by Sandra Hill
Maybe the white-haired gentleman was the cousin the elderly woman had mentioned, the one with prostate problems. How nice that I know such an intimate thing about a perfect stranger!
The old lady went over to talk with the other ladies while Mr. Chippendude—that’s what the old lady had called the troupe—joined two thirtysomething men by the far window. They were examining what looked like state-of-the-art diving equipment. One had long hair and appeared to be Hispanic. The other had short brown hair, sort of a military cut. All three of them were tall, over six feet, tanned, lean, and drop-dead gorgeous.
The Hispanic guy glanced up, saw her, and smiled.
Jake growled beside her.
Anytime she could make Jake growl was a good day in Immaturity Land. So, of course, she smiled back at the hot tamale.
“This is payback for my engagement, isn’t it?”
“What? You don’t think I could attract a handsome hunk like that? Or be interested myself?”
“Are you kidding? He is not handsome. He looks like a bad clone of Antonio Banderas. And he is not your type at all.”
“And my type would be?” Quickly, she added, “Don’t answer that.”
The guy turned his attention back to the other two men.
Just then, the old lady spied Veronica and yelled, “Yoo-hoo! Remember me?”
How could I forget?
“It’s the hooker from the casino,” Granny Clampett told the other ladies. “Holy catfish! What happened to your hair, honey? You sure could use a day at Charmaine’s beauty salon.”
Everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
Jake was back to laughing hysterically. The jerk! Between guffaws, he inquired, “So, baby, how much do you charge for . . . ?” And in a hushed voice only she could hear, he mentioned something so unspeakably explicit, she, who’d thought she’d heard or tried every sexual trick in the world with him, grew red-faced.
She lifted her chin high and walked away from him, heading to the bar. She told the bartender, “Tequila margarita, please. And make it a double.”
Chapter
5
His boots were made for walkin’. . . .
Two hours later, Jake sat on a bar stool, nursing a long neck and wondering why he was still here, treading the fine line between insanity and stupidity.
Never mind that he was missing appointments with his stockbroker to invest his latest winnings, with a real estate agent about a beachfront cottage he was about to purchase, and with his literary agent who wanted him to write another how-to poker book.
Meanwhile, Trish was back in Brigantine, probably bawling her eyes out, even though she was the one who’d given him the boot. She probably hadn’t meant it. She’d probably expected him to say, “No, babe. You’re the only woman in my life. I don’t give a rat’s ass what Ronnie does anymore.” He hadn’t protested Trish’s ultimatum at all, dumb shit that he was. Yep, he was becoming insaner and stupider by the minute.
On the other hand, Trish might be in the parking lot of his condo, making a pyre of all his clothes and personal belongings. Trish was no pushover. He would worry about that later. He had to survive this “party” first.
He and Ronnie had become acquainted with all the others over a great seafood lunch. Some of the folks had left—Henri Pinot, Flossie, and the Mafia trio. Those remaining were mingling and still discussing the plans to start working together the following week. Not that he had agreed to anything. Far from it. And yet . . . he seemed to be hanging around for some demented reason. His brain said, Walk away. Another body part said something entirely different—and, no, it wasn’t his cock. He was pretty sure his heart couldn’t stand another round with Ronnie.
Speaking of whom, the bane of his life, his bleepin’ ex, the boulder in his future, the thorn in his ass, uh, heart was doing her best to piss him off by continuing to flirt with Adam Famosa, the Cuban dude with the ponytail. Famosa, a college professor of oceanography and a skin-diving expert, told him he’d worked for Jacques Cousteau when he was a grad student. La-de-da! I once worked for Jimmy the Goon. The jerk looked like something off the cover of one of those romance novels Ronnie used to devour. Ronnie and Famosa stood in front of the bay window chitchatting and laughing like old friends. Ha, ha, ha! Jake was thinking about puking.
Frank came up and sat on the bar stool beside him. They both glowered at Ronnie and the Fabio wannabe for a second. Then Jake took a long swallow of beer, and Frank puff-puff-puffed on his big cigar. What a pair we are! Pitiful and his brother, More Pitiful!
“So, you gonna help me out on this project?” Frank never was one to beat around the bush.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“I think it’s a damn good idea.”
“You have enough members on your team. You don’t need me.”
“The hell you say! Don’t bail on me, boy. I need you more than any of them.”
Jake laughed. “And why would that be?”
Frank’s face turned red, and his lips quivered.
Oh, great! I’m about to make an old man cry.
“To do the computer crap. Isn’t that what you did before you went pro with poker?”
“That is such a load of crap.” Jake laughed again. “You got along without me before.”
Frank slammed his fist on the bar, causing the bartender to jerk with surprise and everyone in the room to turn toward them for a moment before resuming their conversations. At least Frank had the sense to speak below a roar when he asked, “Can’t you just do it because I’m asking you? As a favor?”
Frank has balls. I gotta give him that. “With no questions asked?”
Frank nodded.
Yeah, that’s gonna happen. Tilting his head in question, Jake studied Frank. There was something really strange going on here . . . and not just Frank’s empty pockets. Still, Frank had never really asked a favor of him before. And the old guy had been there for support after each of his divorces, especially the last one following the Insanity Marriage, which just about did him in. And if the Pink Project was Frank’s last chance, who was he to begrudge him a little time?
No, no, no! We’re talking Ronnie here. Jake was a gambler, but this bullshit drama with Ronnie was a game he would not play again. He’d taken his chips off that table two years ago. The stakes were too high.
“What are you mumblin’ about?”
“What are you doing with the Mafia?” he countered. “Talk about making a pact with the devil.”
Frank puffed on his cigar for a bit, then said, “I’m not sure Rosa can be called Mafia.”
“Her sons can.”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry. I’ll watch my back.”
“I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“Could there be more in that wreck than diamonds? My gut instinct says yes. Either Rosa’s gang intends to take all the rocks, including your share, or they’re looking for something else.”
“Hmmm. Could be.”
“My instincts say be careful.” Jake studied people for a living, one of the requirements for being a professional poker player.
“Duly noted,” Frank replied; then he added, “See? All the more reason for you to join the project, another set of eyes. C’mon.”
Jake was spared having to answer because the redheaded old lady, Louise Rivard, joined them, along with her great-nephew, John LeDeux. They were Cajuns from some bayou in Southern Louisiana. She was about a hundred and ten and batty as they come, and he was a young, full-of-himself stud who’d recently graduated from Tulane University with a degree in criminal justice. Apparently, he was going to be a backup diver on the project.
John picked his great-aunt up by the waist and set her on a bar stool so she wouldn’t get a crick in her neck talking to them. “Here you are, Tante Lulu. A Pink Penguin . . . your favorite.” He handed her a pink drink in a tall glass with an umbrella, and she slurped appreciatively for a few seconds.
“Hey, I saw y’all playin’ yesta-day
in AC,” John said to Jake in his Southern drawl. “You’re really good.”
Jake inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“Playin’ what?” the great-aunt asked Jake. “Holy crawfish! Doan tell me yer one of them strippers, too, jist like Tee-John. A Chippendude.” Tee-John, meaning Little John, was the nickname given to the nephew when he was way shorter than he was now.
But Chippendudes? Stop the presses! I would definitely be a dud if I had to dance and strip at the same time.
“Tante Lulu rescued me last night from The Oasis casino, where I was part of a dance troupe,” John explained, an unrepentant grin on his face. “A summer job before hitting the job trail.”
“Dance troupe, my hiney! You was takin’ yer clothes off fer money. Talk about!”
“Not all my clothes. My . . . uh . . . privates were covered.” John winked at the rest of them, as if sharing a private joke.
I hope he doesn’t think I care one way or another if he’s putting his family jewels on display.
After harrumphing at the boy’s nonsense, the old lady gave Jake a thorough head-to-toe survey. “Yer a little old ta be shakin’ yer bare tush, ain’t ya?”
Oh, good Lord! “I am not a stripper. And I’m not old, either. I’m only thirty-five.” Now why do I feel the need to defend myself to a lady as old as God’s mother?
She arched her brows to indicate that thirty-five was definitely old. “Doan get yer bowels in a twist, boy. Tee-John said you was playin’. I figgered dancin’ buck nekkid is one way of playin’.”
“Hey, while I think it might be cool to strut my stuff, I am not a stripper.” He couldn’t wait to tell Ronnie that the same person who thought she was a hooker thought he was a stripper. The hooker and the stripper . . . Sounds like a good name for a fifth marriage—The Hooker/Stripper Marriage. Jake’s eyes widened with incredulity at his own dangerous musings. No surprise that he discovered himself working the worry beads in his pocket. I did not just think the word marriage in connection with my ex-wife. Definitely not! Never ever again! Oh, shit! I’ve gotta get out of here.
“Tante Lulu, Jake is a professional poker player,” John said patiently, giving his great-aunt’s small shoulders a squeeze.
That went over just as big as the stripper occupation. “You plays cards fer a livin’?”
Jake nodded, still reeling inwardly over the marriage brain blip he’d just had.
“Thass like sayin’ a person jump-ropes fer a livin’. Or plays Ping-Pong fer a job. Tsk, tsk, tsk! It mus’ be a Yankee thang.”
“Now, Auntie,” John said, “that’s a bit harsh. Remember how you put food on the table during those lean years? Weed. Need I say more?”
“Oh, oh, oh! Someone needs to have his mouth washed with lye soap. The herbs I gave out in my healing was always legal.”
“I was just teasing.”
“Some things are not funny.” She glowered at her nephew. “You ain’t so big I caint paddle yer be-hind, boy, and doan you fergit it.”
Everyone just smiled at the old lady.
“So, you’re from Louisiana?” Jake asked Tante Lulu and Tee-John. “Were you affected by Hurricane Katrina?”
Tante Lulu rolled her eyes. “Does a gater stink?”
Jake guessed that meant yes.
“Everyone in Southern Louisiana was affected in one way or another,” Tee-John said. “We were luckier than most, being so far inland, but still, most of my family lives on the bayou. So there was plenty of wind and flood damage.”
“Not as bad as most, though. Thass fer sure,” Tante Lulu added. “I gots friends who’ll never be the same. Specially those that fish fer a livin’.”
Tee-John laughed then. “We practically had to hog-tie my great-aunt here to make her leave for shelter. She wanted to ride out the storm on her back porch. We probably would have found her body in the middle of the Mississippi if she had.”
“Pfff! I woulda been fine.”
“As it turned out, my great-aunt single-handedly ran a shelter for the disaster victims in the basement of Our Lady of the Bayou Church. What a gal!” He winked at her, and she beamed back at him.
Brenda Caslow joined them then. Brenda, a blonde who hailed from Savannah—a real Georgia peach, if there ever was one—had been a NASCAR mechanic. She was probably Ronnie’s age, or a little older, but that’s where the similarity ended. Of medium height and average build, she seemed to have been poured into her coveralls, which clearly showed her hips and ass straining at the seams. Brenda was going to be the cook/mechanic on the project.
“Give me a grapefruit juice on the rocks,” Brenda told the bartender. Frank had told them earlier that Brenda was often on one fad diet or another. This week it was grapefruit. That should make for an interesting menu on board.
“What? Why are you all gawking at me?” Brenda asked.
“They’s all lookin’ at yer butt, bless their hearts,” Tante Lulu said. “My buns usta look like that before they disappeared.”
The rest of them just about choked on their tongues.
“So, did you ever work with Dale Earnhardt, Sr.?” John asked quickly before Brenda clouted the three of them.
“Sure. I was in his pit crew for three years.”
Brenda could have just as easily said she used to be God’s right-hand angel, so impressed was the boy. He sidled up closer to Brenda, who eyed him like a bothersome gnat.
Tante Lulu harrumphed in disgust, knowing her nephew better than the rest of them. “She’s too old fer you, boy.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-three,” Brenda said, even though she obviously had no interest in the young man.
“Chère, I always did like older women.” John waggled his eyes at Brenda.
Brenda gave John a full-body survey, which was not complimentary. “Honey, I would crush you if I sat on you.”
John shook his head sharply. “No, no, no! You can sit on me anytime.”
“That’ll be enough of that kind of talk,” Tante Lulu scolded her nephew, slapping him on the upper arm.
“You and every other man in this room couldn’t keep up with me,” Brenda said, walking away.
“Hey!” Jake and Frank and John said at the same time, just a little bit insulted. Then they all watched Brenda’s very curvy butt sway from side to side.
“Mercy!” John drawled.
They all burst out laughing.
“Men!” Tante Lulu said, which just about summed up the situation.
Soon after that, Tante Lulu and John left for Newark, where the old lady was taking a plane back to Louisiana. It was a given that on the drive the boy’s ears would be blistered about behaving himself while working on the Pink Project. It was also a given that the boy would have a wild time anyhow. Apparently, Henri Pinot had gotten the diving job for John as a way to keep him out of trouble. Jake suspected that was a losing battle.
Ronnie continued talking to the jerk Adam Famosa. They’d been joined by Caleb Peachey, the tall guy with the military haircut, who, it turned out, was a former Navy SEAL and a former Amish. If that wasn’t an oxymoron . . . An Amish SEAL. There had to be a story there.
Ronnie had cleaned herself up after their ride from hell, and the two dudes were clearly as aware as he of how well Ronnie cleaned up. Occasionally, Famosa would put a hand on her forearm as he talked to her. Peachey kept his hands to himself and was mostly quiet, but Jake could see how much the guy was attracted to Ronnie, too.
He stuck a hand in his pocket and frantically rubbed the beads between his fingertips.
I have got to cut this out. It’s like I’ve got a death wish. Ronnie is not mine anymore. I have no right to be jealous. She and I have gone our separate ways—happily. Get a life, dimwit!
“What are you mumbling about?”
The soft ring of his cell phone saved Jake from answering.
“Jensen here.”
“Jake, it’s Trish. We need to talk.”
Oh, great! When a woman says, “We nee
d to talk,” it usually means she has a bug in her ear. “Baby, this is definitely not the time. I’m in the middle of . . . something.”
“I don’t mean over the phone. I meant . . .” She paused as if something just occurred to her. “Where are you?”
“Barnegat.”
A telling silence followed.
She probably thought he was buck naked in bed with Ronnie. That’s the way women’s brains worked. He put her out of her misery by disclosing, “With Frank. At the Barnegat Inn.”
“Oh.” He heard the relief in her voice. But then she asked, “Is . . . is Ronnie there?”
Women! Why can’t they just let things ride? Why do they have to prod and prod and prod till there’s an open wound? Then they wonder why men do stupid things, like tell them what they really think. “Yes, Ronnie is here. Right now she’s on the other side of the room flirting with two deep-sea diving studs.”
Frank choked with laughter at his side. It must have been obvious that Jake was covering his ass.
He ignored Frank and told Trish, “You’re right. We need to talk this thing out.”
“I love you, Jake.”
He hesitated, which he knew instantly was a mistake, and said, “I love you, too.” It was a millisecond too late. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.” Taking a last swig of his beer, he told Frank, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Where?” Frank snapped, clearly not pleased.
“Home.”
That raised Frank’s eyebrows, but he didn’t ask where home was or who he shared it with, thank God.
“Tell Ronnie I had to go . . . home.”
Frank guffawed. “Tell her yourself.”
Not in a million years am I going near her.
“How you gonna get out of here? You left your car back at my house.”
“I’ll hitch a ride by boat.” Frank’s Long Beach Island house was just a short jaunt across Barnegat Bay.
Ever persistent, Frank asked, “Will you be coming back to help with the project?”
“Hell, no!” he said, immediately followed by, “Hell if I know!” as he slapped some bills on the bar. And that was the God’s honest truth.
Ronnie glanced up then, noting his handshake with Frank and apparent leave-taking. Their eyes held for a long while.
