Isn't it Romantic?

by Ronda Thompson

  “Yeah, I know the rules. Odd, I imagined most novelists lived to bring their editors and agents grief. You could have refused.”

  And let her adoring fans harbor the misconception Kat Summers was a floozie who consorted with the enemy? “You left me little choice with your sordid reference to our first meeting, only slightly less appealing than this second one. Besides, I wanted a chance to remind my readers why they buy my books.”

  “Which is?” he questioned.

  “For the romance.”

  “Woman call it romance, men call it sex. Here’s a news flash, it’s the same thing.”

  “It isn’t,” Katrine defended, moving into unfamiliar territory. “Romance is … well, it’s a feeling, a state of mind. Women need more than … than what you said.”

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “What you’re saying is, if I whisper something about the moonlight dancing on a woman’s hair, or the fire in her eyes while I’m … romancing her, the, let’s see what did you call it in Learning to Love, oh yes, the ‘burst of ecstasy’ is better?”

  The warm restaurant grew warmer. Katrine didn’t care to discuss the ‘burst of ecstasy’ with any man, much less this one. She couldn’t relate. The earth had never moved for Katrine except in normal fashion. His confession gave her an opportunity to change the subject.

  “You’ve read Learning to Love?”

  His smile faded. “I found myself curious about you.”

  Trapped within the blue of his eyes, the loud buzzing of conversation dwindled to a soft hum. Her throat constricted. “Me?”

  “About what you consider romantic in a man.” A husky quality flavored his voice. “I want to know what attracts you.”

  “Why?” She cleared her throat.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” His fingertips brushed hers.

  Katrine’s heart slammed against her chest. The look on his face was blatantly sexual and she couldn’t help but respond to him.

  “I want to know what you find romantic, so I can try my hardest not to do it. You’ll have to dig deep for flowery words and over-used adjectives when writing about our dates.”

  His blunt explanation, the noisy rattle of dishes, the popping of gum, and the strong smell of grease, aided her escape from attraction.

  “Don’t underestimate me. I’m good at making women fall in love with jerks. The hero always is at first, you know? But I find some deep dark secret that helps the reader understand his behavior, and why he resents the heroine. I’m willing to bet you don’t have any excuses. This should prove to be my greatest attempt at fiction, but I’ll manage.”

  He responded with a soft snort. “If you’ve finished bragging about a talent I argue as questionable, shall we dine?”

  “Let’s.” Katrine popped a calf fry into her mouth. It sat there, heavy on her tongue before her brain made the connection.

  “Moooo,” Trey drawled out slowly.

  The calf fry went down her throat with a loud gulp. “You knew!” she choked.

  Trey merely shrugged. “I had that trick pulled on me my first week in Dallas and ate two helpings before our copy editor told me what they were. I don’t know what made me sicker afterward, the fact that I liked them, or the fact that I supported what I consider cruel and inhuman punishment.”

  “I’m all for gelding,” Katrine decided. “The phrase ‘cruel and inhuman punishment’ suddenly has a nice ring.”

  “Put your opinion where your mouth is,” he dared, glancing down at her plate.

  Katrine’s gaze followed his to a heaping helping of steaming calf fries. The fluffy baked potato and an order of fried okra added a welcome respite. “It’s your turn,” she goaded.

  Trey speared the tender morsel with a fork, drowned it in sauce, then placed the delicacy into his mouth. With a sigh, Katrine unfolded her napkin and took up the challenge. Truckers came, truckers went, the night became unbearably long, but she managed to almost clean her plate.

  “I want to go home,” Katrine announced. “I’ve had enough adventure for one night.”

  Digging in his pocket, Trey removed several bills and placed them on the table. “I need to drop off Sal’s bike first. If he doesn’t have my Jag fixed, I’ll call a cab.”

  The bike, she’d forgotten. Katrine’s unsettled stomach churned. “I think I’ll call myself one from here.”

  “And cost the paper what may be an unnecessary expense? Come on, it’s not far. I won’t go near the freeway.”

  He appeared sincere. But then, she’d trusted him before and look where it landed her. “If you pull any Evil Knevil stunts, you won’t appreciate what you’ll be wearing on the back of that jacket.”

  “No more stunts,” he agreed. “One last stop and then you’re free to run home and write about our romantic evening together.”

  A flicker of mischief danced behind his eyes. What did he mean by ‘run home’? “We’re only taking the bike to Sal, right? No other stops?”

  “Not unless you want to go somewhere else,” he offered politely.

  She reached for her helmet. “I won’t. There’s no place like home.”

  Twenty minutes later, loud music pounding in her ears, the sight of fifty motorcycles lined up before her eyes, and the recollection she’d never been, and the certainty she wasn’t now, in Kansas, Trey turned to Katrine with a pitying expression.

  “You forgot to click your heels together.”

  “What are we doing here?” she demanded.

  “I told you, we’re taking the bike to Sal. He’s in there.”

  “In there?”

  “Right.”

  “And you think I’m going inside a biker’s bar?”

  “If you’d rather stay here, in the dark, by yourself, I’ll understand.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You’re breaking my heart. Let’s go, Dorothy.”

  They hadn’t been carried over the rainbow by a twister, but a midget in leathers, a female, stood inside the doorway, smoke from her cigarette creating a low cloud above her.

  “Is that the bouncer?” Katrine wondered.

  “No, she’s the entertainment,” Trey explained. “They have mud wrestling in about an hour.”

  “We’ll be long gone before then, right?”

  “Depends.” He moved into the doorway. “Sal might not be here yet. I told him I’d wait for him.”

  “How considerate.” Her voice cracked. “I suppose you’ll sign me up to take on the midget if he doesn’t arrive before the show starts.”

  It was tempting to bait her, but Trey allowed his date a reprieve. Her eyes mirrored distress. Wetness shone brightly within their green depths, beautiful pools to drown inside and make a man forget his bad intentions.

  “If it’s any consolation, she only wrestles men. It’s been said Texas hasn’t made a woman who can beat Wanda in a vat of knee-deep mud.”

  “I guess it’s some consolation to know you’re acquainted with these people,” Katrine said. “I understand they don’t think much of strangers.”

  “Well,” he began and thought better of telling her the truth. Which was, he’d only been inside the bar once. He knew a few of the faces, Wanda the midget included, because they came and went at Sal’s shop, a block down the street. These were Sal’s friends and Trey doubted anyone would remember him. He found himself hoping the burly mechanic had arrived. This might be a mistake.

  His thoughts were confirmed when they stepped inside. Conversation came to a halt, the cracking of balls on the pool table stopped; the music, thankfully continued to blare as all heads, some male, some female, some questionable, turned toward the door. “Damn,” Trey said softly.

  “Thanks for getting us both killed this evening. No way could I come up with anything romantic about you. You’ve saved me the trouble of admitting defeat to my readers.”

  He studied her pale features. Her lips trembled. He’d gone too far. “Katrine, I—”

 
; “Hey, ain’t you the dude who drives the red Jag?”

  The high-pitched voice came from the vicinity of his belt loops. Trey looked down into Wanda’s small features.

  “Yeah,” he said in his most masculine voice, “I’m looking for Sal.”

  “Sal ain’t here,” a voice said from the vicinity of the ceiling.

  A chest the width of a wheel barrel came into his eye span. Trey noted the tattoo of an eagle’s wing visible beneath a muscle shirt before tilting his head back. A bald giant stood before him.

  “We’ll be going then,” Trey decided, taking Katrine’s hand. A strong slap on the shoulder suggested otherwise.

  “But he said if a fancy-lookin’ dude came in asking for him, not to rough you up too bad before he gets here. He said you could wait.”

  The emphasis put on the last instruction chanoed Trey’s mind. He amended his earlier decision. “Guess we’ll have a drink.”

  “Hold it.” The giant clamped onto Trey’s shoulder again. “Sal didn’t say nothing about Goldilocks here, or is she Red-Riding-Hood?”

  “I think she’s that Dorothy chick, Elmo,” Wanda said dryly. “Check out her shoes.”

  “She’s with me,” Trey stressed.

  “Is she your ol’ lady?” Wanda wanted to know, running a hot gaze over Trey.

  “No—”

  “Yes!” Katrine assured the little woman, eyeing her date in a threatening manner.

  “I guess she is,” Trey corrected.

  “Too bad,” Wanda pouted.

  “I’ll say.” The giant grinned down at Katrine, then turned a hard look on Trey. “Okay, she’s in, but I’ll warn you, I might try to steal her away from you before the night’s over.”

  “Please don’t,” Katrine whispered weakly. “I get motion sickness when I ride a motorcycle.”

  “Come on, Dorothy,” Trey said quietly, pulling her toward the bar.

  Katrine stumbled along behind him, mentally cursing the red, sequined heels on her feet and cursing Trey Westmoreland. “You’re obviously overdressed, too, Fancy Man,” she said, seating herself on a bar stool.

  “Hey, I wore my leather,” Trey defended.

  “That’s a five hundred dollar bomber jacket even if it does have a smudge of grease on the shoulder. I don’t think it qualifies!”

  “Get you a drink?” the bartender demanded.

  “A white wine.” Katrine rubbed her forehead.

  Silence followed her request.

  “I don’t imagine they serve wine,” Trey said under his breath. “Order a beer.”

  She made a face. “I don’t like beer.”

  “Then you’ll have tequila!” the bartender barked. “It’s beer or tequila. We don’t serve sissy booze.”

  “Fine,” Katrine conceded. “I’ve never had it, but it must he better than beer.”

  “I’ll have a shot with a beer back,” Trey ordered. He waited until the bartender left before swiveling his stool toward Katrine. “Tequila’s a wise choice. Let’s just get smashed so if Sal doesn’t show, we won’t feel the pain.”

  She returned his sarcastic smile. “The way Wanda’s eating you up with her eyes, you won’t have anything to worry about. Not unless she’s into whips and chains along with mud wrestling.”

  Picturing himself with Wanda made Trey laugh. The bartender slammed a beer on the counter with enough force to splash half the contents over Trey’s hand.

  “You laughing at us, Fancy Man?”

  “No. He’s laughing at me,” Katrine injected, much as she hated to protect the idiot.

  “Should I hit him?” the bartender asked hopefully.

  “Not yet,” she answered with a smile. Katrine needed Trey until he proved otherwise. “Do you have a phone?”

  When the bartender scratched his head, she covered her shot glass.

  “We had one. I pulled it out of the wall so I could strangle some stranger with the cord. It doesn’t work anymore. That dude’s not laughing anymore, either.”

  She continued to smile at the bartender, hoping her face would crack and fall in pieces to the floor like a cartoon character. If she had no mouth, she couldn’t scream. The bartender filled the shot glasses on the bar, placed two lime halves beside them, winked at her and walked away.

  “Why the hell are you flirting with him?” Trey demanded softly. “Are you trying to work him into a fevered state of lust so he’ll go looking for the damn phone cord to strangle me with?”

  “I’ll help him search,” she said through her fake smile. “But first, I need a drink.”

  Trey snatched up a salt shaker. “Lick your hand.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Like this.” He brought a hand to his mouth and ran his tongue along the area between thumb and first finger.

  Katrine didn’t know whether to be repulsed or turned on. Repulsed, she decided, ignoring a contradictory tingling in her veins. “I’m not licking my hand.”

  “Then I’ll do it for you. Salt and lime are necessities, especially your first time.”

  A shiver raced up her spine when he took her hand in his. Without looking away from her eyes, he traced a slow path along the curve between her thumb and finger. He lingered there, long enough to wreak havoc with her senses, then shook salt over the wetness left behind.

  “Lick the salt, bite the lime, then drink the shot. Fast.”

  “You mean, just gulp it down?”

  He smiled. “Tequila isn’t meant to be sipped. Ready?”

  She studied the liquid skeptically, then shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “To old age.” Trey clinked her glass against his. “May we live to see it.”

  Deciding the toast was an appropriate one, Katrine mimicked Trey’s actions. She licked the salt, bit into the lime and took a drink. The tequila started down her throat, changed course, then came back up. She choked before spewing the liquor directly into Trey’s face. “Oooh,” she gasped. “My God! That’s horrible!”

  Her date blinked, a droplet of tequila perched on the end of his nose. “The trick is not to pause between swallows,” Trey informed dryly, searching for a napkin. Ironically, there wasn’t one to be found. The sleeve of his jacket substituted. “Try again, but this time, turn the other direction.”

  Eyes watering, throat raw, Katrine shook her head. “I’m not putting that foul stuff in my mouth again. In Philly, it may be customary to torture oneself with repeated attempts at suicide, but in Texas, we know not to go too close to the water once we’ve fallen in.”

  “You call yourself a Texan?” Trey snorted. “You’d never tasted calf fries until tonight, you can’t handle one tiny shot of tequila, and you don’t even like beer. Hell, aren’t enjoying all three with frequency a prerequisite for citizenship? I thought Texas women were tough as boot leather.”

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve met Texas women who could out-ride, out-rope, out-cuss, out-eat and out-drink any man who had the nerve to take them on,” Katrine defended proudly. “I’m a city girl. I, well, I don’t have any roots.”

  “Roots? What has that got to do with anything?”

  Katrine didn’t exactly know, except she assumed because she’d never stayed in one place long enough to develop a sense of home, of belonging, it might be the reason she felt like an outsider in a town she’d lived in all her life. She learned early in life that foster parents kept themselves at a distance. To love brought hurt later, when parting was inevitable. “It means, I don’t know how to do any of those things,” she said softly.

  “Too bad,” Trey mumbled. “I think if we have a few more drinks and mind our own business, we might get out of here alive.”

  Allowing her gaze to wander, Katrine discovered that most of the dive’s occupants were no longer gawking at them. The sounds of conversation resumed; a stick hitting a ball, an occasional out-burst of raunchy laughter, the noisy jukebox screaming heavy metal music.

  “I guess I can try again,” she said reluctantly.

&nb
sp; Trey lifted his shot glass and motioned for the bartender. The man scowled as if he found him a nuisance, then lumbered forward, tequila bottle in hand.

  “I figure you’re good for two more shots before you puke, Fancy Man,” he grumbled while tilting the bottle. “Lose your dinner on my floor, and I’ll clean it up with your face. Understand?”

  When Trey didn’t answer with a dutiful, ‘Yes Sir’, Katrine glanced his direction. The arrogant stare he leveled on the bartender turned her blood to ice. What the heck did he think he was doing? The brute outweighed him by at least sixty pounds.

  Slowly, a grin spread over the bartender’s mouth, “Oh, I see. You think you’re a drinker.”

  “I can handle more than three shots,” Trey assured him.

  “Bet you can’t handle seven,” the bartender goaded.

  “Make it ten, back it up with a fifty, and you’ve got a bet.”

  A groan interrupted the stare-down between both men. Katrine realized it belonged to her. “What is this macho crap?” she said under her breath. “If you feel a need to demonstrate your masculinity, or lack of it, stay sober so you can protect me if the need arises.”

  His steely stare never wavering from the bartender’s, Trey mentally admitted she had a point. Still, a man could only take so much pushing before he pushed back. The bartender had been baiting him since he sat down. Trey knew from his college days, it took exactly twelve shots to make him vomit, fourteen to render his fists useless, and sixteen to make him pass out.

  He seriously doubted any real trouble would break out. Sal once admitted these people liked to scare people more than hurt them. Besides, he had a feeling his Jag wouldn’t be fixed tonight, which meant they’d be taking a cab home. So what if a tequila drinking contest wasn’t proper etiquette for a first date? This was no ordinary date. This was perfect. “Well?” he goaded.

  “You’re on, Fancy Man.”

  When Katrine groaned again, Trey nodded toward her glass. “Pour her one, too.”

  ———

  It took two before Katrine began to relax. Trey had downed six shots. They no longer sat facing the mirrored wall behind the bar, but had turned on their stools to study lifestyles of the bold and beer-bellied. A pool game was in constant progress, a few couples on the dance floor appeared to be ‘coupling’ rather than dancing, and an occasional outburst of tempers gone too far with drink added to their enjoyment. Katrine felt almost content in her leather-dominated surroundings. In fact, she had to stifle the urge to giggle at the antics taking place around her. She suspected the tequila added greatly to her good humor, and wondered how Trey managed to appear sober.