Shimmy Bang Sparkle

by Nicola Rendell

  Taking Stella’s hand in mine, I put on the brassy-gold band she’d picked out, and my heart went kawhump against my chest. I knew it wasn’t for real, but who the fuck was I kidding? It felt legit, just like I wanted it to be.

  Her lips parted. Though we were in a pawnshop, it might as well have been at an altar. “That fit OK?”

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “Perfectly.” Her face flushed with a bright-pink blush, and she reached for the men’s rings. From the rows of bands, traded in by dozens of guys with money problems and women problems and everything in between, she picked the ring I would’ve picked for myself. It was silver, nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Just right.

  She slid it on my finger and looked up at me.

  That moment, in that too-bright pawnshop with Jimi Hendrix on the stereo, took my breath away like a punch to the chest. This was real, even if it was for show. This meant something, even if it was pretend. Sometimes the real truth was right in the middle of the lie.

  I didn’t have the words for any of that, so I kissed her instead. Kissed her to tell her what I didn’t have the balls to say out loud—that I wanted to be buying her a ring for real. The woman behind the desk cleared her throat, and Stella and I pulled apart.

  “We’ll take these two,” I said.

  “Coming right up, lovebirds.”

  When we were alone again, I tucked Stella’s hair behind her ear, leaned in, and told her, “You down for a little more shopping? We’ve got a road trip to take.”

  She beamed up at me. In her eyes was light and heat. But most of all, a whole lot of trouble. I fucking loved it—sweet on the surface, molten hot underneath. She placed her palm on my chest and made a fist with her hand to pull my T-shirt tight. She got up on her tiptoes and whispered into my ear, “It’s go time.”

  29

  STELLA

  Even though it wasn’t very warm out that day, Nick carefully maneuvered the Love Boat into the single shady space in the vast superstore parking lot so that Priscilla would stay cool. We locked up every window, and he double-checked all the doors twice. Hand in hand, we walked across the newly paved parking lot, still somehow rubbery and slightly sticky underfoot. I grabbed a loose shopping cart that was blocking a parking space right next to the cart corral—Why did people do that? Why?—and together we pushed it inside.

  “HowcanIhelpyou,” said the greeter in one solid string of syllables, no spaces in between the words, without looking up from his phone.

  “We’re good, man, thanks,” said Nick as he took over cart-pushing duty, his thick and muscular inked forearms making a swoon-worthy contrast to the reminder to Always buckle up your child in the cart seat!

  First, we rumbled toward the produce section, which was nearest the entrance. While I put a few apples in a bag, he leaned on the cart and contemplated the banana display. He really was so cute. It was like watching a lion learn to make biscuits or something. I suspected he’d probably never pushed a cart around in his life. He was probably a six-pack-and-six-eggs shopper. I spun the plastic bag with the apples to twist the top closed and put it in the cart. “Something tells me I might be domesticating you.”

  Glancing at me, he put a small bunch of nearly ripe bananas in the front part of the cart and wrapped his arm around my waist. “Pretty sure it’s exactly what I needed.”

  I moaned a little. A montage began to run through my head, the sort of thing that would be plunked square in the middle of some cute rom-com: me teaching him to make sugar cookies, him sprinkling the frosting with rainbow nonpareils. Me teaching him to make caramel for apple dipping; us retiling a bathroom. Him teaching me to ride the motorcycle on some rural road. Us playing Scrabble on Friday nights over beers and chips and salsa. I had never imagined myself doing any of those things with any man, and oh my goodness it sounded so very wonderful indeed.

  From there, we went over to meats. He picked out two New York strips, so I looped back to produce and picked out two baking potatoes. He got a six-pack of beer, and I got a bottle of red wine, a can of peaches, and a small container of orange juice. “For sangria,” I said as I grabbed a lemon from its little basket by the fish counter.

  “I like your style,” he said, and gave my hip a little squeeze. “And for the record, I’m definitely going to be requesting this outfit again. Especially the boots.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said as we rumbled down the aisle past some cases of bottled water, “we need to figure out a plan for you, mister.” I reached up and tugged on his hat. “This is a start, but only a start.”

  As if right on cue, a little boy holding a half-eaten doughnut stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Nick with his mouth open. He blinked once and then pointed at him very slowly.

  We kept on rolling, but I eyed Nick to say, See? The fact was, we were hardly going to be able to disguise him in a cardigan and a pair of dad jeans. The man was a beast, and there was no hiding it.

  I looked him up and down and thought it over. In my book, disguises were like electrical work: when done well, nobody noticed. When done badly, disaster.

  I took charge of cart-pushing duty. We couldn’t be discussing the details of his disguise right there in the middle of meats and poultry—we needed a quiet spot. And I knew just the place. I steered toward the first aid products and pain medications, and made for the quietest part of the store, where Roxie, Ruth, and I had often sheltered for a quick huddle: feminine hygiene.

  However, what I had forgotten was that it was right next to the tamely named Personal Products section. My eyes landed on an exotic-looking box, a luscious deep red with gold writing, featuring the words warming and enhanced sensation. My lady-loins gave me a little shiver. Focusing here would be impossible. “On second thought, camping supplies is probably pretty quiet.”

  Nick didn’t budge or even look at me. He was too busy considering two different types of lube. “Got a preference?”

  “Or frozen vegetables?”

  He dropped the purple bottle into the cart and shook his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I dragged my eyes off a small flower-shaped vibrator. Focus, Stella. Focus. I worked my hands into fists and looked up at Nick.

  Here were the facts: He was a tatted-up biker with a felony record and a swagger. He was hunky. He was manly. He was looking at me like he wanted to rip off all my clothes and get us booked for public indecency. And we hadn’t even gotten on the highway.

  So I had to work with all of that. There was, I was very well aware, no fighting the force that was Nick Norton. That meant it was best to stick to the canvas that we had already. To add something that fit with what he already appeared to be. But it had to be something unusual enough to distract from what was already there as well. I ran my eyes up his arms and over his muscular chest. I zeroed in on his thick, tanned neck. And that was when it hit me.

  He’d given me the answer already, and he didn’t even know it. It was the only thing he’d mentioned about the guy who had arrested him. “Remember you told me about that guy you met during that thing in Santa Fe?”

  Nick squinted for a second, then nodded and lifted his eyebrow. “Before I went . . . on vacation?”

  “Yeah. Remember what you said?” I asked.

  His eyes widened, and he placed his palm between his collarbone and his ear on the right side. “It was a bald eagle. Ugliest fucking thing I ever saw.”

  “Think it was real?”

  Nick shook his head. “Looked it. But now I doubt it.”

  I nibbled on my finger and looked him in the eye. If we had been planning this in February, it would’ve taken a special trip or even an online order. But fortunately, it was the season of roasted chiles, frost in the morning . . . and Halloween costumes.

  “Come with me,” I said, and maneuvered the cart toward the seasonal merchandise.

  The temporary tattoos were sandwiched between the princess costumes and the masks. I scanned the rows and options. There was the usual array of butterflies, d
olphins, lotuses, and tribal ropes. I was no stranger to temporary tattoos. I’d been sticking them on Roxie for fun—and for jobs—for years.

  “They never look real, Stella,” Nick said. “If they did, I wouldn’t be inked up like a Bic pen.”

  “I know,” I said as I considered a pair of boxing gloves, but quickly moved on. “I’ve got something in my makeup bag, though. It’s what costume designers use for this stuff. Works great. We just have to find the right one.”

  And there, at the bottom, I saw it. It was naughty, edgy, and very him. Or maybe very us.

  A sexy pinup girl.

  She had long dark hair and wore an old-fashioned polka-dot bikini. She had a little line of cleavage, and she stood on her tiptoes in bare feet. “What about this?”

  Nick studied it for a second, but I could tell he wasn’t totally sold. It was a little bit wholesome for him, I did have to admit. He looked at the rack again, and that was when he began to smile. He crouched down and grabbed the one that had been behind my choice.

  “How about this?” Nick said.

  It was another pinup girl, but this one had her hand on her hip, her shoulder raised, and underneath her bent leg was a small box of TNT. She was in a leopard-skin bikini, with shoulder-length blonde hair, motorcycle boots . . . and bright-red lips. Just like me in my bad-girl disguise. “Minus the TNT, it’s a perfect match,” I said as I dropped it in the cart.

  “Nah, gorgeous,” he said as we headed for the checkout. “You’ve got dynamite under you. I promise.”

  “I do?” I asked, leaning into him and giggling.

  “Oh yeah,” he growled. “A ton at least.”

  30

  NICK

  As we drove, we went over the plan. We were on I-40, going west, still marked on every sign as Route 66. We ran the plans backward and forward and tried to predict every eventuality that we could. Every contingency and every last-minute aww fuck curveball that might come our way. I played devil’s advocate, which kind of pissed her off. But it was necessary, and I fucking loved getting the chance to fire her up. “All right, hot stuff. Security cameras. Hit me.”

  “There aren’t any in the hallways,” she said, all sassy and confident.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “You’re joking.”

  She shook her head and pouted. “People just think there are cameras in the hallways. But people watch too much Ocean’s Eleven.” She roughed up the wig to give her hair a little more body. Va-va-fucking-voom.

  But hang on, hang on. “You mean to tell me that there are no cameras in the hallways of the Ritz Goddamned Carlton?” I leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel. “No fucking way.”

  Again she shook her head. “We checked when we were there. None. And fun fact: even on the Vegas Strip, only four out of the twenty-seven hotels use them, and those only to surveil the elevators.”

  From there, we talked prints and logistics and escape routes. Some of it we couldn’t be sure about until we got there—timing, placement, how best to fuck up the guard’s hair and ensure he’d head straight for the shower.

  In Gallup, we pulled off the highway to stop for gas and grab something to eat, waiting at stoplights that swung on wires in the ceaseless wind. We ate sopapillas with honey butter and drank watermelon juice from Styrofoam cups into which Stella etched our fake initials in arrow-struck hearts with her fingernail. We passed Defiance and Manuelito and crossed over into Arizona at Lupton. Somehow, passing the NOW LEAVING NEW MEXICO sign made shit get very real. We were doing this thing. And that seemed as good a moment as any to bring up the elephant in the room.

  Money.

  She was shotgun, holding Priscilla, scratching her tummy and playing with her paws. I kept one hand on the wheel. With the other, I gave Stella’s leg a squeeze. “Listen, just so you know, I’m not in this for the cash.”

  She raised her sunglasses and turned to me. “I know that. I never thought you were. But if we share the risk, it’s only fair that we share the reward. I think half and half is what makes the most sense.”

  Jesus Christ. Fifty-fifty was a fucking sweet offer, but way too generous. “I’m your pinch hitter, Stella. You can’t be paying me for the whole season.”

  She smiled a little and rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dude. The going gets awkward and you lean on baseball.”

  “Keep your woman-logic off my man-brain,” I said, totally unable to keep the smile off my face. “But seriously. What about Roxie’s son, Ruth’s plans, Mr. Bozeman? Your ranch? I don’t need the cash like you do.”

  Priscilla nuzzled into Stella’s T-shirt. “But you’ve got bills of your own. You’re starting over too.”

  I didn’t need the reminder. The Texan had texted me every day since I saw him last. The guy was like an incurable rash. But she was more important than any of that shit. “I’m doing it for you. You know that.”

  Her cheeks flushed bright red, like she’d just run a mile. “Fine. Then forty-sixty.”

  That still didn’t leave her with as much as I wanted her to have. “No dice.”

  Now she was getting a little indignant, all flared nostrils and furrowed eyebrows. I liked her pretty, but I liked her pissed off too. “What? Who bargains backward? You want less than forty?”

  “Yeah. Twenty-five. Split it four ways. That’s the most I’ll take. And it’s way more than I need.”

  She sighed hard and looked out the window. “You’re a piece of work.”

  Said the pot to the kettle. “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  It took her a few mile markers to respond, but finally she did. “That’s more than fair. And the girls will be grateful.”

  I had a very real feeling that I wasn’t going win a whole lot of arguments with her, so I reveled in this victory. “Good. So we got a deal?” I asked, and stuck out my right hand. Stella looked at it and laughed a little.

  “Gonna leave a guy hanging out here? Shake my damned hand,” I teased her. “Hurry before I spit in my palm.”

  That wonderful laugh filled the RV, but still, she didn’t shake my hand. Instead, she took my right hand in her left one. And squeezed.

  We drove on like that, hand in hand, for miles. The horizon seemed endless, and there were thunderclouds in the distance. We passed a sign that said NEXT REST STOP, 170 MILES. Stella had her hand in mine, and Johnny Cash boomed from the stereo. She was singing along to “A Boy Named Sue,” bringing down the house. In other words, life was perfect.

  That is, until I pressed the accelerator . . . and smoke started to pour out from under the Love Boat’s hood.

  We pulled off on the side of the highway, near the exit for Canyon Diablo and Two Guns. I yanked the lever to pop the hood, while Stella thumbed worriedly through the handbook, which was cute as hell but wouldn’t help us at all. I didn’t tell her so, though, because as she read she leaned forward slightly, making her seat belt tighten across her chest. The Johnny Cash T-shirt was cut low enough to reveal the soft white inside curve of her right breast. It was like being hypnotized. Cash was flipping me the bird, and I didn’t give a shit. Not until she glanced at me did I snap out of it. “Jesus. Sorry.”

  “Staring at my girls?”

  “They’re like an eclipse, Stella. It’s impossible to look away.”

  She made an embarrassed tsk and tucked the manual back into the glove box. Priscilla zoomed around the RV once, then tried to climb up into Stella’s lap, her hind feet flailing in the air. Stella whispered, “Think I better take her outside. Probably needs to t-i-n-k-l-e.”

  I unbuckled my seat belt, while Priscilla danced around in circles because she definitely knew how to spell. “Be careful,” I told Stella. “Snakes and whatever.”

  She snorted a little. “Do I look like the sort of girl who wanders off into the sagebrush? Even in boots?”

  Actually, she looked like every fantasy I never knew I deserved to have, made real. I liked her in the wig, I liked her without. I liked her dark, I liked her
light. I liked Stella Peretti every fucking way she’d let me have her. Tucking a few poop bags into her pocket, she slid out of the passenger’s side with Priscilla and sashayed her perfect hips down the side of the road. Priscilla galloped ahead, into the twenty wonderful feet of retractable leash freedom.

  Stella knelt down to adjust her boot while Priscilla ran circles around her, winding the leash ever tighter. Even with the doors closed, I heard the laugh.

  The part of my heart she’d already unlocked started talking. Is this what love feels like?

  The part of my heart that hadn’t been unlocked answered. Hold your goddamned horses.

  Except I didn’t want to hold them. Not at all.

  I got out of the RV and climbed up on the front fender. A plume of smoke escaped from under the hood as I propped it open. It smelled hot, like a dusty electric heater. The whole engine was ticking and hissing, so I went back inside the RV and took a fresh dishtowel from where it hung on the miniature oven. Back under the hood, I wrapped it around my hand and undid the radiator filler cap. Using the flashlight I had on my keys, I tried to check the fluid level, but I couldn’t see shit. So I gathered up a mouthful of saliva and spat inside. It hissed back at me like a hot griddle.

  Bone dry.

  About fifty feet away Stella was talking to Priscilla, who was actually smiling up at her like a show dog as she pranced along the gravel on the shoulder. I saw the glint of Stella’s smile too, and she put one hand on her hip. The fall sun was blazing, and Stella tucked the edges of her T-shirt up, revealing her bare arm. Priscilla squatted and peed on a clump of grass, and Stella gave a few happy claps. Not too far past her, heat snakes shimmered up in the end-of-the-day shadows. It was like a mirage, and she was in the middle of it. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and using the one bar that I got next to my roaming signal, I searched for nearby mechanics.

  Even though I’d spent a lot of my life in the desert, I was pretty much a city guy. I was more in my element in Phoenix or Albuquerque or even Pueblo than in East Jesus, Arizona. Which is exactly where we were, according to Google.