
MRS. RIGHT
By
Ashley Ladd
© copyright October 2005, Ashley Ladd
Cover art by Kat Richards, © copyright October 2005
ISBN 1-58608-757-6
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
"Help wanted."
Never had more welcome, life-saving words jumped out at Blair Fayard than at this moment as she cruised down Sample Road. The brakes of her Toyota Celica screeched as she swerved the car into a shopping mall lot, found a parking space, and shut off the car's engine.
"Thank you, God." She ran a brush through her windblown hair to tame it. She then refreshed her lipstick. Taking a deep calming breath, she climbed out of the vehicle. Excitement thrummed through her veins. She needed a job so desperately since her rotten ex-boyfriend had not only skipped out on his portion of their rent but had also cleaned out her bank account. She'd accept almost anything. Of all people, she should have known better than to trust a man with her money and her future. Her Pell grant would cover either her rent or this semester's tuition, but not both. She could ask her Aunt Dorothy for a loan, if she could stomach the look of disappointment that was sure to fill her eyes, which she couldn't. She had sworn not to end up like her ill-fated mother and here she'd fallen into the same trap. Near enough....
Thank God she'd not married the jerk, or worse yet, had a child to support on top of everything else.
She pivoted on her heel and froze as her heart fell to her knees. Except this.
Disappointment surged through her. The help wanted sign hung in a convenience store window, not one of the fancy boutiques or department stores book-ending the eyesore. Worse, the store came attached to an oily, stinky gas station.
If she'd wanted to work in a minimum wage nightmare, she wouldn't be killing herself taking twelve hours of marketing management classes this semester. If any of the other co-eds spied her working in a dive like this, she'd be mortified after the way she'd run off at the mouth about having a decent, respectable career, unlike her mother.
As she folded herself back into the bucket seat, she bumped the visor. Her overdue rent notice and tuition reminder tumbled open onto her lap, the big bold letters P-A-S-T D-U-E faced her threateningly. She stared at the ominous phrase so long the frightening words blurred together.
If only her scholarship had come through and Miguel hadn't turned out to be such a louse, she wouldn't be in such dire straights.
Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, reminding her that she hadn't put a morsel of food in it for several hours. "Oh hush up!" The only piece of food remaining in her fridge was a moldy piece of cheese and her mouth had the nerve to salivate at the thought of it. God, she was desperate!
Her glance stole back to the help wanted sign and she frowned. Desperate people did desperate, crazy things.
"Money's money," she muttered aloud. "It'll only be temporary till something better shows up...." She came to a firm resolution. She wasn't going to end up like this destitute creature or her poor, departed mother. She'd do whatever was necessary to stay in college and graduate, not to wind up as her mother with a brood of hungry kids and insufficient skills to support them. Even pump gas.
Blair squared her shoulders, smoothed her skirt, and then marched toward her destiny with her head held high. She did her best to ignore the overpowering stench of oil and gas, which seeped into her every pore, and commanded her stomach to behave and stop growling.
She tried to buoy her confidence with the cheerful thought that the store manager would probably take one look at her resume and promote her to management. This was their lucky day. They were being offered a top-notch college student, a rare treasure indeed. Her bad luck would be their fortune. A place like this couldn't afford to turn someone of her caliber away.
When she pushed the glass door wide an arctic blast of stale air smacked her in the face and bells tinkled overhead. Hot dogs, strong coffee, and pine-scented cleaner replaced the pungent aroma that overwhelmed the outside. Her traitorous stomach rumbled again, and her mouth watered. Shut up, she hissed inwardly, hoping no one heard her making embarrassing bodily noises.
A hunky raven-haired man bent over a mop on the far side of the store. As her gaze riveted on him, she tripped over an object in the middle of the floor and pitched forward. Wildly grabbing the shelf in front of her to keep from falling flat on her face, rows of candy scattered to the floor.
Appalled at the mess she'd made, she blanched. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see the sign." How could she have missed the neon monstrosity in the middle of the floor? Her only excuse was that she she'd been struck by a lightning bolt. She knelt down and scooped up the candy and tried to restock it in its proper place.
"Are you okay?" the man asked kindly, concern lacing his voice. He hitched up his pants leg and squatted beside her and cracked a friendly grin, when she nodded silently. "Don't worry about this. I'll get it."
Her stomach practically roared its hunger and she pretended to cough, trying to cover the horrid sound. Oh God, not here, not now. "Is the manager here?"
"Can I help you?" The man rose to his full height, a good half head taller than she was, even though she easily stood 5'10" in her flats.
"I really need to speak to your boss and I'd consider it a huge favor if you didn't tell him I nearly demolished your store." She flashed her brightest smile at him, hoping to dazzle him and win him over to her side. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad working here after all, if he were one of the perks.
Curiosity danced in his avid gaze. "I won't say a word. What did you need to talk to him about?"
"It's private. I really have to speak to him." It would be just her rotten luck that this was the manager's day off or he had left early. If she didn't get a job now, she could kiss her college career and apartment goodbye. If she ever got her hands on Derek, she'd strangle him!
"I'm the manager." The suddenly off-limits hottie folded his arms across his broad chest and flashed a noncommittal smile at her. A professional expression masked his previous friendliness.
Oh God. She'd blown any chance of landing the job even though she really hadn't planned to win the boss over by insulting him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Management 101 hadn't covered how to salvage a mess like this one. She tried to speak, to say anything to make amends but her voice stuck in her throat.
"Miss?" From the tone of his voice, he must think her a complete imbecile. He waited for her to continue, his gaze steady on her, burning into her.
How could she apply for a job to a man who must think she was a stuck up klutz? What the hell? What could she lose? She had already wasted a half-hour and what could he do but say no? She would never see him again in that case. "I'd like to apply for your job."
Amusement flickered across his coal-dark eyes as he assessed her from the tip of her suede boots to her Gucci purse. He leaned back and folded his arms in an intimidating way. "Will you mop floors and clean toilets?"
Angry that he doubted her capability or willingness to do his dirty work, she bristled. When she started to grind her teeth, she stopped herself, remembering she was on review. "If that's the job description, I can do it. I can pump gas, too. Want to test me?"
He chuckled, his lips lifting at the corners. His brow arched and he continued to examine her fine clothing. "You don't exactly look the type. You ever worked in a C-store before?"
"What's a C-store?" Blair had never heard the term and gave him a blank stare.
"Convenience store. C-store for short." The man cracked a grin.
"No, I've never worked in a store like this, but I've done retail and I can operate a register. I have an Associate degree in Business and I'm in my senior year at FAU." If she could handle Halladay's statistics class from Hell, she could handle this cinch job until a better one opened up.
He swaggered to the register, withdrew a pad of employment applications from under the counter, tore the top one off, and pushed it across the counter to her. "Bring this back after you've filled it out." He turned his attention to an elderly gentleman that waddled into the store to pay for his gas.
The customer plucked a local newspaper from a high stack between the front door and register, and then tossed it onto the counter. "This and two quick picks," he said in a wobbly voice as his liver-spotted hands slid a crumpled twenty-dollar bill to the manager.
The manager rang up the sale, counted back the man's change, and then punched up two lottery tickets that popped out of the machine. He snatched them and deposited them in the man's outstretched hand.
"Thanks, Race. You and me got a lunch date if I win."
Crinkle lines fanned out from the manager's eyes as he cracked a genuine smile at his customer. "I'll hold you to that, Petie."
The man chuckled and waved as he tucked the tickets into his wallet on the way out.
So, the man's name was Race. She tucked the information away for future reference. "I'll just fill this out now, if you don't mind." She borrowed the fountain pen that rested next to the credit card machine and began to fill in the blanks.
The heavenly aroma of the cooking hot dogs and brewing coffee enticed her unmercifully, causing her stomach to growl again. Aghast that the manager must've heard it for it sounded like Mount St. Helen's erupting, she kept her gaze down, praying he was hard of hearing or mistook it for the whoosh of machinery.
She blessed her luck when he flicked on a country music station and whistled to it as he resumed his mopping, although she didn't particularly care for that kind of music. At least it drowned out other less desirable sounds. When she finished, she turned to him and asked, "Can I get an interview now?"
"You're awfully anxious to work here."
"I need the job desperately," she admitted. "I was laid off my last job a couple of weeks ago, and now my rent's overdue, and I have to pay my tuition, or I'll be withdrawn from classes." And I'm starved and I believed in the biggest jerk of all time that ran off with all my money and saddled me with the full rent.... Of course she wasn't about to tell him her pathetic life story. Still, absolutely famished she stole a glance at the grill, uncaring that she detested greasy hot dogs under normal circumstances. She was unable to help herself.
He shook her hand and she couldn't help but note how perfectly hers fit into his. "Race Sutton."
"Blair--"
"Nice to meet you, Miss Blair." He cut her off as he accepted the application she offered to him.
Miss Blair? Her brows knitted together. She had only ever heard such a greeting on that old TV show "Dallas" but he didn't have a southern accent. He had no room to talk. What kind of a name was Race?
"Are your parents NASCAR fans?"
"It's short for Horace."
Horace? He didn't look like any Horace she'd ever seen. Such a hunk should have a name like Brandon, or Troy or Jason. Horace was downright criminal!
"I'm named after my father." His eyes narrowed as challenge vibrated in his voice. His shoulders tensed, and his fists clenched at his sides.
"Your dad goes by Horace or Race?" Her curiosity would get her into trouble one day, but she couldn't help herself. She didn't know if marketing majors were born to be nosy or if they absorbed it by osmosis.
"Ace." Race held up one finger. "His dad went by Horace. Eighty years ago it was considered debonair."
"Not hokey, like now." To her horror, the words tumbled out before she could stop them. Then, her stomach grumbled, making her wish she would melt into the floor and die.
He pretended not to hear her and walked over to the coffee machine and poured a cup of the rich, dark liquid. "Would you like some coffee or soda?"
The aroma smelled heavenly and she nodded, following him, quickly forgetting her humiliation. "Coffee'd be wonderful."
He fixed a hot dog and to her amazement, he placed it and the coffee next to her on the counter without a word.
His kindness and generosity almost overwhelmed her, even if it was just a free hot dog. She smiled her thanks and almost forgetting she had ventured in for a job, she ate half the hot dog in one bite.
With piqued curiosity she asked, "So what will you call your son?" She couldn't come up with any decent derivations of the name not already used."We broke tradition and named him Steve."
The world rocked beneath her. We? They had a son? They, as in Race was married? She almost choked on the second half of her hot dog and she lost all pleasure in it. Her voice wooden, the food tasting like sand, she murmured, "Nice name."
"Can you start tomorrow night, Miss Blair?" He rattled the application in his hand.
"Yes. But only if you stop calling me Miss Blair." When he called her Miss Blair, she felt like Miss Daisy or Scarlett O'Hara, a feeling that grated on her.
His gaze focused on her hands, his brows pinching together. "Sorry, I didn't see any rings. Is it Mrs. Blair?"
She frowned, and then enlightenment dawned. Shaking her head and suppressing a sigh, she put her finger on her signature, enunciating as she corrected him, "I'm Miss Blair Fayard. Everyone calls me Blair."
Stars twinkled in the man's eyes and his lips twitched. A man had no right to have such chiseled, sexy lips. Those lips spoke to her most erotic fantasies. But alas, she reminded herself that those lips belonged to his wife who also owned the exclusive rights to have erotic fantasies about them. Not that an employee should fantasize about her boss regardless if he was married or not.
With supreme effort, she dragged her gaze from his lips to his ears. Ears weren't sexy. They'd be safe to stare at.To her utter chagrin, Race had sexy ears, too. Ears just made to nibble and lick. Ears perfect to whisper deep, dark fantasies into.
The object of her uninvited fantasies uncapped a red ink pen and poised it over the paper, annoyingly professional. "What shift can you work?"
She bricked off her wayward thoughts and mentally reviewed her class schedule. Daytimes were filled with college classes. "Part time. Evenings and weekends only." After a pause, she added, "I'm taking eighteen hours and I need study time."
Race nodded as he scribbled. The application fairly bled with red ink. "That's a heavy load. Can you handle twenty hours a week here, too?"
She nodded, her throat less constricted already even though she wouldn't get her first paycheck for a week or two. "What's the salary?"
"We start you out at minimum wage. After you log a thousand hours, you'll be eligible for a raise."
Minimum wage? With the outrageous price for gas the station was raking in? How criminal!
Her heart sank to her toes. She'd have to work more than twenty hours weekly just to meet her expenses. She'd have to get a new roommate to split expenses with despite this job--if it was offered. She could forget about any kind of recreation that cost money. Again she cursed the evil Derek under her breath. She had a mind to warn his new girlfriend about his
At least a raise loomed on the horizon. Her hopes leaped. "How much of a raise?"
"A dime an hour." He didn't flinch like he should have at such an embarrassing figure.
Blinking in shock, she did a double take. A dime wouldn't even pay for a phone call. That was only two dollars more a week for a twenty-hour week. Two dollars wouldn't buy one day's food. Well, maybe if she lived on rice and peanut butter sandwiches. "That's a joke, right?"
"No joke. Do you want the job or not?" He sounded as if her decision made no-never mind to him.
She made a quick mental calculation and concluded she would earn a little over a hundred bucks a week. Not good, but better than nothing. She would have to actively hunt another job, but this would be some money until she found one. She didn't have a choice. Her pockets were completely bare. "I'll take it."
She leaned on the counter and stared him straight in the eye. This was no time to get shy. "How about letting me into your management trainee program? I'm almost finished with my management degree."
"You have to apply to Corporate for that but they usually prefer grads. You'll have a better chance once you have your diploma in hand."
Her hopes dashed. She couldn't win. "Do you have the application form?"
Race straightened, flashing a look at her she couldn't discern. "You'll have to snail mail a resume or apply online." He delved under the counter again and emerged with a business card, which he held out to her.
"Let's get you suited up and ready to go for tomorrow night." He led her to the office that doubled as a storeroom and pointed to a long rack of uniforms. "Take two in your size. Bring the soiled ones back for the laundry service and take a new one after every shift."
Blair sorted through the clothing rack looking for her size, dreading having to wear the ugliest uniforms she had ever seen. Neon orange and pink clashed wildly, giving her an acid flashback even though she was far from a child of the sixties.
Meanwhile, he filed her paperwork in the metal file cabinet. When he straightened up, he eyed her boots speculatively. "We'll start orientation tomorrow night at six sharp. Wear gym shoes that you don't mind getting dirty and tie your hair up. We have to abide by health regulations."
"Oh joy." Her words came out so dryly they almost turned to dust. She was going to love this job.
"Six sharp."
She wiggled her fingers at her new boss, trying to remember to be thankful for this godsend. At least her stomach was full, even if she could still taste the grease from the hotdog. "Ta ta. Till tomorrow."
Race pretended not to notice his newest employee's sexy exit. That's all he needed--a prima donna on staff. If she could get over her I'm better-than-thou complex, she might actually make a decent employee. At least she was bright.
A quick glance at her resume assured him she had better than rudimentary computer skills. He had no doubts she'd put the first person in their place that tried to give her any grief. He couldn't help smiling at the vision that popped into his mind of her dealing with a pushy customer.
Hitching up his pant legs, he rose to his full height. He couldn't leave the store unattended plus he had to stock the freezer, sweep the parking lots, change the gas prices which entailed climbing the ladder, and run the closing reports. He couldn't wait until his promotion to district manager came through so he could have more civilized duties and hours and be home with Steve in the evenings.
The following day, he picked his son up from school, wishing they had more time together. It was bad enough the boy didn't have a mother.
Seven-year old Steven had inherited his mother's red hair and freckles. The boy skipped out of school, a huge grin plastered on his impish face. His carrot top stood out in the crowd. His book bag hung off one shoulder haphazardly. Unzipped and stuffed with papers, the bag looked in danger of losing its contents.
"Hey, kiddo. How goes it?" Race turned the radio off so he could talk to the child in these few precious, stolen moments before he had to leave for work.
Steve gave his dad a high five and then slammed the car door behind him and buckled in. "I learned to write my name in cursive today. Wanna see when we get home?" Large, uneven gaps spanned his crooked teeth. He'd need braces soon.
Race maneuvered out of the school zone and then headed southwest, the sunlight's glare harsh in his eyes. Squinting, he asked, "Any notes from the teacher or principal today?" He held his breath.
A sheepish grin replaced Steve's happy smile and he clutched his book bag to his chest. He stuck his bottom lip out. "Nooooooo."
Race knew that tone of voice and that expression too well. He bit back a sigh and tried not show fear or dismay. "So, you were on green all day? Any old notes you didn't show me or Gramma yet?"
Steve studied the door as if deciding to jump out or stay and face his father. He crossed his arms over his chest and thrust out his jaw. Freckles brightened and popped out on his nose. "Patrick started it! He threw a rock at me first."
Indignation warred with concern. "Did the rock hit you?" The kid hadn't come home bloodied, bruised, or scraped up, but he hadn't checked under his hair or clothes. Since his mother had died, he'd gotten into several scrapes. One of his school counselors had suggested psychiatric counseling. Race really hated to put such a stigma on the boy who had been through more heartache than any young boy should have to bear, but he was beginning to think the counselor was right. Steve needed help. He couldn't be allowed to go on this way. Race couldn't take much more.
Steve fidgeted and bounced around in his seat. His hazel eyes rimmed with a darker brown so much like his mother's, widened in his urchin face. "It was all Butch's fault! He almost got me in the eye. That stupid rock would've blinded me for sure."
Race dreaded the answer to his next question, torn about whether to champion his son in case it was the entire truth this time, or to scold him for getting into another brawl. He needed more info. "So what'd you do?"
He turned into his driveway and did a double take when he spied a flock of tacky pink plastic flamingoes perched smack dab in the middle of his freshly mowed lawn. He double-checked the house address to make sure it was his home, and that he'd not had a seizure and driven to the wrong residence.
He was horrified to find he was at the right place, having preferred a seizure to this monstrosity. Groaning, he cut the ignition and opened his door. "Out with it, young man." The kid wasn't going to get off the hook easily. Nor would the person responsible for the tacky lawn décor. "Did you throw rocks back? Did you do anything to start this?"
Steve shuffled his feet, hung his head, and swung his book bag. He mumbled something unintelligible and played with the zipper.
The zipping noise drove Race batty. "Louder, son." He collared the boy by his neck and escorted him inside the house. "Well?"
"Da-a-ad! Why won't you believe me?"
When Race continued to stare unflinchingly at him, Steve hung his head and finally admitted, "I kicked him and then he slugged me. I slugged him back and then he started throwing rocks at me." Steve dumped his book bag on the couch and then plopped next to it and defiantly kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
"How are my favorite boys?" Race's mother breezed into the room, her voice chipper and singsong, her step light and airy. She looked as if she'd just stepped out of a 1950's sitcom, her dark hair short and coifed, her sunshiny yellow dress full skirted and belted at the waist, and butterfly framed glasses perched on her nose. "There's milk and cookies on the table." She kissed Steve on the cheek, and then pinched his other cheek. She lifted his feet off the coffee table and dropped them to the carpeted floor. "We're not horses so don't put your feet on the furniture."
"Wow! Dad only makes me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Or cheese and ketchup." Steve bolted for the table, no trace of his sullenness remaining.
Race stared at his child and shook his head disbelievingly. Apparently freshly home baked cookies could cure all.
"They're your favorites." Marlene dragged Race to the table. "Chocolate oatmeal." She pulled out a chair for him and patted it.
Race's mouth watered, but he had to go to work. "I really can't, Ma. I'm due at the station in twenty-five minutes." He noticed his furniture had been rearranged, including Edie's prize piano. His favorite bookshelves and chairs were missing in action. His stomach lurched and his brows pinched together. "I liked things as they were. Why'd you move them? Where are my bookshelves?" He needed things in those shelves. "And what's the deal with the yard décor? No one puts flamingoes out in the yard anymore." Except in the retirement communities. Marlene's lower lip trembled and her gaze veered out the front window to where her plastic birds stood. "It's Florida. I thought you'd like them. The yard was so plain." She strolled to the center of the living room. "There was much too much furniture cluttering up the room. Edie would roll over in her grave if she could see how her men were living in such a cluttered house. If only I lived closer. If only you'd moved back home after she died three years ago, like I begged you, I could help you all the time. Feng shui says.... "
Race scratched his head, following her. No way would he move back home and let her rule their lives and drive them crazy. He was a widower but he hadn't had a lobotomy. Much as he loved her, he could only be around her for a couple days before he had to escape or lose his mind. She was a nag and a worrier, for all that she meant well. He supposed he should feel lucky that he'd been able to manage without help for so long--until his assistant manager had left him in the lurch without enough warning to quickly find a qualified replacement. "Feng what?"
Marlene rolled her eyes and shot her don't-you-silly-men-know-anything look at him. "Feng Shui. It's Japanese. Less is better. Simple is desirable. I boxed up all those dusty books cluttering up the room and gave your shelves to that nice Mr. Petersen next door."
Race's anger boiled up and he inhaled deeply and counted to ten slowly. He kept reminding himself that she meant well, that she was just trying to help, that he had asked her to help. Calming himself as much as he could, he bit his tongue and sank into his favorite recliner that luckily remained. When he could trust himself to speak civilly, he said, "I need my books handy. I had important documents in there. You can't go redecorating and giving stuff away without asking me. Or sticking plastic eyesores on my lawn."
Well, maybe not so civilly. He wanted to kick himself.
Marlene blinked back tears and sniffled, dabbing her nose with her ever-present hankie. "I was just trying to be a good mother. I guess you two men don't really need me here." She spun on her high heel. "I'll just go pack my things and get out of your hair. I don't want to be a bother."
Panic assailed Race. But guilt struck him harder, right in the core of his heart. God knew he hadn't wanted to hurt her, to throw her help back in her face. He was just so extremely frustrated. Heaven knew he desperately needed her help to care for Steve until the company hired an assistant to help him at the station. Jumping to his feet, he hugged his mother. "Please stay, Ma. I'm sorry. I'm just used to being a bachelor and making the rules around here." He spotted a gaudy lace doily atop his TV and even gaudier silk flowers displayed on the doily, and he choked back a groan.
Marlene hugged him and patted his back. "Apology accepted."
She sauntered to the kitchen as she dried the last of her tears and beamed at Steve who chowed down on his snack. "It's time you remarry and give your son a mother. Mr. Petersen has a very pretty daughter I think would be perfect for you."
Giggly Inga? "Inga's not my type." He blessed his mother for having laid out his uniform on his bed as seconds counted even as he grimaced at her idea of a perfect woman.
He picked up the underwear and they were as stiff as a board. His scowl deepened and he scrunched them up in his fist to put some life back into them. The stupid thing was starched. Upon further inspection, every piece of clothing had been heavily starched--including the socks! He tossed the underwear and socks in his laundry hamper and pulled open his garment drawer, and horrified, stopped dead and stared openmouthed. All his underwear and socks had been starched. He took out a pair of each and balled them up to loosen the starch. "This isn't going to work," he muttered under his breath. His mother would give him a nervous breakdown within a month. His fingers itched to telephone his dad and plead with him to call his mother home to Phoenix tonight.
Race scowled. He couldn't do that. Who would watch Steve until the store's assistant manager, Nanette, returned from vacation and he was back to his normal day shift? She'd been called away on a family emergency that could take months and unfortunately, the company was short on trained, qualified managers and assistant managers as it was. Now her emergency had caused him to have a personal emergency. Her parents were ill and having to be relocated to an assisted living facility and as an only child, she had to clean out their house, prepare it for sale, sell it, and settle them into their new quarters. He sympathized and understood, but it didn't make his situation any easier.
"Yoo-hoo!" Marlene knocked softly on the door. "You decent yet?"
He hurried and buttoned his slacks. "Come in." He was decent but suffering. The starch gave him a rash and he could hardly breathe or walk.
"I made you a nice dinner. You have a protein, peas, and pineapple. You can get milk at work so you'll get your four basic food groups." She thrust a psychedelic flowered lunch bag in his hands.
"Gee thanks, Ma." He stared at the flowers cross-eyed. He'd ditch the bag soon as he got to work. He'd be laughed off the job if anyone spied this nightmare. "Can I take some cookies?"Marlene walked him to the door and patted the bag. "There's some in the bag."
He stared over her head at his son. "Come say goodbye to your old man, Stevie. I'm shovin' off."
Steve pouted and moseyed over slowly, dragging his feet. "Aw, Dad. You have ta go to work again?" He gave Race the most pathetic frown of his young life.
Race ruffled the boy's fiery locks, feeling guilty. "Don't wanna go, but I gotta go. Behave for your Gramma, okay?"
"Yeah, I guess." There had never been a more sullen affirmative muttered in history. Steve rolled his eyes and bared his crooked teeth.
Marlene clapped her hands in front of her face, brightening. "We'll bake more cookies and play Canasta." She shushed him into the house and then waved goodbye to Race.
Pity swelled in Race's chest for his young one. His mother meant well but she could be a bit smothering and overbearing.
He fought early evening traffic. His mom had a point. Steve needed a mother and Race needed a wife. His new employee's gorgeous face flashed into his mind and his loins warmed. Scowling, he chased away the image. Blair Fayard might be sexy, beautiful, and even smart, but she was also spoiled and stuck up. Steve needed a loving and nurturing mother who could keep him in line. Blair Fayard seemed too self-centered to like children or put anyone before herself.
Race parked next to the manager's building, planning Blair's orientation session. He'd called in his senior clerk, Wyatt Miott, to run the register so he could train her on the outside and stocking duties.
Race liberated the cookies from their prison, scarfed one down, and tossed the bag into the dumpster. He'd grab a cheeseburger from the freezer and a bag of chips.
"Hi, chief," Wyatt muttered as he helped a customer. Wyatt was another college grad with paranoia issues that kept him from seeking another job. He'd been a clerk for ten years. "I see the joint's still standing." Race grunted his approval. "Any problems?"
Wyatt grimaced. "Do you want the bad news first?" He paused strategically. "Or the worst news first?"
Race groaned. "Shoot with the worst news." Maybe they should just take him out back and shoot him for real and put him out of his misery.
"Some kid drove off on pump ten earlier so the register's going to be short twenty bucks."
Race bit back a curse. "You gotta make 'em prepay if they're not using a credit or debit card. No exceptions."
Wyatt's shoulders slumped and his expression crumbled. "But they yell at me." He trembled, looking off into the distance. "Sometimes they threaten me or throw things at me."
Race counted to ten, still boiling, but he knew Wyatt would break down in tears if he raised his voice or reprimanded too harshly. "Tell them to see me if they have a problem with it. We have signs posted, so you're covered."
"They claim they can't see them." Wyatt would argue with God. He squinted at the nearest pump. "We should repaint them in giant neon, flashing letters."
"I can read it from here, no problem." Race sent up a silent prayer for deliverance. Save him from fools, idiots, and difficult people. "So what's the bad news?"
"Dean's girlfriend was in here causing a minor riot again but the cops chased her off without too much problem. It only took them two hours." Dean, their maintenance man, ladies' man extraordinaire, was legendary for his prowess with women.
Race envied Dean's charm but didn't agree with how the younger man juggled women. "Great!" Not! "She didn't have a weapon did she?"
"No. They just chased around the cars. He finally locked himself in the office until the cops caught her." Wyatt counted change to a pretty young lady whom he made cow eyes at. "Thank you for shopping at Kester. Please come again." His tongue practically lolled out of his mouth.
Race checked the grill area, store, and freezer. Beer, juice, and soda supplies were very low. "What gives with the freezer?"
Wyatt ran the lotto machine. "Dean was locked in the store room all day, remember? He didn't have a chance to restock."
Race shook his head. "By rights I should call Dean back and make him stock the cooler off the clock."
Glee danced in Wyatt's eyes. "You should." He wiped off the counter where a cold beer had left a wet ring.
Race would have to stock quickly. First he grabbed a hot dog, covered it in mustard, and stuffed half in his mouth. He stomped out of the store, barely tasting it. Blair Fayard was due to arrive shortly and he wouldn't be ready.
He threw cartons of soda and juice onto his cart, stacking it as high as he could. A load of ice dropped in the ice machine and reminded him to check the supply of ice bags also. He doubted Dean had filled ice bags, either.
The speaker crackled and whined. "Kemosabe. A gorgeous chick is here in a Kester uniform askin' for ya, dude. You've been holdin' out on me."
Race wiped perspiration from his brow, and reached for the mike, clicking the button. "I'll be right there." He could see his new staff member on his monitor. Even with her hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing the garish orange men's uniform shirt, she made his heart lurch and his pulse quicken.
"Get a grip, man," he mumbled to himself.
Wyatt flirted with her, almost drooling. "I'm a college grad," he bragged. "I was hired as a manager trainee."
True but misleading. The clerk hadn't made the grade and had been demoted to Senior Clerk where he'd stayed for the past decade and where he'd probably die.
Race propped open the door and wheeled the cart out. He had to stock the freezers before he did anything else. They still had a lot of customers demanding merchandise. Dean would hear about this.
When Race dragged the cart inside, Blair tapped her heels together and saluted. "Reporting for duty, sir."
"Race parked the cart behind the counter and saluted back. "At ease." He almost added private but stopped just in time. This woman fancied herself at least a lieutenant. He studied her surreptitiously. She looked like prime rib in a burger joint.
"Ready to orient, sir." Laughter danced in her eyes the rich hue of charcoal beneath the neon light At least she no longer looked as if working here would be a jail sentence or worse than death.
He grabbed the cart. "Change of plans. First, we stock the cooler. It's almost empty." He led the way, waiting for a snide remark that didn't come. Not even an, "Aye, aye, Captain."
Blair opened and held the glass door for him. It fogged up immediately and she drew a smiley face on it, her finger squeaking on the glass. "Brrr. It's like the North Pole in here." She followed him, rubbing her lower arms.
He kicked himself for forgetting the jacket. He was used to the cold, but of course she wouldn't be. "There's a jacket in the store room. Run and get it."
"I hope there's ear muffs and gloves, too." Her teeth chattered as she left him.
Race went into high gear, restocking beer because it was the best-selling item. The floor was sticky and the shelves in disarray. The company must be daft, expecting to hire quality employees for coolie wages and demand they work so hard.
Nanook of the North waddled in and up to him. "What do I do?" Blair's breath tickled his neck.
He'd forgotten what close proximity they'd be in. He did his best to ignore her and the disturbing effect she was having on him. "Beer goes down here. Each slot is labeled for brand and size." He half turned and pointed at the wire shelves on the back wall. "Extra stock is kept here. Make sure you don't sell this stuff after midnight, or before noon on Sundays. And card everyone who looks thirty and under to make sure they're at least twenty-one. You can get hauled off to jail if you get caught selling booze to minors."
Blair nodded, her attention rapt on him, her gaze keen. "Simple enough." She started stocking beer, making sure labels faced the front of the cooler.
"You're doing great." He kept his fingers crossed she'd be this easy to train in everything else. And stay this amiable. In the first twenty minutes, she was doing well. She displayed a lot of common sense which unfortunately wasn't that common.
She grinned. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to do a monkey's job."
He bit his tongue to stop a sarcastic retort. He was glad she found it so easy but not every one did. Of course, she was super college girl, able to dance rings around the rest of their lowly staff. He couldn't wait for revenge--he'd assign her to clean the restrooms after orientation.
She hummed to herself as she stocked sodas and juice as if she'd done it a billion times before. "I didn't realize there were so many flavors of Drink Aid. Or sizes." Her brows pinched together. "I don't see prices on everything. Is there a price chart at the register?"
"No. But you'll soon memorize them. We have a price gun to label most merchandise. That'll help you." He straightened the shelves and surveyed them. "I think we've done enough damage for now. Let's thaw out."
In a sultry, velvety voice, she said, "I thought you'd never ask." She bounded out of the cooler, her ponytail bobbing behind her. She slinked out of the coat as if she was doing a striptease.
Race froze to the spot, his Adam's apple working overtime. Was she trying to be so seductive? Or was she that way naturally? Either way, she did things to him no woman had done since Edie died.
Wyatt gulped, not blinking or moving any other muscles. He didn't respond to the man at the register as he also watched their new employee.
Race snapped out of his daze. "Wyatt!" he said sharply enough to get the clerk's attention. "We'll be doing orientation in the office if you need me."
Wyatt nodded, and straightened his collar. "Don't worry about me. I'll hold down the fort."
"Do that." Race followed Blair, doing his best not to notice how her hips sashayed or her waist nipped in so tiny. It would be folly to enclose them in another small space so he propped the office door open.
It was a sultry South Florida night with a wonderfully cool breeze. Stars started to twinkle as dusk fell. Cars dwindled at the pumps as rush hour ended. A motor purred gently. Cicadas chirped and frogs croaked. The ice machine hummed beside them. A romantic song played on the store radio, setting the mood, lulling Race into a serene mood. Then the men's toilet flushed next door, the door banged open as someone ripped out a terrible belch.
Race winced, pretending he hadn't heard the gross sounds. "Sit down here and watch our training videos. They take about an hour. Pay close attention, especially to the safety instructions."
"Would you like soda or coffee?"
She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing, and a dimple in her cheek. "I'm fine, thanks."
He hit the play button and turned on the TV. A naked couple writhed on a bed in a very fascinating, sexy position. Mortified, he punched stop. "Sorry about that." Dean was a dead man! How dare he bring porno tapes into the store and watch them.
Blair chuckled and said dryly, "That's a different sort of training tape."
Blood pounded in Race's ears. If his district manager had seen that, or if Blair finked on him, he was a goner. At the very least, he'd lose his coveted promotion. "We'll watch that another day." He handed her a sheaf of papers. "Read this, and then fill in the questionnaire. I'll be back in a few."
He needed to sweep the parking lot and empty trashcans. He might as well do that while she was occupied.
A familiar metallic blue minivan pulled up in front of the store, ran over the curb, backed up, and parked askew, its rear end sticking out. He recognized his mother and waved.
Marlene waved back, stepped out of the van, and hugged him. "Steve missed you so I brought him by to say hello."
Embarrassed by the public display of affection and aware that Blair could see them, he pulled back quickly. Through gritted teeth he said, "Hugging's not allowed on duty."
Steve skated to him on rollerblades. He held out another hand-painted flowered bag. "We brought you some cookies we just baked."
Peanut butter and sugar wafted to Race's nose. He delved inside for one and took a big bite. "You should get a blue ribbon for this, short stuff," he said while munching.
"Can I give some cookies to Wyatt?" Steve flashed a toothy grin. Orange hair stood up from a cowlick on the crown of his head.
Race frowned at the skates and the marks they left on his floor. "Let Gramma. No skates in my store."Undaunted, Steve smiled and gave the bag to Marlene. He skated slowly and haltingly backward. "Lookie, Daddy! I can skate backwards!"
"Way to go. Stay away from the cars. Go over by the office." Race went about his chores, whistling....
Blair finished filling out the questionnaire and went in search of her boss. She'd seen Race hug a pretty woman and talk to a little boy. They must be his wife and son.
Jealousy knifed her but she fought it down. One, she had no reason to be jealous over a man she barely knew. Two, Race wasn't her type, anyway. She wanted to marry an executive, or at least, a real manager, not an average laborer. And she liked charming blondes with blue eyes.
She leaned on the counter across from Wyatt, noting how his face flushed and his respiration accelerated whenever she approached him. He was adorable, if not her type, either. "I'm all done. Race around?"
She saw the woman who had hugged Race crawl under the grill on her hands and knees. "Who's that?" she whispered to Wyatt.
Wyatt followed her gaze. "Oh, that's just the Mrs. She likes to straighten up the cups. It makes her happy so we let her."
"Mrs. Sutton?" Blair inventoried the competition noting the bird legs, and anal-retentive obsession in putting the same number of cups in each stack.
"Yep." Wyatt tucked his shirttail into his slacks. "You ever run a register before?"
"Lots."
Race spoke in her ear, making her jump. "Time to clean the bathrooms. Come on."
Blair swallowed a big lump in her throat. Oh goody! "My favorite job." Her stomach protested when the stench of the men's room almost bowled her over. "Got any gas masks?" She scrunched her nose and held her finger under it.
Race flashed a movie star grin at her, showing a perfect set of dazzling teeth. "We keep the cleanest rest rooms in town. You won't need one." He crooked finger at her to follow him.
"Cleaning supplies are in the very back of the store room." He pointed them out and then carried them out for her. "I use lots of ammonia." He demonstrated, and then handed the mop to her. "Your turn." The gleam in his eyes challenged her. He expected her to refuse or just do a halfway job.
She'd show him. Gritting her teeth, she squared her shoulders and psyched herself up. "I can handle this. You don't need to supervise."
He watched her for a minute and then sauntered off.
The best thing to do with a nasty job was to dig in, get it done, and then wash up. She'd change uniforms after and disinfect herself. She couldn't wait for a shower. Bored, she sang and danced with the mop, be-bopping as she cleaned.
"I never saw anyone so happy cleaning latrines before." Race leaned against the door jam, blocking the exit.
Not about to let him see how embarrassed she was that he'd caught her singing and dancing with a mop, she countered, "Singing and dancing against the rules?"
"Long as you get your work done in a timely manner, and you don't let the customers hear you, I s'pose it's okay. You are a surprise."
"Moi?" She washed her hands and stepped out, finished with her distasteful chore. "Don't you think college girls can work hard?"
The breeze ruffled his bangs. "You might break a nail." He relented and smiled. "You didn't seem so happy or easy going last night as you are tonight." He followed her into the storeroom as she put away the cleaning supplies.
"I might as well make the best of this. I'd much rather be happy than miserable. Life is too short to mope." When she turned around, he stood so close that she collided with him. Stumbling, she grabbed him for support.
"You're amazing." His deep baritone mesmerized her while the intensity of his gaze stole her breath. He steadied her, his hands lingering on her.
If she read him correctly, he was interested in her. But he was a married man, and thus taboo, no matter how handsome and appealing. "Uh, thank you." Her heart hammering furiously, she slipped past him to freedom. What did he expect her to say to that? She dragged in several gulps of fresh night air, amazed she barely smelled the gas any longer. "What's next?"
His footsteps clanked behind her. "We stick the gas."
"Stick it with what? Why?" Why would anyone want to stick gas?
He led her behind the office where it was dark. A ladder and four long wooden sticks leaned against the building. He pulled out all four poles, carried them to the parking lot and set them down beside a manhole cover. He took a black hook out of his pants pocket and fit it in a hole on the lid. "We have to measure how much gas we have left every night so we know how much to order." He twisted the hook and slid the heavy lid off.
He stood and picked up the sticks. "This stick is for regular." He pointed out an "R" carved into the end of the pole. Then he showed her how to distinguish the sticks for the other grades of gas.
Kneeling, he lowered the stick inside and then raised it. "Look for the wet mark." He pointed to the corresponding measurement. "Write it on this chart."
"You mean you don't have electronic gages to measure the gas?" What an archaic, inaccurate, and dirty method! It was the twenty-first century, wasn't it?
"We're still in the Stone Age." He replaced the lid and moved onto the next one. "You try."
"Love to." Oh joy! She held her hand out for the hook, but snatched it back when electricity arced from his fingers. The lid was even heavier than it looked but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being too weak to lift it. Using all her might and determination, she moved it off. This job would give her muscles. A thought struck her. "Didn't you say you have an outside man to do these jobs?" If he was torturing her by making her do slave labor just for kicks, he'd pay dearly.
"Dean?" He puckered his lips and crouched beside her. "He's not here every day. So we take turns doing the inside and outside duties. Every one has to know every thing. Tomorrow night, you'll do the cash register and Wyatt will do the outside work. Unless Dean's scheduled--
I don't remember."
"What if I was pregnant? Would I still have to do these heavy chores? I mean, they might hurt a fetus."
Race's intense eyes bore into hers and he held his breath. "You're not, are you?"
The way he looked at her, tenderly yet sad, stole her breath. She longed to know what he was thinking right this second. "No. Just curious."
He cracked a lopsided grin. "Either way, you'll work on the register tomorrow."
Good! That would be easier and more pleasant. "You been doing this long?" She wondered how anyone could last one week in this job.
"Almost three years." They finished measuring the tanks and put the sticks away.
"Three years!" Jail sentences lasted less time. Her shoulders and hamstrings ached. She'd been using muscles she didn't know she possessed. No way could she envision herself in a place like this for three miserable years.
"Wyatt's been here ten years." Race strolled beside her companionably, his hands deep in his pockets.
"You lie." She studied the senior clerk closely as they approached him. "Why would anyone stay that long?" He must be a masochist.
Race shrugged. "Guess he feels secure here. Or maybe he's scared to venture out." He kicked a small rock and then kicked it again.
"So, just you, me, Wyatt, and this Dean person work here?" Moonlight bathed them, casting their shadows long on the parking lot.
Race chuckled. "Hell no! There's also Nanette, my assistant manager. Sirl and Penny and Carlos. Wyatt, Nanette, and I are full time. Everyone else is part time, like you. Nanette usually trains the evening and weekend crew, but she's on vacation." He glanced up at the sign. "How do you feel about climbing ladders?"
She gulped. "Ladders? As in climbing rickety, tall ladders?" As in she'd fall and break her neck, rickety, tall ladders? Yikes!
Race hadn't made her climb any ladders the previous night and she prayed he wouldn't do so tonight. Blair rushed from her last class of the day--Accounting 4. She had just enough time to shower, change, eat, and get to work by six.
Her thoughts ricocheted from income statements, balance sheets, and trial balances to her new boss. Race definitely beat out debits and credits for excitement. But she had to remind herself he wasn't free. Maybe she should quit the job before she fell in love with the man....
Fell in love with the man? Holy cow! Where had that come from? He wasn't her type, she reminded herself again.
But what wasn't her type? His incredible eyes? No, they made her blood boil. His chiseled lips? No, they could steal her breath. His touch? No, it made her quiver inside. His silky raven locks? No, her fingers itched to run through it. His deep husky voice? No, it made her melt.
She quickly forgot how he was so unsuitable. She shook herself. The man was still married. He was still not very ambitious.
She coiled her hair atop her head so she wouldn't look so adolescent. She must've looked all of sixteen yesterday instead of twenty-three, her real age. If customers were to take her seriously tonight, she had to look serious. Thus she'd taken pains with her make-up, and wore her classiest pearl stud earrings. She looked cool, calm, and professional--from the neck up. From the neck down, she resembled a circus clown in her neon shirt. Except for her hands. She'd had them manicured.
Race should sit up and take notice of her. She slapped the flat of her hand on the steering wheel. She meant he'd see she had management potential, nothing more. If she repeated it enough, maybe she'd actually believe it.
She parked next to Race's van and a cherry red Honda she presumed must be Wyatt's.
Race waved to her from the cash register and beckoned her inside. She dragged her feet, wondering for the millionth time why she had applied for or accepted this job.
Inhaling deeply, she fortified herself, smiled, and waved back. A quick assessment told her both the pumps and register had long lines.
"Hey gorgeous," a seedy, greasy construction worker winked at her. "Wanna pump my gas for me, sweetie?"
She favored the man with her most supercilious smile. "It's not in my job description." She kept walking, trying to ignore him.
"I'll give you a big tip." He grinned lasciviously and licked his lips.
Bile rose in her throat. She let her glance slide over him deliberately and pause by his belt. "Can't give what you don't have." Lifting her chin, she glided inside, aiming for the safety of Race's side.
An elderly lady with obviously died pinkish-red hair caught Blair's wrist with a talon-like hand. "Dearie, are you the manager of this sorry excuse for a gas station?" Before Blair could open her mouth, the woman continued, her lilac bath water overwhelming Blair and making her dizzy. "I demand someone pump my gas and change my oil now!" Hysteria bubbled in her voice. Her claw-like fingernails dug into Blair's soft flesh. "All the stations in New Jersey provide full service. What's the matter with you lazy Floridians?"
Blair didn't know how to answer the woman's complaint. "I'm just a clerk and it's only my second day on the job. I've not even clocked in yet. I don't know anything." Astonishment hit Blair square between the eyes. She'd pleaded ignorance and incompetence. What was happening to her?The woman sucked her teeth and dropped Blair's arm as if she were contagious. "I'm so tired of stupid clerks who don't know anything. When are these places going to hire someone with half a brain?"
Blair bristled, her temperature boiling. She was about to explode and give the rude woman her verbal resume and pedigree, when Race intervened.
"Clock in, Blair. I'll help this lovely lady."
The woman eyed Race suspiciously, and then seemed to melt when he bestowed his dazzling smile on her. "Can you pump my gas and change my oil?" She practically purred.
Blair hovered nearby, eavesdropping, curious how her fearless leader would defuse such a situation. Meanwhile, she avoided eye contact with the other customers mumbling in line. Most of them looked as if they were in dire need of rabies vaccinations.
"We are a self-service station as our sign advertises. However, we'll gladly help such a lovely lady as you pump your gas. I'm afraid we don't have the facilities to do oil changes. Wait just a moment and I'll get my best man on the job."
"Finally. Someone polite and courteous." The woman harrumphed, glaring daggers at Blair. "All employees should be taught that the customer is king. We're always right."
Race patted Blair's shoulder, his heat seeping into her. "Smile. You did fine. She's just cranky," he whispered. "Old hag probably hasn't gotten any in years."
Blair stared at him, almost pealing out in laughter. She couldn't have heard right. Polite, courteous, charming Race, couldn't possibly be so irreverent.
To the difficult customer, he said, "Just a moment." Race crooned into the microphone. "Dean, come to the register pronto. I have a special assignment for you, buddy."
The tallest black man Blair had ever seen swaggered out of the office, rolling a toothpick in his mouth. Long nappy hair was braided with several braids tied into one ponytail. His shoulders and legs bulged as if he spent half his life in the gym. A gold earring dangled from his left earlobe. He winked at Blair and then bowed over her hand and kissed it, his lips lingering. "Enchante, Mademoiselle. What is a lady like your fine self doin' workin' in this dump?"
Grunting, not at all happy with Dean's flirting, Race pulled him off her. Unnamed emotions boiled up in him that he tried to tamp down without much success. "Down, boy. I'll introduce Blair properly later, but I need your charming self to help this lovely lady over here." Race guided Dean to the elderly woman.
"She yours, Racetrack?" Dean clapped his boss on the shoulder.
Race didn't much care for the knowing look, particularly not in front of the lady in question. He couldn't explain to himself what was going on, so he didn't want any insinuations being misinterpreted, causing a passel of problems. He had too many storms to deal with already.
Shivering, rubbing his arms briskly, Wyatt appeared from the cooler. He made a beeline to the register, and started ringing up customers. "Watch the master and learn," he told Blair, flexing his fingers and grinning wickedly.
Blair stifled a smile. Wyatt obviously craved respect and adoration. Everybody deserved to be king of his own domain and as he seemed basically harmless, why not make him feel good? He seemed likable enough--a big kid with strands of gray in his hair.
"It's quite simple." Wyatt puffed out his chest. "The pump keys are all up here, one through ten. The keys for Drink Aid, soda and beer are already marked. Any moron with half a brain cell can do this job. Especially now that most people pay at the pump."
She made a moue with her lips. "No problemo."
Wyatt peered at her, his eyes beady behind his thick glasses. "You computer literate?"
She glanced at the archaic computer behind them. "I think I can handle it."
"Good." An old rusty Buick pulled up to pump nine and honked his horn. Wyatt punched the key to enable the pump.
Blair knitted her brows together. "I thought we aren't allowed to turn on the pumps unless they prepay."
"They get nasty and vicious if we don't...." He pressed his nose to the window as his features twisted. "Oh no!" He frantically jabbed register buttons.
"What's wrong?" Why was Wyatt freaking out?
Wyatt pointed at the rusty car and pimply-faced teenager pumping gas into it. "H-he's the one who ran off without paying yesterday. I just recognized him."
Blair sucked in her breath. "Shut him off!"
"I can't!" Wyatt gesticulated wildly, and then pulled his hair. "Race!"
Race ran up to the counter wild-eyed. "What's wrong?"
"That's the kid who stiffed me yesterday!" Wyatt tilted his head at pump nine and the Buick. "I'm going to get him."
Race put his hand on Wyatt's chest, fire flashing from his eyes. "Stay put but we'll discuss this later. Dino and I will handle it." A mask shuttered his expression and he sauntered out of the store, whistling as if he hadn't a care in the world. He clicked his fingers at Dean who glanced up from what he was doing. He tilted his head at the Buick, his gaze inscrutable. He huddled with Dean for a moment and then they split up, Race going north, Dean south.
"What are they doing?" Blair watched the operation through the veil of her thick lashes.
The kid's eyes shifted left, then right, looking guiltier than sin. Maybe he realized something was up.
"Oh yeah!" Wyatt jumped up and down, cheering. "They're going to get the sucker. I'll be avenged!"
Disbelief wrangled in Blair's stomach. Race and Dean planned to nab the kid?
"What the devil are they up to?" Wyatt pressed his nose to the window again.
The kid spied Wyatt watching him, froze for an instant, and then yanked the nozzle out of his tank, letting it fall to the ground. He jumped into his passenger door and kicked his engine into gear.
Race dove into the driver's side open window as Dean dove through the passenger's side window. Their legs hung out, kicking mid air.
"Ohmigod! They're certifiable!" Blair couldn't believe her eyes. Her heart raced, her nails digging into her palms, pricking blood.
The car started moving, Race's legs still flailing.
"Send a cop car ASAP, man!" Wyatt bellowed into the phone. "My manager just arrested a gas thief."
"They're going to get killed!" Blair couldn't believe her eyes. She ran outside, her heart in her throat, to get a better view.
Dean wrestled the kid and subdued him as Race grabbed the wheel and screeched the car to a halt.
Race emerged, holding the defiant-faced teen by the scruff of his neck, his expression so menacing that Blair took a backward step.
"I'm gonna sue you for everything you're worth! You're gonna get fired for this! My daddy'll see to it." Red-faced and fuming, the youth screamed obscenities.
"I own nothing you could get." Race scowled. "Besides, you're so guilty, I have no worries."
Sirens whirred in Blair's ears as a police cruiser blazed into the station, blocking the Buick. Flashing lights blinded her.
A tall handsome policeman jumped out of the car, his revolver pulled and aimed at the robber. His nametag read Lt. Fischer. "We got a call that you had trouble here?"
Race cocked a lopsided grin at Officer Fischer. "Seems this model citizen decided he deserved free gas."
The boy snarled, baring his teeth, writhing and kicking. "I wasn't gonna run till these two Neanderthals attacked me. You should arrest them for assault and battery. Not me."
Wyatt piped up, jumping up and down. "Ooh! Ooh! You ran off without paying yesterday, too. You owe me thirty bucks, Dude!"
The youth paled. "That wasn't me. I swear it."
Wyatt spit at the kid's feet. "I reported your license plate yesterday." He pulled a police business card from his wallet. "Florida tag JMX 118." Wyatt peered at the Buick's license plate. "Yep, it's a match all right. Take him away, Officer." He passed the card to the policeman. He wiggled his fingers and said in a nasal, high-pitched voice, "You are the weakest link. Goodbye."
"Book 'em, Dano!" Dean mimicked, massaging his neck.
"I don't ever want to see you here again. Capice?" Race glared at the thief. "We're filing charges."
"Come on, man," the kid whined, his eyes wide and pleading. "My dad'll kill me if I get hauled off to the joint."
"You should've thought of that first." Race shook his head. "Get him off my property."
The policeman handcuffed the gas thief and hustled him into the back of the black-and-white. "We'll have the car towed in a jiffy."
Race nodded as he rubbed his back, wincing, "Thanks." He limped away.
"You're hurt!" Blair ran to Race's side. "Should I call an ambulance or take you to the emergency room?"
"I'll live," Race grumbled. "I just need a good massage."
Was he hinting to her? Would it be totally unethical to offer to massage her boss's back? Her married boss's back? War raged inside her. Well, it would be purely medicinal and he was a hero. "I can give you a massage." Great! Her voice came out much too sultry.
Race turned and eyed her questioningly. "You mean it?"
"I don't offer anything I don't mean to deliver." She held up her hands. "Don't read anything personal into this. I only offered to help."
"In the office." Race unlocked the door and held it for her. The door shut securely behind him and he took off his shirt, revealing a chest full of rippling muscles beneath curly raven hair.
Blair gulped. "Why'd you do that?" Her pulse leapt and the nerves danced in her fingertips.
Challenge gleamed in Race's eyes. "You planned to give me a massage with my shirt on?"
Well, actually, she had. "Can't we get fired if we get caught in here--like this?" Her pulse skipped several beats at the thought.
A sexy grin curved Race's lips. He dug around in his pants pockets. "I have both sets of keys. No one can get in."
"Oh." Her voice was barely a whisper. The air smelled stale, even stuffy suddenly, and the walls seemed to be closing in.
"Don't worry." He presented his back to her. "You're not locked in. You can leave any time you want."
Was he a mind reader? Or did she have one of those faces that showed every nuance of expression? Or maybe she had radiated fear? She relaxed now that she knew she had control. Screwing up her courage, she closed the gap between them and rubbed his shoulders. They were full of kinks. "My, but you're tense. Of course I would be, too, if I'd just dove in a moving car."
Race moaned and rolled his head. "You have magic fingers. Over to the right."
She followed his directions, getting into her work, enjoying the feel of his taut yet satiny flesh. His heart galloped in his chest and his breathing became shallow.
Her own respiration wasn't exactly even, either. She had trouble swallowing.
"You're an enigma."
"How so?" Her hands moved lower of their own volition, massaging his lower back, itching, yearning to explore even lower.
He shuddered beneath her hands. He began to twist around, his eyes dark and unfathomable, his hands capturing her shoulders. His lips crooked barely two inches from hers, his hot breath scorching her neck. "Blair...."
The microphone crackled, shattering the tense moment. "Racetrack--the Mrs. is here to see you."
Blair twirled away from her boss, mortified. "Oh God. Oh God." What had she almost done? She'd almost committed the cardinal sin, forgetting he was married.
Race stared at her as if she'd morphed into an alien. "What's wrong?" He dragged his shirt over his head and tucked it into his slacks.
Fury replaced her fear and sadness. Hitching her fists on her hips, she faced off against him, bristling. "What's wrong? We almost ... you had your shirt off with me in here...." Her arm shot out and she pointed towards the store, her arm shaking. With supreme effort, she spit out, "Your wife's right out there for Heaven's sake! Don't you care?"
Shock lit his eyes and then mirth pushed it out. Then he held his side and burst out laughing.
Had the whole world gone nuts? "What's so funny?" She smoldered, ready to march out that door and confess their almost tryst to his wife.
He held up his hands and wiggled his ring finger. "I'm not married. The Mrs. is my mother."
Total confusion broadsided her. She pointed to the store and then pressed her fingertips to her temples. "But you have a son." Then revelation struck her. Duh! "Oh you must be divorced...."
He sobered. "I'm widowed." Memories haunted his eyes.
She wanted to kick herself. Boy, oh boy, had she stuck her foot in her mouth. Pity flooded her and she ached for him.
"Edie died three years ago. I'm over the worst of it, but it was pure hell at first." But a shutter veiled his eyes. "Steve really misses her, though. The kid really deserves a mother." He eyed her speculatively. "A mom who will be there when he comes home from school. Who will love him and be there for him. He's a good kid. He deserves that much."
Blair blinked, reeling. Oh no! No way, Jose! She loved kids, but she wasn't giving up her schooling or career to stay home to raise a child. As far as she was concerned she could have both worlds--if she ever had a child. Why did she have to give up her career? Plenty of mothers worked outside the home nowadays.
But it was plain that Race expected Steve's new mother, whoever she might be, to be a good dutiful, stay at home wife and mother. Nor would she marry a man who only wanted a mother for his child. She'd been there, done that, and had the T-shirt. That road led to heartache and heartbreak.
"Excuse me." She breezed out the door, putting distance between her and the sexiest man she'd met in four years, dragging in huge breaths. What a shame.
\* \*
Race shook his head, perplexed. What had just happened? One moment, Blair's hands had been hot and magical on him, the next, she'd acted as if he had the plague.
Maybe she was allergic to mothers? Or maybe she didn't like kids?
His heart plummeted and he swore beneath his breath. That was it. She hated kids. Oh well, he'd expected as much.
He dragged himself to the store, feeling dejected. He stifled a groan when he spied Inga Petersen preening and giggling next to his mother. His feet started to turn and hide, but the women saw him.
"Horace, dear. You remember little Inga, don't you?" Marlene propelled the giggling, blushing woman forward.
Inga curtsied and stuck her hand right under Race's face, expecting to be kissed. She giggled, a nasal sound that grated on his nerves. Despite her long, silky, white blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and exquisite face, her cackling annoyed him immensely. He'd commit Hari-Kari before he married her. He started to shake Inga's hand when he spotted Blair with his peripheral vision.
Blair hovered nearby, pretending to straighten shelves. She kept her gaze studiously on her job, but her frame tensed, her pert nose wrinkled.
Instead, Race switched gears and kissed Inga's hand. He borrowed Dean's earlier line. "Enchante, Mademoiselle."
Marlene beamed her approval and then gushed. "Inga's a wonderful cook. She makes Swedish meatballs that'll melt in your mouth. She sews all her own clothes. And she loves children."
"Ya, ya. Inga does." Inga giggled again, blushing. She hummed a lullaby and pretended to cradle a baby in her arms. "Inga loves babies." She gazed at him hopefully, as if he were her only hope for maternity. He suddenly felt as if were nothing more than a stud and he didn't like it. "Your little boy is adorable."
He had to escape before she dragged him down the aisle or his mother produced pedigree papers on him. "It was nice seeing you again, Inga." He smiled noncommittally and turned to go.
"Your mother said you'd escort Inga out for her birthday tonight." Inga's smile fell and her shoulders slumped.
"I'm working till close...."
Marlene pinpointed him with a lethal glare. "You have plenty of staff here. Surely you can leave."
He chanced a glance at Blair. "I'm training tonight." Thank God. He didn't want to date Inga. He didn't even want to be neighbors with the 'giggling wonder.'
Inga sniffled and wiped away a tear. "But Inga's birthday is tonight." She spun away on her heel, a pitiful figure.
He couldn't be such a heel, even if he'd been set up. He had never been able to stand a woman's tears. "Well, we're going to late night bowling when we get out of here. I s'pose you could join us." He added his caveat emptor. "We don't close till midnight. Meet us here a few minutes before."
Blair sashayed out of the store, her frame rigid, her head held high.
Great! Just great! Now Blair was upset. On one hand, he wanted Blair to be jealous, but on the other, he didn't want her to be completely mad at him. "I'll see you tonight then."
Inga gave him a less watery smile. "I'll look forward to it."
Backing up toward the door, Race snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Bring your bowling ball."
Inga gave him a blank stare.
Race swallowed a groan, and his smile petrified on his face. Giggly Inga couldn't bowl? He prayed he misread her. How could anyone not know how to bowl? Didn't everyone bowl?
He didn't have time to worry about Inga now, however. First priority was Blair. His purposeful strides ate up the parking lot.
"Hi, Gracie." He smiled at the homeless woman to whom he fed hot dogs and expired pastries several mornings weekly. He didn't know where she slept but presumed it was close by as she'd been hanging around for the past couple of months.
She smiled back shyly, averting her eyes. Long, mousy brown hair liberally streaked with gray was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Several layers of mismatched clothes hung off her bony frame and she wore filthy, holy tennis shoes at least three sizes too large for her feet.
Blair shoveled ice into bags with a vengeance when he rejoined her in the office. He leaned against the door jam, his eyes drinking in the delicious sight of her. "You're supposed to be learning the register."
She didn't give him so much as a cursory glance. When she spoke, her voice was flat. "You're supposed to be training me." She looked magnificent straining to scoop up ice, her skin slick and glistening from perspiration, loose tendrils of hair escaping her chignon, framing her heart-shaped face enchantingly. But it was the wet spots over her breast that riveted his attention.
He doubted she realized that she had leaned against the cooler and in the process, wet her shirt. As he valued his life, he turned his back to her modestly, ready to bolt out the door if necessary. "Uh ... you'd better change your shirt."
Blair shrieked and the ice machine door slammed shut. "Get out!"
"Yes, ma'am." He gave her the privacy she deserved but he leaned against the outside of the office door waiting for her. When she had had double the amount of time sufficient to change leisurely, he pounded his fist on the door. "You decent yet?"
The doorknob rattled, warning him to move.
"Yeah," she grumbled, pushing past him, striding quickly to the store.
He ran to keep up with her, wondering why her feelings, her opinion, mattered so much. "I was going to invite you to bowl with us, too, if that's why you're angry with me."
She stopped, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, but she didn't turn to look at him. "Why should I be angry with you?"
"I didn't mean to leave you out."
"Well, thanks. But I'm dead broke so I can't go."
He desperately wanted her to go. So much so, he heard himself offering, "My treat."
She slowly pivoted on her heel to face him, her expression guarded. "I can't let you do that...."
He waved away her objections. "It's quarter night. Games, sodas, and hot dogs are all a quarter. I think I can afford it."
She seemed to be wavering, considering it, but then she shook her head. "I can't. I have early class."
"You never have a late date?" He couldn't believe that such a lovely lady didn't have a slew of dates.
Flickering emotions and dark shadows crossed her face and then she mumbled something unintelligible.
He leaned closer. "I didn't catch that."
She refused to look at him, preferring instead to study her feet. "I said that I haven't dated in a long time."
Incredulity--and relief--battled inside him. He didn't want to embarrass her, so he admitted, "I've not really dated much, either."
"You have a date tonight." Sadness reverberated in her voice.
At least he thought it was sadness. He peered at her trying to delve into her thoughts but couldn't discern them. He'd been right when he'd called her an enigma. Simultaneously she avoided his advances and then exhibited sadness because he had a date with Giggly Inga. He started to tell her it hadn't been his idea, but something stopped him. It would be sufficient that she join them. "Please come."
She lifted her gorgeous eyes to his, stealing his breath. "I'll think about it." The setting sun reflected in her eyes, illuminating golden flecks in the irises. She rejoined Wyatt, giving her smile to him, the smile Race wanted all for himself.
Race held the bowling alley door open for Blair and Inga. Dean and Wyatt dogged their heels. Cold air and explosive noise hit her in the face almost knocking her backward.
Blair felt like a third wheel, tagging along on Race's date. At least Wyatt, Dean, and a couple of other Kester employees she'd not met yet came along. Thus she didn't complain when Wyatt draped a companionable arm around her shoulders and even slipped her arm around Wyatt's waist when Race glared at them.
She inventoried Inga's outfit. The woman wore a long, flaring patchwork dress, hose, and high heels. How in the world did she plan to bowl in that? Blair shook her head.
Wyatt caught her look, gave her a commiserating smile, and rolled his eyes. "Rocket Scientist extraordinaire."
Inga giggled, a high pitched, irritating giggle that made Blair want to cut out her tongue. It made her swear she'd never giggle again, not that she giggled much to begin with.
A man of average height, mousy brown hair, and big brown eyes marched to them, wearing Vulcan ears and the blue old fashioned Star Trek Uniform. The man stopped in front of Race, spread his fingers in the Vulcan peace greeting, clicked his heels in military fashion, and cocked an eyebrow. "Live long and prosper, Captain." He tilted his head at the rest of the crew, and then eyed Inga and Blair. He marched in front of them, stopped at parade rest, and said, "I believe I have not yet made your acquaintance. Are you new the crewmember? Here to replace Lt. Uhura?"
Inga giggled and pointed. "You're very funny, Mr. Spock."
The Star Trek officer cocked his other brow and gave her a supercilious, superior look. "Commander Sirl at your service. Spock is away on a top secret mission in D Sector."
Blair couldn't resist. "Where is A sector, Commander?"
Wyatt elbowed her in the ribs and whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Don't encourage him. He's not dangerous or anything--at least not to anyone but himself. Don't be scared."
"Maybe if he dressed up as Worf and threatened me with a batliffe I'd be scared, but a Vulcan Commander?" Blair wrinkled her nose. "Naaaa. He must be peace loving."
"Just wait till he dons his Superman cape and goes flying around the parking lot." Wyatt nodded his head emphatically and held up his fingers in a Boy Scout salute. "No joke."
Wyatt must be the sanest person in the bunch, well, other than Race.
Inga let out a peal of giggles at something Race said. Well, maybe Wyatt was saner than Race. If Race had been sane before he hooked up with Miss Giggles, he wouldn't be by the end of the night.
Race paid for everyone's bowling.
"Ooh big spender," Blair drawled under her breath, peeved that Inga hung all over Race but more so that Race seemed to enjoy it. He must as he allowed it. She got her bowling shoes and then sought out a ball to fit her hand. It had been years since she'd been bowling. Of late, her studies had dominated her life and she didn't know what free time was.
Wyatt slid a sidelong glance at her. Waving his arm wildly, he announced in a booming voice, "I'll pick up all the sodas and hotdogs." He turned to Blair with a silly grin, puffing out his chest. "I'm a big spender, too." He squeezed her hand.
Ooh la la! What had she started? Blair gulped. "I-I have to use the powder room. Please order me a Coke...." big spender, she'd almost added then bit it back just in time. She escaped to the ladies room before she allowed herself to hyperventilate. She leaned on the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Sticking out her tongue at herself, she wondered what had ever possessed her to come here tonight. "Do you like torture?" The image in the mirror just stared back. "You're no help."
Inga floated into the room, primping and fluffing her long silvery locks. Her skirts swished about her ankles, just high enough so that red and green leather bowling shoes with a number twelve on the sides peeked out.
Size twelve? Big girl! Maybe she took steroids. Blair chided herself for being so uncharitable but couldn't get over the size of the other woman's boats. Mainly she couldn't suppress a grin that the other woman really intended to bowl in a skirt. At least the Vulcan wore pants that wouldn't trip him up.
"Hi," Inga greeted as she stopped at the mirror and redrew her lipstick on her pouty lips. "You know Horace long?"
Blair choked on hearing the awful name Horace, and started coughing. When she got herself under control, she said, "No. I just started at the Kester Station this week." Good thing the woman hadn't asked if she knew Horace well. Then Blair might've been obligated to tell her that she knew his back very well.
The woman wiggled her hips and flipped her hair. "He's such a sexy hunk. Horace has been ogling Inga for years but was too shy to make his move." Inga moved conspiratorially close. "Inga tells you the truth--Inga was about to make her move on him when his mama set Inga and Horace up. Kismet, don't you think?" She cackled in Blair's ear.
Blair's eardrum almost burst and she jumped back. "Yeah," she said dryly. "Kismet." She took the pins out of her hair and let the chignon out. It'd look silly bowling with a chignon, almost as silly as bowling in a long skirt. She combed her hair so that it cascaded down her back in waves. "Wyatt ordered me a soda. He's waiting on me. I'd better go." She pointed at the door and then backed toward it, her bowling shoes creaking on the old linoleum floor.
"Inga goes with you. Race can't stand it when Inga's away from his side." Inga drowned herself in heather perfume so that Blair could barely breathe. "So Wyatt's your man?" Inga winked at her.
Blair forced herself to smile and be gracious, glad the other woman couldn't read her thoughts. Her heart leapt when she spied Race bent over to deliver his ball on the lane. She stopped and watched in awe as his blue sparkle ball spun and curved gracefully as it knocked down all the pins.
Inga jumped up and down, clapping, her skirts flying up around her knees. "Inga's Horace is best bowler in the whole world!"
"I got my money on the Vulcan," Blair said, watching his smooth delivery, even smoother than her boss man's.
When Sirl got a strike a moment later, he punched his fist in the air and then danced around, whooping, very un-Vulcanlike. Then he seemed to catch himself and plastered a somber expression on his face and walked back sedately.
Race swiveled around in his chair. His mischievous gaze pierced them. "You two gonna join us, or are you gonna be antisocial? Inga's turn."
Inga's name blinked on screen and little arrows pointed to the rightmost of the set of lanes they were renting. Inga gasped and skipped down the stairs to the lane. "Inga never bowled before. Can you show Inga how?" She batted her lashes at him.
Blair ambled to the score table and sat across from Wyatt. She took a bite out of one of the hotdogs piled into the center of the table. "This I gotta see," she mumbled through a mouthful.
"Wish I brought a video camera." Glee sparkled in Wyatt's eyes.
"You have to put your fingers in the ball like this...." Race demonstrated patiently, so close to the blonde woman that she must surely feel his breath on her neck.
Inga held up her hands, pouting, wiggling her fingers under Race's nose. "Inga's nails will break." She brightened, the apples of her cheeks glowing. "Inga knows. Inga will roll the ball without putting her fingers into it." She pointed at a five or six year old child who pushed the ball between his chubby legs.
Wyatt leaned over the table and covered the side of his mouth so Inga and Race couldn't read his lips. "Should we put the bumper pads up for her, too?"
Blair chuckled at the vision, cheered. She held up her hand. "I vote for that."
Dean ambled up to them and folded his long frame into the seat next to Blair. His incredibly long legs stretched out before him, reaching past Wyatt. "Let me in on the joke. What's happenin'?"
Wyatt wiggled his eyebrows. "We were just discussing Inga's professional bowling technique. Blair and I vote we raise the bumper pads for her. What do you vote?"
Dean swiveled around and stared behind Blair's back, his expression intense.
Inga cradled the alley ball in her arms and walked up to the line. Then she bent double, lowering the ball to the foul line. Her skirts swept the floor and her hair made a curtain between the ball and the lane. "Inga gets strike. You watch." She swung the ball back and forth, like the little boy a few lanes down.
"Inga, watch out!" Race tried to catch her, but went down with her when Inga's ball caught in her skirts and then her hair.
The ball knocked her backwards off her feet as it weighed heavy in her skirts. When it caught on her hair, she jerked forward, hurling down the lane, shrieking.
"Lordy! I vote with you, man. Call 911." Dean scrambled to the lane and tried to pull Race to safety, grabbing his feet. But Dean's feet skidded on the oily lane and dove face first down the lane.
"What do you people think you're doing?" The lane manager darted down to the lane, his face puffed out and almost purple. "You're messing up my oil! We just cleaned those lanes. Get back behind the foul line right now!"
"No, Inga, honey. He's not really mad at you. It's just that people aren't allowed to go past the foul line." Race helped his date stand and guided her back to the table.
Inga's white shirt was stained with black oil. She looked down and winced at it and threw up her hands. "Look! The oily lanes ruined my clothing."
Sirl piped up as he quirked. "It is not logical to wear white to a bowling alley. Of course the balls get oily." He scratched his pointed ear. "Thus, it is logical to wear only dark colors in which to bowl."
Inga sniffled and swiped at the tear running down her cheek, smudging her mascara across her face.
"Lay off the lady, Commander," Race said, grimacing. "She's just been through a traumatic incident."
Even thought the woman wasn't the brightest star in the sky, Blair took pity on her. Standing, Blair took her under her wing and spoke to her in a calm and sympathetic tone. "Come on Inga. Let's get you fixed up and beautiful again. Would you like that?"
Inga nodded, gratefulness curving her cheeks. "Inga would like that very much." Even her hair had black, oily streaks.
"But it's your turn, Blairsy!" Wyatt's lower lip stuck out almost an inch. "I wanted to get three games in but at this rate, we'll only get one. Bowl first, and then play nursemaid."
"Wyatt...." Race warned, authority ringing in his voice. Shadows covered his face.
Blair glanced at the clock. Wyatt was right. "I'll be a jiffy. Two minutes." She patted Inga's hand, noting that a couple of the older woman's nails had broken off anyway. "Promise." Blair hurried her pace to the lane. She picked up her ball, chose her spot, concentrated, and started her delivery. Just as she was lifting the ball behind her, a middle-aged woman ran in front of her and lofted her ball in the air. The neighboring ball landed on Blair's lane, to Blair's shock and chagrin.
It was too late for Blair to stop her delivery. Her ball had too much momentum and slid off her fingers, dropping almost onto her feet. She jumped back, kicking up her feet.
The two balls collided, splitting her neighbor's ball open.
The other woman stomped over to Blair, her steps rocking the alley, a feral gleam in her hazel eyes. "You broke my ball! You did that on purpose!"
Flabbergasted, Blair's jaw dropped open. Her gaze ping-ponged from the plastic mess of the broken ball in the middle of the lane, to the rabid, murderous woman on an intercept course, and then back to the lane. Bristles stuck out of the woman's chin, quivering. "I broke your ball? You threw your ball on my...."
"She admitted it!" The bearded woman crowed to her team. "You heard it. She admitted she broke my ball!"
"She admitted nothing of the sort!" Wyatt championed Blair, rushing to her defense. His wiry hair swayed under the breeze from the air conditioning vent.
Sirl marched to them, his arms swinging, picking his feet up high. Stopping in front of them, he stopped two inches in front of the aggressive bowler. His eyes crossed as his gaze settled on her chin. "Madame, if I may call you that? My client was perfectly within her parameters. It was you who crossed our neutral zone and invaded our territory. If you persist in suing, we will counter sue and take you for all you are worth. Galactic war will undoubtedly ensue."
Wyatt smiled and smacked his leg. "Galactic war. Good one, Sirl. Can I navigate the Enterprise? I always wanted to drive the ship."
Race broke into the crowd. "What's going on here?" He shielded Blair from the woman.
The crazy stout bowler pointed at Blair. Her double chin wobbled as she accused with a lisp, "She attacked my bowling ball and broke it. I'm suing for damages."
Race's gaze settled on each one of his employees in turn. "Is this true?"
Wyatt guffawed. "What? You missed that?" He smirked. "I knew I should've brought my video cam." He pointed at the fuming woman. "She lofted her ball onto Blair's lane as Blair was bowling, and then she has the nerve to blame Blair for destroying her ball. If you ask me, she needs a shave and then a lobotomy!"
"Why, you little--" The woman seethed, her eyes narrowing to slits in her pudgy face. Her hands reached out to throttle Wyatt.
Wyatt jumped up, screeching. "She's crazy! She's going to kill me!" He dashed off, whipping around the ball returns and tables, interrupting play from lane five through thirty-six.
"Come back here, you little weasel. Stand up and take your punishment like a man!" Tremors shook the lane as if T-Rex were on the chase as her feet pounded the ground.
"Why should I act like the man? You have the beard!" Wyatt's brows danced as he taunted her.
Race hung his head in his hand and groaned. "Why me?" He grumbled under his breath. Louder, he shouted, Dino! Get Wyatt!"
"What boss?" Dean flirted with a table of blushing young ladies who gazed at him adoringly. "Did you say something?" He smiled adoringly at a pretty dark-haired girl with amber eyes. Stars twinkled in his eyes.
Race shook his head.
"Don't worry, Captain." Sirl tapped his feet together and saluted smartly. "I'll apprehend him." He took a balled up red cape out of his pocket and tied it around his neck. "Sir Sirl is here to save the day!" He sang his words to the popular cartoon character's theme song and then sped off, his fists balled, his nose high in the air. His cape floated behind him, smacking unsuspecting bowlers in the face.
An elderly patron dropped his ball, which rolled backward off the wood and went kerplunk.
The lane manager ran down to the lanes, his arms flailing. "What have you done now?" He pointed at the score screen. "You haven't even bowled two frames and you're tearing up my alley."
Blair stepped forward, ready to apologize.
Race put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her back when she opened her mouth to speak. He stepped in front of her again. "Let me handle this. I'm in charge, after all." A charming smile transformed his handsome face as he turned to the manager. "It seems like the lady on the lane next to us missed her mark and threw her ball in our lane. That was unfortunate enough, but was made more so because Miss Fayard here was in the process of throwing her ball at the same time. The two balls collided and shattered."
The manager, a gray-haired, fiftyish-something man wrapped the end of his large handlebar mustache around his forefinger. "And that explains why Mighty Nerd and Company are flying around my bowling alley with the bearded woman?" The man peered at Race and then at Blair, his gaze raking them from head to foot. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and tapped his foot loudly. "Tell me truthfully, is this a field trip from the loony bin?"
Inga giggled. "Inga never saw anything so funny in all her long life." She frowned, pouting. "Inga means, in her very short, young life." She thrust out her chest and tossed her hair.
The manager looked down his long skinny nose at Inga. He said in a voice dry as dust. "Don't tell me. You're the spokeswoman?"
Inga bellowed with laughter, doubling over this time. "Inga finds you very funny. You should be on TV."
"You think?" The man's whole demeanor changed. He smiled and posed, giving them his hawk-like profile. "All the ladies tell me how handsome I am. They fight over me."
Dean ambled up with a drowsy smile. "I get the same thing all the time, brother. It's a dirty job but someone has to do it." He clicked his fingers in the air and four young women immediately flocked to his side, batting their lashes at him.
Race whispered to Blair. "If you want to help, flirt with the old guy. Make over him."
Blair mimicked Dean's harem, and sidled up to the manager, batting her lashes and parting her lips. "I can't blame them. You just ooze sex appeal." She purred and licked her lips. "Please don't hold this itty-bitty misunderstanding against my friends and I. We didn't mean any harm."
"Call me Angel." The man's voice came out cracked. He pronounced Angel with a Hispanic accent. It sounded like Ann Heel. He leaned towards Blair and finger combed his hair.
She tried to wrap her tongue around his name and make it sound sultry and sexy. Instead it came out, "I've adored you from afar, Ant Hill." At least that's what it sounded like to her ears. She kicked herself proverbially, embarrassed. "I mean Ann Hell." She bit back a groan. Her tongue needed a lot more practice.
Inga cackled and pointed. "Ant Hill! Blair's a scream. Inga's never had so much fun. Inga loves you people!"
Race nudged the back of her foot with the toe of his shoe. He whispered in her ear, "You chose now to get a speech impediment?" His breath tickled her ear and scorched her neck making her shiver. "Race doesn't love you people tonight."
"Get out!" Angel stomped his feet and pointed at the door. "Collect your misfits and vacate my establishment before I call the cops."
"Gotcha!" The bearded woman caught Wyatt and cut off his scream with pressure from her fingers. "No one tells me I have more testosterone than he does and lives."
"Bonsai!" Sirl yelled and dove for the woman who had her hands around Wyatt's throat shaking the purple-faced man. "I'll save you, soldier!" He bowled them over, landing on top of the woman, forcing her to release his coworker.
"Can we get our money back?" Wyatt faced down Angel. He tilted his head at Race. "The man paid you up front for three games each. Plus the initial $5.00 each...." Wyatt paused, counting on his fingers. "You owe us thirty-nine bucko."
Angel's eye twitched erratically and his mouth dropped open. He uttered a spate of unintelligible foreign words, his hands gesticulating wildly at the mess on the alley.
Dean strutted up behind the man, glared down at the top of the man's head, and tapped his shoulder.
When Angel craned his neck back to gaze at the much taller, stronger man, his face paled and his Adam's Apple swelled double its normal size.
"Give my man back his money." Menace hid in Dean's honeyed tones. "Or let us finish our games. Which will it be?" He cracked his knuckles, one at a time, up close and personal in Angel's ashen face.
Two young men in bowling alley uniforms swept up the broken balls. One knelt on one knee and slid his fingers over the alley, letting out a long, low whistle. There was a crater-sized hole in the lane at ground zero.
Sirl followed her gaze and then looked at the ceiling. "Incoming missiles Captain. We best beam up to the ship."
Race handed over his car keys to the pointy-eared man. "Go bring the Enterprise into port and we'll beam up momentarily." He peered at Wyatt. "Accompany Commander Sirl on his Away Mission, Ensign."
Wyatt pouted and dragged his feet. "Why am I only an Ensign? I have my Bachelor's degree and he doesn't. Plus I have seniority." Mock horror flickered across his face as he clutched his throat and pretended to choke. "Don't I have a name? I know what happens to nameless crewmen assigned to Away Missions! Big rock monsters and sexy buffaloes drain all their blood."
Laughter bubbled to Blair's lips, but one look at Race's unhappy expression told her that her mirth wouldn't be appreciated right now so she stifled it behind her hand.
Race glowered at the newly appointed Ensign. "Guard my van or you'll wish a rock monster fell on you." His voice remained lethally low.
Inga curled her fingers around Race's lower arm proprietarily. "Inga's Horace is so manly and strong. Inga adores masterful men."
Race lifted his eyes heavenward. "Beam me up, Scotty."
Angel scurried to refund Race's money. "Please, please take your money. Just promise me not to let them loose ever again." He thrust two twenty dollar bills at Race and then folded his hands in prayer.
"You want me to give him a Vulcan neck pinch?" Dean asked, his hand up, fingers spread.
"Negatory. Let's just leave this hostile world."
Race held the door for the women to exit the bowling alley. "Beautiful ladies, first."
Dean caught the door. "Captain first." After Race left, he announced, "Captain's off the bridge."
Blair climbed aboard the Enterprise, feeling as if she'd just transported into a very strange universe.
"Inga's your dream girl, isn't she?" Marlene pranced around the dining room table where they played a rousing game of Monopoly. She set wheat germ mixed in milk before each of them.
Race shuddered, both at the thought of Inga and wheat germ. "I'd rather stay single and celibate forever than listen to her inane cackle." He pinched his fingers together. "My nerves are this thin after spending an evening with her." A lifetime would be a death sentence.
Marlene smoothed her skirt beneath her daintily and studied her son. "So what exactly did you find dislikable about her?" She bought two hotels and placed them on Park Place and Boardwalk.
"Does it matter, Ma?" He didn't like to speak ill of anyone and normally had the patience of three normal people. "She's just not my type."
Marlene rolled her dice and moved her piece--the pewter terrier--past Go and landed on the first railroad. "I'll buy it." Banker and realtor, she paid herself and collected her property. "Precisely what did you find disagreeable? I need to know."
Steve rolled the dice and landed on Tennessee Avenue where Marlene had another hotel. His lower lip trembled and he gave his grandmother a pathetic, pleading look. "Do I have to pay?" He spread out his light bankroll. "I'll have to go out."
Mercy lit Marlene's eyes and she patted his hand. "Just give me five hundred dollars and we'll call it even." She turned a steady gaze on Race, all traces of the mercy gone. "Well?"
Race sighed and scratched his chin. "That inane giggling for one. It drives me bananas." He ticked off one finger. "Then she talks about herself in the third person." He ticked off a second finger. "Three, she's a ditz. Ma, the woman wore a skirt to the bowling alley. She's missing several brain cells."
Marlene whipped off her glasses and chewed on the end. "So you like more serious women. No giggling. No nonsense. Right?"
"Well...." That depended. "Why?" Terrible suspicions frightened him.
Marlene took a long drink of her wheat germ. When she lowered the glass, a milk and wheat germ mustache remained. "You need a wife and Stevie needs a mother. Your father and I live too far away for me to be the primary female in your lives. So my mission is to find the perfect woman for you before I go home." She slid him a sly glance. "You sure Inga won't do? She's had a crush on your for years and is a divine cook."
"No Inga. And no finding me women. I'd rather handle my own love life." Again Blair's gorgeous face filled his mind and he had an insane desire to ask her out on a date. Then his gaze swept over his son and he realized the futility of dating a woman who didn't want children.
"If you're doing such a great job, where are all your girlfriends?"
"He's got high standards," Steve chimed in. "He wants a babe with real big boo--"
"Steven Horace!" Marlene turned an accusing stare on her son. "Where'd he hear that?"
"Not from me. I like women with brains." Not that big boobs hurt. Blair had quite a set....
"I think I have another candidate for you. A no-nonsense, serious, intelligent girl. I don't know if she can cook, however."
Race bit back a huge sigh. "No, Ma." He blew on his dice, rattled them in his hand and rolled them.
Marlene rose from her chair. "I'll just ring her and see if she's free tonight." She ignored his protests. When she hung up the phone, she beamed at him. "Amanda's picking you up in half an hour. She said to wear long jeans, hiking boots, and a sturdy shirt." Marlene kissed his cheek. "Don't worry, dear heart. She'd die before she giggled."
"Gee thanks, Ma." Hiking boots? She was picking him up? It sounded as if she wanted to wear the pants. "Is she one of those militant women's libbers?" Not that he was against equality of the sexes, but he still liked his women to be feminine. Just not so feminine that they giggled all the time.
Marlene frowned. "I don't think so. She's just a bit of a tomboy." She shooed him away. "Get ready. I'll teach Steven the finer points of Monopoly."
It was easier to go along with his mother's wishes than fight her. Who knew? Maybe his mom would find his dream girl.
A sharp horn honked outside precisely at seven. He suddenly knew why women hated it so much when men honked for them.
Steve gave him the high five. "Go get her, Romeo."
Race took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Here goes nothin'."
"You'll have a good time. Smile." Marlene turned Race's lips into a smile with her fingers. "Relax. Enjoy. You're becoming a fuddy-duddy in your old age."
Race sauntered to Amanda's Jeep Cherokee and climbed in. "I'm Race. You must be Amanda." He held out his hand.
She shook his hand, squeezing harder than most men he'd ever met, almost crushing the bones in his fingers. "Nice, macho name. Race." Approval flashed in her azure eyes. She pulled out into the road. "You play darts?"
Race shrugged his shoulders. "I played a bit as a kid."
"I'm on a dart league tonight so you can tag along...."
Race had no desire to play darts in a dingy, smoky bar. "I don't want to intrude."
Amanda hawked up a wad of phlegm and spit out the window. "You can sub for Chip."
Race couldn't resist. "What happened to Chip?" He hoped the guy hadn't been speared by a dart.
Amanda bit off the end of a cigar, lit it, and puffed. Awful tobacco odor filled the cab. "He's in the pokey for holding up a convenience store."
Race gulped. "You don't say." His worst nightmare was to be held up at gunpoint at the store. Thus far, he'd been lucky and no one had robbed his station in that manner.
Amanda pulled into the Rusty Nail Café and parked. She slipped her arm through his uninvited and guided him inside the smokiest, smelliest bar he'd ever seen. Raucous, bawdy laughter poured out of the back room.
"Bring us two beers, Tessie." Amanda two-stepped through the front room, her hips swaying to the Country-Western music.
Claustrophobia began to set in. Race hated crowded, musty places.
Two dart teams swaggered in front of the dartboard, long necked beer bottles tilted to their lips, lethally sharp darts in their other hand.
Great! Just what he loved--tipsy people with sharp, pointy weapons. Didn't anyone else see a problem with this?
"Everybody, Race is subbing for Chip." Amanda sidled up to Race and groped her hand in his pocket.
Shocked at his date's boldness, Race jumped away. He stretched his lips into a grin and then tried to melt into the crowd.
Amanda led off the game with a Bull's-eye. Strutting back to Race, she challenged her competitor, "Beat that, Reuben."
Reuben and his teammates all missed the Bull's-eye while Amanda guzzled several beers. Her speech blurred and her aim worsened. "Isn't this the most fun you've ever had?" She tried to plant a sloppy kiss on Race.
Race sidestepped her. "Yeah. Loads of fun." The fiasco at the bowling alley had been a hundred thousand times more fun than this. Any more fun and he'd be catatonic. He suppressed a yawn, his eyelids heavy, his eyes achy from the smoke and overbearing perfume.
The waitress shrieked and threw a tray of drinks into the air. She clawed at her head and tore off her red wig and it fell to the floor. "A big ass bug flew in my hair. Get it out! I hate bugs!"
A monstrous Palmetto bug buzzed off the top of her head, spreading its gigantic wings. It flew at Amanda who threw her dart at it and missed.
Everyone scattered, spilling beer, tripping over the waitress's wig and each other, falling on their rear ends in their hurry to vacate the bar. Screams echoed louder than the canned music.
Amanda pulled a twenty-two caliber pistol from her purse and took aim. "Die sucker!" She fired at the flying insect and missed.
"It's just a bug!" Race tried to reason with the distraught, crazed woman. The thing launched at him, its brown wings flapping menacingly.
Amanda fired at it, just missing Race's head.
Race ducked, tucking, rolling, and swearing under his breath. "You're nuts! You almost killed me. Stop shooting." Bullet holes riddled the floors and walls.
Amanda stalked the bug and fired again, her expression murderous. "It's me or him." Snarling, she gritted her teeth. "I'm darned if he'll land on me."
Forget this! "Hasta la vista, sweetheart!" Now he knew why he needed the hiking boots. He clomped out of the bar and hiked down the road. He'd journeyed several blocks before he cooled off. At this rate, he'd reach home about seven a.m. just in time to see Steve off to school.
A cloud passed over the moon as he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the station.
"Kester Gas Station. May I help you?" Blair answered in a singsong voice. Her sweet melodious tones sounded heavenly.
"Hi. It's Race. How are you doing? Everything okay there?"
After she responded with the appropriate answer, he asked, "Is Dino around tonight? If he is, put him on the line, please." Cars swooshed past him, their exhaust making him cough. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
"Sorry, boss man. It's just me and Wyatt tonight." The gas bell rung in the background and the register whirred.
"Shoot! I really need Dino." He couldn't ask Wyatt to rescue him because that would leave Blair alone at the store and she had not closed alone yet. Nor could he ask Blair to venture into this dangerous part of town alone, either.
"What's wrong? Can I help?" Genuine concern tinged Blair's voice.
Gunfire blazed nearby. Knee-jerk reaction made Race dive to the ground. He cursed his scraped throbbing knees and the pebbles that imbedded themselves into the bruised heels of his hands.
"Race! Did I hear gunshots? Are you okay?" Blair's voice climbed an octave higher than normal although he had to be imagining the panic and concern he also imagined hearing. "Where are you?"
Race squatted and peered at the nearest street sign, his vision a little blurry under the faintly starry sky. "Powerline and 28th just north of Martin Luther King Dr. in Pompano. About a mile down the road from the Rusty Nail Bar. I'm stranded...."
"Take cover. I'm sending the Calvary. If you have to move, call back with your location. Write this down." She paused several seconds giving him time to grab a pen and scrap dollar bill from his pocket before reciting her cell phone number.
"Ten-four. Hurry." He hated to let her go but he had to conserve battery power. There wasn't that much on it now and he cursed under his breath that he wasn't better at keeping it charged up for emergencies, not that he'd ever dreamed he'd be on foot in the worst section of Pompano at night.
"I mean it. Stay low and don't take any chances. I'll be right there."
If only Blair liked children.... The unbidden thought caught him off guard, and he shook himself that this wasn't the time to have such thoughts. He wasn't sure there'd ever be a right time to wonder if Blair liked children. This was a career woman, a sometimes haughty Blair.
More gunplay split the night, and what sounded like a cannon, so he hugged the ground, trying to mesh with it. His motherless son couldn't afford for him to be foolish tonight.
What seemed an eternity later, Blair pulled up next to him and opened the passenger door. "Hop in, John Wayne." She roared off as soon as he slammed his door. "So what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?" her luscious lips twisted into a grimace. "Let me guess ... you had an uptown date?"
He twisted in his seat to study her profile, lovely even in the scarce light. Street lamps illuminated the car's cab for a couple of seconds, revealing her.
"I'd like to take you out uptown sometime." The words slid out without volition and he wanted to kick himself. He had to keep reminding himself this was Blair, his employee, the oft sarcastic college student, not that she was anything but sweet and wonderful tonight. And his savior. He blinked to stop such dangerous thoughts. He had a mission and that was to find the best mother for Steve that he could, one that would not only make Steve happy but that he could tolerate. To cover up his slip, he added quickly, almost gruffly, "To repay you for this. I clean up very nice."
"I'm sure you do." She slid a smoldering glance to him that almost made him gulp.
The temperature inside the tiny car rose alarmingly. He gained boldness by her response, without forethought, he reached behind her and circled his fingertips lightly over the nape of her neck. What a graceful line she had, a perfect neck just made to nuzzle and kiss till she was quivering with lust and senseless from his caress.... His cock suffering from twinges of desire, he cursed the stick shift separating them when he longed to drag her onto his lap.
Shivering beneath his touch, she glanced coyly up at him with a hint of passion in the most beautiful eyes he'd ever drowned in. "Where am I taking you? Home?"
Her husky voice made his muscles cord. One very large muscle in particular that strained against his slacks in a way he'd almost forgotten. Shifting uncomfortably, he cursed the small space, wishing he had a king-sized bed at his disposal.
He glanced at the digital radio display on the dashboard which gleamed 10:34 p.m. and suppressed a disappointed sigh. "No time. Let's help Wyatt close up then if one of you can give me a lift home, I'd appreciate it." Starving to taste her sweet lips, to pull her into his arms, he bided his time until the store was closed and Wyatt had faded from memory.
He hurried the crew through closing, impatient to get Blair alone. He was pleased that she ran the closing register report unassisted. Sufficiently ready to run a shift by herself, he gave her a key to the store. It had taken Wyatt months to get to this point. Dean only wanted to do the outside duties, so she proved a refreshing welcome.
Except for the sultry jazz music Blair tuned onto the radio, they rode home in silence. Those dreamy bedroom eyes and absolutely irresistible lips were doing unspeakable things to him. She looked completely adorable in her neon orange smock. For once she wore the feminine shirt that reminded everyone of a maternity top.
Maternity.... His blood simmered. He longed for more children. Edie had wanted eight, but they'd agreed on four. That damned cancer had destroyed their dreams for a happy family and stole not only Steve's mother and Race's wife, but the possibility of the large family he'd always wanted. Now the possibility of making more babies with Blair pounded in his brain and set his loins on fire.
His member jumped to life at the idea of making babies with this delicious female.
She pulled up in front of Race's house and shifted the coupe to neutral. Swiveling sideways, facing him, she smiled seductively. "I plan to collect on my uptown date," she warned, luscious mischief flashing across her expressive eyes.
"Walk me to my door?" His heart racing, he leapt out of the car and rushed to her side, not giving her a chance to refuse.
She blushed adorably and slipped her small, perfectly sized hand into his. "Don't let it be said that Blair Fayard dropped a defenseless man at the curb."
Crickets serenaded them and stardust shimmered around them as they strolled to Race's front stoop. Moths performed intricate air ballet for their sole enjoyment under the dim glow of the porch light. Night blooming Jasmine fragranced the air, but couldn't eclipse her heady scent.
Mesmerized, Race turned Blair toward him and lifted her chin with his forefinger so that he could gaze into her glorious eyes. "You're an enchanting enigma. Thanks for rescuing me." Bewitched by the temptress, he lowered his lips to capture hers.
Standing on tiptoe, she lifted her lips to his. Against his lips she murmured, "White knights can't help but rescue stranded cowboys."
"You're mixing metaphors." Her breath smelled sweet and fruity. Her throat felt smooth and creamy against his fingers. How he longed to mix other things with her....
"You're splitting hairs." She wound her arms around his shoulders and pressed against him. "Will I get fired for kissing the boss?"
Fires ignited in Race's belly and he longed to scoop her into his arms and carry her to his cave and make mad, passionate love to her all night long. Only the thought that Marlene or Steve might catch them stopped him. With regret, he shook the dreamy cobwebs from his head. Courting with children certainly put a crimp in his love life. So did his mother's presence. "No. This boss won't divulge a word if his employee doesn't." Although he just might die if he didn't kiss her this very second. Capturing her lips, savoring them, he caressed her. His hand slid under the heavy fall of her hair to rest lightly at the base of her spine. Absentmindedly, his fingertips massaged the creamy flesh that was driving him so insane. Slowly, he traced the graceful line of her spine until it met the small of her back and like a man starved, he pressed her intoxicating warmth against his throbbing cock.
Pulling back, licking her swollen, bruised lips, she breathed heavily. "I didn't expect ... didn't want this."
She didn't want this? What a blow to his ego. He wondered why anyone wouldn't want to feel such precious, loving feelings. He'd missed these extraordinary feelings and had feared he'd never feel anything so wonderful again after his wife died.
"So what now?" He didn't want to go back but didn't know how to advance without scaring the skittish woman away. "Tell me honestly--do you like children? Do you want children of your own?" He held his breath, hoping to hear the answer he so desperately needed to hear.
"Yes...." The word was correct, yet but hung in the air.
"Yes, but?" Holding his breath, he stroked her silky hair, letting his fingers sift through it pleasurably. "What else is there? I have a great job, a nice home. I can support you in style...."
Her eyes darkened but her forehead furrowed. "Nice job?"
So that's what worried her. He could fix this. The anchor cut loose of his heart and he felt far better than he had in weeks. "I'm up for district manager. White shirt and tie position, Monday through Friday nine to five hours. Substantial pay increase. I'll be able to buy a house in Parkland." He dropped a kiss on her pouting lips. "Before you know it, I'll be a regional manager."
Frowning, she turned her back on him, and crossed her arms over her chest. Moonbeams danced on her golden locks and a mosquito buzzed near her ear. "Tell me ... will your wife work?"
"She won't need to. I told you--I'll be getting an embarrassingly large pay hike. You can stay home with our children."
She spoke quietly, her voice on a tight leash, her shoulders tensed. "I won't have to? Or you don't want me to?"
Didn't all mothers want to stay home with their children? Wouldn't it be a relief to her to get out of the gas station with its raunchy hours and jobs like mopping the floors, emptying the huge outside garbage cans, and cleaning the grill? Most of all, it was best for the children. "I'd like you to stay home with the children."
She whirled around, her eyes flashing daggers. "But I don't want to stay home! I have career plans, too. Big plans. Important plans. Whoever I marry will have to accept that." Staring up at him, she waited for his response, challenge and hope warring in her eyes. "Well?"
Steve had been without a mother much too long to be subjected to a part-time mom who'd be too busy and too tired to love and nurture him. Plus he wanted all his children to have their mother's full devotion. He couldn't agree to Blair's ridiculous terms. Heart broken, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets as his dreams crashed into the dust. "I guess we're not suited after all. I'll walk you to your car." But his heart screamed how wrong he was.
"Don't bother, boss man. No one would dare bother me in my present mood." She pivoted on her worn rubber sole and flounced away, her shadow scurrying to catch up with her hurried pace.
Such a pity.
Blair could barely concentrate in class the next day. Partially because she was exhausted because she hadn't slept all night, but mostly because she couldn't stop dwelling on Race and his dreams for the future.
But what about her dreams? Her needs?
He hadn't officially proposed and yet his words had sounded very personal. No way would she give up her career for a man's. Her mother had trusted two men, supported them in their careers, and then had been deserted with three children to raise without the skills or education to support her family, without the support they'd promised, probably during the heat of sex.
Before her death, Blair's mother had made her promise she'd finish college and always have a career for her but especially for her children. Her mother had wised up too late to help herself, to give her children a decent childhood, but not too late to warn her only daughter. Not that Blair needed the counseling. She'd figured it out for herself the hard way, crying herself to sleep on an empty belly far too many, unforgettable nights. She'd never longed to be a millionaire, but she never wanted to go hungry or be evicted again. That meant a steady, decent job and a good career as companies and jobs disappeared at an alarming rate these days.
"Miss Fayard?" Professor Anton towered over her, his silvery brows drawn together. His overly large ears twitched at her in a way that spelled trouble.
Blair looked up at the elderly scholar with a grimace. She'd been so deep in her thoughts she hadn't heard him. "Can you repeat that? I didn't catch it."
Anton rapped her desk with his wooden pointer, making her nerves jump. "I suggest you stop daydreaming and pay attention to my lecture if you wish to pass my course, young lady."
Everyone chuckled except Blair who slumped in her chair, groaning inwardly and glowing from embarrassment. Great, now her college, her future was threatened because of a man. That's not what her mother would have wanted. Not what she wanted. She had to focus and get back on track, fast, before she kissed her college, her future, goodbye.
"Put away your books and notes, people. Pop quiz." Grinning with wicked glee, the professor clapped his hands sharply. "Chop chop. Time's short."
The rest of the class groaned with Blair now as they slammed books shut and stuffed them under their chairs or into book bags.
Blair wasn't prepared. Her study time had been drastically cut by her work hours. When the quiz landed on her desk, she stared at the questions for several long moments trying to remember the answers. Finally she scribbled answers, not sure they were correct and shook her head as she ambled out the door in an anxious daze.
When she arrived at the station that evening, she was still shaking her head. As she had taken to doing far too often lately, she fixed herself a fountain drink and a hot dog. It wasn't the most nutritious meal but it was free and filling, something a poor college student could quibble with.
"Those'll give you zits," Wyatt warned Soto Voce. "They're also full of fillers and preservatives and will make you puff up like my older sister, Wilma." He patted his small paunch and puffed out his cheeks for effect. "And like me."
She didn't intend to work here long enough to get plump or pimply faced on hot dogs. She had two interviews set up for the following week for real jobs that paid decent money. But as much as she wanted to get away from the hot dogs and gasoline, she longed to distance herself from the boss and the confusing mass of emotions that swirled in her every time she thought of him. She forced a smile to her lips despite her heavy heart and then licked mustard off of them.
"You're closing tonight." Wyatt stuffed a wrinkled mettwurst in his mouth and then wiped his hands down his slacks leaving oil streaks.
She almost choked, spluttering out hot dog. Fear gripped her. "You're deserting me? Leaving me here all alone at night to face these crazies by my lonesome?"
Wyatt laughed and then strutted to the front door with his uneven gait. "Chill, Blairsy. I'll be here doing the outside chores if you get in a jam. But NASCAR wants you to try to go solo. I need a night off and I can't get it till we have another closer."
Blair's glance alighted on Sirl who ran the register. He seemed to be doing quite well other than the Captain America costume he wore complete with mask, gloves, and red boots. "What about him? He can run the register."
Wyatt winced and whispered, "We don't trust him with the store's key yet." He lowered his voice another notch. "I doubt we ever will."Blair clocked in on the computer and began counting cigarettes as part of shift change. Someone had mixed the Marlboro's into the other pigeon holes again and she sighed as she moved the step stool so she could straighten them out.
"I'll be in the cooler if you need me." Wyatt donned the jacket and zipped it up.
"Where's Racetrack?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage hoping Wyatt didn't hear her heart pump triple time.
"He pulled dayshift today and vamoosed about three p.m. He's got a hot date tonight." Wyatt wriggled his eyebrows. "The Mrs. is intent on marrying him off before she goes back home."
Red-hot jealousy seared Blair and she almost fell off the footstool as she tiptoed to grab a carton of Winston's in the wrong place. "Was she the one who set him up with Annie Oakley last night?"
"Oh no you don't, you criminal!" Sirl yelled beside her without warning. "You're not stiffing me again."
Alarmed, Blair glanced over at her coworker. "Another drive off?" Race would have a fit.
Sirl ripped open his Kester uniform shirt to reveal the Captain America stars and stripes costume beneath it. "Captain Sirl will bring the Nazi to justice for truth, justice, and the American way! Perhaps this one will lead me to Red Skull's secret headquarters!" He bounded for the door, his features contorted. "I will avenge thee, Bucky!"
"Get back here, Sirl!" Blair hissed. She tried to ignore the awe-struck stares of their customers. "You're embarrassing us. Besides he's long gone."
Sirl laughed mirthlessly. "Dear girl. Captain Sirl always gets his man." He dashed out the door. "Stop thief!" He sped off down the road, silver lightning bolts flapping beside his ears.
Blair yanked open the freezer door and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Wyatt! Emergency!" Then she dashed outside in a vain attempt to stop her whacked out coworker.
Wyatt burst out of the freezer and rushed to her side.
Blair pointed at Sirl's quickly receding back. "Captain America got loose and is chasing a car."
Wyatt laughed as he shrugged out of his jacket. He shaded his eyes with his hand. "Hey. He's pretty fast. At this rate he'll make Georgia by sun up tomorrow."
Blair punched the Senior Clerk in the shoulder playfully. "Don't you care?"
"Eh." Wyatt shoveled his fingers through his Brillo Pad hair. "Why should I? I'm not the manager. They promoted Racetrack over me. He makes the big bucks, let him chase Super Nerd." He turned on his worn heel and reentered the store. "Besides, Sirl always tires of the chase and comes back eventually."
Blair's eyes widened. "This isn't the first time?"
Wyatt started ringing out grumbling customers. "Heck no. He does this at least once a month. It's the only time he gets any exercise."
The melodrama drained out of Blair's bones and she leaned on the counter to catch her breath. Stale tobacco and overcooked hotdogs tickled her nose.
"Hey, remember me?" A slightly familiar thirtyish-something, nondescript man with dark blonde hair grinned at Blair as he paid for a bottle of juice and gas.
She searched her brain for a clue. "The university?" she hazarded.
His grin expanded to reveal overly large teeth. "You pass that economics quiz today?" He stuck his change in his pocket.
Blair scowled preferring to forget the terrible test. "I think I bombed it. You?" She struggled to remember a name and couldn't. They'd never been introduced to her recollection.
"I did okay. Say, would you go out with me tomorrow night? There's a rockin' band at the Calypso." Gold flecked eyes pleaded with her.
He didn't stir her blood one millimeter, but why shouldn't she date since Race was? Why should she sit home and brood about a totally unreasonable man? Her fellow student might get more interesting once she got to know him. And he must be career-minded since he was a college student.
"Love to." She forced a smile to her lips as she arranged for him to meet her at the station. She told herself her choice of locales had absolutely nothing to do with Race witnessing her date and everything to do with safety. "Thank you ...?" She needed to know his name before she drove off with him.
"Peter. Peter Pickles." He winked at her broadly, clucked his tongue and pointed at her, his fingers crooked as if he cocked a pistol at her. "See you tomorrow, sweet stuff." He backed out the door.
"You're not really going out with that loser, are you?" Wyatt cornered her with a disbelieving stare.
Blair bristled, hating to be questioned like this. "He's sort of cute. And he's a college man." She realized she was also trying to convince herself that she was honestly interested in the man. He wore a pocket protector in a pink and purple plaid shirt, her tiny voice of reason mumbled. She argued inwardly. It was just one date. A diversion from thinking about Race and his search for Mrs. Right and a free dinner at a nice restaurant. What could be the harm?
Still, her nerves twittered when she spied him talking to Wyatt the next night as he waited to meet her.
Dean sauntered up to her whistling, his dark eyes appreciative. "My, but you look mighty fine tonight." His shadow fell over her, and he blocked out the setting sun. "Why do you want to go out with that twerp? I know how to show you a much better time. He wears a toupee you know."
She jutted out her chin and paused to digest the information. "You're already taken so I get the leftovers. Besides, personality matters. Not hair."
Too bad she had trouble convincing herself. She'd only promised one date, not a lifetime. She would survive.
"You'd be better off on a date with the Wy Man. He's sweet on you."
"He is?" She gulped, not wishing this. She stole a glance at Wyatt's back as he ran the register. Fondness filled her for the Senior Clerk, but not that kind of love. She had to admit, however, that she enjoyed talking to him and being around him. Still, her body and soul burned for Race.
"Yep." Dean picked up the can of white paint he'd set down on the pavement. "I'm painting the bathrooms tonight. I bet I have more fun than you."
What a cheery thought. Anything beat Dean's task. "Enjoy. I'll think of you as Peter wines and dines me."
Dean snorted. "Sure you will." He picked up his paint and brush and whistled as he sauntered to the men's room.
Peter rushed out of the store when he saw her. His gray eyes twinkled. "Gorgeous. You ready?" He wore a pink button-up shirt and grape bow tie with hot pink polka dots. Pennies peeked out his loafers.
Okay, so his fashion sense left something to be desired. Dinner and music would still be nice.
Peter escorted her to her car. "Would you mind driving? My starter's acting up." He laughed heartily. "Rather, it won't act up." He didn't open her door. Instead, he waited by the passenger door until she held it open for him.
She glared at the needle on her gas tank that pointed to only one quarter full. She needed that gas to get to school and work till payday. But she didn't mention it. Mechanical things broke down sometimes. "Where to? I need directions."
"It's a swank club up in Delray, only about forty five minutes from here if we take I-95." He folded his hands stiffly on his lap and then whistled tunelessly.
They lapsed into uneasy silence. To break it, she asked, "What's your major?" He looked like an accountant or economist. Maybe even a computer programmer.
"Insurance. Actuarial science. What's yours?" He played with his fingers, steepling then collapsing them.
"Marketing. Direct mail to be precise. I'm minoring in management." It was good money plus she found it interesting.
Cars wove in and out on the highway so she had to pay close attention to her driving. A large oil tanker rumbled by almost pushing her off the road.
"What's your favorite movie? Mine is Harry & Maude. And I adore Mame, too."
"Rambo," she said to be perverse even though she couldn't stand blood and guts. He grated on her nerves.
"Here we are," he said in a singsong voice, not budging from the car.
Finally, she sighed and got out. When he didn't follow her, she turned back, thoroughly annoyed. She tapped on the window. When he unrolled it halfway, she asked. "Is the door stuck?" She had Triple A for emergencies like this.
"I'm just waiting for you." He batted his stubby lashes at her.
For Pete's sake! She opened and held Peter's door for him. Dinner and live music started losing their appeal and Dean's bathrooms looked more and more enjoyable.
Peter stood expectantly at the restaurant entrance, too, and didn't make a move to open the door for her.
Really miffed, she held the door for him again.
"Reservations for two, Monsieur. The name's Pickles. Peter Pickles. Bring your finest champagne. This is a special occasion." Peter strutted to their table.
Blair wondered what the special occasion was.
"Let me order," Peter said, laying a hand on her closed menu. He ordered in French after a lengthy discussion with the maitre d'. "Dance with me?" he asked when the band began to play. But he waited for her to pull out his chair and lead him to the dance floor.
"You come here often?" she asked. She liked the sedate ambiance and the delicious aromas wafting out from the kitchen. Delicate French sauces tickled her nose. Or was it the bubbles floating from the stage?
When he tried to pull her closer, she stiffened, sickened by his horrid bow tie, his lack of take charge, and the leer on his lips.
"Come to Daddy, baby. Give me some sugar." He puckered up and closed his eyes.
"I don't kiss on first dates." She pulled away from him. "Our food's arrived and it'll get cold." And the champagne warm. She guzzled champagne, hoping to dull her anger and her senses. Escargot and frog legs filled her plate. Bile rose in her throat. "You ordered me this? I can't eat this ... this ... bait!"
Peter looked piqued. "But these are French delicacies. You'll offend the chef if you send it back." He popped a snail into his mouth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. "Besides, this is over $50.00 a plate."
She gagged at the thought. She pushed the plate away and refused to look at it again. "You shouldn't have ordered anything so expensive, especially without my approval."
"Is something wrong, Madame?" The maitre d' hovered over here, a white finger tip towel draped over his tuxedoed arm.
"I can't eat that, I never would have ordered it." She rose from her chair, ready to leave.
"Sit down, Blair," Peter said between clenched teeth. "You're embarrassing yourself. Everyone is staring."
"I'm leaving." She wadded up her linen napkin and tossed it over the frog legs.
"Here's the bill, Madame." The maitre d' presented it to her.
When she read over four hundred dollars, she choked. "This is more than a semester's tuition! Besides, he's paying. Give it to him." She pointed at the lousiest date in recorded history.
"Au contraire, Madame." The headwaiter glared down his nose at her. "Monsieur told me you're paying."
Reeling, she gasped. Turning on the vile man, she accused, "You asked me out. You never once mentioned I should pay or drive! I can't afford this. I'd have to drop out of college."
"You think I can afford this? If I was paying, sweetheart, I'd have treated you to Burger Barn," Peter whined. "Wyatt told me how you like to pay for everything and that you like to take charge and drive and open men's doors."
She was in danger of hyperventilating. Wheezing, she went toe to toe with him, fury in her gut. "Wyatt's psycho. He made it up! When a man asks me out on a date, he pays. He drives. He opens my door! Got it, buster?" Any angrier and she'd spontaneously combust.
"Can't you just pay, anyway? Put it on your credit card?" Tears welled in Peter's eyes.
She grabbed the champagne, shook it and then squirted it in his face. It washed his toupee off. "You like frog legs so much, you eat them! Adios!" She marched out, her back so stiff, it felt ready to snap.
She turned at the door. "I don't have a credit card and I don't even have one hundred dollars much less five hundred dollars! I work at a C-store!"
Peter's face flushed and mottled. "You're just a filthy gas station jockey! You must be too dumb to get a normal job."
Ooh! Her hands balled into fists. She was going to strangle Wyatt. She kept marching towards her car.
Peter ran after her. "You can't stick me with the bill and strand me!"
"Watch!" She hurried into her car and locked the door as he lunged for it. Then she spun out, not looking back.
"Wyatt, you weasel!" Blair advanced on the man, her hands aiming at his throat when she reached the station. "How could you?"
Wyatt yelped and ducked. He sprinted away. "Save me, Dino! Race!"
Race rushed in, panting hard. "Something wrong?" His gaze scanned both Blair and Wyatt.
"Nothing except I'm going to tar and feather your Senior Clerk, and then I'm going to feed him to the alligators!" Steam practically poured out her ears. Her temperature climbed rapidly.
Race grabbed her. "No homicide in my store. What'd he do that was so bad?" His hot breath rasped down her neck.
"He knows." She turned her glare from Wyatt to their boss. "Why'd you do it, Wyatt? I thought we were friends." Wyatt's betrayal hurt terribly.
"It was just a little joke. I did you a favor showing you what a creep that guy was. A decent guy wouldn't have listened to me." He made sense in a ludicrous sort of way.
Still, she fumed. "Little? You call $454.00 little?" That's more than this semester's classes!"
"Whoa! Rewind and replay." Race turned her to him. "If I release you, will you promise not to maim Wyatt?"
She thought for a while, uncertain, and finally nodded. "Promise." She paced in the candy and gum aisle, her hands writhing behind her back.
"One of you say something before we decompose." Race stared at her.
"He sabotaged me." She didn't want to tell Race the sordid details of her humiliating date, especially when he'd probably had a wonderful time with some sexy woman.
"Well that explains it all," Race said wryly, rubbing his cheek. He straightened a shelf. "I'm not psychic, so if you don't mind ... spill!"
Wyatt caved in. "I just told Blair's geeky date that she liked to pay and drive, and open doors for men. How was I to know he'd stiff her for almost five hundred buckaroos?"
Race glared at the wiry-haired man. "Apologize and make up." To Blair, he said, "You didn't pay that, did you?"
She rolled her eyes. "I work here, don't I? I couldn't if I wanted to." Sirens reverberated in the distance. "That's probably the cops coming to arrest me for walking out on the bill."
"Good grief, Blairsy. I never dreamed you'd go to the big house because I played a joke. Geesh, I'm sorry." Wyatt's lower lip trembled and he blinked back a tear. "I'm awful. I'm terrible." He hung his head in his hands. "I don't deserve to live."
"No one's going to jail." Exasperation lined Race's commanding voice. "I'll pay the bill if necessary."
"Thanks. You're a real pal." Wyatt sniffed, hugging him.
Race grunted, patted Wyatt on the bag stiffly as if he were embarrassed, and pulled back. "And you'll pay me back." Race stood between them. "Now shake and make up. No one's leaving till we're all friends."
Wyatt stuck out his hand. "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family...." Wyatt gave her a big, goofy grin as he toggled his head back and forth. "Come on, Blair. Do I have to wear a big grape dinosaur suit to get you to smile?"
Wyatt's zaniness infiltrated her humor center and mirth quirked her lips.
"I saw that!" Wyatt hooted happily. "Give Uncle Wyatt a smile. Come on. You can do it."
Race growled. "Can the third person, will ya? It's creepy." He shuddered.
Blair shook his hand. "Okay, you're forgiven this time. Never pull such a stunt on me again or you're mincemeat!"
"Cross my heart and hope to die." Wyatt crossed his heart.
"Hunky dory. Everybody's friends again. Keep it that way!" Race tossed some change on the counter and ripped open a chocolate bar and bit into it. Through a mouthful of caramel and chocolate, he told Wyatt, "Ring this up for me."
"Aye, sir." Wyatt saluted and then stood rigid as if under inspection.
"Can it, Ensign." Race looked at Blair. "You sure you're okay? Can I take you home?"
"I'll live. And no thanks ... I need my car." But Race followed her home and waited till she was safely inside before he drove off.
"Horace Sutton?" An official sounding voice barked over the telephone.
Race groaned when he peered at the alarm clock's digital display that flashed 3:47 a.m. Who in creation would dare call him in the middle of the night? "Yeah, this is Race ... I mean Horace Sutton. What d'ya want?" Groggy didn't begin to describe his voice. A family of bullfrogs had taken up residence in his throat and inhabited his vocal chords.
"You the store manager of Kester Store #43? Your name's listed on the door as the contact."
Race bolted up in bed and banged his head on the headboard. "Is this a prank?" He rubbed sleep from his eyes, still grouchy.
"No, sir. This is Lt. Cole Fischer of the Ft. Lauderdale Police. There's a problem at your store and we need for you to meet us here right away."
Race perked up. "What kind of problem?" What could happen at three a.m.? Robbery? Fire? Vandalism?
"Possible robbery ... we're investigating now. How long will it take you to get here?"
"I live ten minutes away." Race hopped into slacks as he spoke. He missed a foot and fell flat on his face, the rug burning his bare chest. "Yeow!"
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Nothing." Race scowled. He stayed on the ground to stick his foot in the other pants leg and then stood to zip them up. He grabbed his shirt and stuck an arm in it. "I'm leaving now." He made it to the store in seven minutes flat.
Two police cars guarded his store, lights flashing. A tall, lean officer with a military crew cut swaggered up to his car and flashed a badge that proclaimed him to be Lt. Cole Fischer of the FLPD. "You Sutton?"
Race flashed his own ID not nearly as impressive as the cop's. Grimly, he mumbled, "I'm him." He unfolded himself from his vehicle, seeking out clues to the problem. "So what's up?"
"This way." Fischer led Race to the police car where a wide-eyed elderly gentleman trembled.
It wasn't cold, so the man couldn't be chilly. Even at four a.m., Ft. Lauderdale still felt balmy. Plus the man looked too old and too nicely dressed to be a thief.
"We caught Mr. Annapolis alone in your store after hours. He claims he didn't know it was closed, went in to pay for gas and couldn't get out." Fischer didn't accuse straight out, yet he lifted an eyebrow as he spoke. "He tripped the silent arm at the station, so we checked it out."
Annapolis let out a spew of any foreign sounding words, waving his hands wildly in the air. He punctuated his sentences with snorts.
"In English please," Fischer instructed, his gaze narrowing.
The man threw up his hands. In a thick Mediterranean accent, he stumbled over his words. "I didn't do nothing wrong. I innocent victim." He pointed at his chest and then at Race. "I sue you for false arrest. Ha ha!" Promise and fury mingled in his eyes.
Wyatt!?! Had he forgotten to lock the in door? The ingoing door was almost impossible to open from the inside thus it was possible that customer could wander in and get locked in. A thief would have broken a window to escape, but Race saw no sign of damage. "Any damage?"
"None we can see." Fischer looked askance at him.
Race beckoned him off to the side and explained his theory. Then he called Wyatt using his cell phone. Race sighed deeply. "My Senior Clerk can't remember if he locked both doors. Please accept our apologies and let Mr. Annapolis go. I'll reprimand my employee and do remedial training."
Fischer shot him a lopsided grin. "You're not the first this has happened to. Just make sure your clerks know how important it is to lock up properly.
"Will do." Now to appease Mr. Annapolis. Race walked up to the gentleman. "On behalf of the Kester Corporation, I'd like to extend our apologies. We're very sorry you got locked in our store."
The man glared at him, his arms crossed over his chest. "Gregory Annapolis sue you and entire company for false arrest, humiliation, and suffering."
"Your next tank of gas and coffee are free on us." Race wished he had more bargaining power.
"Not good enough!" The man stuck his considerably huge nose in the air.
Race drilled his mind for anything else he could offer the company didn't keep strict inventory of. "Free coffee, soda and hot dogs for life."
The man pushed out his lower lips. "I accept." He reeled on Race. "With a formal apology from the person who is responsible for locking me in all night."
"That can be arranged." Wyatt needed to take ownership of his actions. It would be good for him. "Come by the store tomorrow, say tenish? a.m.? That good for you?" There was usually a lull around that time in between early morning rush hour and lunch.
"Done. I want my gas now."
Race sighed. The tanks and all systems were shut off. But one look at the customer assured him he had no choice.
"How goes it? Race stopped by the store a couple of Saturdays later when Blair ran the register.
By now, she felt competent running a shift and handling most emergencies, even Sirl's occasional car chases. She could even handle most of the grumpy customers. What she had trouble handling were Race's surprise visits to check up on her. Her heart ached enough for him without being reminded of what a great guy he was--except in one very important aspect.
If only another job would come through, she could escape him forever. Out of sight, out of mind...."Call Wyatt up here. You and I need to talk." Race leaned over her, gazing down at her, his coal black eyes inscrutable.
Shivers coursed through her. "I do something wrong, boss?" She couldn't bring herself to call him by his given name.
"Just call him."
She flicked on the microphone. "Wyatt. I need you up here, pronto."
"Ah, but I'm not on shift for another fifteen. Can't you hold it that long?"
Race took the microphone from her hand. "Stop whining and get up here."
"Yikes! On my way, Racetrack." Wyatt slammed out the office door and jogged to the store, the wind ruffling his hair. "I do something wrong?"
"You all take your paranoid pills today?" Race scratched his temple. "No Wy-man. I just need to talk to Blair. Take over the register."
Wyatt clocked in. "Okie-dokie. Whatever you say."
Race held the door for Blair, the bell tinkling. "After you."
Uneasiness filled Blair but she didn't utter a word till they were alone in the office and Race had perched on the desk, his gaze intent on her.
"I got a couple of calls this week about you for job references."
"Oh." She licked her suddenly dry lips. "I didn't give them permission to call you."
"Are we so bad you want to leave? You seem happy here."
She couldn't face him and turned away. "Honestly? The place is okay, but the pay leaves a lot to be desired. I'm barely making ends meet. I need a higher paying job." She turned to see his reaction.
Race chewed the end of a pencil. "What if I got you a raise?"
"How much?" She didn't hold out much hope for a decent pay hike after their last salary discussion.
"Fifty cents an hour." He sounded dead serious.
She laughed heartily. "That's only ten dollars more a week. Ten dollars doesn't even buy one tank of gas."
"I don't want to let you go." Double entendre rang in Race's voice as his gaze darkened on her.
The room seemed to shrink and the air seemed musty. Blair could hardly breathe. Nor did her voice cooperate. "What do you suggest then?" She held her breath, unable to tear her gaze from his. She girded herself for another marriage proposal, perhaps direct and not veiled this time.
He swiveled the nearby chair with his foot. It squeaked as if saying it needed oil. "I have a proposition...."
She sucked in her breath. Here it comes.... "Shouldn't you get down on your knees this time?" she mumbled.
He arched a brow, and mischief danced in his eyes. "I'll put you in as a Manager Trainee--like you wanted. You show promise...."
Her breath whooshed out. "How long will that take?" Relief warred with disappointment and joy.
"I'll push it through. Nanette's getting her own station soon. I'll need an assistant...."
"How much?" She calculated how much she needed to survive and have a bit left over for fun. She didn't mean to sound mercenary but her voice came out sharp and pure business.
"Twenty seven thousand per annum."
Her mouth watered. That beat her present salary by twenty thousand dollars. "What are the hours? Can we work around my school?"
"Well ... it's forty plus hours weekly. Weekend days, some nights. Day shift when I'm on vacation or out of town."
Her mind's calculator buzzed with figures. "I don't know if I could keep a full schedule ... and if I don't, I lose my grants and financial aid."
"The company has tuition reimbursement for full time employees. You wouldn't have any loans to repay. And you'd have management experience on your resume."
It sounded too good to be true. "Is this an offer in stone? Or just something to pose to corporate?"
Race broke eye contact and doodled on the notepad next to him. "I have to get corporate's approval, of course. But that shouldn't present a problem...."
Blair's gut twisted. "When and if I see a bona fide offer in writing, I'll consider it."
Static crackled from the microphone. "Sorry to interrupt, but Blair's date is getting edgy."
Race turned to stare at the store monitor.
Blair followed his gaze and almost died. A white jump-suited Elvis replete with shades and a guitar, gave a concert to their patrons.
"Elvis is your date?" Race's voice didn't waver. He turned up the volume and listened for a couple of minutes. "He's not half bad. Maybe we can send him out to the gas pumps to serenade for tips."
Mortified, Blair just stared at Kirk, her date. How could he do this to her? How dare he do this to her? How dare he not warn her? How dare he show up at her employer this way? "Stuff it, boss." She refused to look at him as she stalked out, her fists clenched and her back ramrod straight.
"Watch out for that hunk o' hunk of burning love," Race added as the door clanged shut.
Ooh! As if all his dates had been perfect. Mrs. Right or Miss Universe they hadn't been. She would make a far better wife than those dingbats.
"Here's Blairsy!" Wyatt announced as if he was Ed McMahon. He mocked Kirk behind his back.
Kirk didn't miss a beat of his song but turned to Blair and crooned to her. His jump-suit molded his large frame and was unzipped to bare a smooth chest.
Acute awareness that Race watched via the video cam prompted her to guide Elvis outside.
When he finished his song, he demanded, "Give big daddy a kiss, little sister."
She grimaced inside and considered bowing out of the date, faking sudden death, or telling him she was contagious, but then Race sauntered out of the office.
"You wearing that on your big date?" Race's gaze slid over her food stained uniform.
She batted her eyelashes at Elvis. "Of course not. I have something much sexier in my car to slip onto."
Elvis caught her wrist. "I brought you a little present I prefer you put on." He took a bag out of his car and dropped it in her hands. "We'll be a matching set."
Race crossed his arms over his chest. "Like salt and pepper? Bonnie and Clyde?"
Blair was afraid to look in the bag and rightly so she decided two minutes later in the privacy of the ladies room as she lifted a white halter, rhinestone studded jump suit from the bag and a long dark wig teased on top. "He's got to be joking." Would it even fit? She slipped into the body hugging suit and tied the top straps at the back of her neck. Then she slipped into the strappy sandals, her breasts trying to spill out the tiny scraps of material when she bent over. She'd not worn a halter top since she'd started developing.
Then she donned the wig and paraded in front of the mirror. A young Priscilla Presley stared back at her. She gulped. All she needed now was baby blue eye shadow and false eyelashes to complete her transformation to a sixties babe.
"It's now or never," she told her image.
Elvis whistled long and low when she sashayed to him. "I just want to be your teddy bear and you can be my good luck charm."
"Just keep her away from Heartbreak Hotel," Race said dryly as he closed Blair's door.
Ha ha. Race should be a comedian. Her lips twisted grimly. Too late--she'd been residing at Heartbreak Hotel for the past few weeks. Since she saw him, she couldn't stop herself from falling in love with him. "Ta ta." He needn't ever know what heartache he wreaked on her. If only he weren't so stubborn and would accept her career.
"Groovy, baby," Elvis drawled, salivating. "I knew you'd look dynamite in those glad rags."
Blair swallowed a sigh as they pulled out onto the boulevard. She twisted in her seat to get a better look at him. "What gives? Why the get up?"
"I booked a gig at the last minute. Elvis couldn't let down his fans." He slid a sly glance to her. "Nor the prettiest little filly south of Graceland. I thought you'd enjoy tagging along."
Tagging along? Didn't he mean dragged along?
"This is like winning the love lottery, suga'. How often do you get to date Elvis?"
She wanted to ask him if he was teasing or for real or on heavy drugs but was afraid of the answer. Why did all the psychos flock to her?
"How long have you impersonated Elvis?" He'd never mentioned a word in class or at lunch.
His brows pinched. "Why my beloved mama named me Elvis. Elvis Aaron." He whipped out a black comb and fixed his hair, staring at himself in the rear view mirror. Cars stood still at a traffic light dead ahead. He increased speed as he threw kisses to himself in the mirror. "All the gals will swoon tonight but I'm all yours, precious."
"Look out!" she screamed, pointing at the stationary cars. "We're going to crash."
Kirk swore under his breath and slammed on the brakes. The car screeched and then lurched as the brakes locked up.
Blair gripped the dashboard, praying for mercy on her soul, unable to close her eyes or look away from the frightening scene unfurling before her.
Kirk's car plowed into the rear of a Coupe Deville, which started a chain reaction. The vehicles slammed forward like dominoes, their rear ends and hoods folded like accordions. Steam roiled all around, hissing. Tires burst. People shouted. Horns blared. Security alarms whirred.
Stunned onlookers on the opposite side of the street slammed on their brakes, causing another chain reaction wreck. Both sides of the road were blocked, cars skewed every which way.
Kirk blinked and groped for his shades, which had tumbled off his face upon impact. "Looks like Memphis at rush hour."
Blair just stared at him, speechless, taking inventory of her bruised ribs and forehead that seemed to have a Robin's egg growing out of it. Her ears rang and her temples throbbed.
A mob converged on them, hanging fever eyes. People of all ages, sizes, and ethnic varieties surrounded Kirk's Trans Am.
A burly man with a fuzzy beard and mustache stuck his big nose through Kirk's half open window. "Bubba, I sho' hope you own State Farm."
A silver-haired gentleman in a distinguished three-piece business suit shoved the first man out of the way. "When my attorneys get through with you, you won't even have that hideous suit to wear."
Kirk slicked his hair into place, stuck his shades back on his nose and climbed out of his car. Holding up his hands as if he accepted accolades from his adoring fans, he favored the crowd with a winning grin. "Won't worry about a thing. Just contact Colonel Parker and he will have all your vehicles repaired." He withdrew business cards from his wallet and began passing them out. "And y'all can see my show--on me."
"You believe this clown?" the Mercedes' owner asked, disbelief echoing furiously.
The mob turned angry, closing in on him.
Police sirens blazed as a black-and-white tore up the median, its shocks taking a horrible beating. "Break it up!" A tall officer with short dark hair styled in a military fashion strode fearlessly into the milieu. "Anyone injured?" he asked.
"Whiplash!" the Mercedes owner yelled, holding his neck, hunching over, and suddenly moaning. "He rammed into me like a Mack Truck."
The lieutenant ordered an ambulance and then bellowed, "Everyone wait at your own vehicles and we will get to you in turn."
Blair wondered if the Bermuda Triangle had moved a degree or two longitudinally to envelop her or if it just followed her? Or maybe she had her own black cloud with her name embossed on it.
After an eternity, the policeman rapped on her window and crooked his finger at her to get out and speak to him. "Your turn, Priscilla. Let's hear it. What's your version of what happened?" A pen poised over a notepad. Perspiration dotted the cop's brow. "Everyone tells me your husband's responsible."
Shock regaled her. "He's not my husband. You think I'd marry that schizophrenic?" Indignation pushed away the shock and she bristled. "This was my first and last date with him."
The officer's gaze raked her entire length, taking in her matching outfit and skewed hairpiece. "A wig?" He said the word distastefully. "Why do women like to play dress-up?"
It seemed to be a rhetorical question so she remained silent. Circumstantial evidence didn't bode well for her. Then she remembered Race and Wyatt. "My coworkers will vouch for me." She tilted her head towards the gas station. "I work just down the road at the Kester Station."
The cop scribbled down her story and wiped his brow. "It figures. Get in the back of my car and I'll take you there."
Why did it figure? She scowled, trying to piece the puzzle together.
Race was just climbing into his van when the cop cruiser blocked his exit. He frowned and alighted from it. "Something wrong, Lt. Fischer?"
Lt. Fischer opened Blair's door. "Out with you, Priscilla."
All heat drained from Blair's face so that she felt chilled. Her hands were paler than her jump suit. Maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea for Race to vouch for her. Stoically, she climbed out and refused to flinch, trying to keep as much pride intact as possible.
"She another one of yours?" The cop's dark, inscrutable eyes met those of her boss.
Wyatt ambled out of the store, chortling. "Another date bites the dust?"
Race circled her, his hands behind his back. "She sort of looks like my new manager trainee but I can't tell with that awful wig."
"Manager trainee!?!" Wyatt stomped over to Race, facing off against him, his fists balled on his hips. "That's my job." He poked at his chest, each word spoken with the force of a bullet.
"Not now, Wyatt," Race said through gritted teeth. "Get back on the register. This is none of your beeswax. Shoo!"
Wyatt sniffed, pouting. "I've put in ten years with this lousy company and she doesn't even have ten weeks. I know when I'm not wanted!" He slammed the door behind him, the bell pealing loudly.
"Remove the wig," the lieutenant commanded.
Blair grinned woodenly and tossed the tangled wig to Race. Humiliated, she felt like a hooker in this get up.
One of their usual customers, a gritty garbage collector, passed by and whistled long and low. "Tonight after work. You and me, toots."
"Get lost," Race growled at the man.
"Hot mama!" the customer said, unabashed. His stench made Blair's stomach churn.
Lt. Fischer scowled. "Is she yours? Can I release her to your custody?"
"To his custody. Hey! I'm not a criminal! I'm just an innocent victim."
"I'll take her." Race ignored her protests. He signed something and then smiled an okay. "Hop in, Priscilla."
Sirl mosied out of the storeroom, broom and dustpan in hand, dressed as the Green Hornet. His eyes lit up when he spied her. "Cool costume, foxy mama." He frowned. "But you need a wig with it."
Race chortled and tossed her the offending fake hair. His eyebrows did a jig. "Foxy mama."
"You didn't have time to get dinner, did you?" Race helped her climb into his van and shut the door behind her.
"No," she said after he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Her stomach grumbled at the mention of food. "I'm starved. I'll make a peanut butter and banana sandwich when I get home."
Race wrinkled his nose. "Yum. Not." He swerved hard to the right and pulled into a local diner that served a variety of food. "How about I treat you to some real food?" When she started to protest, he silenced her with a raised hand. "It's on me."
"Look, it's not a good idea for us to date...." Then why did her heart want nothing more than to date him and to be with him? She cursed her traitorous heart.
Annoyance flashed across Race's dark eyes. "It's not a date. It's dinner. You're hungry. I'm hungry. We break bread together. Don't make a mountain out of it."
Embarrassment seeped through her. Evidently, he hadn't even thought of dating her. Obviously he hadn't been struck with the same lightning bolt that had devastated her. "It's not even a hill," she lied, pretending to be fascinated by the scenery out her window. No way would she look directly at him and let him read the torment in her eyes. "It's not even a bump." As soon as he stopped the car, she let herself out and trekked to the restaurant, not waiting for him.
"The food won't go out of style in two minutes, you know." Race lengthened his stride to catch up to her, his boots pounding the pavement behind her.
Piqued, she opened her own door and let it go once she was inside. Delicious chill air conditioning struck her in the face and she lifted her face to its massage.
"Put it in writing." If she gritted her teeth any harder, they'd turn to mortar. She chafed waiting for someone to escort them to a table. She already knew what she wanted--a cheesy omelet with a heaping of mushrooms. She liked eating breakfast food for dinner and cold pizza for breakfast.
"My usual," Race instructed the middle-aged waitress who greeted him with a cheeky grin.
"Booth or food?" The woman whose tree stump legs were an embarrassment in her mint green mini skirt, led them to a corner booth with a window view of Sample Road.
"Both." In an aside to Blair, Race said, "Saves time this way."
"What you want, dearie?" The woman, whose name was Lorraine according to her plastic name tag, popped a bubble as she waited for Blair's order.
"Can I get a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet with the cheese in the middle? And a tall glass of chocolate milk." Her mouth watered at just the mention of her favorite breakfast food. She couldn't stomach another hot dog today thus she'd not eaten since four this morning before she'd opened the store. She passed her closed menu back to Lorraine with a strained smile.
She chanced a glance out the window and saw tow trucks hauling off cars from their wreck. The memory of the collision made her shudder.
Race touched her hand to get her attention. "You didn't tell me what happened earlier."
Blair traced the rim of her glass, pondering her earlier conversation with Race. "Did you really mean what you said about promoting me to manager trainee?"
His gaze blazed into hers. "I never say what I don't mean."
She caught and held her breath. Off kilter, she took a drink of her milk to hide her confusion.
Shadowy figures entered Blair's peripheral vision. Figuring they must be patrons, she paid no attention until she heard scratching on the window and then tapping.
Sirl, still in his Green Hornet's suit, waved at her, grinning maniacally, jumping up and down. Dean crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, stuck his thumbs in his ears and fluttered his fingers.
Blair spluttered out her milk all over Race, her heart stopping. She couldn't exhale.
A plate of warm omelet, hash browns, and country fried steak and fries, dumped in her lap without warning, leaving a huge gooey mess as Lorraine jerked and screamed. "Leroy! We're being robbed!" She turned and sprinted for the kitchen. "Call 911. Get the shot gun!"
"Thief!" A hysterical red-haired woman screamed in Blair's ear.
"They're going to kill us all!" A plump older lady with silvery blonde hair tried to crawl under her table but knocked it over. Food hurled across the room as her table toppled the one next to it and that one toppled the next. Drink and food rained in the air as Blair wiped her dinner on the floor. "So help me, I'm gonna kill them." Her fingers itched to squeeze their throats.
Race wiped egg from his eyes as he stood, the cheese stretching across his face. He navigated his way to the center of the restaurant where he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. "No one panic! There is no robbery! Repeat, there is no robbery!"
"He's the ringleader!" an elderly man wearing a set of hearing aids yelled. "If we hold him hostage, they can't hold us hostage!
Everyone dove on Race, flailing arms and legs.
"Get off him!" Blair yelled, yanking them off one by one, more food spilling on her.
"Here we are to save the day! I'm coming for you, Racetrack!" Climbing atop one of the few standing tables, Sirl beat his chest and gave a Tarzan yell. Then he grabbed the cheap chandelier overhead and swung to Race's rescue.
Unable to hold the weight, the chandelier tore from the ceiling. Chunks from the ceiling fell on top of the pile of people and then Sirl landed hard on his back in the middle of the crowd.
Fire sparked in the broken light fixture and alarms blared so loud in Blair's ears, they nearly burst her eardrums.
Someone she'd pulled off Race smashed a plate of scrambled eggs in her face. Furious, she grabbed a piece of blueberry pie and threw it at them. They ducked and it hit Race full in the face.
The water sprinklers exploded, releasing a flood about the same time Race extricated himself from the melee and grabbed a whole Key Lime pie from the display case and threw it at Blair. When he turned around, Dean pushed a pie in his face.
Lorraine marched out, shotgun raised in her arms. A feral gleam glowed in her hazel eyes. Whip cream and milk matted her former bouffant hair. "I'm gonna blow those Commie alien robbers to the next galaxy...."
Sirl's eyes widened in his green painted face as he jumped to his feet. Hyper, he jumped from side to side. "What aliens? Where?"
Lorraine shot at him and missed. Her shot went wild, massacring the sprinkler system.
"Freeze!" Lt. Fischer burst into the room, his pistol cocked and aimed. Then he reeled backwards from the force of a pie that hit him square in the face. Whip cream and chocolate dripped down his face. He swept his tongue over his lips. "Uhm. Chocolate and peanut butter. Good idea." His expression hardened a second later. "Hands up! You're all under arrest."
Marlene bailed Race and his crew out of jail later that night. "I'll make you a good home cooked meal. After your horrible ordeal, you need some babying." She whipped homemade mashed potatoes and then removed turkey roasts from the oven. "You all need a mama's TLC."
"That sure smells wonderful, Mrs. Sutton. Just like my mama's." Dean helped her carry food to the table. He popped a piece of turkey in his mouth.
Steve took Blair's hand and batted his eyelashes at her. "You're pretty."
Blaire blushed and smiled at the boy. "And you're very handsome."
Blair gulped and lifted pleading eyes to Race for help.
He rather enjoyed her predicament, so he just watched, declining to rescue her.
"Gramma says I need a new Mommy and Daddy needs a new wife." Steve's eyes rounded. "She's been trying to find one for him but he's picky. He wants one who's smart and pretty and who has big boobs like you...."
Flabbergasted at his offspring's words, Race moved in, clamping his hand over his son's big mouth. "He has no idea what he's saying. He's only seven."
Blair's eyes glistened with mirth. "I have a seven-year-old niece who's a walking tape recorder." She lifted her chin in challenge. "He must've heard it somewhere before."
Her innuendo was crystal clear. Race wanted to hide until his son turned twenty-one, but of course he couldn't.
Steve's lips trembled and his wide eyes grew watery. "I didn't mean to make you fight." He hiccoughed and hung his head. "It's all my fault."
Race opened his mouth to refute his son's depressed statement but Blair spoke first, kneeling beside the child. "You didn't anger me. See? I'm still happy." She smiled and opened her arms wide. "Can I get a hug so I know you're not mad at me?"
Steve hugged her laying his head on her shoulder. "I wish you were my new mommy."
Blair petrified for a few moments and then a dreamy smile curved her lips. She murmured something that sounded like, "I wish that, too," but Race couldn't be sure.
He concurred. He wished Blair would consent to being Steve's mother. He wished it with all his heart and being.
But she'd hated the idea.
He watched the woman and boy carefully. They had already begun to bond. Was that the key to winning her? To throw Blair and Steve together as much as possible?
Was it fair to his child if his ploy failed? The boy had suffered enough misery in his young life without Race manufacturing more. Still, he didn't interrupt the moment.
A bell tinkled and Marlene floated into the living room, her skirts swishing around her knees, her sharp gaze alighting on the intertwined woman and boy. She held up a delicate gold dinner bell and rang it again. "Dinner's served."
Steve pulled Blair after him. "I want to sit by you." When Race sat on Steve's other side, the child frowned. "Gramma's sitting there." Too innocently, the boy said, "There's an empty chair next to Blair. Why don't you sit there?"
"Yes, Horace, dear," Marlene said, standing behind his chair. "Be a good boy and sit by Blair. I want to spend as much time with my only grandchild as I can."
Dean chortled at the mention of Horace so Race balled up a piece of his dinner roll and tossed it at him when Marlene turned her head in the other direction.
In turn, Dean catapulted a green bean at Race with his fork.
"Children." Blair squeezed Race's knee under the table, her lips barely moving, and her voice low. She leaned closer and whispered in Race's ear. "You need a wife to teach you manners."
Feeling lucky Race whispered back, "You applying for the position? It's open for the asking." His fever soared and he held his breath for her reply. He covered her hand with his.
The apples in her cheeks bloomed rosily but she didn't move her hand. After what seemed an eternity, she asked, "Are you willing to let me have a career, too?"
A lump rose in his throat. "Why is it so important to you?" Didn't women just mark time working until they fell in love and married? He could understand if they needed two incomes to survive, but that wasn't the situation here.
She gazed deeply into his eyes. "You truly want to know?"
He nodded, needing to know her innermost thoughts and desires. He squeezed her hand to give her courage.
"My mother married twice and was left twice ... both times with children but no money." Her fork clanged on her plate and she stared off in the distance as if looking in the past.
"Go on," he prompted gently.
"She had no skills to speak of and never went to college. She couldn't get a decent job. She-she couldn't support us. We kept getting the utilities shut off ... and even ... evicted. It was horrible. I promised her I'd never let that happen to me or my children."
Pity swelled in Race's heart for both Blair her mother. But she needn't worry about him. He laced his fingers through hers and rubbed her wedding ring finger. "I would never leave you. I'm the till death do us part sort of guy." He'd stuck by Edie's side even during the rough times and they'd had several. He wasn't an innocent or new to marriage. "When I marry, I do it for life."
"And what if you die?" She took a long drink of water, her gaze never leaving his.
"I'll make sure I'm covered with a large life insurance policy. You'll never have to worry about insecurity." There, that should assure her.
"What if you fall sick or are disabled? What then?"
He frowned, not liking so many questions, so little faith in him. "We'll build a nest egg. If necessary, you can return to work then. I don't see a problem."
She shook her head and drew her hand back. "You have pat answers for everything...."
"You're making it too hard." He shoveled unsteady fingers through his hair. "It's simple."
"Not at all!" She scraped her chair back and left the table, and slipped onto his back porch.
"Excuse me," he muttered, as he threw down his napkin and followed her, ignoring the blatant stares of everyone at the table. "Don't run off from me, Blair." He stopped right behind her but didn't presume to touch her.
"We're getting nowhere," she finally said on a long sigh. "You don't understand."
She craned her neck and stared at the twinkling stars. Moonbeams flickered off her burnished hair as it brushed the bottom of her shoulder blades. "If I'm out of the workforce for a long time, I wouldn't be able to get a decent job if I needed one later. Believe me, minimum wage doesn't pay the bills for one person much less two or more. I don't ever want to go through that again." She whirled around, anguish pooling in her darkening eyes, more gray than blue at the moment. Dark orbs, there were no light flecks as when joy flowed through her. Her features turned stony. "I won't go through that again. I won't put an innocent child through that."
"I'll buy adequate insurance...."
She backed away from him. "The only insurance I trust is a well-paying, stable career. Mine." She let herself out the back gate. "Please tell everyone I said goodbye and thank your mother for me for a lovely meal."
Exasperated as he'd never been, he protested, "You can't walk home in the dark...."
A car horn blared three times. "I'm not. I called a friend to pick me up. That's him now." She disappeared around the house, not looking back.
"Damn!" He kicked the picnic table, stubbed his toe, and hobbled inside.
"That Blair is a very lovely woman," Marlene said slyly as she folded linen napkins into roses.
Race watched fascinated as Marlene's fingers wove and twirled fabric into the delicate shape. "Why are you making those?"
"For your wedding." She hummed the wedding march as she bustled about, her fingers twittering to and fro.
"My wedding!" Astounded, Race almost fell off his chair. "Mother! I have to have a fiancée before I have a wedding."
"You know I have excellent hearing." Marlene folded another rose.
Race's heart plummeted to his knees when he realized she'd overheard his conversation with Blair. "You misunderstood."
"Roast beef or ham?"
"What?" Her question befuddled him.
"For the wedding reception dinner, of course. Roast beef or ham? Or do you prefer shrimp or lobster? I don't think your father and I can afford seafood, though. You'd best choose ham."
A strangled sigh rose in his throat as he steeled himself against Hurricane Marlene. "But Blair and I aren't getting married."
His mother lifted her patented innocent eyes that never failed to shoot fear through him. "Oh? Pity." She patted his hand. "Don't you worry. If you're really sincere about not marrying that sweet adorable Blair, we'll find you somebody else before I leave. I met the most charming young woman yesterday. I'll just set you up in a jiffy." Humming, Marlene rose and made a phone call.
He dissected a napkin and tried to refold it into a rose but failed miserably.
Marlene tsk-tsked. "Stop playing with those, dear boy, and get ready for your date."
Not again. "I thought I told you I'd make my own dates?"
"Seeing is believing. Now run along. We're picking her up in an hour. I'll get Steven ready."
He patted his ears. He couldn't have heard right. "You and Steve are coming on my date?"
"You need all the help you can get or you'll wind up a lonely, grumpy old man and your son will get into more and more trouble. I know. Don't you want to be blissfully happy like your father is with me? All men secretly desire that. Besides, I want a granddaughter and Steven needs a mother. Heaven knows you can't cook worth a darn for yourself much less for a growing child."
"Hey! I make a mean cheese and ketchup sandwich. And a pretty decent bowl of cheery oats, too!" If any of his friends saw him on a date with his mother, he'd be a laughing stock forever. "I'm really ill. You'd better call and cancel." He held his stomach, moaning. He hobbled for his bed, truly sick.
Marlene breezed into his room, kissed his forehead and stuck a thermometer under his tongue. When she checked it, she gave him a stern look. "Your temperature's 98.6. Your forehead's cool so I know you're malingering." She threw his covers off. "Up and at 'em, Horace Jeremiah and be ready in ten minutes." She used her no-nonsense tone he well remembered.
To his closed door, he said, "Yes, Mommy Dearest." He picked up the phone and dialed his father. "Hey, Dad. It's your favorite son."
Ace wasn't having any of it. In a gruff and suspicious tone, he said, "Yeah, so. You're my only son."
Well, that should make him a shoe in for the honor, Race hoped. "And you're my favorite dad."
"Cut to the chase, Race. Your mama drivin' you nuts, yet?" Big band music played in the background signaling he was having the time of his life without Marlene to ride his back.
"Totally. Take pity and call her home." Although he dearly loved his mother, he'd pay a million dollars--if he had that much--for the privilege of getting his life back.
Ace laughed maniacally, "No way, boy. I'm finally havin' fun. I'm fishin' every mornin'. Bowlin' and playin' poker with the boys every night. I'm even eatin' and smokin' in my own livin' room. I even get to put my feet on the coffee table whenever I want. You can't ship her home yet. I ain't had a decent vacation like this in over thirty years. I'm due."
Desperation set in so he had to tell the truth. "But she's trying to marry me off. She wants to chaperone my date...."
His father guffawed. "Don't let 'er railroad you into marryin' ya off to a control freak like her. Word of advice, son. Make sure the little woman doesn't starch under garments and breeches before you march 'er down the aisle."
Race paced in front of his mirror. "That's the best fatherly advice you have for me?" He wanted to hear a reason to marry Blair despite her pigheadedness, but instead the words of wisdom focused on starch. If only that's all that stood between them, they'd have no issues.
"Well, you'd better love her like crazy and she you. Don't sweat the small stuff. You've done the marriage bit before. You're not wet behind the ears."
Race felt a little better. He'd survived the marriage game before, even the ultimate challenge of losing his beloved mate and raising a young boy alone. He could do it, but he just didn't want to go it alone anymore. He wanted--needed--help. He craved a warm womanly body in his bed. "Thanks, Dad. You sure I can't send her home yet?"
"I couldn't hear you. Oops! Gotta go. Fish's got the line." The phone went dead.
"Suffering cats!" His mother was stranded here until his dad got tired of living the bachelor life, which might be forever judging how happy he sounded. And she wouldn't rest or go home until he had a shackle on his finger.
He was a doomed man.
"Chop chop!" Marlene burst into his room without invitation. "We don't want to keep the future Mrs. Horace Sutton waiting."
He scowled up at her and crossed his arms over his chest. "I haven't even met the woman yet."
"Think positive. We'll find a gem soon enough. Maybe even tonight. Now put on your finest duds and get a move on. A woman don't appreciate a man who keeps her waiting."
Half an hour later, Steve scrambled into the back of the van while Marlene claimed the front passenger seat.
"Watch out for that car pulling out." Marlene screamed, stomping her foot to the floor.
"He's a hundred yards away." Exasperation laced Race's voice.
"Stop. The light's turning red." Marlene clutched his arm, her nails digging into his flesh, almost jerking the wheel from his fingers.
Alarmed and jolted without warning, he almost wrecked into a palm tree. "Would you prefer to drive?" By the time they reached Fiona's house, Race's nerves were shot. He hated driving with his mother in the van.
"Here we are," Marlene said in a singsong voice. "Fiona's house. Go get her."
"Shouldn't you come, too?"
"We'll wait here."
"I hope she has big boobs!" Steve grinned impishly as he bounced up and down in his seat.
Race groaned and pointed at the little devil. "No more of that, young man, or I'll wash out your mouth with soap." Where did a seven-year-old get that? He'd definitely have to sign him up for counseling.
He rang the doorbell and waited on the stoop of a huge Spanish-style hacienda with pink adobe and black wrought iron gates.
A tinny voice came out of nowhere. "Are you Horace Sutton?"
He turned around and looked everywhere but saw nothing. If there was a speaker, it was well hidden. "I'm Race Sutton. Are you invisible?"
A feminine voice twittered. "No, silly boy. I'm on the intercom. I don't have my face on yet so come in and make yourself at home. I'll be with you very shortly."
The door buzzed so he let himself into her exotic domain. A jumble full of animal pelts and wild fabrics dominated the room. Big palm trees fanned out over the room. Parrots flew from tree to tree, squawking.
Heavy clubbed feet sofas sprawled amidst kerosene lamps and a player piano. The only concession to contemporary times was a fifty two-inch screen television that played Animal Kingdom. Fiona must be rich ... and very eccentric.
He stumbled over a large object in the middle of the floor. He fell and came face to face with a growling tiger's head. Fear choked him until his vision focused and he realized it was just a tiger skin rug. He rolled onto his back, catching his breath, his hands clasped on his stomach. He laughed at himself for scaring so easily.
And then something fell onto him from out of a palm tree. Something scaly with sharp claws. He screamed this time and wrestled the alligator-like creature until he threw it across the room.
A woman laughed. "Don't tell me a little iguana scared you. He wouldn't hurt you."
Race struggled to compose himself, dragging in deep, cleansing breaths before he turned to look at the woman his mother found such charming marriage material. He finger combed his hair, smiled, turned, and froze.
A tall, slender woman with skunk striped hair, wearing a skin tight leopard jump-suit with a long leopard coat kissed the iguana on its lips and then rubbed her nose to its, gurgling baby talk. A huge black-eyed yellow tiger ambled to her side, glared at Race, and licked its lips.
He nearly wet his pants. His mother had to go. Yesterday! "I-I see you're an animal lover."
"I certainly hope you are too, darlin'." She breezed over to him and blew a kiss to him. "I like animals better than people. They never stab you in the back and they don't bore you with incessant chatter."
The tiger lifted his leg and peed on Race's new shoes. Petrified, he tried to keep the situation lighthearted. "They just shit on you."
Fiona laughed. "Bravo. So you do have a sense of humor." She shook her hand at the monster. "What have I told you about doing that, Tiny? It's a big no-no."
Oh yeah. Real big no no. "Do you have anywhere I can clean off? And you wouldn't have extra slacks I could change into by any chance?"
"There's a shower right behind you and I'll get you something else to wear. I'm so sorry my Tiny was so naughty. He must feel threatened by you."
"The feeling's mutual, I assure you." Race stepped out of his shoes and backed up away from Tiny. "Nice kitty. Good kitty."
Huge with two large palm trees in the corner, the restroom boasted a garden tub and shower. All shapes and sizes of candles graced every flat surface, and there was a large variety of bubble bath. Frilly, jungle print curtains draped the shower.
No surprise there.
He sluiced off the horrid, sticky stench, with water as hot as he could stand hoping to disinfect himself. His shoes, socks, and slacks were garbage now.
He turned off the shower and dried off with a large fluffy towel. His clothes had been removed and in their place hung a long frilly leopard print robe. Scowling, he slipped into it and belted it.
Then he heard a strange, eerie noise. Leaves rustling. Nails tapping. And then a guttural growl. Something was in the tree.
He fumbled with the doorknob as a large furry creature jumped on his back and wrapped its arms around his face and throat. It climbed on his head, screeching.
Race screeched back and ran into the living room, knocking over lamps and vases and finally tripping over the rug again.
"Stop scaring my Fifi!" Fiona demanded, her heels clicking on the stone floor. "Shame on you for attacking my poor baby and scaring her witless." She clucked to the monkey who jumped to her shoulder and hissed at Race.
"Scaring her? She jumped on me from out of nowhere." He struggled to get up and the Tiger stretched out over him, pinning him down. His heart stopped and he lost sensation in his legs. "Get him off me before he decides I'm dinner."
"Oh for Heaven's sake, stop whining! Are you a man or a girl? Your mommy didn't tell me what a wimp you are. Go on. Get out. I only date real men." She clicked her fingers to the tiger. "Good job exposing another one, Tiny." The tiger trotted to her and she rubbed its ears.
"Gladly. You're a psycho, lady." With as much dignity as he could manage, he marched to the front door in just the robe. Then he remembered his slacks. Turning around, he held out his hands. "I need my wallet and car keys if you don't mind?"
Despondent, Blair plodded through her closing chores. Why was it so important to Race that his wife stay home and give up her career? He was so perfect otherwise. Kind. Friendly. Intelligent. Funny. Patient. A great father. Gentle. And so very handsome....
Just thinking about him made her tingle all over. She smiled thinking about him. There had to be a compromise, didn't there? Gracie had suggested working part time while the children were small.
Chewing the end of her pen, she stared unseeingly at her economics text. Or she could start her own business at home. She mulled over how to start her own enterprise.
The bell tinkled overhead, startling her. She hadn't heard a car drive up. Spinning around, her heart stopped beating when she came face to face with a quizzical Race. He must have parked behind the store as his car was hidden from sight.
"Studying on duty?" He ambled over to her textbook and peeked at the cover. "My favorite subject," he said wryly. "Economics."
Blair's cheeks tingled as if a million pins stuck them from the inside. "I have finals tomorrow and I'm not ready."
Race scanned a few paragraphs. "You should've told me. I'd have given you the night off. You must think me a complete ogre."
"Not at all." He'd proven himself to be pretty terrific actually. A warm glow stole over her despite her trepidation at being caught studying on company time. She glanced at her watch. It read eleven-forty five. Fifteen minutes till closing. "Why'd you stop by? Checking on me?"
A twisted smile crooked his lips. "I just stopped in for a beer."
A frown tickled her lips. She wasn't buying it. "This late on a Tuesday?"
"Why not? I'm thirsty." He ambled to the cooler at the back of the store.
A nondescript gray sedan pulled up outside the door.
She grimaced, hating last minute customers to delay her. "Don't you open the store tomorrow?" He had to be back here for work in five hours.
"Wyatt's opening. I can sleep in," he called from the back of the store. The cooler door fogged up when he opened it. The front door slammed open, splintering, the overhead bell screaming an alert. The soda display crashed to the floor, cans bursting from their cases, spewing sticky, slippery liquid everywhere.
The most evil clown Blair had ever seen snarled at her, his feral red eyes gleaming like a werewolf's. A huge orange afro bobbed around a face pastier white than death. Thick balloon lips, blacker than the night, were inflated at least two or three pounds. Hot pink polka dots dotted a baggy violet ruffled clown suit. Yellow pom-poms jiggled down the front of his suit. A pink-and-purple polka dot bow tie nagged her memory, but fear unlike any she'd ever known suffocated her so that she couldn't remember why the bow tie was significant.
"Hands up, sister, or your blood will cover more of that floor than that soda," the clown said in a raspy voice. He shoved a semi-automatic rifle in her face. "Give me all your cash."
"I don't know the combination to the safe." Shivering, she opened the register as slowly as possible so as not to spook her assaulter, wondering where Race was and how he planned to rescue her.
The clown scowled. "That's not all the dough. I know you rake in a whole lot more than this."
"It's in the safe...."
"So open the safe!" Exasperation warbled in his voice.
"I don't know the combination. I dropped all the cash in the safe, except what we need to start the morning shift tomorrow." She sucked in her breath.
Race snuck up behind the clown, raising a brown beer bottle to strike the man on the head. His black obsidian gaze bore into the back of the man's head.
The clown looked up at the slight sound and then looked over his head, his eyes doubling in size. The man ducked and whirled as Race rammed the bottle at his skull, firing at Race.
The bottle shattered on the counter, glass flying, and nicking Blair's bare arm. White flame exploded from the weapon, just missing Race, shattering the candy shelves just to his right. Chocolate, gum, and mints rained on the store as the shelves disintegrated.
Growling as if rabid, the clown bared his teeth, hunting Race around the aisles, firing wildly. Chips, pretzels, and pork rinds were blasted into the air.
Her heart ready to implode in her chest, Blair grabbed the phone and ducked behind the counter, wincing at each round of firing. She sent up fervent prayers for their safe delivery as she tripped the silent alarm and dialed 911. Hopefully Sirl had already alerted the police from the office--if he hadn't fallen asleep on duty. Surely the gunfire had awoken him?
"Tsk tsk." A shadow fell across her and the clown shoved the gun barrel back in her face. "On your feet. Any funny business and I shoot." He prodded her to the entryway. "Come out with your hands up where I can see 'em, loser, or I'll toast 'er. She'll have more holes than Swiss cheese."
She swallowed hard, perspiration trickling down the small of her back and on her forehead. "Don't kill him," she pleaded. "Take me instead. He has a little boy who'll be all alone if you take him."
"Don't, Blair," Race said between clenched teeth. "Stay quiet."
"Stop blabbering!" He aimed the gun between her eyes.
"I'm the manager. If you promise to let her go, I'll open the safe. You can take the money and run." Race stared down their attacker unflinchingly.
"No, Race!"
"It's only money." Race's chest fell and rose rapidly. His chin jutted out.
Greed twinkled in the clown's beady eyes. "Hurry and get it. Any tricks and I splatter her pretty brains all over your shirt."
Blair gulped, her pulse pounding in her constricted throat. Her knees threatened to buckle and her arms ached, fatigued in their unnatural position.
Race moved slowly, cautiously. "That's the last thing any of us want. I'll get your money and then you split, okay?"
"You bossing me around? Who's got the gun?" The clown's voice climbed an octave. "Who holds life and death in his hands? Who's got the power? Who's in charge?"
Race's coal black eyes darkened. "You're in charge, obviously." Race looked at Blair and yelled. "Run, Blair!"
"You think I'm stupid? I'm not going to fall for that old 'look here' trick. No one else is in here...." The clown's mouth twisted.
"Wrong slime bag!" Sirl dashed into the store, his red Superman cape floating behind him. "Here I am to save the day!"
The evil clown whirled, shooting wildly, strafing the store. Beer and soda spewed onto the ground. Ceiling tiles crumbled, falling on the clown's head, stunning him so that his eyes rolled and crossed as he swayed drunkenly.
Sirl ran at the dazed criminal, yelling, "Hi-yah!" as he leaped into the air more like Bruce Lee than the man of steel, his foot aimed at the bulbous red nose.
The clown's huge nose honked and then fizzled as Sirl's heel connected to it. Both men fell to the sticky floor, writhing, squeezing each other's throats.
Race dove over the counter, landing on top of the pair, tearing the clown off Sirl. "No one threatens my woman or my employees, Bozo." He tore the clown off Sirl and planted his fist in the man's face.
Blair snatched up the firearm and backed off, pointing it at the wicked creature. "Hands up, Boffo, before I blow your brains out." Her fingers itched and she shook. To Race and Sirl she asked, "Where do we put him till the cops arrive?"
"I know," Race said, wicked mischief gleaming in his eyes. "The men's room."
"A fate worse than Kryptonite!" Sirl yelled. "Follow me troops." Sirl stuck out his arms, made a buzzing sound and pretended to fly across the parking lot, weaving in and out, kicking up his heels every few feet.
"I'll get you for this!" The clown dragged his feet, which Blair noticed, were clad in penny loafers.
Penny loafers. That ghastly pink-and-purple polka dot bow tie ... of course! Her memory flashed back to the horrid little man in her economics class. "Peter Pickles!"
Race scowled. "Peter Pickles? You know him?"
Bile churned in Blair's stomach. "Our paths crossed." His contempt for her position taunted her. "Mr. High and Mighty Peter Pickles put himself into a pickle." Fisting her hands on her hips, she leaned toward him and crowed, "You have the nerve to put my job down, you, you clown."
"Unlock the door, Superman." Race pushed the clown into the john. "Chill until the cops get here."
Sirl hauled the clown up by his bow tie and let it snap in his face. "No one messes with Superman or his pals and gets away with it. Got it scumbag?"
She couldn't stand looking at the awful clown face one more minute or she'd puke. Nothing had ever looked so vile, so menacing, or so disgusting in all her experience. It was the stuff of her worst nightmares. "Lock him up."
Race took the gun from her. "You okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine. Just a bit shaken." She couldn't suppress a shudder. "I hate clowns. I used to scream whenever I saw a clown when I was a little girl." Fire breathing dragons didn't scare her half as badly as clowns. Something about clowns scared her more than death.
Race drew her against him and rubbed her arm. "Shush. That nasty clown will be locked away for a very long time. I won't let him near you ever again."
Sirens warbled on the distance, breaking the still night. Lights flashed on the horizon.
"I heard gas stations got robbed a lot, but by clowns?" This must be the most bizarre gas station in history.
Sirl continued to amuse himself pretending to fly circles around them. When two police cars streaked into the drive, he tiptoed to the lead car.
Lieutenants Fischer and Mueller jumped from their car, weapons drawn. "Drop the gun. Hands up! Back off from the girl."
The car's flashing lights blinded Blair as she squinted at them.
Race dropped the gun and reached heavenward. "It's me, Sutton, the manager. We've got the thief locked in the men's john."
"Is that true?" Mueller asked Blair, as he approached her. Moonbeams danced off his dark blonde hair as a slight breeze ruffled it.
She nodded. "Race, I mean, Mr. Sutton, is my hero." Her voice grew dreamy, filled with love and adoration. "He rescued me." She laced her fingers around his and squeezed his hand.
Hammering shook the men's room door. "Get me out! I can't breathe in here."
"We got a real clown in there," Race said, inclining his head at the men's room.
Lieutenant Fischer groaned, massaging his forehead. "Why'd you have to lock him in a bathroom?" He shot an intense look of hatred at the door.
Blair assumed the officer hated clowns as much as she did, so she sympathized. "He's a living nightmare, all right." Freddy Kruger, move over.
"What's wrong with that?" Race shot him a questioning look.
"Don't ask." Lieutenant Mueller chuckled. "It's too late to get him going. Unlock the door," he said to Race.
Race unlocked the door and returned to Blair's side.
Lieutenant Mueller's affable manner disappeared in an instant as he aimed his gun at the door, his feet spread at parade rest. "Come out with your hands up."
Pickles shuffled out, his fake red nose flattened and lopsided, his afro matted with soda. "Arrest me, please. Save me from these lunatics."
Puffing out his chest, Sirl asked, "You want me to fly him to an asteroid? I can drop him in a volcano. I can...."
"Someone's calling for help," Race said to Sirl, his eyes suspiciously wide and innocent. "It's a job for Superman." He pointed west. "That away."
Sirl grinned and saluted, tapping his heels three times. Then he sped west, his arms out in front of him, his cape flying behind him. "Here I go to save the day!"
"So if it isn't the infamous clown bandit," Lieutenant Fischer drawled as he snapped handcuffs on. "You're having quite a night, pal. From the potty to the pokey."
"That's right, pal. I'm a legend. Everyone's heard of me. I'm famous!" The clown snarled, his hair flapping in the breeze.
"Yeah. Yeah. You're infamous, buddy. Nice hair," Lieutenant Mueller said as he ushered the clown into the back of the cruiser. "I want to know your hairdresser so I avoid her."
"Nice tie." Blair couldn't resist a dig as well. "I bet the women go nuts for it."
Peter snapped at her, hissing. "What is this? Pick on the poor clown day? I'm gonna get you for that. No one ridicules the hair or the tie."
"Better give him rabies shots." Race glanced at the destroyed store, groaning. "My poor store. It's going to be a long night."
Blair smiled up at Race. "I'll stay with you."
Race looked down at her. "But your finals...."
"I'll reschedule. I don't think my mind would be on the test anyway."
"Go home and get some rest," Lieutenant Fischer said. "The store's off-limits till we go through it anyway. We'll post a guard."
Race shuffled his fingers through his hair and grimaced. "Soda," he said, disgust in his voice.
Blair couldn't resist. "Let me help you wash it out."
As the police car with Peter Pickles left, the clown turned and stuck his tongue out at them. The tires kicked out dust and pebbles.
"What do you have in mind?" Race's eyes blazed with possibilities. He pulled her close, his hands spanning her waist, his lips hovering a mere inch over hers.
She licked her bottom lip slowly and provocatively as she traced his chiseled, hypnotic lips with her fingertip. "I was thinking we both need a shower together. I'll wash your hair and your back and your--" Her voice trailed off, husky and suggestive.
He sucked her finger into his mouth. Passion flamed in his eyes. "Uhm. And I can wash your ... front." His gaze dipped to the V in her blouse exposing the swell of her breasts.
Delicious shudders coursed through her as she recognized the hunger and appreciation in his eyes. "My shower or yours?"
He scooped her into his arms and carried her masterfully to his van as she laughed against his chest. His cock throbbing against her deliciously told her he couldn't wait long. "Better make it yours. If my mother finds your underwear...."
She gasped. "She'll have heart failure?"
He kissed her deeply, savoring her lips. "No," he said as he lowered her into his van. "She'll starch them."
Blair froze disbelieving her ears. He had to be joking. "For real?"
He scrunched his nose adorably. "Oh yeah. She gives a whole new meaning to the term jock itch." He closed her door and marched to his side of the vehicle.
"Home, James." She adopted pretend airs as if she were a starlet of the silver screen. Sidling next to him, she nibbled his ear, starved to feel his heart beating against hers, to devour him with kisses, to feel his complete possession. "I can't wait to ravage you."
"Any more of this and we won't make it to that shower." Any thicker and his smoldering words would be slurred. "Have mercy on me, woman, so I can drive." He shot her a sly sideways looks suspicion lacing his tone. "This wasn't why Elvis wrecked, was it?"
Hint taken, she drew back shuddering with disgust. That Elvis disgraced his namesake and turned her stomach. Shaking her head, she assured him emphatically, "No way! The dude was thoroughly in love with his hair. He was styling it when he should have been driving." She laid her head on his shoulder, reveling in being by his side, wishing it could always be so.
He drove to her house without direction from her. They kissed hungrily all the way from his van to her front step and even as they fumbled with the lock. He kicked her door shut behind them as his hot hands caressed her with a quivering lust that stole her breath. "Which way to the shower?"
Purring, feverish with wanton desire, she unbuttoned his shirt on the way. "Follow me, lover."
"To the ends of the Earth."
"That's so sweet." She almost melted in his arms but the shower sounded so erotic, so inviting, she grabbed his hand and tugged him to the stall.
Laughing at her, his baritone rang rich and luxurious in the air. "You always so anxious to shower?" With a wickedly exciting gleam in his eyes, he lifted her shirt over her head and tossed it aside.
Breathless, unable to rip her ravenous gaze from his, she shook her head. "Uh-uh," she murmured in her sexiest, most come-hither voice. "I've never been so excited to shower before." She scowled when the hooks of her bra refused to behave for her as her tingling breasts longed to be free of their prison, to feel his caress, his suckling lips....
"Let me." His hand closed over hers, stilling her fingers. With a gentle firmness that thrilled her, he released the clasp expertly. Moaning, he buried his face between her aching breasts, stoking the fire impossibly hot. "You're so lovely." He licked a blistering, erotic trail to one nipple and then back to the other, teasing her unbearably.
"Have mercy on me," she begged, craning her neck back, thrusting her chest up so that her straining nipple pushed at his lips. "Shower. Now."
"My, my. We are anxious to shower."
"Yes!" She stripped the rest of the way, bathed their faces, cool at first, but soon warming unbearably. Luscious steam shrouded them.
He adjusted the spigot lower as she soaped his body, giving special attention to his throbbing cock. "You're a minx." Satisfied sighs punctuated each word.
Rich, foamy lather covered him as she stroked him into a wild frenzy. She longed to feel his pulsing, huge cock deep inside, needing to milk it of every last drop of his seed. Her heart swelled, crowding her ribs.
Sweeping her off her feet, stealing her breath, he twirled her around. He let the warm spray rinse him off and then he kissed her deeply, his hands cupping her bottom as he backed her against the smooth tiled wall. When he nudged his cock between her legs, she gasped.
Groaning into his mouth, she clutched him to her, and wrapped her legs around his waist, welcoming him. He was all hers and no way would she let him escape.
They kissed greedily, exploring each other's mouths as if they'd never known such exquisite ecstasy before. His cock rubbed against her clit, driving her insane with incredibly wild sensations and she gyrated against him while he held her firmly.
She shuddered and clung to him as fireworks exploded throughout her. Unable to tame the wild animal raging inside, her fingernails raked his bare back. Rapture flooded her as it never had before.
He shuddered, too, and held her tightly to him. "Are you sure we can't shower together every night for the rest of our lives?" He gazed deeply into her eyes, his thumb tenderly stroking her jaw. "And every morning to start our day?"
"This is coercion." She rubbed her cheek against his furry chest, enjoy the strong, erratic beating of his heart. She wanted to hear it beneath her ear like this for the rest of her life, too. "I'm liable to say yes to anything right now."
Race cupped her face in his hands and gently forced her to gaze into his sad eyes. "Surely there's way to work this out? To be together? Please make me understand what's going on in your head. Why you're so averse to marriage and family."
Memories of her tormented childhood rushed in on her. She blinked back hot tears, her heart shattering all over again.
Very quietly and sedately, Blair began to tell her story. "My daddy left us when I was three. I barely remember him. Victor was only five or six. Mom worked all kinds of odd jobs trying to keep us afloat." She stared into the awful past, shuddering. "Sometimes we didn't eat all day. The Sheriff kicked us out of our home, too. So Mom sent us to live with Aunt Dorothy. We were separated until Mom married Herb. That was so wonderful--while it lasted. Mom had another baby, Zachary, and we all lived together in a nice house. Everything was perfect."
"Then what happened?" Race's attention was riveted on her, and his thumbs caressed her jaw line.
"Herb left when I was eleven. Like my real dad, he never came back, never supported us, and left Mom penniless. Only it hurt even more this time. Herb was the only dad I ever really knew. And I could feel Mom's pain more that time. I babysat Zachary while she worked twelve hours a day and she still couldn't pay the bills. Finally, the Sheriff evicted us for the third or fourth time and the social workers were on Mom's back. She had a nervous breakdown--a real terrible one. She sent all three of us kids back to live with Aunt Dorothy. When she kissed me goodbye, she made me promise to have a good career so I could support myself and my children. And she made me promise I'd never depend on a man. I didn't understand then why she was being so maudlin or why she was so serious." Choked up, sniffling, she couldn't continue. Unbearable pain tore her apart and she tried to look away.
Race coaxed her to look him in his eyes, to trust him with the rest of her tale. "What then? Did you go back to her?"
Blair pressed her finger to her tearing eyes. In an unsteady voice, she finally admitted in a broken voice, "I never saw her again. She-she committed s-suicide right after that. She couldn't bear to live without her children." The tears refused to be held back and they trickled down her face. "I-I loved her so very much. Why did she do it? Why, Race?"
Race stroked Blair's face with his callused hands and shushed her. "She lost all hope, I imagine. She saw no future. No other way out."
"Exactly. And I don't want to be like that. I can't allow myself to be like that. Not ever."
Race gathered her into his arms, against his beating heart. "I understand. It's okay. You won't end up like that. I'm not like that."
"Mom didn't think my dad or Herb were like that, either," she said, her voice muffled against his chest, under the pulsating shower.
"It's okay with me if you want to work. Anything you want to do. The most important thing is that we're together, that Steve will have a mother who loves him."
She nodded, and her tears started to dry. She gazed into his soulful, truthful eyes. "I do love you so much. With all my heart. And I promise I'll be a wonderful mother to your adorable little boy."
"And I love you with all my heart. I'd rather die than leave you or hurt you. I'd never abandon my family. I've been here for Steve, haven't I? Haven't I proven myself?"
Funny, she started to float on clouds. She'd be crazy to walk away from the most astonishing man and the most fantastic showers on Earth. An idea that had been churning in her mind, struck her anew and demanded to be voiced. She wanted to brainstorm it with the man she trusted and respected above all others. "Well, I might be able to run my own business from home. Or work part time while Steve's in school." She held her breath, awaiting his response, praying he'd meet her half way.
"You know I stopped by the store to tell you that corporate approved your management training application."
She drew back a few inches so she could search his eyes. "You'd be willing to let me do that? It's full-time."
He smiled at her. "It wasn't my first choice as recently as a few minutes ago. But it's not my choice to make. It's yours."
"You mean that?" Happiness flooded her. So did the realization she didn't want to return to the station.
"I mean it. I'll support you a hundred percent in whatever decisions you make." Sincerity rang clear in his words as he crossed his heart. He knelt on one knee before her, holding her hand. His lips grazed each of her knuckles in turn and then he turned her hand palm up and nuzzled it. Then he gazed up at her adoringly. "I love you, Blair. You fracture me. I'll go crazy if you don't marry me."
She brimmed over with joy." She was her Mr. Right's Mrs. Right after all. She tossed him a saucy grin and then gazed deeply into the most amazing eyes she'd ever seen as she pulled him up to her and wound her arms around him again and snuggled into his embrace. "Put it in writing, mister."
The End

