Marty
I woke up bewildered, but not from my location. I’d been sleeping at the office since the company bought the place. Before that, I’d slept on my couch in the building that had burned down.
Since my wife died, I hadn’t had any need for a permanent location other than where I worked. I’d fixed myself a closet and made sure I had a shower in the bathroom. I’d had my pictures of Kit and me in the other place, but when it burned down, I’d lost them, too. I waited for depression to hit me. When it didn’t, I stretched and realized I was naked. I don’t sleep naked in my office because, well, it’s my office. I buried my face against my bare arm and laughed. Oh yeah.
The leather I sprawled on smelled different than usual when I woke up. I inhaled the aroma of sex, green apples and sex.
My cock twitched. Whoa. What a ride. A stupid grin plastered my face. At the same time, my sense of well-being confused me. I hadn’t felt so relaxed and at peace since before Kit had been diagnosed.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel empty. Giddy would be a better description, but I didn’t think two hundred-forty-pound lard-asses were supposed to feel giddy. I sat up and stretched. The sight of my gear across the room wiped the grin off my face.
I moved to the desk and inspected the equipment, needing to know what caused the malfunction. Not a mechanic myself, Gable took care of all our gear. I called him. It took him long time to answer and when he did, he didn’t sound pleased to hear from me.
“Pretty early for me to be out from home, this morning. How about Janie and me stop by tomorrow and have a look.” Translated, that meant Gable was holed up with his woman for the rest of the day and he wasn’t moving.
“Marilyn there with you?” he drawled, not bothering to hide his nosiness.
“Was,” I grunted. “She left. That’s why I’m poking around this piece of shit breathing apparatus that cut out on me. We’re on a job next week and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“I’ve got the gear all scheduled for my usual clean, repair, check. I’ll pay special attention to the SCBAs. I’ll pick yours up tomorrow and find the problem.” Gable wasn’t interested in chatting and since I could hear Harley-Jane giggling in the background, I knew why. I hung up.
Business taken care of. I closed my eyes intending to replay the moment my oxygen had cut off. Instead, the image of a wild woman giving me the elevator ride of my life filled my mind.
Have to wipe the security tapes. Shit. Still…what a night. What a dance. What a woman. Yeah. Giddy’s right. My body felt loose and alive. My brain zinged with good vibes.
I fixed myself a cup of coffee, intending to spend the morning on paperwork and reports. The place seemed too quiet, so I flipped on the radio and tuned in some music. I ended up on my feet, practicing a couple of the moves I’d used the night before. Next time, I need to have her cross her wrists, so I can pull her up and spin her out in one motion.
After a few of the mental next time notes, I realized I didn’t know my dance partner’s real name. Or address. Or telephone number. Not even her hair color.
I know she didn’t fake those orgasms. Smugly I looked at the couch with pride. She’d come; I’d held off as long as possible. It had been so damn good when I’d finally let go. And then… It hadn’t been my finest moment. I’d passed out.
I frowned. I’ll explain that I’d been awake for over thirty-six hours when I see her next time. That led me to the increasingly important issue of how to schedule a next time.
Holly
I’d used the dancing crime boss’s hundred-dollar bill to get home where I’d soaked in a bath long enough to ease my aches and pains. The water was cold by the time I emerged. I then slept most of the day, until I dragged myself from bed and got ready for work. Roger’s dress was a wreck. And I’d also managed to leave the bolero jacket behind. Shit.
I went to Balls & Bones in the late afternoon where I polished tables, served beer, and cleaned up after the football fans. The customers were hardcore sports enthusiasts, mostly men, none of them looking for action other than side bets on whatever game played on the eighty-five-inch big screen.
No music played all evening, for which I remained grateful. I needed a rhythm-free environment to regroup and figure out what had just happened. My feet appreciated the change from heels to sneakers, and although tips weren’t in the thirteen-hundred range, they were big for a midmonth, snowy, Saturday night. I made it home by three in the morning and slept like a rock until hammering on the door woke me at ten the next day.
I came awake holding the pillow to my breast like it was Marty’s head. So much for leaving memories of the evening behind. I couldn’t think about anything but the sex I’d experienced.
By the time I’d staggered from bed, pulled on my flannel robe, and opened the front door, the bell ringer had departed. Instead, I found a gift bag sitting on the porch.
Huh. I stared at it suspiciously. Unexpected gifts don’t show up on my doorstep. I poked at the tissue paper lining the decorative sack.
Roger’s clutch purse peeked up at me. Yes! My phone. Ahhh…the cab company. Odd delivery method but hey, not complaining here. Replacing said phone would have been a bitch.
With that problem solved, I went online to read the newspaper, looking for pictures of Marilyn and Boss. I found us immediately, and we were dancing up a storm. I didn’t expect so much attention. It must have been a slow night everywhere. We were on the front page as well as dominating the entire Entertainment Section.
The papers had stressed the amount of money raised—over twenty-five thousand dollars—not the dancers. And yes, Marty was hot, even in the grainy shots of him tossing me in the air, and another with my legs around his waist, being bent backward grinding against him.
Uh. Good thing I’d been in disguise. I suppose because it represented a more visual delivery mode, local television channels had concentrated their coverage on the dancers, primarily Smoke, Inc. Team One.
And someone had made a forty-five-minute composite of the whole thing and uploaded it to YouTube. Watching it was weird. Comments like “don’t miss the tit shot at 3:34” made me scramble to find it. Thankfully, even I didn’t recognize the woman in the wig, make-up, and Marilyn costume being thrown in the air.
Follow up news, which should have been the main story in my opinion, mentioned the fireman who’d gotten injured saving two kids and a dog from a burning building.
I was glad I’d decided to donate my dance-a-thon earnings to help the guy. I didn’t want to profit from his pain. The rest wasn’t that easy to erase from my thoughts. My nipples hurt where Marty had bitten them, and my core ached from…
Anyway, determined to put the incident behind me, I concentrated on filling out an application to work at Humble Homes. If I could get hired part-time there, I might get an employee discount and make a real dent in my remodeling plans.
Bitter cold kept me and most of Pittsburgh indoors the next day. I didn’t mind. I got lots done and it turned into an almost perfect weekend except for the wrong number in the middle of the night.
When the sound of the phone interrupted Ray Charles singing Georgia on My Mind as Marty’s hands slid up my hips, I reluctantly left dreamland. Picking up the offending object, I squinted at the display. Unknown number.
Huh. Maybe Megan’s stuck somewhere like I was. Not that she’d rescued me, but just in case, I answered.
“Marilyn, is that you?” A male asked immediately, sounding frantic.
Marilyn? “Nope, no Marilyn here.”
“I’ve been trying to get through to you. Are you mad at me?” His voice increased in volume and he seemed oblivious to the fact that I was clueless to his identity.
“Wrong number,” I said, glancing at the clock. Four in the morning.
“Answer the next time I call, Marilyn or I’ll have to…” As he listed in graphic detail the psycho-style punishment he’d be delivering for missed calls, I hung up. He called back, three times. I didn’t answer. On the fourth, I blocked the number.
Yuck. Creepy shit. I dressed and descended to the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way. No more sleep for me tonight.
I turned on the music, assembled my tools, and worked all day. By six in the evening, I’d finished sanding the cupboards and vacuuming dust from the walls and hard surfaces. I’d put in a heck of a day.
On Monday, it thawed, snowed, and re-froze. I got an early call from my sometimes day job, substitute teaching. School was in, but a lot of teachers were off. I reported to a seventh-grade inner city school, thinking I’d left the dance-a-thon behind.
Wrong. One of the teachers mentioned it during lunch, and a newspaper shot of the fancy-stepping, garter-belt wearing, Marilyn Monroe draped over Marty’s arm, surfaced in the teacher’s lounge.
I pretended to ignore my colleagues’ enthusiastic discussion about dance steps and music, hiding my interest behind a façade of indifference as they shared dance moves and I graded papers for the absent teacher.
I ended up subbing the full week. Great for my bank account, but I didn’t accomplish much on my kitchen project. My thoughts were divided, between work and Marty, rendering me scatter-brained.
Had my head not been attached, I probably would have lost it. As it was, one of my gloves disappeared the second day. After the kids and I performed a fruitless but intense classroom search, I gave up and left for home without it.
It wasn’t far from the school to the bus-stop, so I attached myself to the group of students walking that way and inspected their outer wear for my purloined glove. Nope.
I wasn’t surprised, though. My students seemed honest enough to me. And who would steal one glove? In my mental frenzy, I’d lost it somewhere. No wonder. More than a couple of times during the following week, I stopped dead-still, blushing vividly as I recalled my recent uninhibited behavior.
Despite the clunky ending to the night, it had been fun. Unrepentant sinner that I’d apparently become, I laughed more than a couple of times as I remembered my dance with Marty.
On Friday, Humble Homes called. I had an interview, aced that, and ended up with a job stacking boxes in the warehouse. Not bad. I had the night shift three times a week. It came with an employee discount, and after the interview, I spent my extra time, wandering the aisles of the sales floor, mentally marking future must-haves.
I didn’t think about Marty Jones at all. Well, not much. Not in the daytime, anyway. Night dreams I couldn’t control, but each time I woke from a mind-blowing orgasm, I paid penance by sanding the cupboards in the kitchen and watched the project progress.
I returned Roger’s dress and let Megan know I’d survived. I didn’t tell either one of them about the end of the night.
“You want to meet at Maxine’s and get your money?” Megan asked when I got around to calling her.
“No rush. Come over and bring it with you when you have time.” No way was I going back to the building soon.
A week later, Megan stopped by to drop off my money from the dance gig.
“Wow. You’ve been busy.” She ran her hands over the once painted, now stripped and sanded, wood. “What color will it be when you’re done?”
“Like this, I hope.” I handed her the pale reddish-brown chip I’d used to gauge my progress. “These are solid maple cabinets. Can you believe some ass painted them?” I patted the kitchen door, proud of my own success. “It took me hours to get all the white off.”
“I like painted wood,” Megan confided. When I glowered at her she hastily changed the subject. “I’ll bring wine and candles for the table.” She stood in the center of chaos, and I’m pleased to say, recognized the unfolding of my dream.
The house had once belonged to my grandfather, albeit mortgaged. Myriad tragedies and three bank sales later, I’d re-acquired it. I couldn’t replace everything as it had once been, but when it had gone on the market as a short sale last year, I’d scraped together enough for five percent down and with Maxine’s co-signature, bought it.
Megan’s aunt had been helping me since I’d ventured out on my own and she’d always have a place at the table.
Because the kitchen had once been the heart of the house, as soon as I owned the place, remodeling began there. The previous tenant had apparently had a temper. Holes marked the walls where he’d lost it.
Putting up the new wallboard had been a challenge, calling for both Roger and Megan’s assistance in lifting and nailing. But we’d done it.
I looked forward to finishing the huge room in time for a family dinner I’d cook for Thanksgiving. Feast versus my pride. I gazed at the envelope wistfully. The dance-a-thon payment would have really helped.
Tell Maxine to bill me. I’d choke on turkey fixed in a kitchen paid for with Marty’s escort money.
It was with deep regret that I peeled one bill from the thirteen hundred dollars and put it in an envelope I’d already prepared.
“Please deliver that to Mr. Jones. Or better yet, give it to your aunt. Maxine can handle the money.”
“Why?” She waved the envelope in the air, waiting expectantly for my answer.
“Because I borrowed cab fare.”
“You owe Marty a hundred dollars for cab fare?”
“He didn’t have change.” I didn’t volunteer more. I figured I’d danced with the devil to return a lot of Maxine’s favors and I was now paid up. At least for a while.
I concentrated on the door I’d been sanding, resuming my work and turning the interrogation back on her. “Since when is he Marty, to you? I thought you barely knew him.”
Megan shrugged and changed the subject to her real reason for the visit.
“Aunt Maxine said because of you, everyone made a ton of money for the dance-a-thon including Baby Dolls. And guess what? Marty Jones wants you for another gig.”
“Good God, no.”
Megan winced at my response. “Aunt Maxine said she’s known Marty Jones for years. He’s never asked to be set-up with anyone. But now he has. He wants you.”
“No.”
“It’s for my aunt—come on Holly. This time it’s at a fancy country club, billed as a Night of Swing. He requested you.”
“I’ll just bet he did. Grunted and pointed. Does Maxine have me on the menu, now?”
“You know this is special. You can dance. Besides, he’s her landlord.”
“Sorry. Not even for you would I consider an encore performance. I’m not going there, again.”
“Going where?”
I focused on the cupboard, continued sanding, and tried to look nonchalant. But I couldn’t control the blush rushing up my neck, flooding my face with heat, and burning a path across my scalp.
“Oh my God, Holly. You are neon red. You did IT. Why didn’t you tell me?” It kind of surprised me that she thought it was such a big deal. I mean, hey, I hadn’t had all that many offers and none of the prospects could dance.
When I didn’t say anything more, she lost the big grin, took the sandpaper from my white-knuckled grip, and led me to the table.
“Did he force you? I’ll kill that sonofabitch.” Megan was so angry it was almost funny. I let her squirm in guilt and rage for a nanosecond before I relented.
“It was a mutual decision. Stupid, but not a big deal.” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.
“How not a big deal?” Her fury changed to curiosity. “Not a big deal as in, he had a tiny dick?”
“No,” I snapped. “Would you stop?”
“Not in this lifetime, girlfriend.” Megan pounced on the information like a terrier after a rat. “Did you tell Roger? Of course, you didn’t tell Roger, because Roger would have told me. You’ve been keeping this to yourself? After all we’ve shared? What was it like? Did he make it good for you? Was he sweet?”
“Enough.” I held up my hands, warding off the barrage of words with a prudently censored answer. “He’s big, rough, bossy; the sex was awesome, I had some orgasms, and then he, you know, did his thing, and passed out.” I shivered remembering it.
“Happens.” Megan rolled her eyes. “Guys just can’t hang afterward. Some orgasms? As in more than one?”
“Yeah, kind of continuous once we got started on the way up in the elevator.”
“You had elevator sex?”
“Sort of.”
“And now Marty wants another dance. Holly do you know what this means?”
“Yes. He woke up long enough to tell me to have Maxine bill him.” I could still feel the wash of humiliation. I had no justification. He thought I was a paid escort and sex went with the deal. I hadn’t said no.
“Oh shit.” Megan crossed her eyes at me.
Yeah, shit. It was just stupid dumb luck my first time would be with a sexy guy who could dance and who thought I sold sex for a living. I couldn’t go out with him, again. Just thinking about the final part of the night made me crazy with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, Holly. I never thought he’d be like that. Aunt Maxine says he’s a nice guy. Quiet.”
Quiet? He never stopped mumbling the whole time we… Nice? Now that you understand that I’m the boss… You sellin’ fucks? Bill me… I reined in my thoughts to deal with Megan.
“Really, it’s no big deal. It was good. Like you’ve been saying, it was time.” I’d been listening to her recount her torrid affairs for fourteen years, and she’d been waiting for me to have one. Unfortunately, mine would be a one-episode show.
“Well obviously it was good for him, too. And now he’s hassling Maxine. His company owns the building where Baby Dolls leases space. It’s not that easy for an escort service to get respectable digs.”
I detected more than a little wheedle in her voice.
“No.” I’d discovered long ago, a firm one-word answer always worked best.
“Please.”
“No.” Not in a million years. “Megan. I’m not seeing him again. He can hire a different escort.”
“But, no one else can dance.” Megan’s eyes filled with tears. “Aunt Maxine may have to move.”
Yes, Megan’s aunt had done big favors for me in the past, but… “If there was any real danger of her losing her business, she’d be sitting in my kitchen right now, not you.”
I stared back at Megan, determined to withstand the pressure. Marty Jones did not force me to have sex with him. Marty Jones would not evict Maxine because I would not have sex with him, again. I firmed my resolve. “She needs to get out of that business, anyway.”
“How can you say things like that? You know how hard it is for a woman to make it on her own.”
I’d heard this before, especially regarding favors for Maxine. “Don’t even try that one. I am not, not, going out with Marty Jones again.” I shoved the hundred at her and added snidely, “Have whoever goes to see him, hand him that envelope. He can use the hundred inside to tip his next escort.”
“But…”
“I’m out of this fiasco. Maxine’s a savvy business woman; she’ll figure out something. Just make sure he gets his frigging money back.”
“Shit. I feel responsible. You’re first time shouldn’t have been crap.”
“It wasn’t bad. It was…” I shrugged, pointing at the stack of newspapers I’d collected, each with a different pose. “The man can dance like nobody else.”
Megan nodded as if that made sense and hugged me before she left.
And as far as I was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. But after Megan left, I found my envelope back in my pocket, her way of refusing to be my courier.
I had no plans to ever dance with Marty Jones, again. Humiliation warred with astonishment every time I remembered how my bones had melted in his embrace. Shit. I’d been crazed in nympho mode.
I’d had enough dance partners to know he was the best. I’d have to sample several more lovers before I could grade that skill. Escorting Marty again, anywhere for anything wasn’t an option. Returning his hundred dollars was an imperative.
After Megan’s visit, I thought my head would explode. First, I still had the cab fare to return. Also, Maxine’s payment should have made my piggybank smile. But I’d decided not to keep the money. But oh my, the temptation. The things I could do for my kitchen with that amount. Sigh.
I kept moving the envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. First, I put it in the nightstand drawer next to my bed, then I moved it from there to the kitchen, and from there to the pocket of my coat, where it waited to be delivered to a new home.
Tuesday night was filled with erotic dreams centered around Marty. They were again interrupted by the psycho calling with threats for Marilyn.
“Give it a rest, asshole,” I finally yelled at three in the morning. Damn. Money I couldn’t afford would have to be spent. I needed a new number.
Which was why on Wednesday, when school was cancelled leaving me without a job for the day, instead of varnishing my kitchen cabinets as I should have, I decided it was too cold for shellac to dry correctly. Following that verdict, I also decided I needed to finalize my involvement in the dance-a-thon.
Accordingly, I decided to take care of business first and return the taxi fare to my dance partner. I’d drop off the donation to the burn victim’s fund as well, and then, the dance-a-thon event could be marked closed in the file in my brain.
Before I could procrastinate further, I went to the Smoke, Inc. building and rode the elevator to the twentieth floor. Since it was cold outside, temperatures in the low teens, I didn’t look particularly sneaky in my jeans, sneakers, heavy jacket, sunglasses, and ball cap pulled low. Nevertheless, I wore my unisex outfit in full stealth mode, determined that in no way could I be recognized.
I’d decided to deliver the hundred-dollar bill myself. For some reason, it seemed important. Like I was getting the last word. Yes, it was childish. Petty though it was, I wouldn’t be able to lay that evening to rest until I returned the loan.
I’d visited Maxine’s place the day she’d moved into her new suite in the building. Her previous location had burned to the ground at the end of the year. Her landlord then, also Marty Jones, had wasted no time finding a new headquarters for his company. He’d bought the building, occupied the top three floors, and leased the rest.
According to Maxine, she’d lucked out when he offered her space on the lower floors. I’d not seen much on the trip up the first time having been sucking the tongue of the Smoke Inc. head honcho.
I took the opportunity during this visit to remedy that oversight, stopping the elevator on several floors, just to check out the new digs. Or it might have been to work up my nerve.
I knew from my illicit visit to Smoke, Inc. that Marty’s office was in the back. A reception desk guarded the outer door, and that was as far as I intended to go. The place really was ten steps higher on the nice scale. The elevator glided silently, didn’t smell of mold, and never lurched once on its trip to the top floors.
I arrived and stepped into the fancy lobby, intending to hand the envelope to the person at the outer reception desk. It was empty. I couldn’t decide. Would it be safe to leave the envelope containing a hundred-dollar bill on the desk? Common sense said no.
I stepped past and into the business suite of Smoke, Inc.
“May I help you?” An older woman wearing a purple tweed suit caught me before I got much further than through the door.
“Delivery for Martin Jones,” I mumbled and shoved the envelope at her hand. She didn’t take it.
“Wait here.” She turned away from the dangling envelope and disappeared into the room she’d come out of.
That didn’t bode well. Survival senses born in the wild, reared their head. Flee. I left the envelope lying in the middle of the desk I bumped into on the way out. I wasn’t running, but my breathing had escalated into panic mode, and my steps quickened to a trot as I ducked out of the main office to the lobby.
Behind me, I sensed danger. As in Marty Jones. I knew he was there. I could feel his presence without turning around. Confirming my instincts, I recognized the gravelly growl that had ordered me around all one night. He roared a one-word command. “Stop.”
Fat chance. I ignored the order, jumped the last three feet into the elevator, and punched the first-floor button, closing the door and beginning my descent. I opted to skip my planned visit with Maxine on the fourth floor before I left.
I reached ground floor and joined the rest of the people exiting the building. Given the fear of terrorism in the country and the nature of the company’s work, I realized I might have screwed up. My abrupt departure and mysterious package might be considered suspicious.
Shit. I should have worn a hoodie. I ducked my head lower and tried to blend in with everyone else on the street. As soon as Jones opens the envelope and gets his money, the building will settle down.
Still. The incident left me feeling like a fool. Again. I walked across town to the building that housed the local fire station. It wasn’t exactly where donations were usually made, but a dispatcher took my donation—Maxine’s payment—and said he’d make certain it found its way to the right place.
Instead of feeling noble, I left feeling considerably poorer, especially after I shelled out cash for a new phone number. At this rate I’d never be able to finish my kitchen project. Feeling despondent instead of proud, I hustled to Balls & Bones to make sure the manager had me on the waitress list for Friday night. If I was lucky, I’d be serving ribs and beer this weekend at the sports bar.
Marty
Per security protocol, and because of my recent equipment failure and subsequent Hummer break-in, we emptied the building, and I called a Smoke, Inc. consultant to inspect the threat. I really didn’t expect him to find an explosive device, but Elaine was insistent, and I gave into her.
Church lifted the envelope to his nose and sniffed. “It’s not a bomb.” He sniffed again. “Smells like green apples to me.” Before he owned the bar, he’d named after himself, Church had been a demolition expert.
I pulled out my pocket knife and slit the end of the apple-scented envelope. A hundred-dollar bill fell out and the green apple aroma intensified. My cock got hard.
“Fuck.” And I meant that on so many levels. Marilyn had paid me back. My smirk turned to a grimace when I remembered I’d passed out. And in spite of all my plans to make it up to her, I hadn’t seen her or been able to contact her since that night. But, she’d been on my mind every waking minute.
The scent of green apples pulled me back to the envelope’s contents. The hundred-dollar bill reminded me all over again of my dance partner which brought me to the end of the evening. I was only going to get a shot at next time if I could locate her.
I had Elaine keep tabs on the progress of the evacuation and re-entry. As soon as the building settled back into work mode, I took the stairs to the fourth floor, walked past the receptionist, and entered Maxine’s office.
“Marty. So good to see—”
“Everything all right down here?” I gazed around, half-expecting to see my dance partner lurking in the shadows. “Did you set up my escort for Night of Swing?”
“Of course,” she answered quickly.
“Same woman as for the dance-a-thon. I believe her name is Holly.”
“Well,” she paused to clear her throat. “Holly’s not available.”
“Maxine, I’d like you to make her available. Rearrange her schedule.” I felt possessively outraged at the idea of Holly escorting anyone else.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m listening.”
“She quit.” Maxine’s panic came through loud and clear.
“I’ll need her address.”
“What?”
“Give me her address.”
“I can’t do that. I guarantee…”
“Maxine, we just had a bomb threat, upstairs. Your escort girl is a person of interest in the investigation. Should it turn out that you or your personnel were involved…” I let my voice deepen into menacing and watched Maxine squirm.
“I don’t know her home address, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.” Maxine opened a desk drawer, pulled out a card, and shoved it at me. “She’ll be working there Friday night.”
I appreciated loyalty, and it was clear I wasn’t getting more info from the escort agency owner.
On my way back upstairs I studied the card, recognizing the name. I didn’t like the idea of competing with other men for her attention. I remembered bending her over my arm during the dance and watching her eyes light up in delight. Sort of how they’d lit up when she’d come. I didn’t want anyone else making her eyes light up like that.
I’d have to go to the sports bar and convince her I would make a better client than anyone else she’d meet. I’d offer her… My thoughts dwindled to a close. I lived in my office.
Shit. I’d have to set her up in a place. I’d start looking. First though, I had to deal with Elaine.
“Well?” My secretary hovered just inside my office door when I returned. I knew from experience that she wouldn’t leave until she’d extracted every drop of information to be had.
“She quit working for Maxine, Elaine.”
“Are we speaking of the Baby Doll escort woman who just left the terrorist note?”
“She’s not a terrorist and evidently she’s not one of Maxine’s escorts any longer, either. I think her real name is Holly.” I hated to admit I wasn’t even sure of that. “She doesn’t want to dance with me again.”
“I saw the two of you on the news. You were smiling. I drove downtown just so I could watch you in person. You were both smiling. Persuade her.”
“The night didn’t end well.”
“Well enough,” she snorted. “I saw the security tapes before you wiped them.”
What could I say? Elaine was Elaine.
Holly
As degrees go, mine proved my endurance if nothing else. If I could have decided on a major, I’d have finished sooner. As it was, it had taken me six and a half years, and the threat of my advisor saying, “You’re close to losing everything you’ve earned. You’ve got to declare a major and get on with things.”
I hated endings. I liked school. Anyway, it had been fun while it lasted. I’d sampled subject areas until I had an enormous number of hours and an impressive student loan with no degree in sight.
Finally, my advisor assembled my smorgasbord of learning into a General Studies degree.
“This doesn’t certify you’re qualified to do anything. But it will get you through a few doors. You’ll have to take it from there.”
The degree had gotten me through the substitute teacher door, where, apparently, a degree was a degree.
I always applied the money I made from teaching gigs to my student loan. But if that was all I fed the degree, it would never get paid off. Nor would my kitchen upgrade-house revitalization project continue.
Despite the fact I enjoyed being in a classroom full of hormonal, smart-ass kids, I didn’t qualify for full time teaching, nor did I want a permanent spot any way.
I considered myself a mercenary—selling my skills to the highest bidder. I paid my own bills, managed my own time, and I intended to keep it that way.
I had a plan. Live cheap. Work hard. Fix up my house. And maybe someday have a kid, or go back to school to learn something else. My future plans seemed pretty vague mostly centering around paying off my student loan.
Weather issues—ice, snow, sleet, repeat for more of the same—had closed public schools most of the week. I’d had my warehouse night job and nothing else to occupy my time other than priming the kitchen cupboards. I tried turning the music on for company but found myself dancing instead of sanding every time. Worse, I practiced Marty moves from the dance-a-thon—half wishing I’d get to use them again.
Knowing that I could do it all over again was tempting. Too many times I almost called Maxine to volunteer for dance duty. But, I didn’t. Meeting Marty again would lead no place I wanted to go.
Thursday, I wiped down the cupboards prepping them for the first coat of finish. I thought I could get away with varnishing them if I opened the oven door to keep the kitchen warm enough to enhance the drying time.
Friday, I set aside my project plans to substitute teach. It was blustery cold, most of the kids had stayed home, and that afternoon, seven students and I watched the hands of the clock creep toward freedom.
The bell finally rang, and my students departed. I bundled myself into cold weather clothes, stuck my earbuds in, and boogied out the door. Thank God it was Friday.
I went home, and showered, but skipped eating when my stomach cringed at the contents of my refrigerator.
Nevertheless, I was in a pretty good mood when I started out for work that night. My happy frame of mind slipped a bit when I arrived and discovered my B&B tee gone from my locker.
I checked with the other servers to see if they’d found my missing gear, but no one knew a thing. I’d written my name in permanent marker inside the neck, but without checking shirts already on the servers, I wasn’t getting mine back.
“I must have taken it home to wash,” I told Ted, the manager. But I couldn’t remember doing that. Anyway, I had to buy another one before I could clock on.
Marty
“You’ve lost your fucking mind.” I stared out the window at the street below and muttered to myself. I wanted to see her again. No explanations, no apologies. I wanted to track her down and arrange another dance session with her. At least.
I’m not crazy. Crazy is being so bored and depressed I considered choking to death. Geez.
Sane was finding my dance partner. She’d pissed me off, made me laugh, fucked me unconscious, and hadn’t stolen my wallet on her way out the door.
“Since you can’t seem to connect with your escort through a third party, why don’t you approach her yourself?” It was Elaine’s idea.
Yeah, I’d blame my crazy behavior on Elaine. I didn’t bar hop. Not since Kit, anyway. But there were plenty of crew members who did. I had no trouble rounding up drinking buddies for Friday night. If they thought my behavior odd, I didn’t care. I didn’t say why I was suddenly thirsty. And none but Jack Cahill gave a fuck, anyhow.
“Tracked down Marilyn, didn’t ya?” When word got out about my outing, Jack didn’t let my unusual plans go unchallenged. Since he was my father-in-law, I answered.
“Maybe. You got a problem with that?”
“Nope. Wondered when you were gonna get it out, again.”
“I’m not…” The denial died on my lips and I let it lay. I was. Hell-and-damnation, I sure was. I was looking to hook up with Marilyn, again. Jesus. Just thinking of her had me hard. I wanted her back under me and this time I’d fucking stay awake.
Jack had once been my boss. He’d hired me when I was fourteen. I was a big guy, and lied about my age when I applied for my first oilrig job. Three years later, I’d married Kit, Jack’s thirty-four-year-old daughter. Jack and I had kept right on working side by side.
We’d worked together for so long that no one remembered or cared who was boss. We were friends. Jack always worked at something and had an opinion about everything. He’d now appointed himself my romance coach.
“What kind of clothes you wearin’?”
“What?” What kind of a dumb-ass question was that? “Whatever I have on at the end of work, Friday. Leaving at six.” I had it all planned. I’d find her fast and get her out of there early.
“Not to be disrespectful, but a suit and pants ain’t gonna cut it at a sports bar. You’re gonna be competin’ with young studs. You need to change into what they call casual before we go.”
We? Jesus.
By Friday, Jack had announced the dress code. At six that night, Jack, Steve Deakins, Ross McKenzie, Teague Logan, and Gable Matthews all went to the bar dressed in jeans, rugged man boots, Henley’s and leather jackets. So did I.
“We look like fucking clones,” I growled playfully, not really caring. I felt loose, ready for anything. When we arrived at Balls & Bones, I did a perimeter scan and left the men standing out front.
“Best to know ahead of time how to get out.” Just as a precaution, I always checked out the exits before I entered a public building. This time, I paid attention to the alley, too, noting all the shadowy areas where a couple might fuck.
Satisfied that Marilyn wasn’t already out plying her trade, I went back to the front sidewalk and found it empty. Jack and the rest of the men were already drinking beers when I walked inside.
By six-thirty, the place was starting to fill, and my dance partner was nowhere in sight. There was nothing to see on TV, nobody wanted to talk shop, I could see no evidence of a dance floor, the beer sucked, and I wanted to leave. Maxine had steered me wrong. I flexed my hand, wishing I could wring her neck.
“Your girl was in costume before. Maybe you just don’t recognize her out of Marilyn clothes.” Jack’s comment had the crew eyeing the female customers. I’d already checked them out. My dance partner wasn’t one of them. I spent three more hours sucking down beers and watching the front door. Twice, I went outside to check the alley, feeling like a fool, but still glad when I found it empty.
Maybe the owners thought I was vice and had put the word out. The same nothing taking place inside the Balls & Bones was happening behind the building. By nine, I’d eaten more than my share of ribs and tossed back too many beers. After I’d made my second trip through the packed room to reach the john, I decided to quit searching.
“I’m gone,” I told Jack as soon as I returned to the table. I was already standing with my arm in my jacket, ready to shrug it on, as I prepared to leave. Using the advantage of my height, I let my gaze roam over the packed bar one last time.
After someone behind the bar switched the television program to an awards show, and cranked up the volume, the whole bar started jamming to the sound of Robin Thicke performing Blurred Lines.
The rhythm sank into my bones, and a grin froze on my lips. Across the way, a server danced through the swinging doors separating kitchen from bar. Even khaki pants with a green apron bow dangling in back, couldn’t disguise the roll of those hips.
Coat hanging off my arm, I moved toward the dancing server. “I’ll be back.”