Just Her Type

by Laudat, Reon

  Trudie harrumphed again.

  As Blue Suit shifted her body to tightly cross her legs, Mitch felt the caress of her heat and caught a whiff of the same soft soap-and-coconuts fragrance he had relished when she’d kneeled at his feet. He’d rather enjoyed that view from that bench, the perky curves of her breasts and the way her skirt stretched over a deliciously rounded bottom. Umph.

  Blue Suit started, “But you see—”

  “I saw more than enough,” Trudie said.

  Florence Nightingale with tweezers surged to her feet with her own affronted look. “You couldn’t possibly think that I was engaging in some sort of…of…”

  “Disgusting sexual act that’s still illegal in some states,” Trudie cut in, wagging a finger. “Don’t try to play innocent with me.” She sat behind her desk. “Lynn, I sense big trouble and Shangri-La doesn’t need this. We have enough public relations nightmares as it is, with people thinking we’re all perverted, swinging sex fiends.’’

  Lynn. Mitch searched for a connection as he regarded Blue Suit. Attractive. Actually very attractive. Just not in that flashy sort of way that usually garnered his double takes. With the exception of those cute dimples that dotted her cheeks when she smiled and that full, sensual mouth, her assets were subtle. Had she not been the only fully clothed person among a throng of towel-clad naturists, he might not have noticed her at all. And she had nice legs…What he could see of them, at least. What else was hiding under that dorky suit of hers?

  “But…” Lynn looked to him to confirm her version of events. He brought a finger to his lips to shush her. It was useless to try explaining.

  “You two needn’t expect an invitation to join any time soon,” Trudie confirmed Mitch’s hunch.

  Mitch shook his head and chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the situation. “What’s the matter, Trudie?” He gave her a bawdy wink. “Jealous?”

  Trudie surged to her feet and pointed to the door. “You two, out! Now!”

  Chapter 3

  Trudie sent Lynn on her way, and then reluctantly granted Mitch just enough time to retrieve his clothing from one of the changing rooms. Reuben Richardson had yet to show for the little shindig given in his honor. He took consolation in that.

  Once Mitch had ditched that rough terry towel, he felt less like Tarzan and more like himself. A pair of broken-in jeans had never felt so good. He adjusted the collars on his sport jacket and polo shirt before stepping aboard Pops’ golf cart.

  The older man greeted him with an apology as he revved the putt-putt engine. “I dropped Lynn off a few minutes ago.” He manipulated the small gearshift on the cart’s floor. “I like her. Reminds me of my granddaughter, pretty, but with a no-nonsense way about her. I find Trudie’s accusations hard to believe.” The cart lurched over a huge bump on the gravel road.

  “You know what they say, believe half of what you see…”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.”

  Just before they reached the canopied pickup station Mitch removed his mirrored shades from his shirt pocket to block the wallop of the midday sun. When the cart stopped, he stepped out.

  “Again, I’m so sorry this didn’t work out,” Pops said. “Take care.”

  “You, too.” Mitch offered a no-hard-feelings rap to the side of the cart as Pops headed back to the festivities. Mitch had crossed two rows of vehicles while heading for his black Mustang when someone called out to him. Lynn emerged from the bench underneath the canopy.

  “Hey, I thought you’d left.” Mitch couldn’t deny the pleasure percolating inside at seeing her again.

  “I couldn’t leave without thanking you again for helping me out in the pantry, and I wanted to apologize for what happened with Trudie.” She brought a slender hand to her forehead to shield the relentless rays. “I’m sorry I got you thrown out.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” The heat from the sun and that something simmering between them forced Mitch to shuck his jacket. “I think Trudie was gunning for me as soon as I arrived. Apparently single men are always suspect at nudist camps.” Her flawless skin looked so sweet and velvety. He wanted to taste her. Those eyes, wide and eager. And those lush lips. . . As if on cue, Mitch prepared to shift into lady killer mode to spout his usual pickup lines, but his circuits jammed. Everything around them dissolved in slow motion. Silence wedged between them. Tongue-tied, his lips moved, but nothing emerged. He’d had his share of knockouts before, but none had ever had that effect on him. Something was different about this one.

  Fortunately, she spoke up. “Apparently single women are suspect, too. I was beat over the head with the same this-isn’t-a-sex-club preamble.” She chuckled. “Excuse me for prying, but you don’t look like the Shangri-La type. What are you doing here?”

  “And what’s the Shangri-La type, may I ask?”

  Lynn shrugged, and those sweet dimples dotted her cheeks. “Let’s just say I don’t know what it is, but I think I know what it isn’t.”

  “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “Thank you…I think. Shangri-la was a little too much for me, even with towels. Pops was nice, though, and in all fairness Trudie was just doing her job. Social nudity? Not for me, but to each his own, ya know.”

  Mitch kind of dug this lady in the cheap blue suit with the kiss-me-crazy lips. He considered asking her to join him for a drink.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again.

  “Hey, let’s back up a minute. I don’t believe we’ve officially introduced ourselves.” He extended a hand for a shake. “Mitchell Malone. My friends call me Mitch.”

  She accepted it with a nice firm grip. “Sorry. Jaimie MacKenzie. “

  “Oh, it’s Jaimie? I could’ve sworn Trudie and Pops called you Lynn.”

  “It’s Jaimie Lynn MacKenzie. Um, sometimes I go by my middle name.” She smiled.

  “Your face looks familiar, though.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen the photo they run with my columns in the Butler County Bee.”

  “Ah, the Butler County Bee.” He nodded. “That’s interesting…” Perhaps he had seen her photo there. He’d picked up the humdrum community weekly once or twice while scanning the local classifieds for a good deal on a car. But more than likely, he’d spied her before among the posse of reporters dogging Richardson. That would be a problem. A big problem if he wanted to date her.

  “So, where are you headed now?” He rocked on his heels.

  “Why do you want to know?” She looked up at him through her thick lashes.

  “I think what’s happening here is called ‘hitting it off.’ ”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m single and if you’re single…”

  “I am.”

  One of Mitch’s favorite lines finally came back to him as he closed the distance between them. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful—”

  “I believe that line is taken. Casablanca. Ring a bell?”

  “You didn’t let me finish. Flirtationship. The beginning of a beautiful flirtationship.”

  “Is that a thing or even a real word?”

  “I make my own rules. So what do you say we go and…”

  Before he could extend the invitation, a silver stretch limousine, wheels straddling the narrow gravel road, cut two fresh tracks in the grass. Sunlight reflected off the glistening MEGACHP license plate attached to the rear bumper. Richardson rode behind those tinted windows. Mitch swore under his breath as exasperation heated his face. “I don’t freakin’ believe this.” He had been damn close to making contact, but now he had to watch his best opportunity in weeks roll by.

  “Oh no!” Jaimie also watched the limo cruise toward the cluster of Shangri-La structures and vanish behind a shield of Ohio Buckeyes. “Richardson!”

  Mitch eyed her warily, donning his mask of battle as she confirmed his suspicions. Both had cast their lines for the same big fish. Mitch spoke first. “So, you seem ticked off all of a sudden.”

  “You didn’t answer my
question before. What are you doing here, and why are you peeved all of a sudden?”

  The soft rustling and swaying of wind-blown trees and the chirping of birds punctuated the thick quiet. They stood like gunslingers with itchy fingers at a showdown. That playful spark between them? Snuffed.

  “I’m a freelance investigative journalist, hoping for a crack at an exclusive with Reuben Richardson for the Examiner,” Mitch said.

  “You work for the Examiner?” Jaimie seemed rattled. “I’ve never seen your byline.”

  “No, I repeat. I’m a freelance investigative journalist. The Richardson piece is my pitch for a full-time staff writing position at the Examiner. I get Richardson; I get the job.”

  Jaimie’s chilly demeanor plummeted to sub-zero. “Is that right? Well, just so happens I’m here for Richardson, too. Only I’m not hoping for a crack. I’m going to get it and that staff position at the Examiner, too.” She hitched her chin.

  Mitch usually liked feisty confidence in women, but not from one who had set her sights on his prize. “And how do you plan to do that? I mean, seeing as how you just got us booted out of Shangri-La.”

  “Oh, so now it’s my fault?” Jaimie latched both hands on her hips. Defiance rioted in brown eyes that had been soft with gratitude and interest before. “That’s not what you said a minute ago. You were the one who sneaked up and startled me. I wish that shelf had crowned you on the head after all!”

  “So you can sneak a peek under my towel while I’m out cold, eh?”

  “Sneak a peek?” Jaimie gasped in indignation. “You can’t possibly think I tried to help you with your splinters as an excuse to…to… leer at you.”

  “You know you wanted to unwrap my package.”

  “You’re, um, arrogant and, um, er… Rude, crude, and lewd!”

  “Rude, crude, and lewd? She plucks splinters and rhymes, too. A woman of many talents. Surely you can do better than that?” He played cool, but couldn’t help goading her. “Loosen up, baby.”

  “I’m not your baby! You, you…jerk!”

  “I know you can do better than that. Let me have it in choice words I won’t forget, sweetheart.”

  Jaimie’s face tightened with angry lines. He watched the muscle at a corner of her jaw twitch and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He braced for a counter attack. Instead, she pulled in several calming breaths. “Look, I’m not your ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart’ or any other obnoxious term that rolls out of that sexist trap of yours,” she said, her tone crisp and composed. “And I don’t have time for this childish nonsense, either. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Jaimie tried to skirt him, but he reached for her arm and considered apologizing. He had let his temper and intense competitiveness get the best of him. “Wait.”

  “Don’t touch me.” She jerked away, nailing him with a withering stare. He retracted his hand without hesitation, sensing he had pushed her too far. She adjusted the bulging fanny pack strapped around her waist, tugged at her lapels as if to get her bearing, and stalked off to a little red Focus at the other end of the lot.

  Chapter 4

  Mitch slipped inside his car and headed back to town with thoughts of that Jaimie chick on his mind. So she thought she’d beat him to Richardson? No way was someone who worked at a sleepy little weekly called the Bee going to outwit him. He would enjoy showing her a thing or two. Once within Corrinth city limits, he considered his next move. Richardson was obviously a bust for the time being. But Mitch wouldn’t spend the rest of this nice day cooped up at his apartment with a laptop. He reached for the cell phone in his glove compartment. Maybe he’d buzz that little massage therapist who had slipped him her phone number at the Zodiac bar the other night. She was a hottie, but definitely a space case. Maybe Chantal? Nah, too husband hungry. On their first dinner date, she’d sketched a wedding seating arrangement on her napkin. Kerri? Too difficult to scrape off. Rendezvous with her tended to run for days. Then there was Diandra. She knew the rules and was always good to go, but she lived on the West Coast. He wasn’t in the mood for a date anyway. He called his older brother, Travis, whose neighborhood was just a few blocks ahead. “What’s up, bro?”

  “I just got off the phone with the old man,” Travis told him. “Guess what? He’s taking flying lessons.”

  Travis always had the latest updates on their father’s life. When a pang of envy surfaced, Mitch tamped it down.

  “Hey, why don’t you swing by? I was just about to throw some steaks on the grill. Your timing is perfect.”

  Mitch reflected on the news about the flight lessons. Their father had talked about learning to fly since he and Travis were boys.

  “So are you coming or what? There’s a bottle of Heineken with your name on it.”

  Mitch could feel his brother’s smile radiating through the phone. Travis genuinely wanted him there, but what about their father? “Is Dad coming over?”

  “C’mon, dude, he’s not here, all right?”

  Mitch reconsidered that U-turn. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

  He veered off at the exit and drove through a clutch of residential streets to his brother’s cul-de-sac. As a kid, Mitch had resented Travis, their father’s favorite son. Though only three years apart, the siblings hadn’t been particularly close. Travis, who’d excelled at every damn thing he’d attempted effortlessly, reminded Mitch of his own inadequacies. But as an adult, Mitch no longer held anything against his brother.

  Mitch, and Mitch alone, had hurled their father off the deep end. Mitch had brought shame to the family’s illustrious journalism legacy. His father had won Pulitzer Prizes for his stories about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Iraq War. Travis had impressive stints at the Wall Street Post and the Chicago Register before following in their father’s footsteps to head the journalism department at DeWalt, a local college.

  Mitch’s career highlights: Double-page spreads with the shrieking headlines –“Pack of Spider Monkeys Raise Slain Missionaries’ Orphaned Boy!” and “Studmuffin Potbellied Pig Sires 157 Pot-Bellied Piglets!” But if he landed the Richardson exclusive and the Examiner gig all that would change.

  Once in Travis’s shaded backyard Mitch made his way to the patio while his brother went to the garage to gather more of his fancy grilling accouterments. The plan had been to hoop it for an hour and chow down on steaks.

  He and Travis had a great time talking trash and throwing back Heinekens until their father, Mr. Pulitzer Prize, showed up.

  Mitch, who had casually rocked his deck chair, let it rest on all four legs. His posture snapped erect as he put his beer bottle on the glass-top table. Mitch cut a hostile glance at Travis and then watched their father stride up the paved driveway with the impassivity of a king. Tall, handsome, and silver-haired, George Malone had that distinguished thing going to the hilt, even when dressed in a short-sleeved oxford shirt, beige Bermuda shorts, and loafers sans socks. Lauded as a brilliant journalist and columnist with an impeccable nose for the news and a flair for writing evocative prose, he had won just about every journalism award there was. As a father he’d been judgmental, mercurial, and self-righteous. And his favorite pastime was clowning his youngest son.

  “You called him over here,” Mitch asked.

  “Yeah, I did, but—”

  “Man.” Mitch shook his head. “Why?”

  “The three of us need to spend more time together. Just give it a chance. All right? For me?”

  Mitch finally felt closer to his brother. He didn’t want to alienate him and ruin the progress they’d made, but Travis tried his patience. It would take more than hot steaks and cold beer to bridge the gap between Mitch and their father.

  “All right. But as soon as he starts getting in my shit, I’m outta here.”

  Every muscle in Mitch’s body tightened as he reached for his beer and took several cool gulps.

  “How’s it going, fellas?” George had a lit pipe clamped between his teeth as usual and a brown paper bag in his arms. “Bro
ught dessert. Stopped at my favorite bakery. We have pecan pie. Not just any pecan pie, mind you. But one like your Grandma Virginia used to make – an old-fashioned Karo dark syrup pecan pie.”

  Travis smiled, heading for the house. “I’ll get another knife and some clean plates.”

  George took the seat across from Mitch. “So, Travis tells me you’re active in the local chapter of the American Coalition of Journalists now.”

  “Yeah, he thought it would be a good idea to mingle with other professionals,” Mitch replied, before shifting the conversation away from anything that could segue into a full-blown debate about journalism. “Travis tells me you’re taking flight lessons soon. Cool. You’ve talked about doing something like that for years. Glad to hear you’re moving ahead on it.” Mitch wiped his wet palms on his jeans. Anxious sweating or the condensation from the beer bottle?

  “Yeah, can’t wait.” George shifted the pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  For as long as Mitch could remember, their dad had smoked the same special blend – three quarters McClelland 2050, one quarter vanilla. The sweet woodsy aroma took him back to his childhood. Sunday mornings and the newspaper, fat with glossy sale circulars and extra sections. Eight-year-old Mitch just liked the colorful illustrations in the comics. He and Travis would often squabble over them, but George soon put an end to that, suggesting the best reader of the two should get first dibs on the section. Mitch—no match for his older, smarter brother—would relinquish the paper without taking the challenge sure to lead to another humiliating defeat.

  George went on about the flight lessons, speaking around his pipe’s stem. “It’s going to be expensive as hell, though.”

  “But worth it,” Mitch replied with genuine interest. As long as they lingered on aviation, things should be fine. “After you pass the course, think you might buy your own plane?”

  “Maybe. Who knows? I believe in dreaming big.”

  Mitch placed his beer on the table again and reached for the basketball wedged between a leg of the table and a chair. To keep his hands busy, he dribbled it between his knees. “Wonder what’s taking Travis so long with those plates?”