Hot, Sexy & Bad

by Angelo, Judy, et al.

  Chapter Three

  Bellying up for a beer at the Boot Hopper is just about the last thing I hoped to do tonight. The jukebox is playing an endless loop of Christmas music, and someone has made a halfhearted attempt at decorating this place. Strings of tinsel hang from the ceiling and a crooked fake Christmas tree is propped up in the corner. I hate Christmas and I hate Clover, so Christmas in Clover is the most despicable combination for me.

  I spent the afternoon driving around and surveying the land associated with the deal I’m proposing. When I got back to my room at the hotel, I tried to settle in. Unfortunately, my restless mind and poorly stocked mini-bar kept me from calling it a night. So I went off in search of an escape and ended up here. It’s the only place to get a drink in town this time of night, just a sleepy bar room a five-minute walk down the hill from my hotel.

  There are a few people who look like regulars, nursing beers and swapping complaints about how this country is going to hell in a handbasket. They throw angry glances my direction as they find a topic they can all agree on: corporate greed. I find it ironic that, in a town full of corruption and cover-ups, these people are concerned with what’s happening on Wall Street. And, just because I happen to be wearing a business suit that cost more than their cars, I must be to blame.

  I’m about to get the hell out of this dive and go back to prepare for my meeting with the mayor tomorrow, when I feel an intense wave of heat roll over me. It’s like a haunting whisper in my ear. I’m compelled to look up, some unknown force willing me. Standing in the dimly lit doorway, passing by the old jukebox, is Rebecca.

  I can’t breathe, or I’ve forgotten how. I dip my head slightly, hoping she doesn’t see me. I want a chance to watch her, take in every inch of her before this bubble pops and reality floods in. I watch her long hair sway, just the way I remember it, shiny and amazing. She’s wearing a tight top and jeans with holes in them. Her eyes seem tired, like she’s lived a lifetime already, but she still looks gorgeous. The only unfamiliar part of her is the little girl she has in tow.

  The girl’s hair is the same espresso shade as Rebecca’s, but rather than pin-straight silk, her soft wispy curls are pulled up into pigtails. She looks about three years old, maybe four, and she’s in her pajamas—a little red jumper with a picture of Santa across the belly. She’s nearly outgrown the clothes, too much of her ankles and wrists are showing. I watch as Rebecca lifts her. The tiny girl responds by tucking her face into her mother’s neck. It’s a spot I’ve found comfort in myself, and I miss it more in this moment than I have in years. The child is practically asleep now as they disappear through a door into a back room of the bar.

  She doesn’t notice me, and if I’m honestly determined not to reconnect with her, then I’ll leave. It will be easy to slip out the front door and ignore my desire to know why Rebecca is in Clover, and specifically why she’s in the Boot Hopper this time of night.

  I came back for a lot of reasons, but seeing her isn’t one of them. I can go. I should go. But my legs aren’t moving, and my curious heart is gluing my ass to this bar stool. Damn that last sliver of humanity I can’t rid myself of.

  Rebecca emerges from the back room with her arms empty now. She walks toward the bar. Toward me. I can feel my heart thudding against the walls of my chest and I wonder if anyone else can hear the banging. My palms are instantly sweaty and my mouth goes dry. For the first time in a decade, I feel like a nervous kid staring at his crush.

  Rebecca flips up the wooden divider and I realize she’s a bartender here. The questions swirling in my head can’t even be caught and held down long enough to string together. What is she doing in Clover? Where is her husband, Mack? Why is she tending bar in this dive, with her daughter sleeping somewhere in the back room?

  Before I can even begin to come up with some hypothetical answers, she’s standing in front of me asking what’ll it be? The sound of her voice strikes my chest and pierces the armor I’ve layered myself with over the years. She isn’t even looking at me; she’s tying her small apron around her waist and reaching for a rag to wipe the bar. She looks so empty, like a ghost, and even before I know why she is working here, I feel bereft for her.

  I wonder if maybe I’m dreaming, trying to recall if I’ve drunk myself stupid and just can’t remember. Only one way to find out.

  “Rebecca,” I say, and am surprised that her name catches in my throat, coming out so quiet it seems to spook her. I haven’t spoken her name out loud in a very long time. I’ve thought it almost every day, but I haven’t said it.

  When her eyes come up to mine, I watch her face light with recognition and then wash with emotion. “Devin?” She says my name like it’s a curse word, something she almost can’t get out without a struggle. “What are you doing here?” she whispers, examining my face. Her eyes move over my sharp suit, my longer hair, and my grown-up body. I almost forget how young we were the last time she laid eyes on me. We were barely eighteen. Now I’m a regular at the gym, and I’ve bulked up significantly over the years. Back then, I could barely grow a beard, and now the five o’clock shadow on my face is ever-present, seeming to sprout back up minutes after a shave. I’m a man now, a different man, inside and out.

  “I’m here on business,” I answer as I consider asking her the same thing. She beats me to the punch with more questions of her own.

  “Why didn’t you come back after you were exonerated? They kept it so quiet that I didn’t hear until almost six months later. I was still sending you letters.” She fidgets with the rag in her hand, and I can tell she’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a figment of her imagination.

  “I needed a fresh start. No looking back.” I don’t intend those words to cut her, but judging by the way her eyes dart away, I know I hurt her.

  “It looks like you’ve found one.” She gestures at my suit and I can see the light leaving her face. The ray of hope she had at the sight of me is dwindling.

  She may not like what she’s hearing from me, but I want answers of my own. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be living hours away. Happily ever after with Mack.” I say his name with a hiss of hatred I meant to hold back. “Did something happen?” I know it’s bad, but I hope he’s a cheating bastard. Or maybe he died in some tragic accident. I’m not proud of the thought, but I’ve spent a long time hating him for getting to spend his life with Rebecca.

  “It’s complicated.” Tears fill her eyes and I immediately feel bad for wanting Mack dead. He’s dead, she’s widowed and had to move back to Clover, and I’m over here celebrating it like a victory. Luke is right. I am a heartless bastard.

  “Did he die?” I ask, trying to look empathetic. In my years as a hardcore businessman, I trained myself to resist empathy.

  She shakes her head and searches the ceiling for words that seem to escape her. “There’s no Mack. There never was, Devin.” I watch a tear spill over as I try to make sense of what she’s saying.

  “But . . . your letters.” I reach in my briefcase and pull out the one I was reading earlier. For nine years while I was in prison she wrote to me about Mack and her life.

  “You have them? You carry them with you?” She seems hopeful about this.

  Her question infuriates me. Partly because how weak I look for having this letter, like a keepsake, and partly because now I’m getting the impression they are full of lies. I stuff it back in my briefcase and stand to leave. I’m not in Clover for Rebecca, for explanations. I’m here to settle scores.

  She leans over the bar and touches my arm, “I have ten minutes before my shift starts. They have a bed made up in the back for Adeline to sleep in while I work. I can ask Carol to keep an ear out for her and we can go outside. I want to explain.” She turns and whispers to the other bartender then heads for the door, clearly assuming I’ll follow. I want to prove her wrong, have her get out there and feel like an idiot—the way I feel right now as I realize she’s not in some mountain town with her wonderful husband liv
ing her dream life. But Rebecca’s pull is magnetic, so I follow, heading outside to meet her.

  “I want to explain,” she repeats as we round the corner to the side of the building. The cold air is cutting tonight, but I’m too frustrated to care. I’m seething with anger and I can’t speak. She’s standing closer to me now than she has in over a decade and I can smell her skin. It is exactly the same scent I remember from all those years ago.

  She sits on a crooked wooden bench, but I don’t join her. Instead I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the building.

  “I can understand if you’re upset,” Rebecca begins, “I would be, too. But I’d like for you to try to understand about the letters, about me.”

  “If you’re telling me they were lies, then I don’t want an explanation. That’s not why I’m here in Clover,” I say flatly, deepening my voice and making sure not to show the least bit of sympathy for whatever explanation she has. There can be no excuse for lying to a man for all those years.

  “Fine,” she says, sinking her shoulders in defeat, an emotion I can tell she is no stranger to. “But you’re going to listen, anyway.” And she’s right, I will. “When you were arrested, I spoke out about your innocence. I defended you every step of the way. I knew you didn’t start that fire or kill Brent. Hoyle and his men hassled me everywhere I went. I was hoping when college started I’d be out of here, putting it all behind me. But my mother got sick and my father couldn’t take care of my brothers by himself. He has a black soul—ugly to the core. I didn’t want my brothers to have to deal with that on their own, so I stayed. Then, as they grew up, I tried again to leave, but I made some stupid mistakes that resulted in the best thing that ever happened to me, and she’s asleep back there.”

  Rebecca points toward the bar with one hand and covers her heart with the other. I know she’s talking about that sweet little girl she carried in. “I’ve been working for years to try to get myself out of this place, and now I have something else I’m trying to shake. Adeline’s father, Collin. He’s a low-life and he’s taking every penny I have and using it for drugs. When I try to tell him no, he threatens to take Adeline, and in a place like Clover, I’m afraid that may actually happen. There is no law here for people like me, people who don’t support Hoyle.”

  I suck in a breath as she runs her hands through her hair the same way she did when we were young. I look away, not wanting the familiar gesture to sway me from my position of indifference.

  I stand like stone listening to her, reminding myself that I don’t care. These were her choices. I was the one locked up. I bite at my lip, nearly to the point of blood. The silence stretches between us, and when it’s clear she has nothing else to say, I speak. “What does that have to do with all the letters you sent me? I was in prison and you were out here creating all this nonsense.” I don’t want to sound hurt, weak. I want to sound angry. “Why make a fool of me?” I pound my hand to my chest and watch her jump at the bark in my voice.

  “I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you,” she counters forcefully, standing to face me. I’m shocked to see her anger brewing now. “You may have been the only one behind bars, but I was in my own prison here. You were the only person who ever looked at me like . . .” she pauses, and points up at my face, “like that.”

  I avert my eyes, looking instead over her shoulder. I know exactly what she means, how I look at her, but I won’t acknowledge that. “So, you thought lying to me was a good distraction from your shitty life? Some fantasy world for you to escape from this pathetic place?”

  She reaches up and slaps my face hard. Living in the world of business, I’ve gotten very good at anticipating things, but, I didn’t see that coming. The sting in my cheek, made worse by the cold, is still not enough to distract me from the fact that she is standing so close to me, within reach for the first time in a long time. Not Mack’s wife, not happily ever after. Just Rebecca, at my fingertips.

  “It wasn’t a fantasy, some dream world for me. You were the one who begged me to tell you I was happy. You wanted me to write to you about how wonderful my life was turning out. Would it really have helped you in there to know I cried myself to sleep every night for the first year you were in prison? Would you have been relieved to know I couldn’t walk down the street without being harassed here in Clover? When I was pregnant with Adeline, would you have slept better knowing I almost lost her when Collin pulled me down the stairs in a drunken stupor? I don’t see how the truth would have served you very well in there.”

  I don’t respond. I watch the fire dance in her eyes, conviction fueling the words she’s shouting at me. She means what she’s saying, but it still isn’t enough. I’m standing in front of a person who made up a fake life and wrote me regularly about it.

  She calms slightly and continues. “You were supposed to be in prison for the rest of your life. I thought I was helping you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Maybe, in a way, you’re right. Writing to you was like throwing a penny in a wishing well. Every word I put in those letters was what I wanted my life to be. It’s how I wanted our lives to be . . . together.” The tears gathering in the corners of her eyes hit me like a punch in the gut.

  “The letters . . .” My words catch slightly in my throat. I don’t like admitting anything, but I hate to see her cry. “They did help me. They probably saved my life some days. So maybe you were right, but . . .” Perhaps she takes my words as an invitation for forgiveness, but that isn’t what I intend. As surprised as I was for the slap, I’m even more shocked by what she does next.

  She leans in, stepping on her tiptoes to reach my face, and kisses me. Her lips feel exactly the same, and, as if in a time warp, I travel back to the last time I touched her. Every woman I’ve kissed since paled in comparison to Rebecca. Any mental debate I’m having with myself is temporarily overruled by my body’s desire for her. It’s been so long. I was convinced I’d never see her again.

  My brain underwent a transition over those years apart; in order to become a successful businessman and deal with my past, I built an untouchable heart. The proof of those changes are here in the way I move, in the way I touch her. I pull her in with a forceful tug and then spin her so she is against the wall instead of me. The man I am today is a dominant one. I’m constantly in charge. I kiss her with a hunger that borders on harshness, like I may bruise her lips with my own. I’m angry at her still, and it’s coming through in the way I handle her.

  I can feel her arch as her back scrapes the wall of the building. I’m holding her there with the firm weight of my eager body. This is not like any kiss we shared a decade ago. This is who I am now, not that boy she used to know. As my hand slips under her shirt I feel her recoil and she places her palms on my solid chest.

  Her mouth leaves mine. “Stop, Devin,” I hear her say, her voice laced with disappointment. Cleary, this is not what she intended with her kiss. Maybe she wants to rekindle a spark the world has snuffed out, or is hoping for a tender reunion. Some kind of absolution for the mistakes she made, maybe. That isn’t what I’m here for. If she is hoping to find the boy she missed out on, she’s out of luck. He’s gone. The only thing left is the man she lied to.

  I step back and wipe her lip gloss from my mouth. I straighten my tie and clear my throat, reminding myself I am in Clover for revenge. Not whatever this is.

  “I’ve done well for myself since leaving prison. I’m about to become an even wealthier man once I finish my business here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a large roll of money wrapped in an elastic band. It is payment meant for a construction company I intend to contract with, once the property deal goes through. There is no safe in my hotel and keeping it in my pocket seemed like a better plan than leaving it unattended. I place the roll of money in Rebecca’s hand and turn on my heels. I can easily take out more cash for the contractor. She needs this money, and I need to put this all behind me.

  I walk away with my hands stuffed in my pockets. “Devin,” I hear her call f
rom across the parking lot, but I don’t turn around. I plan to slip away into the darkness and walk back to the hotel. That is, until I feel a solid thump on my back. Turning around I see the money lying in the parking lot at my feet. Rebecca stands there with her eyes blazing. “I don’t want your money. I’m sorry you think I am some despicable person for lying to you, but I’m not a charity case. Keep your money and get the hell out of Clover. At least now I can stop sitting here wondering what kind of guy you turned out to be. I have my answer.” She stomps back into the bar, and again slips out of my life.

  Leaning down I pick up the money, putting it back in my pocket. What does she want from me? Forgiveness? Understanding? She needs money. I gave her some. I give money to charities all the time. It’s a tax write-off. Nothing more than a business transaction. Why is she making it personal? Does she want us to just pick up where we left off as if we are still kids? Even if I do want her, want us, we’re both so different now.

  Chapter Four

  Thoughts of Rebecca keep me up most of the night. Her perfume has soaked into my skin and it is intoxicating and distracting. I tell myself over and over again that I did nothing wrong, that she is at fault, but still, I can’t sleep.

  After a shitty night of tossing and turning, followed by an annoying wake-up call from the front desk at the Winston, I start my day. There aren’t many places to eat in Clover; so many businesses are boarded up. I settle for breakfast at the diner on the corner of Lexington and Main. A redheaded waitress, without any type of customer service skills, walks up to my table and grunts something about taking my order. She stands with her pad out and a pencil hovering over it.

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee, black.” I watch as she rolls her eyes, as though my order is predictably boring.