Dylan

by C. H. Admirand

  “Why don’t all y’all help yourselves to something to eat and drink, and then browse her collection?”

  “Thanks, Jolene,” Ronnie said, truly grateful. “I’ve seen some of you in town, and maybe one or two of you in my shop before. Unfortunately, none of the lingerie was salvageable, except for some bits of lace and satin that I’m planning on piecing together into a wall hanging to hang in my store to show whoever did this that I’m not easily intimidated and I’m not leaving.”

  The round of applause was totally unexpected. She felt her face grow warm. “I’ll get down off my soapbox for now.” She scanned the group gathered around her. “I just received an order in the mail, so I’ve got some lovely lingerie to show you. I have a handful of reproduction antique perfume bottles and a small sampling of fragrances that can be added to massage oil. Ask me anything you like.”

  While women chatted amongst themselves and helped themselves to the food and drink, Ronnie watched as Jolene lifted one see-through chemise after another for inspection. A little old woman with snow-white hair and piercing blue eyes approached. She smiled down at her. “Yes, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “Do you have anything that would tempt my Jonas?”

  Ronnie looked at Emily and Jolene, but they looked at their feet. No help from that quadrant. She noticed that the room had gone quiet, and she realized that if she was going to build a business and name recognition in this town, she’d best keep on going the way she’d begun when she opened the doors of Guilty Pleasures: by being honest and forthright whenever possible.

  “Actually I do… what’s his favorite color?”

  One by one the women gathered around the lovely bits of lace and satin draped on the ebony bar. The black was a perfect backdrop for displaying most of her collection.

  “He’s right partial to red.”

  Ronnie nodded and lifted up a knee-length chemise with a peekaboo lace panel from the V-neck to the hem. “What about this?”

  Mavis nodded. “That’ll get his attention, Mille.”

  Mrs. Peterson frowned. “I just can’t imagine how it would look on.” Shaking her head, she sighed. “You know how a dress that looks great on the hanger, looks awful on you—you’re not built like a hanger.”

  Inspiration hit Ronnie. “We should have a fashion show! I’ve got a mix of sizes here. Why doesn’t everyone pick something and go change in the dressing room at the back of the stage? Is that OK with you, Jolene?”

  Jolene grinned and said, “Absolutely. Who’s first?”

  The women divided into groups, half of them sorting through the chemises and teddies to select one in their favorite color and the other half waiting for the makeshift dressing rooms to free up.

  Mavis wrapped her arms around Ronnie and hugged her tight. “Our town’s founding mothers would have taken to you right off, Ronnie.”

  Mrs. Peterson nodded and said, “Like most everyone gathered here, I’ve lived in Pleasure all my life, and I agree. The Donovan sisters would have welcomed you with open arms.” She nodded to the group at large, and said, “How can we do any less? Welcome to Pleasure, Ronnie dear.”

  The women took turns hugging Ronnie or shaking her hand. A feeling of contentment flowed over her, relaxing her. Their acceptance meant the world to her. “You have no idea how grateful I am—”

  “They do,” Mavis interrupted. “We have a solid core of independent women here in town, but there is a small group determined to take over and change the way things have always run here.” Nodding to Jolene and Emily, she continued, “But we aren’t about to let that happen, are we, ladies?”

  Everyone started talking at once, and Jolene spoke up, “Thanks, Mavis. We love living here and providing a service to this community.”

  Ronnie agreed and decided it was time to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “Amen to that. Did you know that aside from some regular customers, I have had a few adventurous men wander into my shop buying gifts for their wives or girlfriends, but they’ve detoured past my personalized massage oils? Anyone want to create their own free sample?”

  While the women gathered around her, she passed around small vials of essential oil. “These two are my favorites: vanilla and almond. I add them to my homemade sugar scrub. It’s a fabulous exfoliator, but leaves a hint of scent that your man will appreciate. So think about his favorite scents and I’ll add a couple of drops to the massage oil I’ve brought with me.”

  “Can’t you just create one because you like the way it smells?” one of the women asked.

  “Absolutely,” Ronnie said with a smile. “Not every woman has a man in her life or wants to complicate her life with a man, no matter how good looking or sexy he is.”

  “Well now, darlin’,” a familiar voice drawled, “I’m here to change your mind.”

  Ronnie whirled around and watched as Dylan’s eyes bugged out, but he wasn’t staring at her; he was looking at the stage. “What the hell is going on here?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the group of ladies who’d decided to take her suggestion to heart and were twirling up on the stage in various stages of undress—mostly scandalously skimpy. Clearing her throat, she answered, “What do you think?”

  He tore his gaze from the stage and the women modeling Ronnie’s lingerie and frowned down at her. “I thought you were just showing your underwear to the ladies.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and his eyes widened as the elderly Mrs. Peterson walked stage front in her peekaboo lace-paneled chemise and called out, “What do you think, Ronnie dear?”

  Before Ronnie could answer, three more ladies—all of them Rubenesque in build—walked out modeling her signature line of teddies, garter belts, and stockings.

  Dylan opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by one of the ladies holding out a brightly colored catalog that Ronnie hadn’t realized had been in the bottom of her box. “Can I order this Venus Butterfly from your online store?”

  Dylan’s jaw dropped, his eyes glazed over, and he slowly shut his mouth.

  “Veronica DelVecchio,” a deep voice ground out, “you’re under arrest.”

  Ronnie whirled around and stared at Sheriff McClure. “Surely there’s some mistake,” she said.

  “Now hold on, Sheriff,” Dylan began, but McClure ignored him.

  “For encouraging pillars of our community to be indecently exposed and for selling pornographic material without a license,” the sheriff said, slipping handcuffs around her wrists.

  The irony of being in handcuffs while holding her supplier’s catalog of pleasure toys wasn’t lost on her. Since she was going down, she’d go down in flames. “Why Sheriff McClure,” she purred, “what a great idea. I’m going to have to start selling handcuffs along with my create-your-own fragrance massage oil.”

  The man’s face shot straight to purple. “Let’s go.” He yanked and pulled her along behind him. “You ladies get dressed,” he ordered.

  Ronnie noticed that he had a tic beneath his right eye.

  “Somebody box up that evidence,” the sheriff bit out, “or you’re all going downtown.”

  Not one woman moved. “Are you crazy?” Jolene said, stepping in front of the sheriff. “Last time I checked, it’s not against the law to have a party in this town.”

  He glared at her, but she didn’t budge. Emily got in his way, standing next to her cousin. “You cannot tell us how to celebrate or have fun.”

  He stared at Emily but didn’t speak; he stepped around the women, dragging Ronnie and the catalog she still held. Incensed that he wasn’t listening to anyone, Ronnie whacked him on the back of the head with it.

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Assaulting an officer of the law while trying to perform his duties is going to add to your jail time.”

  Dylan got between them and the door. “Now hold on there, Sheriff—”

  Instead of the reaction either of them expected, the sheriff put his free hand to the holster at his hip. “Ste
p back, Garahan,” he warned. “I don’t want any trouble from you and don’t need your interference upholding the law in this town.”

  When Dylan opened his mouth to speak, Ronnie expected him to stick up for her and give the sheriff a piece of his mind while rescuing her from spending time behind bars. When he closed it just as quickly and stepped aside, her heart plummeted to her feet and her euphoric feeling of not only being accepted in town, but also being rescued by the man she loved, evaporated.

  Dylan stared at her, but his expression was closed, unreadable. What was he thinking? Would he just let the sheriff haul her off to jail? Weren’t they a couple? Shouldn’t he be sticking up for her? The sheriff hauled her away before she could ask.

  Dylan pulled his phone from his hip pocket and hit the speed dial. “Come on, Bro,” he grumbled, “pick up the phone.”

  “Hey,” Jesse answered. “What’s keeping you and where’s our cook?”

  “I need you and Tyler to back me up.”

  His brother didn’t hesitate or disappoint him. “When and where?”

  “I’m at the Lucky Star. Ronnie’s just been arrested.”

  “Yeah right,” Jesse drawled. “Are you two staying at her place? You’ll miss her awesome lasagna… it even tastes great uncooked.”

  He couldn’t believe his brother was jawing about food when Dylan’s woman had been dragged off to jail! He balled his free hand into a tight fist, clamping down on the urge to put it through the wall. He looked up, relieved to see Emily and Jolene standing close. “Put Ty on the phone. Emily’ll explain everything.”

  Handing his phone to her, he planted his boot heel and spun around, sprinting down the hall after the woman he’d move heaven and earth to see safely back at the Circle G. Damn, why hadn’t he just said something? Why did he just stand there?

  Must have been the vision of Mrs. Peterson in the peekaboo lace. Now go and get that woman!

  His grandfather was on his side and pulling for him, and his brothers were on their way. It was time to go after Ronnie.

  When he opened the door, the sheriff was pulling away from the curb with the red light flashing and the siren wailing. “There’re not enough people breaking the law around here,” he grumbled opening the driver’s side door to his truck and sliding on the seat. “Sheriff should be out trying to catch the sonsofbitches who destroyed Guilty Pleasures… not arresting the store’s owner.”

  Before he could put his truck in reverse, the passenger door opened and Mavis Beeton got inside. “Well don’t just sit there,” she said. “Follow that car!”

  He grinned at her, absurdly grateful that she was with him. “What are we going to do?” he asked, putting the pedal to the metal. His truck lurched away from the curb and ground through the gears as it gained speed.

  When he would have turned left, Mavis grabbed his arm. “Turn right; you need to drive to my house.”

  “Not now! I’ve got to get to Ronnie.”

  She smiled at him. “Not without the ammunition you need,” she told him.

  “I can’t think straight right now, Mrs. Beeton, not until I can see her and explain…”

  “Explain?” Mavis prompted.

  “Why I didn’t do anything back there,” Dylan ground out.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know; must have been the fashion show.”

  Mavis chuckled but quickly covered the sound by clearing her throat. “Well then, are you ready to act now?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Willing to set her free at any cost?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “I’ve been studying our town’s history—”

  He cut her off. “No offense, Mrs. Beeton—”

  “None taken, Dylan,” she reassured him. “Now do me a favor and shut up.”

  Shock had him closing his mouth. She continued, “We have a few laws that have been on the books for over one hundred years.”

  He clenched his jaw tighter but continued to drive to her house instead of where he wanted to be—needed to be—the jail.

  “One, in fact, that set your great-great-grandfather free.”

  Dylan shifted his gaze from the road ahead to her face. “I’m listening.”

  “Finally,” she said. “Mine is the third house on the left.”

  He pulled up and put it park but didn’t kill the engine. “Time’s a wasting. Keep talking.”

  “The Donovan Marriage Ordinance clearly states that as long as the crime isn’t cold-blooded murder, a woman—or man—could have the prisoner released into their custody.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Not quite,” Mavis said, opening her front door.

  Dylan wanted to yell in frustration but kept a lid on his temper and followed along behind her.

  She didn’t waste any time or steps; she walked into her kitchen, grabbed a ragged ledger book, and grinned. “Let’s go get your bride.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “My what?”

  Mavis didn’t laugh at him, but he wondered if she was thinking about it, noticing the way her lips were twitching.

  “We have a few more minutes. Sheriff McClure might be angry right now, after the way your bride whacked him in the back of the head with that sex-toy catalog.”

  “Why do you keep calling Ronnie my bride?”

  “Sit down, Dylan.”

  “I’ve got to get to the jail before she closes herself off from me completely. You saw the look on her face; she thinks I’m not coming after her.”

  Mavis patted his arm and urged him to sit. “If you go there now, what are you going to do? Browbeat the sheriff into letting her go?”

  Dylan stopped and thought about it. “Maybe.”

  “Think, Dylan,” she urged. “You need a bona fide reason for the sheriff to release Ronnie.”

  “My fists might be enough—”

  She shook her head at him. “Then you’d be right there in the hoosegow with your bride.”

  “Why do you keep calling her that?”

  She opened the ledger and tapped the first page. “Here is the list of Pleasure’s early laws.”

  He ground his teeth in frustration but didn’t say anything; he was afraid of what he might say, and Mrs. Beeton was only trying to help.

  She flipped through to another section. “And here’s where they record the list of prisoners and their crimes.” When he didn’t speak, she added, “And the dates they were released.”

  He pushed to his feet; Mavis grabbed his arm. “August 4, 1912, was the first time the Donovan Marriage Ordinance was invoked.”

  Dylan turned slowly and stared down at the older woman. “The fourth of August?”

  She nodded and grinned. “1912.” She waited and patted him on the arm. “Does the date ring a bell?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure why.”

  Mavis pointed at the ledger, halfway down the page. “It says right here that one of the prisoners, Judson Garahan, was released into the custody of a Miss Deidre Flaherty on August 4, 1912.”

  Dylan sat down hard. “That’s my—”

  “Great-great-grandfather’s name,” she said. “I know. Judson was released as soon as he said ‘I do.’”

  “I do?”

  Mavis frowned up at him. “What part of ‘Marriage Ordinance’ didn’t you hear?”

  The light went on inside Dylan’s head. “He married her to get out of jail?”

  Mavis nodded. “Are you willing to marry Ronnie in order to set her free?”

  He set his jaw and slowly rose from his seat. “I meant what I said. I’d do anything to get her out of there.”

  The older woman was smiling as she pulled Dylan toward the front door. “Let’s see if we can get the sheriff to listen to reason, now that you have some leverage.”

  On their way outside, a car pulled up behind his truck. Emily got out of the passenger’s side saying, “Tyler said they’ll me
et you outside the jail… and to wait for them!”

  “It’s a forty-five minute drive from the Circle G to town.”

  Emily shook her head at him. “They’re already on their way and will be here in ten minutes.”

  “How—” he said before it hit him. “Jesse’s driving.”

  She nodded. “Come on. Jolene’s driving and the ladies are all meeting us at the jail.”

  He didn’t even pause to wonder why; he opened the door for Mrs. Beeton and felt an immense sense of relief filling him seeing the ledger on her lap. “Will he let her go?”

  Mrs. Beeton answered his question with a question, “Will you marry her?”

  His heart leaped in his chest. “Yes.”

  She patted his hand. “Then, yes. He’ll have no choice but to release her.”

  “May I borrow your phone, Dylan?”

  He handed her his cell and focused all of his attention on getting to the jail in record time. A few minutes later, she handed him back his phone. He pulled up outside the jail and was surprised to see the number of cars parked and women waiting.

  “’Bout time you got here,” Gwen grumbled.

  Dylan didn’t even acknowledge her comment; he beat Mrs. Beeton to the door and held it open for her. “Mrs. Beeton—”

  “You can thank me later. Wait for your brothers. That’ll give me time to soothe the sheriff’s ruffled feathers.”

  “I don’t give a damn about McClure.”

  “Which is exactly why you’ll give me a few minutes while you wait for your brothers.” Her tone didn’t brook any arguments.

  When he tried to follow her, she reminded him, “They’ll be here in a minute or two. A united front will impress the local law. Please wait for them.”

  He stepped back and turned around, surprised by the group of women that nodded as they filed into the building behind Mrs. Beeton.

  The screeching of tires and spitting of gravel had him turning toward the street. His brothers were calm, cool, and just this side of arrogant as they strode toward him. Familial pride filled him. “I didn’t know what else to do—” he began.