by Dawn Atkins
Three hours later, Heidi descended from the bus and limped toward the town house, painfully aware that the return trip was an uphill climb. She paused to remove the shoe with the worst blisters on her big toe and heel. Getting off the bus, she’d twisted an ankle, which hurt, too. Damn those platforms.
The sun that had seemed warmly hopeful at eight was cruelly hot at eleven. Not to mention the fact that munching a corn nut proffered by Blythe, she’d snapped off a piece of her tender molar and now every inhalation made it twinge. She’d have to get it looked at.
But pounding sun, stinging blisters, a throbbing ankle and aching tooth weren’t the worst. Not even the fact that the detective had no news for her.
The worst thing was that she hadn’t even been able to work. Construction on the rest of the Mirror, Mirror Beauty Center where Shear Ecstasy was located required they turn off the water. Blythe was only doing water-free emergency dos. Even worse than that, a slow start to the business meant Blythe didn’t have much for her yet. Blythe had offered her shampoo work—once the plumbing was back—but if Heidi decided to go with a bigger salon, Blythe understood completely. Ya gotta eat, hon. Do what ya gotta do.
Heidi’s pale-faced response had alarmed Blythe, so she’d forced her into a salon chair and demanded to know whether she was pregnant, sick, broke or terrified. Heidi told the car robbery story and Blythe offered her foldout couch. The woman was already hosting her nephew and his two kids, though. We can squeeze you in, she’d said, waving nails made fancy by Esmeralda the nail tech, whom Heidi hadn’t yet met. What’s one more mug of jo in the a.m.?
Then she’d offered the corn nuts and Heidi had broken a tooth.
She couldn’t impose on the woman. She’d stay with Jackson until she figured something else out. And got another job. Maybe at a temp agency. Her typing was decent.
She was almost home when a whistle made her turn to see two guys in backward baseball caps leaning out the window of a car loaded with buddies. “Hey, baby, how much?” one said in a tone that teased, but also meant it.
Good Lord. She couldn’t give it away to Jackson and these guys thought she was selling it? “Too much for you boys’ allowance,” she said and kept moving with as much dignity as she could manage clip-clopping from a platform to a bare foot in the grass beside the sidewalk. How did hookers parade their stuff without breaking a leg?
The frat boys zoomed off, thank God, since she didn’t have another comeback in her.
It occurred to her that maybe she should give up and go home. Maybe this was the universe telling her she wasn’t ready yet. She could save for another year. There was a flicker of relief in that. See…? You gave it a go. It didn’t work out.
No way. She wasn’t folding after only three days, a few blisters and a broken tooth. Jackson had offered her a base of operations. She’d hang onto that. She tightened her fingers around the shoe strap, adjusted the position of the tiger purse on her shoulder and climbed to the porch of her temporary home.
Inside, all was silent, so she knew Jackson was still sleeping. She peeled off the other shoe and flopped onto the couch. Discouragement swelled up like the flu, making her joints ache and her stomach roil. Everywhere she turned, the answer was sorry, nothing, not yet, try again. She couldn’t even get laid, dammit, she remembered, picturing Jackson’s big male body in the master bed. Did he sleep in the nude or in his underwear? Those plaid boxer briefs were hot….
Why was she thinking this now? Her life was in shambles.
Actually, it helped. That little jab of sexual adrenaline goaded her into action. She should stay busy. There was more cleaning to do, for sure. The floors in the kitchen and hallway needed scrubbing and that could be cathartic. After that, she would check the paper for jobs. When Jackson got up, she would ask to borrow his computer to put together a résumé. There. A plan.
She changed into a pair of Lycra shorts and a crop top donated by Jackson’s friend, filled a bucket with soapy water and lemon cleaner and got busy in the kitchen with the sponge mop.
Man, it felt good to shove that mop across the floor. She pushed down hard, really getting into it, banging the baseboards, each stroke a blow against her bad luck. Tears came and she let them run, pretending it was just perspiration. She inhaled the warm lemon of the cleanser and told herself she was making lemonade, though things seemed too sour for all the sugar in the world.
Not long after that, she was scraping madly at the wax in the corners of the kitchen, when a voice spoke. “What the hell are you doing?”
She started and stared up at a sleepy-looking Jackson. “Did I wake you? Sorry.” She thought the kitchen was far enough away that her noise wouldn’t reach him. “These floors are filthy.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her forearm, so he’d think she was just sweating heavily, not crying her eyes out.
“I thought the rats were bowling in the walls.” He scratched himself…there.
She darted her eyes away, feeling heat in her cheeks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stop scratching. “Sorry. Not used to company.”
“It’s your house.” She sat with her back against the cupboards, legs outstretched on the damp floor.
He sat beside her, legs parallel to hers. She kind of liked that, as if it were the two of them against the world…or her latest crisis. “I thought you were doing hair today.”
“Plumbing’s out at the salon. And the job’s…not enough.” Her traitorous lip vibrated madly. “I need a second one.”
“Bummer.” He studied her with sympathy.
She hated that and looked straight ahead. “I’ll check the paper. Could I borrow your computer to put together a résumé?”
“Sure. If you want.”
The idea of all that preparation and interviewing and hassle exhausted her. Plus, how would she juggle it with hair work? She looked at him and had a blindingly brilliant idea. “What about your bar? Could you use another waitress?”
“My bar? We’re a little shorthanded, but…”
“I need something that doesn’t interfere with the salon.”
“It’s not your kind of place, Heidi.” He shook his head.
“What does that mean? What’s my kind of place?”
He assessed her. “You’d be happier in a family restaurant. The guy who owns the bar knows people in the business. I can ask him.”
“For God’s sake, I’ve been in bars before. Cocktail waitresses make better money, for sure.”
“But Moons is not the kind of place—it’s mostly men.”
“And men tip better.”
“To certain people.” His gaze darted to her breasts and back up.
So it was her bust line again. Her heart sank and then her blood boiled. “So, this is like a Hooters place? You have to be big chested to get a job?”
“It helps.” His eyes were twinkling at her. He thought this was so funny. Oooh, that burned her.
“What counts is serving skills, not cup size.” Her voice cracked with frustration. She was tired of nothing working out. “I’m good at math, I can keep an order in my head and I can handle a cash register—”
“Calm down, would you? I’m just telling you that you won’t be comfortable at Moons. Moons is a men’s club and—”
“And I’m telling you I want the job.” She folded her arms under her breasts, instead of over them, as she wanted to, and shot him a determined look. Then she remembered her manners. She couldn’t exactly force him to hire her. “You said you’re shorthanded, Jackson, and I’m glad to help out. It would mean a lot to me. I won’t let you down.”
He just looked at her, his eyes twinkling as if he was busting to tell a joke. “If you’re sure, but I’m telling you—”
“Just because I come from a small town doesn’t mean I’m small-minded.” Of course, the extent of her food-service experience was one summer at the gift shop at Cactus Confections, so there’d be a learning curve. “A bar is a bar and I need the money.”
&
nbsp; “Come in with me tonight and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Excellent,” she said. Something about the look on Jackson’s face made her wonder if she was making a mistake, but there was no stopping her now, inexperience and tiny boobs be damned.
5
“LET’S GO,” Jackson called to Heidi that evening, rattling his keys in his pocket, smiling to himself. The woman obviously didn’t know what a men’s club was. He could have explained about the strippers, but he decided she’d just accuse him of trying to scare her away.
Maybe it would be good for her to realize she wasn’t quite as worldly as she thought she was. She’d meet Duke, who was coming in early tonight, so the man could recommend her for a restaurant job. She’d be a great hostess. She was organized and energetic. And so damn cute. Once she caught onto the joke, Jackson would take her home and not even say I told you so.
Now she bounded out of her bedroom in the most god-awful outfit he’d ever seen. Very Salvation Army. She’d borrowed some cash to pick up some work shoes and must have dredged the back racks of a used clothing place for the baggy white blouse, long, shapeless skirt and cloddish brown shoes. She looked like a fifties missionary lady.
“Interesting outfit,” he said.
“I thought it looked professional.” She smiled smugly at him.
“Sure.” For a nun in street clothes. Besides, it was better for him when she hid her tight little figure. Every minute that passed with her in his house raised his stress. It bothered him to think of her sleeping in his Hawaiian shirt, the moon through the blinds lighting her hills and dips under the sheets. Worse, in this heat, she probably shoved off the sheet—maybe the shirt, too, leaving moonlight as her only cover. Moonlight and maybe those daisy-dotted panties he’d pictured. He thought about running his fingers over her sweet nipples, tasting her soft mouth, sliding his hands over the fabric where it passed between her legs, making her moan, making her wiggle.
Stop it.
“Let’s go,” he said and yanked open the door to the garage for her. She stopped and stared at the van. “Tasty Cakes?” She turned to him.
“The band needed money to cut a CD, so I bought their van.” The name and three futuristic Amazons in skintight space suits were airbrushed on both side panels, which made the van a good promotion for the group, who had a nice garage salsa sound. “We’re taking the other car.” He led her to the Aston Martin.
“Oh, how cute,” she said, walking all around it.
“Cute? An Aston Martin DB6 is a powerful piece of sixties automotive engineering. It is not cute.”
“Reminds me of James Bond.”
“He drove this in Goldfinger. Except hard top. And with various gadgets, of course.”
“Oh. Wow.” She ran her fingers along the rear fender and he felt it on his skin. She looked up at him. “This is your baby, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I sold all my cars but this one. Couldn’t let her go.”
“So, are the engines in the living room special, too?”
“I retooled them. Eventually, I’ll get something going with cars again.”
She was considering his face, picking apart his meaning, making him nervous, so he opened the door for her.
She lowered herself onto the seat, her baggy skirt billowing out, not showing an inch more of flesh, but his cock jumped up at the mere chance he might see a bit more thigh or, hell, a kneecap. Ridiculous.
He climbed in beside her, started the car and pulled out of the garage.
“This is fun,” she said, as he backed into the street. “I’ve never been in a sports car before. Or a convertible.”
“So, a new experience then?” He grinned, stupidly proud to give her this first, and roared off, pushing each gear until it complained to give her a thrill. He might not give her the sex she wanted, but he could give her a ride in his car.
Her big eyes went round as hubcaps and her smile went ear to ear. She laughed into the wind, leaning her head back, letting her hair fly every which way. She managed to look sexy even dressed like a prison matron.
Neither spoke for a bit and he was just getting into the companionable silence when she turned to him. “So what happened that made you sell your car business?”
He sighed. He might as well tell the story and get it over with. She was big on questions and she’d just pick at him until he spilled. “I sold the business to buy a radio station a year ago. Except it went belly-up after a few months.”
“Oh.” She was quiet, waiting for more.
“The price was right and I had…money.” He didn’t want to say an inheritance. “The music business is risky.” He shrugged.
“Owning the station was a dream of yours?”
Was it so obvious? “I took a stupid chance.”
“Lots of businesses fail, Jackson.”
“I should have known better.”
“What’s better than trying for something you really wanted?”
“Money in the bank. Money in the bank is better.”
She shrugged. “Being completely broke myself, I see your point, but still…money’s value is in what it can provide.”
“My dad always kept cash between him and the wolves. That was a big thing with him. He pounded that into my head.”
“Your dad had a family, so security would be important. But you’re young and single.” She paused, letting her words sink in and when she spoke her voice was low and serious. “I’m sure your dad would have wanted you to go for your dream.”
“Maybe.” Nah. He’d wanted grandkids. So had his mother. Where’s my daughter-in-law? she’d joke in her loving way. Over and over. So much that Jackson had told them he couldn’t get away for Christmas that year.
That tight ache started up in his chest. Damn. Heidi, who’d leaned her head back to enjoy the ride, was casually digging at things he preferred not to think about. These heart-to-hearts of hers were brutal. He changed the subject. “So, what about your dream? Becoming a shrink. How’d that come to you?”
“I’ve always been interested in why people do what they do. At the salon, it was natural to talk about problems. I turned out to have a knack for it. Folks would show up at the parlor the day after a haircut claiming they needed shorter bangs just to talk to me.” She sighed, tilted her head, lost in thought. “One guy I’d have had to shave bald to cut his hair any more.” She chuckled wistfully.
“Sounds like you miss it.”
“That’s to be expected, isn’t it? If you love something, you miss it. But I’ve moved on. I’ve got college ahead of me.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“It’s a little intimidating. The courses are tough. And psychology is competitive as a field. It’s hard to establish yourself.”
“If you were happy where you were, why push it?”
“Because I want more.”
“College isn’t the only place to learn. Life’s the best teacher.”
He felt her study him. “It’s one teacher, true.”
Hell, he’d sounded defensive. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess. I picked up what I needed to know about cars from working on them. With my dad at first. Then later just on my own. Same with music.”
“So, you never considered college?” she asked.
“I’m not college material.” He winked at her as he parked, then climbed out and went to open her door.
But she wouldn’t let it go. “Sure you are. If you want that.” She looked up at him, absolutely sure of what she’d said. She had great eyes. They made him want to say, “Whatever you say. Just keep staring at me like that.”
“I’m doing what I want right now.” For now anyway. He gave her his hand.
She allowed him to pull her to her feet, then let go right away—that I’ve-got-it-no-sweat act she put on. She looked up at the bar entrance, then the Moons logo. He tried not to grin at what she was about to discover. “So, this is it…? Moons.” She smiled happily.
“Yep. This is it.” He hoped
she’d laugh when she figured out about the bar. He took the canvas cover out of the trunk and she helped him cover the car with it, looking damned sexy in that baggy blouse in the purple dusk. The movements made her breasts jiggle like a firm mousse. He didn’t hold smallness against a good breast. No, sir.
He held open the Moons back door and Heidi entered, blinking against the sudden gloom. This early, there wouldn’t be any dancers, except maybe Nevada, but soon enough Heidi would catch sight of someone topless and she’d want out of there.
He spotted Duke’s nephew Stan talking to Taylor about something. What angle was he working? Most of the guy’s friends used drugs, Jackson was sure, though never on the premises, and he’d bet a few were connected. He trusted Taylor to keep him apprised of anything amiss.
“Very flashy,” Heidi said, surveying the space. “And you have entertainment?” She nodded at the main stage.
“Oh, yeah. Lots of that.” He almost laughed.
“So many stages…And there’s where you play music?” She pointed at the overhanging DJ booth to the left.
“That’s the place,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nevada and another dancer step out of the dressing room and head to the main stage. They were deep in conversation, evidently about Nevada’s costume, since they were both plucking at its edges. It consisted of two ribbons of black fabric that barely covered her nipples and a virtually invisible thong. Nevada pulled herself up the pole, head down, still talking to the other dancer. Then she reached behind her head to untie the strings of the top and bared her breasts, demonstrating the costume, no doubt, just as Heidi looked in her direction.
“Oh, my.” Heidi turned startled eyes to him. “Those women are—”
“Strippers…right, though they prefer exotic dancers.”
“Then this is a—”
“Men’s club, like I said.”
“But I thought you meant rowdy or seedy…or…I didn’t…” She returned her stare to the stage. “Wow.” She kept watching.
“I tried to tell you that you wouldn’t like it, that it wasn’t your kind of place….”
