The harsh rasp of the zipper on his duffel was loud in the silence that followed his remark.
"You haven't lost your colorful way of expressing yourself," Molly said as calmly as she could manage.
"I'm vulgar, you mean."
She thought that went without saying, so she said nothing.
"You're right. I'm a vulgar man. Earthy. It's part of my appeal." He grabbed the shirt, jeans and underwear he would change into. "Makes me seem...unpredictable...dangerous." He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "We both know I'm not."
The look he gave her belied his claim. She thought him very dangerous to the well-being of her heart.
"You gonna help me with this?" Indicating the dressing on his hip, he headed for the bathroom and she followed. The bandage was hard for him to reach and would be tricky to get off. He leaned against the sink, resting on the balls of his hands, and she knelt beside him. Gently she eased the sweatpants down, exposing his hip and buttock and the thick pad that covered it. The outer layer looked like an Ace bandage, only with some adhesive substance on it that made it cling to his skin. She picked at the edges, but she could tell by the way it stretched over his groin area and upper thigh that it wouldn't come off without considerable discomfort.
He seemed to read her mind. "It's gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch no matter what you do, Moll. Just give it a yank."
She gave a few quick tugs and heard him inhale sharply. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She'd succeeded in uncovering only a couple of inches. He tightened his grip on the edge of the sink. "You remember all those times I pulled your pigtails, Molly? Now's your chance."
Biting down hard on her upper lip, she yanked firmly and the dressing tore away in her hand. Charlie grunted and muttered something unintelligible.
"You okay?" She was almost afraid to ask.
He blew out a long breath. "You got even."
"I'm sorry, Char—"
"I'm just teasing, honey." His voice was a little shaky. "How does it look?"
It looked like he'd been beaten with a stick. Purple bruises surrounded the puncture marks, though they were fewer than she had anticipated. She didn't see anything that appeared infected and the gauze held only a couple small dots of dried blood. "It looks pretty good, Charlie," she lied. "I'll see if I can get some of this adhesive off."
She stood and reached into the medicine cabinet for her nail-polish remover.
"You gonna make me smell like a flower garden?" He sounded like his ornery old self again.
"This is lemon-scented. It'll make you smell fresh. Which you are," she said pointedly.
"Nah, not me. I'm reformed." He sucked in a breath as she knelt again and dabbed a saturated cotton ball against his skin. "I've got two left hands." He used one of them to brush a long red curl as it trailed behind her ear and down her neck.
She shivered slightly. "To go with your two right hands, as I recall." She noticed his buttock tense under her stroking fingers and wondered if she was hurting him. Then she noticed the unmistakable evidence of his arousal and she glanced quickly up at him.
He watched her with hot eyes, his desire palpable. He must have sensed her responding heat. His next words implied as much. "I want you, honey. But right now I'd only disappoint both of us and embarrass myself. You almost done there?"
She scrubbed at the adhesive a little more, her knuckles brushing his arousal when she cleaned the area in front that had been covered by the bandage. The action was intimate, familiar and erotic all at the same time. He held his body tense, every muscle rigid until she had finished. Her own breathing was erratic, she realized, as she rose to put away the things she had used.
To her surprise he peeled his pants the rest of the way off and dropped them on the floor. "I'm gonna get a real shower for a change," he told her. He'd been limited the past few days by the need to keep his dressing dry. "Want to join me?" His suggestion seemed made in jest, but she heard the challenge behind it, saw the dare lurking in his dark eyes. He was totally unconcerned with his nudity while she was aware of nothing else. She felt her face coloring and wrapped her robe more tightly around herself, wishing she had the nerve to call his bluff.
He only grinned and tipped her chin up. "Maybe next time," he said. "You blush real pretty for a redhead, Molly. You'd better git, before I haul you in there with me."
She left the door ajar slightly so she could hear him if he needed her and stood hugging herself outside it. His comment had caught her off guard but it also caused her to reflect.
They had never done anything like he'd suggested—never shared a bath or a shower.
She wasn't naive. She knew lovers did that. She'd lived in a dorm. Some of the girls there had shared a shower with a different partner every other week. But that reminded her too much of the kind of woman her father had favored. She had avoided any likeness to them at all costs.
And, to be honest, she sometimes wondered if that wasn't part of the reason she had feared that Charlie strayed. Their physical relationship had always been tender. Certainly he had wanted her often enough and he'd seemed satisfied. But she had listened to the talk of the women she'd worked with and, by comparison, what she'd shared with Charlie had sounded tame, conventional, unadventuresome. That wasn't entirely true, she amended mentally. Those poker games they had played were certainly...adventuresome. Yes, they'd had their moments.
But they'd been only moments. Bold, multihued splashes in a rather pale watercolor past. And he was her husband now. The thought of him going to another woman for what he couldn't get from her ate like acid on her soul.
Still, she'd heard the sly comments others made. No one was married on the road. How could she trust him, when she didn't know how to hold him?
Behind her, the water shut off abruptly and she hurried to the bedroom to dress.
When Charlie emerged a short time later, searching for his boots, she realized a part of him had left her already. He'd traded the casual button-downs he'd been wearing for a western-cut shirt complete with pearlized snaps. Not flashy, exactly, but not down-home. The black boots he eased into were some fancy leather she couldn't identify, stitched and tooled. The jeans were tight, the better to define what some fans had deemed the best legs in country music. He might only be a rhinestone cowboy, but he glittered when he walked.
He was Kick Cochrane again, the celebrity, the commodity, the product. She watched him standing at the counter, sipping coffee and scribbling something on a small piece of paper. Despite his appearance the eyes he lifted to her were still Charlie's, warm and concerned. He motioned her over to him.
"This is the hotel where I'll be staying tonight," he said pointing to a number on the paper. "I'll let you know day by day where I'll be." He grasped her chin and looked directly into her eyes. "You need me any other time—if I'm on the bus, performing, anytime—you call this number. Give whoever answers this name." He flicked his pencil against the paper. "You'll get me. If you need me, I'll come. You understand?"
She nodded. Glancing out the window that overlooked the street, he released her. Molly followed his gaze and saw a cab roll to a stop in front of their building. He turned to her with a torn expression. "I've got to go."
He reached for his hat and his duffel, dipped his head and touched his lips to hers. She couldn't watch him leave. Her back to him, she heard his steps across the floor, heard him open the door and pause, heard his bag hit the floor and his palm slap the jamb.
In moments he was back with her, turning her into his arms, the expression in his eyes savage. With his hand tangled in her hair gripping hard enough to hurt, he crushed his mouth to hers. There was nothing gentle or coaxing in his kiss. This was primal. A claim. A brand. And her response was the same. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and she welcomed it, stroked it, pulled him in until he groaned. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, eight years of longing in her embrace.
When he lifted his head, at last, she didn't open her eyes so he wouldn't see
the plea in them. She heard his ragged breathing, but she would not look at him.
"Molly."
She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. "Just go, Charlie."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his breath hot against her skin. "I'll come back to you as soon as I can." "Please, Charlie, just go."
She felt his mouth on hers in a last, hard kiss and then his heat was gone. When she opened her eyes, finally, so was he.
She was in that fragile state between waking and sleeping when a shrill sound shattered the calm of the darkness. Her eyes shot open, her heart pounding like some wild thing struggling to be free of her chest.
The brittle ring cut the night again, recognizable this time. The phone! Oh please, God, no!
She pushed herself up in the bed, her trembling hand groping for the receiver. The clock tumbled to the carpeted floor where it landed facedown with a heavy thud. The phone slipped and clattered against the night table as she tried to bring it to her ear. Please, God, not Tobie. Not when he's come so far.
She slid her legs over the side of the bed, holding the receiver in two sweaty palms so she could speak into it. Her voice, when she answered, was thick with suppressed sobs.
"Molly?"
A sob escaped then, one of relief. "Charlie." Her suddenly boneless legs gave out and she sagged to the floor next to the bed.
"Are you all right, honey? What's wrong?"
"Just give me a minute," she gasped, trying to catch her breath. She laid her head back against the mattress and clutched the phone to her chest, sure he must hear the runaway gallop of her heartbeat. Some semblance of coordination returning to her limbs, she felt for the clock near her thigh and turned it so that she could read the flickering red numbers. Eleven forty-seven. She must have just drifted off.
She brought the receiver up again and spoke into it "I'm sorry, Charlie. I thought you were the hospital."
"Aw, Molly." She heard the remorse in his voice. "I didn't think. We finished the show a little while ago and I was finally able to get away."
"It's okay."
"I won't call late again."
"No! Call." She swallowed and wiped the perspiration from her upper lip. Her breathing had regained some similarity to a normal pattern. "It'll give me something to look forward to...instead of something to dread."
"Are you sure? It's just that...I know I talked to you earlier today but... Well, you can't speak freely with Tobie sitting right there."
She realized then that his concern was as great as her own. He was hounded by the same fears, needed the same reassurances. As caring and helpful as the doctors and staff had been, she had never felt this kind of connection with them.
"I know, Charlie. Call." She sighed heavily. "He was the same today. There was no change."
"No worse, but no better."
"Dr. Morrissey said any improvement would be very gradual for the first several weeks. At least there are no signs of any problems." She would have the easier time of this, she understood now. She could see for herself Tobie's progress, day by day. "How did the show go?"
"Good. Folks have been great. Supportive. We're rescheduling like crazy. I can't see a break for the next month."
A month. With their relationship so shaky. How could they strengthen it this way? She missed him, and she didn't even feel comfortable with telling him so.
"Who's Shooter?" she asked for want of something to say.
Charlie's answer was a muffled groan. "Harlan mentioned him, did he?" He paused as if considering his words. "He's fairly new. Been with us maybe...six months. Plays pedal steel mostly. Good musician." "What's the problem with him?"
He paused again and she sensed his reluctance to discuss the man.
"The problem is with his drinking. When he gets to slam-min' 'em back, he hits on fans. Young ones. Nothing illegal, I don't think. Just...real poor judgment." His agitation came over the line in a quick burst of expelled breath. "He'd be hard to replace. Last fellow we talked to wouldn't know a Dobro from a capo, had the nerve to call himself a musician. I hope Shooter can clean himself up. The band doesn't need a reputation for that kind of trouble."
"Kick Cochrane, protector of fans. Is that how you see yourself?" It was small of her, she knew, even as she said it. But she'd seen him in action. He knew his way around fans.
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't respond. When he did his tone was careful, measured. "There's something real unappealing about a thirty-year-old man coming on to sixteen-year-old girls. I wouldn't think even you would accuse me of that."
"Charlie..."
"We've had this fight before, Molly. We both lost."
"You're right." She had nothing to gain from antagonizing him. She had to learn to take him at his word, to bite her tart tongue, to keep her doubts and her misgivings to herself. It would help immensely if she couldn't hear the raucous laughter, the loud voices, the twangy music behind him even as they spoke. She could practically smell the smoke and the beer. "I'm sorry," she managed to get out.
"I'll call tomorrow."
"Yes." She hung up, wide awake now with her memories and her fears....
She steered her bicycle toward her daddy's store, dodging pedestrians on the wide sidewalks of the plaza on
Market Street
. She was proud of her skill on the bike. Since spring she'd been allowed to ride it to school in good weather.
Of course, she'd had to argue with Momma about that, but Daddy had taken her side and, eventually, he'd won out. Daddy and Momma argued all the time anyway, so it didn't bother her much. She was in third grade, after all. Fourth grade, she corrected herself. She'd just been promoted. With straight As. She released one of the handlebar grips and patted the brown report-card envelope she had tucked into the front waistband of her shorts.
Daddy would be pleased with that. She couldn't wait to show him. He'd smile a mile. She grinned herself at the thought, feeling her lips stick to her teeth as the wind dried them. The breeze felt good against her skin as she pedaled the bike. It was a stinky hot day. She had her hair hiked up in pigtails to keep it off her neck.
She'd better stay away from Charlie. Sashaying past him with her pigtails was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He could never resist a quick yank.
Not that he was ever mean about it. He was the best friend a kid could have. He'd taught her to ride this snazzy bike, running along beside her, his hands gripping the seat, while her daddy was too tied up with business and her momma kept to her room. She didn't mind his good-natured ribbing about the pink fenders and the purple plastic tassels streaming from her handlebars, either. Although, to be honest, she secretly admired the banana seat on his bike and the fact that it had no fenders at all.
She slowed as she neared the corner where her daddy's building stood. Hauling her bike around the side, she squinted up at the sun. The seat would be hotter than blazes by the time she got out, but Daddy had chided her often enough about leaving her bicycle in front where it might get in the way of customers. She sighed, nudged the kickstand down with her toe and parked the bike. Careful to avoid the drips from the air-conditioning unit that rattled a few feet above her head, she skipped into the building by the service door.
The corridor was cool and dim. And quiet. Daddy was in his office, most likely. These midafternoon hours were the slowest for the store. The early-bird shoppers had come and gone and the late-afternoon crowd, heading home from their offices, hadn't yet put in an appearance. She stopped at the water fountain for a quick drink and slipped her report card out of her shorts so she wouldn't get splashes on it.
She headed down the hallway, past the deserted stockroom and the door marked Authorized Personnel Only that she knew was just the employee restroom, to the third door on the right. Her daddy's office.
The outer room where Miss Bonnie held sway appeared empty.
Miss Bonnie had been her daddy's secretary since she graduated high school five years before. During that period
she had married, had a baby, and divorced, but she had always been Miss Bonnie to Molly. None of those events had affected her sunny disposition or her awful typing, but her position at Doyle's Furniture and Appliance, at least, seemed secure.
Molly eased up to the corner of the desk where the secretary kept a cut-glass dish filled with cellophane-wrapped mints and snitched a couple. Evidently her daddy helped himself to these, too, she thought, unwrapping one and popping it into her mouth. He came home smelling of mints pretty often.
There didn't seem to be anybody around, Molly decided, glancing about the office. Sometimes when things were slow, her daddy relieved the salesmen while they had a cup of coffee and a smoke at the lunch counter across the street. Maybe Miss Bonnie had joined them.
She turned to go look out front in the store proper when a sound stopped her. A strange, animal-like sound. Not a whimper, not a groan. Something in between. It seemed to come from Daddy's private, inner office on the right. Molly looked that way, saw the door slightly ajar, and crept over. The door made no sound over the carpeted floor as she pushed it further open, peered around it, and froze in place.
The smell hit her first. A sharp, strong, slightly sweet odor. She'd smelled it sometimes on her daddy's breath when he'd stumble into her room late at night to listen to her prayers and kiss her good-night. It wasn't an unpleasant odor, but she didn't like it.
Her eyes registered a number of images all at once. The bottle and two glasses on the cluttered desk, each partly filled with a liquid the color of weak tea without milk. The brassy blond hair of Miss Bonnie, come loose from the combs that usually scraped it into a frizzy cascade at the back of her head, now tumbling in wild disarray. The splashy, flower-patterned dress hiked high on Miss Bonnie's thighs. And those thighs spread wide astride a man's lap.
Her daddy's lap.
Molly knew it, though she couldn't see his face. From their position, it appeared his face was buried somewhere in the front of Miss Bonnie's dress.
But that was her daddy. Those were his arms wrapped around his secretary's backside, white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the dusting of red hair on his freckled skin. Those were his hands cradling the woman's bottom, clenching in the fabric of her dress as he guided her hips in a rhythmic push and pull. Those were his fingers, one of them circled by a ring of white gold that was a match to Momma's, sliding beneath the hem of the skirt, revealing to anyone who cared to look that Miss Bonnie was wearing nothing at all underneath her dress.
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