He hated the idea that Nadine might regret having sex with him. It was the best sex of his life. She shouldn’t regret that. The idea was indecent. It made her sacrifice of her virginity to him into something sordid. He couldn’t stand that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Next morning Nadine had the early shift. She dragged herself to the shower and reluctantly washed away the smell of her first sex—sex with King Dave—probably the best sex she would ever have in her life since she would now have no one to fall back on besides the Bub Smiths of Chicago. She tried not to sniffle much. Sore, clean, lonely, miserable, she put on her starchiest uniform and took the bus downtown. May as well get to work and figure out how she was going to face the Local.
They all knew she’d been seeing a lot of King Dave lately. Impossible to keep that a secret. Would her fall be obvious? Big red letter A on her forehead? Bobbyjay would come in for coffee, ten-thirty like clockwork, when they downed tools at the Auditorium for break. She didn’t know how to face him.
Would he side with King Dave? Nothing was more likely. Bobbyjay was King Dave’s best friend.
She could tear a preemptive strip off him for telling her father where she was.
Some comfort.
The other day-waitresses showed up. Miguel fired up the fry machine. The air filled with the scent of hot grease. Somberly Nadine made four pots of regular and two pots of decaf.
The waitress with ten earrings said, “Are you okay, Nadine?”
“Up all night with a bad tummy. Chinese food,” she fibbed.
The waitress with the stud in her lip said, “You shouldn’t come to work with the flu, Nadine.”
“Looks more like a broken heart to me,” muttered Multiple Piercings. “But, hey, it’s none of my business.”
The door burst open. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” demanded King Dave.
Helplessly, Nadine put up her palm. “No, no.”
“Don’t say No-no to me,” he said, sounding furious. “I saw the blood on the coverlet.”
“Way to go, Nadine!” said Multiple Piercings.
“Oh, Lord,” Nadine said faintly.
“Make him marry you, girlfriend,” said Stud Lip.
King Dave grabbed her hand. “You’re coming outside with me and explain right now why you kept this a big secret.”
She yanked her hand away. “Leave me alone!”
The other waitresses moved a little closer.
“At least let me apologize.”
“Apologize?” Now he was sorry he’d had sex with her!
“C’mon, Nadine,” he said, turning on his wheedler, and she knew she was doomed. She glanced from him to her coworkers and back to his pleading angel face.
“Give him a chance, Nadine,” said Stud Lip.
“Slap him,” suggested Multiple Piercings.
“I swear,” he said. He got down on his knees. “I would never hurt you. Let me make it up to you.”
“Take it,” said Multiple Piercings.
“Make him show you a ring,” said Stud Lip.
Nadine blushed so hard, the small hairs on her neck curled in the heat. “Get up.” Her body throbbed with his nearness.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“Get up!” she repeated desperately as three customers walked into the restaurant.
“Take a break, Nadine,” Miguel called, leaning across the pass-through counter. He grinned and pushed his big white paper hat down over his eyes and snapped his gum at her.
She turned and fled to the back door.
King Dave strode right on her heels.
“I am not talking to you by a Dumpster,” she said as he caught up with her and grabbed her by the arm.
“Okay, we’ll go in here.” He marched her across the alley and through the stage door of the Auditorium Theatre. “’Lo, Burg,” he said to the doorman. “Tour for Nadine. She’s never seen the cable room.”
“Great,” she snarled. “Another lock-in in some romantic hole under a theater. I thought Burg was doorman at the Opera House.”
“That’s his kid, Cheeseburg. This is Hamburg, his daddy.” King Dave never loosened his grip on her arm. She stumbled through the backstage labyrinth, ducking under bundles of black cable that snaked from every direction, into a tiny room.
He shoved her into the room and blocked the doorway with his shoulders. “Look, Nadine, I’m sorry about last night.”
She blew hair out of her eyes. “Well I’m not.” Her arm hurt where he’d gripped it. The pain melted quickly and sent a tremble through her body, clear down to her knees.
“I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were a virgin.”
“Why?” she flashed. “Would you have sent me home? Virgins aren’t good enough in bed?”
“No, dammit!” He bit his lip.
Far in the back of her mind, where she wasn’t angry at all, only hot, ready, and wobbly with love, she noticed that “dammit” was now on his list of bad words.
“I mean,” he said carefully, “that although I’m a horse’s ass in a lot of ways, I do not go around deflowering virgins. My God!” he burst out. A trickle of sweat appeared on his forehead. “When I found the blood this morning I—I lost it. It is not that you’re not good enough in bed. Shi—sheesh, Nadine, you blew me away last night. I was ready to—” He stopped. A worried look crossed his face. He stared, biting his lower lip more. Then he took a deep breath. “It was good. You’re good. I—I want you to know I appreciate it. You.” He swallowed.
“Oh,” she said. Her spirits rose so fast, she went dizzy.
“I just assumed you couldn’t be...one. After what you said about me being your first Chicago adventure.”
“What about it?”
“Well, for pity’s sake, Nadine.” He looked embarrassed. “Getting laid is not much of an adventure. I mean, I guess it is, if you’re not used to it.”
“It was very nice,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He flushed. “You’re welcome.” He looked over his shoulder onto the deserted stage and took a step toward her.
She backed up until she bumped into some lumpy equipment.
“Why’d you do it, Nadine?” he said quietly.
“Do what?” she said, willfully stupid, while way in the back of her mind a little voice sang, You’ve got him now!
“Why did you have sex with me when you were a virgin?” He glanced over his shoulder again and lowered his head. “You know what an insensitive dope I am. If I’d had any idea, I’d of been more, I dunno. I feel really bad. You only got the one cherry.”
Now she was enjoying herself. “I picked you, King Dave.”
He looked dumbfounded. “To pop your cherry.”
“That’s right.” She smiled. “You’re an expert. I didn’t want to risk it on an amateur like, oh, Bub Smith.”
He swelled visibly. “Well, not every guy’s an expert—”
“Or Bobbyjay or Weasel or Anvilhead or any of those guys.”
“Don’t you dare!” he exploded. “Jesus Christ on a bicycle, Nadine, don’t you know what these guys are like with women?”
“I’m tired of being preacher’s daughter, King Dave. I want to be somebody else. I ran away to the big city for adventure. But I don’t know how to change.” A sharp, tight feeling threatened to stop her throat.
She swallowed. “When Daddy and Bub came to Liz Otter’s last week, I realized I can’t just leave home. I have to earn a new self. Does that sound dumb?”
He reached out and stroked her cheek. “No.”
“I want to be wild. I want to be rid of that prissy girl.”
“Sleeping with stagehands is not wild. It’s dumb.”
“Even sleeping with you?” she said wistfully.
“Every waitress in town does it,” he said in a rough voice. “Look, you want adventure, I can show you adventure.” Her pulse leaped. “But screwing stagehands is no biggie, Nadine.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “Let me make
this up to you.”
“I—I don’t think I should,” she lied.
A knowing smile touched his eyes. “You told me how you think the stagehands are wild and crazy guys. You came all this way to wait tables? I think you’re chicken. You only want to hang around with guys who have adventures.” She gasped, and he flicked her chin with his finger. “We have a name for that in the Local. It’s called a roadie groupie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am not a groupie!”
“They hang around the stage door and they blow roadies for coke. Sometimes a house guy can get a free hummer if a groupie mistakes him for a roadie. Like you saw.” She gasped, and he grinned unforgivably.
“Why are you saying these awful things?” she said in a freezing voice.
“I want you to respect yourself. You deserve better.”
“An adventure with you?” she said with fury. “I thought you said I was chicken for sleeping with a stagehand.”
“Sure.” He met her gaze with a steady, insolent grin. “If you dare. If you’re not a hypocrite.”
“A hypocrite!” she gasped.
King Dave ground his point in deeper. “If you’re not like a suburban tourist. Bop into the city, throw a little poon with the big bad stagehand, then hightail it back to your safe little world. Never do anything really wild.”
She sputtered with outrage. “This kind of talk is supposed to make me respect myself?”
“Nadine.” He took her hands in his. “A roll in the hay is a risk, not an adventure. You nice girls, you’ve been brainwashed. That’s why guys like me and Weasel get lucky so often. I try not to do it to nice girls, and you—”
He looked her up and down with light in his eyes, and she leaned into him with her knees.
“You’re a goddess, babe. I’m a crude, rude guy. I screwed up. I owe you. Will you let me show you real adventure?”
“Oh, all right,” she said crossly. She wanted him so badly that her belly was trembling.
“Thanks.” He kissed her on the knuckles, giving her a rush.
“Oh hey, there you are,” said a voice from the doorway.
King Dave looked over his shoulder. “Bobbyjay. ’Sup?”
“Thought I better warn you before you see Nadine again—oh, hi, Nadine,” Bobbyjay said faintly.
Nadine stepped forward. Bobbyjay backed up a pace. She prompted, “You better warn him that I figured out that you told my Daddy how to find me in Chicago.”
“Uh.” Bobbyjay swallowed. “Right.” He turned to King Dave, opened his mouth, yammered silently, and raised his palms.
Nadine smiled. Today had started out to be such an awful, horrible day. Now life was going her way.
“What did you do, Bobbyjay? Send him a telegram?”
Bobbyjay cleared his throat. “Letter.”
“Anonymous?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Because you sent me the telegram from Goreville, Illinois,” she said gently, “and you felt bad about messing up for poor King Dave who was trying to chase me out of town, and you thought, ‘Hey, I’ll make it up to King Dave, I’ll try some other dumb stunt that will blow up in all our faces.’ Am I right?”
“Look, Nadine, yell at me. He did it for my sake.”
“So he told you? Of course.” She patted Bobbyjay on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll get my revenge when you least expect it. But right now King Dave and I are talking.”
Bobbyjay vanished.
“You wanted to show me an adventure?” she said to King Dave.
King Dave eyed her thoughtfully. “Should I scare the pants off you, like that day on the Opera House grid?”
She considered this. “I’d like—” What she would like could not be said in words, not yet.
“Sky’s the limit, your highness. But think quick. The old man’s going to let me off suspension in a couple more weeks.”
Right. How could she have forgotten? In two weeks this paragon of fatherhood and great sex would turn back into a frog.
She swallowed hope. Okay, two weeks.
Feeling less guilty about her probably hideously expensive request, she said, “Well, I’ve always wanted to go to the Opera. On opening night, to see all the tuxes and the ladies in their diamonds and fancy dresses.”
What she really wanted was to see King Dave in a suit. That would be worth an evening of caterwauling.
King Dave snapped his fingers. “Nothing easier.” His hot blue gaze ran over her. “You got a fancy dress of your own?”
“No.” She hung her head.
“So we add that to the list.” He made a check mark in the air with his finger. “Dress for Nadine. Shoes and sexy stockings. Something expensive that makes you look cheap. My treat.” He looked cocky. “I know just where to get it. Little place on Oak Street.”
“King Dave!” she said in a scandalized voice.
“I’ll dig my tux out and have it cleaned.” He grinned.
A flush crept over her cheek. The idea of King Dave in a tux took her breath away. “You have a tux?”
“Got married in it.”
“And you’ve never worn it since,” she guessed. Poor Tammy.
He shrugged. “Renting, you make two trips to the fuckin’ store. Buy it, you make one trip.”
“I don’t know about you.”
He pinched her chin. “That’s probably best.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With misgivings Nadine washed the blue jersey dress. Oak Street would be aswarm with rich-looking people. She didn’t want to embarrass King Dave. The blue jersey was the nicest she had.
He picked her up at nine-thirty, “Because the shop opens at ten and we don’t want to get wedged in by the professional shoppers.” He had on a plain black muscle shirt that showed off every ounce of beef, and a pair of black Levis.
“Professional shopper?” She buckled her seat belt. “That must be a glamorous job.”
“Way glam,” he said, “Hubby rakes in the dough, wifey wears out her thousand-dollar sneakers on north Mich, rubbin’ the numbers off his credit card.”
“And where’s their husbands?” she said sharply.
“Raking in the dough. Sleeping with their secretaries.”
“Do you think there is any man in this city who spends weekends with his kids and stays married?” she snapped.
“Oh, probably.” He looked untroubled by the notion.
“All it would take is refusing a call from the office.” She realized with belated remorse that she had slipped into moral suasion mode. But he seemed so smug about the stagehands’ disastrous marriages. “How about guys with house jobs? You can’t tell me F-fuckdaluck Eddie works year round. Opera season ends.”
“It’s a habit for Eddie. He didn’t get the job’til he was fifty. By then the wife didn’t know what to do with him at home. This works for both of ’em.”
“He’s still married?”
“Forty-odd years.” King Dave pulled the Camaro onto north Michigan Avenue.
She shook her head again. “But Eddie never even cashes his paychecks.” Too late she remembered how she had learned this.
“Direct deposit. Marriage is a compromise.”
“Oh, like you would know!”
“Or you,” he said.
That was true. She had been brought up to revere her parents’ perfect marriage. Then she’d been stuck doing her mother’s thankless job, and learned how hateful it was. She blinked away a stinging tear. “I suppose.”
“Eddie works more than most house guys. Guys like Ruffino or Dammit at the Shubert, they’re home more. I mean, they could be. If they didn’t call in when the house is dark.”
The stage “house.” Not their home. “Are they divorced, too?”
“Dammit is. Ruffino married a dancer. She’s okay with the schedule.” King Dave hesitated. “Ruffino don’t call in for extra work.”
He sounded a little wistful. About Ruffino’s luck with the dancer, who didn’t mind the schedule? Or envy of Dammit’s
job?
“What does D-dammit do at the Shubert?” Pronouncing these men’s names was tarnishing what was left of her halo.
“Flyman.”
“Fly—?”
“He’s their head rigger,” King Dave said shortly.
So it was envy of the job. Nadine filed this away.
They pulled into Bloomingdale’s ramp on Oak Street. Nadine swallowed. Wasn’t Oak Street kind of expensive? “We don’t have to go to Bloomingdale’s,” she said in a small voice.
“That’s good, ’cause we’re not.” He came around the car to open her door. “This place is a lot more...exclusive.”
She shot him a mistrustful glance. He smiled back, always King Dave, always sure of his incalculable cuteness and charm, and doggone it, he was right. He could get away with it.
They shared the parking ramp elevator with a tall, slender woman with long black hair and long legs wearing a red leather halter top and ultraslim black leather pants that weren’t even tight. Nadine realized that her Salvation Army blue jersey looked cheap.
“God, I love you in that dress,” King Dave said as he waited for her to exit the elevator ahead of him.
She watched the retreating form of the supermodel in red and black leather. “It sure isn’t Michigan Avenue. Or Oak Street.”
“Princess,” he said, copping a feel from behind as he opened a door for her. “That’s how you women torture yourselves. The dyke in leather pants dresses for other women. You, beautiful, are dressing for a man.” He gave her bottom a warm squeeze.
She skipped through the doorway ahead of him. “Maybe she isn’t gay. Maybe she likes dressing for women. Most women do.”
“Groovy. They can knock themselves out.” He sounded grumpy. “You come to the opera with me, I get to pick out what I like.”
That made her wonder if she would end up in pasties and a g-string.
But he led her to a shop with very familiar wares.
“Frederick’s of Hollywood!” she squealed. “In Chicago!”
“Not exactly. This is a designer shop. They don’t sell mass-produced stuff.”
The mannequin in the window wore a spangled cowgirl hat, a fringed blue leather jacket with stars across the low cut bosom, a red-striped microskirt, and high-heeled white cowgirl boots.
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