The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

by Lauri Robinson

  Nothing excited him more than getting the scoop, and this story meant more to him than all the others had put together. He’d been there when Rex Gaynor had been put behind bars and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure the man was put back there again. “All right, doll, let’s cut a rug.”

  She let out another lifting giggle as they headed for the dance floor.

  Although the Rooster’s Nest was located downtown, the clientele was made up of dockworkers and construction workers, with a few shady characters thrown in here and there. Which made her stand out like a blue jay flying with a flock of pigeons. This wasn’t the kind of joint where a choice piece of calico was going to find herself a sugar daddy. Add that to the fact she knew more than she should about an escaped convict and he was in 100 percent.

  A dance-off was a small price to pay in order to put an end to this story.

  Pieces of paper with the number twelve were pinned to the backs of their clothes. A total of twenty couples got numbered pieces of paper pinned to their backs while judges were being chosen from the hundred or more bystanders. As they waited, he asked the flapper, “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes lit up like flames on candlesticks freshly struck with a match. “Liberty, but you can call me Libby.”

  That wasn’t her real name. He’d bet every wooden nickel in LA on that. Still, he gave a slight nod. “All right, Libby. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Co—” She laughed. “I don’t know your name. What is it?”

  Yes, she did, but had caught herself before saying it. Which was only one of the questions he needed answered. “Lathan,” he answered, and watched her expression. No one knew his real name, his legal name, except his lawyer.

  She lifted a brow and then gave him the tiniest of nods. “It’s nice to meet you, Lathan. Which of the dances is your favorite?”

  He didn’t have a favorite. Hadn’t danced a whole lot the past seven years, and not much before then, either. Hadn’t had time back then, still didn’t. However, he wasn’t inept, and knew he’d be able to keep up with her. Instead of answering, he asked, “Which is your favorite?”

  Her smile grew even brighter. “The Lindy—no, the shimmy. Definitely the shimmy.”

  The dance that was banned in some of the high-class establishments for being too provocative. Why didn’t that surprise him? He’d be lying if he didn’t admit a piece of him wanted to see her shoulders twist and shake like she was trying to shimmy out of her chemise. That’s what made it too provocative for other joints—because that’s exactly what looked like was about to happen when women danced the shimmy. Or it could have been banned because others complained that watching flappers dance to the shimmy caused too many men to get more robust than usual.

  “They are all cherries,” she said. “Have you ever won a dance-off?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” he answered.

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the center of the dance floor. “Until tonight!”

  The words had no sooner left her mouth when the piano player struck the first chord. The atmosphere in the room instantly spiked. Something spiked inside Lane, too. Recognizing the common tune, he curved one arm around her waist and settled his hand on the small of her back while grasping her palm with his other hand. The foxtrot was similar to the waltz, just a four-four rhythm instead of a three-four, and to his favor, didn’t require any body contact.

  He started out slowly, gliding her around the floor and through the several dance sequences. She was graceful, light on her feet and quick to catch on to each twist and turn.

  “Attaboy, Oliver!” she shouted.

  Her excitement had him picking up the pace, leading her faster around the floor. People on the sidelines cheered, shouting out the number of their favorite couple.

  “Do you hear that, Oliver?” she asked. “They are cheering for us. Number twelve.”

  “I hear,” he answered. “And the name is Lathan, not Oliver.” It didn’t bother him, but, for some reason, he wanted to get credit where credit was due.

  Tossing her head back, she laughed, and then squealed slightly when she had to let go of his shoulder long enough to push her hat back down on her head.

  “You should take that off,” he suggested as they rounded the corner of the dance floor.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t wash my hair today!” She laughed. “Or yesterday!”

  Her answer was as unexpected as the enjoyment filling him. He didn’t know a woman who would have admitted that, in public, to a virtual stranger. Most were far too vain to share such information.

  Information. That’s what he needed.

  “So, what do you know about that escaped convict? Rick Gaylord, was it?”

  Her smile never faded, nor did her steps falter as she shook her head. “You know his name is Rex Gaynor, don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “I wasn’t pretending,” he answered, gliding them around another corner. The bright overhead lights shined down on her like a spotlight, and it seemed fitting. She was lovely enough to be under a spotlight. With her looks, she could be on the silver screen. Maybe that was what she was hoping, why she was here.

  No, if that was the case, she’d have chosen a classier joint than the Rooster’s Nest.

  “Then why did you call him Rick Gaylord?”

  “To see if you really knew his name,” Lane answered. It was an old trick, but one that rarely failed to work.

  Her chin lifted in a prideful way. “I do know his name. It’s Rex Gaynor. Seven years ago, he robbed a train running between LA and San Diego. He was sentenced to prison for the rest of his life, but escaped last week.”

  All that had been in today’s paper. He knew because it had not only been printed in his newspaper, he’d written the article. Seven years ago, he’d owned the Gazette for only a year, and had been working day and night to get it into every newsstand, into the hands of every person living in Los Angeles.

  His hard work had paid off. It was now the number one, most trusted source of news, not only in LA, but in the surrounding area that stretched over a hundred miles in all directions. Copies were also mailed across the nation every day. The president himself received the Gazette.

  That was more than he’d dreamed at one time, but, as he’d told himself many times, he’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen. Naomi and Sarah were casualties of his work, of his dedication. At times, he wondered why he continued because of that, losing them, then he’d remember. It was because of them that he continued to work so hard. After they’d died, the paper had been all he had. Still was.

  This time around, he was not too busy getting things off the ground to put his full attention on his family, on making sure the man who was responsible for their deaths paid the full price. Sarah had been only four months old when Naomi had contracted the flu. Naomi had recovered, but had still been exhausted, and taking care of Sarah wasn’t allowing her to get the rest she needed. The rest, and help, that he couldn’t give her because he was at the paper day and night. So he’d sent her to visit her parents, down in San Diego. They’d been gone for over a month, and her final letter to him had said that she was fully rested and ready to come home.

  They’d been on their way home when Gaynor had robbed the train. With dynamite. The explosion caught the passenger car on fire, and Naomi and Sarah had died. Just five miles south of Los Angeles.

  “Lathan? Lathan! We have to keep dancing or we’ll be eliminated!”

  He shook his head, dispelling the cobwebs that could grow so thick, so quickly, that there wasn’t room for anything else, and increased the speed of his footsteps. She was leading now, this flapper who called herself Liberty. Libby for short.

  He had no idea how long she had been leading, and quickly took over again, making a full round of the danc
e floor before the music stopped.

  There was barely time to catch a breath when it started up again. This time it was a quicker, snappier tune that filled the room with a roar from the crowd of bystanders.

  “It’s the shimmy!” she shouted. A moment later, she was in a crouched position, shaking her shoulders while holding her hands at her sides as she slowly rose upward, then leaped into the air, spun around and crouched down again.

  Not only were her shoulders shimmying, her entire torso was, and her waist and hips. The fringes of her dress were flipping and flopping in all directions.

  He joined her in the moves, but unlike her, this was not a favorite of his. It may be fun to watch, but not fun to do. Not for him.

  Until she grabbed his hands and leaped forward, pressing against him. Her shimmying body lit a fire in his. Before he knew it, he was shimmying along with her, up against her.

  “You really are an Oliver Twist, Lathan!” she shouted. “A real hoofer!”

  She’d make any man a hoofer. The girl had moves like no other. “Who taught you how to dance?” he asked.

  She released his hands and did a shimmy show for him, crouching and then slowly rising while shaking her torso so hard he was sure she would shimmy right out of that blue fringed dress. She leaped into the air and spun around, shaking her backside at him, before leaping back around.

  “No one taught me!” She grabbed his hands again. “I learned it all on my own!”

  She certainly had learned it, and he wondered what else she’d learned. Thankfully, that thought brought him back to the business at hand. “What else do you know about Rex Gaynor?”

  Pressing herself against him, she said, “Your turn. I already answered a question. What else do you know about Rex Gaynor? Something that wasn’t in today’s newspaper.”

  He knew plenty that wasn’t in the article he’d written, and that’s why it hadn’t been in the paper, he didn’t want to share any of it. He had a very good relationship with law enforcement because they trusted him to not share any information that might hinder an investigation. They also knew he’d share anything pertinent with them before printing it, and that he couldn’t be bought off, not even by the mobs. That alone had helped him grow the newspaper as much as everything else. Knowing she wouldn’t wait long for a response, he answered, “Gaynor wasn’t from California.”

  She leaned back enough to look at him. Eagerness, more than before, shone in her eyes. “Where’s he from?”

  “Out east.”

  “Everything is east of California.”

  “Hawaii isn’t.”

  Her laughter made him chuckle.

  “You are quite a bird, Lathan, quite a bird.”

  Very few people considered him funny. Then again, very few people who knew him personally would believe he was dancing the shimmy with a flapper like this. He was normally too reserved to dance more than an obligatory dance with a hostess now and again.

  “Where is he really from?” she asked. “More specifically than east.”

  “I believe it was Missouri,” he answered, waiting to see how she reacted. Gaynor was from Missouri, and if she was family, she might be surprised he knew that.

  “Missouri?” She nodded and then let go of him to crouch down.

  Lane almost groaned aloud at having to watch her do her shimmying all over again. He could look away, but there would be no fun in that, and despite all, he was having fun.

  More than he should be having.

  When her display ended and they were close together again, she said, “Lots of Old West outlaws came from Missouri.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked, truly wanting to know. Then, his mind clicked. Liberty, Missouri. The town where the James-Younger gang was from, and others. She really could be a relative of Gaynor’s. Some claim there was a connection between Gaynor and the James-Younger gang of yesteryear.

  “I read,” she said. “A lot.”

  The dance ended. Lane let her go and took a step back. This time he truly needed to catch his breath. He wasn’t given much time to do so. Within a cat’s heartbeat, the next song started.

  The tango. Which meant full-body contact.

  Lane drew in a deep breath, hooked her around the waist, grasped her other hand, and they were off, chest to chest, gliding across the floor with large, lavish steps. At the edge of the dance floor, he dipped her, then simultaneously, they spun and started back in the other direction.

  “Your turn,” he said. “What else do you know about Gaynor?”

  “That he stashed the cash he’d stolen, and is now looking for it.”

  “Where?”

  She laughed.

  It was time to dip her again, so he did, and while holding her a mere few inches off the floor asked, “Do you know?”

  “Do you?” she countered.

  She was as good at questioning as she was dancing, and in all honesty, he admired her for that. “No,” he answered truthfully, lifted her up and started back across the floor in the other direction. He truly didn’t care about the cash. He just wanted Gaynor behind bars again. Where he belonged.

  “Me, neither,” she said, to his surprise. “But I intend to find out.”

  “Why?”

  The music stopped. She took a step back and shook her head while planting her hands on her thighs and bending over, as if to completely catch her breath. “Hear that?” she asked, looking up at him under the brim of her floppy hat. “They are still shouting number twelve.”

  He gulped in air. Thoroughly needing it. He hadn’t danced three dances in a row in a very long time, but had to admit that keeping up a conversation with her while dancing chest to chest was taxing his reserves more than the fast steps.

  The piano player struck a chord and she snapped upright. “The Lindy Hop! I love the Lindy Hop!”

  “I think you love dancing, no matter what the dance is,” he said, holding out his hands for her to grasp.

  She grabbed his hands and, despite gasping for air a moment ago, she was instantly kicking up her heels. The swift twists, turns and numerous pirouettes made talking through this dance rather impossible.

  Lane was certain he’d never seen someone enjoy dancing so much. The fast tempo proved to be too much for several couples. They bowed out, stumbling to the sidelines, or danced right off the floor and onto chairs. One couple collapsed right in the middle of the other dancers.

  Right beside them.

  Seeing the couple go down, he spun Libby in the other direction just in time. Two other couples weren’t as lucky and tripped over the couple sprawled on the floor. Bystanders acted quickly, coming to the rescue of the fallen dancers, helping them off the floor before anyone else tripped.

  The competition was down to six couples when the Lindy Hop dance ended, and no one had even a moment to catch their breath before the next song started.

  “They saved the best for last!” she shouted. “The Charleston!”

  She was already kicking up her heels and crisscrossing her feet at the ankles. He joined in and soon the final six couples were in two lines, facing their partners and attempting to outdance one another to the fast tempo of the music by every means possible.

  The crowd was cheering and shouting out numbers.

  He was competitive by nature, but the excitement in her eyes increased his competitive streak tenfold. Suddenly, he wanted them to win this dance-off.

  She followed his every move like she knew exactly what he’d do next, from arms swinging to knees knocking, up and down the floor, around and back. The crowd was roaring, shouting their number, when suddenly, the woman on Libby’s left lost her balance and stumbled into Libby.

  Lane leaped forward, catching her before she fell, but the man beside him had the same idea with his partner, and the four of them ended up on the floor, arms and legs tangled amid ea
ch other.

  His heart locked in his chest at the feel of Libby’s supple body lying atop his, granting him full-body awareness like he may never have known.

  The crowd erupted, and bystanders were instantly there, separating them. He shoved aside the hands attempting to help him, leaped to his feet and pushed the men away who had hoisted Libby off him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, guiding her away from the others.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Her blue eyes were still shining as bright as when they’d been dancing. So was her smile. “Are you?”

  “I’m fine.” He guided her into a vacated chair. Amazed at her stamina and cheerfulness. Kneeling down in front of her. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she eyed him closely. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He was fine, but disappointed. More for her than for him. He wanted them to win for her. “I’m afraid we lost,” he said somberly.

  “Oh, Oliver.” She giggled and patted his cheek with one hand. “It wasn’t about winning, it was about dancing, and neither of us lost at that!”

  Something warm and unusual flooded his chest. She had to be the most remarkable woman alive. He didn’t even mind the way she called him Oliver again. “I suspect you’re right.” Another unusual sensation filled him and he shot upright. He hadn’t wanted to kiss someone in years. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t want that now. Couldn’t. It was just the atmosphere. The dancing. The fun. He hadn’t done anything like this for a long time. Stepping back, he said, “I’ll get us something to drink.”

  She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go now. The dance is almost over. We have to see who wins.” She stood and wrapped both hands around his forearm. “I do hope it’s number three.”

  He had no idea which couple was number three, and couldn’t look. His eyes wouldn’t leave her face. The enthusiasm still glowing on her face held him captive.

  The music ended while he was still staring at her, and he was still hypnotized when she flung her arms around his neck.