Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  He’d had good taste, though. Ms. Flowers had been hot.

  He was thinking it, but he was also rising from the table, grabbing his drink, and telling the women, “Excuse me, ladies. My girlfriend’s here.”

  They looked confused, possibly because his “girlfriend” had just turned around and headed out the door again, but he couldn’t worry about that. He went after her and called out, “Hey. Jennifer.”

  She turned, clearly reluctantly, and now, he was the one feeling like the unwanted pursuer. He said, “Couldn’t sleep either?”

  “I just came down to make a phone call.” Her voice was stiff, and so was her posture.

  “And read your book. I get it. Who takes a vacation at a place where you can’t even walk around the block and find a coffee shop?” He scratched his jaw, tried a smile, and said, “Or come down to the bar without some idiot pushing to join you?”

  “Oh.” Now, she looked flustered. Ms. Flowers had never looked flustered. He kinda liked flustered, though. She held the book across her breasts and said, “I don’t need company. You’re fine. I needed to call my grandfather anyway.”

  “That’s one I haven’t heard before.” He sighed. “I swear, I’ve got the most unfortunate taste in women.”

  She looked up fast, startled, and he said, “Seems I only like the ones who are trying to chase me off. What’s up with that?”

  “Imposter syndrome,” she said, quick as you like. “You don’t want to belong to any club that would have somebody like you as a member.” And when he shouted with laughter, she added, “Nope. That’s not it. That is so clearly not it, I cannot imagine what could be less it. You’d found company. It’s allowed. What, you feel responsible for me because I bruised my butt when you knocked me over? I can barely feel it.”

  “Now that’s a lie,” he said. “I saw how you sat down earlier. Bet you’re stiffening up some, too. Want to stand up at the bar with me and have a drink?”

  “You’ve got a drink.”

  “Yep. Hot cider. It’s too late to call your grandfather anyway. Almost ten. Old people go to bed early.”

  “Time zones,” she said. “It’s only nine there. But all right. Just because I feel stupid now.”

  He grinned all the way into the bar.

  She was sitting. It hurt, but her legs were also stiff, so … she was sitting. Her knee was almost touching Kris’s, because he was turned toward her on his stool.

  She seriously needed to get a grip. She was getting flustered because his knee was close to hers. He also had one forearm on the bar, and he was wearing a T-shirt now. He had some very hard muscles. Bicep. Triceps. Forearm. She’d swear he had muscles in his hands. His extra-large hands. She asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Nope,” he said. “But I tend to run hot. What’ll you have?”

  “I’m thinking herb tea.”

  She must not have sounded too enthusiastic, because he asked, “Is that what you really want?”

  “Well, no. I want hot chocolate with whipped cream, but you know. Calories.”

  “Nah. Are you kidding me? You look great.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. In my yoga pants.”

  He looked even better when he smiled. She tried not to get sucked into that smile, but it was hard. His eyes turned down at the edges and got a little squinty, and he had those creases around his mouth that were a man’s version of dimples. He said, “Yeah. Right. In your yoga pants. So come on. Have a hot chocolate and talk to me. I was in a bad mood, and you already made it better.”

  She gave in. It wasn’t that hard. “So what was the bad mood about?” she asked, once he’d given the bartender the order—and, yes, there he was, ordering her drink again. “Also, I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He laughed, and then he laughed some more. He didn’t get the hiccups, but he was definitely leaning on the bar. “Oh, man,” he said. “Way to shoot a man down. Except that I’m not exactly surprised. For some reason, I’d have sworn you thought it was important to go back to the room fairly soon here, not set a bad example. I’m pretty sure I’m the definition of a bad example.”

  “Are you?” She wasn’t sure if she said it flirtatiously. It felt flirtatious, but Mark had told her she couldn’t flirt, so it probably just sounded like a question.

  “Well, yeah. Usually. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re not interested.”

  “That’s right,” she said. And crossed her legs. In her slippers. Which he watched. “Tell me about the bad mood. Did something happen? How could something happen? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I thought that’d be good. Getting away, you know. But I’m feeling kind of like an ass— a jerk about something. Sorry. Minding my manners.”

  “You want to know a secret?” she asked.

  “I sure do.”

  “I kind of love that, when a man doesn’t swear around you. Dyma thinks it’s ridiculous. No, worse. Dangerous. Double standard, treating women like they’re precious and delicate or something. She says, how can you ask for equality if you don’t accept equal treatment?”

  “Mm,” he said. “Not too sure about that, maybe because I’m not as smart as Miss Dyma, but I’ll tell you something. I kinda love it too. When a woman doesn’t swear around me, that is. Could be I’m precious and delicate myself.” She got some more of that smile. “What do you think?”

  She thought she was melting, that was what she thought. “I think,” she said, taking a sip of her drink through the straw and looking at him over the top of it, “that you still haven’t told me about the bad mood.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.” He grimaced. “I made a promise. Feeling bad about breaking it.”

  She sat up straighter and forgot about flirting. “I’m guessing there’s a reason.”

  “Well, yeah. But then, you always tell yourself a reason. Doesn’t necessarily make it right.”

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. She touched his forearm and said, “Maybe if you tell me, it’ll help. Tell the truth and shame the devil, my mom would’ve said. It means—if you’re putting the truth out there, the devil’s got nothing to use on you. I used to talk things over with her, and whatever she said, by the end of the talk, my mind would be clearer.”

  He got more alert. That wolf again. “She’s gone, you said.”

  She groaned. “I did. Oh, man. I told you about my dead mom. My boyfriend was definitely right. Former boyfriend. You’re right about that. We just broke up. He told me I didn’t know how to flirt and I didn’t know how to dress, and I didn’t know how to make a man feel good. So you know.”

  She could feel the hot blood rising into her chest, her throat, her cheeks. He touched one of them, just a bare brush of fingertips, where she could feel that red flag of shame burning, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Guys say a lot of stupid stuff when they lose a woman. And I’m sorry, but he was blind, because you know how to dress, if that means you know how to look good. Which is why I know he was lying.”

  “Except that he was right. I don’t usually … I don’t ever …” She had a few tears here. Oh, this was great. This was wonderful. She grabbed her cocktail napkin, dabbed at her eyes, and then had to blow her nose. Even better.

  “He said something else, too,” Kris said. “Go on and tell me the worst stuff. I’m nobody you have to care about. Just a guy in a bar.”

  “I’ll cry again, if I do.”

  “So what? I’ll block the view.”

  “You have … pretty good shoulders,” she said, trying to laugh. “So I guess you could do it.”

  “Now, see?” he said. “You already made me feel good. What else?”

  She sighed. “Right. I’m going to say it. I’m fun naked, but I look fat in clothes.” It didn’t actually make her cry. Huh.

  “OK,” he said. “First? The guy’s a jerk. Who says that? How long did you go out with him?”

  Now, she did tear up some. “Four years. Without a ring or a promise or anything at all. There
go my best years. What an idiot.”

  “Right. Guy’s a jerk and a fool. You don’t look fat in clothes. You look great in clothes.”

  “I usually …” She took a breath. “Wear them, uh, looser. For work. Or anytime. I don’t want to look …” Her face was burning now. “I try to be careful. How I look. So he was probably right.”

  He’d turned all the way toward her. “You look pretty,” he told her. “And that’s all. Looking the way you’re thinking, though? Too obvious, is that the idea?” At her nod, he said, “That’s what you wear, but it’s how you wear it, too. Your attitude, where a woman goes past confident and puts it out there. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m guessing that’s never going to be you. You should go on and wear the sweater, or the skirt, or whatever it is. Go on and feel confident about it, too. You aren’t going to go too far. Not possible, from what I’ve seen. And yeah, a guy’s going to think you look hot, because he’s a guy. He might even try to do something about it. That’s not a bad thing. That’s your superpower. You walk in knowing that. You walk in owning that. Though you could have to practice shooting them down. Come to think of it, though, you did just fine with me on that one, so maybe not.”

  “Yeah?” She wiped her eyes one last time, took another sip of hot chocolate, sighed, and said, “Then you know what? I want some whiskey in this.” And watched his smile bloom.

  13

  An Alternative Destination

  For a guy who wasn’t going to get laid, he sure was enjoying this.

  Well, right up until the bartender had poured a shot of Jack Daniels into her hot chocolate, and she’d said, “So tell me about the bad mood. You made me feel better. What can I do for you?” And wasn’t even flirting when she said it.

  The boyfriend was right, and he was wrong, because when she did flirt, she didn’t seem to know she was doing it, and that made it so hot.

  He said, “What color do you call those eyes?”

  “Oh.” She looked a little flustered. Her hand went to her hair, then touched her curvy mouth, the upper lip with that deep indentation, the lower one so plump and full, you wanted to take a bite out of it, and he thought, Oh, yeah, baby. There she was again, flirting without knowing it, and he wanted to kiss her. Just lean forward and … do it. Gently.

  He didn’t, of course, and she said, “I usually put ‘brown.’ Amber, I guess.”

  “Gold,” he said. “Definitely gold. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “If you know,” she said, “why are you asking?” He grinned, and she did, too, and then she said, “Going to tell me about the problem?” Sounding sassy now. Getting her confidence back.

  “It’s going to be one of those stupid things, I’m warning you,” he said. “I’m turning thirty-one in two days. A guy who’s thirty-one shouldn’t start a sentence with ‘My dad.’ Unmanly.”

  “Who says?” she said. “I think people make too many rules about how they should feel. Your feelings don’t care about rules. My mom died months ago, and I still think about her every single day. I still miss her that much, too. Tell me.”

  He stirred his drink, thought about how to say this without telling her too much, and finally said, “My dad’s an alcoholic.”

  He’d never said those words out loud. They felt just as bad coming out as he’d have imagined.

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s rough.”

  “Yeah. He’d never agree with that, of course. Never drunk on the job, never stumbling around, but he drinks every night, and he’s a mean drunk.”

  “Is he abusive?” she asked.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Used to say crappy things to my mom when he was drinking, but I don’t think he hit her, at least I never saw it. He beat on us, though. My sisters a little bit, but mostly me. Not for a long time now. Pretty hard to hit me now. Not since I was fifteen or so, I guess. Not since I was old enough to hit back.”

  “Is your mom still with him?”

  He took a drink of cider, wishing it was whiskey. “No. She left. But my youngest sister is.”

  “Oh.” She considered that. “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “And she doesn’t live with your mom?”

  “No.” He didn’t want to talk about this. “My mom’s gone. Not dead. Just gone. But that’s not the deal.”

  “Oh?” she said, but the look in her eyes said, You bet that’s the deal.

  “I promised to go back there this weekend,” he said. “Sunday. For a local thing. A sort of party. And I’m not there, because I can’t stand the way he is. The way he’ll be.” He shook his head. “But that’s nobody else’s fault, and there’s a lot of folks there that I owe.”

  She considered a minute, then said delicately, “How important is it to the … party … that you be part of it?”

  “Oh,” he said, “I’m the main event.”

  “Could you take a friend?” she asked. “Would that help?”

  He had to stop and think about that one. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

  “It’s almost like insulation,” she said. “When you have somebody you know you can talk it over with later. Even just somebody to look at you and smile. You can sort of … hold yourself apart.”

  “Fly in and fly out,” he said. “Same day. Could work.”

  “Well, you’d probably have to stay overnight, because of flights, but see?” She smiled encouragingly. Exactly like Ms. Flowers. When you’d done something right, she’d give you a sticker with “Warm Fuzzy” printed on it. He’d craved those stickers. “You knew there was an answer,” she went on. “Do it on your terms, and you change the whole story. You flip the narrative. Do you want my help looking up flights and making arrangements? It’s a little complicated, getting in and out of here, but I’m very good at arrangements. It’s what I do. I can even try for the one-day thing, though I’m still dubious. Oh, wait.” She sat up straighter, which had the effect of showcasing … well, everything. Her breasts, though, definitely. There wasn’t a heterosexual man alive who could look at her and not register, somewhere in his brain, “Nice rack.”

  He kept his eyes on her face. It wasn’t easy.

  She said, “It’s for your birthday, isn’t it? You said your birthday was in two days. Also, that’s the Super Bowl, if we’re talking about Sunday, which could affect travel. I imagine people will be traveling less, though, so you may be able to get last-minute tickets.”

  “No,” he said. “Well, yeah, it’s my birthday, but that’s not the event. And you’re right. I should take somebody.” He grinned at her, feeling about three hundred times better. “Want to go to North Dakota?”

  “What?” Dyma said the next morning, when Jennifer informed her of the plan. Sketchily, because they were headed down to breakfast.

  “You’re always saying I’m not spontaneous,” Jennifer said. “Here I am, being spontaneous.”

  “Flying to North Dakota for one day. And back. For some guy. All right, a super hot guy, but he doesn’t even live in Idaho!”

  “That’s right. But notice that he’s taking you, too.” Jennifer would have explained, except that she couldn’t really explain. “It seemed like a good idea at the time” was a daughter-explanation, not a mother-explanation.

  “What’s Blake going to say?” Dyma asked. “You’re not exactly fulfilling your employee responsibilities, which is more or less your life’s purpose. So what’s the deal?”

  She needed to tell Dyma about the layoff. But not when she had about five minutes to do it.

  Which was weaseling out. It seemed she was a weasel, though, because she pulled on another possibly-too-tight-for-public-consumption base layer, this one black and printed with snowflakes—which was long underwear, and in no way sexy, so never mind—and said, “It’s one day. And don’t say anything about my job, or Blake.”

  “Why not? Because you want to impress Kris with your supposed wealth, that you can afford to stay here while they redecorate the beach house? H
e’s probably so confused by now.”

  “Excuse me?” They needed to get to breakfast, but Jennifer was still stopping in the midst of wriggling into her ski pants. “I don’t seem like I could possibly be anyone who can afford to stay here? What, am I wearing the Stamp of Poverty on my forehead?”

  “Mom. Your clothes? You’ve been wearing Levi’s and shirts from Boot Barn. Also, you can’t ski. Middle-class people can ski, and rich people are practically born with a lift ticket clipped to their jacket zippers.”

  “Maybe I’m a middle-class person from Texas. Maybe I raise prize Arabians on my horse farm. Anyway, Levi’s are classic. They’re curvy fit! They cost forty dollars!”

  “Except I already told Owen we’re from Idaho and that I’d never been on a ranch, remember? I’m just ignoring the part about the forty dollars. That’s not exactly designer fashion, Mom.”

  “Well,” Jennifer said, “I’m not going to worry about it.”

  “You worry about everything,” Dyma said.

  “Except this.” She slipped into her moccasins, reflected on the fact that her makeup was confined to lip gloss, and abandoned the thought. She was going to be so covered up out there, she might as well be wearing a burka, and Dyma was right. She didn’t have glamorous regular clothes, and she didn’t have glamorous ski clothes, either. She wasn’t going to be fooling anybody, so she might as well be herself. “But don’t mention Blake,” she reminded Dyma again. “VIPs value their privacy, and he pays me to preserve it. Everybody wants to feel like they know him, and he’s just trying to live his life.”

  Dyma, naturally, rolled her eyes. “Let’s see, how many times have you told me that? I believe this is number eighteen. Since the whole point of his being in Wild Horse was to build a resort that’s only making money because he’s a big star, that makes zero sense. He’s not exactly incognito. I tell you what. I’ll tell Owen you work for a Mafia boss, and that I can’t say any more or they’ll kill me. How’s that?”