Cream of the Crop (19 page)

“I feel like if we actually hit the town, Bailey Falls may never recover.” I snorted, taking a running leap at her bed, displacing pillows right and left.

Roxie slipped into a robe and started combing out her hair. “Your skin looks fantastic. I think it's the mountain air. Or maybe the amazing water. Or it could be the altitude.”

“Yeah?” I preened, smoothing my fingers over my cheeks. “That's funny, Olga told me the same thing the other day.”

“Who's Olga?”

“Esthetician. She's been sucking my pores for the last five years and she said there was, and this is a direct quote, a sixty-six percent reduction in the amount of
schmutz
in my pores.”

“Schmutz?”

“Gunk, goo, toxins, pollution—you know,
schmutz
.”

“So this is a good thing.”

“This is a great thing.” I nodded, sucking in my cheeks and admiring my face in the mirror over her dresser. Then I looked back over my shoulder. “There's a great view of the bed in this mirror. Please tell me Leo and you watch yourselves having sex.”

“I won't tell you that.”

“That's not a denial, Callahan,” I teased, enjoying the way she conveniently covered her face with her hair and began brushing it.

Her voice, however, wasn't covered at all. “Speaking of boning, maybe it's not just the country air that's making you glow. Care to share?”

“Orgasms are great for the complexion, that is true.” I sighed, sinking back into the pillows and holding one like a teddy bear.

She laughed, plopping down onto the edge of the bed. “I assume that means that you're enjoying getting to know Oscar in the biblical sense?”

“Honey, there is nothing biblical about what we're doing. Trust me,” I said, fanning myself with my hand. Heat was rising to my cheeks from anticipation. When I first found out we were heading into town tonight, I was trying to remain cautiously optimistic. I didn't want to presume that we'd be getting together every time I was in town. And by “didn't want to presume,” I mean that was a lie that I couldn't even sell to myself.

I
wanted
to presume, dammit! I wanted to spend whatever time with him that I could. Biblically or otherwise.

“Hey? You with me?” Roxie asked, waving her hand in front of my face.

I laughed. “Sorry, my mind was with a certain dairy farmer.”

“I asked how things are going? You seem to be enjoying the Bailey Falls experience.”

I was. I couldn't fully admit it to myself, but I was totally drinking the Kool-Aid. Not yet willing to admit how much I was guzzling, I said, “I'm exhausted from today. Your boys wore me out.”

“I spoke to Chad earlier. He told me you guys went to The Tube. It's incredible there, isn't it?”

I rolled over, full-blown dreamy sighing.

Like a shark smelling blood, Roxie started circling. “Oh, and Bryant Mountain House?” She flipped her hair back up. “We'll have to make spa appointments there soon. Wait until you see it. Incredible.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, dreamily thinking about the day.

“You know, we could even take a few day trips down to Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow. Especially the cemetery, it's awesome.”

“I love a cemetery,” I echoed, mind elsewhere.

“That's what's so great about living here. We're driving distance or train accessible from everything. Great for families . . . very little crime . . .”

“It's a good town, Rox.”

“It is, isn't it.” She beamed, bouncing happily on the mattress.

“And once my campaign starts running, people will be swarming this place to feel a little of the Bailey Falls Magic.”

“Who knows? Maybe if they fall enough under its spell, they won't want to leave . . .” She let the thought float out there while she stood and continued getting ready.

In a fog, I rose and headed into my room. It was a magic fog that was singing all the praises of the town and its inhabitants.

One in particular.

Never a big fan of lying to oneself, I put Oscar and whatever this was between us on the top of the “pros” list for Bailey Falls. I didn't know what would come of the relationship once the campaign was finished. When I went back to the city, would he visit more than just the weekends? Would I? Did he want me to do that? Did he want
me,
beyond the occasional weekend? There was something about being wanted. I'd never wanted to go beyond the confines of my island . . . for anything or anyone. Now, maybe. Possibly.

Not wanting to spend too much time on an existential relationship crisis, I turned to getting ready.

And I had just the outfit. Just in case a certain tall, dark, tattooed drink of water wandered across my path that night.

There are dive bars, and then there are
dive bars,
and this was one of the diviest dive bars I'd ever been in. At the end of Elm Street,
way
down at the end, where the town practically gave up and ceded back to the trees, sat Roxie and Leo's favorite Saturday-night bar. And judging by the amount of cars parked outside, it was all of Bailey Falls' favorite Saturday-night bar as well. Originally called Pat's, it'd been renamed Pat's Nightmare sometime in the eighties, to now be forever known as . . . wait for it . . . Pat's Nightmare on Elm Street.

I'll tell you what, people were pretty funny in the sticks.

Hair metal screamed out of the speakers, peanut shells and sawdust carpeted the gouged wooden floor, and people stood elbow to elbow like sardines to get a cheap beer. If you were very lucky, you were able to nab one of the four tables in the entire bar; those seats were gold.

Luckily for us, we got there just as the mayor and his wife were leaving with a few friends. Leo may have leapt the last ten feet to snatch the table before someone else got it, and now crowded around it were myself, Roxie and Leo, Roxie's mom, and Chad and Logan.

“So, wait, your mom's in town? It's too bad she couldn't come out tonight, too,” I said to Leo, yelling a little to be heard since the music was so stinking loud.

“I think this is one place you'll never see my mother in,” Leo said with a laugh. “She's not really a bar type. Besides, Polly's staying up at the big house with her this weekend, and they've got their own grandma/granddaughter thing going on.”

Leo's family was very old New York, blood bluer than blue, banking dynasty. His family had a large estate on the outskirts of town that went back generations, including a huge old mansion that Leo referred to as the “big house.”

“And we've got our
own
thing going on this weekend, if you
know what I mean.” Roxie leaned against Leo and tugged at the top button on his shirt.

“Yeah, we know what you mean. The entire bar is about to go up in flames from the sexual tension between you two.” Chad sighed, fanning himself.

It was true; the amount of sexual energy being generated on that side of the table could have powered a small town.

Just then another pitcher of beer arrived at our table, along with another bowl of peanuts, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the stage (plywood set on cinder blocks) singing the only song I knew in their twenty-song karaoke lineup.

There are songs that are meant to be sung loudly and accompanied by a PBR and peanut buzz. Songs that make you think you can sing, and that you alone understand the lyrics the way no one else possibly can, and that the only way to do them justice is to leave all self-awareness and good judgment behind.

Which is why when Oscar showed up at Pat's Nightmare on Elm Street, he found me singing at the top of my lungs, finger-pointing and fist-pumping, giving my all to my performance of “Don't Stop Believin'.”

To be clear, if this song is on, you turn it up. You stop what you're doing, you roll down every window within reach, you throw every care away, and you give yourself over to the genius that is Journey.

And that's what was happening when I saw Oscar from across the cheering, clapping crowd. You have a choice when you get caught doing something like this—especially in front of someone who's currently blowing your socks off. You can run and hide, or you can sing louder.

I chose the latter. And as I straddled the mike and gave it my eighties all, he grinned wide and wolf-whistled loud, clapping
his hands right along with every other fool in that bar. When the song was over, and my voice was still ringing (shrieking) through the air, I dropped the mike, gave a little bow, and strutted offstage to the screams of the twenty or so applauding locals who happened to be there.

“Glad I didn't miss that,” he said as I made my way over to where he was standing by the bar. “That was some song.”

“Journey brings out the best, what can I say?” I replied, my eyes appreciatively taking him in. He was easily the biggest guy in the place, but somehow he didn't look intimidating to me anymore. Sure, he wasn't quick to smile, and the scar over his right eyebrow made him look perma-dangerous. I wanted to lick that scar. “How was the farmers' market? Did you sell out?”

“We did.” He nodded, his eyes running over the length of my body. “What the hell are you wearing, Pinup?”

“Like it?” I asked, giving him a little twirl. I was feeling a fifties retro vibe when I was getting ready tonight. Off-white skirt with large black polka dots, black turtleneck, wide red belt. The best part? Red stiletto platforms, with an ankle strap and a four-inch heel. When I twirled, the skirt did, too, and revealed one more retro accent.

Garters holding up my thin silk stockings, clipped to a pair of high-waisted black silk panties. The garters he might have seen; the panties were for later.

Based on how wide his eyes grew, and how he gripped the bar until white-knuckled, I'm guessing he saw the garters.

“I just threw on a little something for a night out on the town.”

“Out on the town, huh?” He shook his head a little, as though to clear it. “Not really sure that a night at Pat's really counts as such.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised,” I replied, leaning across the bar and snatching an olive. “Some drinks, some friends, some killer music”—I lifted my chin toward the stage, where someone's terrible version of “Son of a Preacher Man” was screeching out of the speakers. “I'd say it's a great night out on the town.”

“How about a great night out in my barn? Maybe even out on the hood of my truck?” Oscar whispered, running his fingers right where the garters were on my thighs.

I choked a bit on my drink, and my heart leapt into my throat. He pressed on the garter, a small, infinitesimal amount of pressure that to anyone else would look innocent.

But we knew better. His thumb was right over the clip that held the stocking up.

He leaned over again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I bet I could roll them down with my teeth. Lemme try, Natalie.”

My knees buckled. Thankfully, his big hands were there to catch me.

“Nat, you okay?” Roxie asked, laughing when my drink sloshed over the side of the glass.

“Cheap date!” Leo hollered, waving over the waitress to order another round.

“It's uh . . . the shoes,” I lied, holding Oscar's considerable biceps tightly. You know, for support.

Never in my life had a pair of high heels made me wobble. But add the Oscar factor, and the fingers on garters, and I was lying through my teeth.

I had a plan for tonight. I'd decided that if I saw him, I'd be in charge. Before the sex, after the sex, during the sex, I'd drive him wild with need—not the other way around. Yet with just a few words, he managed to make me weak in the knees and flushed in the cheeks. This guy did things to me.

“You can't talk to me like that here,” I whispered, brushing
my hip against the front of his jeans. I had to regain the upper hand or I'd be naked in a bar in five seconds flat, with Oscar behind me.

I could think of worse things to happen.

He advanced. We were packed into the bar, too many people squeezed into too small a room, but it didn't matter. He found the space, pinning me to the back of a chair behind me.

“I can throw you down onto the bar if I want,” he promised. It was just that, too. If I pressed any further, the whole town would be getting an eyeful.

“You wouldn't dare. These are just for you.” I slid the hem of my skirt up enough to draw his eye down. “You wouldn't want anyone else to see them, would you?”

His nostrils flared and my favorite eyebrow raised.

“Get a room!” someone called out, and the fog lifted. We were giving the bar a show, with part of my thigh exposed and Oscar's giant hand gripping the fabric of my skirt.

He turned, seeking out the jackass who just poked the bear. When they made eye contact, the guy took one look at him and bolted for the door. Oscar made a move like he was going to go after him but I pulled at his belt. Not that it would hold him in place if he really wanted to kick the guy's ass, but the little effort made me feel better.