Power Play

by Warren, Nancy

  “Only ten more to go.”

  She became aware that the most amazing smell had entered the room along with her roommate. Her mouth started watering almost before her conscious mind registered the source of the smell.

  She turned and found him holding out a square pizza box. “For you.”

  If he’d brought her roses—no, diamonds—she couldn’t have felt more grateful.

  “I have never been so happy to see anything in my life,” she sighed. Then squeaked a protest as he tried to place the thing on the desktop. “No! I can’t get grease on those place cards. Put it on the bed.” She glanced at her fingers, smudged with ink. “I’ll go wash up and be right back.”

  When she returned he’d opened her a beer and placed it on the bedside table along with the pizza box. She used a hand towel from the bathroom as a napkin and opened the box. Her stomach growled.

  “I wasn’t sure what you like so I got the works.”

  “Perfect.” She lifted her first slice, trailing a wonderful, delicious, stretchy strand of cheese all the way to her mouth. She bit down and all the flavors exploded at once. Cheese and garlic, tomato sauce, mushroom, some kind of ham, a sliver of green pepper. “Oh, mmm. Mmm.” She moaned with pleasure and caught him staring at her mouth. For a second the connection scorched, then he abruptly looked away, grabbed his own beer and took a drink.

  “How did your games go today?” she asked him, mostly since it was the first thing she could think of to say that would break the strange atmosphere.

  “We played two. One easy win, one tough. And I watched a couple. Some good games.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How about you? Apart from slaving like a medieval monk on your calligraphy, what did you do today?”

  “We went shopping and got some stuff for Leanne’s stagette party tomorrow night. Had lunch with the girls and hung out.”

  “Good times.”

  “Yeah.”

  Because the pizza was far too much for her to eat alone she offered him half and was only mildly surprised when he scarfed the slices as though he hadn’t already eaten.

  “I can’t believe you can eat two dinners and not get fat,” she complained.

  “That wasn’t a dinner,” he exclaimed, “that was a little before-bed snack.” He settled back with the last piece of pizza and said, “Besides, I have a fast metabolism.”

  She wiped her fingers and folded the empty box into the trash. Then she washed her hands with hot water and soap, all the way up to her elbows like a surgeon, drying herself thoroughly. When she came back out of the bathroom she said, “I’m going to finish these last ten cards before I turn in.”

  “Okay. I’ll watch some TV.”

  Soon they were absorbed in their respective activities. She was crossing the T on Patricia with a flourish when a loud sound, like a sudden rattle of stones against a window, startled her so much she scraped her pen, leaving a destructive trail of black ink that pretty much crossed out Patricia.

  She raised her head. The sound came again, louder now and more persistent, like steel drums. It sounded like street drummers, each with their own rhythm, had set up inside her hotel room.

  “What on earth?”

  Jonah muted the television. With a grimace he said, “I told you it looked like rain.” Then he pulled the curtain back and she saw the drops of water already plopping down from the leaking roof to hit the buckets, each drop of rain making a piercing noise.

  “Oh, no. I don’t believe it.”

  She liked the sound of rain on a roof, she really did. The sound was rhythmic, lulling almost; it reminded her of being curled up in bed as a youngster with a good book, dry and warm.

  But she’d never tried to snuggle up in bed with that same rain falling through the roof into plastic buckets that echoed.

  There was no lulling rhythm, just constant scatters of sharp sound. Over and over again.

  “How long does rain tend to last in these parts?” he asked conversationally.

  “It can go on for days.” She glanced at the curtain. “And nights.”

  She managed to finish the cards, then brushed her teeth, donned her pajamas in the bathroom and returned to the room, feeling much less self-conscious than she had the night before. Already she was getting used to Jonah. How odd.

  He used the bathroom after her, and trod past her wearing the shorts she strongly suspected he’d donned for her benefit.

  They settled in their respective beds and after politely checking with him, she flipped off the light.

  The room was plunged into relative darkness, which had the effect of making the staccato rain splashing into the plastic buckets sound even louder.

  She turned her back to the curtain, shoved a pillow over her ear and resolutely shut her eyes. Now it sounded like the entire cast of Stomp performing. Only without any discernable rhythm.

  She flipped to her other side and tried blocking the other ear. It made no difference. At least she knew her hearing was the same in both ears.

  She flopped to her back, contemplated the darkness above her, where the timber beams of the roof protected them from the weather, and hoped very much that the leak didn’t spread to her part of the room.

  She could tell from his breathing and restless movements that Jonah wasn’t having any better luck than she falling asleep.

  Finally, she said, “Jonah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you sleepy?”

  A low chuckle answered her. “Not a chance. It’s too much like being under fire.”

  Her eyes widened and she turned to where he was no more than a gray outline. “Have you ever been?”

  “Under fire? I’ve been a cop for a dozen years. Of course I have.”

  “Did you ever—” She stopped herself. “Never mind.”

  She heard the movement of his head against his pillow, knew he was looking her way. “Kill anyone?” He waited a beat and she didn’t answer. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Everyone wonders. I guess it’s natural. No. Thank God. I almost did once, but my aim was off and the guy was coming at me too fast.” He sounded so matter-of-fact, but the image in her mind was terrifying. “We both fired at the same time. I got him in the right chest. Broke a rib and he lost some blood, but he was okay. His bullet hit me in the left arm. Which left me with a manly and interesting scar. Someday I’ll show you.”

  A tiny shiver went through her at his words. Obviously, if she wanted to look, she could see the scar on one of the occasions when he sauntered past her in nothing but a towel or his running shorts, but the idea of him actually showing her his wound sounded vaguely intimate. And she had no idea how to respond. Thank you? I’d like that? You show me yours, I’ll show you mine? Not that an appendix scar was going to compete with a bullet hole, but it was the only scar of any size she had.

  She turned onto her side, propping her head in her hand. This was kind of like a sleepover party, only without the other girls, or the pedicures. And there was a strange tension in the air, a current of male/female attraction she was determined to ignore.

  “Did you always want to be a cop?”

  “Yep. I think so. Too many TV cop shows when I was a kid. Remember Hill Street Blues? I used to watch that with my folks when I was a little kid.” He laughed, in self-mockery, she thought. “Imagine choosing your career from a TV show.”

  “I bet it happens a lot. Can you imagine how many kids are planning to be CSI investigators when they grow up?”

  “Just pick your city. You’re all set.” He pulled his arms up, stacked his hands beneath his head, elbows winging out. “How about you? How’d you get into your line of work?”

  “An aptitude test.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m entrepreneurial, enjoy working with people—very important—I’m athletic and interested in anatomy. At one time I thought of being a doctor.” She glanced his way, giving a wry grin even though he couldn’t see it. “Too much ER, probably.
But I couldn’t face all those years of schooling. Massage therapy suits me better. I’m in partnership with people I respect. And we have a small staff of other wellness professionals. Because we’re joint owners, if one of us needs a break it’s not a big deal. It’s perfect for me.”

  The rain continued to pound. Sounded like it was settling in for days. Just perfect.

  For a few moments they lay there listening.

  “Tell me something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re smart enough to run your own business, assertive enough to take vacations when you need them, so how come you let your family walk all over you?”

  “How can you say that? You’ve never even met my family.” She tried really hard to sound outraged, but it was tough when he was so right. He’d only known her since yesterday and already he’d seen through her to the wimpy soft center she tried to hide.

  “I’m a detective, remember? Observing people is what I’m trained to do. The evidence I’ve collected so far from observing you has been fascinating.”

  “Fascinating?” Even though he was psychoanalyzing her after a very short acquaintance, it was nice to know he’d bothered.

  “Yes. Not entirely in a good way.” He pulled his hands out from under his head so he could enumerate on his fingers his evidence. “First, you are planning to wear the butt ugliest dress I’ve ever seen on a bridesmaid, and believe me, I’ve seen plenty.”

  “But I can’t help that. The bride always chooses the bridesmaids’ dresses. I had no choice but to wear it.”

  He turned his head and she could tell he was grilling her with his eyes. “Who paid for that orange tent?”

  She gulped. “I did.”

  He nodded and went back to counting off the evidence of her wimpitude. “Second, you spent the first day making some kind of paper flowers.”

  “Roses. They were roses. A bunch of us got together and made them. It was fun.” Although it would have been more fun if the group hadn’t been quite so full of older ladies. Most of the young women were working or home with their kids. But it had been nice to catch up with women she didn’t see very often.

  “Tonight you wrote place cards that could have been hired out or done by someone else.”

  True, true, true! “I’m the only one in the family who ever learned calligraphy. Plus, I’m reliable. Also, a good speller.”

  “You let them shove some dentist at you and the only way you can convince them you’re not interested is by getting me to front for you as your fake boyfriend.”

  She was stung. “Well? Isn’t that your job, to serve and protect?”

  He rolled over to face her. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re not a wimp with me. You had me damn near terrified last night. If there’d been anywhere to sleep within miles I’d have taken it.”

  “I know,” she admitted, giving up her defensive routine and flopping back on the pillow. “Everything you say is true. I can’t seem to help myself. I get around my family and I regress into a doormat. ‘Oh, give it to Emily. She won’t mind. She’s so reliable.’”

  “Well? What are you going to do about this little problem of yours? You can’t get strange men to pretend to be your boyfriend every time your family pisses you off.”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I thought moving away would solve my problem, but it only means higher travel costs to get home for every family occasion. And there are a lot of them.”

  “Don’t you ever say no to them?”

  She sighed again. “It’s tough being the good girl of your family. It’s a lot to live up to. How can I let them down now?”

  “I don’t know. But if you don’t figure it out, you’ll spend a lot of your life twisting paper into roses and making small talk with losers you get set up with.”

  It was humiliating that he could see through her so clearly. She wondered if everyone did.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Maybe stop being such a good girl all the time?”

  “You want me to be a bad girl? Is that it?” Then realizing how her words could be construed she put her hands over her eyes. “No. Forget I said that.”

  He chuckled. “If you ever want pointers on being a bad girl, I’m your guy. For instance, do you know that the top female sexual fantasy is having sex with a stranger?”

  “How do you know?” she asked, thinking he knew far too much about women.

  “I’ve been around the block. I’m just saying, if that’s your fantasy, and you’re looking for an easy lesson in crossing to the bad girl side of the street…”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Determined to change a subject that was verging on dangerous given the fact that they were sharing a room and unable to sleep, she said, “Tell me about your family.”

  “They’re great, I’d do anything for them, but I sure as hell wouldn’t write a bunch of fancy note cards for their weddings.”

  She laughed. “Oh, that’s not even close to the worst thing I’ve ever had to do at a wedding.”

  And that led them to reminisce about all the weddings they’d attended, the good, the bad and the truly ugly.

  “Worst wedding ever?” she asked him.

  “Easy. Preston and Louise.” He had his hands back behind his head and she could see his teeth gleam as he recalled the details.

  “Preston and Louise decided to get married on the beach in Mexico. Very romantic, right? So we all flew down to this all-inclusive resort, all on the same flight and everything—the bride and groom, her parents, his parents, the stepparents, the bridesmaids, groomsmen and a few guests and assorted family. There were probably thirty of us altogether. Preston was a buddy from back in high school and he’d always been a heavy partier. I figured he’d grown up. Turns out I was wrong. The all-inclusive part of the resort experience went to Preston’s head. All the free drinks and food? He was like a wild man. All but drank Mexico dry of tequila and you never saw him without a plate loaded with food.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah. Louise wasn’t as polite as you. She kept yelling at him every time he was sober enough to understand her, which wasn’t that often. So, finally, we have the wedding. It was at sunset, very pretty. We’re all dressed up, the minister is great. Louise is so mad at the groom she won’t even look at him when she says her vows and when he goes to give her a kiss she turns her head so he gets her cheek.”

  “You can’t blame her.”

  “No. But it was pretty funny. And he was our buddy, so of course we felt kind of sorry for the guy. Anyhow, we’ve managed to keep him reasonably sober that day, he’s married, we figure our job is done. The wedding reception is a great party, and then Louise wants to go to bed, but nobody can find Preston.”

  “He’d disappeared on his wedding night?” She could barely believe it.

  “Yep. I wasn’t the best man that time, luckily, because she lit into poor Mike and then collapsed on his chest, sobbing.”

  “Mike was the best man?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Forgot you don’t know them. So we leave Mike with Louise and the rest of us all look for Preston, can’t find him anywhere. Mike ends up escorting Louise to the wedding night bungalow, and she’s an emotional mess.”

  “Oh, poor Louise. Did Preston ever turn up?”

  “Next morning, a gardener found him curled up under a flowering palm tree. Still in his tux. Passed out cold.”

  She giggled. “What did Louise do?”

  “Had the wedding annulled.” He glanced over and his wide grin had her smiling back in anticipation. “Know the best part?”

  “What?”

  “By the end of the week, Louise and Mike were an item.”

  “Of course they were. It makes perfect sense that the one she turned to in her hour of need would steal her heart.”

  “They got married three months later. And because Louise is a waste-not-want-not kind of woman, she reused everything. Same dress, same bridesmaids, same bridesmaid
gowns, she even made Preston give her back his wedding ring and she had it resized for Mike.”

  She laughed aloud at that. “And did she have her second wedding at an all-inclusive?”

  “No, ma’am. Louise had learned her lesson. She had the wedding at her parents’ home and I doubt there was enough alcohol in the whole house to have got a mouse drunk.”

  “Poor Louise. I hope she’ll end up happy.”

  “As happy as anyone who believes in fairy tales,” he said with a cynicism she found refreshing. “So, your turn. Worst wedding?”

  She listened to the rain leaking through the roof taking away her badly needed sleep. Thought about the orange pouf dress that dominated this room she was sharing with a stranger in a bedbug-infested lodge. The setup with Third Cousin Buddy, the pretend boyfriend. “I’m thinking it’s going to be this one.”

  “Well, look on the bright side. At least for this wedding you’ll have a great date.”

  6

  “I WOULD NEVER GET MARRIED out of the country,” Emily said, ignoring his deliberately provocative comment. And the fact that it was true.

  As the buckets filled with water she noticed the tone of the rain hitting the surface changed, growing slightly deeper. She remembered how deep the tubs were and hoped they were big enough that there’d be no overflow.

  She was starting to get drowsy in spite of the noise. “What would your wedding be like?” Jonah asked her. “You going for the big fairy tale? Six bridesmaids, arriving at the church in a horse-drawn carriage? That kind of crap?”

  She snorted with laughter. “Never, ever in a million years. My ideal wedding involves no tulle, no bridesmaids, no potluck dinners beforehand, no drunk guests trying to look down my top and definitely, absolutely, no ‘Ave Maria.’ Not sung, not played and not rapped.”

  “A fifteen minute ceremony at city hall in your jeans?” He sounded vaguely cynical.

  “Oh, I’m misting up. You just described my dream.”

  It was his turn to snort. “Sure I did.”

  “How about you? What’s your dream wedding?”

  The silence was the length of ten raindrops in buckets. “I don’t plan on getting married.”