Holly
Three weeks later
Triple-digit damn. I’d been sitting on the edge of the cab’s seat, leaning forward so I wouldn’t crumple my dress, feverishly gripping a twenty in one hand and my dance ticket in the other when we arrived at my destination. I paid the driver and hopped out. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize I’d left my purse inside the cab until the taillights disappeared.
Way to go, Holly. Can’t wait to see what’s next. At least I had the dance-a-thon ticket in my hand. Otherwise I’d be stranded outside in the cold.
I frowned. I’d need a ride at the end of the night, or money to pay a cab…and I had no phone since it had been inside the purse. As soon as I entered the building, I turned away from the beckoning lights and music to walk down a dark hall instead.
At least the office is open. A youngish man with big ears and a small smile sat behind a desk. He didn’t invite me in or look encouraging. Nevertheless, beggars can’t be choosers.
“I left my purse in the cab dropping me off. May I borrow your phone to call the company?” It wasn’t a trick question, but the way he studied me I wondered if I’d lapsed into Klingon.
“The office phone is unavailable. Business only.”
Right. Of course. I looked around. Not a lot happening tonight. Maybe not most nights. “Would you have a personal phone I could use?”
He waited again, then produced a cell phone from his pocket.
“Thanks.” I called the cab company. The dispatcher said he’d let his driver know to look for a purse and phone. Okay. I gave him Megan’s number to call in case he found it. I also called Megan. She didn’t answer. The entire harebrained scheme having been her idea, it would have been nice if she’d hung around to make sure all was well.
“It’s easy money. Just show up and forget about everything else. There’s never been a song you can’t dance to. You’ll be fine.” Megan’s assurances didn’t resonate now.
Girlfriend, you owe me big time. I felt totally stupid being Marilyn Monroe. The platinum wig itched. So did the spot where Marilyn’s black beauty mark decorated my lower left cheek. And, under their heavy gloss of red, my lips felt stiff. Zombie woman dressed in glamour.
An older guy in a suit walked in. The kid gave me the snake-eye, indicating it was time for me to get out. I handed back his phone.
“Thanks.” Okay, showtime. I left the office and retraced my steps back down the hall to the arched door leading into the ball room. On my right as I entered, a stage had been erected where a DJ tested his equipment.
I headed that way. The music man had set up an el-shaped table arrangement with speakers, mixers, and stuff I couldn’t identify. The microphone though, I recognized. I climbed the three steps to the stage and crossed to where the DJ sat looking bored.
“Could you announce Marilyn’s here?” At my request, the DJ spoke into the mike. “Marilyn Monroe’s looking for her hook-up…every sexy inch of her.”
It wasn’t quite how I’d phrased it. When he flipped a switch and a spotlight surrounded me on the stage, I twitched my jacket closer over my chest and squinted out over the floor.
It wasn’t much more than a moment before a cowboy came to the edge of the elevated platform, and held my arm as I climbed down, which was nice. The steps were shallow and my heels high. I appreciated the help.
As soon as I hit the floor, he dropped my arm, walked away, and motioned me to follow. Okay. If this was my partner, we were going to have a problem. Also, our outfits didn’t match. I winced when I looked at his boots, already anticipating painful toes if those leathers miss-stepped. My eyes traveled upward to settle on his butt. Uh huh. That part of him looked fine.
We arrived at our table and it became clear the cowboy wasn’t my dance partner. His very own cowgirl waited for him and frowned at me. I guess she’d seen me ogling her partner’s ass. I gave her a sheepish look and mentally clocked on.
“Hi. I’m Marilyn. Nice to meet you.” I smiled at the cowboy couple and batted my fake eyelashes. The woman part of the couple waited expectantly for me to fill in the usual social blanks. When I didn’t, she assumed the role of hostess and introduced herself.
“I’m Dale Evans, tonight, and this is Roy Rogers, a.k.a. Gable Matthews. My real name is Harley-Jane Arthur.”
“Soon to be Matthews,” the cowboy added and possessively slid his arm around her shoulders. He wore a Stetson, plaid shirt, jeans, boots, a huge belt buckle, and a wide smile. She wore a western style vest and skirt, both fringed, and a long-sleeved plaid blouse matching her significant other’s.
“My friends call me Janie.” She hugged the guy at her side and laughed. “I told you we’d look dumb.” She poked Gable in the chest and gave me a wry grin. “He won’t dress up like anything but a cowboy, and I’m willing to compromise since I like fringe.”
“Roy and Dale,” Matthews growled. “Here to dance.”
It seemed clear Gable didn’t care for the contest rules. Participants had to dress in fifties-era costumes. Megan had filled me in on the requirements before the event. I nodded understanding at him. My costume made me into something I wasn’t, which was okay with me, but not everyone’s idea of fun.
“You should dance. I’m sure my partner will be along sometime soon.” I smiled without volunteering more personal information.
I didn’t introduce the real me because these were not people I’d ever see again, and hopefully if we met, they wouldn’t recognize Holly Smith as the fifties-era blonde bombshell who’d shared their table.
The Couples Only sign made it clear I couldn’t dance alone, so, leaving, seemed like the only reasonable option. As if he’d read my mind, or my face, Janie’s cowboy offered an update.
“Your dance partner’s running late. He’ll be here soon.”
How late was late? It was already 7:15 p.m. on a Friday night. My expression, no doubt, reflected impatience.
“You’re on the company payroll, tonight.”
“Company?” The sign on our reserved table read: Smoke, Inc. Oh yeah, the elevator ride and Megan’s ‘fools on parade’ comment came back to me. Adrenaline junkies who get paid for danger.
“Private fire fighters. I’m a mechanic.” Gable downplayed the danger but if Janie’s frown was indicative, she didn’t care for his job.
“You work for Maxine, long?” he asked, changing the topic to me.
“First dance gig,” I answered glibly, then settled back ready to become invisible.
After an initial, awkward beginning, I shifted on the chair, bored and wishing I had my phone. I could have read a book or ranted in text at Megan.
After I made it clear I didn’t intend to get friendly, my table partners, for the most part, talked to each other. They were sweet together. He straightened her collar. She patted his arm. They sat hip-to-hip on chairs pushed close.
I read somewhere a couple’s compulsive touching indicated lots of sex. If the suggested predictor was accurate, Gable and Harley-Jane went at it like rabbits.
Not wanting to be a voyeur, I quit watching the table’s occupants to study the room. There weren’t many people on the dance floor. If I could, I’d join them, but of course, the big bad sign written in bold letters, declared that to be an absolute no-no.
Couples Only. What a crock… I dance by myself all the time. When I work at home, I always have the music on for background, and more often than not, I end up dancing through most of my projects.
“You two should go on and have some fun,” I urged them again. I wished they would, so I could be alone and not worry about being polite.
See that’s the flaw in Megan’s escort advice. At some point, you’re expected to be nice on cue. I had nothing in common with these people, and my date, still to be met, might be a complete troll. The later it got, the more I wanted to leave.
“Nope.” The cowboy didn’t offer explanation, but his girlfriend rolled her eyes.
“Okay, how’s this for the truth. If I can’t dance, I want to leave.” I scowled in frustration at my tablemates and clamped my mouth shut on more words fighting to get loose. Because I’d agreed to help a friend, I found myself sharing a table with Roy and Dale. Delightful as they were, with no dance partner in sight, it was time to say good night.
On the other hand, if I could just keep my mouth shut and my seat planted on the chair, I’d get paid. Except for the fact I enjoyed the contracted work—dancing—it didn’t matter whether my escort appeared or not. I’d still earn enough to replace the hardware on my sink without suffering trampled feet in the process.
We sat at one of the tables ringing the wooden dance floor. The dance-a-thon had been organized to raise money for a local firefighter who’d sustained third degree burns in a recent fire.
It seemed like a good cause. I hoped they collected a lot, but from the half-hearted participation on the floor, it didn’t look promising. Let’s just say there wasn’t any fancy stepping going on. Regardless of the background music, most of the participants, some old enough to probably need the support, leaned on each other.
“…Gable just finished replacing my kitchen floor.”
While I’d been drifting mindlessly, Gable had apparently left Harley-Jane on her own to talk to me. The mention of kitchens and floors caught my attention.
“What kind of material did you use?”
“Oak,” she answered and smiled big. “I love it. I’d planned to replace the old linoleum with laminate someday, but Gable nudged me toward the real wood. It’s gorgeous.”
“Did he install it himself?” I have a house I’m working on. I swear, I strangled on the words, forcing myself to keep my lips shut. I yearned to swap remodeling horror stories.
“No, while the guys were living there, they helped Gable reroof my barn and put in the kitchen floor.”
“You own a barn?” My covet gene went into overdrive, and I couldn’t keep quiet a minute longer.
“My husband and I bought our farm and dreamed.” She paused for a moment, and I could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “That’s all we had time to do before he got sick and died.”
Nooooo… Janie had just jumped into personal history land, a place I did not intend to go. On the other hand, the barn and house…
“So, you’re finishing it by yourself?”
Her sad expression changed to a grin. “Not any more. Gable’s sister is my neighbor, and my brother is a firefighter who knows Gable because he works for Smoke, Inc.”
While I attempted to sort it out, she explained. “We’ve known each other a while, but we only got together as a couple at the first of the year. I saw a murder, got stranded during the big snow with Gable in the old Smoke, Inc. building. The murderer, a cop I might add, tried to kill me and burned the building to the ground during his attempt.”
Huh. I’d thought my life exciting. Go figure. I really wanted to know her. Impulsively, I leaned forward.
“My name’s Holly,” I told her. “Holly Smith.” Her eyebrows went up on the Smith. “For real, my name is Holly Smith, but I’d just as soon keep it between you and me.” At her puzzled expression, I kept talking. “Since I’m already disguised as Marilyn Monroe, I’d rather remain anonymous to the world. I don’t work for the escort agency. The owner didn’t have anyone who knows how to dance. Her niece, my best friend, asked me to stand in for a real escort because I can dance.”
Janie grinned and nodded as Gable returned to the table. He kissed Harley-Jane’s forehead before he took his seat, again. She resumed her story as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“The crew had been living there, at the old building. Gable had to keep the furnace going, and even then, the building stayed cold.”
He slid his arm around her and looked smug. “Got you where I wanted you, just the same.”
“Yes, you did. And it worked out well for everyone when the Inferno burned down, and your crew moved to my farm.”
“Crew sounds like a lot of men. How many?”
“Eight men, two months. They were gone a lot of the time, but when they were there, they made repairs.” She beamed happily and added, “And they paid rent.”
It’s wrong to be jealous, but damn. “Wow.” I had no intentions of being drawn into a discussion of Smoke, Inc. I knew nothing about the company and suddenly wanted to know everything. Nope. I reined in my curiosity and went back to safe topics like remodeling projects.
“I live in the worst house on the best block I could afford and dream about the day it will be the best house in the area and I can sell the money pit.” I gave her my disgruntled look, which she mirrored and nodded her head.
Honestly though, I’d never sell my house. But being careful of who knew my business, and a lot superstitious, I never openly loved it. Instead, I poured my heart, soul, and cash into it and called it a money pit.
“I don’t have a crew of eight men making repairs. I’m learning as I go. Kind of a do-it-yourself girl.” That was an understatement. “Parts are cheap, but labor costs the earth. I’ve been reading up on electrical wiring, building construction, plumbing, and carpentry.” So far, my projects had been defined by what I could do now, not what I wanted to do.
“Electric isn’t something you should play around with,” he drawled. He looked ready to lecture me on safety issues, and I forestalled his advice by agreeing. Electric I left alone.
“Janie says you installed an oak floor. What did you use to cut the planks?” I didn’t have a saw and knew I’d have to buy one eventually.
“Miter.” He warmed to the subject and took out a pencil. I gave him some dimensions and he diagrammed the floor showing me how to calculate how many cartons of material I’d need for my kitchen. We’d found common ground and spent the next forty-five minutes discussing upgrades.
As the time approached 8:00, I decided to give my absent dance partner until the exact top of the hour. Then I’d leave and go to the sports bar where I’d spend the rest of my Friday night waiting tables for steady tips.
I tapped my foot to the beat as the rhythm danced in my veins. A talented DJ provided a steady background of rock and roll music from the forties, fifties, and sixties. On the dance floor, two enthusiastic couples bumped and gyrated to the sounds of The Mystics.
The rules seemed simple. Couples clocked on and danced until they couldn’t dance any longer. For every hour completed, the participants earned money from pledgees they’d solicited.
I’d decided I didn’t want to be stood-up. If I could keep him dancing long enough, I could earn a sink and the hardware to hook it up. I’m no plumber, of course, but Googling directions had served most of my projects, so far.
I grinned inside at the compelling reason I was here. Kitchen upgrade. My date’s reason seemed sad. Evidently, he had enough influence to earn high dollar pledges, but he didn’t have enough charm to find a dance partner.
I didn’t waste too much time feeling sorry for him. He could afford Maxine’s exorbitant fees, and his need for a dance partner would underwrite the cost of my bronze, oil-rubbed, Kohler faucet.
I didn’t doubt I could fulfill his expectations if he ever arrived. I could dance to two pennies bouncing on the floor. My hips shifted impatiently. I’d given up holding my shoulders still. Every musical note sent a pulse of excitement rushing through my bones.
I looked at the clock and automatically reached for Roger’s tiny evening purse containing cab fare and my cell phone.
Darn it. I groused to myself. I’d borrowed the evening bag from my other best friend, Dr. Roger Valentine, City College Professor by day and Regina, The Comedy Zone’s opening act every Friday night. The phone I could replace, the vintage clutch, probably not. I sighed.
My dance partner had evidently decided to be a no-show. Too bad for the lost revenue. Disapproval warred with relief. I wouldn’t need Megan’s final instructions.
“God knows I want you to have sex, Holly, but if you do, make sure you clock off first. You never know, he could be vice. It’s best to skip naughty behavior when you’re escorting for Aunt Maxine.”
“Vice?” She’d laid her advice on me on the way out the door, absolutely insuring there would be no sex on the job.
Unfortunately, my best friend’s advice hadn’t included instructions about being stood-up. I didn’t know if Megan’s Aunt Maxine would suffer repercussions if I left, but I feared we were about to find out. Patience wasn’t my strong suit. If I couldn’t dance, I wanted to get away from the sounds driving me into jitter-bugging on the seat of my chair.
Roger had examined his Regina outfits and produced Marilyn Monroe without me having to rent a thing. Maxine via Megan had confirmed he’d be reimbursed for the costume. I smoothed the material of my dress. It was a far cry from my usual khakis and turtleneck.
It was the bomb and I loved it. It had a floaty bell skirt with a bodice covering my breasts and tying behind my neck. The white halter framed my chest and my abundant bust rested on a shelf-bra. It showed too much of everything, so over his protests, I’d searched Roger’s closet, supplementing the outfit with a white satin, capped-sleeved bolero jacket to cover my problem area.
Other than that, the dress clung to my frame, flowing smoothly from shoulder to waist before flaring out in a bouncy skirt. I suffered inside the iconic outfit shown in most of the pictures of the Hollywood sex bomb. Neither the dress nor the shoes were comfortable. Especially not the shoes.
But aside from the halter barely covering my breasts, the cut of the dress accented my waist, making it appear narrow. From there it flared out, defining my hips in a totally sexy way. Under the skirt, I was sexy too. I’d have pulled on a pair of pantyhose, but Roger wouldn’t allow it.
Instead, I wore a thong, a garter belt, and my long legs were encased in silk stockings. Dark seams marched up the back of my legs, and according to Roger, tempted even his gaze to climb higher.
My meandering thoughts were abandoned to ogle a new arrival. Few men were tall enough to impress me. I salivated along with every other woman in the room as this specimen mopped snow from his brow.
He was both tall and big. Even though he wore a heavy, finger-tip length outer coat, I could see he had the physique of a linebacker—wide shoulders and muscular thighs. Recognizing a prime male when I saw one, drool pooled in my mouth and my stomach muscles clenched.
He shrugged out of his coat, stepped further into the light, and scanned the room. I felt a tingle of shock when Gable stood and waved his cowboy hat in the air. I looked closer.
Whoa. I know him. Why I remembered him, I couldn’t say, but I had no doubt. The man who’d kept me waiting for over an hour was none other than the grump from the elevator in Megan’s building.