All Shook Up

by Susan Andersen

  “Aw, man,” he said mournfully, sounding spookily reminiscent of Tate when she’d told him he couldn’t have pop for lunch. “What a waste.” Then he smiled at her across the table. “I’ve missed you, Dru; it’s really good to see you again. What do you say we go down to the Red Bull Friday night and show the rubes around here how to shake a leg?”

  “That sounds like fun. I haven’t been dancing in quite a while.” Then she thought of the chemistry she’d witnessed between him and Char, and the vow she and her friend had made back in junior high school not to horn in on each other’s boyfriends. “I’ll have to get back to you, though. I’ve got Tate to consider.”

  “No problem. You know where I live—give me a call.”

  She tracked down Char later that afternoon in the tiny office that fronted the massage-therapy room. When she stuck her head inside the door, she saw her friend sitting with her feet propped up on an open desk drawer, reading a magazine.

  It always gave her a kick to see Char in her work environment. Forget pale-faced, Birkenstock-wearing New Agers. The pale green lab coat was about the only concession Char made to her profession—her hair was as bouffant as always, her makeup vibrant, and her fingernails screw-me red. Dru knew her clientele was often taken aback upon their first introduction, but no one who’d ever had a Swedish massage by Char ever again thought twice again about her flamboyant looks.

  Dru smiled. “Hey. You got a minute?”

  Char tossed the magazine aside and dropped her feet to the floor, sitting up. “Sure, come on in. I’ve got the entire hour. My three o’clock canceled.”

  “Difficult to get rich that way.”

  “Tell me about it. On the other hand, it was Roberta Manion, and no matter how well her daughter tips, I’m always wrung out by the end of a session with her. I swear that woman would complain if you hung her with a new rope.”

  Dru laughed and pulled up the extra chair, breathing in the scents of Char’s aromatic oils and enjoying the London Philharmonic as it purled Bizet’s Carmen out of the overhead speakers. “I can’t stay the whole hour, but Kev dropped by a while ago and I need to talk to you.”

  Char stiffened, her smile wiped away. “What on earth does anything concerning that fool have to do with me?”

  “He invited me to go down to the Red Bull Friday night, and I want to talk to you about it. It’s not a date or anything,” she rushed to add. “It would be strictly as friends, you understand, but I thought I should—”

  “Drucilla Jean, you can have wild, unprotected sex with the guy for all it means to me.” Char shrugged. “Although, as your friend, I’d have to question your judgment.”

  “Dammit, Char, why do you do that?”

  Char looked at her warily. “Do what?”

  “Why do you pretend you don’t care anything about him?”

  “Well, gee, let me think. Could it be because I don’t care anything about him?”

  You are so full of it. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so,” Char said tightly.

  “Okay. Then prove it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Dru looked her friend in the eye. “Prove it.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  “Say you’ll come to the Red Bull Friday night, too.”

  “Oh, yeah, that oughtta be fun. Kev and I get along so well.”

  “You don’t even have to talk to Kev if you don’t want to. Come for me.”

  “And put you in the middle? I don’t think so.”

  “Let me get this straight—you’re staying away for me?”

  “Hell, yeah. And for me and Kev, too. I’m saving us all a stress-filled evening.”

  “Chicken.”

  Char stared. “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re nothing but a chicken.”

  “Is this where I’m supposed to stamp my feet and yell, Am not, am not? What are we, in grade school?”

  “Baaawk.” Dru cackled in her best chicken imitation. “Bawk-bawk-bawk-bawk-baaaawk.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud—fine. I’ll come to the Red Bull Friday night.” She gave Dru a look. “You do a lousy chicken call.”

  “Maybe.” Dru rose to her feet. “But I do great double-dog-dare-ya psychology.”

  Wednesday morning, Tate showed up just as J.D. was applying the last coat of paint to his canoe.

  “Oh, wow!” he exclaimed excitedly. “It’s all done!”

  “Almost.” J.D.’s voice was muffled by the paper mask that covered his nose and mouth, and he waved Tate away when he got too close. “Stand back. Your mom’ll have my hide if this ends up on your clothes, and I don’t want you breathing these fumes.” He continued to sweep the spray gun from the air compressor, applying candy-apple red paint in a carefully controlled layer from bow to stern.

  “Oh, man.” Tate all but danced in place. “Can I go out in it with you when it’s ready?”

  “Sure. Long as your mom or your grandparents say it’s okay.”

  “They will. They let me go out in the rowboats all the time, so long as I wear my life preserver.” Tate settled on the bottom step of the porch and watched J.D. put the finishing touches on the paint job. He was silent for several moments, then said, “Mom’s got a date.”

  J.D. stilled for an instant, then forced himself to keep directing the nozzle in wide sweeps in order to avoid any drips. But his teeth were gritted and his skin felt tight. “Yeah?” he finally said. “Who with?”

  “I dunno. Some old friend. You kissed her,” Tate said with sudden plaintiveness. “Are you gonna let her do that?”

  “I don’t really have a say in what your mother does.” J.D. was glad to turn away from Tate as he cleaned his equipment, because he felt territorial and savage and not at all like his normal self, and he sure as hell didn’t want to scare the bejesus out of the kid—which was what he’d probably do if Tate saw his face. For one of the few times in J.D.’s life, controlling his expression was simply beyond him.

  “They’re goin’ dancing,” Tate said glumly. Then he brightened. “But I get ta stay at Billy’s again.”

  J.D. took a deeper breath and blew it out. “Well, there you go. Maybe you’ll get to watch another PG-Thirteen movie. When’s all this going down, anyhow?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Huh. So where do people go to dance around here?”

  “In that saloon down in town.” Tate shrugged impatiently, clearly tired of the subject. “When do you think the paint will be dry enough to put the canoe in the water?”

  “Friday or Saturday, I guess. I want to give it a couple of days to be sure it sets up. You think you could help me move it up on the porch without getting paint on your clothes?”

  “Sure!”

  Tate chattered away as they transferred the canoe onto the perch J.D. had made to keep it out of the weather, but J.D. only heard about one word in ten.

  He’d have to find out what the name of that saloon was. Because, come Friday night, he planned to be there to keep an eye on Drucilla Lawrence and her date.

  15

  A drop of rain fell on Butch’s head and he scowled up at the low bank of gun-metal clouds. Great. It wasn’t bad enough that for two days now, he’d been prowling the streets of Star Lake—what there were of them—and he was no closer to discovering J.D. than when he’d arrived in the area Wednesday night. Now the skies had to look as if they were about to open up at any moment, too? That was all he needed, a downpour. That would just be the goddamn sprinkles on his cupcake.

  He grabbed hold of his temper. Maybe he was overreacting a tad. The real problem was, he couldn’t simply walk up to people and flash a picture or say, Hey, have you seen a guy around here answering to this description? He needed to be a little cagier than that.

  To that end, he’d taken a room in a motel two towns away. The place was a dump, but it was the height of the tourist season and apparently not everyone harbored an aversion to the east side of the mountain range that he
did, so it was the best he could do. Besides, he sure as hell wasn’t about to book a room in the last-known place his prey had inhabited, even if there were rooms to be had. If things went down the way he planned, he didn’t want people to connect him to J.D. in any way, shape, or form.

  Of course, first he had to find him. J.D. could be anywhere in the area, and that was only if he hadn’t merely been passing through in the first place.

  If he were still around, there was a confusingly large number of places to check out—way more than Butch would have suspected. There was some fancy-ass lodge located about seven miles up the mountain, for instance, on the lake that the town was named after. Life should be so simple that he’d find J.D. there, but he wouldn’t hold his breath. It didn’t sound at all like J.D.’s kind of place. A more likely prospect was the smaller lakes and resorts that riddled the area, and unfortunately, there were dozens of those.

  Star Lake might be a burg to him, but it was still the largest of the blink-and-you’ve-missed-’em towns in the area, so all the people who lived in a fifteen-mile radius shopped here—not to mention tourists looking for more entertainment than a resort store or a bait shop.

  Not that there was a helluva lot more to be found in Star Lake, from what he could see. Butch looked at Main Street with a jaundiced eye. Except for one tavern that had sawdust on the dance floor, for chrissake, the whole town seemed to roll up the sidewalks at six o’clock.

  One thing he’d give it: this part of eastern Washington was a lot prettier than the section he’d been in before. Big fucking whoop. Like a few stands of evergreens in the foothills of the Cascades could make up for the dearth of anything interesting to do…never mind a nightlife.

  All the same, maybe he’d head back here tonight and grab himself a beer at the Red Bull Saloon. It was the weekend, after all, and even Hayseed Central beat cooling his jets in that ratty motel room. Who knew, maybe he’d hit upon some hot country honey in need of a thrill.

  At least then the day wouldn’t be a total loss.

  It was Friday night and the Red Bull was hopping. Char pushed open the front door and was met by a cacophony of voices all speaking at once, plus a new out-of-town band playing a loud but pretty decent rendition of the Dixie Chicks’ “Don’t Waste Your Heart.” Pausing to let her eyes adjust from the bright lights of the parking lot to the saloon’s atmospheric dimness, she peered through a smoky haze tinted in patches of red, blue, and gold by the neon beer signs that lined the windows. She watched couples circle the dance floor for a moment, then turned to look for Dru.

  And the Scourge of Star Lake.

  She sighed, wishing she possessed that enviable ability to think on her feet—maybe then she’d have come up with a really brilliant excuse to avoid being roped into this. But Dru knew her inside and out, and that chicken taunt had guaranteed she’d put in an appearance, even though she’d arrived late. Spotting her friend and Kev on the other side of the dance floor but on this side of the bar, she reluctantly started toward them. They leaned toward each other over the table while Dru talked, and as Char approached, she saw Kev throw his head back and laugh.

  Anxiety tightened her stomach. Damn. She didn’t want to spend time in his company. They’d never gotten along worth a damn, and the ever-present tension between them didn’t have a darn thing to do with sexual attraction.

  Did it?

  She straightened her shoulders. Of course it didn’t. He just always made her feel so…inadequate. He had back in high school, and he apparently hadn’t lost his touch. Whenever she was in his company, she felt as if she weren’t quite pretty enough, smart enough, witty enough. Who in her right mind would want to spend time with someone who made her feel so lacking in every desirable attribute, who unerringly attacked her most basic sense of womanliness every time they met? She’d learned to attack first so she wouldn’t look like some sorry-ass victim.

  Well, the hell with it. She’d stay just long enough to satisfy her pride; then she was out of here. Skimming her fingers down the bare expanse of stomach between her top and the short denim skirt she wore, she adjusted the hip-hugger’s wide belt as she strode up to the table. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” she drawled.

  Dru looked up at her, a smile lighting her face. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re here. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

  Kev’s heavy-lidded gaze didn’t make it any farther than her belly button.

  She began to wish she’d worn something less revealing than her red lycra crop-top with this skirt, but shrugged the thought aside. This was exactly the sort of thing Kev excelled in—making her feel like poor white trash when she was actually dressed no differently from half the other women in the place. Even Dru, who could certainly do no wrong in his eyes, had on a long, gauzy, peach-colored dress that Char knew molded to her thighs when she moved. It was styled like an old-fashioned camisole on steroids, with a row of tiny pearlized buttons from the neckline to its calf-length hemline, and narrow straps culminating in a scooped neck that afforded glimpses of lush cleavage every time she leaned forward.

  Char wished she had such grown-up boobs.

  She pulled out a chair and sat down. No sooner had her butt touched the seat than one of the lodge guests came up and asked her to dance.

  Silently blessing him, she flashed her biggest smile but said, “The next one, okay? Let me just grab a beer first.”

  He wandered away and she caught the waitress’ eye as the woman wove her way between two nearby tables. The band launched into a new number, and she had to raise her voice to be heard when the woman came over. “A Corona and lime, please,” she said and tossed her tiny purse on the tabletop. Then, ignoring Kev as if he simply didn’t exist, she leaned into Dru. “The band’s not half bad, is it?”

  “No, they’re pretty good. We were just commenting on that, weren’t we, Kev?”

  Over the next hour, Char danced with every man who asked her and flirted for all she was worth. Anything to get away from that table. She even put up with the tourist who got too familiar. She removed his hand from her butt and told him she wasn’t interested in starting anything with him, but she did it with a smile. Ordinarily, she’d have cut his big-city-stud pretensions off at the knees with ruthless precision.

  When she was forced to sit out the band’s break, she watched Dru knock herself out trying to bring her and Kev into a three-way conversation. Unfortunately, neither she nor Kev was in a particularly cooperative frame of mind. They managed not to snipe at each other, but that probably had more to do with the decibel level than with their mutual respect for Dru. In fact, Char found herself growing increasingly resentful of her best friend.

  It didn’t make sense, and it probably wasn’t fair, but she nevertheless felt angry, and wretched, and just sort of sick at heart as she watched Kev smile and laugh and flirt with her. Dammit, why had Dru insisted she join their date? She’d known perfectly well that mixing Char with Kev was like pouring gasoline on fire, but, oh, no, she’d just had to have her own way. Well, Char didn’t appreciate feeling like a fifth wheel.

  Which was probably why, when she saw J.D. Carver walk up to the bar, she got up and intercepted him. “Hey, there,” she said as he turned away from paying for his beer. She rested her elbow on the bar and smiled up at him. He was big, hard, and unsmiling, dressed as always in his faded jeans and dazzlingly white T-shirt. “You here alone?”

  He gazed down at her and nodded. “You?”

  “Good as.” She shrugged and tilted her head toward the table at the edge of the dance floor. “I’m here with Dru and her date.”

  J.D. looked beyond her, and she watched his eyes narrow the moment he spotted them.

  Excellent. If nothing else, J.D. Carver was a man with an attitude, which ought to at least liven things up. “You know what they say, don’t you, J.D.? That two’s company, and three’s a crowd? Well, I’ve been the one turning this shindig into a crowd. So come join us and help me even things up.”

&n
bsp; “Perfect.” The smile he gave her, however, looked like trouble.

  She didn’t know whether to be worried or pleased, but—what the hell—opted for pleased. She was in a dangerous mood.

  And since Dru had thrust her into the company of the one man she’d known perfectly well Char most wanted to avoid, it seemed only fair to return the favor.

  Holy shit! Butch came to attention at his table in the far corner. J.D. was here—the freaking mountain had come to Muhammad.

  He might not even have seen his erstwhile buddy if not for the blonde with the sweet navel. He’d been watching her since she’d first come in, wondering if he ought to make a move on her.

  She was exactly his type, with her short, belly-exposing skirt and her tight red top that fit close as a tattoo and showcased those fine little teacup-sized tits of hers. He’d watched her flirt and dance with half the men in the joint, and had wanted to give her a whirl himself. But the guy with the other woman at their table had spent the past hour scowling at all the guys squiring her around the floor. When some joker had rubbed his hand down the blonde’s ass on the dance floor, the man had come halfway out of his chair.

  Butch didn’t pretend to understand what the hell that was all about. The guy seemed to be with the brunette with the shiny hair and the nice set, but he looked about two minutes from coming unglued over the little blonde. What Butch did know was that he planned to keep a low profile while he was in Star Lake. And that meant giving the kinky little ménage à trois a very wide berth.

  A good decision, as it turned out. Because there the blonde was, leading J.D. back to her table.

  Butch leaned back in his chair and sipped his beer. Now that J.D.’s whereabouts were no longer in question, it occurred to him that he didn’t really have a plan for disposing of his old friend without rousing suspicion.

  Not to mention without having to come face-to-face with him.

  Which might happen any minute now if J.D. took a seat on the side of the table that Butch would opt for—the one that would give him an unobstructed view of those two equally fine sets of knockers across the table. The side that would leave him directly in line with Butch’s table.