Fall Into Me: Hearts of the South

by Linda Winfree

  “Yes, well, it’s not like I can be ugly about it, you know?” Heat flushed her cheeks. For the second time in three days, he’d been privy to the mess she’d made with some other man. “I see her at the bank almost every day and his parents go to church with mine.”

  Troy Lee’s gaze trailed over her face. “He’s an idiot.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s the only explanation for his letting you go.”

  Keep it light. Keep it fun. Repeating the mantra, she tapped his knee. “You’re a sweetheart. I think I like hanging out with you.”

  She’d expected a deep chuckle and more of his cheerful teasing. Instead, a frown brought his brows together. “I wish you wouldn’t—”

  “Here are your drinks anyway. Bill’s putting a rush on your order, but it’ll be a couple more minutes.” Lisa’s breezy voice shattered the sudden tension hanging around them. “Troy Lee, you want me to go ahead and ring you up?”

  Troy Lee held Angel’s gaze a moment longer, the intensity of his regard making it hard not to squirm. Then he pushed up and tugged his wallet free, the moment with its weird crackling awareness sliding away as he crossed to pay for their food. Whatever he’d been about to say disappeared in the busyness of collecting their breakfast once it arrived and returning to the Jeep.

  Somehow, the shining promise of the morning seemed tarnished, although she wasn’t sure how so. Because of Jim? Because of her own reaction to Troy Lee’s disparagement of Jim’s choices? Whatever it was, she stared out at the passing townscape and found herself wishing for those moments when he’d held her hand against his leg or teased about kissing her. That made absolutely no sense, because they were simply in this to spend the day together as friends, to enjoy themselves. So why this sudden urge to mourn for something lost?

  Once they arrived at Riverfront Park, he jockeyed the Wrangler into a spot near the fountain, its myriad jets sending random spouts of water sparkling into the air. Determined to put them back on the same old footing, Angel pinned on a bright smile as he came around to open her door. And if he didn’t take her hand this time…well, he was carrying the bag holding their breakfast. Even if he did have it hooked over his wrist, coffee in the same hand, and his right one free.

  Below the sidewalk and the landscaped seating areas, a sloping bank of grass fell away toward the murmuring river, edged now with a wide concrete walkway. He gestured toward the covered gazebo next to the playground then toward the benches that lined the waterfront. “Where do you want to sit?”

  Lord, why did it all feel so awkward between them now? She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated nonchalant shrug and sipped at the warm tea, laden with strawberry sweetness. “The gazebo’s fine.”

  He swept a hand in that direction, ushering her to precede him. There, she slid onto a bench at one of the small tables dotting the cedar floor and shivered a little, the warmth of the sunlight dissipating under the heavy roof. Silently, his face devoid of expression, he set out their food and took the seat opposite hers, his attention turned out over the sluggish brown water.

  She unwrapped her sandwich, the crusty golden bread dusted with powdered sugar. The idea of choking it down tightened her throat. “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  His blue gaze darted in her direction. “Not much. I may go for a run with Chris. Band practice this afternoon before we play your place tonight.”

  Nodding, she reached for a piece of kiwi. Still seeking a way to take them back where they’d been, she wrinkled her nose in a cheeky moue. “I love when y’all play the club. The local girls hear you’re on stage and show up in droves.”

  His brows twisted in a long-suffering grimace. “Yeah.”

  She nudged his foot with hers. “Oh, what’s the matter, Troy Lee? Most guys would love to be in your place.”

  He unfolded the wax paper around his sandwich. “What place is that?”

  “Being the county heartthrob.” She tore off a small bite of toasty crust. “I mean, come on. We both know you have your pick of the local women.”

  He looked up then, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “You think?”

  The heavy irony in his voice didn’t make sense. She swiped her finger across the white dusting on her sandwich before licking the sweet substance from her fingertip. “What is wrong with you?”

  His gaze dropped to her finger and mouth, then lifted to her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “That’s my line, boy.” She reached for her tea. “Women own that word, remember?”

  He didn’t rise to her teasing, his gaze locked on hers. “Don’t call me boy. I’m at least eight years beyond that, Angel.”

  “You”—she pointed at him—“are in a weird mood.”

  For a long moment, he watched her before the lingering tension drained from his features. “Yeah.” He glanced away toward the water once more. “Something like that.”

  She eyed his profile. A muscle flicked in his jaw. She picked up her sandwich, took a bite she didn’t really taste, chewed, swallowed. “So what are y’all playing tonight?”

  “Probably the usual.” He turned his attention back to her, or at least his food, reaching for his own PBJ. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep the dance floor hopping.”

  With the shift in topic, the awkwardness diminished somewhat and they spent the following minutes eating, sharing more silence than conversation. When they’d finished, he collected the wrappers and bag and dropped them in a nearby trashcan. Turning, he dusted his hands. “Ready for that walk?”

  “Oh Mark, no.”

  At Tori’s exaggerated groan, Mark slanted a look at her while he put the Blazer in park. “What?”

  She cast a glum appraisal around the lot belonging to Uncle Robert’s Used Cars. “I despise car shopping.”

  “We’re not shopping. We’re looking.” The door creaked as he pushed it open and came around to open hers. She turned sideways in her seat but didn’t slide from the truck.

  “It’s not like you’re going to part with the Blazer, so this is pointless.” She perked up, a smile curving her mouth, and she ran a teasing finger down the center of his chest. “There is, however, a little vintage shop just around the corner. That, my dear love, is the way to spend Saturday morning. Antiquing. Not car shopping.”

  “No.” He kissed her. “No antiques. Not today.”

  “But you’re going to make me look at cars you have no intention of buying.” She pouted but let him pull her from the cab. “At least I purchase things when I go shopping.”

  He turned her to face the massive offering of vehicles. “What do you want to look at?”

  “Iron bedsteads.” On a sigh, he gave her a look and she shrugged, completely unapologetic. “You asked what I wanted to look at.”

  “Tick’s right. You can be a brat when you want to.” He squinted at a gleaming Volvo SUV with low miles. “Doesn’t your brother Del have one of these?”

  “Yes.” Complete boredom dripped from the monosyllable.

  If an insurance salesman drove one, it had to be safe, right? He looked down the first row of vehicles, trying to remember what he’d read or heard about safety ratings, mentally checking off the models he’d seen crumpled and twisted with major injuries or fatalities involved.

  “Tor, have you ever thought about trading in that tin can of yours?”

  She groaned. “So that’s what this is about. Mark, I like my car and it’s only four years old. Besides, it’s paid for.”

  “Honey, all I’m asking you to do is look at something a little bigger and maybe safer.” He cupped her chin and rubbed his thumb across her jaw. “Seeing what that pickup did to Kaydee Davis’s Miata the other day scared the hell out of me.”

  She scowled at him for a long moment. “Fine, I’ll look. But no promises.”

  “Deal.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her close to his side. “So, what do you want to look at?”

  “Well, nothing my brother the insurance salesman
would drive.”

  They spent fifteen minutes wandering up and down the rows, deflecting an overeager salesperson, stopping to inspect a vehicle that caught her eye or his. They agreed on little concerning the cars, but Mark could think of few things better than simply being with her, their fingers intertwined, and catching a glimpse of her beautiful smile every so often.

  “Hey, this is cute.” She stopped at the end of one line, peering into a lime green Beetle. He paused at the trunk and frowned, his attention captured by what was transpiring one row over. Well, didn’t that just beat all?

  “Mark?” She joined him, laying gentle fingers on his arm. “Isn’t that Bubba Bostick?”

  “Yeah.” Mark’s mouth firmed. Bubba stood deep in conversation with a salesman while Paul circled the performance package F-150. “And that kid does not need that truck, not the way he drives.”

  Tori slid her hand down to entwine their fingers. “Maybe Scott Barlow will suspend his license after this last citation.”

  “Maybe. Might be the best thing.” Obviously, Bubba didn’t intend to stop the kid driving or even slow him down, not if he was buying that vehicle for the boy. Troy Lee’s insistence that Paul was a fatality waiting to happen echoed in Mark’s head. Man, he hoped the kid didn’t end up dead in an accident.

  “Mark?” Tori pulled him from the musings. “What do you think of the Beetle?”

  He eyed the nearly neon paint job. “I think I don’t get why someone would want a green car.”

  She wrapped her arm about his waist. “Come on, then. Let’s go look at more cars until I expire from boredom.”

  ***

  He’d screwed up, again. Considering his track record, that in itself wasn’t surprising. Troy Lee bounced the basketball off the free throw line, set his mark and shot. The net swished and he loped to retrieve the ball.

  The whole “just for a good time” angle with Angel? Massive miscalculation. The caveat, while he was pretty sure it had been what had ultimately induced her to say yes, provided her with no incentive to see him as more. However, since she obviously regarded him as too young to be seriously worth her time…well, that only exponentially compounded the problem.

  He shot from the sideline, the net swishing again.

  “Not bad for a white guy.” The gravelly voice, only recently deepened, held equal notes of friendly mockery and admiration. Devonte Richardson stood at the opposite sideline, dribbling the ball from one hand to the other in a “V” formation.

  “Yeah? Last weekend, it was not bad for an old guy.” Troy Lee held up his hands for the ball. Devonte ignored him and floated the orb toward the hoop with the effortless grace and power that had college scouts crawling over themselves to sign the seventeen-year-old senior.

  Troy Lee retrieved the ball, already feeling the flow of anticipation and competition. Weekend pick-up games of one-on-one had been a ritual for the pair since Troy Lee had first moved into the tiny one-bedroom apartment next door to the mirror-image unit Devonte shared with his grandmother.

  “Not bad for a snot-nosed kid.”

  “Snot-nosed kid’s going to whip your old, white po-po ass.” Devonte moved in to block him, gliding, arms spread wide as his smirk.

  Troy Lee quelled his own grin. “Better not let Miss Francie hear you talking like that. She’ll have your hide.”

  “Yeah? Hide this.” With a swift, practiced lunge, Devonte stole the ball in mid-dribble and took it to the goal in a beautiful lay-up.

  The move set the tone for the aggressive game, and a half hour later, Troy Lee collapsed against the chain-link fence, an arm over his midriff. He bent double a moment, staring at the glittering shards of a broken beer bottle. His chest heaved, his heart trying to thud out of his ribcage and sweat dripping from his slick skin. Playing ball with this kid was almost like running hills.

  “Whatsa matter, dawg?” Grinning and completely unwinded, Devonte moved the ball in the classic “V” once more. “Too old to take it?”

  “Something like that.” Troy Lee straightened and grabbed his discarded T-shirt to wipe his face. He looped it around his neck. “Heard FSU’s assistant coach was at your last game.”

  “Yeah, dawg. Cool, huh?”

  “Very.” Damn, his abs hurt now—not that it had anything to do with Devonte’s elbow slamming into them as Troy Lee had gone up for a shot. Off the high school court, with no refs around, the kid played ball by the rules of the hood. College though…college would be good for him, good for Miss Francie, would give him an opportunity a lot of the local kids never got. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘dawg’?”

  Devonte’s only answer was a shrug and another wide smirk. Troy Lee shook his head and rubbed a hand over his chest. The heartburn was acting up again, and while he’d like to blame it on that elbow to the gut, he knew it had more to do with worrying over where he stood with Angel.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go clean up and get ready to play tonight. Say hey to your grandma for me.”

  Devonte performed a flawless hook shot. “Man, when you gonna learn to play some real music?”

  Funny, his high school music teacher, the one who’d pushed so hard for him to apply to Julliard had often asked the same thing. With a wave, Troy Lee ambled back to the long, low brick building that made up one leg of the aging low-income housing project. The heavy smell of frying chicken and simmering greens wafted from Miss Francie’s open window. In his own apartment, after popping a couple of Tums, he dropped the sweat-damp shirt in the hamper and eyed his torso in the mirror over the tiny vanity. He ran a hand across the mark at the top of his belly, centered between his ribs. Yep, that was gonna bruise.

  After a shower, he donned jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his guitar and headed for the Jeep. He paused while stowing the instrument case and frowned at the sight that greeted him. On the side street, Devonte climbed into the rear passenger seat of a late-model, still-bearing-the-dealer-tags Ford F-150.

  A new Ford F-150 with a hopped-up performance package engine and Paul Bostick behind the wheel. The truck rumbled off in a blast of loud music. Shaking his head, Troy Lee settled in the driver’s seat. He didn’t get some parents. Reward the kid for causing what could have easily been a fatal wreck by buying him a forty-thousand-dollar pickup.

  He backed out of his parking space and headed in the direction of the Cue Club, trying to quell the anxiety jumping in his stomach and making the acid burn into his chest all over again. Somehow, he had to find a way to convince Angel he had what it took to be something more than her “just a good time”.

  A cramp stabbed at Angel’s left arch and she leaned on the bar, lifting that foot behind her. Patrons packed the club and she’d been hustling all night, trying to help Julie stay caught up at the bar. Julie had hollered out last call ten minutes before and the band was winding down with their traditional final number, but no one seemed willing to straggle out yet.

  A regular ambled up and passed over his credit card to settle his tab. Angel took it with a smile and returned the aching foot to the floor with ginger caution.

  “Thank you. Good night!” Troy Lee’s voice, amplified by the sound system, rumbled over her. He grinned, mouth close to the mike, and lifted a hand. “Y’all go home.”

  How many times had she heard him close a set with those words? Tonight she wasn’t sure if she was glad to hear them or not. Her feet hurt and she was tired, so going home sounded good on that accord. However, closing down probably meant seeing him for a few minutes, something that made her inexplicably nervous. The morning had gone well, even with that weirdness at the beginning of breakfast, so no reason existed why she should be anxious about talking to him.

  Wasn’t like they were serious or anything.

  “Thanks, Hugh.” Angel passed the credit card and receipt over. Shoot, even her face hurt from pasting on so many smiles tonight. Not that she was complaining, mind you. She loved when business was good. She was just bone-deep tired.

  J
ulie nudged her and tilted her chin toward the stage. “These girls are crazy-stupid over that boy.”

  Following the direction of Julie’s gaze, Angel watched as Troy Lee and Clark Dempsey, the EMT who played drums for the small group, were waylaid by a little blonde and a willowy brunette, both in their very early twenties. The blonde giggled and held out a permanent marker in Troy Lee’s direction. While he uncapped it, she tugged down the already low vee of her T-shirt, exposing the rounded curve of her upper breast and the edge of a lacy red bra.

  “Oh my God.” Julie laughed, a puffing, choked titter. “Did he just sign her boob?”

  “He sure did.” To Angel’s relief, her voice came out normal after fighting its way past the tsunami of possessive pique swamping her. The blonde graced Clark with the opportunity to autograph her other breast and the brunette touched Troy Lee’s arm, rubbing her palm over his biceps as she flirted. With a smile, he extricated himself from the contact.

  Angel swallowed hard. Darn it, this whole scenario shouldn’t kick her in the chest the way it did. They were friends and she didn’t own him. Besides, she knew what it was like to be passed over in favor of a younger, more desirable woman.

  The brunette snagged the marker from Clark as he finished his signature with a flourish. With a sultry flutter of her lashes, she passed it to Troy Lee and turned her back on him, hitching the waistline of her hip-riding jeans down just a bit to provide him room to sign the small of her back. The thin pink strand of a rhinestone-dusted thong rested across her hip above the faded denim. Eyebrows raised, Troy Lee exchanged a look with Clark but bent to scrawl his name across the smooth skin just the same.

  Angel pulled her gaze from the tableau. As the club’s patrons trickled out, she buried herself closing out tabs, tallying receipts and disbursing charged tips to servers.

  Behind her, wood clattered on the polished bar. “Hey.”

  She tensed at Troy Lee’s voice, the rich tones sliding over her like caressing fingers. She schooled her features and turned to face him. “Hey yourself.”