Between the Sheets (8 page)

“We’re still going to see the band tonight, right?” Krista asked. She and I were in the lobby near the big stone fireplace. Randy stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders, leaning against the paneled wall.

“I think we should,” he said. He lifted my hair and blew on the secret spot behind my ear. He was acting normal—or what passed for normal in the forty-eight hours since we’d met.

One of the other teachers heard us talking about the band, and pretty soon everyone around thought they might join us. Including Jessica Freeman’s new chinless appendage, Kirk.

I almost vetoed the whole project, but Krista argued J-Bone would protect us and Randy pointed out most everyone was going straight home after the conference ended, so their talk about seeing the band was just talk.

My sense of humor would have been sturdier if Randy hadn’t taken his little trip through crazy. Even though he’d spent the afternoon at my side, a solid, affectionate presence, I couldn’t shake the sense of distance he’d created on the beach. Ever since Creighton left me standing alone in my one-of-a-kind Alençon lace dress, I’d been more inclined to be the one to dash first.

Everyone attended the last session, and afterward people were still buzzing about the band in Langley.
Fantastic.
Krista had more to pack than I did, so after loading my gear into the CRV I went for a walk on the beach. Barefoot, because at Krista’s insistence, I’d put on the little stretchy black thing she’d picked out for me at Target. The dress left very little to the imagination, and of course I had to borrow her chunky black heels.

When I got back, still carrying the heels, Randy waited on the front porch of my cabin. I slowed my pace, feeling like a marionette, all twitchy motions and jangling limbs. My fight-or-flight reflex engaged. He hadn’t asked for my phone number, he’d pushed me away, this was all just a damned act.

Run!

The late-day sun warmed my shoulders, and he squinted as I got closer. “I told Krista I’d give you a ride,” he said, “so she took off in your car.”

“Yeah, she had my keys.” My voice sounded tight, as if pieces of it might flake away like the silvery scales of a fish. “I’ll just turn in the cabin key and we can go.”

Randy followed me to the lodge. I tossed my key into a basket on the check-in table and bumped into him when I turned around. He smelled good, soap and woodsy cologne layered over the persistent scent of cigarette smoke. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

He brushed a stray hair off my forehead. For once I didn’t have my hair in a ponytail or a knot. It hung long to my shoulders, with a thin black band holding my bangs out of my face. “You look amazing. Everything okay?”

“Sure.” I smiled at his right ear and slid into the heels.

He nodded and, taking my hand, led me out of the cabin towards the parking lot. I couldn’t help notice how well his black T-shirt fit. Almost as nice as his faded jeans, and I about swallowed my tongue when he went to the driver’s door of a cherry red Chevy Malibu.

“What year is this thing?” Climbing into the passenger seat of such a cool car was almost spiritual.

“1970.” He gunned the engine like it was a rocket and we were ready to launch.

It was going to be a long night.

Langley was about halfway between the lodge and the ferry dock. One of the bigger small towns on Whidbey Island, it had a reputation for welcoming tourists. The locals were an eclectic mix, ranging from yuppies who commuted to jobs in Seattle to subsistence-farming hippies who supplied the weekend market and craft fair. I’d never been there before, and never expected my first trip there would be in a cherry red Malibu with a Ginger God at the wheel.

We drove through the forest with the windows open, both because of the heat and so Randy could smoke. His damp hair still showed comb marks and he’d trimmed his beard a little, enough to take the roughest edges off. I stared out the window, shooting occasional glances at him like BBs from a gun, quick darts to keep from giving anything away.

He took one last drag off his cigarette and dropped the butt into an empty soda can. It sizzled, suggesting the can wasn’t entirely empty. “Only two more.”

“Two?”

“I’m allowed five a day.”

Self-righteousness gave me the confidence to examine his profile. “So you’ll get lung cancer more slowly.”

“Something like that.” His grin flipped something south of my navel. “I don’t drink because I can’t, and I smoke because I can.”

And I don’t want this to end, because you’re one of the coolest men I’ve ever met.
We cleared the woods and headed through the rural equivalent of a subdivision, low ranch houses scattered along the road, reachable by long straight driveways.

I leaned into the channel-back vinyl seat, trying to figure out a way to tell him I’d be okay if he wanted to drop the act so we could just hang out like friends. Or, to be accurate, new acquaintances. I’d gotten laid, after all, and Kirk had moved on to a more interested woman.

Mission accomplished.

Instead I kept my mouth shut, tossing BB glances at him and feeling like an idiot.

He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb, which totally distracted me. The sun was low enough that the cars coming toward us along the two-lane road had their headlights on. Letting go of my hand, he flipped up the visor and caught me in his side-eye. “I had fun last night.”

His comment got my attention like a sharp yank on my collar. “Me too.” My voice was pitifully weak, and for just a second, I hoped the whole bar would be full of music teachers so maybe I could avoid him.

As if avoiding him would fix anything.

He started to say something. Stopped. Started. Stopped. Finally brought my hand to his lips for a kiss, accompanied by a self-conscious laugh.

We rode in silence until reaching one of the rare traffic lights, where we stopped to make the turn to Langley. It would have been the perfect time to ask what had happened this morning, or if he intended to call me after tomorrow, or if I should just hold onto my memories and wait for my Academy Award.

My phone chirped, saving me from doing anything difficult. Krista texted me directions to the pub. I almost managed to relay the information without sounding like a total dork.

A crowd of locals filled most of the club’s seats, but Krista had snagged us a table. The Blues Revivalists had already started playing their brand of rowdy blues rock. J-Bone was MIA, which didn’t surprise me. Didn’t seem to surprise Krista, either, or even bother her too much. She divided her attention between pouring beer from our pitcher and grinning at a guy with dreadlocks at a table to our right.

The pub’s walls were covered with posters advertising upcoming shows, and a flat-screen TV over the bar showed a preseason Seahawks game. I couldn’t relax, despite the party atmosphere. Randy talked to Krista, which covered the uptight silence rolling off me. When the band took a break, one of the guitar players came over. Randy greeted him with an awkward back-thumping guy hug. After a round of introductions, Mike grabbed a chair and pulled it close, leaning across me so he could talk to Randy.

“You got your horn, man? Wanna sit in?” Mike asked, checking me out like he wanted to find a place to bite. Randy draped an arm across my shoulders, pulling me close and marking his territory, and since my dress would have worked in an anatomy class, I didn’t mind at all.

“No horn,” Randy said, his rough voice right by my ear. The skin on my neck prickled, excitement amplified by nerves.

Mike crossed his arms, showing off the classic anchor he had tattooed on one forearm, like Popeye but dirtier. “Keys, then. We can boot Sanders off for a couple of tunes.”

“Okay if I play a couple?” Randy asked me.

“Sure.”

Giving my shoulders a squeeze, he followed Mike to the stage. I watched him go, admiring the view from behind, then turned to get a face full of pissed-off Krista.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her hissing whisper cut through the hubbub of the crowd around us. “Until Mike showed up, you were sitting there like you had a rod up your ass. Did Randy do something to piss you off?”

“No. I don’t know.” I did my best to pull it together. “What if he’s acting?”

“Oh shit. He’s
so
not.” Krista’s laugh dumped a bucket of reality over my internal drama-fest. “If you could have seen the look on his face when Mike sat down and started checking you out … he’s not acting,” she said. “Definitely not.”

“Then why hasn’t he asked for my phone number?” I hugged myself and glanced at the stage. From behind the keyboard, Randy made snarky comments to the drummer. He acted more comfortable on stage than any place else I’d seen him. Mike the biker made a lame joke, the bass player ran a scale, and the drummer counted off a tune. I couldn’t see Randy’s hands on the keys, but the set of his shoulders and the passion in his eyes reminded me of Creighton, the one who’d left me hamstrung by memories.

Those memories were nothing compared with the emotional whirlwind created by the guy on stage.

The band’s opening chords were timed with J-Bone’s arrival. Krista reeled him in and gave him a peck on the cheek, her semi-satisfied smirk a subtle indicator of her happiness. He’d brought a friend, too, Micky or Nicky or something. They were pretty much a matched set of 24-Hour Fitness beefcake, and I smiled politely and tried to ignore the fact they both seemed to think we were on a double date.

In the middle of the next song, Krista threw a balled-up napkin at me and gestured at the stage. “He’s really, really good,” she said.

“Right?”

Randy took the band to another level, his rolling left hand giving them extra swing. His first solo threw down a challenge the rest of them tried to meet, and his chops had me lubricated in ways I’d never imagined. The band blazed through three songs before Randy shook hands all around.

And he walked off stage and out of the bar without sparing me a glance.

Surprise and confusion held me in my seat.

“Where’s he going?” Krista unwrapped herself from J-Bone long enough to give me a
WTF
shrug.

I mirrored her, eyebrows raised, palms up. “Don’t know.”

“Follow him.”

I propped my elbows on the table and dropped my head into my hands. Seriously? Why the drama? Micky-Nicky put his beefy hand on the bare skin between my shoulder blades. “Wassup?”

Krista bounced something off the top of my head. “Follow him.”

“Yeah.” I still didn’t move, except to shrug off the creeping hand. Maybe he just went to smoke a cigarette and he’d be right back. Five minutes passed. Ten. No Randy.

Krista reached across the table and used two fingers to lift my forehead so she could look me in the eye. “Listen, I’m clearly not an expert on relationships, but if you blow this you’re going to regret it for a long, long time.”

Regret what? Regret a man whom I’d never heard of until forty-eight hours ago? Regret a man who couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he liked me or not?

Regret a man who took a casual hookup and made me feel like we were making love?

There was something real between us, and the surprise and shock and confusion gave way to a white-hot anger. I shook off the beefcake and surged out of my chair. How
dare
he take off without saying anything?

Outside the bar, antique and faux-antique storefronts all sat one wide sidewalk off the street, with a solid line of cars parked in both directions. Randy stood about half a block away, under a street light with a couple of other smokers. For the first time all night, I was glad to be wearing a pair of high heels.

They made stalking much easier.

Randy saw me coming, though his expression didn’t change. I kept my pace slow, swinging my arms to shake off some energy. My gut was coiled so tight I had to lock my jaw to keep in a scream. He took a long drag off his cigarette and dropped the butt, crushing it with his heel.

“Where’s your date?” he asked.

I took a white-knuckle grip on the hem of my skirt to keep from belting him one. “Um … you are. Or did I misunderstand something?”

He shoved a hand in his pocket like he was going to go for another cigarette. “Listen, Maggie, you’re beautiful and smart and funny, and this is just not going to work.”

His words rolled over me like little razor blades. I should have known someone as cool as Randy wouldn’t be interested in me.

Except, wait a minute.
He likes me. I know he does
. My courage was struggling like a salmon going upstream, but I decided to give it one more try.

“What’s not going to work?” I got close to him, close enough to smell the woodsy, spicy man under the halo of smoke. “It’s not going to work for us to hear a band play on a Sunday night?”

He pressed his lips together, most of his face hidden in the shadows cast by the streetlights. In my heels I wasn’t quite eye-level with him, but close. I locked his gaze with mine, daring him to ignore me. “Or it’s not going to work for us to spend the night in a hotel room? Because you know I have the key.”

“Shit.” He rubbed a thumb over my lower lip, then tipped his head like he was moving against his will.

Or against his own better judgment.

I didn’t move until he kissed me, and then I grabbed a hold with both hands. I’d never kissed angry before, but I did this time, and it was cold, and raw, and bruising. His scruff of a beard burned my chin and his hands were on me tighter than the stupid black dress and his erection jammed into my thigh. Hungry for more, I bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan.

He pulled away, fists against either side of my face. “Hotel?”

“Yeah.”

Krista had given me the card for the room with the promise she’d crash someplace with J-Bone. The hotel was about four blocks from the bar, and we covered the distance silently, barely touching.
Fine
. If Randy only wanted sex, that was all he’d get.

I swiped us into the room, where the generic, faux-country decor could have come from any hotel in any city. Silently I snatched at his shirt, lifting it high enough to rub my palms over his bare skin.