“I don’t know what they tested for,” Sarah said, “but in my experience, New York City’s drinking water isn’t green and full of mud.”
“You know what’s good for that?” Quentin asked.
“If you say peppers—”
Owen handed her a beer from the cooler. She held it to her face, under her eye.
A cell phone rang. All five of them looked around for it while Erin announced, “No working today.”
“Mine,” Sarah said. Still lying down, she drew her phone out from under a pile of towels. “Hello? What? Oh, Wendy!” She squealed and stamped her feet on the floor of the boat.
The others stared at Sarah, then at Quentin.
“Her friend must have had her baby,” Quentin explained.
“She has a friend?” Owen asked. At Quentin’s look, Owen said, “Kidding. I’m kidding.”
Quentin started the boat and piloted it fast across the rush of lake reflecting the pink sunset. Occasionally he glanced sideways at Sarah, whom he couldn’t hear over the roar of the motor, talking animatedly with her friend. He’d liked her hair before, but the punked-out schoolgirl look with two pink ponytails at her nape really moved him. He let his eyes travel to her perfectly polished toenails, up her long legs to her strong, smooth thighs, and he wished for the millionth time that he could make love to her.
As he cut the engine and coasted into the pier at the marina, Sarah was saying into the phone, “I just jumped off a cliff into a lake. Got water up my sinuses and can’t get it out. Which is not nearly as bad as your experience this morning. Or perhaps somewhat similar.”
“Vonnie Conner sighting,” Owen called to Quentin.
Quentin saw the still-buxom still-a-blonde standing at the top of the hill, under the pine trees, with her arms crossed. “She’s up there waiting for us?” he asked in disbelief.
Sarah clicked her phone off. “Who’s Vonnie Conner? High school sweetheart?”
Owen said, “Vonnie Conner broke up with Q when he tried to get his driver’s license but couldn’t get into the car. Because of course a girl can’t date a guy who can’t drive.”
“I wouldn’t mention that if I were you,” Erin warned Owen.
“Doesn’t matter that the guy’s mother had just died,” Owen went on. “Vonnie Conner is such a bitch!” He said the last word loudly enough that it echoed across the lake.
At the top of the hill, Vonnie couldn’t have heard the first part of the sentence, but she heard the last word, and she knew who Owen meant. She uncrossed her arms.
“Owen, you dumbass,” Quentin said. “Thanks for telling PR more than she needs to know. Again.”
“Hey,” Sarah said, turning Quentin’s chin so that he had to look down into her eyes. She whispered, “Just because it happened when you were young doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
Quentin shook his head to clear it. Sarah was right. He shouldn’t be too mad at Owen. He could tell by the way Owen looked through him that Owen was fabulously drunk. And Owen hated Vonnie Conner on Quentin’s behalf.
Quentin even managed a smile for Sarah. “Vonnie Conner is in charge of Hank on the Banks, which is the annual Hank Williams festival here at the amphitheater. So we always crash it.” He helped Sarah out of the boat, then sauntered up the pier and up the hill with her.
As they walked, Sarah leaned into him. She slid her hand down his shirt and around the waistband of his bathing suit. She bent his head down so she could nibble his ear. She took his hand and guided it under the string of her bikini bottoms, which . . . Jesus, it was getting hard to concentrate on Vonnie Conner.
They stopped as Vonnie stepped into their path. “Quentin Cox, you’re not supposed to be here!” she hollered. “Owen,” she called as Owen and Martin passed carrying the ice chest, blankets, and lawn chairs, but Owen kept right on going.
“I’ve got every right to be here,” Quentin told Vonnie. “The judge threw out that restraining order.” Sarah kissed his jaw.
“Only because you were in chess club with the judge in high school,” Vonnie snapped.
Quentin covered Sarah’s ears with his hands. He appreciated that Sarah giggled like an idiot. “Do you mind?” Quentin asked Vonnie. “You don’t have to go spreading that around.”
Vonnie was royally peeved. “If you’re going to come to Hank on the Banks anyway, why don’t the Cheatin’ Hearts play? Next year we could arrange—”
Quentin interrupted her. “On the Fourth of July, we have a Nationally—Tell her, Sarah.”
Sarah took her lips away from his ear just long enough to recite obediently, “Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event.”
“What she said,” Quentin continued, “and you think we have time to drive down here to your two-bit local festival?”
In an unusual show of aptitude, Vonnie seemed to appreciate the irony. She asked, “Is this about the tenth grade?”
Quentin winked at her and slipped his arm around Sarah’s waist to lead her away.
Vonnie flung after them, “Nice hair.”
“It’s Napoleon,” Sarah called over her shoulder. “Like the ice cream.”
Quentin glanced at her uneasily. Had her mother told her that he’d been made? Surely not. Sarah would have said something about it before now.
He rubbed his hand appreciatively across the smooth skin of her bare back. “Thank you,” he whispered to her.
“No problem,” she said flatly.
He leaned out to assess her expression as they walked, but she wore the poker face. He said quickly, “I didn’t mean to—I’m not after Vonnie, you know. She’s married. I’m just settling an old score.”
Sarah smiled at him, thank God. “I get it. Glad to be of service.”
They reached the top of the hill and looked down at the stage loud with country music. The audience sat on blankets or in lawn chairs radiating outward in the grass.
Sarah asked confusedly, “This is the amphitheater?”
“People around here call this the amphitheater,” Quentin said. “To New York City, it may look like a sloping field. But it’s not just any old sloping field. It’s close to the original lake cabin that a local car dealer loaned to Hank Williams after he was fired from the Grand Ole Opry for drunkenness. He wrote ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ here right before he died.”
“Really!” Sarah exclaimed. “How sad. His whole life was a country song. And that’s why you’re the Cheatin’ Hearts? Local provenance?”
“I wanted to be the Sow-Bellied Syrup Soppers,” Quentin said, “but Erin didn’t want to be a sow. Or be accused of sopping.” Owen was hiking determinedly in their direction. “Oh boy, Owen’s drunk, and Erin can’t dance with him because she’s in line to buy a funnel cake. I hope you like to dance.”
Owen grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her toward the stage. She glanced back at Quentin in alarm. Quentin shrugged at her. He sat down in a lawn chair next to Martin and watched Owen dance with Sarah. Owen could cut a rug, and he was patiently teaching Sarah some steps.
Quentin felt so relieved. Owen had been nice to Sarah all day. It wasn’t like Owen had the hots for Sarah. It was like the dark cloud of Owen’s intense emotion, seeming to desire Erin and detest Sarah, had lifted. All that was left was the big, blond, easygoing Owen whom Quentin had known his whole life. Owen wasn’t breaking Rule Two with Erin after all.
“That’s some necklace,” Martin remarked.
It was almost the first thing Quentin had heard Martin say all day. Quentin chose his words carefully. “I had to keep up the image that we’re really together. If I didn’t give her a nice gift on her birthday, she’d think something was up.”
Martin turned toward him. “Q, Sarah is one cool chick. I’m afraid of what Nine Lives is going to do to her.”
Quentin fought down his flash of anger at Martin’s drug-induced paranoia.
“But she’s still the record company,” Martin was saying. “Her presence here is antithetical to everything we’ve worked for.”
>
“Martin, it’s just a necklace,” Quentin protested. “I’ve got the money. I don’t spend it on anything but the foundation. And the occasional big-ass truck.”
“We know you’re smart, Q,” Martin growled. “We know you’re smarter than we are. But that doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”
“She was feeling down this morning,” Quentin said innocently. “She’s away from her family and friends on her thirtieth birthday. I wanted to cheer her up. I like her.”
“You told her,” Martin accused him.
Great. When she went into the house, Sarah must have revealed to Martin that she knew about the heroin.
Quentin said, “I haven’t told anyone. Sarah saw through you the first time she laid eyes on you.” He sighed. “Come on, Martin. We’re supposed to be taking the day off, remember?”
Martin didn’t respond. But when, after four songs, Owen finally brought Sarah back and traded her for Erin, Martin led Sarah down to the stage for a dance. Quentin watched them with pleasure. Sarah looked carefree.
She was having so much fun that even Quentin had to dance with her. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he’d played enough honky-tonks that he couldn’t avoid picking up a few steps. Then Owen danced with Sarah while Quentin danced with his AP chemistry teacher. Martin danced with Sarah while Quentin danced with the wife of his math team coach.
It was getting late, and the featured band started its last set. If they were going to crash the festival, they needed to go ahead. He called Owen, Martin, and Erin over to discuss it.
A few minutes later, Sarah bounded over and poked her head in between them. “You look like you’re in a football huddle,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Come with me,” Quentin said. He emptied the ice chest and piled her with blankets and a few lawn chairs.
“The concert isn’t over,” she pouted as she followed him down the hill to the boat. “Why are we packing up?”
“So we’ll be right ready to go when the police come.” He threw the ice chest into the boat, then took the chairs and blankets from her and threw them into the boat. Then, because she was so beautiful with the full moonlight filtering through her crazy hair, he threw her into the boat.
He sat down in a seat and pulled her into his lap. She straddled him in her very small bikini. He kissed her to distract her while he pulled at the string around her neck to release the bathing suit top.
This was quite a sight: Sarah with pink ponytails, the emerald necklace, her breasts bare in the soft light.
“It’s a marina,” she said. “Someone else is going to come down to their boat and see—”
Her protest transformed into a gasp as he put his mouth on her nipple. He sucked at her first, then bit her gently, then laved her with his tongue, testing her reaction to see which she liked best. She liked being bitten. Interesting. But when she began sliding the crotch of her very small bikini up and down on his erection, he forgot about the scientific method in a dark rush.
The night was black. The lake was black but for a few reflected lights from houses far across the lake, rippling in the water. He had his mouth on this pale girl. God, he was going to have to make love to her soon. He couldn’t, but how could he not make love to this woman?
Finally he moved to her other breast to be fair. He shouldn’t have let her go. She had the opportunity to ask, “Is this to make Vonnie Conner jealous, or to make Erin jealous?”
“No one can see us. This is for me,” he said, his lips still brushing her. He pulled away and glanced at his watch. “We have to go crash Hank on the Banks in five minutes. See me tomorrow morning about finishing this. Until then, live a little. It’s your birthday.”
That seemed to satisfy her for the time being. He suckled her, teased her, and held her as she groaned. Pressed her down on his erection. Thoroughly enjoyed himself. But thought the entire time how much better it would be if he knew he could have it again, and again, and again. He had to have her. Oh God.
They ran a few minutes over. By the time they dashed hand in hand to the top of the amphitheater, Owen had already climbed onstage and muscled the mike away from the band’s lead singer. And Vonnie Conner was already headed in Quentin’s direction.
“I called the police, Quentin,” she shrieked. “You get Owen McDonough off my stage!”
“He doesn’t come when I call him,” Quentin said calmly. “Sarah, hon, be a dear and run get Owen off the stage.”
“Do think it would help if I took my top off?” Sarah asked vacuously, batting her eyelashes at him.
“Yes,” he said. “But not right now.” He swatted her ass as she bounced down to the stage.
“Where did you get her?” Vonnie asked him acidly.
“Fairhope,” he said, watching Sarah go. The crowd applauded and hooted and yelled, “O-wen!” as Owen made love to the microphone. He crooned to Erin, who stood at the foot of the stage with Martin’s arm around her shoulders. The song, appropriately, was “Lake Day Love,” with Owen’s lyrics and Erin’s tune.
“Why do you come here every year?” Vonnie complained, near tears. “How long am I going to have to pay for the goddamned tenth grade?”
He faced her and said, “This is the last time.” Of course she didn’t believe him, and she flounced away. But this would be his last visit to Hank on the Banks, at least as a party crasher. He hadn’t been romantically interested in Vonnie Conner since high school. He had taken great pleasure in getting her goat. Well, she could keep her goat from now on. The idea of being with Sarah this time next year was so cool. And impossible. But he knew that after Sarah, it was going to be hard for Vonnie Conner or anyone else to hold his attention.
Sarah leaped easily onto the stage. Her striking appearance elicited a barrage of catcalls from the audience, and she did a little curtsy. Then she rubbed Owen’s upper arm and said something to him. He gave her a big, drunk grin and kept singing. The irate band they’d interrupted, including a couple of big guys, had been holding their own football huddle and began to move in Owen’s direction.
Quentin waved until he got Owen’s attention, then moved his finger in a circle. Owen said into the microphone, “Thank you very much,” in his own Elvis impression, jumped down from the stage, and helped Sarah down. The two of them plus Erin and Martin held hands and maneuvered slowly up the hill between blankets on the grass, singing “Lake Day Love.” The band onstage began playing again but was all but drowned out by “Lake Day Love” as the audience joined in.
Quentin jogged down the grass and took Sarah’s hand at the end of the line. Rather than sing along, he listened to her soft, pretty voice. He’d never heard her sing. She sounded happy. She looked happy. He hoped it had been a good birthday.
As they crested the hill, a police siren chirped. Quentin spotted the blue lights between the pine trees. “Run!” he yelled. Owen threw a squealing Erin over his shoulder. They all barreled down the hill and into the boat, and roared away in the moonlight.
“Sleepy?” Quentin asked as Sarah laid her head on his thigh in the big-ass truck.
“That funnel cake did me in.” She moved her manicured hand to stroke lightly inside his thigh. “Quentin, would it be okay if I spent the night with you from now on? To make Erin mad.”
It was more than okay with Quentin. But he thought there was more to it than Erin, especially because of the timing. Martin was right. Sarah was afraid of Nine Lives.
And he had his own problems. Sooner or later he would wake up to an asthma attack. This didn’t help attract women.
“I sleep in the nude,” he warned her.
“So do I.”
This gave him a hard-on. He wasn’t sure he’d ever driven through Socapatoy with a hard-on. Come to think of it, he’d hardly ever driven, so this was a no-brainer.
It would make a good song. “Driving through Socapatoy with a hard-on.” He could name a new town on Highway 280 for each verse: “Driving through Goodwater with a hard-on,” “Driving through Sylacauga with a h
ard-on.” He could call the song—how far was it from the lake to Birmingham?—“Eighty-Mile Hard-On.”
He laughed out loud, because the big-ass truck gave him a new lease on life. Sarah shifted her head on his thigh and murmured a cussword at him. This made his erection, which had been calming down some, swell again. He put his hand absently in her soft hair and continued to think through this. The song might not make it onto the third album, but they could put it on a special X-rated album. They probably had enough of Quentin’s discarded songs for one of these right now.
If Sarah stayed around much longer, they could make it a double album.
10
The rough rock scraped under Sarah’s bare feet as she leaped into the air. A hundred colorful boats floated below her on the green lake, each loaded with people waving, holding up their beer cans. The setting sun was warm. The wind rushed up. Her stomach left her—a dizzy, first-date feeling.
Too soon she smacked into the water and plunged deep under, where it was dark and cold. Her skin stung from the impact. Her head felt tight, full of fluid. She swam upward toward the yellow sunbeams filtering through the green darkness.
She had almost reached the surface. She was running out of air. She should have reached the surface by now. She ran out of air. She clawed toward the surface.
Something deep below her grabbed her ankle. She looked down into Nine Lives’ catlike eyes.
She sat up, gasping, bewildered, in the dark room. Then she saw Quentin’s silhouette as he turned on the bathroom light, just before he closed and locked the door. She knew where she was, but not what was happening. Through the door, she heard his coughs, and then a terrible sound, like he couldn’t breathe at all.
She fell out of bed and ran to bang on the door. “Let me in!”
He coughed and coughed.
“Are you okay? Damn it, Quentin, let me in!”
The terrible sound returned.
Now came a knock on Quentin’s bedroom door. Sarah went cold, and realized that she was naked but for the weight of the emerald chain on her collarbone. She’d pulled off her clothes and flung them somewhere when Quentin had set her down in bed earlier in the night, because she’d vaguely recollected that she’d lied to him that she slept in the nude. Now she snatched one of his long-sleeved shirts out of his closet, shrugged it on, and opened the bedroom door for Martin.
Playing Dirty Page 19
