In spite of how Wes had deceived her, Anne knew that he was a gentleman. He had been patient with her, persistent enough to show that he was sorry, but not so persistent that she felt hounded. Now, it seemed that his patience was wearing thin. She did not relish an irritated Weston Myckale, all 275 pounds of him, on her doorstep.
The quick knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. Mrs. Z had returned, treading in with the peculiar gait of the weight-challenged.
"If only he had not tricked me," Anne said. There was no reason to explain who "he" was. Mrs. Z had picked and probed until Anne had told her the whole story.
"Oi! You tricked him, too. All's fair in love and war."
"I had a good reason. I was trying to help him."
At Mrs. Z's eye rolling, Anne's voice faltered. "My ... my ... my trick didn't hurt him."
"You don't know that. You won't know until you talk to him."
Mrs. Z spied Anne's work laid out in neat stacks on the desk. Her pug nose twitched in disapproval.
"Work!" the old woman exclaimed.
"I need to get this translation done," Anne said, opening a book at random.
"Childie, are you crazy? You have a red-blooded American man chasing after you and you're worried about some dead Egyptians."
A silence between them grew until Mrs. Z broke it.
"Do you know why I call you childie?" she asked.
Anne buried her nose in a book, but her bluff was futile. Mrs. Z was like the charge of a rhino-a rhino that couldn't be turned, not even with both barrels from a rhino gun.
"I call you childie because I've wanted to chide you."
Knowing that Anne was listening-she had yet to turn a page-Mrs. Z continued. Her heavy accent grew thick with remembering.
"When I was a young girl, I promised myself that if I survived Auschwitz, I would live every day, every day, to the fullest. I did just that, came to this fine country, made a life for myself. I married three times, to three good men. May they rest in peace. I founded Zsarnovszky bakeries and my cakes are eaten in homes throughout the state. Enough of that," she said, realizing that she had digressed.
"My point is, Anne, that you can't live in the past. There's more to life than work. The chance for happiness doesn't often come around. Grab the brass ring, childie. Grab the brass ring."
Mrs. Z paused, hoping that her message would sink in. She heard the wheels of a car spin on the gravel of the courtyard. Peering down, through the curtains of the window, she saw a convertible zip into a parking slot. She sniffed.
"Seems like we're gonna be treated to a visit from your sister."
Angel took the stairs at a dead run, entering the attic in a cyclone of perfume and flesh. At her sister's entrance, Anne felt the usual sadness as if her twin had once again sucked up all the brightness in her life. Yet, she managed to paste a smile on her face when Angel rushed towards her.
"Annie! Annie, I had to stop by..."
"Oh ... hello," Angel said, spotting Mrs. Z standing next to the window. She smirked at Mrs. Z and then promptly ignored her to gush, "I'm so excited I can't thank you enough, Annie. This is so big!"
Anne did not respond. There was no need. From experience, she knew that Angel never wanted or needed a response from her.
"So big!" Angel continued, waving her hand. "I'm going to be the T&A babe, I could have died when I found out, I've been signed for several guest appearances, starting next week on Backfire, now I can quit my job and go to Hollywood."
At that, Anne's usual reserve wavered.
"W-w-what?" Anne sputtered.
But Angel wasn't listening.
Mrs. Z moved closer to the carnations.
"Of course, I'll stay on at the Intruder for a few weeks, just to show them what they'll be missing. Umm. You'll have to fill in for me. I'll be way too busy, that's no problemo. I'll email you my schedule. I'm supposed to cover a golf tournament for a bunch of dreary senior citizens next week. Yuck."
Mrs. Z snorted and fingered the carnations.
"The best part of being the T&A babe is that I get to work with that hot hunk, Weston Myckale. That hair, those eyes, that boddddy! Divinely delicious." Angel giggled then jiggled her man-made breasts.
"What!" Anne said.
This time, Anne did not stutter, the fangs of green-eyed jealousy biting deep. Nevertheless, Anne's exclamation barely pierced Angel's self-absorbance.
Mrs. Z sniffed the flowers, loudly, with mocking exaggeration. Two pairs of brown eyes-the same, but so different-turned in her direction. Anne's eyes were thoughtful, understanding; Angel's eyes were selfish, greedy, never understanding anything except her own need to be indulged.
"Flowers," Angel said, pouncing on the vase. She snatched the flowers from Mrs. Z's hands and headed for the attic door. Anne met her there.
"Put those down," Anne said. She circled her sister like a gunfighter preparing for a showdown and blocking the only road out of town. Wes was hers, and the flames of damnation would go cold before she surrendered him or any part of him to her sister.
Angel was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even she realized that she had gone too far. She stepped back from the blaze in her sister's eyes, her mouth forming a silent O. Carefully, she placed the carnations in Anne's outstretched hands.
"Wes gave these flowers to me," Anne said, choking back her anger. "They are mine. He is mine. I made him mine each time that I made love to him."
Angel's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You heard right. We made love in his home, in his bedroom, in his bed."
Anne let go of her anger, as she let go of the yesteryears of insecurities.
"Angel-Angelique," Anne said, reverting to her sister's true name. "You're my sister. I'll always love you, but I'll no longer be your dogsbody. I'm stepping out of the shadows of the past and into the light of the future." Anne gained courage with every word and rallied on. "I'm twice the person, the woman, that you are and that you'll ever be, and don't you ever forget it, because I never will."
From the corner of the room, as a new morning light streaked through the window, Mrs. Z's old eyes misted and her applause shook the rafters.
Chapter 13
At the door to her attic apartment, Anne fumbled with the lock, shifting the bulging shopping bags from one hand to the other. She shoved the door open with her hip and tripped into the room. She wanted to swear at her new shoes, but she felt so good in them and looked so good in them that she refrained. She now understood that the age-old adage about women sacrificing anything for fashion.
She dumped the bags on her bed. Her shopping spree with Mrs. Z had been quite an adventure. The old woman had excellent taste and a sharp eye for bargains. Anne was now the proud owner of more clothing, trendier clothing, that she had ever owned in her life. She had purchased a completely new wardrobe, from skin out.
Rummaging through the smaller bags, she pulled out lacy panties and bras and a plastic-and-metal contraption that promised "to lift, separate, and conquer". From another bag, she pulled out jeans and skirts with matching tops-tops that were sort of tops since they were so flimsy that she wondered how so much money could be charged for so little. She pushed them aside, looking for the Victoria's Secrets bag. She upended it and silken lingerie spilled across her bed. She tingled all over. Never before had she shopped with a man's wants in mind. Like her new shoes, that was another first for her ... selecting clothes wondering whether Wes would like to see her in it, or run his fingers over it, or take her out of it.
She sorted through the mountain of clothing, trying to decide what to wear. She chose a slinky hip-hugging skirt and teddy top with spaghetti straps and matching pumps-classy and elegant-so unlike the chunky boots worn by her students.
She had found the shoes after an exhaustive search. Mrs. Z had remembered a discount store in a cul-de-sac of the mall. The tiny boutique carried re-sales and store overruns and had a large selection in size 5. Anne had purchased several pairs, each time thinking of
Wes' desire to make love to a woman in high heels.
She stripped down and ran her bath. As she threw handfuls of strawberry salts into the water, she realized that she had never been this happy. She tested the water, anticipating a long soak, even a nap. The idea of a peaceful sleep, after so many nights of disturbing images, made her smile. Perhaps she would have an erotic dream or two. She gave a low chuckle, feeling downright naughty.
She reached for the alarm clock, setting the snooze. The clock was set to Cairo time. She turned the hands back. From now on, she lived with her man in this time.
She let the frothy water work its magic. Closing her eyes, she made a wish. Often wishes come true, even if only in fantasy. It was so for her.
She was a slumbering beauty in the land of disenchantment. She had been asleep for ages when her prince charming arrived on a magnificent white steed and wearing wrestling boots. Shocked to find her in the snowy recess of the forest, he trod up the icy steps to her rose-laden altar. She was the most beautiful maiden that he had ever seen, her ruby red lips-like her dawn-blushed cheeks-fashioned for kissing.
He kissed her.
She awakened and reached for him. She had anticipated his kiss during her long, lonely sleep. He was her destiny, for he was destined to open her eyes to the exciting world beyond. She flung her arms around his strong neck. He carried her to the pine-sown carpet below. Behind them, far away in a distant glade, she saw his castle shimmering in the warm, summer sun...
Anne awakened from her dream refreshed and renewed. She dressed carefully, applying the cosmetics with an understated hand. She stood back from the mirror to survey the results. She was no longer pretending to be the T&A babe. She was the babe!
The slinky skirt made her appear to be taller, sleek, and sexy. Her chiseled body, firm and lean from years of archaeological digs, molded the flamboyant top like a second skin. She recalled a snippet from an old classic: "If you like what you see, tell me." She hoped-no, she knew-that Wes would like what he saw.
She stuffed lingerie into a tote, tossing in a toothbrush and toiletries. Out of habit, she picked up a volume on the recent excavations at El Giza, only to throw it aside. Her plans did not include studying tonight or, at least, not that type of studying. She did plan to study Wes' face when she brought him to climax after climax.
She finished packing, then glanced around. This was her life. This would still be her life. Her life and so much more. She left her home, not looking back. She thought only of the future and how she would captivate the man of her dreams.
Chapter 14
In the bowels of the Philadelphia sports dome, Weston stared at the AT&T logo. His face turned to chiseled stone as his temper mounted. He let the phone ring, cursing when he got no answer. He slammed down the receiver, then punched in Anne's number again. During the wait to be connected, he debated whether he should call the phone company. But he knew that her service had not been interrupted. In spite of his warning, his little Lilliputian was hiding from him.
He continued to listen to the rings, silently counting along. At the tenth ring, his eyes could have scorched anything in their sight. At the twentieth, his teeth could have chewed nails. He wanted to rip out the receiver and wallop the console with it. He counted to ten to immediately count again.
She was treating him like a nothing, like a ninny. He would show her that she could not toy with him, ignore him as a man, disregard the ancient compact that forged Man to Woman.
As a man, he expected his woman to show a little respect for his wishes.
As a man, he counted on some forgiveness from his woman.
As a man, he liked to know that his woman trusted him enough to make everything right.
He was not a chauvinist. He placed the highest regard on women's rights. But, damn it, when a man tells his woman, in no uncertain terms, that she is to stay put, she is to stay put.
On his way back to his dressing room, he nodded curtly to Shane Esposito and Victor Victorious, who were huddled in a corner and going over tonight's script. If he were not obligated to do a "run-in," he would be on the road to Blue Bell and standing on Anne's doorstep. There, he would shake her senseless, then kiss her senseless, not stopping until she knew that she belonged to him. He cursed again. His lovely lady would learn what it cost to make him run her to earth.
He undressed, pulling the sleeveless sweatshirt over his head. He stopped, standing straight and still in the center of the room.
She would not do anything foolish, would she? Their relationship was so rushed. He had planned a nice, long courtship before he got down on one knee and asked the most important question of his life. But his well-laid plans had gone ominously awry.
She had been very angry that morning. She was still angry. He had lost count of the telephone calls that she had not returned.
He had not used a condom! How many life-altering mistakes could one man make in the space of a few weeks. He was always careful to protect any woman who slept with him. But with Anne, protection had not entered his mind. He had been too caught up in the fantasy to think about the consequences of their lovemaking.
He was positive that she was not using any form of contraceptive. She wasn't a virgin, just not a lot of men. There was no man now. There better not be, not after she gave herself to him with such sweet commitment.
Maybe she was no longer angry with him. Maybe there was a different reason for her silence, a more serious reason. Maybe she had disquieting news. Was she pregnant? Had she taken one of those quickie, home pregnancy tests and found out that she was with child? The idea of his lovely, little Lilliputian, all firm and plump with his son or daughter, made him testy with agitation.
Damn it! He needed to talk to her.
He was thinking about phoning again when Joey Flex walked in.
Wes hid his irritation at Joey's entrance. Flex was not one of his favorite people. Flex lacked professionalism, often balking at a story line or refusing to push another entertainer to the next level. Moreover, he took his superfine persona too seriously, causing Wes to wonder if Flex realized that sports entertainment was an illusion.
Joey had once tried to potato him by throwing real punches. Wes had fought back and things had turned nasty-real fast. Later, Joey had apologized in a rambling speech about intensity and integrity. The whole incident had blown over, but there were still those ugly rumors that he had assaulted Mink in the women's dressing room.
"Valkon of Aesir," Flex intoned now. "I would speak with you about Backfire."
That was part of Flex's peculiarity. Unless it was a promo or a match or an interview, sports entertainers dropped their professional personas, used real names, and talked like real people.
"What about it?" Wes asked.
"Valkon, I have a problem with the T&A babe. It must be addressed. This woman does not follow the rules for match resolution."
"Huh?" Wes rubbed his neck and looked over at Flex.
"She is not main event material," Flex pronounced as if issuing a royal decree. "She lacks the gladiator integrity to bring Superfine Joey to his full potential."
Wes shook his head. "Joey, you're losing me here."
"I do not think that this should continue," Flex concluded, his voice solemn, his eyes clouding over. Wes wondered if he was on drugs.
"Look, Joey, if you are unhappy about the SL, speak to the front office."
"Hell no! I'm happy. If that dumb-ass broad doesn't screw up, I'm good."
Wes fought down his annoyance when Flex winked at him and then walked out.
Wes shook his head. Creeps like Joey Flex gave sports entertainment a bad rep.
Chapter 15
Anne eased her spanking new Beetle into a parking space at the sports dome with an exhilarating feeling of rebirth. She grabbed her purse and locked the door, all the while humming Mrs. Z's tune about the girl who invented rock 'n' roll. She was sauntering through the parking lot, her hips swaying in time to the tune in her head, when a swarm of excited f
ans surrounded her.
"Yes, it is. It is her. It's the T&A babe," a teenager shouted, shoving a glossy photograph in Anne's face to beg for an autograph.
Anne took the pen, enjoying her newfound celebrity status. Before she could scribble her name, another fan grabbed her arm.
"Hey!" the girl said. "What happens tonight? Does Valkon get his ass kicked?"
"Duh! He ain't even wrestling tonight," the girl's friend replied. His hand strayed to Anne's backside. She jumped to stare in open-mouthed astonishment at the youth. She had just enough time to take in his purple-streaked hair and pierced nose before someone grabbed her around her waist.
"Take my picture. Take my picture." Another fan pulled Anne close, and she was swallowed by the jostling bodies, all squeezing to get into the shot. Caught in the middle of a mini-riot, she gave a silent thanks to the Nile gods when security appeared with a couple of police officers.
"I hope tonight's good," one of the officers said, taking off her hat to wipe her forehead. Her brown hair was lank from sweat. "I'm taping it." She escorted Anne to a private, hidden door and, with a nod of farewell, returned to work crowd control.
The door closed behind Anne with such an ominous clang that she jumped in her skin. She quickly turned to open it, but the door was rigged for security without knobs or panic bars on the inside. Faced with no place to go but the long tunnel in front of her, she wished that she had called ahead for directions to the IWC staging area.
She sighed at the cheerless walls surrounding her and then began the long trudge down, into the bowels of the sports dome. The tunnel-branching off to other tunnels that all looked alike and all led to dead ends-was deserted. By the time that she took a fifth turn and another corner and ended back where she started, she knew that she was lost.
She paused, cursing her confusion, thinking that for someone who had found hidden tombs in the middle of the Sahara Desert, getting backstage should be child's play. The other times were so easy, she thought, but those times she had come in through the mall entrance or the pit manager had met her at the door.
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