In Your Wildest Dreams (5 page)

"I'll go back," she whispered, staring blankly at the screen, "but how the hell will I face the bartender?"

And if he comes on to me again, how will I resist this time?

Shondra's stomach rambled fiercely, but she was used to hunger pangs. So she looked down at the dollar bill in her hand and, instead of darting off to buy a day-old doughnut at the bakery on St. Ann, she stuffed it in her pocket. At the same time, she checked to make sure the five was still there. Damn, five dollars! That guy must be whack, giving away money like that. She'd been sure he wanted something, but she'd slept in peace on the old mattress. Best sleep she'd had in a couple of weeks.

Not that she trusted him. She didn't trust nobody. Trusting only got you hurt and she was too smart for that.

She leaned up against the cracked plaster wall in the hot little room with the washing machines, listening as two of them ran. "Other three's broken," the old woman in the flowery tent dress had told her a little while ago. "So ever'body's gotta fight over these two. Give you a dollar you stay and watch my clothes, don't let nobody take my washers. I got four more loads to do."

Money, just for watching washing machines? She'd said, "You got it," plucking the bill from the woman's wrinkled hand before she'd waddled away in canvas tennis shoes nearly as dirty as Shondra's.

If somebody had given her a dollar
yesterday,
she'd have thought,
Screw the damn washing machines,
and hit the street for the bakery. Afterward, she'd have taken out the paper cup in her backpack and sat in front of St. Louis Cathedral asking for quarters until the cops ran her off. But this wasn't a bad place and she wasn't gonna blow it. For all she knew,
every
fool who lived in this building would give her a dollar to watch their washers. She let her back slide down the wall until she rested on worn, pockmarked linoleum.

When a large shadow filled the open doorway, she flinched. "Shit," she muttered, looking up to find the guy from last night.

He jolted, too. "What the
hell!
Then he sighed. "What are you doin' in here,
'tite
fille?'
He wore a white T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. His dark hair was messier than last night, like he hadn't combed it yet today.

She glanced at the washers, then at the cracked old laundry basket he toted. "Hope you ain't plannin' to wash those clothes."

He blinked. "Why?"

"Machines are taken."

He tilted his head. "And who appointed you laundry police?"

"Mrs. La
...
somethin'."

"LaFourche," he said on another sigh. "Thinks she owns the damn laundry room." He rolled his eyes.

"She gave me a dollar not to let nobody mess with these machines. She's got other loads." She patted the front pocket of her blue jeans.

He raised his eyebrows, delivering a pointed look. "I gave you
five
dollars last night. What do / get?"

Was he taking back what he said? Did he want in her pants, after all? She pushed staunchly to her feet. "You said you was just bein' nice."

He plopped his basket on the floor. "Don't get your back up,
'tite
fille.
I
was
just bein' nice. But what say we make us a little bargain?"

She crossed her arms, stood up straighter, tried to look mean. "Like what?"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet, then held out a ten toward her. "What say you run down to the
Café Du
Monde and get us some
beignets
for breakfast."

She worked not to let her relief show. "It's too late for breakfast."

"Call it lunch then, whatever you want."

She glanced at the money, thinking some
beignets
sounded damn good. Wouldn't even cut into her six-dollar stash, either. Another hunger pang prodded her to take the cash, but she glanced to the machines. "What about the washers? I promised. For the dollar."

He tilted his head. "I'll watch 'em for ya."

She widened her gaze accusingly. "You won't steal 'em? Won't put your clothes in as soon as hers are done?"

He gave his head a solemn shake, which made her believe him. And she couldn't deny he'd kept his promises so far. "In fact, while you're there, get me three bucks' worth of quarters for the Laundromat. And get somethin' to drink with your
beignets,
too."

Shondra thought about saying thanks, but decided not to. Wouldn't pay to let her soft side show, even if the dude seemed straight up. "How many you want?"

"An order for me, and an orange juice. Get however many you want for yourself."

"For real?" She hadn't eaten since day before yesterday.

He gave a short nod before glancing to his feet, where a cute, furry little dog stood. It made her think of Rex, the boxer she'd gotten as a puppy for her tenth birthday— leaving Rex had been one of the hardest things about running away.

Just when she was gonna ask to pet his dog, he yelled at it.
"Vat'on,
scruffy old mutt! Get outta here!" He waved a hand to shoo the poor dog away.

"Don't holler at him," she said as the pooch ducked his head and tail, moping back out into the courtyard.

"Why not? Mangy thing just comes around to beg food and bother people."

Something inside her drew up tight at his words. Like the dog, she looked down at the cracked flooring. The air felt thicker than usual.

"Sorry," he said, his voice softer than she'd heard it before.

She risked a short glance up. "It's a'ight. You're cooler to me than you are to the dog, so what do I care?"

His eyes went a little softer, too, as he quirked half a smile in her direction. "I
like
you better than the dog."

"What's to like?" She hadn't felt very likable in a long time.

"Like I said last night, you're pretty funny." He glanced to the washers. "And looks like you're pretty dependable, too."

She rolled her eyes toward a saggy, water-stained ceiling. "Laundry guard. My claim to fame. You want my autograph?"

"See, you're a laugh a minute," he chuckled, then pointed toward the street. "But my stomach's growlin', so get goin' with you."

She nodded, moving past him out to the courtyard before stopping to look back. "What's your name?"

"Jake."

"I'm Shondra." She turned to go, but as she passed by the dog, now lying in a spot of shade just big enough to hold him, she couldn't resist stopping to pet his head. "He ain't so bad as he seems," she whispered to the dog, glancing back to see Jake disappear into the laundry room.

When she took off toward the gate again, the pooch trailed her. "Stay," she said, trying to sound firm but not harsh. She didn't want him getting into traffic. "Stay here and I'll be back soon," she said as if he could understand her.

Then she smiled to herself as she headed off toward the
Café Du
Monde. Jake would never know if she got an order of
beignets
for the dog, too.

Jake perused the bottles perched on the glass shelves behind the bar, taking inventory of the booze. It was a task he'd been putting off, but he'd come into work early, more energetic than usual.

The sun shining through the old scratched-up windows of his apartment didn't generally keep him from sleeping, but he'd found himself getting up early today, too. Late for most people, but early for him. He'd lifted weights— the equipment being among the few things he'd taken when he'd moved out of the little house near City Park. Then he'd even gone around the apartment picking up laundry. He wasn't sure where the burst of energy had come from, but it was good timing, since he'd run out of clean clothes.

He
hated
laundry. He couldn't seem to load clothes into a washer or fold towels from a dryer without images of Becky filling his head. She'd always taken care of their clothes with a merry little smile on her face, like she knew some secret about laundry that no one else did.

So he'd been almost thankful for the distraction the homeless kid had provided. Shondra. Daylight had revealed she was pretty, with long, wavy hair and smooth brown skin. No wonder she'd thought he'd wanted to get in her pants, then gotten so nervous again today. His gut pinched wondering how many men she'd already had to fear at thirteen or fourteen.

Despite himself, he was glad he hadn't let her stay on the streets. She wasn't exactly oj^the streets now, but at least he'd given her a safer place to sleep than most homeless kids had. He was glad he'd fed her, too.

He couldn't start going all soft, though. Girl would go and get herself hurt or worse, and then there he'd
be, feeling
it. The loss, the regret—the sense that he hadn't done enough and should have known better than to even try in the first place. Wasn't gonna happen.

Behind him, someone slapped the bar impatiently. "Bartender, give me a White Russian."

He turned to find Alan Cummings, a sharply handsome investment hotshot who he'd come to think of as a real asshole. For one thing, the guy had probably heard fifty people call Jake by name, but he stuck with "bartender," giving it enough of an inflection to make it clear he thought he was better.

"Sure," Jake said, hoping his tone conveyed his similar disregard for the man.

He poured the drink, finishing with the splash of milk that gave it color, and took Cummings's money. He didn't leave a tip.

"Hey Jakey," said Misti, a brunette raspberry daiquiri, as she sashayed up to the bar in a dress cut nearly to her navel.

Jake put on his workplace smile, but almost thought he preferred "bartender." Misti was giggly, silly, too youthful for the setting, and the very sight of her tonight, for some reason, made his gut wrench with disgust for Sophia's third floor. "Let me guess. Raspberry daiquiri?"

She raised her eyebrows cartoonishly. "How'd you know?"

Because people are predictable.
He'd learned that at the police academy and had since discovered how true it was. People liked patterns, especially in high-tension situations. They liked to reach for the familiar to give them some sense of control. "Just lucky," he said.

She tilted her head. "You know, I like when a bartender knows what I want to drink, or when a waitress remembers what I like to eat." Clearly a delightful new thought in her young mind.

You like it because it makes you feel you belong somewhere. Like somebody gives a shit about you in some way.

He was tempted to explain that to her, but didn't. Because he didn't care. Didn't care how young she was, or how foolish.

You 're all just drinks to me.
He thought of saying that, too, to remind himself as much as her. But he bit
his
tongue, kept on with the smile, and said, "You have a good night, okay?" He even added a wink for good measure as he pushed down the useless thoughts clouding his head.

With that, silly Misti eased down from the stool with her drink and disappeared into the lush surroundings, which had grown crowded without his realizing. He glanced at a little clock behind the bar. Ten-thirty on the dot.

As if on cue, one of the red curtains at the door was drawn back to admit a blond vision in black lace. Long legs, high breasts, creamy skin—this woman had the whole package. That's when he narrowed his gaze and realized who it was.

Stephanie Grant.

His chest clenched with a combination of desire and anger.

Damn it, she'd come back. After he'd warned her how dangerous it was. He'd thought she'd seemed adequately off balance by the time they'd parted ways, but now he wondered if maybe that was just from the touching.

The truth was, it had left
him
off balance, too, and though he'd done a decent job of not thinking about her today, now it all came rushing back. Her gentle sighs beneath him in the red room. The catch of her breath when he skimmed his fingers over that sinfully soft skin. That fast, he was fighting an erection. Peter, Paul, and Mary.

To his surprise, rather than try to duck him, she made her way directly to the bar.

Predictable? Not
this
woman, it seemed.