Rock Chick Renegade

by Kristen Ashley

  “Um,” I mumbled, my eyes sliding again to May.

  May just sucked back more of her margarita.

  “Don’t do that,” Jet said to my eye slide. “I’ve got to do your mascara. Wide eyes, open mouth, look up,” Jet demanded and I did as I was told.

  “Well?” Daisy pushed and I blinked, repeatedly, as Jet applied mascara.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered, trying to talk and keep my mouth open at the same time. “Though the only thing I ever did was um…” I stopped, wondering how I’d gotten into this mess with this gaggle of women I didn’t even know, sharing stuff so private I wouldn’t have even told Auntie Reba about it. “Touch my tongue to his neck and ran my hands up his back.”

  “What’d he do when you did that?” Indy asked, twisting the curling iron around another lock of hair.

  “Well, he kind of… groaned and then things kind of… escalated,” I fought for the words.

  “He liked it,” Roxie declared and I could hear a smile in her voice.

  “Just pay attention, listen and learn. He’ll have hot spots and you’ll find them. Just explore,” Daisy advised.

  “Hon,” May butted in, speaking for the first time since everyone got there (other than to say, “I’ll take one of them margaritas.”), “folks have been doin’ this since folks have existed. It’s instinctive. Just relax. What I saw today, that boy’s so into you, you got nothin’ to worry about. He’ll lead the way.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded (slightly, Jet was still doing my mascara).

  “What does she do when he um…” Jet started but didn’t finish.

  “It’ll hurt,” Roxie said.

  “Mine didn’t hurt,” Ally said and went on, “just a twinge. Hardly any blood at all.”

  My wide eyes widened further and I looked at Jet who was so close to my face she was all I could see. She pulled back, her hand went to my knee and she squeezed.

  “Mine hurt like a mother,” Roxie muttered.

  “Jules is old enough maybe she doesn’t have a cherry anymore. You go horseback ridin’, Sugar?” Daisy asked me.

  “That’s an urban myth,” Indy cut in before I could answer. “I didn’t feel mine at all,” she finished then she unraveled a new curl.

  “You were drunk off your ass,” Ally put in.

  “Was not,” Indy retorted.

  “You were too,” Ally returned.

  “Gettin’ drunk may be a good thing. Loosen you up a bit,” Daisy suggested.

  “Can we stop talking about this?” I asked suddenly. “I’m sorry but it’s freaking me out.”

  “I’m with Jules. Let’s stop talking about this. Blood and pain. Ick. It’s making me squeamish,” Tod said. I glanced his way and he did, indeed, look pale.

  “But –” Daisy protested.

  “Daisy,” Stevie said quietly, “Jules asked us to stop talking about it.”

  Daisy leaned back, crossed her arms on her massive chest (no mean feat) and started pouting, clearly denied the likely gory details of her own deflowering.

  “Just a little cherry lip balm. Don’t want color just in case he kisses you,” Jet muttered to herself, swiping my mouth with balm. Then she announced, “Done with her makeup.” She leaned back and took in my face with a discerning eye.

  Tod moved in behind her. “Girlie, you are the Mistress of Makeup. She looks like a goddamned movie star.”

  Everyone came around to look. They all nodded approvingly except Daisy.

  “Needs more sparkle,” Daisy muttered.

  “Shut up, Daisy,” Indy said, unwrapping another curl then she gouged some gunk from a jar, rubbed it in her hands, ran her fingers through my hair and mussed it. She stepped back, pulling some tendrils here and there away from my face. Then she looked at the finished product and smiled. “Hair’s done.”

  “Um, hate to tell you this, hon,” May broke into the Check Out Jules Fest, “but you got fifteen minutes to get dressed and get this place cleaned up or he’ll be here and see your posse givin’ you the works.”

  “Holy crap!” Indy shouted. “Unplug the curling iron,” she ordered no one and everyone.

  “Get me that cosmetic bag,” Jet snapped her fingers at Stevie. “Now!”

  Roxie pulled me out of my chair. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  Then she shoved a pile of clothes in my arms and pushed me toward the bathroom.

  I walked into the bathroom with my pile. They’d even picked out my underwear and on top was a new bottle of perfume that Roxie stopped by the mall and bought me on the way over.

  I bought some sexy underwear as a side obsession to my sexy nightwear since they sold the stuff in the same department. I didn’t have much but they’d found the sexiest, a pair of black, lacy, Brazilian-cut panties and matching demi-cupped bra. Over this I put on a pair of Roxie’s black slacks which looked normal until they were on. They rode way low, even lower than my cords and jeans, exposing the small of my back in a serious way when I bent even slightly. They had a straight front and wide leg. On top of this they gave me Indy’s plain black t-shirt. Again, it looked normal until I put it on. It was stretchy with a hint of spandex and fit like a glove. It came down over the waistband of the trousers but again if I sat the trousers went down, the shirt rode up and the small of my back was exposed.

  “Shit,” I whispered, the butterflies exploding and I sat on the toilet seat to put on the high-heeled shoes which had a half an inch platform sole, peek-a-boo toe and ankle strap.

  I spritzed with the cologne and put on Roxie’s jewelry, a wide silver cuff bracelet and some wide silver hooped earrings.

  Then I looked in the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed.

  I looked like a girl. My hair was in curls, not masses of them but subtle and pretty. My eyes were done up smoky and, even I had to admit, sexy. And the outfit was simple but kick-fucking-ass.

  Especially the shoes (which were Tod’s).

  I took a deep breath, opened the door and walked down the hall. The place was cleaned up and tidy. All paraphernalia had already been loaded in cars and there was not a margarita glass in sight.

  Everyone looked at me when I walked in and they stared.

  Then they smiled.

  And I felt for the first time all day that maybe I could pull this off.

  “Told you she didn’t need sparkle,” Indy said to Daisy.

  “Sugar, you got that right,” Daisy replied.

  “Hon,” May said, smiling at me, “don’t you worry about gettin’ laid. Trust me. You got nothin’ to worry about.”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later everyone was gone, giving out hugs, air kisses and well wishes for a successful cherry popping as they went.

  Before she left May hugged me tight and looked me deep in the eye and whispered, “Nothin’ to worry about.”

  Even with May’s encouragement I’d just sucked down a shot of tequila, winced as it hit my throat and decided, again, that there was no way I was going to pull this off.

  I shoved the tequila bottle to the back of the counter behind the margarita glasses that someone had washed and were resting upside down on a kitchen towel. I put the shot glass in the sink and was wondering if they had any redeye flights from Denver International Airport to Nicaragua when my backdoor opened and Vance walked in.

  I stared at him. He stared at me.

  I was pretty certain I was looking at him like a deer caught in headlights.

  He wasn’t looking at me that way. He was looking at me in an entirely different way. A way that made the butterflies come back, this time the good ones seemed to be at war with the bad ones and it was up in the air which ones would win.

  He hadn’t changed clothes which was one for the side of the bad butterflies. I worried that I looked like I was trying too hard.

  Finally I said, “Both doors were locked, how did you get in?”

  He started walking toward me but didn’t answe
r.

  I was right by the counter. I backed up a step and my hips ran into it.

  “You don’t have to break in, you know. You could knock on the front door like a normal person,” I told him as he arrived at me.

  I thought he’d stop but he didn’t, not until he got into my space, way into my space. So into my space I could feel the heat from his body and he leaned into me, putting his hands on the counter on either side of me.

  I leaned back and tilted my head to look up at him. “Hello? Crowe? Are you in the room?”

  “Shut up,” he said and I blinked then my eyes narrowed.

  “What did you just say?”

  Then his head dropped, his mouth hit mine and he kissed me. He didn’t touch me, not with his body or his hands though I was acutely aware of the position of both.

  No, he touched me only with his mouth and kept me locked to him there using his macho man tractor beam in cahoots with his talented tongue and the good butterflies got an advantage.

  His head moved away an inch and he murmured, “Tequila.”

  Fuck.

  Sucking face with a recovering alcoholic after a shot of some serious spirits was probably not a good thing.

  “Crowe –” I said.

  His head dropped again and he ran his tongue across my lower lip.

  I stopped breathing.

  “I like it,” he said low and he moved back a fraction and looked at my body then up to my eyes. “I like all of it.” Then he came in close again and his face did the same. “You look good, you taste good.” His mouth came closer and his eyes stared into mine. “I bet other places taste even better.”

  Oh my God.

  The good butterflies started to beat the shit out of the bad butterflies.

  I pulled back a bit. “I’m sorry about the tequila. I had some friends over…” I partially lied, not about to impart the information on him that I needed liquid courage for our date.

  “Jules, people drink. I don’t. Don’t worry about it,” he said like he wasn’t worried about it at all.

  “Okay,” I replied softly.

  Then he did something strange. His hand lifted and he ran his fingers through my hair at the side of my head all the way down the back. Then he pulled some over my shoulder and started to play with it, twisting one of Indy’s curls around his fingers just above my breast all the while he watched his hand as if his mind was somewhere else.

  It felt nice. It sent tingles along my scalp and skin, sexy tingles but something else too, something warmer, sweeter.

  “Vance?”

  His eyes came to mine and I realized his mind was not somewhere else.

  I swallowed.

  Then I asked, “Are we going out or what?”

  He grinned, his fingers still playing with my hair and I could feel the heat from his hand on my chest.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t we, like, go?” I went on.

  He kept grinning. “Yeah,” he repeated.

  I waited. He didn’t move.

  “Well, are we gonna go?” I asked.

  “You got a jacket? We’re on the Harley.”

  My stomach fluttered, not butterflies, just excitement. I loved motorcycles.

  His forcefield intensified when he caught sight of my obvious excitement and he moved in so our bodies were now touching.

  “You like bikes?” he asked.

  I nodded, trying to be cool (but probably failing).

  “You got a jacket?” he repeated.

  I nodded again.

  He grabbed my hand and moved away.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  * * * * *

  He took me to The Broker Restaurant.

  I’d been there only once before. Nick had taken me there for my sixteenth birthday.

  The Broker had been around for years, a fancy restaurant built into the bank vault in the basement of the old Denver National Bank building. You even had to walk through the cage and round steel door of the old vault to get into the seating area. It had burgundy leather, button-backed booths and rich cream tablecloths and napkins. They gave you a big bowl of huge steamed shrimp as a complimentary appetizer.

  I was pleased that I was wearing something nice. One didn’t do jeans at The Broker, unless one was Vance Crowe who looked in jeans like most men looked in a tuxedo.

  We were shown to a half-oval booth. I stared at it and bit my lip. This meant we’d be sitting side-by-side and I wasn’t sure this was a good thing.

  I didn’t say anything and slid in. Vance came in after me and settled, arm along the back of the booth behind me. I leaned forward, slipped off my blazer style black leather jacket and threw it to the side of me with my purse and kept my body forward, the better to stay out of reach.

  The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I wanted tequila neat with a side of Valium and a time machine that took me back to that moment when I shot out Sal Cordova’s tires so I could rethink my actions.

  I ordered a cosmopolitan.

  “Sir?” the waiter asked, his glance going to Crowe.

  Vance didn’t reply. I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were looking down and toward my bottom. I glanced around, saw my skin exposed, my torso shot straight and I leaned back against the seat.

  Fuck.

  Vance’s eyes came to mine. They were soft and sexy and a little amused.

  His look scored one for the good butterflies.

  Then his gaze moved slowly to the waiter. “Cranberry juice.”

  The waiter nodded and walked away.

  Vance turned back to me. I snatched my napkin out of the wine glass and arranged it on my knee with obsessive attention to its placement and smoothness.

  “Jules.”

  “Mm?” I asked, still smoothing at my napkin.

  “Jules.”

  I looked at him.

  “Relax. I’m not going to tear your clothes off in a booth at a steak joint.”

  I stared at him.

  The Broker Restaurant was hardly a “steak joint”. It was a well-established, highly-rated gourmet restaurant. They had more than just steak, they had fish and lamb and pasta too.

  And complimentary steamed shrimp. No one gave you complimentary steamed shrimp. They weren’t rinky-dink shrimp either. They were the good shrimp, the big meaty ones.

  I shook off thoughts of defending The Broker’s greatness. “I came here for my sixteenth birthday,” I told him in an effort to lead the conversation away from tearing my clothes off.

  He got closer and gave the impression he was supremely interested in this trivial comment. I didn’t realize that it was the first time I’d shared anything personal with him that he hadn’t had to force out of me.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  I nodded. That was it. The extent of my conversation.

  “What are you doin’ this birthday?” Vance asked.

  I was so nervous without thinking I blurted, “Going for drinks with Heavy and Zip.”

  It was his turn to stare at me and he did so as if I’d just announced I was going to hula dance on the moon.

  “Heavy and Zip,” he said.

  Damn. Not good.

  “They’re –” I started, thinking fast for a lie. I didn’t figure there were dozens of men in Denver nicknamed Heavy and Zip but I was going to make two of them up, no doubt about it.

  “A retired PI and a gun shop owner. I know who they are. Jesus, Jules,” Vance shook his head.

  Too late for the lie.

  “They’re my friends,” I said.

  “They’re in on this with you.”

  “They know what they’re doing,” I told him.

  “Yeah, Heavy knew what he was doing about five years ago when he should have retired. Instead he retired last year when he was well passed it. Zip’s just a lunatic,” Vance said.

  I felt my blood pressure rise. “Zip is not a lunatic. He’s a good shot.”

  “It all comes out,” Vance muttered.

  �
�And Heavy used to be a cop before he was a PI. He still has friends on the Force and his ear to the ground. Not to mention, he was a semi-pro boxer.”

  “And his wife was a speed freak and he couldn’t get her clean so he scraped her off to save himself even though he didn’t want to and it fucked with his head. Now he’s using you to exact vengeance.”

  Wow. I didn’t know that.

  I didn’t let Vance in on the fact that this was a revelation.

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Which part? Her bein’ a speed freak or you bein’ his instrument?”

  I turned my body to him and my eyes narrowed. “Me being his instrument.”

  Vance’s head went around and he watched the waiter putting down our shrimp bowl. Then without a word to the waiter, he turned back to me when the waiter moved to leave.

  “Jules –”

  “Vance, we’re not talking about this,” I warned.

  “We are. You want to get serious, you come into the office. Mace or Luke will work with you.”

  That was not going to happen. “I’m fine with Zip, Heavy and Frank,” I said, not wanting to work with Mace and Luke mainly because they’d kick my ass.

  I looked at Vance and saw his expression had changed from just disbelief to disbelief mingled with anger.

  “Frank?” he said low.

  Whoops.

  “Um…” I stalled.

  “Please tell me you are not working with Frank Muñoz.”

  “He’s a good guy,” I defended Frank.

  “He makes Zip look adjusted.”

  “Okay,” I gave in a smidge, “so he’s a little intense.”

  “A little? He has stockpiles of arms, water and canned goods in his basement.”

  “He does?” I asked.

  Vance nodded.

  See? I knew Frank was thinking about destroying the world.

  Damn.

  “From now on, you’re workin’ with Mace and Luke,” Vance stated as if that was that, moving away from me and leaning back as our drinks arrived.

  “I’m not. I’m fine where I am.”

  “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.

  I looked down at my menu which I hadn’t even opened.

  “No,” Vance said shortly.

  “Thank you,” I finished for Vance.