A Man to Waste Time On

by Nina Barrett

  He was gone before she could protest.

  What was it with men? Big macho guy.

  The queue for valet service was turning into a competition. With people holding out fifties and hundreds, it looked like the parking lot attendants were guaranteed a lucrative evening. Bullets of rain ricocheted like machine gun fire on the slick surfaces of cars crawling toward the exit.

  She jumped as two enormous bangs shook the building. Something somewhere close must have been hit. She swallowed hard. The storm seemed to have an angry, vicious quality. Maybe it was just because it was such a contrast to the usual dry, sunny weather she had grown used to.

  Cinna clenched her jaw as a spider web of lightning illuminated the parking garage and an explosion of thunder shook the ground. Where was Tom? Had he found the car? Given the circumstances, maybe it was understandable she was wishing for the reassurance of his solid presence.

  She was shaking. Come on now. Get over it, she told herself. Act like an adult. It’s only a—She screamed along with the others around her as the lights of the convention center went out and the parking garage and surrounding business district plunged into darkness.

  Coming from somewhere were three beeps from a horn and a flicker of headlights. Short, long, short? She couldn’t tell. Anyway it sounded British. She put her purse and hands over her head and ran toward the sound. The rain was blowing sideways. She hurled herself in the open car door.

  “Okay?” Tom’s big hand wiped her face.

  “Yeah, sure,” she gasped. “You could drown just getting out here.”

  “I don’t know which is better right now. Trying to get out and go home, or staying put until the weather subsides.”

  He reached over to turn the radio up just in time to hear breaking news. “Vegas Emergency Services is reporting the substation at Route 206 is down and two substations north of the city are experiencing intermittent problems with power supply. Coming up, we’ll update our list of street closings.”

  He took his time following the slow line of departing vehicles. Puddles sent sprays of water up the windows. At the exit, he pulled over to the curb, shifted into park, and stopped to listen to the radio announcer’s list of street closures. Between flashes of lightning, she watched the other cars creep out onto the deserted street.

  “I don’t know about getting you back to your apartment, Cinna.” Tom turned the sound down and looked at her, shaking his head. “It sounds like downtown is taking a beating. The girls going south should be all right, but the north end is getting hammered.”

  “Please don’t risk anything that’s not safe.”

  “Oh, Lord, honey, you’re shivering.” He reached over to cover her hands with his, rubbing her fingers and raising them to his mouth.

  “I’m okay. This dress isn’t the warmest thing around.”

  “Let’s get some heat on.” Releasing her hands, he adjusted the controls and cleared his throat. “You know, I’m afraid we may run into some urban flooding. My place isn’t that far. I should be able to make it okay. I’ve got a bed and a couch and we can wait it out there. What do you think?”

  “F-fine.” She wrapped her arms around herself. The clock had struck twelve, and the ball was over.

  Chapter Ten

  “Okay, this is it.” He flicked the lights on. “We’ve still got power here fortunately. The bathroom is through here.”

  He pushed the bedroom door open. “You can take a hot shower. Towels are in the closet and at least one robe liberated from the Imperial. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Convulsing with shivers, it was the most she could manage.

  “You go on. I’ll fix you something to drink.”

  In the kitchen, he filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. Cinnamon disappeared into the other room. The downpour had left little to the imagination. It’d been better than a wet T-shirt contest. The rain-soaked dress had clung to her form—bust, legs, rear, her damp curls glittering with droplets.

  He jerked as the beeper sounded, and winced. He removed the cup and added a tea bag. There were other things he had to concentrate on now. He dunked the tea bag and frowned.

  At the emergency room where they’d transported him, the park ranger had delivered the standard lecture on the necessity of checking out his equipment before attempting a climb. He’d listened in silence, biting his tongue and conserving his strength.

  He was no expert, but the tea looked the right color. He discarded the tea bag and took the cup into the bedroom. Putting it on the bedside table, he slipped his usual choice of reading material under the bed. The water in the bathroom continued to stream. It was funny how appealing that water sounded in contrast to the deluge outside. How tempting it would be to slip into a hot steamy shower with a warm, soft, naked girl.

  Easy, Marco.

  The situation outside was bad and getting worse. The last report on the car radio had repeated the warnings about a stationary low front over the city and severe danger of urban flooding. God knows what was going on at the Imperial. Phone service was down along with the cable.

  He found dry sweats in his drawer and took them out to the living room. The tux looked like a lost cause. Would the men’s store accept the storm of the century as a sufficient reason? Even his socks were a sodden mess. He peeled them off and replaced everything. At least, he could hang the tux up. He found hangers in the closet along with the gym shoes he’d worn that morning and the climbing equipment he’d dumped there in his hurry to change.

  He didn’t need to look at it again. He’d had plenty of time stranded on the cliff face that afternoon to examine the frayed rope. He hadn’t explained to the park service officer that his training as an army ranger had instilled an obsessive need to check his equipment before and after every mission. He’d drilled it into every platoon he led. He had examined it before the climb that morning and it seemed fine. Except that somehow the rope’s interior strands had been cut where they couldn’t be seen. As if, someone had managed to snip the interior strands and weaken it.

  An attempt on his life? A bad practical joke? He found his briefcase and snapped the clasps. Coiling his rope, he placed it inside. The sound of water in the bathroom had stopped. Other things demanded his attention now.

  ****

  She turned her head to the side. Her eyelids felt like they were glued down. And what was that awful taste in her mouth? Cinna rubbed a hand across her face, flopped over, and pulled the sheet up around her nude body.

  Nude? She sat up, pulling the sheet up around her, head throbbing.

  Where the…? Nothing was familiar—the double bed, the lamp and clock radio on the nightstand, the terrycloth robe discarded on the floor. Why was it so hard to think?

  Groggy, she swung her legs over the side and reached for it. There was something familiar about it. Something about being enfolded in its comforting softness last night before…before what?

  She remembered something about a protracted, hot shower. The door to the bathroom was still ajar.

  Her fingers caught on the raised stitching. She turned the robe over to read the embossed crest, a lion and a unicorn above two words in script. She stared, shivering in spite of the sunlight filtering through the blinds. The Imperial.

  “Tom Marco.” She closed her eyes, covering her face as she fell backward onto the bed.

  The awards dinner, the thunderstorm, the streets closed because of flooding. He’d sweet-talked her into coming back to his apartment. She’d struggled out of her sodden clothing, into the heat of the shower, almost falling asleep as she stood in its welcome warmth. Then she’d put on the robe hanging on a hook in the linen closet and come back to spend the night in his bed. Alone she had presumed.

  And then? She couldn’t think. What was that taste in her mouth? She sat up and focused on the china mug beside the bed. She picked it up and swirled the remaining liquid around. There was tea residue at the bottom.

  The mug had been sitting on the nightstand when she
’d emerged from the bathroom. There’d been something off about its flavor, different, but at least it’d been warm. She’d sipped it, savoring the heat, feeling the tension from the storm ease, relaxing as her eyelids drifted shut. There had been a noise. Like a door opening? And a scent. Something male?

  Oh, Cinna. She pressed her hands over her face.

  Her chest felt tight. Had he used the damned Celestial Harmony tea he’d told her he’d had removed from the Imperial’s breakfast buffet?

  His weight on the edge of the bed, his hands smoothing back her tangled hair, his kisses down her cheekbone to the side of her neck as his long fingers undid the ties of the robe, spreading it open.

  Cinna. His breath warm in her ear.

  Her hands had found their way up the hard muscles of his chest, caught in his hair as he moved down beside her. He’d smoothed her thighs apart, whispering in her ear as his hands and then his mouth found her breasts.

  Oh, Cinna! He had possessed her, using her body as he thrust and she wiggled against him seeking relief from the hands torturing her breasts, his mouth on her nipples. She’d screamed until she collapsed panting; he held her until he was satisfied as well. Satiated, he’d let her roll away and stood perfect in the pale light, untangling the sheets rejoining her and pulling the covers around them.

  How many times had he found his pleasure? The night was a confused memory of teasing desire, extended release, enduring his lovemaking until he triumphed again. Her teenage daydreams had been filled with fantasies of what it would be like to spend the night in his arms. Reality had proven different. Her trust was broken now just as Rosemary’s had been. Only she should have been smarter after her sister’s example.

  Damn, damn bastard! She stumbled out of bed, pulling the robe around her, and threw open the living room door. The apartment was as empty as she had guessed it would be. He’d finished with her. Back in the bedroom, she grabbed the mug and hurled it against the wall, tears blurring her eyes.

  Evidently, one Smith girl hadn’t been enough for him.

  ****

  She took a deep breath before she turned the lock. The cabdriver who had picked her up outside Marco’s apartment had been more than eager to describe the flood’s destruction.

  “They’re saying eight to ten inches in four hours. More north in the downtown. That’s better than twice what Vegas gets in a year, you know. People was crazy last night. I’m telling you, I coulda made a fortune if I’d wanted. They was offering anything to get across town. I wasn’t about to chance it though. No way. Don’t take much in the way of running water to sweep cars away. Especially under the overpasses. Those things can be death traps. They got rescue crews out today looking for some people missing.”

  She was grateful he hadn’t commented on her attire—the wreck of her lamé dress, open-toed shoes still squishing at every step, damp underwear clinging. But then after driving a cab in Vegas, he’d probably seen it all.

  “So what are they saying about the Fremont Street area?” she’d asked.

  “Lotta damage. Lotta damage. The city got hit bad there.” He’d shaken his head in disbelief. “Power’s still out in most of downtown. It’s gonna be a real mess for days. I’ve been out here coming up on fifteen years and I never saw the like.”

  Back home, she tore off her ruined finery, stuffing it down in the trash, sick of the sight of it. The apartment was empty. Maybe Magdalena had already gone down to the shop to look things over. Her cell wasn’t on either. David, along with Rosemary and her friend, were probably getting a wild impression of the desert city.

  She had taken a shower, concentrating on scrubbing her hair and body, avoiding the thought of Tom’s hands on her. She needed to focus on the future, the day ahead. There was work to do if she and Magdalena were to save their business.

  Once clad in jeans, a T-shirt, and old shoes, she had opted to walk the dozen or so blocks to the shop. With the power still out, traffic signals wouldn’t be working even if the streets were passable

  Branches and debris blocked gutters gushing with muddy water. Two men were hauling a couch out to the curb to join a sodden armchair, mattress, and bedding as she passed. Storekeepers had begun getting rid of ruined furniture and merchandise; uniform looks of disgust on their faces as they called back and forth to each other, comparing losses.

  What would their damage be? Luckily, most of the expensive equipment they’d purchased like the roaster and the tea press were up off the floor along with the tea canisters in the back room. The consumables in the refrigerator and freezer would have to be discarded. The flooring? What was their responsibility and what was the landlord’s?

  Fremont Street had taken her breath away. It looked like the power was still off or the casinos too disheartened to turn on their neon. Even the oversized Vegas Vic and Vickie signs had looked depressed.

  The sun, shining in a flawless blue sky, seemed to mock the devastation. The mountains of trash on the muddy sidewalks were already beginning to reek. How long would it take city services to get around and remove it all? And what about vermin getting into the refuge?

  “Cinna, getting ready to take a look?”

  Adam Hrang from Jailhouse Rock Jewelry next door paused in his open doorway.

  “Yeah, I want to see what the damage is.” She gave the door a shove and put the key back in her purse. She took a step back as the smell greeted her. “Or maybe I don’t. Have you seen Magdalena around?”

  “No, I haven’t. Kim and I actually spent the night here. We were working on some remounts when it started to get bad. We tried bailing out with buckets, but we couldn’t keep up. There wasn’t anywhere to put the water. We spent the night on top of the counter. You can imagine how much rest we got.” He shrugged his shoulders wearily.

  “How’s your place look?”

  “It’s a disaster. Although considering our inventory, at least our stuff isn’t damaged by water. Jewelry won’t spoil. The gal down at the handmade paper place really took a beating. Ben over at the leather shop was by a while ago. He opened the door, took one look inside, and left. He’s got a big investment in exotic hides—snakeskin, lizard, ostrich. Don’t know how much of that kind of stock can be salvaged.” He made a face.

  “For us, it’s just going to take a lot of cleaning up. Kim is making a run, trying to find cleaning supplies before everything sells out. We need a truckload of disinfectant.”

  “Yeah, all that is going to be in short supply.” She took a deep breath and shoved the door open. It caught on something.

  “Let me know if we can help. Be careful. You might want to wear a mask and gloves. You know the sewers backed up,” Adam warned.

  She raised a hand and went on in, stopping in the entryway. It looked like the surge of water had swept potted plants, tables, and chairs back against the counter before scattering them. A dwarf palm that had seen better days blocked her way. She rolled it away with her foot. Vases, napkin holders, menu cards, display canisters? It was hard to identify what was under the slime.

  She grimaced and picked her way back to the counter. Mud on the floor pulled at her shoes. At least, she assumed it was mud. A dark line on the wall showed how high the water had risen.

  She found paper towels on a back shelf and absently wiped the counter, looking around. Yesterday, the large front window had given passers-by a tempting view of the shop—its pristine walls, spotless counters, and gleaming glass display cases. The tables had been bright with nosegays. The comfy, padded love seat in the corner piled with cushions. A mixture of aromas, exotic and familiar, had welcomed customers as they’d entered. Yesterday.

  A year ago, she and Magdalena had examined the property as a potential site for their business. The small collection of eclectic shops in the up and coming Fremont Street area had appealed to them. A performing arts center for the north end was in the plans for the near future. Now probably most the local businesses were in the same fix. Small, independent stores, they operated on the same shoestrin
g budget they did.

  The amount of cleaning needing to be done before they could reopen was staggering, Sanitation would be doubly important for a food business. There’d be a health department inspection to pass before they could re-open. She bit her lip. Would the water have caused warping? The polished hardwood floor had been a source of pride. The chairs were metal with padded seats. Scroll-back, they were reminiscent of an earlier era. They’d need to make contact with their landlord, but as a commercial renter of retail space, he was sure to be overwhelmed now.

  Some of the cleaning they could do themselves, but the city health inspectors would probably require the rest to be professionally sanitized before they would permit them to reopen.

  Adam had said the sewers had backed up. She was putting off even looking in the restrooms.

  No, she’d start at the kitchen area and the storerooms first. She stopped, gritted her teeth, and pushed through the louvered door into the back.

  The pantry shelves were undisturbed. She ran her hand down the row of tin canisters—Pomegranate green tea, acerola from the Caribbean, ginseng and chamomile, the rare spring harvest oolong David had sent them from Taiwan, along with the South African rooibos and others. At least some of their pricy stock wouldn’t have to be replaced when they finally got back to having customers. Small comfort since they wouldn’t have any customers to worry about for a while.

  She was using a trash bag and rubber gloves to empty the refrigerator when she heard noise in the front.

  “Cinna? Cinnamon, are you here?”

  What? It sounded like…

  She dropped her trash bag and went out to the front, removing her gloves.

  “Rosemary?”

  Her sister, looking as pulled together as always, trim in designer jeans, T-shirt, and sweater knotted around her shoulders was looking around the front.