Читать книгу In Emmylou's Hands - Pamela Hearon - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

June 22

EMMYLOU GRABBED TWO towels as she stepped out of the shower, wrapping her wet hair with one, drying herself with the other, briskly. She should have been dabbing her skin gently rather than scrubbing it like a potato, but she was much too jittery. As she turned, her eyes dropped to the reflection in the full-length mirror of the skin on her thigh just below her butt cheek.

Oh Lord...is that the beginning of cellulite?

“No...no,” she whimpered. “Cellulite isn’t allowed. Not today.”

But sure enough, on closer inspection, there were indeed a couple of small dimples. Why, oh, why hadn’t she been proactive and gone ahead and splurged on that miracle cream while QVC had it on sale? “Now it’ll cost me an arm and a leg,” she huffed.

The mention of a leg brought her back to the reason she was jittery...

Sol Beecher would be here soon.

“Over six hundred tickets in that drawing.” She slapped the towel over the bar, spreading it out to dry. “The man has five and one of them gets picked as the winner. What are the odds?” She snorted at her reflection. “Why, those odds would be six hundred to five, I believe.” She tried to do the math in her head, but it got jumbled, so she gave up, satisfied to be in the neighborhood of correct. “Something close to one hundred something to one.”

Today Sol was picking up the keys to the beach house. She’d been planning what she’d wear for the event for two weeks and had finally decided on her gold bikini. She would be lounging by the pool—totally oblivious that this was the day they’d arranged. When he arrived, she wouldn’t have her cover-up available. In her own backyard? Of course not. She would invite him into the house, so he’d have to follow her—and no doubt check her out thoroughly—and he would be the sorriest man alive that he’d ever allowed her to slip away.

But now? Now his vision would fill with the sight of cellulite—two dimples of it, one for each eye. A much easier math problem than the other one.

What it added up to was that she was back to square one about what to wear.

She rushed to her closet, jerking hangers, searching for the new perfect outfit to show off her...assets. And make him sorry.

Geez, he could get her riled.

Since her first date at the age of fifteen, she’d never lost a guy she wanted. That wasn’t to say no one had ever broken up with her. Lots of them had. No, that was an exaggeration. A few of them had. But those breakups came at times when she was ready to call it quits.

Sol Beecher was the only one who ever walked away leaving her still wanting him.

Still she hadn’t completely admitted defeat, even after all these years.

Someday he would get through the self-absorbed funk he walked around in. He would see her...want her. And when that happened, she’d kick his bad leg out from under him and let him fall on his metaphorical ass.

The lime-green skirt had previously failed to catch his attention, and the gold bikini was out.

Wonder Woman costume? Nah, too obvious.

The chime alerted her that a vehicle had pulled into her driveway. She sprinted to the bedroom window and let out a groan at the sight of Sol’s black truck. “Early? Noooo!” She snatched her watch from the vanity and examined it. Sure enough, the stem was pulled out. She’d thought it was ten-ten, when in reality it was ten fifty-five.

Sol Beecher was only five minutes early.

Bentley woke from his nap in the middle of her bed. He jumped down and headed to the door as she threw the towel from her hair and ran back into the closet, grabbing the first top and bottom her hands touched. No time to dry her hair...or even run a comb through it. No time for makeup. The shorts were old jeans she’d cut off—ragged and frayed at the edges—while the T-shirt was one a friend had brought her. Bright purple, it sported a picture of Chewbacca on the front with MILWOOKIE above him in green block letters.

The sound of the doorbell mixed with Bentley’s bark of greeting.

Emmy rammed her toes into some flip-flops and her fingers through her hair on her way to the door. Bentley loved being out in the yard, but he didn’t have on the collar that went with the underground fence. So she grabbed the collar he was wearing as she turned the doorknob. Excited by the company, Bentley jumped back, causing her to jerk the door open with a swoosh.

Sol’s brown eyes widened in surprise...and then squinted. “EmmyLou?”

Go ahead, buster. Rub it in.

“Yeah.” Embarrassment made her insides cringe, but she refused to let him see her discomfort. “Just got out of the shower.” Bentley danced with excitement, hopping up and down like a deranged kangaroo. “Come in, would you? He’s going to rip my arm out of its socket.”

“I’m a little early. I figured I’d just stop by on my way into town.” Sol stepped inside and closed the door. “But I see I should’ve called first. This is obviously a bad time.”

The way his eyes raked over her went through her like a tack into corkboard. “Not a problem,” she snapped, releasing her hold on Bentley.

The dog made straight for the man’s bad leg...and began humping it.

“Oh good Lord!” Emmy scrambled to disengage the two, but Sol lost his balance and stumbled back against the door, luckily catching himself. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.” She was overdoing the apology. “Get down, Bentley. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Would you just get me the damn key?” Sol forced the words out. “Please.”

She pulled Bentley along and closed him up in her bedroom, then hurried to the kitchen to grab the key and the list of rules for the use of the beach house. She paused there to catch her breath and give her brain time to come up with something humorous to alleviate the awkward moment.

She and Sol didn’t get along, but that didn’t make it okay to humiliate him.

Aggravate? Yeah. Humiliate? No.

She looked down the rules, stopping as number six caught her eye...and gave her an idea. A true EmmyLou-ism.

She sauntered back to the living room, handing him the key when she got within arm’s reach. “That’s the key.” She then held out the paper and he took it, his eyes scanning it. “Just a list of rules for the house,” she explained. “Common sense mostly. Don’t put cans down the garbage disposal. Don’t start a campfire in the living room. Don’t pick the lock on the family’s private suite.”

He met her gaze, his eyes hooded.

“That’s where we keep our private stuff.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want you knowing my secrets...or going through my drawers.”

Most people would’ve laughed. Not Sol Beecher.

He shook his head as he opened the front door. “No worries, then. Been there. Done that.”

He must have sensed she was about to kick his ass, because he moved outside faster than she would’ve thought him capable of.

She slammed the door behind him.

Damn him! If humiliation was what he was about, she could be all over him like ugly on an ape.

This game was on.

* * *

NOW, THIS IS LIVING.

Sol dug his toes deeper into the sand and took another sip of his bourbon, reminding himself that he’d almost allowed his anger to get the best of him yesterday and let this opportunity pass him by.

He was glad he hadn’t, even if he’d had to endure EmmyLou’s obviously planned slight. Or perhaps, unplanned was the better way of thinking about it.

She would’ve been dressed to the nines with her makeup and hair done for any other adult male on the planet. But not him. She had to prove just how low he rated on her scale of men. If he was a gambler, he’d wager that, apart from family, he was one of the few men who’d ever seen her without makeup.

Of course, the joke was on her. With her dark brown hair and smooth olive complexion, she was more beautiful without all that makeup, but you’d never convince her of that. She was one of those women who wanted you to believe she got out of bed with everything in place.

As a matter of fact, the one night they spent together, she did sleep with her makeup on...and got up early the next morning to fix herself up before he woke.

Crazy-ass woman.

He shouldn’t let her get under his skin, and he shouldn’t have made that parting comment. But the woman had a way about her that made him want to... He took another sip of bourbon, letting its slow burn uncover the truth. Made him want to...

Don’t go there. Ms. EmmyLou Perfect may have prettied up for you years ago, but now she doesn’t even view you as a man.

It was difficult for anybody else to see him that way, he guessed, when he could hardly see it himself. The man he’d used to be, the cocksure man about town who’d played the field like an all-star...that guy got blown away, along with his lower leg, his hopes and his dreams, by a rocket-propelled grenade.

But he wouldn’t dwell on that this week.

The beach house was a perfect combination of comfortable family home and convenient guesthouse just steps away from the Gulf of Mexico with only a stretch of sugary white sand in between. According to the fire escape diagram on the kitchen wall, there were two suites downstairs and two up, though he couldn’t confirm that since he’d elected not to attempt the stairs yet. The nice, wide balcony on the second level would be the perfect place to catch the sunset, though. So sometime over the next week he’d make the climb.

Difficult, but worth it.

EmmyLou’s laughing brown eyes flashed into his mind again. As she’d warned, the family suite was locked. One of those boxes hung on the door handle—the kind with the combination that opened a compartment that held a key. The locked door piqued his curiosity, especially because it was directly across from the suite he’d claimed. But he doubted the room contained any deep family secrets.

The way EmmyLou’s mouth ran, no secret could remain safe with her for very long.

The beach had been crowded when he arrived this evening, but it was deserted now. The gentle, phosphorescent waves lapping at the sand called to him. He detached his prosthesis and grabbed the despicable but necessary crutches.

Walking in the sand was tricky, but there was no one around to mark his awkward, slow progress. He understood how those newly hatched baby sea turtles must feel—drawn innately to the water...determined to make it or die trying.

The sand cooled the closer he got to the lacy edge of foam, so the first touch of water across his foot surprised him. It was warm and so inviting. He wished to hell he had a prosthesis suitable for use in salt water.

But he didn’t, and wishes were about as helpful as tits on a boar.

He eased out another couple of steps until the water hit his calf at the midpoint, letting the peacefulness seep through his—

“Damnation!” A branding iron seared the skin on his leg. His gaze dropped to the water, where the moonlight caught the opalescent glow of the army of jellyfish. They had him surrounded! Knowing it was a mistake didn’t keep his brain from encouraging him to run, so he sprinted...but only for one step. And then he fell. One of the little sons of a bitch washed into the leg of his cargo shorts on the next wave and proceeded to sting him on the stump. Another came to the first one’s defense and attacked the top of his foot.

Sol scrambled for the sand—the baby sea turtle with his gears in Reverse—somehow managing to keep a grip on his crutches while trying to keep the sand out of his artificial knee socket by holding the half leg out at a ninety-degree angle. With dry sand beneath him, he was safe. He stopped on all threes and caught his breath, wondering if anybody had seen his absurd antics. If they had, they must have pegged him for deranged. In his present position, he looked a lot like a dog trying to take a piss.

A laugh rolled out of him, released from a storage hold he hadn’t opened much lately, while the icy hot tendrils still irritated the places where they’d made contact. Rolling over onto his back, he lay there until his laughter subsided and he closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, feeling...alive.

Happy to be here.

He should call EmmyLou and thank her. The thought spurred him to action.

Maneuvering onto his knee, he used the crutches to get back to a standing position and moved at a much smoother pace across the sand this time. As soon as he reached the deck, he grabbed his prosthesis and walloped his butt a good lick.

The best thing about having an artificial leg was being able to kick yourself in the ass when ridiculous ideas popped into your brain.

* * *

“OH JOE WAYNE...oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne.”

The woman beneath him sounded like a CD with some lint that caused it to stick, and Joe Wayne Fuller found it mighty distracting. Maybe if he changed things up a bit...rolled over to his side...

The room whirled as he eased to the left, but Ramona’s sturdy thigh shoved him back into place. Her legs locked tighter around him, and she began to buck harder, drumming his ass with her heels. “Oh, yes, baby. Just like that. Give me more of that.”

“You like this?” he panted, trying to stay focused and not think about how much his head was spinning and how much pain her heels was inflicting. He’d have bruises, for sure...and a helluva hangover. “You like—ow! Sunshine, you got to—oof!...take it easier. You’re making me lose—”

“No! Don’t stop!” Her teeth sank into his shoulder.

“Shitfire! No more biting. You promised.” A week with Ramona had left his neck and shoulders looking like he’d been to a damn vampire convention.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Just don’t stop. Don’t stop.” The last word came out on a snarl that sounded like a rabid dog.

He hoped to hell when this was over, he didn’t have to put her down like they did Old Yeller.

“Oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne...”

Speaking of “yeller”...

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Joe Wayne squeezed his eyes shut, reminding himself to keep Ramona far away from the Wild Turkey tomorrow night...if there was a tomorrow night...if he lived through this beating.

“Don’t stop. Don’t. Stop! Stop!” Ramona sucked in a gulp of air and hurled him off of her and the bed.

“What the hell?”

A car door slammed.

“My husband!”

“Husband?” Joe Wayne scrambled to his feet. “You never told me you—”

“Oh, shut up and leave.” She was out of the bed now with a wild look in her eye, and Joe Wayne’s gut told him this wasn’t a good time to argue. Ramona snatched clothes from the floor and shoved them into his arms as she pushed him toward the bathroom.

The front door opened slightly, wood cracking as it slammed against the chain lock, followed by a man’s roar. “Ramona! Get your ass out of bed and let me in!”

“Your only chance to make it out alive is through that window,” she whispered and then let out a yell. “I’m coming, baby!”

Joe Wayne pushed it open and sized up the opening...a mighty small chance, by his way of thinking.

“Don’t stop to dress.” The warning in her tone sent prickles up his spine.

“What about Patsy?” He threw the clothes out the window and climbed onto the toilet to hoist a leg through. Ow! He ground his teeth to keep from crying out as his private parts scraped across the rough wood. “I can’t leave without my bike.”

“Get it tomorrow.” Ramona gave him a helpful push, sending him tumbling to the ground, then closed the window behind him. A second later, the window opened again, and his boots thumped him in the head.

Joe Wayne grabbed the clothes and boots, gripping them to his chest, and took off behind the neighbors’ houses, his heart chugging for all it was worth. He ran like a jackrabbit under the cover of darkness until his lungs felt like they was gonna bust. When he couldn’t take a breath without a hot poker stabbing his side, he finally gave up and stopped to dress. Leaning on the side of a garage, taking in huge gulps of air, he rammed one leg into his jeans and then the other and jerked hard.

The waistband stopped its upward movement at the top of his thighs, pinning his legs together and not letting them move. “Shitfire!” He gritted his teeth as his right hip connected with the ground.

Jerking the jeans off, he examined them. Not his. Ramona’s. And even though she was a curvy woman, there was no way his ass was gonna fit into her jeans. A snatch of color caught his eye. Her orange thong hung on his foot.

Dread filled his gut as he grabbed the T-shirt. Yep. Just as he’d ’spected. Hers, too—the black V-neck with pink sparkling letters that proclaimed A Hard Man on the front and Is Good to Find across the back.

He took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. No keys. They were in his jeans, which he hoped to hell she’d somehow managed to hide. He couldn’t even get into the compartment on his bike where he kept his stuff. His only hope was to get to the beach house.

He stood and pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was tight, and the shoulder and sleeve seams groaned under the pressure. It was also just a couple of inches shy of keeping him from getting arrested for indecent exposure if he happened to be seen, which he didn’t plan on.

He’d been pondering ways to get some publicity shining on his almost nonexistent career, but being arrested roaming the streets, half-drunk and half-dressed, in women’s clothes wasn’t the image he was going for.

A hefty punch of self-loathing hit his gut as he slipped on the thong.

But thank God for his boots.

He glanced down, shuddering at the sight—just another weirdo roaming the streets in the middle of the night.

He remembered that EmmyLou had booked renters into the beach house for the week.

He hoped to hell they had a sense of humor.