Pearl Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  “No, I don’t know why. And if you didn’t want me, then why shouldn’t I take off my clothes and see if some other man would like me?”

  Mark closed his eyes for a second, then said, “I never said I didn’t want you.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

  “How was I to know that? And I heard that you think I don’t have the body to be a stripper.”

  Mark turned to his grandmother. “Blabbermouth!”

  His grandmother made a face at him.

  “Is she really a stripper?” Claire leaned around Adam and asked Abbie in an undertone.

  “Pfff! Lily’s a college student. This is just a plan me and Tante Lulu dreamed up.”

  “Well, I can tell you, there are men out there who like me just fine,” Lily continued.

  “How could you, Lily? Do you like having frat guys jerk off while you show them your ass?”

  Tears began to stream down Lily’s face.

  “Sonofabitch!” Mark stood abruptly and walked around the table. Taking Lily by the arm, he dragged her away from the table and through the archway. At first he seemed to be yelling at her, but suddenly Lily put her arms around his neck. He hesitated, as if shocked, then put his one arm around her waist, drawing her closer. They slow danced, her face pressed against his chest, his mouth against the top of her head as the band wailed out Garth Brooks’s “Last Dance.” They both kept their eyes closed.

  Everyone was all teary-eyed, watching.

  Except Caleb, who’d just returned to the table. After hitting the head, he’d tap-danced for a half hour at the bar in an impromptu interview with a reporter for the Huntingdon News who’d gotten wind of the treasure hunt. Publicity was the last thing he needed at this stage. People converging on the site would not help matters along at all. So he’d employed an old SEAL tactic, evade and escape.

  “What the hell’s going on? You all look like you’re attending a funeral,” he remarked, sitting down next to Claire in LeDeux’s empty seat. The Cajun Casanova and his sister were out on the dance floor. LeDeux was an incredible dancer. Caleb had seen him in action before. But Lizzie wasn’t shabby, either. Where she’d learned to dance like that, he had no idea. Not at any Amish gathering, that was for sure. “Tears?” He reached out a forefinger and swiped at the wetness on the edge of Claire’s eyelashes. Abbie and Tante Lulu were in similar shape.

  Claire pointed to Mark, who was slow dancing with a woman. In fact, the two of them were just swaying from side to side, holding on to each other for dear life.

  “Lily?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  She arched her eyebrows at him.

  “He’s made the first step to getting his life back by participating in the project. Connecting with his girl can’t hurt the recovery.”

  “You an expert on love as an antidote for depression?” she teased.

  He didn’t joke about this kind of thing. “I’ve been around plenty of military men who’ve come back from war less than they were when they left, physically and emotionally. PTSD is the least of their troubles. It’s hard, but they need to regain normalcy.”

  “You think that’s what it is with Mark. Posttraumatic stress disorder?”

  He shrugged. “I’m glad he’s thinking about making the cavern a business venture.”

  “Me, too.” Claire gave him a flirty sideways glance. Little did she know there was no need for her to flirt with him. He was already hooked and ready for the frying pan. “Do you want to dance?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t dance.” Then he gave in to the temptation to pull her braid over her shoulder, and he brushed the end strands over his own lips. Like the finest sable artist’s brush.

  She seemed mesmerized by the movement of her hair over his lips. Not surprisingly, her voice was low and sultry when she asked, “Not ever?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  Concentrating on her lips now, he used her own hair like a lip brush, outlining the edges, filling in the fullness of her top lip, across the parted bottom lip. If her lips were as erotically sensitive as his, she was getting turned on big-time. At least he hoped so.

  He tugged her closer by yanking on the braid. Almost against her mouth, he asked, “Are you ready to beg me?”

  She laughed and her breath was as erotic as the braid had been. “To dance?”

  “Hardly.” He nipped her bottom lip with his teeth.

  He was about to kiss her when someone tapped on his shoulder. No, no, no! Not now! Go away!

  The tapping persisted, now accompanied by, “Yoo-hoo!”

  He and Claire turned as one to see Tante Lulu watching them closely.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Hey, don’t get yer jockeys in a twist jist ’cause ya were up to some hanky-panky.”

  “What?” Claire asked in a gentler voice.

  “I was just wonderin’ if you two want CC or CP or PC.”

  “Huh?” they both said.

  “The monogram on yer hankies and pillowcases and doilies and such. You know. Claire and Caleb, CC. Cassidy and Peachey, CP. Or Peachey and Cassidy, PC.”

  “You are not monogramming anything for me, old lady,” Caleb insisted, no longer in the mood for kissing. Well, he would still be in the mood, once the dingbat from down South left the scene.

  “That is so sweet,” Claire said.

  He gave her a dirty look.

  “But no, thank you,” she added.

  “Ain’t up to you two. It’s all in the hands of St. Jude now.” With that ominous news she was off to the dance floor, where the band leader had just announced that line dancing was about to begin, starting with “Achy Breaky Heart.” They even had an instructor to teach them the dirty slide, honky-tonk stomp, slap leather, tush push, pivot, and electric slide.

  “Do you want to line dance?” Claire asked.

  “Only when you put my feet to the fire, pull out my nose hairs one at a time, and lasso my balls.”

  “I take that to be no.”

  “That would be a ‘Hell, no!’”

  “Come on, you guys,” Famosa said. He had just come from the bar and had his arm around the waist of a really hot twentysomething woman with Angelina Jolie lips and tight jeans. “This should be fun.”

  Caleb shook his head at the stupidity of what some men would do to impress a woman. Line dancing . . . good God almighty! He would rather do a HALO drop over freakin’ Iraq.

  “Yeah, it does sound like fun,” Claire said, standing.

  His eyes went wide at that, and, yeah, he felt a little hurt that she would rather make a fool of herself on the dance floor than stay with him and make sparks off each other.

  But then she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I need to put some space between us before I go up in flames.” With those words, she danced off.

  And he thought, No, no, no, no, no! You should stay. Flames are good.

  To make up or break up, that is the question . . .

  Mark inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of Lily’s lemon-scented hair and he wished . . . Oh, hell, he wished he could push back the hands of time.

  He had one arm—his only arm—around Lily’s waist. She had both of her arms looped around his neck. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was two years ago, and he had two arms and a life.

  “Mark—” she started to say.

  “Shhhh. No talk,” he said against her ear. He would have to walk away from her in a minute, but not just yet.

  The band was playing that Rascal Flatts song “I Melt,” and, yep, that was just how he felt. He’d known Lily since they went to junior high together. They’d both been virgins the first time they made love, after the senior prom. He didn’t know about her, and he didn’t want to know, but she was the only woman he’d ever been with. How pitiful was that? If she was stripping . . . and he could hardly believe that was possible . . . maybe she’d been with lots of other men by now.

&nbs
p; But back then, before the disaster that had become his life, she’d dreamed of being an architect. He’d dreamed of being a carpenter/craftsman, after his military stint. They would open their own home renovation business. In fact, there was a place they already had in mind, an abandoned church that would make a unique home. So much for dreams!

  He started to push away from her, but she held on tight. For such a skinny little thing, she was strong.

  “Don’t,” she ordered. “Don’t even think about walking away from me now.”

  “It’s over, Lily. How many times do I have to tell you that? I’m going home.”

  With his one hand, he peeled her off him and headed for the door.

  She followed after him. “I’ll drive you.”

  He agreed, but only because he wanted to put some closure on Lily’s hopes for him. They were never gonna happen.

  They were silent on the ride back home, but once they came to a stop, he said, “Good night, Lily. Have a nice life, honey. You deserve it.”

  “No! I’ll tell you what I deserve,” she said, pressing the lock button for the doors.

  He had to grin. “What? You gonna take me captive?”

  “If I have to.”

  “All right, say what you have to say, then leave me alone. I mean it.”

  She winced.

  “So, are you really stripping at The Red Zone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that I am desperate enough to do anything to get you back.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Where’s the logic in that? Why would your stripping make me do anything?”

  “I’m hoping that you still love me and you’ll come to your senses before I offer myself to other men, so to speak.”

  “There are ways of hooking up with men without flashing your ass.”

  “But none so dramatic.”

  “I’m not the person I was two years ago, Lily.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “I have no job, no job prospects, no job skills. In other words, no future. I can’t go into a renovation business with you now, Lily, but you can do it with someone else. Or by yourself. Don’t give up your dreams for me. You don’t want to hook up with a loser.”

  “You’re not a loser. In fact, you are the most honest, courageous—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. ‘Stop pitying yourself. Get a prosthesis. Take career training. Go to college. Enter the handicapped olympics, for chrissake!’ Like that’s going to happen!”

  “You lost an arm, Mark. Not two arms. Not a leg. Not your eyesight or your voice. Not your penis.”

  “Oh, my God! Lily Hudson saying penis out loud. Hope the sky doesn’t fall down.” He was laughing at her, which he could tell she didn’t appreciate.

  “I’m not wearing any panties,” she said.

  “Whaaat?”

  “Tante Lulu gave me some advice.”

  “That dingbat told you to go out in public with your bare ass waving in the wind, and you listened to her?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed the button that automatically slid the front seats back. Before he could blink, she swung one leg over both of his and straddled his lap. She bunched her dress up to her waist, and yep, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Then she wiggled herself on his lap and smiled. His eyes about rolled up into his head at the sheer one-hundred-proof pleasure.

  “I’d say a part of you likes me just fine.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Stop it, Lily. This isn’t fair.”

  “Fair has gotten me nowhere during the past year. Time to pull out all the punches, according to Tante Lulu.” She held his eyes then as she lowered first one strap, then the other of her sundress, letting it drop and pool at her waist. Then she took his one hand and laid it on her right breast.

  She moaned.

  He moaned, too. “I surrender,” he said as she unzipped his pants and took him into her hand, steering him into her body.

  Surrender was never so sweet.

  “But it’s only for tonight,” he told her before drawing her mouth down to his.

  “We’ll see,” she whispered against his mouth. “I was introduced to this guy recently, and . . .”

  How could she talk and screw his brains out at the same time? And especially how could she talk about another guy? Through a haze of searing-hot arousal, he asked, “What guy?”

  “St. Jude.”

  Chapter 8

  How low can you go? . . .

  Claire was having a great time. Between line dancing and oyster shooters—a high-octane bourbon drink that John had introduced to them all on learning that the tavern had a shipment of fresh oysters back in its kitchen—and now a limbo contest, she was flying high.

  Caleb sat at the table most of the time, just watching them all. He’d stuck to beer, which meant he was only slightly wasted, compared to the rest of them.

  The limbo contest had been going on for a half hour now. In the beginning, almost everyone had participated, including Abbie and Tante Lulu, who was surprisingly limber considering her age. Her explanation: “I does jumping jacks every morning and takes juju tea every night.” Which, of course, prompted everyone to grill her on where to get some of that juju tea.

  But the field was narrowed down now to only two dancers. John and Denise, the pretty woman who had been dancing with Adam. She was a massage therapist from Tyrone, which of course prompted much rolling of eyes among the men. Amid cheers and laughter and the band playing the “Limbo Rock,” made famous by Chubby Checker, two of the waitresses began moving the pole a few inches lower.

  “That’s two feet, folks. Twenty-four inches. If they make this pass, they tie with the record here at the Trout Tavern,” the band leader announced. “Let’s give John and Denise a big hand and see if they can set a new record. Winner gets a Trout Tavern T-shirt and a free tab for the rest of the evening.”

  Denise hit the pole and was eliminated . . . though she’d given quite a show, with her breasts almost popping out of her tank top when she arched her body. About three dozen men lined up to ask her to dance after the contest, or to set up “massage” appointments. Adam seemed particularly pleased with himself for having found her first.

  John played the crowd a bit, drumming up bets on whether he would succeed at the next level. Now that the pole was reset, the band encouraged the crowd to chant, “How low can he go? How low can he go? How low can he go?”

  He worked his body slowly till it was almost parallel to the floor from knees to head. And he made it. The roof was practically raised with all the cheering when the band leader announced, “Are we about to have a new record holder? Yahoo! Meet John LeDeux, who hails from good ol’ Loo-zee-anna. Hey, John, do you suppose you could get me a T-shirt like the one I saw there last year when we participated in a hurricane relief concert? It said, ‘Katrina: Best blow job I ever got!’”

  The crowd howled with laughter. John raised a thumb and forefinger to form an A-OK circle.

  The pole was moved to twenty-three inches, and after another oyster shooter “for stamina,” he assumed the position again. This time he hit the pole.

  “That’s okay, John. Good job! We have a tie for the record now at twenty-four inches. Anyone else want to give it a try at twenty-three inches? Are we gonna let a Southern rebel outdo us Yankees? Come on, you wusses!”

  Claire noticed Caleb leaning against the archway between the anteroom and the dance floor, a longneck bottle of beer dangling from one hand. She walked over, unsteadily, and he looped an arm over her shoulder.

  “Are you guys done with the silliness?” he asked.

  “That’s what’s known as fun, Mister Stoneface.”

  “I have a different definition of fun.”

  She could guess what that would be. “John was close to making it under that last pole. He’s really good.”

  “You think? This isn’t horseshoes. Closeies don’t count.”

>   “Think you could do any better?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, ho! Easy for you to say when you’re standing here as a spectator.”

  He shrugged.

  “Seriously. Do you think you could do better?”

  He shrugged again. “With the right incentive.”

  “And that would be?”

  He winked at her.

  “Have you ever done the limbo before?”

  “Nope.”

  She decided to call his bluff. “I’ll bet you can’t do any better.”

  “And just what do you bet, sweetheart?”

  “What would you like?”

  He studied her, hotly, especially the edge of her blouse. In fact, he slipped a forefinger into the front, pulled out, then let it snap back. “A kiss.”

  “A kiss? That’s all?” She’d been expecting that he would ask for more. Lots more.

  “Honey, there are all kinds of kisses. A kiss can be a nip or a slow exploration. It can spark arousal, be the beginning of foreplay, or be a complete experience in itself.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  He offered her a sudden, arresting smile. “What I would like, if I win, is a really good kiss. Long and wet.”

  She gulped. How could her mouth be so dry after all she had drunk? “You’re on, big boy.”

  He grinned, as if he’d just suckered her into something.

  “Are you sure you’ve never done the limbo?”

  “Never.” Taking a long draw on his bottle of beer, he handed it to her and proceeded to walk out onto the dance floor.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, folks! We have a new contender.” The band launched into the “Limbo Rock” again. Meanwhile, John went up and whispered something into the band leader’s ears. “Uh-oh! We’ve got an ex–Navy SEAL here. Caleb Peachey. God bless the USA.”

  There was much patriotic clapping for that.

  Caleb glared at John.

  John made a face back at him.

  While the crowd began yelling, “Caleb, Caleb, Caleb . . . ,” the band sang, a refrain urging Caleb to be nimble and quick, before going under the limbo stick.

  When Caleb stood a few feet away from the pole, he glanced over at Claire. Then he studied the pole from several angles, almost like golfers did when setting up a shot. Slowly, he began bending his knees and arching his back, moving his feet at a snail’s pace toward the barrier, all in a sort of rhythm to the song. What a body! He was the poster boy for physical fitness.