to Thornton and Wales. I’m the rainmaker so I get top billing,” she added. “Besides, it sounds better with my name first.”

  “It would,” Megan teased. “But, are you sure?” This was too good to be true.

  “Absolutely. We can go over the partnership agreement this afternoon if you want.”

  “I’ll have to clear my busy calendar, but I think I can make time,” Megan cracked. “What changed your mind?”

  Pamela gave a little shrug. “You were right about the firm. It is a shark tank. I don’t want to be there.”

  “Okay, who propositioned you, Cutter?”

  “The disgusting lech,” Pamela said with a frown. “As if.”

  “Poor Cutter,” said Megan. “He can’t seem to catch a break.”

  Pamela’s eyes widened. “You, too?”

  Megan nodded. “I’ll say one thing for him,” she added with a smile. “He’s got good taste.”

  “Yes, he does,” Pamela said with a grin.

  “And so do you. This is a class act,” Megan said. She walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was shining on a shimmering blue Puget Sound. She watched a ferry slide into Coleman Dock. This was a view to die for. Alone, she could never afford it. With Pamela, she could still never afford it. This had to be way out of the price range for a brand-new firm. “How much is the rent?”

  Pamela was behind her now. “Rent is not an issue, at least not for the first year. We’re getting a really good deal.”

  Megan frowned. “A deal on prime office space like this? How is that possible?”

  Pamela linked an arm through Megan’s and towed her out of the office. “Come on. We’re going out to lunch where all will become clear.”

  Megan balked. “What are you getting us into?”

  “Don’t worry,” Pamela said, moving her along again.

  “Oh, I’m not,” Megan said, “because if this stinks I’m not doing it.”

  “Believe me. The only thing this deal smells like is money.”

  When they walked into Ruth’s Chris Steak House Megan knew Pamela had suckered some hapless male into becoming their sugar daddy. Steak was a man’s kind of lunch. And this steak house was a rich man’s kind of place. And then the maître d’ led them to their table and she saw her sugar daddy assessing her with those eagle eyes of his and her legs felt suddenly weak. “Tanner.”

  He half stood and nodded a greeting. “You’re looking good, Megan.”

  Speaking of looking good, she thought as he flashed that rare smile. He was wearing his favorite black suit today. That combined with his dark hair and complexion always made him look like legal counsel for the Prince of Darkness.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted. Which, of course, sounded beyond stupid.

  “I’m helping you,” he said simply.

  The office space, of course. “But why? I didn’t ask for your help.” Now she sounded stupid and ungrateful. Pamela kicked her under the table, and she winced.

  “No, you didn’t. And that’s why Pamela here is going to make a good partner for you. She has no problem asking for what she wants.” To Pamela he said, “The partners were shortsighted in their decision, and they’ll probably live to regret it, especially now that you’ve teamed up with this thing,” he added, favoring Megan with one of his ironic smiles.

  “We appreciate what you’re doing,” Pamela said, and kicked Megan again.

  Megan glared at her, then said to Tanner, “I don’t see how you can be involved with us when you’re already a longstanding partner at Weisman, Waters, and Green. That’s a conflict of interest.”

  He leaned back and slung an arm over his chair. “I’m not really involved. I happen to own a share in this building. I happen to have pulled some strings. That’s all.”

  “And now we happen to have a great office space for a song,” added Pamela. “Thank you, Tanner,” she added. “We really appreciate it.”

  “One of you does,” he said, favoring Megan with his trademark sardonic smile.

  “I appreciate it, too,” she said. “I really do. But why?”

  “I told you that I like big cases and big battles, and that I’m not into tilting at windmills. But I never told you that I also like to watch a good fight. You two should provide me with endless entertainment. Now, shall we order drinks? I think champagne is in order.”

  Megan suddenly felt like she was standing on the roof of that fancy building that would be their new home and experiencing vertigo. What if they failed? And what if, now that he’d invested in her, Tanner never kissed her again?

  Erin sat at her desk and ate her yogurt with very little relish. What was the point? She was doing terrible. She wished she hadn’t stepped on her scale this morning. The needle hadn’t even moved.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised, not after her relapse the other night. She should never have watched her DVD of While You Were Sleeping. She’d wound up running to the store partway into the movie and had come home with a humongous bag of Fritos, then proceeded to eat half of it in one sitting. Then, not wanting Adam to find the evidence, she’d brought the rest to work with her today and ate some more. At least she’d finally had the smarts to give the rest away. Fine time to find her willpower, after she’d slapped another pound on her middle. Dumb, dumb, dumb. At this rate she was never going to fit into her wedding dress. She was the only one of the Bikinis not having any success. The others were losing weight. She should be, too. And tomorrow they were all going out to eat at Brewsters’ to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Green beer, Brewsters’ incredible Jojo’s—there would be temptation everywhere.

  But she’d be with her friends. They’d protect her from the JoJo’s. And she would only have one beer. Then she’d have a salad tomorrow. She’d be fine. Everything would be fine. She only had twenty pounds to lose, for crying out loud. She had time. She’d be in her wedding dress by the middle of June, no problem.

  She drummed her desktop, suddenly feeling a craving for something salty. She thought of the Fritos her coworker was consuming in the break room this very minute and tossed the last of her yogurt into her waste can. She was sure getting sick of yogurt.

  The Maxwells and the Bakers arrived at Brewsters’ at the same time, all of them wearing something green. The place was packed, with every table full. Mike, the owner, stood at the long bar framed by a big mirror and an array of bottles, working the taps and grinning. His wife, Samantha, as always, was seating people. Today she and all the wait staff wore green polo shirts over their slacks. She’d dyed the tips of her short brown hair green and green shamrock earrings dangled from her ears.

  “Happy St. Patty’
s Day,” she greeted the foursome. “You’re all looking good.”

  Yes, they were, thought Kizzy, who had lost an impressive twenty-four pounds. Tonight she was wearing a green blouse she hadn’t fit into in years and she’d never felt better. Lionel was making progress, too, although tonight she’d teased him that he looked like an unripe tomato with legs in that big, oversized green T-shirt.

  Angela had lost some of her momentum now that she wasn’t worried about her husband, but she was at least keeping off the fourteen pounds she’d shed.

  “I love your hair,” cried Angela, touching her fingers to the green fringe at the top of Samantha’s head.

  “Oh, I do that every year,” Samantha said. “Life is short. You’ve got to enjoy it.”

  “I like the way you think,” said Lionel. He rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready for that green beer.”

  “Then let’s get you seated,” said Samantha, and led them to a window table.

  Megan was the next to arrive. So far she had lost the most of all of the Bikinis, approaching her diet and exercise program like she was preparing for a Supreme Court case. And it was paying off. She’d lost twenty-seven pounds since January and she was starting to look good. Tonight she wore a brown wool poncho thrown over stretch jeans and a low-cut green top. The poncho was slimming and her boots gave her height. Kizzy noticed that a couple of men at the bar were taking in the new and improving Megan with approving glances. It wouldn’t be long before she had a man in her life, Kizzy was sure.

  “Oh, good,” she said, sliding into a seat. “I’m not the last one here. Freeway traffic is a mess tonight.”

  “It’s a mess every night,” Kizzy said, glad she lived and worked in Heart Lake. The commute from her kitchen shop to home took her a whopping seven minutes.