The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1)

by Jane Leopold Quinn

  "I sure will. Well, I'll see what info I can find on Wilcox and let you know."

  "By the way, did Phoebe call you?"

  "No, why?"

  "Her house was vandalized last night."

  Moira paled. "Is she all right? Was she there? Was she hurt?"

  "No, we came home afterwards. The cops came and investigated, then she spent the night at my house."

  "Oh."

  The look in Moira's bugged-out eyes was so funny. "She's all right." He could read the meaning in that "oh," but he wasn't going to kiss and tell.

  "I'll try to call her as soon as possible."

  "Good. And thanks, Moira. I'll probably see you tonight." With that, they left Ollie's and went their separate ways.

  Chapter Eleven

  Phoebe tried to enter her house when she got home from work but found that someone—Marc—had changed the locks on the front and back doors. Problem was that she didn't have the new keys.

  "Shit," she muttered exhaustedly. She just wanted to climb into her bed, pull the covers up over her head, and go to sleep. The night before had been so strange with its ups and downs, highs and lows.

  Her skin crawled at the memory of the ruined furniture. The rental house came furnished. Now she'd have to pay to replace it all, since she didn't have insurance. She closed her eyes, struggling to control the fear and anger at being the target of this vandal. Could it really have been done by Butch? Is he that crazy?

  "Phoebe."

  She whirled at the soft, husky voice. Marc stood at the bottom of her porch steps.

  "You look dead-tired, honey. Come over with me and take a nap."

  She gave him a wary look. He was sweet and protective which was wonderful coming from a man like him—gorgeous, nice, hunky, and a great kisser. And nothing like Butch Wilcox.

  But she had plans for her future and her career that didn't include getting caught up in a serious romance. Not even heavy-duty sex or any talk of commitment. Nothing more than mild flirtation and the understanding that she might leave at any moment for New York or Hollywood.

  "Hey." He held his palms up in surrender. "You can just nap, nothing more."

  She lifted her brows at his innocent smile, even warier of him now.

  "I mean it. I think you know what I want, but I'm not such an evil guy that I'd take advantage of you."

  He looked earnest and extremely sexy at the same time. She was so tempted, but she was also pooped. Tears trembled in her eyes.

  He put an arm around her and steered her across the street to his house. "I'm putting you to bed. I'll stay in the living room, I promise. You'll sleep and feel better for your performance tonight."

  She wasn't so sure she could fall asleep that well, but after he made sure she was comfortable she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again it was dusky in the bedroom. It wasn't her bedroom, but she knew where she was. Low voices, probably from the TV, sounded from the living room. She rolled to her side and punched the pillow for comfort, not ready to get up. She sniffed. Was that the aroma of tomato sauce? Her stomach rumbled.

  A quick glance at the clock told her she still had a couple hours before her set. So she used the bathroom and headed toward the kitchen, still in the wrinkled clothes she'd gone to work in that morning.

  Marc stood at the stove stirring a pot with a long wooden spoon. She gazed in amusement at the towel tucked into the front waistband of his jeans.

  "Hi. That smells delicious."

  He glanced over his shoulder, smiled, and said, "Come on. Sit down, and I'll fix you a plate."

  She took a place at the kitchen table. "Are you a good cook?"

  "Ha! No. I make one thing. Here you go." He dramatically presented rotini pasta smothered in tomato sauce with mushrooms. "This is it. Well I can also grill a burger or steak." He grabbed a plate for himself and set it down across the table from her. "Wine? Pop? Beer?"

  "Water is fine. I don't drink before I sing."

  "Ice?" He motioned to the freezer.

  "Yeah, thanks." They ate in silence for a while. It was nice, companionable.

  She checked her watch. "I've got to get to the club."

  "I met with Moira today."

  "You did? About the break-in?"

  "I mentioned it. She was going to call you."

  Her hands fluttered around, her gaze shifting. "I guess my phone's in my purse. I haven't heard it ring. I've been pretty distracted. Do they have any clues?"

  "Nothing that I know of yet."

  "I don't get it. Why were you talking to her?"

  "I'll explain later. You've got to go."

  Torn, she wondered if his meeting with Moira had something to do with the question about his parents' deaths. But she wasn't sure she knew him well enough to pry. Or if they should become more personally and physically involved.

  Yeah, your career…

  ***

  Being on stage that night at Marietty's only reconfirmed her career aspirations. She sang, vamped a little for the crowd, shimmied the fringe on her gown. This was where she belonged. This was her dream. She knew it every time she took the stage. Never doubted it. And two sets later, her confidence in herself hadn't disappeared.

  After cleaning off her makeup in the tiny backstage bathroom, she opened the door to join her friends out in the club. And there was Butch. His bulk seemed magnified, filling the narrow hallway right outside. His arm rested on the doorframe completely blocking her way. She jumped back, startled at seeing him so close. All she could eke out was his name.

  "Have you thought over what I said to you the other night?"

  Good God! What part of, "I will not marry you. Don't call me again," doesn't he understand? "I thought I gave you my answer. You know my plans revolve around my career. I'm not staying in B Falls indefinitely. You've always known that."

  He grabbed her arms, his fingers digging into her shoulders, and shook her. Gasping, she wrenched her hands up to ward him off. Before she could say anything, he bent down, his face so close to hers that his fetid breath made her queasy.

  "Listen lady, you'll never make it in the big-time. You think you're so good and your friends," he sneered, "just mindlessly encourage you. They're not doing you any favors. I'm telling you the truth. You're just a small-town singer. You'll never make it big, so why try?"

  "Butch! Let me go. You're hurting me."

  He ignored her and squeezed harder. "I'll be rich soon. My dad owns so much land in this burg, and I'm going into business with him. I can give you anything you want. You'd be a fool to turn me down."

  His angry spittle hit her face, but she couldn't lift her arms to wipe it off. Not only did he have her shoulders in his grip, he'd pushed her against the rough doorframe. She lifted her foot to kick him with the sharp point of her stiletto, but was thrown off balance before she could connect with his shin.

  Butch seemed to spin around as if he were a marionette. Then Marc's broad shoulders stood between her and Butch. He pushed Butch away, hard enough so he bounced off an adjacent wall. Marc balled up his fists but didn't throw a punch.

  "Rahn, what the…? Who the hell do you think you are interfering between me and my woman?"

  "Your woman or not, you have no right to manhandle her."

  "I'm not his woman!" Phoebe sputtered, throwing herself at Marc's back to get around him.

  "There you go, Wilcox. The lady said no."

  Phoebe pushed her way between the two men. When Marc lunged toward Butch, she put a hand on his chest to stop him. "Marc, it's okay."

  "It's not okay. He was hurting you."

  "I mean I can manage him now. Butch, you'd better go. I've given you my answer. I have no plans to marry anyone. And that's final." She glared at him and at the same time could feel Marc's heart pump under her palm, could feel his fiery determination to protect her and punish Butch.

  Her own heart thumped sluggishly as she nervously waited to see if he'd actually leave. Butch was a strange man. In some ways, h
e was like a lost little boy who then turned into someone horrifying. He was always using his father as leverage to entice her to be with him. Mr. Wilcox and his money were the last things that interested her. Butch using that to attract her would never work.

  Butch lunged toward her. "You'll be sorry you didn't accept me, Phoebe."

  Marc lifted her to shift her aside and stepped toward the other man.

  Butch raised his hands in the air and backed up a fraction. "Rahn, you're just like you used to be in school. Thought you were the best thing since sliced bread. Well, things didn't turn out so well for you did they?"

  "Butch! That's a rotten thing to say," shouted Phoebe.

  "Never mind what he says, honey," Marc added in a silky, dangerous voice. He leaned close to Butch and muttered something she couldn't hear. She had a feeling it involved ordering him to stay away from her. If only Butch would but she didn't trust him and was beginning to be afraid of him. At the very least, his father owned Marietty's and could fire her. She didn't want to think about what Butch could do to her as a cop. Maybe already had.

  "You little bitch…"

  Marc's fist instantly shot up.

  "No, Marc!" She didn't want any more fighting, and she especially didn't want to risk Marc getting into any trouble over her.

  "Get the fuck out of here, Wilcox."

  "What's going on back here?" It was the manager of the club. "People can hear you out front."

  "It's over, Mr. Nelson," Phoebe said. "Butch is just leaving, and we are too."

  Butch finally did turn away but not before he shot her a venomous look. She knew it wasn't over.

  "I'm going to change." She backed into the bathroom where her street clothes were. Closing the door, she leaned against the sink and forced herself to hold back her tears. Good Lord, that had been awful. She'd been so scared Butch and Marc would hit each other.

  There was no telling what Butch would do since he was a cop. It wasn't as if she thought Marc couldn't take him, but Marc could be charged with assaulting a police officer even though it wasn't what would have actually happened at all. It would be their word against Butch's.

  I've got to get out of this town. Her belly knotted with her longtime desire to become famous. She had no doubt it would happen, but what if it didn't? She couldn't stand that.

  There was a tap at the door.

  "Phoebe, it's me. Are you coming out soon?"

  Marc. What am I going to do about him? He's only home on leave. He'll be going back to the Marines in a few weeks. Surely we can just be friends until then. It was obvious he wanted more, and as much as she was attracted to him, she couldn't afford more of a relationship. In her mind, she reinforced her career plan and then opened the bathroom door.

  "Come on, Phoebe. Let's take a drive. Okay?"

  Gazing up at his face, she searched for a Butch-like ulterior motive.

  "Just talk. I promise."

  She met his smile and slipped her hand around his crooked elbow. Safe. Where she was always uncomfortable and on guard with Butch, she felt safe with Marc even knowing he wanted her.

  "I have to say hi to Moira and Davy. I can't ignore them."

  "Okay, but I really want to take you away from here."

  "Sure," she agreed. Things were happening fast. She needed to leave town—move on, maybe to Chicago. She had to initiate the next step herself. No agents were calling.

  Forty-five minutes later, after having a drink with her friends, Marc ushered her into the passenger seat of that fabulous BMW and went around to take the driver's seat. The night was warm enough to keep the top down.

  "Do you mind?" he asked.

  "No, of course not." She collected the long strands of her hair, pulled a butterfly clip out of her purse, and snapped it on. "I'm okay now. Thanks." She smiled back at him.

  The engine purred like the beautiful creature it was as Marc pulled out of Marietty's parking lot. They crossed the river, turning right onto River Road and heading out of town. When they passed the last twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit sign, he opened up the car, and they sped along the two-lane highway.

  Cornfields lay on both sides with white clapboard farmhouses at intervals. She chuckled to herself that the air would have been refreshing if not for the skunk smell but then that was part of the countryside.

  Marc pulled off the highway at an area overlooking the local hills and valleys. The purring stopped. He angled himself into the corner of the seat, resting his arm on the doorframe. Leaning her head back, she gazed up at the stars. The sight gave her a feeling of familiarity and well-being.

  Neither spoke for a while. Finally Marc said, "You know, Phoebe, Butch is wrong. You are really good. I know you'll have a successful career."

  She didn't look his way. "Thanks, Marc. He has such a skewed way of thinking. I never encouraged him. As a matter of fact, we had exactly two dates before his crazy way of telling me we were getting married. He acted like it was a done deal." She angled herself into her corner of the car and turned to look at him. "We barely even kissed."

  "Butch was obnoxious in high school too. We were buddies, but our only connection was the football team. I never hung out with him one-on-one like I did with Mike Banning."

  "He's a creep who uses his police department job to make himself look more important. I should never have gone out with him a second time, but I didn't realize at first how disturbed he is. Besides, I don't intend to make B Falls my home."

  "You've mentioned that. Where do you want to be? New York or Hollywood?"

  "Yes!"

  He laughed. "Well, if you're not sure… How long have you been singing?"

  She wasn't sure how much she wanted to tell him about her past.

  "Do you have folks in Parkersburg?"

  "I'm adopted." Maybe I shouldn't have told him. All he did was extend his arm across the back of his seat and over onto the back of hers. He didn't touch her though.

  "As a baby?"

  She held her breath and hesitated. "No," she finally said.

  "How old were you?"

  In her peripheral vision, she could see his long fingers resting on the leather. They'd been on her body, inside her body. After closing her eyes, she opened them again in a flash. With her eyes shut, the car seemed too intimate. He felt too close. "All my life I've wanted to be a famous singer. My parents, the ones who adopted me, let me take singing and dancing lessons. I'm so grateful for their support."

  "They sound wonderful. Must love you very much." He stretched a little and picked up her left hand to play with her fingers.

  "They do," she agreed, her voice trailing off. His big, warm hand cradled her smaller one.

  "Are they in Parkersburg?"

  "Yes." He gently rubbed his thumb across her palm. She remembered reading that the palm is a notorious erotic point. It kind of felt that way to her right now. Her stomach knotted but in a half-comforting, half-aroused way. After Butch's craziness, Marc was sane and wonderful and sexy.

  Oh my God! She jerked her hand out of his grasp. He was getting to her. She couldn't allow that. It wasn't in her plans.

  "Marc," she began in a stern voice. "I want to be famous. I want to sing on Broadway or in important nightclubs. I want to be known. Until I was ten and the Barneses adopted me, I was a nobody, ignored and on my own in foster homes. They took me, loved me, and I loved them back. But I never really belonged to them. I'll never belong to anyone. I'll get to the top on my own. So don't try to seduce me. I don't plan to stay around."

  His hand was back on the top of the seat again, near her shoulder. "Honey, I'm only home on a few weeks' leave. I'm no danger to you long-term, but you gotta know I'm attracted to you, and I think you are to me."

  "But nothing's going to happen between us," she interrupted.

  "You aren't alone here. You have good friends with Davy and Moira, and probably a lot of other people. I'm sorry you were alone when you were a child, but you aren't now. Remember that. You don't have to cut yourself
off from me—"

  She opened her mouth to—she wasn't sure what.

  "Me or some other guy but I'm here right now."

  She turned her gaze outside the car. Why was he being so sweet and reasonable?

  "Hey, Phoebe." He cupped her shoulder. "I like you. We're friends. We can figure it all out later."

  He was persistent, she had to give him that. "There's nothing to figure out, but yes, we can be friends. Just friends." He grinned with a flash of white teeth. She had the strongest yearning to lean against his big, hard body just for a moment. Just for comfort. Damn. Not now when she was sure the big city and bright lights were just around the corner.

  He started the engine and headed back to town. Her heart was in turmoil. Nothing had been stated outright, but they were going to make love. He'd been her protector and hero. He wasn't demanding or even hinting at sex because of that—which made it all the harder to resist thinking about it.

  Neither of them talked on the way home. She became lulled by the sound of the tires on asphalt and the wind shooting past the open car. He drove with one hand on the wheel, his other big hand engulfing the shift lever. She knew the feel of those hands on her body.

  She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted a man. Limited though her experience was, she knew the truth of this. His kisses were amazing, his kisses—everywhere—were incredible. Would he be as good at the rest? Duh, yeah. A thoughtful smile curved her lips when they pulled into his driveway.

  "What are you smiling about?" He reached for a strand of hair lying loose on her shoulder and played with it while waiting for the convertible's top to come up and shelter them in an even closer darkness. The windows whirred up.

  Leaning back on the headrest, she turned her face toward him. "I think you know."

  "I think I'd like you to say it aloud, so I know for certain."

  "We're both leaving town soon. We both—um—want each other." She couldn't continue. Her spit had dried up with nerves. He was ready to make love, but she had to be the one to move it forward.

  "Make up your mind, because I'm holding myself in check now." He brushed a fingertip over her cheek, swept it around the shell of her ear.