L.A. Caveman

by Christina Crooks

  If there were any justice in the world, some hunk in a BMW would pull over and rescue her and they'd laugh as they told this story to their children about how they met. If there were any justice at all anywhere.

  She looked at the traffic hopefully.

  A large pickup truck was slowing, stopping in front of her car. A tow truck. The man driving it stepped out, seemingly oblivious of the rushing freeway traffic mere inches from his door.

  He waddled over, reaching up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. Eyeing first her, then her car, he smirked and pulled himself up to his full five feet plus-a-little. "Hello there, little lady. I bet you're glad I stopped, huh?"

  His beady eyes crawled over her body. "My name's Dave," he offered her in a feeble attempt at civility. His eyes roamed even as he held out his dirty hand.

  Telly wondered how far away the Santa Monica pier was. She could fling herself off of it, she thought reasonably.

  No longer caring if she were thought rude, she gestured at her car. "Can you tow me to the nearest repair shop?"

  His eyes glinted at her malevolently. Her skin crawled. "It'll cost ya."

  She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be negotiating with this walking oinker. "Fine, just do it."

  Chuckling dirtily, Dave hooked up her Mustang to his truck. Hating the helpless look of her car dangling half off the ground, Telly forced herself into the evil-smelling nimbus of sweat and cigarettes that was the cab of the tow truck.

  Dave hopped in. He just sat there looking at her. "What?" she finally asked, dreading what the answer might be.

  "Pay up front," he finally informed her, grinning unpleasantly and naming the high price.

  She paid it, feeling trapped in a nightmare.

  Now it couldn't get any worse, she amended.

  The trip lasted too long -- any amount of time would have been too long with him -- but she finally saw The Greasy Monkey, a surprisingly clean-looking repair facility.

  Her last sight of Dave was of him patting the hood of her Mustang too familiarly and waddling back to his cab, hitching up dirty jeans.

  She breathed in a heavy sigh of relief and turned, resigned, to face the next challenge of her miserable day.

  A drop-dead gorgeous "Fred with Tires" poster boy look-alike strode toward her confidently, a serious expression on his slightly grease-smudged face. Her heart dropped to the pavement and bounced up again, thudding wildly. It's him, she thought. Her heart and body, in full agreement, homed in on him. That one. That’s the one I want.

  He cocked his head then, almost as if he'd heard her. Then he smiled.

  The scent of ocean spray followed Jake into his office later that morning. He smelled it on his coat as he turned to hang it and felt grateful that he lived and worked so close to something as refreshing as the Pacific. It certainly calmed him when he needed it.

  He’d needed it badly that morning.

  Damn her, she'd had that effect on him from the very beginning.

  His eyes fell on the accordion folders she'd left on his desk. They looked familiar. Mentally snapping his fingers, he finally remembered where he seen them before.

  They were the same folders he'd seen in Stanna's arms as she snuck out of his office the day before. So she thought she could just casually return his stolen papers whenever she felt like it? He didn't think so!

  Marching the few steps to his desk, he snatched up the folders. Aside from Stanna carting them out of his office, he couldn't recall seeing them before.

  Strange.

  Attached to the uppermost one he noticed a yellow sticky note. Stanna's writing, he saw. Her delicate script only covered a small part of the paper:

  "This was Ian's. He kept it in a secret compartment in your desk. Thought you should know. Stanna."

  An hour later, he let both folders drop heavily to the floor. Ian had been embezzling such obscene amounts of money that the old owners should have clued in -- but they hadn't. They'd just thought the magazine wasn't successful.

  Jake started to laugh. It was all starting to make sense. It was successful. Hugely.

  Ian had obviously called Stanna to manipulate her. The petty vandalism to his house, the suicidal woman's phone call to Stanna, all of it was Ian's attempt to make the magazine do poorly enough to buy it back from Jake for a song.

  Which meant that Stanna was innocent of it all.

  He sobered instantly. She hadn't knowingly betrayed him. It was his paranoid doubting that made him think to distrust her. His emotions did a wild flip-flop inside him as he realized the extent of his error.

  He’d royally screwed things up.

  He could only hope she'd forgive him. He didn't think there was enough numbing balm in the world to heal his heart if she didn't.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Stanna straightened her legs out, grimacing as her knees complained with a funny grinding sound. She'd spent the entire morning of her spontaneous vacation day online, perusing advertisements for jobs.

  Spread around her in a loose semi-circle, all the articles she’d ever written for Men’s Weekly poised in neat stacks, ready to be placed into the portfolio and resume package she was preparing.

  The printed out online classifieds seemed to mock her. Squares and rectangles of bright yellow highlights marked all the jobs that Stanna considered decent enough to notice. Two light blue pen strokes circled two highlighted squares: Magazine companies. Those were the two best possibilities. As she looked more closely, though, one was located in Oxnard. Too far.

  "Damn," she muttered, scratching it out.

  She was not in a good mood.

  Jake's voice on his work answering machine had made her heart do crazy acrobatics. It was the first full day off she'd taken for any reason since she'd been at Men's Weekly. She didn't tell his machine that. She just said she was sick. She wanted to get off the phone as soon as possible to start the long, hard process of severing her life from his and healing her heart. Getting past the whole messy business and on with life.

  She looked gloomily at the ads. The other blue-penned winner was right nearby in West Hollywood. A "hot new start-up 'zine looking for bright team player for leader-in-training position."

  Leader-in-training. She used to be a leader-in-training before Ian was fired and Jake turned her world upside down.

  She dialed the number.

  "Kittens 'n Kitchens, how can I help you?" a perky female voice chirped though the phone line.

  "Human resources department, please?"

  "Just one moment, please," the voice sang sweetly.

  The transfer rang, and a woman with a sourly curt businesslike tone greeted her. "Cathleen here." The abrupt shift from diabetes to frostbite struck Stanna as surreal, and she took more than the required half a second to respond.

  "Hello!" the voice barked.

  "Yes," Stanna told her, "I'm calling about the leader-in-training position at your magazine. I have experience--"

  "Name, please." The curt voice interrupted her. Pushing down her irritation, Stanna told her.

  "Educational background." Stanna didn't like the assembly-line treatment, but stayed friendly. "Bachelor's degree in English, graduated two years ago from--"

  "You may be overqualified."

  A bright wave of dislike washed over Stanna. "I have a little magazine experience. I was wondering if you could tell me about the position?"

  The woman was silent long enough for Stanna to wonder if they'd been disconnected. Then, "It's a wonderful internship opportunity for the right person. The selected candidate will have the chance to taste all aspects of publishing Kittens 'n Kitchens, from the ground up. After six months, we may consider them for a full-time paid position."

  "Six months? An internship? As in non-paid?"

  The woman chuckled. "I have thirty-two names on my list of interested parties from the local college," she told Stanna. Her voice warmed a little. "I’m afraid publishing is considered a glamour job, and we generally promot
e from within. But it’s quite enjoyable here. Do you like kittens? Are you artsy-craftsy? It’s a highly desired position for the right candidate, and one can advance quickly after the internship training phase.”

  No pay for six months? Larcenous. “I have magazine experience,” Stanna repeated.

  “It’s our way or the highway, I’m afraid.”

  Stanna heard the smile in the woman’s voice and considered hanging up on her. Women who smiled while delivering rude zingers to needy strangers were some of the more horrible examples of the species. They gave other women a bad name.

  Stanna slowly smiled. "And the lucky intern gets to taste everything?" she asked innocently.

  "Yes," the woman assured her.

  "Will I get to taste the finished kittens?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Kittens in kitchens. I'm interested in trying them chopped into stir-fry, I've never tried them that way before. Or baked in potpies, either. Broiled is good, though," she confided.

  Silence.

  "Hello? If you hire me, I'll even share some of my own recipes. My personal favorite is 'Puffed and Stuffed Pussycat.' It's my mom's creation," Stanna added modestly.

  "You're joking of course," the brusque business tone was back, but shaken.

  "About as much as you are, with that non-paid internship of yours."

  Then Stanna did hang up, feeling much better.

  For a while. She still was unemployed, with no real prospects. Time to get online and do some thinking outside of the box.

  Hours later, she had half a dozen interviews lined up for the next week. Relieved she'd avoided any other mean ladies like Ms. Kitten 'n Kitchens, she mused that it was a huge weight off her shoulders to have other options. To be seriously considered for other positions.

  None were ideal. None of them were magazines. But they’d be gainful employment away from Jake.

  She supposed she'd be taking all of her vacation time at once for the interviews. Jake would just have to find someone else to answer phones and churn out unwanted columns.

  Unwanted. He didn't want her.

  Against her fiercely commanding will, a lump rose and stuck in her throat. Go away, she snarled at it.

  Don't believe I will, it answered. Think I'll just hang out here 'til you sob like a baby.

  And damn it, she was about to. She felt the hot wet sting of tears beginning to rise in her eyes.

  Suddenly a knock on her front door broke her concentration on not-crying.

  She stayed still and quiet, waiting for whoever it was to go away. Perversely, knowing that someone waited outside the door and she had to stay quiet took her mind off wanting to cry. Enough for the lump to begin to recede and for her tears to halt their rise.

  Another knock.

  And then, shockingly, "Stanna, I know you're in there. Your car's outside."

  His voice. What was he doing at her apartment?

  She leapt to her feet, cursing as her feet trampled the printouts and made a godawful racket.

  "I hear you," he said. Did he sound nervous? Why would he sound nervous? "Please. I have something I'd like to say to you."

  She froze. He was nervous, which was odd. Jake Tremere, nervous?

  Suddenly she got it. He was coming to fire her! Contract or no, he was going to give her the boot once and for all. He was here to pink her in person so she didn't make a scene at work. Maybe he'd pay her off so she wouldn't sue for wrongful termination.

  A pure fury like she'd never felt before cascaded all through her. She welcomed it as relief from the ache of her pain.

  He wouldn't be rid of her quite that easily. Her breathing calmed as she marched slowly to the door. By the time she opened it, she'd schooled her features to a polite mask.

  Jake feasted his eyes on Stanna when she opened the door. Blond hair tousled, and wearing cut-off gray sweat shorts that contrasted enticingly against the smooth feminine curves of her slender legs. He couldn't read her expression. She turned her back on him, leaving the door open as she moved into the living room and began gathering up a pile of papers.

  She was angry, he surmised. And she had every right to be. He'd been an amazing jerk, not believing in her, talking to her so cruelly, and all the rest he'd rather not think of.

  But he'd make everything better, if she’d let him.

  Watching her move gracefully across the room to deposit the papers in an out-of-the way corner, he was thrown back to all the other times he'd watched her move, admiring the ballet-sinuous way she carried herself. Especially that time in their little magical mountain house, when she'd strut about in the buff.

  But it wasn't even her surpassing beauty that made his heart thump painfully in his chest as he watched her. It was everything about her. Her wit, her courage, her integrity, her compassion. He was hooked right through the heart, he realized.

  He had to make it better.

  He fingered the small envelope he'd brought with him.

  She returned to the living room, faced him with arms folded. She didn't ask him to sit down. She glanced at the envelope, then back up to his face. Her gray eyes gave away a flicker of some turbocharged emotion, but he couldn't tell what it was. He watched her carefully. She was impenetrable again.

  He ploughed ahead. "Stanna. I came here to do something I've wanted to do for a some time, now. The situation sort of prevented it, and... oh, hell, I suppose I was afraid to do it before. I have here an official document, on Men's Weekly letterhead..." he paused to chuckle as he handed it to her, "which… um… officially…" Jake trailed off in consternation as Stanna slowly, methodically ripped the unopened envelope into tiny squares, then let the confetti drift to the beige carpet.

  She folded her arms, again the ice queen.

  What the...?

  Jake was immobilized with bewilderment as he stared into her fathomless darkened eyes. He saw anger, and a deep sadness. He saw more, but then she turned her back on him again.

  "Please leave," she stated in a low, trembling voice.

  He looked at the small shredded squares resting on the carpet by her bare heels.

  So that was it, then.

  He felt the old numbness trying to enfold his heart again, and knew for a fact the organ had no hope of relief ever again. There wasn't enough anesthetizing medicine in the world to take the pain out of it. The pain made Jolene look like a weekend romp in the park.

  "Stanna," he whispered. He shook his head. Hopelessly, he told her what he'd really come to say.

  "I love you."

  He turned to leave, as she'd requested.

  He heard a great whooshing of exhaled breath. "What? What did you say?"

  Jake found that he couldn't move another step toward the door until he found out what put that sweet breathless tone in Stanna's voice. The shock he felt locked his muscles for a long moment.

  He turned slowly, not daring to hope. The sight of her intense, searching, hopeful eyes hit him like a blow. He couldn't catch his breath. When he could, he sucked in air and turned all the powerful emotions he felt on her like a beacon, willing her to feel the strength of what he felt for her. He locked his eyes on her.

  "I love you, Stanna. I love you. I love you." With each sentence thrust before him like an offering, or possibly a weapon – whatever worked – he took another step until she was against him again.

  He felt the sob rip through her simultaneously with her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. "I love you, too!" she wailed. She shook against him, and he felt the wonder of their embrace and his own tears threatening.

  When he heard her soft, reverent voice calling his name, he looked down at her, wondering for a moment why she was blurry. She touched a tear as it spilled over and smiled radiantly. "I thought Neanderthal caveman types like you never cried," she teased gently, wiping her own face.

  "We do when we get our cavewoman back." He tightened his grip possessively and she snuggled contentedly against him.

  "Does this mean I get you back?" she asked h
im. He could hear the smile in her voice.

  "For as long as you want me," he assured her, marveling at how lucky he was. How lucky they both were, to be together just like this, finally and despite it all.

  EPILOGUE

  Stanna felt the gentle brush of Jake's warm fingers tucking a strand of her blond hair back behind her ear. The strand had escaped from her elegantly simple-looking upsweep, which wasn't at all simple to create. The Bridal Tresses stylist actually spent the better part of three hours earlier in the day making it perfect, and already it leaked tiny wisps.

  It served its purpose, though, she thought in satisfaction as she watched her brand-new husband Jake looking at her with those eyes of his soft with proud happiness and love. She didn't need a mirror to know that her own expression was identical. Who cared about hair at a time like this?

  She smiled at her magnificent man, not hiding at all the vibrant emotion she felt. She sighed contentedly, surveying her wedding guests as they enjoyed the reception dinner that she and Jake had planned together. Quite a few were her co-workers, who had forgiven her that ridiculous business with the news lady. When it turned out that the publicity actually helped Men's Weekly and they didn't need to worry for their jobs, they quickly – and shamefacedly – came around. There was Corrinna, smiling demurely around a mouthful of apple-stuffed lamb. And Michael sitting across from her while blowing a diva-kiss in Stanna's direction. Or Jake's direction. She wasn't sure.

  Her darling Jake, who she'd thought was going to fire her! How ironic the document he'd handed her that day in her apartment was actually a new contract between them for her exclusive "Woman's Word" column. She'd ripped it to shreds, but he printed out a new one for her that very same afternoon.

  She felt like a princess in her long white dress. She moved slightly, feeling the silk rustle against her skin luxuriously. And she had her prince beside her, dressed not in caveman-esque animal skins but a proper -- and incredibly sexy -- black and white tuxedo. Wonderful how it didn't hide his animal virility at all.