Renata and the Fall from Grace

by Becky Doughty

  “Because I’m following my dream,” she muttered, her voice flattened by sarcasm as she considered the fact that she’d just spent an hour photographing a nearly-naked man in her home studio.

  Glamour photo shoots and professional portfolios were an easy way for her to pay the bills, thanks to digital photography and her natural talent for capturing her models’ best poses. But bodice ripper covers? It was her shameful little secret…she hoped. She’d seen a few of her covers on books in Renata’s collection, and even though her sister was most likely more interested in the words between the covers than in the covers themselves, there was always the possibility she would read the credits one day and discover the truth.

  Phoebe shuddered involuntarily.

  She glanced around the large studio, her eyes landing first on her easel, then pausing on the potter’s wheel. She waited for the familiar tug, for the tingle in her fingertips, the racing pulse. But it didn’t come. In fact, there were many days when the urge to pick up a lump of clay no longer consumed her. She sighed deeply, then turned her attention back to the images of the nearly naked man on her monitor.

  Brandon really was exceptionally handsome. There wasn’t a bad pose in the whole series. Even the shots with his eyes closed worked for the dreamy time-travel feel she was trying to capture. She’d have three cover options ready before the end of the week.

  And honestly, she’d much rather take trashy pictures in secret for Rosemary Ramsey at Vineland than do Creepo’s dirty work for him over at Gossamer.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Phoebe closed down her design program, she was running late.

  As usual.

  She touched up her scarlet lipstick, tied a colorful scarf around her head, braided her long curls so they wouldn’t get any more tangled than they already were, and snatched up her huge shoulder bag. Scrambling up into Xena, her Jeep Wrangler, she tucked her floor-length skirt under her thighs so she wouldn’t accidentally flash anyone driving beside her. She grimaced at the way the strap of the seatbelt rubbed at her neck; she lifted the chunky chains she wore out of the way. Then she slipped on her blue-tinted, frameless sunglasses, the ones that highlighted the blue-black sheen of her hair.

  After backing out of her driveway, she floored it, anxious to be on her way. It wouldn’t be dark for hours still, and the afternoon sun felt good on her skin after sitting still for so long in the air-conditioning. One of her favorite things about living in Southern California was how much of the year she got to drive without the cover on her Jeep.

  Xena was an older model, her compact shape and big wheels more to Phoebe’s liking than the sleeker, larger design Wrangler was putting out these days. The Jeep’s age, however, meant more trips to the auto shop, but Phoebe had a friend in the business, Stan Jacobson, who gladly traded mechanical repairs for any cover shoots she could land him. He was one of her favorite male models because he somehow made hard work and grunge look really sexy, and the authors and publishing houses she worked with were beginning to specifically request him. Besides, he was a really decent guy, too. Keeping him clothed was never an issue, and Phoebe didn’t believe she’d ever seen him swagger.

  She’d made it about halfway to Juliette’s place when she felt the slight hiccup beneath her. Then Xena let out a polite cough. Phoebe’s eyes landed on the fuel gage, but she already knew what she’d see.

  Below empty.

  She’d meant to get gas on her way home yesterday, but there always seemed to be some pressing reason for her to get to the next place she was going. Case in point: Right now she was running late and had hoped she could hit the gas station after the G-FOURce today. But she’d been driving on fumes for two days now and her luck appeared to be running out.

  “No! No, no, no, no!” she growled, her beringed hand smacking the steering wheel in frustration as the Jeep spluttered again, this time a little more vehemently. “Come on, Xena! Just a little farther. Come on, baby!” There was a gas station around the corner and Juliette’s was only a few blocks beyond that. So close….

  Another cough, wheeze, and a shudder, and then the warrior princess moaned and passed out beneath her. Phoebe coasted to the side of the road, grateful she’d opted not to take the cross-town freeway. There was nothing worse than being stranded on the side of the freeway in a billowy skirt and a topless vehicle in rush hour traffic.

  “Been there, done that,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

  She sat there for a few moments, weighing out her options. She could call Juliette and tell her she’d be later than usual, and then ring up Grandpa G and have him bring her a can of gas.

  For the second time this month.

  She’d have to endure his lecture, along with the look in his eyes that told her he knew she knew better.

  She could call Stan, whose shop was only about a mile away. Let him tease her mercilessly, listen to him remind her that her negligence would be the death of Xena, and then bribe him with dinner, maybe. She’d have to bail on the G-FOURce meeting altogether though, and that wouldn’t go over well with her sisters. Her being late again was already going to be a problem.

  She’d just suck it up and walk to the gas station and back. She was a big girl. She didn’t need a man to rescue her. And she did have three gas cans in the back of the Jeep already, courtesy of Grandpa G, Renata, and, well, she couldn’t remember where she got the third one. Maybe she’d bought it herself.

  Frustrated at her own ineptitude, Phoebe bolted from the vehicle and slung the long strap of her purse up on her shoulder. She reached for one of the gas cans lined up neatly behind the jump seat, and gave it a hopeful shake. No luck; it was empty. With a sigh, she set off, thankful she’d worn her Gladiator sandals today, and not the macramé platforms she’d been considering. They would have complimented her Boho look better, but they were far more decorative than functional. The walk to the gas station and back would not have been fun.

  All six fuel pumps were in use. Of course.

  Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the place so busy. She tried to appear nonchalant as she stood behind a car, waiting for the line to move forward. She dug her phone from her shoulder bag and sent off a text to Juliette.

  Be there soon. She started to key in an explanation but ended up just erasing the excuses and sent it with only those three words. She didn’t even bother apologizing.

  Renata would roll her eyes, Gia would enjoy the extra minutes she could spend playing with Juliette’s dog, Bob, and Juliette would make excuses for Phoebe anyway.

  It was the first G-FOURce meeting they’d had since Renata had returned from her honeymoon last month, and truth be told, Phoebe knew there was more to her tardiness than just bad habits. The larger Renata’s belly grew, the less Phoebe wanted to be around her. For some reason, this pregnancy jabbed at places in her heart that none of Renata’s other ones had. In fact, it was Phoebe’s fault they hadn’t met two weeks ago. She had canceled at the last minute, hoping to get out of it completely. They’d simply gone and rescheduled, though, and she wasn’t about to bail again. It was just putting off the inevitable. The G-FOURce would go on, come hell or high water.

  Her phone beeped.

  That’s fine. Victor is still here anyway. He picked up some of Mona’s pastries for us—I’ll make sure no one licks your scone before you get here.

  Juliette had an uncharacteristically perverse thing about licking stuff to mark her territory. Phoebe had a sudden—and slightly unsettling—visual of her oldest sister licking Victor, claiming him the same way. The idea made her laugh out loud, partly because she could almost see Juliette going for it and then bursting into tears over how inappropriate it was. And poor, ultra-conservative Officer Vic Jarrett, with his bullet-proof vest and freshly-pressed uniform all tucked in and battened down, his storm cloud eyes, naturally-bronzed forearms, and long-fingered hands….

  She noticed that kind of thing. It was her job to notice people’s assets.r />
  Would he blush? Let fly that slow misty morning smile of his?

  “I wouldn’t mind licking you myself, big guy,” she murmured with due appreciation, stepping up and slipping her credit card into the payment center on the pump.

  A low chuckle emanated from the backside of the dock, bringing her up short, gas can still clutched in one hand. She whispered a word she never said around her sisters.

  Moving ever so slowly, she leaned slightly to the left and peered around the pump, her eyes widening at the shiny black Harley propped up on its double kickstand, its rider standing with his back to her, one hand cupping his neck just below his damp hairline. A denim jacket was draped over the wide bike seat, a black helmet resting on top of it, and he wore faded black Levis and a casual gray T-shirt. He turned slightly and she froze, afraid to make any sudden moves lest he notice her.

  Angular profile, no scraggly gray beard, not even one of those three-day scruffs she really did not like. They were fine to look at from a distance, but not up close and personal. Not with porcelain skin like hers. No potbelly, no tattered shirt with the sleeves ripped off, tucked into dirty jeans held up with a big-buckled belt. No faded tattoos of naked women up and down his arms.

  Phoebe knew she was stereo-typing, but this part of California was home to a huge community of bikers who made their two-wheeled vehicles a lifestyle. With summers that lasted about nine months of the year, it was ideal for motorcycles. And many of the clubs were still made up of old-schoolers, fitting the stereotype to a T.

  But this guy?

  His tousled hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it after removing his helmet, and his full mouth was set in a wide grin as he studied the phone in his hand. Phoebe let out a quiet sound of relief. He must have been laughing over something on his phone, not at her comment about licking Victor.

  She lifted the gas nozzle from its slot on her side of the pump and began to fill her gas can, making as little noise as possible. She really didn’t want to be caught in this predicament by anyone, no less by the handsome biker only a few feet away.

  Phoebe breathed through her nose as she watched the two-gallon can fill quickly. She loved the smell of gasoline fumes; they always triggered memories of her father standing in the open door of their family van, talking to his girls while he filled the tank. It was one of the few vivid images she could conjure up of him after all these years, without the help of a photo, anyway.

  She returned the nozzle, grabbed the receipt the machine spat out in exchange, and crouched down to screw the cap on the can before picking it up. She took a step away from the pump, careful not to let the flat soles of her sandals slap loudly on the concrete under her feet.

  “You need help with that?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s okay, Phebes. Just put on your big girl panties and play nice. She turned to glance over her shoulder at the man who moved around the pump to her side of the dock. The grin still decorated his face, making her smile back in response as she assured him, “I’m fine. But thank you.”

  “You run out of gas?” he asked, his gaze darting around, presumably in search of her car.

  Phoebe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Talk about a dilemma. The guy clearly wanted to visit a bit, to help out a damsel in distress, and she usually didn’t pass up an opportunity like this. Especially since she didn’t pick up on any pervy vibes, but a seemingly genuine intent to play Prince Charming. And a rather delicious Prince Charming at that, if a girl liked the rough-and-tumble biker look. Which, surprisingly, she found she did today. At least on this guy. Wouldn’t mind licking—shut up, Phebes! Good grief. Too much sun or something.

  She was a little embarrassed, however, at the circumstances surrounding her dilemma. She didn’t have a problem using her feminine wiles when it served her purposes, but she was not needy and hated being misconstrued that way. Besides, she reminded herself again, she was late, and she didn’t want to give Renata any more reasons to judge her beyond what she already had in her arsenal.

  On the other hand, nor did she want to hear about Renata’s honeymoon, or her pregnancy, or her happily-ever-after rocket-speed romance with Tim Larsen, the beefcake who was now her husband. What Phoebe wouldn’t give to photograph or paint that man at least once. Or lick him. Not that she’d ever do either. She wasn’t interested in other women’s men, especially not her sisters’ men. That said, she would be the first to admit that her two older sisters had landed themselves some fine specimens, no doubt about it. And the guy standing in front of her—

  He cleared his throat and she started, nearly dropping the gas can that was quickly growing heavy in her hand. “Oh. I—um, yes. I ran out of gas. But I’m just around the corner.” With a flash of what she knew was her most beguiling smile, Phoebe made to leave again. “Thank you, anyway.”

  The man was not so easily dissuaded. He fell into step beside her and gestured toward the gas can. “Let me help.”

  Phoebe hoisted it out of his reach, the weight of it pulling painfully on her wrist. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “I’m not arguing that, ma’am.” He grinned, one side of his mouth quirking up in humor. “I’m only offering my help.”

  “Demanding, is more like it. Besides, maybe you’re just trying to steal my gas can now that I spent my hard-earned cash to fill it.” She teased him back, enjoying the banter a little more than she should, knowing her sisters were waiting for her to get there so they could start the meeting.

  He laughed openly, genuinely. “Scout’s honor. I won’t steal your gas can. I’m Trevor, by the way.” He thrust his hand toward her and after only the briefest pause, she shook it.

  “Phoebe.” But when she withdrew her hand, he didn’t lower his. She cocked her right eyebrow at him, her head at a slight angle. “What? Was that handshake not good enough?”

  “Your gas can. Please. Let me carry it for you.”

  “But your bike. You can’t just leave it here while you go for a walk with me.”

  “Sure I can,” he insisted. “If you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll park it in front of the shop to free up the pump.” He noticed her hesitation. “Okay, fine. Three minutes. Just give me three minutes.” When she still hedged, he added, “I guarantee we’ll make up those three minutes if I’m carrying that can instead of you. It’s going to get heavy if you have very far to go.”

  Phoebe laughed resignedly. “You win. I’ll wait. But I’ll hang on to this while you move your bike.” She patted the side of the plastic can. “If you’re not back in three minutes, I’m heading out, because I’m running very late as it is. You’ll have to catch up to me if you still want to help.”

  Trevor saluted her and circled back around the pump. He scooped up his gear and threw a leg over the bike, shoving his jacket into the helmet and propping it on the seat between his thighs. A moment later, the Harley cleared its throat and rumbled to life. Phoebe closed her eyes briefly, wondering what on earth she’d just gotten herself into.

  “Two minutes, fourteen seconds,” Trevor announced, jogging up beside her. “I timed it, did you?”

  “Where’s your helmet? And your jacket?” His gloves were gone, too.

  “Locked the helmet on the bike. And if someone needs a jacket so badly that they need to steal my rag, they’re welcome to it.” Trevor grinned and picked up the gas can she’d set on the ground at her feet. “Lead the way, fair lady.”

  They more than made up the two minutes and fourteen seconds she’d waited for him. Trevor wasn’t tall and he didn’t have extraordinarily long legs, but he moved with great exuberance and she could barely keep up. “You’re practically walking in circles around me,” she chided. “Do you need to use the restroom? Or are you just anxious to get this over with?” She was only teasing him, but she’d never met a guy who had this much energy before.

  “Nah, it’s all good. I’m just easy to please, that’s all.” He turned and walked backwards so he was f
acing her, swinging the red can at his side as if it was empty. “I mean, come on, Phoebe. A beautiful day, a beautiful woman, and a chance to help someone out of a bind. What’s there not to be pleased about, hm?” He dipped his head to one side, watching her, that cock-eyed smile never leaving his face.

  “I think you might be certifiably crazy.” She shook her head as he barely missed backing into a postal box on the sidewalk. “I should probably take that thing and run in the opposite direction.” She pointed beyond him. “Except my Jeep is right there.”

  In minutes, Trevor had emptied the contents of the can into the tank, capped it, stowed it in the back of the Jeep, and was holding out his hand for her keys.

  She hesitated, wondering briefly if he was going to start Xena up and take off with her, but then remembered his bike parked in front of the gas station. He couldn’t very well steal her car and rescue his bike, too. The look in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and his words all but confirmed it.

  “Just want to make sure it starts up for you before I send you on your way. Here.” He dug in his back pocket for his own set of keys and offered them to her. “Collateral. If I steal your ride, you can have mine.” She exchanged keys with him just to play along, and eyed him appreciatively as he swung up into her front seat.

  He turned the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. He simply sat for a few minutes, listening for something. “Making sure the fuel pump kicks on,” he explained when he saw her curious look. “These older Jeeps don’t like to run out of gas. The fuel pump pulls from the bottom of the tank, and when the tank runs dry, the pump will suck up whatever is left. With an older vehicle like this one, the debris from the bottom of the tank could wreck your pump. Believe me, you don’t want to have to replace a fuel pump if you don’t have to.”

  He said it so nonchalantly that it didn’t even feel like a reprimand. She scrunched her nose at him anyway. “You sound like my grandfather,” she retorted.