Hot and Bothered (21 page)

But the first man captured her blurred attention again when he spoke in a voice so mellow that she had to bend closer to hear it.

“I've seen you before.”

Now Cherry beamed. Was it in
Viva Las Vegas
? No, she hadn't had enough screen time . . .

As he slumped in that chair, she had the feeling that he was low enough to look right up her dress. Did she care? Hardly. She'd been more exposed than that so, so many times.

He kept surveying her, and then snapped his fingers. “I got it.” He leaned down and rested his drink on the carpet. “There was a picture in a bar somewhere around here, and your face . . . You've got the same face as the woman in the painting did, and believe me, I remember because she was delicious.”

At first, Cherry's ego warmed. Then she brushed him off.

“You're drunk.” The only painting she knew of her was by Tommy. What would it be doing in a bar?

“Actually,” the man said, “I'm stoned. But that doesn't mean I'm incoherent.” He stuck out his hand. “Don Hawking, producer.”

Producer?

Cherry just about flipped, but instead she calmly shook his hand. “Cherry Chastain.”

“Oh, isn't that a name. Say, has anyone ever told you that you have a face that ought to be in pictures and not just one in a painting in some dive out in the desert?”

“Maybe.” She smoothed a hand down her lace-covered hip and took care to suck in her belly. “Maybe I've already been in a movie. It wasn't a big part but—”

He was a fast talker. “Boy, I could put you to some real work, baby.”

A gush of joy made Cherry preen more. It almost made her cry in relief, too. She'd lost Tommy, but was karma about to reward her for the suffering?

Was this finally her moment with or without him?

She ignored the feeling of emptiness that remained, just as she'd been trying to do for such a long time.

Don was speaking again. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I could definitely find a lot of action for you.”

Even drunk, she could still talk business. “And what movies have you made?”

He waved a casual hand. “Cult classics that have a dedicated audience. Sexy but very classy stuff, perfect for a body like yours.”

Cherry wasn't drunk enough so that she couldn't see a red flag. “Cult classics?”

“That's right. Nice moneymakers. You could have a big following with 'em . . .”

A phrase snaked its way into Cherry's thoughts.
Exploitation film.
This man had it written all over him.

Grief seized her so hard that she almost choked on it, and she turned her back on the guy, stumbling toward the door, bumping into a steel table, steadying herself, and putting down her purse. When she regained her balance, she rushed outside, into the night.

If her stomach had been upset before, it was a pool of acid now.

This was what she'd traded Tommy for—an eternal road of failure.

Hadn't he told her that there was a girl inside of her she'd never found, someone who wasn't Cherry Chastain? And she'd been so sure that she could discover that woman by herself, on her own, with a little ambition and a lot of what she'd been born with . . .

She headed for Mikki's car, not knowing where she'd go without keys or . . . Dammit, where was her purse?

So what. So what about anything . . .

When her boot snagged on a rock, it sent her tripping behind a scraggly tree, face down in the dirt. An insult added to injury. The final straw—a white lace dress soiled, palms scraped by her fall.

She clawed at the ground, giving into the tears, hating herself, knowing that all she was good for now were cheap grindhouse films and go-go cages in clubs where Ann-Margret wouldn't ever have ventured with her dainty feet. And it was only now that Cherry knew she was no Ann-Margret. She wasn't anybody.

Lying there, she didn't even have the energy to keep crying. She only gave into the blankness, listening to Bob Dylan floating over the otherwise silent night, listening to the void that followed. She closed her eyes, letting the alcohol spin her around and around until blackness thankfully made her forget . . .

A scream woke her up.

At first, all she saw as she lifted her head were flames, people running, and cars peeling off and away.

A hallucination? A dream?

Fire?

From the back of her mind, an image took form. She remembered the man with a cigarette, ash dripping toward the ground. Had he dropped it?

She pushed herself up off the ground, her heart blasting against her chest, her eyes pounding. Mikki was in there. But as Cherry lurched toward the house, coming out from behind the tree, she saw the Corvette roaring toward her.

Mikki! She was alive, coming to get Cherry out of here!

She flagged down her friend as the headlights swept over her and—

The car zoomed past, taillights streaming away like red lines bleeding into the night.

Stunned, Cherry stepped back, hitting the tree trunk. She reached for it, knowing it was the only thing that could keep her standing.

Hadn't Mikki seen her?

As the question rotated in Cherry's mind, the screams stopped, the house engulfed by flames now. Vaguely, Cherry thought that no one could be alive in there, and, for all Mikki knew, she was already dead. For all anyone knew.

A great, hollow space opened up in her chest where that last word echoed.

Dead.

But hadn't she been that way for a while now? And she wasn't only thinking about how she felt inside. Cherry Chastain, the dream, the goal, had never really existed.

Always a failure, just as her mom had known she'd be.
You're never going to be a star, Julie. You were such a disappointment to your father and me. You're the reason for his death, so get out of this house . . .

Now, she started to go into the house, moving toward the flames, her mind still numb. No one would ever know she was gone. Why not do it? Why not get it over with?

But even though her feet wanted to move, there was one thing that had always made her stand out from the rest. It was her survival instinct, and it wouldn't let her take another step. It forced her back, back until finally she was running away from the house, beyond the ranch as firefighter sirens cried in the night.

She walked the opposite way from them, down the desert road, not knowing where she was going, only that she couldn't be Cherry Chastain, failure, anymore. She couldn't be Julie, either, because she never really had been. She'd destroyed Julie a long time ago.

Eventually, she heard a car behind her, and it slowed, keeping pace with her as she continued to walk.

“Miss?” asked a woman.

She slowly looked at the elderly driver. Kind face, wrinkled, normal, and so appealing.

“Are you okay, Miss?” the woman asked.

“I . . . think so.”

“Did you escape from the fire? You look the worse for wear, and if there's somewhere I can take you . . .”

She was already shaking her head.

“Oh, dear, you're in shock.” The woman opened the car door, inviting her in. “Please, let me take you home.”

She looked at the woman, stunned that someone could be so good to her, wishing she were the type of person who could be the same.

But . . . why couldn't she be? Why couldn't she turn it around and be the ultimate survivor? Why couldn't she shove her mom's words back in her face and turn out well after all? There was still time to be anything but Cherry or Julie. She was sick of being what she was or, more precisely, what she wasn't, and what if . . .

What if she could just
be
?

She got into the front seat, shutting the door, smiling at the woman with so much gratitude that tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

The car idled as the woman touched her arm. “What's your name, honey?”

She thought for a moment, but she couldn't come up with an answer.

“Well,” the woman said, “you just rest, and you can tell me later. Just sleep now. Just close your eyes and sleep.”

And she did, feeling the car move forward to a new place beyond silver screens and neon-lit stages, somewhere over the horizon.

“Where'd your appetite go?” Suzanne asked Rochelle in yet another hotel suite in a city that had lost its light and luster.

“I'm not hungry right now,” Rochelle said from the luxurious velvet sofa next to her.

“But you're always up for a good meal, my girl.”

Her manager was standing near the window, dressed in an A-line business suit that was perfect for the book expo they were at. Rochelle, on the other hand, was in her sweats, and she'd been that way ever since she'd crashed on the sofa near the window after appearing on a panel and doing a couple of signings. She'd been peering out at the dusky Chicago skyline for the past . . . Well, she wasn't sure how long she'd been peering. Time crawled by everywhere they went, and everything seemed the same—a cycle of images in front of her eyes, hardly registering.

Not when all she could think of was Gideon.

Now that she was a half-country away from him, she felt . . . off. It was as if she had a hole carved in the very center of her, and she'd been the one to do the cutting because she hadn't done a damned thing to stop him from leaving her. Before, with anyone else, she wouldn't have thought much about going on the road, living the wonderful kind of life she'd worked so hard for, filled with feather top beds and sophisticated cocktails with her writing friends. But this time, it all seemed so pointless. She
felt
worthless because she couldn't forget the sight of him walking out of his own door, never looking back.

At first, she'd told herself that he couldn't have possibly developed any feelings for her in such a short time anyway. But then again, hadn't she felt something for the man she'd known as a boy? Hadn't he been hidden away in a tiny spot in her unused heart for years, suddenly pushing at the walls of it until it'd threatened to burst?

But Rochelle didn't do bursting hearts, even if it seemed as if hers had already broken, ripped from the inside out.

How could this have happened when she'd built the perfect life, making sure things with men never got messy? How had all this emotion gotten to her?

Suzanne nudged Rochelle's sofa with her hip. “Come down to dinner. You'll feel better.”

“Dad's going to call.”

“Oh, he is?”

Doubt laced her manager's voice, but Rochelle didn't even have the energy to get riled up about it.

“Besides,” she said, “I'm still full from lunch.” She'd had meal after meal here with booksellers and publicity professionals and friends, then drinks in the afternoon, drinks at happy hour, all while keeping a smile on her face, trying to show them—and most of all herself—that she wasn't thinking about Gideon. That she wasn't missing him until the effort blistered her.

Suzanne sighed. “Well, I could see this coming ten miles away.”

Rochelle didn't ask what she meant. She merely kept watching the nonstop motion of the city below—traffic, horns, and the urban flow muted by the glass.

“Believe me,” Suzanne said, “it'll wear off, Rochelle. I have three divorces to prove it.”

“I know.”

“About the divorces or about the feelings you might've developed for a man who was only a passing thing?”

“Both.”

Rochelle's phone dinged with a text. Her heart sank, because she knew what it signified when she got a ding instead of a ring when she was expecting her father's call. And so did Suzanne as she squeezed Rochelle's shoulder and left the suite. It was as if she didn't know what to say about all the men in Rochelle's life as well as the ones
not
in her life.

With an even heavier heart, Rochelle grabbed the phone from the nearby table. She sank into the sofa and rested her head against the back as she read the text.

Stuck in a meeting. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?

Yes, tomorrow or the next day, or the next. She texted back what she always did.

Sure. Good luck tonight.

She didn't expect a reply, and she knew better than to wait around in the hopes of getting one. Instead, she dialed up Tucker.

It wasn't the first time she'd contacted her cousin over the past two weeks, either.

He must've still been in his garage back in Nevada, because his voice had a concrete echo to it when he answered.

“What's goin' on, Shel?” he asked.

Words felt like icicles spiking through her. When her chest crushed them down into flying shards, the unwelcome emotion caught her heart in its trap, too.

She couldn't talk. She needed a minute.

God, but she needed so much more than that.

“Shel?” Tucker asked in his low tone. “Everything okay?”

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. Before now, she would've fought tooth and nail to hide any weakness, to show everyone that she didn't care and that she could make it on her own. But now that seemed so pointless.

When she found her voice, it was muddled. “How're . . . things?”

Her cousin laughed softly, knowing that she was actually asking about Gideon. But he couldn't stop himself from lightening everything up as much as a guy like Tucker could. “Business is good for me. Thanks for asking.”

“Okay.” She grasped the sofa's carved mahogany arm. “That's cool.”

His voice leveled out. “But I hear your bodyguard's in a sad state. Just like I told you a few days ago. He's been haunting the saloon, on a real destructive streak when he isn't on a job.”

Tucker had told her before that Gideon was drinking too much, and he'd even gone back to old habits, taking women home one after the other. That's what killed Rochelle the most—his return to form. He hadn't liked it when she'd reduced him to a sex toy on their last day together, but there he was, at it again. And
she'd
made him go back to it.

The thought of him being with someone else made her feel the jealous, bitchy claws of rage ripping at her, but what right did she have to it?

Tucker sighed. “I've never seen him like this. Gideon's always kept himself in check, like he wanted to prove to everyone that he was the complete opposite of his dad.” He paused. “I'm sorry me and the boys had a hand in this. We should've never stuck our noses into what you and Gideon had going on, but . . .”

“You thought he'd sleep with me and toss me out, like he does with all the others. I get it, Tuck.” She blew out a breath so heavy with regret that it took extra effort. “But this isn't your fault. It's all on me.”

Tucker listened patiently as she went on, even as her voice cracked.

“I've always tried to be so good at everything I did, but isn't it weird that I'm so terrible at this?”

“At what?”

Could she say it? All she could manage was a compromise.

“At dealing with how I feel for him. I've never been able to handle that.” Even back when they'd first been together, she'd been so eager to please Gideon that she'd done the exact opposite with him. But she was always doing the opposite when it came to him, wasn't she? Leaving when she should've been staying, holding in her emotions when she should've been spilling them out, just as he'd bravely done with her.

What would happen if she ever told him how confused she was about what he did to her and how she couldn't function with him out of her life?

“Shel,” Tucker said, “I guess now's a good time to remind you that you've
always
been the skittish type. You never had a boyfriend when we were kids, and if anyone was interested, you'd turn your back on him. There were a few boys in town who tried to snag your attention, but you were always avoiding it.”

“Except for Gideon.”

“Well, you did a pretty good job of hiding that one from us altogether.”

He was right about the avoidance, and things hadn't changed much as she'd grown up.

“Aren't you done with it yet?” he asked.

“What—avoiding?”

“Yeah. I mean, it's not like I'm one to lecture you . . .” He trailed off, as if he might be thinking of that dancer at the Pink Ladies he'd been trying so hard not to stare at. “But would it be the end of the world if you gave Gideon a call? Would the sky come crashing down on you?”

“It's too late for calls.”

Even she knew it was a lame excuse. Tucker's pause confirmed that, and it gave a swarm of conflicting thoughts enough time to careen around her head, slicing each other until streaks of red blocked everything else out.

Rochelle clutched the phone. Red made her think of Cherry, a woman who'd never made an effort with the man who had been so right for her.

The Chicago lights blurred before her. She didn't want to be Cherry. She didn't want to ask herself every morning when she woke up “What if I'd been brave enough to take a chance on him?” She couldn't live as a shadow of herself, driving off into an unknown, unsure horizon.

And she'd known it ever since Gideon had walked out on her.

***

Two weeks was a long time to be on a binge, but what did Gideon care as long as Kat kept the whisky coming?

A gaggle of shot glasses lined the bar in front of him, slightly obscured by the low-riding brim of his Stetson. He was holding his latest drink between his fingers, scanning the saloon.

Since it was early afternoon, the action was light, and “Freebird” was on the jukebox. Hooper and Dustin, elderly motorcycling regulars, sat with their beers at the opposite end of the bar while a trio of tourists camped in the middle, playing a video-poker machine and hooting every time they hit two jacks and got their money back.

Amateurs.

As the ceiling fans whisked away the heat sneaking in from the outside, Kat leaned against the bar, her arms crossed over her chest, showing off some lean muscles under that black T-shirt she wore.

She caught the direction of his gaze and rolled her big blue eyes. “Don't you dare eye-screw me, Gideon.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Kat.” There was a slur to his words, which was odd, because he didn't slur, ever. Hadn't slurred since he'd tasted his first whisky at the age of eight when he'd snuck into his dad's liquor cabinet and gotten the belt for it afterward.

Okay, maybe there'd been a couple of youthful slurs after, but so what.

“Glad to hear you're looking at me like a sister again,” she said. “Because I won't do as a substitute for Little Miss Getaway.”

He shut out the mention of Rochelle. It was bad enough that Kat and the rest of his friends were giving him the constant worry-eye since she'd left town, but to have to think about her, too? Not gonna happen.

At least Boomer wasn't here to give him a rash of shit; he was on another case out of town. Ben and Liz Hughes were busy with Liz's new dinner club, so they hadn't been around, either, and Jesse Navarro had been holed up at the Pink Ladies, keeping track of an extra-horny doctor convention that'd landed in Vegas this past week. That left Kat to squawk over him.

And she was taking her job seriously.

“I just never thought I'd see the day, Gideon Lane,” she said, shaking her head.

“What? When you had to cut me off?” Gideon toasted her with his whisky and then tossed it down, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the burn. “Hate to tell you, but I've got a whole collection of bottles back at my place. Trouble is, I hate to drink alone.”

“Trouble is that from home you wouldn't be able to pick up the next woman who walks into the bar.”

Gideon gestured for another shot. At the same time, he cast a long, slow look at one of the tourists playing video poker. She was blond, dark eyed, and bouncy as she squealed at her friend, who was winning back his bets. Hell, maybe the guy, who had a crew cut and ruddy cheeks, was her boyfriend, seeing as her other companion was a woman. Either way, Gideon couldn't give less of a shit.

He only wished Rochelle could see how much her leaving hadn't affected him.

The blonde smiled at him and he smiled back. Kat refilled his glass and thumped her hand on the bar to get his attention.

“I have to say, cowboy, that your pop never met a drink he didn't like, and I had to ban him from the saloon about fifty times over. He thought with his dick about as much as you're thinkin' with yours these days.”

“Fuck off, Kat.”

“No, Gideon, you fuck off.” She braced her hands on the bar and leaned toward him, her gaze fierce. “I'm stuck between wanting Rochelle to get her ass back here so you can sober up and telling her to stay away forever, because she's made you a real mess. And you've never been a mess—not even in the worst circumstances.”

He knew Kat wouldn't bring up his secret about his parents, but he started to point at her anyway, just to cut
her
off. Instead, he knocked over an empty glass.

“See,” she said. “A mess.”

As she cleared his collection, he took her words in, knowing every one of them was right.

He swiped a hand down his face. “For years, I hoped she would come back, Kat. I never really thought she would, so when I saw her standing here in the saloon that night, I thought it was a dream. Mostly a bad dream, because when she left the first time, I never forgot her. She was the only one who ever did that to me, so of course, she was the one I wanted more than anything.”

“You know what that's called?” Kat asked, tilting her head in what he thought might be sympathy.

“No.” He still had his pride, so he wasn't about to tell her that “eternal flame” fit the bill.

“Masochism,” Kat said. Sympathy wasn't even within a hundred-mile radius.

He leaned his forearms on the bar, and Kat reached over to flick up the brim of his hat.

“Buddy,” she said, “even if I don't like what you're sayin' about that woman, I know what you're
trying
to say. Sometimes, there's one person in your life that you feel you've always known, no matter where they are or where they've been. They walk into a room and it seems like you just saw them yesterday and that you'll wither away if they ever step out on you. I hate to say so, mostly because I'll kick Rochelle's butt if I ever see her again, but a part of you would've been waiting for her to come back whether it was years ago or now.”