“What?” he demanded, a huge bob swimming through his throat. He didn’t look angry anymore, just in pain.
“Nothing.” Her head drifted back onto his shoulder knowing quietly, softly, that she loved this dream.
“Isabel, I . . .” She felt his mouth press to her head, but it was hard to be sure between the bobby pins and hairspray. A voice interrupted. It put a fuzzy edge on a moment that was beginning to feel like reality. It was a man’s voice, one she didn’t know.
“Aidan. Aidan Roycroft.” This time Aidan pulled away, blinking as if somebody flipped on a thousand-watt bulb. “Fitz Landrey,” he said, shoving a fat hand in between them. Isabel thought if she had a knife—not even a terribly sharp knife—she’d chop it off. “How you doin’, son?” The man was aggressively shaking Aidan’s hand, the one that was wrapped around her seconds ago. He led them to the edge of the dance floor. “My brother-in-law is Tim O’Rourke, Shanna’s dad.”
Super. He was there to call Aidan out for humiliating his niece, the one who showed up to Catswallow’s grand gala with her cousin. But her uncle didn’t seem angry, shoving a business card in Aidan’s face.
“I’m here from L.A. My niece . . . Well, to tell you the truth, my niece couldn’t hate you any more than a rabid hornet. But a few weeks back she insisted I come see you perform. Then she told me not to bother.” He shrugged. “But I was passing through and I don’t make business decisions based on pissed-off girls and something tells me that happens a lot. Right, cookie?” He gave her chin a squeeze, Isabel yanking her head back. “Besides, I’m stuck in this hole for the next three hours.” Running a finger around the collar of his dress shirt, it was as if the confines of the Catswallow VFW were choking him. He was definitely a city dweller. He even smelled like something you’d never come in contact with in Catswallow. “My job is to find the next big thing. I’m always on a hunt for talent, looks, a singular presence. But mostly, I’m looking for an it factor.” Aidan and Isabel exchanged a glance. “I can’t tell you how many artists I’ve passed on, surely thousands. New faces with incredible talent, but nominal it factor. It’s not something that comes with practice or a record label can manufacture. You either have it, or you don’t. And, kid, I’ve got to tell you—your it factor is unlike anybody I’ve ever signed. I haven’t seen this much natural talent since I signed Weak Need.” Their mouths gaped as Fitz tossed out the name of a mega-hot band. “And, frankly, it takes five of them to produce as much raw charisma as you’ve got going.”
The rest of the conversation was a blur, Isabel swearing that Aidan’s eyes spun like a cartoon character’s. Fitz Landrey explained that he was the head of C-Note Music: L.A., London, New York, and Tokyo. Doing most of the talking, he asked if Aidan had a demo. He obediently produced the CD he’d made in a second-rate Birmingham recording studio. It cost every penny he had. There were words about record deals, touring, and money, lots of money. He didn’t stay long after that, telling Aidan that his handshake was as good as a signed contract. He’d be in touch. He gave Aidan another business card, telling him to call if he needed anything in the meantime, anything at all.
It was the moment Aidan dreamt of his entire life, Isabel forcing down “Don’t go!” while summoning “Ohmigosh, I’m so happy for you!” She just stood, blankly staring. Trumping her Zen-like dance of clarity was money and opportunity, the night turning into a one-way ticket out of Catswallow and her life. The future flashed through Isabel’s head: Aidan gets his dream. I never make it out of here. Years from tonight she’d chaperone a gala—the highlight of her year—accompanied by her flak-jacket-wearing husband, the manager of Goodyear Tires. The one Trey Stanton introduced her to. His occupation wouldn’t be terribly obvious that night, having scrubbed the grease from under his nails and wearing his good short-sleeve dress shirt. The one without his name embroidered above the pocket. “Hey babe,” he’d say, grabbing her ass, “didn’t you used to know that guy?” Aidan would make a guest appearance, arriving as he lit cigars with hundred-dollar bills, the voluptuous flavor of the month hanging on his arm. He would look at Isabel, aghast, snapping his fingers as if he couldn’t quite recall her name.
The music stopped, Isabel shaking her head, trying to dislodge the future. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, she looked at Aidan. She was sure he’d forgotten Catswallow’s gala, certainly any moment they were on the verge of sharing before Fitz stepped up and realigned his universe. Aidan let out a howl like a crazed wolf, swinging her into the air. “Isabel, do you have any idea what this means?” A palpable electric current pulsed through him. No doubt you could see him glow from Birmingham. While happiness was hard to feign, it was impossible not to feel something. He was ecstatic. Isabel smiled, reaching for congratulatory words. They were there; she just needed a minute to get them out. As their wicked roller-coaster ride came to a jerky halt, Aidan’s expression grew serious. He bent forward, snatching Isabel up into a ferocious kiss. It was incredibly soft and powerful, the absence of the sticky sweetness of a watermelon Jolly Rancher not an issue. For a moment she was caught up in the kiss. It was as if Catswallow were raffling off dreams and Aidan and Isabel held every winning number. But like an unexpected suitor, apprehension cut in. It silenced a force that was moving with the power of a tsunami. Isabel pushed him away. The last thing she wanted was for Aidan to kiss her because she was the closest pair of lips. Isabel didn’t want to be the party kiss or, now, the ain’t-life-grand kiss. If Aidan was going to kiss her, it had to be because kissing Isabel was the only thing on his mind. She refused to be his exclamation point. That job belonged to every other girl in the room. Isabel’s desire not to be one of them exceeded her desire for him. If that was all he wanted, let Aidan Roycroft kiss the flavor of the month. She would not settle. Without a backward glance, or a congratulatory word, Isabel disappeared into a papier-mâché world, slipping out the side door of the Catswallow VFW.
CHAPTER FIVE
Catswallow, Alabama
ISABEL FINAGLED A RIDE HOME WITH KYLE MARSH AND HIS DATE. She held it together, even after Kyle informed her that an evening with him would not have ended like this. He had a point. Isabel said to drop her off at the entrance to Fountainhead. She’d walk the half mile to the trailer. In truth, she didn’t want to take the dress off, the distance her only excuse to wear it a few minutes longer. The shoes she gladly forfeited, realizing her subconscious was a pushy ass. Isabel had chosen the stilt-like torturous things so if she and Aidan were to dance, or anything more, she’d be the perfect height. But bare feet and gravel were as painful as the night, and she ended up walking along the dirt edge. As she walked, she plucked bobby pins from her hair, dropping them onto the road. The cascading updo unfurled, leaving dangling curls caked in hairspray. She wiped mascara-filled tears, wondering if, after the ball, Cinderella felt this shitty.
The trailer was dark, but she did notice Rick’s SUV parked nearby. Super. More than once he’d left in the wee hours of the morning. Aside from the obvious grossness of that, Isabel wanted her mother. Well, she wanted her to herself. She hesitated a few yards from the porch. Maybe she didn’t. They were as snug as two bugs in a rug—after the split Carrie said it all the time. It was her mantra from the time they started driving on I-95 south, reassuring a younger Isabel about the beauty of the South, a terrific job, and the prospect of a happy life. But since the uproar over Aidan, since she wasn’t that little girl anymore, maybe since Rick, things weren’t so snug. She was home earlier than expected, that part being a small plus. She wouldn’t have to play Juliet to his Mr. Capulet. Walking through the door, it occurred to Isabel that her mother’s car wasn’t out front. But that couldn’t be right.
She tossed the high heels in a corner and grabbed some tissues from the breakfast bar. Blotting mascara, Isabel turned toward the dark living room and flipped on a lamp. She shuffled back, colliding hard with the breakfast bar. Rick was sprawled across the sofa, deep beer-gut laughter responding to her s
urprise. He scratched a hand across his chest where a thicket of hair protruded. Isabel was unable to keep from noticing his unbuckled belt, the open button of his trousers. “Where’s my mother? What are you doing here?”
“Waitin’ on you, missy. Busy night in the ER; Carrie got called in to work.” It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. “You’re early,” he said, glancing at the diamond-faced watch he showed off to anyone who would look. “Seems a bunch of you kids left the gala and got a little drunk. There was a wreck out on Old Station Road.”
Isabel’s mind leapt to Aidan. But there really wasn’t enough time for him to go off and get drunk. On the other hand, with his newfound fame, who knew what he’d be tempted to do. “So why are you still here?”
“Your mother was worried, couldn’t get you on your cell. I volunteered to wait until you got home. Just being helpful,” he said, his shrug lazy and benign. It was at complete odds with Isabel’s cautionary stance and the voice in the back of her head.
“Nice of you. I’m home. You can go.” She turned toward her bedroom, but Rick was up off the sofa, following.
“Now, that’s not too social, Bella.” She froze as thick fingers moved up and down her arm. She’d rather it were fire ants. Isabel turned, wanting to tell him to get his hands off her. His penetrating stare stole the demand. “From the look of you,” he said, a finger swiping through a tear, “seems your night with Roycroft didn’t go so good. I didn’t hear his truck—can’t miss that hunk of junk.” Caressing fingertips kept moving, closing around Isabel’s arm. “See what I mean, him letting you find your own way home. That’s not safe, sweetie, not safe at all.” His gaze darted past her head. She was alone, and he knew it. “That’s no way to treat a young woman, particularly one as special as you.” She stepped back; her arm didn’t follow. “You are special, Bella, you know? Pretty too. But not the kind of pretty that’ll satisfy a tomcat like him. A little spitfire that’s a touch more smarts than she is beauty. Roycroft, he can’t help that. It’s in his DNA. He likes ’em blond with big boobs, whether they can think or not isn’t the point. Ever take a good look at Stella? I can tell you from experience she puts out after one drink. Not very classy. Not like your mama.”
“You’re disgusting, let go of me.”
He did the opposite, inching closer. “You’re nothing but a curiosity for Roycroft. Trust me. In the end he’ll want the same thing as his daddy—the kind willin’ to kiss his ass or anything else.”
Isabel was about to say: Just like you. But she could see what an insult it was to her mother. “Aidan and I are none of your business!” She tried twisting away, but his hand was a sailor’s knot. A body-skimming gaze moved decidedly south, his upturned mouth conveying every smarmy thought.
“You know, you’re right. Forget him. Hell, by now Roycroft’s busy dippin’ his wick into something that’s not quite so much work, like Ms. O’Rourke.” Struggling was a moot point, Isabel recalling how much bigger and wider Rick seemed when confronting Aidan. “That’s gotta sting, after the hours you put in. But I have an idea how to get back at him. I was entertaining a pretty good fantasy when you came in.” His other arm wrapped around her waist, jerking Isabel into an iron-clad embrace. “And here you are . . . the star. I promise you, Bella, I’m at least one up on Roycroft when it comes to women.”
They shuffled together, like some diabolical waltz, running out of room as the wood-tone paneling met with her back. He was drunk. It didn’t register, not until Rick’s mouth made razor-burn contact with her cheek. For once, he didn’t smell like cologne; it was more of an 80-proof aroma. There was a furious pounding in her chest. Outwardly, Isabel forced herself to stay calm. “Get away from me!” she said, shoving her palms against his chest. It was like smacking cement. Rick grabbed her wrists and pinned them against the wall, the implication terrifying and real. His mouth moved hard over hers. It was raw and scratchy and beyond repulsive. Worse than that, it took the place of Aidan’s kiss. Grinding himself against her, Isabel couldn’t believe what she was feeling. There weren’t enough layers of silky fabric on the planet. Calm was history as her body struggled against every part of his. This is not happening. It can’t be happening! A bearlike hand pawed at the dress and the tear of fabric at the bodice informed her that, indeed, it was.
“Look, Bella,” he said, his tone conversational, like he was trying to sell her a car. “I made an investment here, and I want the payoff—with interest. I watch you strut around this place in your short-shorts and tight T-shirts, like some kinda brainy trailer-trash tease.”
“It’s my home!” she shouted. “And what do you mean in-vestment?”
He laughed but never lost an ounce of the power that was riding against her. “Your dress, your day of beauty. You don’t really think your mama shelled out for all that?”
“You? You paid for the dress, all of this?”
He shrugged. “All women come with a price tag. Hell, I don’t mind. It made her happy. Besides, I admit it. I wanted to see spitfire polished up.” He narrowed his eyes, his tongue sliding over his lips. “It’s way better than I figured. ’Bout killed me to watch you waltz out of here with him.” He pressed closer, whispering hotly in her ear. “But see how things work out? Roycroft’s lived up to my expectations and here we are.” He inched back. “So how’s about we settle your tab? I’m a fair guy, Bella. We can have a good time if you give it a chance.” Holding her wrists with one hand, with the other Rick wrestled for the zipper of her dress, which was on the side and he couldn’t find it. His expression grew comical, as if a hide-and-seek zipper were part of Isabel’s tease.
At a momentary standoff, Isabel hoped he’d back up an inch. That’s all it would take for her to deliver a swift knee to his groin, which offered an ample target. Instead, Rick’s mouth moved over hers again, Isabel clinging to a semblance of calm. It began to fade, Isabel struggling and gagging, wondering what, exactly, she’d done to deserve this. She’d never been so intimidated, not by any man. Physical force against her will; she was going to lose. “Please don’t do this,” she said, her head wrenching left and right, his mouth capturing hers.
“That’s it, baby, you make me work for it. A little fight gets the blood movin’.”
Turning her head hard, instinct urged Isabel to gather the self-worth her mother had talked about. Carrie was right. She had plenty. “Don’t you do this!” Her head thumped hard against the wall, spitting into Rick’s face. She watched a wad of saliva run across his broad nose, down his cheek. He looked stunned, the grin evaporating. In one angry motion Rick let go of the dress, wiped the spit, and backhanded her across the face. The sting was fantastic, delivering a brain-rattling reply. She wanted to scream, but just as fast her jaw was pinched between two vice-like fingers, her teeth cracking.
“It was my intention to ask nicely, but fuck that now. Take the dress off, Bella. Or we can just go around it.” With angry intent, Rick pillaged through layers of dress, groping, until his hand made contact with her thigh, the dress bunched at her waist. Unlike at the restaurant, there was no margin for “pardon me” error, his hand thrusting between her legs. It was as if he had eight hands—or ten. One held hers to the wall. The others worked together, holding up the dress, grabbing at her underwear . . . unzipping his pants. “This will happen, sweetie. Promise, you’ll like it more than you think.” His liquored breath was hot in her face, his physical size consuming hers. “’Course,” he said, exposing himself, “probably not as much as me.”
But Isabel wasn’t done fighting, impelled by the sharp image of her immediate future. “If you do this, I’ll tell the entire town. I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell my mother and the sheriff, and anyone who will listen!”
His eyes creased, but his mouth bowed wider. “Try it, you little bitch. I’ve lived in Catswallow my whole life. Your word’s nothing against mine. You’ll be the Yankee slut who came on to me!” Additional spitfire worked
against her, Rick surrounding her body, spinning her around. “But if you’re that opposed, maybe it’s better you don’t watch!” Pressed between him and the wall, Isabel couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t get away. It was like being trapped under the cover of a swimming pool, the idea of everything going black suddenly having great appeal.
A truck door slammed. It was an earsplitting creak she’d know anywhere, more rust than painted metal. With her cheek pressed to the paneling, she screamed Aidan’s name. Rick’s hand came around, clamping over Isabel’s mouth. She felt him jerk his pants up. Saliva and sweat oozed from beneath his palm. He whispered, “No worries, honey, I can take him—maybe make him watch.” The front door burst open, Rick having no choice but to spin the two of them around. The knob went right through the wall, the force causing it to crash shut behind Aidan.
“What the fuck?”
He spoke and moved so fast Isabel couldn’t comprehend how he absorbed what was happening. She broke from his hold, and Aidan rammed Rick like an opposing linebacker, putting his head right through the wood-tone paneling. Stunned and drunk, Rick staggered; Aidan rushed forward and hit him again. It was a small room with too much furniture. The two crashed over and into things, Aidan pummeling him with a ferociousness that was completely foreign to Isabel. Rick gained momentum, long enough to connect one terrific punch to Aidan’s face. He stumbled, falling backward over the already toppled coffee table. Rick lunged, but not at Aidan. He dove for the bar stool where his jacket hung. Moving toward him, Isabel jerked to a halt as Aidan froze, prone on the floor. Rick stood over him, his gun aimed at Aidan’s head.
Perfect Timing Page 6
