Barbie & The Beast

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  She would try out for the game, indeed. Barbie Bradley would be so darned personable that they’d have to choose her. The three guys vying for her attention would be drooling— much like Dog—and fighting amongst themselves to win a date. She would be queen for a day. Who wouldn’t want that?

  Oh yes, and as a result of this game, she would show Darin Russell what he had thrown away. Show him what a catch she was. Show him what he had missed by preferring a damn b-l-o-n-d-e.

  From the corner alley, Darin watched Barbie’s encounter with the cop. As soon as she had gone inside and the cop had driven away, however, he let out a howl. He howled until his insides were putty and Dog began to bark in counterpoint.

  Several shades and shutters opened. Someone yelled for whoever was out there to can it.

  Emotions were high. With a hand on Dog’s head to quiet him, Darin wondered about this dating game Barbie had mentioned. The question plaguing him was why she would consider dating to be a game? Why would she do this? Just to spite him? After all the feelings they’d shared? He had those feelings still. No mistaking that.

  She wouldn’t meet him at the café—that was a certainty. Knocking at her door at this hour to confront her was an impossibility, too. He had changed back and forth so many times already in one night that he ached from head to foot. He didn’t know which part of himself was going to be boss at any time.

  Exhaustion plagued him. It was no easy feat, this bone-cracking, shape-shifting phenomenon, and there were three more hours before he could be assured of changing back into human form so that he could rest. So much for his idea about it being better to embrace your fate rather than fight it. So much for his first date with his soul mate, who now believed him to be. . . What had Barbie called him? A gigolo? Damn.

  Barbie’s zest was what had drawn him to her in the first place. Hers was a silly, crazy sort of energy, fueled by a wacky imagination. Barbie was like a hummingbird in intensity. So, what were the chances she would slow down long enough to believe Jess was his sister? How would he contact her, even in the daylight, knowing she believed him to be a liar? Would she even pick up the phone again?

  He could write her a letter explaining things. That might be a good start. He could ask Jess to present herself. . ..

  For the hundredth time, his mind locked on a specific question: what was this damn dating game Barbie had mentioned, and why would she choose something a werewolf with a huge distaste for crowds would be unable to play?

  Darin looked up at the sky and sighed while Dog, by his side, gave a whine. Life, he decided, was too damned complicated.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Tap tap tap.

  “Will you quit doing that? You’re making me nervous,” Angie scolded, laying her hand on top of Barbie’s on the card table. “Not to mention the fact that I just did your nails.”

  “Those three guys won’t even see my nails,” Barbie retorted. “They’ll be on the other side of a big screen.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Angie told her. “An entire audience of rich people will be there. Some of them have to be single. One might suit your fancy. You should feel lucky you got on this show.”

  Barbie shot her friend a look. “It’s strike your fancy, Ang. Not suit your fancy.”

  “That’s what I said. Strike.”

  “Sure you did.”

  Angie’s hand withdrew from the table. “You, my friend, have been testy all day. As a matter of fact, you’ve been testy all month. Since—”

  “Do not even go there, Ang.”

  “It’s true, and you know it. Didn’t you say he called you twice in the weeks since your rather bizarre dating event?”

  “How could I talk to him after what he did?”

  “You couldn’t, though you should feel better he tried to reach you all the same. You might take this as a sign of your appeal.”

  Barbie considered that Angie might actually have something there, and that she should feel better about Darin trying to reach her. He had tried twice in that first week. Since then, however, he had given up. Which was a good thing. Right?

  “Please stop with the tapping,” Angie pleaded, giving Barbie a snap with a comb she was using for a last-minute hairdo touch-up.

  “Why aren’t you going on this show?” Barbie asked. “This date thing was your idea.”

  “I volunteered to be on the committee, remember? Committee members couldn’t be considered.”

  “Imagine that,” Barbie muttered.

  Another smack of the comb, and Angie growled, “You’re the one who needed cheering up. You’re the one who’s been in a bad temper ever since we found your guy with that—”

  “Don’t you dare utter that word, Angie. I mean it.”

  “Fact is, you need a date more than I do at this particular time. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? You never know, you might find your dream guy. So don’t get all snippy with me, missy. I think a thank-you is in order, as a matter of fact.”

  Barbie sighed heavily. “Have you seen them?”

  Angie sat down beside her, a look of interest on her face. “No one has seen them. These guys’ particulars are a well-kept secret.”

  “Great.”

  “Might be,” Angie agreed excitedly.

  “I was being facetious, Ang.”

  “I chose to ignore that. Anyway, all I know is that they’re young, handsome, and eligible. Oh, and you’ll meet them in about five minutes. Is this a kick, or what?”

  “I think I might be sick,” Barbie replied.

  “I brought wine for the occasion. Cheer us up. It’ll bolster our spirits and your confidence.” Angie tugged a bottle out of her purse and held it up for inspection.

  Cheap wine. The sticker said $2.99. Just what Barbie needed, when the last time she’d had wine was still on her mind. The last time she’d had wine, the world went haywire and Darin Russell had hit the road.

  “Do you have a couple of glasses in there, too?” she asked.

  “Nope. It was a last-minute stop to the mini-mart. Chugging is the way to go, I’m told.”

  Chugging from a wine bottle, from wine made in. . .Arizona? Saints above! What was Angie thinking?

  But, well, why not? Maybe a swig or two would quiet her jumpy nerves. Could be that chugging this wine would make her forget the beautiful dark-haired man. Make her forget being swept off her feet, even if briefly. Make her forget the graveyard and the chirping bugs and the Gypsies. Enough of this wine, and maybe she would lose the picket-fence dream. At least, she wouldn’t try to place Darin by that fence.

  She brought the bottle to her lips. Do not close your eyes. Do not see what’s there waiting for you, just like every other time you close your eyes. Don’t even think the word kilt.

  Barbie swallowed the god-awful stuff that tasted of raisins and cactus and dirty bare feet. Yet, damn if the stuff didn’t warm her insides anyway, immediately and quite pleasurably. Surely between a few sips of wine and three handsome bachelors, she could once and for all forget Darin and his unmentionable treachery.

  The dressing-room door opened. Hot, white stage light spilled across the threshold, looking a little like an invitation to some heavenly realm. Barbie stood, feeling pangs of regret about the whole deal. Angie smiled broadly and pointed the way.

  “Please give a big-handed welcome for our final contestant, our high school teacher and single lady extraordinaire. . .Miss Barbie Bradley!”

  It was a pleasant introduction, but Barbie had to be shoved out of the wings and onto the stage. Her black skirt, the one with no rear pleat, caused her to swivel slightly as she walked, a bit like she might be swinging her hips seductively. This couldn’t be helped. It really couldn’t. There was nothing whatsoever that would encourage her to be seductive while gaming for a date.

  Furthermore, the wine hadn’t helped her forget that this skirt reminded her of Darin and the wild Porsche ride back from the Gypsy restaurant. There was a chance the skirt was bad luck, Barbie decided belatedly.
Look how that other date had turned out.

  Her heels made clicking sounds on the floor of the stage. The lights, as they hit her, made her think she had stepped too close the sun. Hopefully, she thought, the wattage wouldn’t cause skin cancer.

  The club’s audience, numbered in the four-hundred range, erupted in roars of approval—hands clapping, mouths whistling, a few wayward catcalls. Barbie couldn’t see any of the people in the audience through the lights, and was glad. The lights would shield her from them. The cheap wine she had drunk would help insulate her from feeling so badly about what she was about to put herself through.

  Pasting on a smile, tossing her hair behind her shoulders, and taking short steps to minimize the hip sway, Barbie toddled slowly toward the game’s host. Having attended the ten-minute rehearsal, she knew that the chair on the platform to her left, the chair all gussied up like a throne, was for her to sit on. Of course, the chair, in this instance, was really more like a hot seat.

  A huge screen next to the chair, made of white swirly plastic, enabled Barbie to see a hint of the outlines of more chairs on the opposite side, but nothing else. There might have been men in those chairs, but who knew? One date, she kept thinking. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

  No Gypsy restaurants. No ruby wine. No bangles. Not one mention of rules or shopping or. . .talking too much. Damn you, Darin.

  Reminded at rehearsal not to squint, Barbie kept her eyes exaggeratedly wide, longing for a pair of sunglasses. She seated herself, offered a nod to the audience. No wiping her nose, dabbing at her eyes, or crossing her legs were the rules of this game.

  “Miss Bradley, on behalf of the Buena Vienna Country Club, I would like to thank you for participating in this event. As you know, each bachelor here has put up ten thousand dollars for a chance to win your time.”

  Ten thousand dollars? Barbie blinked in rapid succession and kept right on smiling, teeth clenched tight. What would a man who had spent ten thousand dollars expect from his date?

  More applause and cheers erupted from the obviously tipsy crowd. They’d had an open bar and dinner already. They had paid big bucks to see this show. She couldn’t walk off the stage now. She couldn’t fall down in an attack of nerves. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned this event to her family.

  The host, a perfectly groomed, perfectly tanned, gray-haired man, was grinning like the proverbial cat about to chow on the canary. His gray suit had a shiny metallic cast beneath the lights. It was obvious his silver hair had been touched up.

  “This money will go toward the beautification of the land surrounding the club,” he crowed at Barbie, utilizing a full range of cues to the audience, such as hand gestures, head tilts, etc. “It will enable the club to plant a hundred trees. The prizes you will receive, Miss Bradley, in addition to your date, were also donated by club members.”

  More cheers and applause. Loopy, Barbie decided—they were all loopy to be a part of this. Herself included.

  “Remember, Miss Bradley, all you have to do is ask a series of questions, and Bachelors Number One, Number Two, and Number Three will answer. The answers you like the most will lead to your choice of one of the young men behind this screen. Are you ready, Barbie Bradley?”

  “Yes.”

  But she was so not ready, of course. How was it that Angie wasn’t out here instead of her? What had Angie said besides her excuse about being on the committee? Oh, yes. She, Angela Ward, was the “idea” woman.

  “Could you be a little clearer, please?” the host said, smiling at her, beaming at the crowd.

  “Yes,” Barbie said louder. “I’m ready.”

  Applause. Trills of laughter from the gawkers. Easy for them, Barbie thought. None of them were up here prostituting themselves for charity.

  “Wonderful.” The host flashed a practiced, toothy smile and signaled for a drumroll. “Please have a seat, Miss Bradley. Do you have your questions handy?”

  “I do.” Barbie kept her body still, wondering what to do with her legs, since she wasn’t supposed to cross them. At a loss, she finally decided on a bit of Suzanne Somers– style inner-thigh work, pinching her knees tightly together and holding with all her might. She filled her fitted lavender sweater with one last breath. Now or never. Get it over with.

  “All righty then,” the host announced jauntily. “Are you ready, bachelors?”

  “We are,” came the unison reply.

  Barbie experienced a twinge of fear and glanced offstage to Angie, whose smile seemed as large and expectant as the host’s. Barbie wondered randomly if Angie had done the host’s hair.

  “Bachelor Number One,” she croaked, consulting her card and wanting to chew on it. “Bachelor One, if you were given a choice between taking a Caribbean cruise or a modest hiking trip, which one would you prefer?”

  “First, I’d like to say hello to you, Miss Bradley, and that I’d like you to choose me. Then, my answer would be that I’d prefer a cruise,” Bachelor Number One replied in a pleasant tenor voice. “Because I’ve heard the food is wonderful and abundant on a big ship, the dancing is divine, and there is romance to be found on the high seas.”

  Applause from the audience. Some catcalls.

  Wow. Barbie held her breath and took stock. Admittedly, this was a fairly decent answer, though she would never have chosen a cruise herself. Too confining. No wide open spaces. Still, kudos to Bachelor Number One.

  “Bachelor Number Two, could you answer the same question please? A cruise, or a hiking trip?”

  “Nice meeting you, Miss Bradley,” Bachelor Number Two said. “I would also pick the cruise. Having cruised before, I’m well aware of how romantic a ship can be. Having never cruised with the right lady before, I’m anxious to find out what that magic moonlight can do firsthand.”

  This was said in a deep voice with a slight British accent— an upper-crust British accent, Barbie noted. Women like herself did love the voices of sexy Brits. Clapping, cheering, stomping of many Gucci-clad feet arose from the audience over Bachelor Number Two’s reply. But did this mean they liked the guy’s looks, his accent, or his answer? Hmmm.

  Barbie studied her card, said, “Bachelor Number Three, will you please answer the same question?”

  “I would choose the hike, Miss Bradley.”

  Barbie’s blood curdled as Bachelor Number Three continued. Her knees came unstuck.

  “Unable to get out of doors as much as I’d prefer, I’d like to stretch my legs, feel wind on my face, and explore wide open spaces,” Bachelor Number Three continued. “Even better would be to share a sunrise with a special woman, enjoy a simple picnic, and smell the outdoors. No crowds. No interference. Only she and I.”

  Very loud applause. A few catcalls and whistles. But Barbie was stunned and had to grip the arms of her chair to keep from springing out of it and dashing for the door. Icicles stabbed down her back in spite of the lights. Shock caused her hands and legs to tremble.

  Dumbfounded, she looked to Angie, who appeared equally surprised. Would Angie also recognize the voice? How could you forget, once you’d heard it?

  Yes, Darin was here, on the opposite side of that screen. Darin Russell was answering the question correctly, sending shivers of anticipation through Barbie’s body. Darin Russell, whose sexy speech brought with it lightning strikes, major limb weakness, and special-effects sounds inside of her head. The rat had forked out ten thousand dollars to try to win a second date with her. But, why? So he could humiliate her again? Make her feel used and sad, and angry that she had been horny and duped?

  Nonetheless, what ever the reason, here he was in front of the entire country club contributing to a charity event, making her cheeks flush as fuschia as the throne upon which she sat. And she couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. She had to speak.

  Everyone waited.

  “Th-thank you,” she stuttered, completely undone by Darin’s proximity. Only a bit of white plastic separated them. It wasn’t enough.

  With an unconscious gesture o
f her hand to her mouth, merely to assure herself she wouldn’t start screaming, Barbie tried to get herself back in order. No sooner had she gathered her knees back up, her hands started vibrating visibly. Her cue cards fluttered to the floor. There was no way she could lean over and get those cards without the audience looking up her skirt.

  She sent a helpless look at the host, and followed it with a shrug. The ever-smiling guy, fortunately oblivious to what was really going on, rushed to her aid. Barbie muttered a weak thank-you, clenched her cards, and took a few deep, yoga-type breaths. Then she slid a sideways look at Angie, and found her friend missing. Angie had deserted her in a time of need.

  “Bachelor Number One,” Barbie said, needing to focus, knowing the audience was waiting. “Would you please tell me what you like most about women?”

  Phew. She had gotten that out, and wasn’t sure how. Where was Angie, anyway? How could Darin be on this stage with her? How could he dare? Had he spent every penny a graveyard guy made to be here? Hocked the Porsche? Did he assume this would make a difference, and that she could be bought? How wrong he was.

  “Gladly,” Bachelor Number One said. “What I like most about women is their shape. Women’s shapes are artistic in nature, each different, each a work of genius. Women’s bodies are beautiful, sensuous, and awe inspiring. Ethereal, earthy. I’m especially fond of necks. Graceful necks are a real turn-on.”

  She took no time to absorb that, and cut off the audience’s reaction. “Bachelor Number Two, would you please tell me what you like most about women?”

  The question she really wanted to ask was why Darin was here, darn it all.

  “Their mouths. Lips, kisses, passion. I love kissing,” Bachelor Number Two replied confidently.

  Taste. Touch. Feel. If Darin responded with those words, Barbie was going to strangle him, plastic screen or no.