Isn't it Romantic?

by Ronda Thompson

  “Do you need to use the rest room?” he asked.

  Her brow creased. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  Slight movement of his gaze toward the ceiling suggested annoyance. “I’m asking because I feel the call and thought we should go together. I mean, at the same time. Oh hell, you know what I mean.”

  “Are you afraid to go by yourself?” she asked in a concerned tone, then spoiled the effect with a giggle. “Want me to hold your hand?”

  He smiled slightly. “I can think of something I’d rather you hold, but it’s your safety I’m worried about. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  His protectiveness brought a warm feeling to Katrine’s insides. His bluntness did likewise. “Oddly enough, that’s the first romantic thing you’ve said to me. I don’t require use of the rest room at this time. It’s sweet of you to worry, but I’ll be fine until you get back.”

  Romantic? Sweet? Trey frowned. In the face of true threat, he’d almost forgotten his pledge to be repulsive. “The paper can’t afford a law suit,” he explained rationally. “I got you into this, I’ll see that you get home. I’m responsible for you, so don’t move.”

  Once on his feet, the liquor made him sway. The soft smile fading from Katrine’s lips caused him a twinge of guilt. For a moment, her expression mirrored hurt. Had it been his reference to responsibility that shadowed her eyes with pain?

  “Don’t put yourself out,” she rallied herself. “I can take care of myself.”

  An arguable assurance, Trey thought wryly. He imagined Katrine Summerville had been a spoiled little girl, twisting her doting parents around her little finger with pretty pouts and those jade-green eyes. Judging by the short time he’d spent in Shelly’s company, the job now fell to someone else. Katrine seemed shallow and selfish. Very much like his ex-wife. “Stay put,” he warned. He made it to the end of the bar before a voice halted him.

  “Hey, Fancy Man, where you going?”

  Turning, Trey fixed the bartender with an agitated expression. “To the head, if that’s all right with you.”

  The man shrugged. “Depends on what you’re going to do in there. If you puke, you owe me fifty bucks.”

  “I’m going for the usual reasons,” Trey assured him.

  “Just to make sure. I’m coming with you.”

  Katrine’s solemn mood evaporated when Trey blushed brightly. She giggled, then laughed out loud after he cast her a dark look. He mumbled something about the man keeping his hands to himself before resuming his objective, the bartender following at a respectable distance.

  After he disappeared, her mood shifted again. Katrine contemplated her resentment when Trey labeled her a responsibility. The past, she thought, could be forgotten, only his reference brought it painfully back. Shelly loved her, that was enough, Katrine told herself. Of course, children loved easily. Sometimes even when there wasn’t just cause to do so. But John, what could he have been thinking? Driving a car that fast on a winding stretch of highway he knew was dangerous? Maybe he didn’t want to come home to her that night so many years ago. Maybe he didn’t want the responsibility of a wife and child.

  Giving her blonde tresses a toss, Katrine dislodged the painful questions asked too many times when the dark evening hours crowded her. She didn’t have a beer to cry into and the music was all wrong. The sudden lack of which, turned her attention toward the jukebox.

  She didn’t suppose for one instant, while making her way toward the brightly lit contraption, a country song could be found among the selections. Her fingers traced the glass, puzzling over the assortment until she found it—one song, the label almost unreadable.

  Her hands groped inside her purse for the correct change, then dropped quarters down the slot and punched the correct buttons. When Katrine turned to make her way back to the bar, a huge figure blocked her path. The wings widespread beneath the muscle shirt identified him as the giant Wanda had earlier referred to as Elmo.

  Chapter 6

  “Wanna dance?”

  “Ah, n–no,” Katrine stammered. “I don’t know how.” She thought her explanation would prompt him to move from her path, but the giant stood his ground, refusing to let her pass.

  “I really don’t—” Katrine began, then the loud blare of music drowned out her voice.

  Elmo’s leer faded with the twang of a steel guitar. His gaze widened in surprise. “You’ve got guts, Goldilocks. Playing Tammy Wynette in this place. Lucky for you, it’s only on the box because I want it there. Nobody plays that song but me, or a chick if I give her permission. You’d better dance with me or you’re liable to regret it.”

  Her gaze darted from right to left. The pool table, once again, stood silent. She’d become the object of everyone’s attention. “But-I-really-don’t-know-how,” she managed in gathering panic.

  “I’ll show you.” He pulled her onto a small dance floor.

  The breath left her lungs with a loud whoosh as he drew her roughly against his broad chest. The giant didn’t dance. He merely swayed to the beat. Katrine had little choice but to ‘stand by her man’ and sway with him.

  When Elmo finally positioned her at a vantage point where she could see the bar, Katrine noticed Trey standing by his stool, scanning the area in obvious search of his missing date. Katrine willed him to find her on the dark dance floor. As if by telepathy, his gaze wandered in her direction, passed over her, then quickly returned.

  The sudden scowl marring his handsome features, the movement of his lips, which she felt certain released an unrepeatable response, and the stiffening of his jaw muscle revealed his displeasure.

  To insure he understood the circumstance wasn’t pleasing to her either, Katrine made a not-so-subtle jerking motion with her head. Being that she was his unwanted responsibility, Katrine expected rescue. Instead, Trey slammed another shot of tequila down his throat and leaned against the bar. From all appearances, he meant to leave her at Elmo’s mercy.

  Hoping the giant hadn’t noticed her appeal for intervention, she glanced up. Elmo’s eyes were closed in blissful contentment. Tammy Wynette continued to whine on about the duties of womankind, and to Katrine’s disbelief, a tear rolled from beneath Elmo’s lashes, tracing a path down his cheek.

  “Ah,” she began hesitantly. “Are you all right?”

  He sniffed and wiped a beefy arm across his face. “This song always gets to me. It’s so … romantic.”

  An hysterical urge to giggle overtook her. For the sake of continued motherhood, Katrine held it in check. “Do you believe in romance?”

  “Sure,” he answered defensively. “When it’s all said and done, what in this world’s worth a damn besides a hot woman, a cold beer, and a bike that runs?”

  “Mmm,” Katrine responded thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I use that sometime in one of my books?”

  “Are you a writer?” He pulled back in surprise.

  It was a long shot, but Katrine took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I’m Kat Summers, the romance writer. I don’t suppose you’ve read any of my novels?”

  “No,” he said in a rush, then shook his head. “I mean, no way could you be her. I mean, I’ve read all her books. Your books. Are you teasing me?”

  Elmo, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, Katrine approximated, was not a man to tease. Then again, any man who openly admitted to reading romance novels couldn’t be all that bad. “Yes, and I’m thinking of writing a contemporary romance where the hero’s a biker,” she lied, then thought it wasn’t such a bad idea. “You know, show the softer side of a misunderstood breed?”

  “You won’t make the guy look like a wimp, will you?” Elmo questioned with concern. “You won’t make him say some of that flowery stuff your other heroes say?”

  “Oh no, not a biker,” Katrine assured, her thoughts formulating a scheme to get back at Trey for an evening in hell. “I’m conducting a little experiment tonight. It’s a study on man’s protective nature. Would you help me wi
th the research?”

  He lifted a brow as they side-stepped two burly men dragging a vat of mud into the middle of the dance floor. “Name it and I’ll do it, Red-Riding-Hood. I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  Katrine tried not to smile too noticeably.

  ———

  One dance. Trey would allow the giant one dance as long as he kept his hands where they belonged. He’d resisted his first inclination to charge to Katrine’s rescue. She deserved a little grief for obviously playing that whining song blaring in his head. He tried to relax. Having just finished his ninth tequila shot aided his efforts tremendously. One more, and the bartender owed him fifty dollars.

  Not enough to suffer the embarrassment of being watched while he attended to personal matters, but a bet Trey intended to collect. After the song ended, he and Katrine were leaving. Period. Whatever it took, they were getting out of this place before the evening got any worse.

  The natives were growing restless. The bartender wasn’t grinning at him anymore. Wanda stood by the door, cracking her knuckles while running her hot little eyes over Trey as if contemplating a tasty meal. Nervously, he glanced toward the dance floor and felt his defense mechanism kick in. Elmo had pulled Katrine closer. It looked as if things might get out of hand.

  Even in the dim light of the dance floor, Trey saw the roundness of her eyes, the unnatural flush to her face. Of course, the silly cape she refused to shed couldn’t help matters, he reasoned. It was easily eighty degrees in the crowded establishment. He’d once considered removing his own jacket, but the lack of ink design on his biceps suggested he keep his oddity hidden.

  When Katrine’s head turned his direction, her plea for intervention obvious to Trey, he couldn’t continue his charade of indifference. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, getting himself beat to a pulp over a woman. It sounded sickeningly romantic. Nevertheless, he pushed away from the bar and approached the dance floor, questioning his sanity, preparing his body for pain, and cursing himself for bringing her to a place as rough as this one.

  “Let go of her,” he said in his most macho voice, addressing a broad back. “The dance is over.”

  Steely muscle wrapped in thin cotton turned to face him. “No, it ain’t,” Elmo countered with a leer. “I like the way she smells, the way she feels all snuggled up against me. When anything’s over between me and Goldilocks, I’ll say so.”

  Despite the tequila rolling around in Trey’s stomach, Katrine’s wide-eyed stare spurred him into action. Suicidal as it seemed, he drew back his fist and landed a solid blow to an equally solid jaw. Pain exploded in his knuckles. More distressing than the possibility of a broken hand was the understanding he’d dug his own grave. The giant’s head never snapped with the punch. He smiled at Trey now, the promise of a slow death shining in his narrowed gaze.

  “You wanna fight for her, Fancy Man?”

  “Not particularly.” Trey brought his stinging knuckles to his mouth. “You wanna back off so it doesn’t come to that?”

  “Not particularly,” the giant mimicked Trey’s dry tone. “But I will even the odds a little.”

  Before Trey figured out what form equalization might take, the giant grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the floor. The next moment he felt himself falling. His landing was cushioned by the soft, oozy feel of mud.

  “If you wanna fight for her, fight Wanda. Beat her, and you and Goldilocks are free to go.”

  The mud weighed Trey down, sucking at his legs and arms. “I can’t fight a woman.” He attempted to gain his feet, only to fall back into the clinging ooze. “I damn sure can’t hit one!”

  “Well.” The giant’s grin broadened. “I guess that’s why she’s never been beat. Come get it, Wanda!” he shouted.

  A shrill shriek split the bar’s sudden silence. The pitter-patter of small feet preceded Trey being attacked by a midget. Wanda, hair flying and teeth bared, landed directly on top of him. As the air left his lungs in a whoosh, his gaze sought Katrine. She stood beside the giant with a peculiar expression on her face. The strain had become too much for her, Trey decided. Her lips were twitching. She was obviously on the verge of hysterics.

  “Fight or drown, Handsome,” Wanda said, recapturing his attention.

  “I can’t hit you. You can’t fight a man who won’t fight back.”

  To prove otherwise, Wanda grabbed him by the throat and shoved his head under the mud. Trey fought his way up, gasping for breath.

  “I could have already beat you,” the small woman said. “Ten seconds under the mud is all it takes to win.”

  “Give her a fair fight, or I’m taking your woman home with me,” the giant warned.

  Wiping gook from his eyes, Trey didn’t dare glance at Katrine. Could she sue him for mental anguish? Ten seconds, surely he could hold a woman half his size under the mud for that long without hurting her. Elmo’s challenging stare said he had no choice.

  Quickly, Trey clasped Wanda’s shoulders and tried to throw her to the side. A chorus of loud cheers followed his maneuver, momentarily startling Trey, and warning Wanda that he’d lowered himself to mud-wrestling a woman. With a whoop of excitement, she slid from his grasp and gained her feet.

  “Get up,” she instructed. “We start on equal footing.”

  The mud put extra pounds on Trey’s tall frame. With difficulty, he lumbered to his feet, then lunged for Wanda. She ducked, took his arm and twisted it painfully behind his back, forcing him to his knees. The absurdity of his situation struck. A female—a midget—was about to whip his butt.

  “That’s it,” he ground out. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. Consider yourself warned.”

  Wanda laughed in his ear. Her tongue followed. Trey jerked in surprise over the defilement.

  “There’s nothing that turns me on like a good wallow in the mud,” she whispered in his ear. “Give me all you got.”

  With a weary sigh, Trey complied. Releasing himself from her stronghold nearly wrenched his arm from the socket, but he managed, then went for Wanda in earnest. After the woman slipped through his hands several times, Trey realized she was cheating. Wanda had coated herself in oil, reminding him of a rodeo event he attended his second week in Dallas. A greased pig grab.

  Finally, he managed to sweep her legs and land her in the mud. Trey pounced. As he and Wanda rolled beneath the surface, a faded memory from his youth resurfaced. The problem being, it wasn’t Tarzan The Ape Man wrestling an alligator under water, but Trey Westmoreland, a once respected columnist, trying to drown a woman half his size.

  He broke the surface gasping for breath while holding a squirming Wanda under the muck. A chant went up. One, two, three. Trey expected lightning to strike him dead any minute, or his mother to show up with a willow switch. Only slightly worse, a small fist rose from the mud and hit him in the stomach. Hard.

  Trey struggled to the vat’s side, unloading nine shots of tequila and fifty bucks. A pair of red, sequined heels bounced off his head. He glanced up to see Katrine standing before him barefoot.

  She smiled, then linked her arm in the giant’s. “Elmo has been kind enough to offer me a ride home. He’s such a sweetie.” Katrine tweaked the giant’s cheek.

  Elmo blushed. “I do have a soft spot for you, Goldilocks,” he admitted. “Feel free to contact me anytime you need help in your research. I guess you were right tonight. Most men will make a complete ass out of themselves over a woman.”

  Shocked, Trey watched them walk away. Katrine only made it a few steps before she turned back, nodding toward the shoes. “Don’t forget to click your heels together.”

  He glanced at the shoes, at the retreating couple, then reluctantly toward the small, mud-covered creature across from him. Wanda began to growl.

  ———

  Thirty minutes later, standing before a phone booth six blocks from the sight of his past humiliation, a pair of red, sequined heels stuffed inside his jacket, Trey waited for a cab. Not just any cab. A yellow and black number privately
owned by Mr. Charlie Grimes.

  It wasn’t that Trey particularly wanted to see Charlie again, but all other cab services refused to drive the streets this side of town after dark. Charlie had also proved difficult, only agreeing after being sufficiently bribed.

  “Hurry.” He stomped his feet, leaving bits of dried mud in his wake. Thankfully, the outside layer had dried. His skin itched, and his pride had suffered immensely over being drowned by a person not even half his size. All this over a woman!

  Of course, women had made men’s lives miserable from the beginning. His mother and two sisters were no exceptions. All three gave torture their best shot when the subject of marriage came up. In their opinion, thirty-five was well past the age to have found a new wife. Also, at least six children should be stirred into the pot in case the second wife wasn’t sadistic enough.

  The Westmorelands were breeders. Both his brothers had four children each and one sister had five, the other six. Trey, in his barrenness, represented a black mark against an old family tradition. When he’d married Linda he’d naturally assumed she would want children someday. He’d thought wrong.

  She believed children were only good for wrecking marriages and ruining a woman’s figure. A thinking man would assume she’d change her mind as time passed, or rather, Trey had hoped she would. After the first couple of years, he realized his wife was more than serious.

  Considering his family history, Linda not only took birth control pills religiously, but insisted he wear protection. Trey always felt as if he were preparing for battle before they made love. No wonder his wife found him boring. By the time he put on his armor, he wasn’t much in the mood anymore.