Small Town Girl (5 page)

Trying to drive the encounter with Joella and his own personal demons out of his mind, Flint called his sons the instant he returned to the house he'd rented.

The call thus far hadn't been very successful.

"Mom, I have a great place out in the woods," Flint tried to say convincingly to the protective gargoyle keeping him from his kids. "The boys will love it."

He didn't tell his mother that the log house he described with such enthusiasm had been built in the fifties and not updated since—no dishwasher, one and a half baths, and pink tile. At least he had a microwave. The boys could survive without a swimming pool for a weekend.

He worked the spongy ball with his left hand, feeling the pain from the mending bones and unused tendons shooting straight up his arm.

"If you're working, what will they do with themselves all day?" his mother asked with arctic frost. "Have you given that any thought?"

"They can work with me. It's not as if I'm hauling coal. It will be good for them to get out from in front of the idiot box." He sank deeper into the leather recliner he'd saved from the auction that had divided all his worldly goods between Melinda and the IRS. "I'll take off work for the weekend if that's your concern."

Working the ball in his left hand, he crossed the fingers of his right. He'd have to hire another waitress to perform that magic act.
Magic
. Right. Joella the Jiggling Genie had scarfed up his brain. He couldn't help grinning, recalling her brash act. If he could afford to fire her, he would, just for the sake of his own mental health. But he needed experienced help, and she sure had a way of brightening the day.

He'd hire the devil if it would get his boys back here with him. Maybe he hadn't been the greatest father in the world, but now that he was home and could be there for them, he needed to start learning what a father was supposed to do.

"Maybe when you're better settled in, as we discussed," his mother said. "Your father and I can bring them up, and you can show us around."

Flint ground his teeth. She'd been there when the kids needed her, latching onto his sons like a mother hen with her chicks. He didn't want to fight her now. "Sure, Mom, that would be good. The town hasn't changed though. I survived it."

She didn't like being reminded of her country origins, he remembered too late.

"Just barely." The frost in her voice grew icicles. "If you'd had a better education, you might have made something of yourself. You could have been a banker like your brother."

"Or sell insurance like Jim, right. Four gold records don't mean a thing. Tell the kids I called. I'll try again tomorrow night." Hurt in more ways than he cared to count, Flint flung the ball at the shelf where the stereo should have been.

"They have a game tomorrow night," she reminded him. "If you can stagger out of bed before nine on Saturday morning, you might catch them then."

Okay, he deserved that. He clicked off the phone, dropped his head back against the leather cushion, and stared at the arched rafters of his ceiling. He'd never been around when the boys needed him. Why shouldn't they return the favor? His mother aiding and abetting them didn't help though.

If he hadn't been such a horny bastard, he would probably never have married at all. His uptight mother was enough to permanently put a man off women. But he'd been just twenty-three when he'd knocked up Melinda, and even though he'd known marriage would be a disaster, he'd done the honorable thing and ruined both their lives for the sake of the baby. Schools needed to teach common sense instead of math.

The phone rang, and he contemplated flinging it across the cavernous room, but he was used to company, and loneliness didn't suit him. He punched the button. "Last Chance Ranch, Flynn the Barbarian speaking." He waited for the pleasure of shocked silence.

"Not Flynn the Kung Fu Fighter or Clint the Crooner?" a sultry soprano sang in his ear without hesitation.

Sopranos weren't supposed to be sultry. Blondes weren't supposed to be quick on the uptake either. "I never crooned," he growled. "I'm just a picker." And a songwriter, but no one cared about that. Besides, he wasn't either anymore. "What did you want, Miss Joella?"

He wished she had a name like Miss Prune or a voice like rusty hinges so he could keep the employer/employee thing at an icy distance. Just one more example of his rotten luck that he'd inherited a blond sex goddess for a waitress instead of a shriveled-up battle-ax.

"Your night shift didn't show up, and the boys want to know if it's still okay to play in your back room."

He thought the cafe closed at three. He had every intention of being home for his sons when they got out of school. "Want to run that by me again?" he asked, just in case something had been lost between his hearing and his imagining of Jo nibbling on his ear.

"Charlie always let Slim and the boys play the back room if Mary Jean kept the cafe open. But Mary Jean had a baby last week. I've got the lot of them at my place pacing the floor. I can open up the cafe tonight, but I can't do it every night. Amy is taking classes, and I keep the kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays since her lout of a husband is always at the office and too busy to look after them."

Information overload. Bells rang, whistles wailed, and his brain refused to get beyond
boys
and
play
. "What boys?" he asked, trying to sort through the info dump.

A sigh of impatience emanated from the receiver, and his overstimulated brain translated it to the heave of Joella's amazing breasts.

"Didn't Charlie tell you anything? Local groups use that stage in the back room. They charge admission on weekends and use it for practice during the week. The acoustics are better than a garage, and it's warmer in winter."

"Joella, would you mind answering just the question I ask and not half a dozen I don't care about?" He'd been thinking about turning that back room into a real office. He should have asked about the drums he'd seen in there. "Charlie was supposed to call and fill me in before he left for Florida. What hospital is he in? Maybe I can go visit him."

"We don't have a hospital," she answered. "He's recuperating with his daughter in Charlotte. I'll give you his number. Got paper?"

Once he'd scribbled the number, his brain had processed her problem and developed a few of his own.

"Do I have liability insurance to cover bands and audiences?" He hadn't been oblivious to the business around him, just the people.

That shut her up for all of five seconds, a new record, he calculated.

"I'll talk to George Bob. He carries Charlie's insurance. But there's no audience tonight. I've got a key. You don't need to come in."

He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to get near music ever again. It was a temptation he could do without, kind of like a drunk and alcohol. "All right," he agreed. "Just tonight. I gotta find out how much this is gonna cost."

"It'll cost you more if you kick out some of your best customers. See ya in the mornin'."

She hung up, and the big cabin echoed with emptiness again. Flint gazed at his bare shelves. His state-of-the-art stereo equipment hadn't brought half what it was worth at auction, but he'd seen a certain justice in Melinda getting half of his soul as well as most of his money.

At the time, he'd been too livid to realize how fleeting life was.

Slim and the boys watched Joella anxiously as she hung up the phone. She flashed them a bright smile and a thumbs-up, even though she'd heard the negativity in her boss's voice. It looked mighty like Flynn Clinton would be even more mule-headed than Charlie.

The guys cheered and began packing up their gear to carry it down the fire escape to the cafe's back room.

She unlocked the back door, turned on the overheads, and held the sagging door while Turbo entered with his keyboard, and Slim and Eddie carried in their guitar cases and amps. Bo's drums were already there. She didn't want to think where in town he could leave them and the bass amps if they had to move out.

"Hey, Jo, you got any new material for us?" Slim asked. "Now Randy's using the old stuff, we need something of our own."

"Why, so you can all make it big and leave me behind, too?" she half-joked. It still hurt real bad when she thought about Randy's desertion just as he was hitting the big time. He'd promised to take her with him on his path to fame and fortune.

She was a little slow to make the same mistake twice, but she'd finally learned her lesson.

"You know us better than that, Jo-Jo," Slim said. "We think you're the best thing to come along since Jack met Daniel."

She'd feel a little better about that if Slim were looking at her and not his guitar while he said it. People around here pretty much took her for granted. She was about the only person who thought she had what it took for a bigger and better life than being a small-town waitress. Maybe she was wrong, and it was time to admit it, but Stubborn was her middle name. Or Stupid, if she believed the men in her life.

"I've got a few rhymes you can play with, if you want." Jo pulled a crumpled paper out of her pocket. "But the words aren't all there yet. They need some work." The lines needed a
lot
of work. Kind of hard to do upbeat with a broken heart. Or even a numb one.

Eddie took the paper from her and scanned her nearly illegible handwriting. "Kinky. You've got a way with words, girl." He passed the paper on to Slim and strummed a few chords. "Same key?"

"Y'all know I can't compose worth diddly. You work it out. I gotta make a few calls." She left them with her foolish verses and ran back upstairs. She'd taught herself basic piano and guitar, but mostly she hung around the band because they were willing to play her ditties. She'd given up hope of singing her way out of here after the Atlanta humiliation. Then Randy had come along and played on her hunger for respect by claiming her songs and his singing could make them rich.

Well, he'd taken himself to fame and fortune, although that probably had more to do with his good looks, charm, and sexy tenor than it did with her rhymes. If she scratched both singing and songwriting, she didn't have too many escape hatches left.

Nights like this, she was so lonesome, she could cry, just like the song said.

Chapter Five

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"George Bob, so help me, if you don't give Flint a good deal on that insurance, I'll tell your mama about the time you took me behind the shed and talked me out of my panties." Jo slid a doughnut and a coffee mug to her childhood nemesis.

George was three years older than her twenty-eight, and he looked every year of it. Tall and thin, he'd never been bad looking, but his nondescript brown hair had grown thinner, and now that she looked close, so had his mouth. He looked like a priggish stickler who sold insurance. When had they become their parents?

He shot her an annoyed look. "You were five and I was eight. This is business, Joella. A man has to make a living. Keep your nose out of it."

"When pigs fly, Georgie-boy," she sang, unfazed by his refusal. He'd remember her threat when the time came.

"Which reminds me, that blasted flying pig you talked me into is blocking the sign on my door. Why don't you sweet-talk your new employer into taking it?"

"Flying pig?"

Jo rolled her eyes as Flint used his amazing timing to walk up at the wrong moment. Familiarity hadn't bred enough contempt yet, she reflected, nor driven out the memory of his mind-melting kisses. She'd woken up in the middle of the night sweating over a tasty dream of his buff chest all naked and propped above her.

She tried not to admire the way his short-sleeved shirt clung to his muscular biceps and his too long hair brushed the collar, but every damned woman in here had taken notice. Even the blue-haired ladies had flirted when Flint had walked by. And he smiled at all of them—just as he had at Jo that first night. And hadn't done since.

"The flying pig is the very best one," she told George, ignoring her boss. "It's bound to win the prize. Move the pedestal."

Jo sauntered on to the next customer. Both men watched in appreciation. She was wearing a narrow, black miniskirt and hot pink golf shirt under her apron today, color-coordinating with the cafe's fifties colors. The apron hid nothing from the rear.

"She's a bossy brat," George Bob opined. "I don't know how you put up with her."

Flint gazed around at the customers occupying his tables. The ones remaining after rush hour were all men. "It helps to pay her," he said noncommittally, sliding into the booth seat across from George. "I tried calling Charlie last night, but his wife wouldn't let him come to the phone. Says he needs his rest, and worrying about this place won't help him. So I'm out on this limb alone." He produced a sheet of paper from his pocket. "I picked up a few estimates before I called you."

George held out his hand. "Mind if I see them?"

Flint stuffed the folded paper back in his shirt pocket. "Give me your best offer, and we'll work from there. I'm on a tight budget and have to work out the cost differentials."

"Charlie never had enough coverage," George asserted.

"I have no assets," Flint countered. "Going broke paying too much insurance is a certainty. Getting sued isn't."

Well, actually, given past experience, getting sued almost was a certainty, but he wasn't inclined to mention that. He'd decided to make one last call this morning before he started digging his own grave.

As George talked liabilities and assets, Flint watched his waitress greet a shorter, sensible version of herself entering the shop. The brunette in a blue suit held a kid in each manicured hand, and Joella crouched down in that breath-stealing skirt to hug them.

He almost missed his insurance agent's quote when Jo stood with a sexy swirl, the little boy's hand gripped in hers. Returning his wandering attention to business, Flint put on his good-ol'-boy grin and took the paper George pushed at him. "I'll crunch the numbers and let you know."