Silence . . . and it was even worse than the one he’d just experienced with Kat. Ben seemed to have a talent for creating those awkward moments today with people who mattered.
“What’re you saying to me, Bennett?” Chilly as hell. “That I blacked out and don’t remember giving Liz Palazzo twenty thousand dollars?”
Ben leveled his voice. “Hey—no judgments, all right? We all know how to throw back our liquor, Jameson. There’s no shame in making promises while you were wasted. Hell, I can’t tell you how many times I—”
“That’s not how I operate.”
His comment was so final that Ben dropped the subject. God, he wanted to believe his own brother’s version of events. Why was he even giving Liz Palazzo the benefit of the doubt? Because she had a pair of . . . well, pretty eyes? Because of a smile that drew a man in like a satin trap?
“Okay, Jameson,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest of this and let you know what’s happening tomorrow morning.”
For a moment, Ben thought his brother was just going to hang up on him for not believing his story one hundred percent, but then Jameson sighed.
“I wouldn’t have paid her like a whore,” he said. “You know that, Ben.”
Yeah, he did. And the more he thought about it, the more he believed Jameson.
Liz Palazzo wouldn’t wrap Ben around her finger like she’d done with his brother. No damned way.
4
By the time Kat got back to the saloon, Dillinger was wrangling a cluster of middle-aged tourists, many of who were poking around, investigating the license plates on the walls, the souvenir shirts that were on sale above the bar, and even the framed newspaper pictures and articles about Rough & Tumble in the private hallway near the back poker room.
Dillinger, wiry and short and bursting with manic energy, was shooting seltzer water into a glass when he saw her.
“Shit, Kat, where were you? Timbuktu?”
“Close enough,” she said under her breath as she went to the back to wash up. Her employees weren’t used to her leaving town, even if it was just to go down the interstate to the Strip. The R&T was her life.
For the next hour, she poured and served, listening in as she always did as Hooper and Dustin, two of the old motorcycle enthusiasts who hung around almost every day, small-talked the tourists. Any time now, they’d introduce the topic of poker, inviting any eager takers to play a private game in the back room.
Officially, Kat didn’t know about any gambling inside the R&T. Uh-uh. If anyone asked, it’d be, What game? When? How? Huh?
Just another day Rough & Tumbling.
Soon enough the game was on in back while the other tourists left to wander around the tiny town, visiting the general store and buying their jars of whisky jam and beer bread batter, taking pictures of the cemetery or the haunted mining shack, or perusing the old schoolhouse that’d been boarded up in favor of bussing the kids to the nearest town.
Kat heaved a sigh of relief at the blessed peace. The jukebox had even gone silent, leaving only the flap of the ceiling fans.
But there was one man left in the room, and he was hunkered over a table in the corner by the potbellied stove, a laptop computer open, a pair of sunglasses threaded through his fingers as he negligently twirled them while he read his screen.
As usual, Kat looked at him hard enough to determine what kind of customer he’d turn out to be—a good tipper? A cheap-o? Someone she could ignore altogether while she cleaned up the mess behind the bar?
Dillinger had taken a “break,” which was code for “joining the backroom game,” and Kat rolled her shoulders, then opened the money drawer, finally getting the chance to dump some bills into it, along with what Ben had given her at the pool earlier. She was going to put the cash—enough to pay for the monthly electric bill for this place—toward his future tab, not that it’d last long with the way the sweet fool tended to buy everyone drinks.
She shut the drawer and peered up at the painting that’d been hanging above the bar since the sixties, back when Grandpa Jenkins had run this place. The woman—Cherry Chastain—stared back down at her, spread-legged over her chair, all leather and laziness.
“Yeah,” Kat said under her breath to her. “You’ve got room to be pleased with yourself, sittin’ there like a queen.”
Behind her, she heard a low laugh, and she closed her eyes, then put on a smile, preparing to greet whoever it was. Never a moment to herself, except for that glorious hour she’d had by the pool today. Paradise.
She assumed on her full may-I-help-you? face and turned to the bar, but when she looked into a pair of eyes that were as light green as the water near a real beach, the breath caught in her lungs.
It took her a second to realize that his gaze was so startling because it stood out from the cocoa of his skin and a cap of dark hair that was short and slightly curled. And his lips . . . they were almost too full and pretty for a man, even if they were hardened a little by the stubble surrounding them. He was big, too, wearing an olive-green T-shirt that clung to his muscles.
Something got Kat’s tongue, all right, but she didn’t do lust at first sight or take tourists home for kicks. She couldn’t afford to . . . in more ways than one.
The scar near her ribs burned, almost like she could feel the slice of a knife blade peeling into her again, the memory fresh, even if it’d been formed a decade ago: a memory from when she’d been an optimistic, wide-eyed twenty-one-year-old, days when she’d learned that life embraced some people while crapping on others.
Shaking herself out of it, she recovered in record time. “Hey there. What can I do you for?”
The man edged onto a stool, bracing his forearms on the bar in front of a video poker screen. His smile was ridiculously, deeply dimpled for such a big, strong man.
“Now that the rush has died down,” he said, “I can actually hear myself think.”
Great. He’d bellied up to the bar for a chat. “It gets pretty loud in here sometimes.”
“When I saw the motorcycles outside, I almost didn’t enter.”
“Looks like that crowd of tourists you came in with could’ve kept you safe. Besides, those bikes only belong to the enthusiasts, not the dangerous types. You’ll have to wait until after dark for those to gather.” She went farther down the bar, collecting glasses, setting them in a crate that’d go in back for washing.
“Actually, I’m not with the crowd.” He made himself comfortable on that stool, his eyes sparkling. “I came in for a place to sit down and do some research, and after I started, I decided I needed a beer. Bottled, something domestic.”
She fetched him a Bud, holding it up so he could see the label. He nodded. She opened the top and handed the brew over.
“How’s the diner down the way?” he asked.
“Underrated. Don’t let the fact that no one’s in there chase you off. Everybody likes to cook at home in this town, especially in the fall, now that they can grill during the mild weather. Tourists drop in for the apple pie, though.”
“Is that what you’d recommend?”
“That and the mac and cheese. Larissa, the owner, has a recipe that’d make your grandma shrivel up with cooking envy.”
He laughed, probably at her way of talking. Kat imagined he came from LA or San Diego, and that’s why he found her quaint.
“Mac and cheese it is, then,” he said. “And that casino off the interstate a few miles east? Is that a decent place to stay for a night?”
“Decent enough if you’re not planning to hit Vegas itself.” She didn’t know him, didn’t know his tastes, but the rooms were clean and the food was cheap.
They were at the point in the chitchat where she could either ask more questions of him and laze away the next fifteen minutes while working on getting a good tip, or she could smile in closing and get her ass back to the grind.
She wasn’t that much of a talker, so she went for the crate of glasses, intending to haul them to the back. He sto
pped her.
“That woman,” he said, motioning with his bottle toward the painting. “Who is she?”
Kat decided she could spare a minute. But as her tummy gave a jump at the sight of the liquid clarity of his gaze, she decided there’d be no more than a minute in store for him. “Are you a history lover or something, just like the others who were in here before?”
“I don’t know those people from Adam, but, yeah, you could say I’m a student of history.”
He was so vague about himself that Kat’s inner alarms screamed louder. So did her scar.
Too many years of lying low here in Rough & Tumble. Too many years of trying to fade away so no one would dig up what she’d so carefully buried.
He stuck out his big hand, those dimples flashing. “Isaiah Smith, literally a student of history. Or, as most people put it, an attendee of an out-of-state grad school studying sociocultural anthropology. Right now, I’m a collector of stories and how they fit into western society, the modern pioneer areas of the country in particular.”
Relief claimed her, and she almost started to laugh. How paranoid was she about a guy who’d only wanted to start up a conversation about the area? Curiosity about Rough & Tumble happened often, with her being a bartender in a ghost-town stopover to and from Vegas, but today her guard was up higher than usual, probably because of Ben’s whole situation with the showgirl scammer. Kat had been put on high alert just as well as he had.
Sure, this man seemed a little old to be a grad student, but what did she know about college or him?
She told herself not to mind that this guy was a brain and had lost her back at “sociocultural,” and she reached out to shake his hand.
“I’m Kat.”
When their skin connected, she lit up like a live wire conducting electricity, sizzle, sparks.
Good reason to stop touching him.
She backed away and put extra effort into wiping down the bar.
“So the painting,” he said, obviously unaffected by the contact. Or was there a gruffness to his voice she hadn’t heard before?
Nah. There’d been nothing. She wasn’t the type to light men up. Not these days anyway.
“You want to know the story of Cherry Chastain?” Kat asked.
He nodded, taking a swig of beer and inspecting the Cherry Chastain.
Kat couldn’t hide her pride as she looked up at the painting, too. She saw this woman day in and day out, had a strange connection with her. “She worked in Vegas during the mob days. A wannabe Ann-Margret, but not even close. Cherry’s big claim to near fame was as an extra on the set of Viva Las Vegas. As you can see from the leather, she also had some fairly . . . interesting times in town. This was one of her dancing outfits, and they say she wore it at a private party once for Frank, Dean, and/or Sammy. No one really knows who was actually there, though.”
He didn’t even have to ask who the Rat Pack was. Hell, anyone worth their gaming chips should know.
“How did she end up in here?” he asked.
“That’s one of those Rough & Tumble mysteries no one seems to be able to figure out for certain, but my grandpa used to say that, years ago, a gambler came through here and lost his shirt in a private poker game.” Kat paused. “Not that those happen anymore.”
“Not at all.” He grinned. Dimples. Desire.
Daggonit.
“At any rate,” she said, pushing her heart back down where it belonged, even if it was quivering, “the gambler was an artist, and he didn’t have much to pay the winner back with—the winner being my grandpa. But Gramps took pity on the poor soul and accepted this painting as one of his prizes. Cherry’s been up there over the bar ever since.”
“That’s fantastic,” Isaiah said. He jerked his thumb back to his computer. “Would you mind if I . . . ?”
“Took notes?” Just as long as she didn’t give too much away with her stories about the saloon. “Go for it.”
He put his beer down, and as she watched him move toward his table, she noticed his grace, the way his body worked in athletic synergy, like he’d been a wide receiver or a running back before deciding to be a grad student doing research that’d probably never get him very far in life. An anthropologist? Who did that, anyway? Not anyone she’d ever known.
He returned to the bar with all his stuff, and with every step he took, her heart beat that much louder, warning her.
Care-ful, care-ful . . .
By the time he sat down, typing what she’d already told him about Cherry, Dillinger had returned from the backroom poker game. From the look on his face, he’d lost. Again.
She’d never been so damned glad to see someone.
She guided him over to Isaiah Smith, patting her employee on his sinewy back, his shirt reeking of cigar smoke.
“Dill,” she said, “this is Isaiah, and he’d like to know all kinds of things about Cherry. How about you tell him while I get things ready for our next rush?”
It didn’t take much to turn Dillinger’s mood around, and he beamed at her. “Good to know you can acknowledge who’s the Cherry expert around here.” He grinned at Isaiah. “What do you want to know? How she lived? How she died?”
“All of it,” Isaiah said, but he wasn’t looking at Dillinger—just at Kat. “Anything you can give me.”
Kat swallowed and went about her duties.
As Dillinger rattled on about all the rumors about Cherry’s Vegas times, Kat picked up the crate of glasses and swung it around toward the back. She wasn’t worried Dillinger would tell stories about her—he didn’t know anything about her life or her scar; that honor belonged to a few select regulars who’d found out about her wound once when she’d been trying out a new, lethal brand of tequila after hours and overindulged, accidentally spilling her secret—something she’d never do again. But she wouldn’t have trusted anyone else more, because every single one of the men, from Cash Campbell to Ben to Boomer to Gideon Lane, would die before they told tales.
As she pushed the crate onto a counter near the stainless steel sink, she wasn’t sure if her pulse was beating so hard from carrying all the weight of the glasses or from running away from the man who’d been asking all those questions.
And it didn’t even matter if those questions had been about Cherry, or herself.
***
“So what did you think of him?” Liz asked Anita that night as she swiped a towel over the hotel’s long bathroom mirror, the scent of bath gel and shampoo misting the air with humidity from the shower she’d just taken.
They’d already catnapped and eaten, and during all that time, Liz had kept the million-dollar question to herself. Maybe she’d held it in because she wanted to press the encounter with the blond god from the pool against her heart, where it pounded, beating out little musical notes that’d made her smile to herself until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
It wasn’t until now, when she and Anita were alone and the other girls were in their own room, that she opened the possibility of Ben up for discussion. Anita would be too busy tonight with her booty call—a software billionaire who called her up whenever he wanted some no-strings-attached fun in Vegas. It’d been coincidence that he’d rented out Bordello, throwing a happy hour in appreciation of customers and a few very high-profile friends on Anita’s birthday.
Although Liz was pretty sure Anita would get some icing on her cake, anyway.
Anita had taken the towel from Liz, and she was creating her own steam-free circle on the mirror. “What do I really think of your new lust interest? I thought it was obvious back at the pool. He’s cool, and I’m glad you invited him to go out with us tonight.”
Had her friend said it a bit too . . . carefully?
As Liz brushed her damp, straight red hair until it fell to her chin, she laughed softly. “You’ve got the worried tone going on.”
Anita put on a coat of scarlet lipstick, peered at herself, then patted the black curls she’d already swept up in a clip for the night. Both of them
were in hotel robes, which was more than they were used to wearing around the apartment. Why bother after appearing in shows together and running around backstage undressed? But the robes were plush and luxurious, so it was time to live it up.
“It’s not that I’m worried,” Anita finally said. “It’s just . . .”
“He made my knees go weak, Ani.” Liz couldn’t help it. She was fairly sober, so it wasn’t booze that was making her this honest and open. “Do you think . . .”
“That the stars might’ve aligned and, this time, you could be in love for sure? That you’ll be Mrs. Pool Guy because he’s The One?” Anita’s dark gaze softened. “Oh, Lizzie.”
Liz’s heart contracted into a ball. Did her best friend believe she was jumping into her emotions yet again like they were a lake that was so warm and inviting that Liz couldn’t keep out of it? That she couldn’t help drowning every time? Anita’s reference to marriage also nudged her—Liz had always imagined that once she’d found The One, she’d be ready.
She’d know.
Anita crossed her arms over her chest. “He seems fun, don’t get me wrong about that. He’s got this vibe going that makes me think he’s easy to talk to and would be a great time. But this is Vegas, honey, and he’s a tourist. You know that story.”
“Sure, but . . .”
“You’ve lived that scenario how many times now?” Anita pulled her robe tighter. “A hot guy rolls through, charms you senseless, and you think it’s fate, just because you’ve looked into his eyes and seen something you wanted to see.”
“So I’m a romantic.”
“You’ve got a habit, darlin’. You dated a few guys last year for a good amount of time, and that was nice. Steady. But none of them worked out. Then when you started teaching dance, you got real focused on designing that dinner club of yours, and I thought, Well, look at that. She’s found something to fulfill her. Then Jameson happened . . . and he wasn’t even in Vegas. But he brought back the bad habit.”
Liz slowly put down her brush. Anita was right. So right.
“Lizzie,” her friend said, putting an arm around her and squeezing her tight. “You’re good-hearted, and when you find a man who catches your fancy, you’re all in. But right now, you’re rebounding. That’s never a good thing.”
Down and Dirty Page 5
