Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Polly

  When Painter had gone into the bathroom, I’d stared after him for about thirty seconds with my jaw on my chest. The dangerous pattern on his torso made my heart ache. A hundred questions begged to be asked. In spite of what I’d said to him about not getting personal, the second he’d hinted at his past, I’d wanted to know more. That look in his eyes—dark and ashamed, but somehow still defiant—begged to be explored. It was the same thing I’d glimpsed in the bar, the same thing that drew me to him. The same thing that made me put aside thoughts of Jayme.

  Jayme.

  I needed to try once again to get away.

  I couldn’t dwell on Painter right then. I had to get out.

  I yanked as hard as I could on the handcuffs. I willed the joints in my fingers to collapse in on themselves like a contortionist’s, but the best I could do was to fold my thumb in enough that it didn’t scrape too badly as I pulled. I yanked once more. All that happened was a beaded line of blood appeared on the back of my hand. It took me moment to realize my breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. The shower had already been running for several minutes, and I didn’t know how much more time I would have.

  “Shit!”

  I winced immediately after I said it, then remembered that Jayme wasn’t around.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

  Calm down, I told myself. Come up with a plan.

  I stopped struggling and stared forlornly out the window. The motel itself reminded me of an army barracks. It was a squat, two-storey structure with no adornments except the dingy sign. There were no other buildings in sight, and no indication as to why someone had stuck it right there in the middle of nowhere. Still, there were employees, and they had to get to and from work somehow. If I could get away, I could beg for a ride.

  But first you have to get free.

  Painter had confiscated my purse and hidden it somewhere, but when I slumped down in my chair and turned my eyes back to the room, I spotted my soft-sided suitcase lying on the bed.

  My mind jumped hopefully.

  Jayme’s pills.

  Had they fallen out when Painter emptied the bag in the car? I couldn’t remember. With a quick glance toward the bathroom door, I strained until I reached the bag. Once it was in my hands, I unzipped it and closed my hand on the Velcro pocket inside.

  Please, I prayed.

  I didn’t bother to stifle a relieved sigh as my fingers closed around the little bottle. I yanked it out and gave it a grateful squeeze.

  Jayme’s name was on the side, as were the accompanying instructions. One caplet at bedtime, it read. But Painter was a big man. Much bigger than Jayme. And he had a lot of muscle. I could only imagine what his metabolism was like.

  How much would be enough?

  I popped off the lid and shook two of the caplets into my hand. I considered them for a second. Just to be safe, I added a third dose.

  Quickly, I grabbed Painter’s bottle of water, opened each caplet and dumped them through the narrow top. I swirled the powder around, watching it until it was fully dissolved, then set the bottle back on the table.

  I tossed my bag back onto the bed just as the washroom door squeaked open. I opened my mouth, but whatever I’d been about to say failed me. Painter came into the room, dressed in only snug-fitting boxer briefs and nothing else. His olive-toned skin had been made ruddy by the hot shower, and the scars on his body stood out from the redness in a dark, puckered mess.

  I should look away, I thought.

  But I couldn’t.

  My eyes grazed over the markings, noting the way they stretched out more thinly across his well-defined abdominal muscles and the way they thickened under his pecs before fading again to nothing.

  He didn’t look at me as he grabbed his jeans from his overnight bag and slid them over his hips, or as he grabbed his water bottle. I watched guiltily as he took a big swig. I held my breath, waiting for him to comment on the flavour or notice the grainy texture, but he just grimaced and took another gulp before he sat on the edge of the bed.

  He put his head in his hands and still didn’t look my way as he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

  His words caught me off guard. “What?”

  “I know how unfair this situation seems. And I have no right to ask personal questions, or to expect you to treat me with anything other than disdain. I’ve been held against my will in the past, and I wouldn’t have been half as nice to the man who locked me up as you’ve been to me.”

  He was utterly sincere, and when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were clear as they met mine, all but begging for a reply that expressed understanding of what he was doing to me. My mouth worked, but I couldn’t find an appropriate response. Inexplicably, a lump formed in my throat. It would be easy enough to tell him the truth about me and Cohen and Jayme. Maybe it would even sway things in my favour. But when I spoke, something else came out instead.

  “It was Cohen who held you, wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t bother to lie. “Yes.”

  “He’s a bad man.”

  “I guess that makes two of us.”

  Painter tipped up the water bottle, and his Adam’s apple worked as he drank. Almost—almost—I wanted to warn him not to finish it. But it was too late anyway. He’d downed nearly the whole thing.

  Shit, I thought. He’s going to pass out before he even unlocks me.

  I rattled the cuffs emphatically. Painter stood, shoved the key into the lock wordlessly and freed me. I had to cover a relieved sigh as he flopped back down on the bed and closed his eyes, his wet hair dripping onto the pillow. With his scarred body splayed out on the bed, he looked anything but vulnerable. I wondered once again what Cohen had done to this big, beautiful man. I couldn’t quite look away from him as I considered it.

  “Like what you see?”

  I jumped back and blushed as I realized I’d been caught in the act. I floundered for a way to deflect both my embarrassment and his amusement. I wasn’t quick enough and Painter spoke first.

  “Does he know what you do?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “Oh. J—” I caught myself just in time, and if Painter noticed, he didn’t react. “He knows I dance.”

  “But not how you dance?”

  “No. But I bring home a pay cheque and that’s what matters.”

  “He doesn’t work?”

  “No.”

  “Swanky arrangement.”

  “It’s not like that,” I replied.

  “You’re not paying the way for some deadbeat by dancing at a job you hate, all the while deceiving him about it?”

  I had a hundred answers, but all of them would give away too much.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I said lamely.

  “Try me.”

  I struggled to find a way to explain. “I grew up knowing every sordid detail of my mom’s life. And even though I know being naive would’ve killed me, there are things I wish I hadn’t seen. Things I could’ve done without. Why would I want to make someone else hurt the way I was hurt?”

  “So sometimes not knowing is better than knowing?”

  “Exactly.”

  Painter was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “Do you know what your kind of dancing does to a man?”

  “I have some idea. I get to see it in action, night after night.”

  He opened his eyes just a little and looked at me from under his lashes.

  “That’s not what I mean.” Painter’s speech was slow, and I hoped it meant the sedative was kicking in.

  “What do you mean then?” I asked indulgently.

  “It would drive me crazy if for a single second I thought one of those men in the audience wanted to do to you what I want to do…if you were mine…” He trailed off, leaving the word mine hanging in the air in a way that made me shiver with pleasure.

  I waited for him to carry on, to add something else, but his breathing just deepened. I stood up quietly
and stood next to his nearly still form.

  “Painter?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “If they touched you…I’d kick their asses,” he announced, sounding more than a little high. “Too beautiful.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Thank you.”

  “I’m serious. All those guys at Tangerines, eating you up with their eyes. If I was yours and you were mine and we were us…it would fucking kill me.”

  His eyes fluttered open one more time. Their usual, striking-green hue was all but obscured by his dilated pupils.

  “I should’ve left you locked up,” he mumbled.

  “You probably should’ve,” I agreed.

  One of his hands shot up and found my forearm, but his grip was loose and I didn’t bother to shake him off. Instead, I leaned down and cupped his face in both my hands and gave him a firm kiss. When I pulled away, his hand slipped back to his side and he let out a soft snore that made me grin.

  “If you were mine,” I whispered. “I might not even have to do what I do.”

  Then I counted to a hundred and eighty and grabbed the keys to the Mustang. I felt bad for borrowing it—I’m not stealing it, I told myself, because I fully plan on leaving the keys for him somehow, somewhere—but I had no other choice. I’d been gone too long to chance it with the buses and I wasn’t going to waste money on a cab.

  I shoved everything I could find back into my bag and shot Painter a final, regretful glance. By the time he woke up and found another way to get back to Trent Falls, Jayme and I would long gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Painter

  I dragged myself from the most dreamless sleep I’d had in years, then sat upright in bed, trying to figure out what had happened. The sudden motion made my head spin.

  “Ugh,” I tried to say, but it came out as a guttural slur.

  My stomach churned, and I knew without a doubt I was going to vomit. I tumbled gracelessly from the bed and ran to the bathroom. I made it just in time to heave the contents of my stomach into the motel toilet.

  “Shit.”

  I leaned back against the cool plastic of the tub behind me and pressed my forehead into my hands.

  What the hell happened?

  My last few memories filtered through the pounding in my temple.

  Polly.

  We’d been talking about…something. I’d sipped my water, put my head on the pillow, and the next thing I remembered was waking up.

  She drugged me.

  I groaned, forced myself to my feet and staggered out to the room. My near-empty water bottle caught my eye. I’d left her alone with it for maybe ten minutes. Clearly, she’d used the time wisely.

  My blurry eyes surveyed the rest of the room.

  Polly’s flowered bag, overflowing with dresses, was gone.

  And so are the keys to the Mustang, I realized as I looked to the spot where I’d left them. And my goddamned phone, too.

  “Shit,” I repeated, this time a little louder.

  I jumped up to check on my car, and immediately caught my foot on something under the bed. I went flying forward, slamming into the door with my full body weight and knocking it off its hinges. The door teetered for a moment, then tipped over, taking me with it. I slammed to the ground with a force strong enough to knock the wind from my chest. I lifted my head just high enough to see that my car was no longer in its parking spot.

  I rolled to my back, ignoring the fact that my bare feet were still tangled up in whatever tripped me up in the first place, and stared up at the sky. The sun was already setting. Not only was I phoneless and carless, I’d also slept the whole damned day away.

  “Dammit, Polly,” I muttered. “Why can’t you just make this easy?”

  “You Painter?” said a voice at my feet.

  “Who wants to know?” I replied halfheartedly without moving.

  “You’ve got a purse stuck to your feet.”

  “Do I?”

  I finally pushed myself to a sitting position. A tiny woman, leaning against a motel cleaning cart, stared down at me with a critical eye. I attempted to smile at her, but failed. Her frown deepened. With a poorly disguised sigh, I looked down to my feet. Sure enough, the long strap of Polly’s purse was wrapped around my ankles, and its contents had fanned around the bottom of the door.

  I reached for the cards and papers, and my jaw tightened while my eyes widened.

  What the hell?

  My fingers flipped through no less than five driver’s licences and a variety of other pieces of ID.

  Polly Duncan. Age twenty-five.

  Nina Hunter. Age twenty-one.

  Polly Jean Hunter. Age twenty-six.

  Lisa Jean. Age twenty.

  One name was conspicuously missing.

  There was no Jayme Duncan in the pile.

  But the last one…it made my throat close up.

  Nina Blue.

  The name was clearly linked to Cohen’s, and my fist tightened around the ID involuntarily.

  Who the hell is this girl?

  I glanced down again. The Polly Duncan licence had a Trent Falls address. The others were expired.

  “She asked me to give you a bus schedule.” The woman’s voice cut into my dark thoughts.

  “Did she say anything else?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “You two have a…fight?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You sure? She looked a little worse for wear.”

  Polly’s black eye.

  I could tell from the woman’s face that she wasn’t going to believe any story I told her. That didn’t mean I had to own up to another man’s abuse. No way in hell was I going to.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I stated coldly.

  She gave me a dubious look. “She said you didn’t give her that bruise. Insisted I don’t call the police.”

  Thank God.

  I made myself smile. “She was telling you the truth. I didn’t give it to her, and I appreciate that you didn’t call the police.”

  “You going after her?” the woman asked.

  “I have to,” I admitted.

  I must’ve sounded convincing, because she gave me a curt nod and reached down to hand me a folded up bus schedule. I unfolded it. Polly had circled the route that would take me right to her home town. She’d also circled the one that would take me back to Cohen. I rolled my eyes.

  “She paid my husband, Benny, fifty bucks to give you a ride in to the bus station,” the woman said.

  “Of course she did,” I muttered.

  “That fifty bucks won’t cover the cost of the door,” the woman added.

  “Of course it won’t.” I slumped back down onto the ground. “Put it on my bill. And tell your husband I’ll meet him out front.”

  * * *

  I kept my gaze focused out the window as Benny drove his old car along the highway at a painfully slow pace. I was grateful for the ride, but I hated relying on someone to get me where I needed to be. When we hit the small town that Benny assured me was just this side of the bus depot, he slowed even more, and I gritted my teeth against an urge to reach my own foot down to the gas pedal.

  As we eased past a car dealership, my jaw dropped and I was suddenly thankful for Benny’s snail crawl.

  “What the…turn the car around!” I ordered.

  “Sir?”

  “Turn the goddamned thing around!”

  Benny slammed on the brakes, and as the car rolled to a stop, I jumped out. At double time, I ran back in the direction of the car dealership. I stopped in front of it, staring incredulously at the familiar black Mustang. Even in the increasingly dim light, and without the plates, I knew it was mine. If I had any doubt, the tiny white mark under the driver’s side bumper would’ve given it away. Six months earlier, a little old lady in an oversized SUV had tapped me head-on, and I’d never had the ding repaired.

  I ran my hand up the familiar curve of the car.

  Why the hell had Polly dropped it here
?

  There was no way she’d stop in this town instead of driving straight through to Trent Falls.

  “Good evening, sir!”

  I turned to face the smiling car salesman. I gave him a cautious nod.

  “Name’s Barry,” he said. “You like the ’Stang? That beauty was dropped off this morning. Can’t part with her, though. Promised the lady I’d keep her. And I’m a man of my word.”

  I found that last statement hard to believe, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.

  “Are you also a man who deals in stolen goods?” I asked.

  His grin fell away. “Hey now.”

  “I only ask because my car, which happens to look exactly like this one, went missing just before breakfast. Today.”

  Barry frowned. “You don’t look much like a painter.”

  “Don’t I?”

  Polly told him my name. Why?

  “Lady said to expect her brother to come along looking for the ’Stang. Said he was a painter named Darren.”

  Her brother?

  In spite of my irritation and raging headache, a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

  “What else did she say?” I asked.

  “She told me it wouldn’t take long for you to find me and insisted that I stay here until you came by. Asked me to keep the car out on the front of the lot. I was worried it might get damaged from all the highway traffic, but she said you could afford repairs, no problem. Don’t know too many painters who’re in the financial position to be able to replace a smashed window, just like that…but she said you were a special kind of painter. No offense, but I’m glad she’s not my sister.”

  “She can be a bit difficult,” I agreed. “She likes to tease me about my name. I’m afraid she’s having a bit of fun at both of our expenses.”

  “That right?”

  “Yep.” I grinned. “Did Polly happen to leave me anything else?”

  “Polly?”

  “My sister.”

  Barry narrowed his eyes. “This girl was named Jayme Duncan.”

  “She said her name was Jayme Duncan?” I asked.

  For one second, I was outraged. Then I had to grit my teeth to keep a laugh from bursting out. Of course she would’ve owned that particular name when I couldn’t be there to gloat. She probably thought it was hilarious, too.