“I’d say he thought you were effing hot. Enough to wheedle your name from Ashley after you left. He’s interested. Tate Watkins is interested in you, Coop! My God, most girls could only dream of such a thing.”
“Most girls could only dream of such a fling,” I corrected. “That’s all he wants. And it’s something I don’t need right now.”
“Don’t fool yourself. It’s exactly what you need. One looooong night of hard sex with no attachments. Think about it. Wham bam thank you ma’am and he’ll be on his way.”
“I have a kid, Em.”
“You’re twenty-one. Not a saint. Live a little.”
Ouch. If that didn’t strike a nerve.
Setting her glass down, Em moved from her chair and sat next to me. “You have to live life to its fullest, Coop,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Don’t let these moments pass you by. You’ve given up too much already, don’t you think?”
Yeah, yeah I have. Shaking my head, I said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure they’ve moved on anyhow. They were probably just passing through on their way to the next gig.” But in the back of my mind, Tate’s ‘so long’ niggled a warning. See you around, Cooper Hale.
It kept me up at night and left me distracted most of the week at work. See you around. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I went so far as to check their website for news. They had a show in NJ in two weeks and NY a week after that. Was he staying in town? Did he have family here? Did it really matter?
“He’ll be back.” Em grinned slowly. “And don’t give me those coy eyes. You know damn well that you drive the men crazy. Not to mention Ashley Lemming has a big mouth. You and everyone knows it. The man probably knows half your life story.”
“That’s comforting.” Ashley Lemming spouting my business to Grant when he came searching for me was the last thing I needed.
Sighing, Em shook her head. “You haven’t heard from him”— Grant —“in a while, right? Maybe he’s finally done toying with you.”
“He just doesn’t know where I am, yet.” Once he learned of my new address, I would get the inevitable text. I always did.
“There’s always Wes.” Wes was her forty-five caliber Smith and Wesson. She called him Wes for short, and claimed he was the only man she needed in her life. She also liked to make tongue in cheek comments over the reasons she preferred Wes over a real man.
“Some day, I might take you up on it.” It’s not like I’d never given it a thought. Just standing my ground and waiting for him to come after me. Then pulling the trigger. Bam. Done. Over. Who the hell was I kidding? I couldn’t kill a person. Not even Grant. I didn’t have it in me, or I would’ve bought myself a sidearm a long time ago. Moving was easier.
Em gave me a look that said I could if the need ever arose. She had. And she didn’t have Levy to defend. I don’t know. Perhaps she was right. If Grant hurt Levy…
“Go to work, Coop. I’ll keep Levy tomorrow until you wake up.”
God bless her. “You’re a lifesaver, Em.”
“I know. So don’t let me down. If Tate Watkins comes nosing around, remember I’m living vicariously through you.”
I pushed out a smile and gave Levy a kiss. He was already asleep, his blond hair curling at his temples, lips pushed in a tranquil pout. I hated leaving him, but I comforted myself with the fact that he was sleeping and wouldn’t even know I was gone.
At home, I pinned my hair up and showered, tossing on my best pair of jean shorts and the mandatory red and black checkered Daisy Duke shirt. I’d rather have worn a comfortable pair of sneakers, but the leather boots were also part of the uniform. Those we had to purchase ourselves, which was fine because I wasn’t into sharing footwear unless it was at the roller rink or bowling alley. Truthfully, I suffered the uniform because I made good tips.
Once dressed, I misted myself with the scent of peaches and dabbed some color on my lips. I stared in the mirror, blotting them together, smoothing the thick gloss into an even coat.
I wouldn’t say I was a knockout, though Em would argue that to the point of death. I mean, I wasn’t ugly. I had great hair, thick and strawberry blonde with just the right amount of curl. My eyes were large and blue. In the right light they looked green. My lips were full, really full. On occasion, I caught whispers of collagen because of them, but they were God given.
Ok, I wasn’t half bad. I didn’t think that made me conceited. I worked hard to get myself back into shape after Levy’s birth. I spent my lunch hour every day at the gym. I watched what I ate, with the exception of my love for ice cream. I’m not saying I was perfect. Like everyone else, I had my flaws. Things still jiggled. I had a few small stretch marks on my breasts and more along my lower stomach. Even my twenty-one year old physique wasn’t immune to the ravages of pregnancy. So why shouldn’t I be proud of my accomplishments?
Lord, if I had half the confidence three years ago that I possessed now, I would’ve ended things with Grant earlier. I had blamed myself in the beginning. Hell, I blamed myself up until the end. But I knew better now. I deserved better. Not saying Tate Watkins was better, but if he or anyone else wanted to show me one night of hot sex, I had the right to be happy, didn’t I? I’d earned it.
Dismissing the thought, I pulled the pins from my hair and stuffed an elastic in my pocket for later. The Loft tended to run hot on the weekends. On busier nights the dance floor became null and void, the headcount rising into the hundreds as they crowded before the band. All those swaying bodies could produce a lot of heat. At the end of August, the nights were still warm and today was a steamy ninety degrees. Already, I could feel a light sheen across my face.
Grabbing my keys, I took one fleeting glance around the apartment. Levy wasn’t with me, so I wouldn’t need the diaper bag or the other various necessities, but it was habit.
Satisfied, I dragged the door closed, trotted down the stairs to my car, and made my way blindly across the driveway. Pushing the ignition, I flipped on the air and rolled down my windows. A jet of steamy air blasted from the vents. It smelled of pine trees and leather seats. I threw the car in reverse and yelped when a set of legs appeared suddenly on the backup monitor.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Craig, strolling around to my driver’s side. He bent low, peering in my window. Pulling off his John Deere hat, he pushed his curly brown hair from his face. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He had frightened me. It was so dark that I could barely make out the racing stripes on the hood of my car. Christ, if that was Grant, he could’ve snuck up on me and I wouldn’t even have seen him coming. A million scenarios played out in my head, leaving my palms sweating.
“I didn’t see you.”
“I know, which is why I came out. I like to keep an eye on my girls, make sure you’re all right out here by yourselves.”
“Thanks, Mr. Craig.” Em had told me he checked on us, but I’d never seen him out here before. Odd.
“Call me Garrison, Cooper, you make me feel old when you call me that. And it’s no problem. You remember where I keep that old thirty-eight, right?”
I nodded. “In the birdhouse hanging from the white pine.”
“Good girl. Remember, if you get scared, don’t be afraid to use it. Either that or get yourself a good man. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you coming home so late at night.”
I often wondered about Mr. Craig and Em. They were close in age. Somehow that made them seem almost perfect for one another. I wondered if he named his gun, too.
Mr. Craig tousled my hair and smiled. Crinkles fanned at the corners of his chocolate brown eyes. “Good girl. Now drive careful. Rutting season’s coming. I’ve already seen two bucks hit on Big Road.”
“I will.”
Backing slowly away, I smiled as my high-beams flashed across the house, catching Mr. Craig’s feet ascending the stairs to the apartments. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! He and Em were having a hot affair. Wait till I saw Em tomorrow. I knew she was holding out on me.
Grinning
like a loon, I threw the car into drive and headed to work.
Chapter 2
Hot didn’t properly describe the temperatures in The Loft. The place was packed. Fans from all over came to see the local band, whose first single had just aired on the radio two weeks earlier. The dance floor was one massive horde of writhing bodies, each throwing off a good hundred-plus degrees. So I would say sweltering would aptly cover the air quality.
Passing through the kitchen door, I walked into a wall of heat that only exacerbated my mood. While I was making good tips off the crowd, I was also groped and propositioned more times than I could count. The bouncers were supposed to look out for us when the patrons became grabby, but with the place packed so tightly, whatever went on below your waist became difficult to see. I’d have to shower twice to wash away the grime of everyone’s hands.
“Intermission in fifteen” Marshall said, holding the door for me. Marshall was a good guy. He looked out for me while I was on stage. After a few beers, some of the male patrons took to joining me on stage while I was performing. He’d promptly throw them back off.
He’d asked me out several times, though I never took him seriously. I think he did it just to make me smile. The man was enormous, with pythons for arms and washboard abs. He was seriously triangular, with a massive chest, broad shoulders and a trim waist. Put some combat boots on the guy and you had one bad mother fucker. If I was smart I’d marry the guy just for peace of mind. Unfortunately, I never claimed I was smart. My choice in men proved that.
“Got it.”
“You have fresh customers at table six,” Mia said, pushing through the door behind me. She dropped her tray to the counter and began loading platters for her next run. “Take their order. I’ll cover for you while you’re on stage.”
“Thanks, Mia.”
I followed her out, hauling my own tray on each arm. I dropped the first off at eight. After politely asking if they needed anything else, to which they respectfully declined, I made my way to table five. “I’ll be right with you,” I told my customers at six as I passed. My eyes were on the couple Jenna was ushering to table seven. I backed up, holding my tray high in the air as they squeezed past, crushing the back of my thighs along the edge of six’s table.
“Sorry Coop,” Jenna mouthed in passing. I shrugged and rolled my eyes then made my way to table five with their meals. These were strictly males. The grabby kind. Hence the apology and the preceding eye roll. Jenna was the hostess. She chose the seating arrangements.
“Suicide wings with blue cheese,” I called off, placing the platters before each respective party. “Cheese steak with American, chicken cheese steak with ranch dressing, bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon, hold the pickles, loaded fries, onion rings with extra zesty sauce, aaannnndd chicken quesadillas with black bean salsa.” Keeping my mind on the tips, I pasted on a genial smile. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening?”
“How ‘bout some company, sweetheart,” said Michael. Or maybe it was Mitch. I wasn’t really paying attention when they introduced themselves. I was too busy fending off their grabby paws. Before I could react, he looped his arm round my waist and pulled me onto his lap.
I promptly pried myself away and used my tray as a shield. “Sorry gentlemen, I’m not on the menu.”
Michael, Mitch, whatever, pouted, his eyes flickering with mischief, undeterred. “My loss,” he winked. “If you change your mind…”
Forcing a smile, I turned to table six, opting to disregard the offer. And my smile immediately faltered. God, please tell me this isn’t happening. Tate Watkins glared up at me, equally discomposed. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t very happy to see me either.
Oh well. Pulling up my big girl panties, I shored up my smile, tucked my tray under my arm, and pulled my order pad and pen from my pocket. “Hi guys, I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I start you off with some drinks or an appetizer?”
I thought I heard him mutter something like, “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” or something close to that, but I ignored it, refusing to let him get under my skin.
“Can I tell you what the specials are tonight?”
“You work here?” he said. It was a rhetorical question. “Here?” He looked at my uniform like it had personally insulted him.
“Look, it’s a busy night,” I said, dropping all pretenses. “Do you want to order or not? I have other tables I need to wait on.”
“What happened to the little office number from yesterday?”
“It doesn’t pay the bills.”
Tate’s eyes drew behind me, narrowed. A second later, a beefy arm snaked around my waist. I could kiss Marshall just about now. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said politely. “But I need to borrow her for a few minutes. Another waitress will be right with you.” With that, he whisked me off, clearing a path across the dance floor, to the door that would take me back stage.
“You,” I shouted over the crowd, “are a lifesaver.”
“Is that guy bothering you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Jesus. Do you know who that is?”
“Front man for Hautboy.”
“You knew that?”
“They came to check out the band. Tate Watkins is thinking about backing them. He has his own recording company. Small. But you get more personalized service with small labels.”
“I can’t go on tonight.”
“Why, because Hautboy is in the audience? Coop, you’ve been performing forever. Now you’re going to get cold feet?”
“They sing music, Marshall. Real music. Not this twit shit that Billy makes me sing. I can’t make a fool of myself like that.”
“The men love that twit shit. It makes them go crazy.”
“It makes them grabby. I get groped the rest of the night.”
“You never cared before.”
“I have pride, damn it!” I put my foot down. Stomped, actually. I’d never thrown a tantrum like that before. If I did, I was too young to recall. “I will not be groped in front of Tate Watkins!”
“Did you just stomp your feet?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
“God that’s sexy. When’re you going to go out with me, Coop?”
“Never.”
“You might recant that.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a jewel case and waved it in the air, grinning smugly. I snatched at it, but he was quick to pull it away.
If that was what I thought it was, Marshall was right. I might marry him after all. He had a friend who had a friend who was in the music business. He gave him a few sheets of music that I wrote for recording. Honestly, it had been so long, I’d nearly forgotten.
“What is that?”
“Real music.”
“WHAT. TRACKS?”
“Yours of—”
I launched myself at him, showering him with kisses. “I love you Marshall! I love you! I love you! I love you! I’m going to have your babies! Big mammoth babies just like you!”
“The hell with intermission,” said Marshall, turning for the dressing room. “Let’s start making babies right now.”
Hastily, I climbed off him, taking the jewel case with me. I hugged it to my chest, cradling it like a child.
Cocking his head, Marshall planted his hands on his hips. “Damn. I never would’ve taken you for a gold digger.”
I smiled, the corners of my mouth stretching ear to ear. “Thank you, Marshall.”
“Go woman. Go sing your songs while I pick up the pieces of my broken heart.”
Stealing a second in front of the mirror, I pulled the elastic free and let my hair fall over my shoulders, gave it a quick tousle, then ran for the stage. Before I could forget, Marshall stole the CD from my hand and headed for the sound system.
“You’re a hot mess, Coop. What would you do without me?”
“Wither, Marshall.” Smiling, I ducked through the curtain.
I thought I might vomit. I’d never had anxiety over taking the stage.
I’d performed dozens of times before. But I knew it had nothing to do with the stage. It had everything to do with the fact that Tate Watkins was watching. Unease settled in my stomach like a lead weight, threatening to purge before a full audience. Then someone shouted my name.
“CCooooppperrrr!”
One of our regulars. We had a few that showed up every weekend, no matter what band played. Another shout came from the left, and my anxiety dissolved. I could do this. I could soooo do this. Fortifying my smile, I strolled further on stage. I received a few appeals to show them my tits. I ignored them, gyrated my hips in a wide circle as the first few beats blasted from the speakers. The song had a short introduction, and I thrust my hips forward, arching my back as I belted out the first few words. The crowd roared. Tears stung my eyes. Taking the stage was like an emotional orgasm. Everyone knew the experience was more enjoyable when both parties were engaged. And Christ, these guys were primed and ready to go.
The song was a throaty blend of first loves and bad breaks. The lyrics were boisterous, but the instrumentals and the vocals really had the crowd crowing. I propelled them forward with a little visual aid, following the edge of the stage with a swagger, making eye contact as I moved to the beat of the drums. The little hip wiggles didn’t hurt either. They ate it up like fried chicken and I was finger lickin’ good. Hell, why be modest? They’d come back for seconds.
As I rolled into the second song, Marshall had joined me, tossing out the occasional bacchanal who dared to scale the stage. They rather reminded me of Levy going through his toddler phase. He’d make a run for something breakable and I’d head him off, pick him up and turn him around. At times, he was impossible to dissuade and I’d have to give him a whop on his butt. At which point, he’d finally understand that that special bauble was off limits.
By the fourth and last song, I had worked up a decent sweat. Damp strands of hair clung to my face and neck. The spotlights were scorching. I normally performed three short songs, but since these were mine, the tracks were full length and Marshall had butted them together to fit in the allotted slot of intermission, permitting no time to steal a sip of water or wipe my face. So when I belted out the last line, I felt like I had just ran the mile in under ten.
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 2
