Wife Is A 4-Letter Word

by Stephanie Bond

  Alan surveyed his traveling companion and winced. If his head didn’t hurt so much, he’d probably be laughing. Pam Kaminski, the perpetual playmate, looked like a rag doll in her stained, smelly, ugly gown. Her hair was lank and damp, her mouth slack in slumber. He flagged the busy attendant and quietly asked for more towels, then carefully leaned toward Pam, trying not to wake her.

  With fierce concentration, he delicately wiped her face, admiring the fine texture and translucence of her creamy complexion, and the long fringe of lashes on her sleep-flushed cheeks. She never once stirred, not even when he dabbed at the corners of her upside-down mouth. But for the first time ever in the presence of Pamela Kaminski, Alan felt himself stir.

  He shifted in his seat, trying to stern the rush of inappropriate feelings for his ex-fiancée’s best friend. But sitting there in her mussed gown with her mussed hair, she looked like the grubby little tigress she’d been in high school, all piss and vinegar, and she made his blood simmer.

  Passing a hand over his face, Alan blamed the lapse on his own lingering drunkenness. He hadn’t made a big enough fool out of himself already today—why not make a pass at Pam and watch her laugh until she vomited again.

  PAM WAS A BIRD flying over a landfill, dipping and diving, the stink of rotting trash permeating the air. She started awake and blinked, disoriented at first, then realized with a jolt that she was on a plane hurtling toward a shared honeymoon with Alan Parish, and that the stink was her.

  “Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and pulled herself straighter in the seat, flinching at the explosion of pain in her temples. She turned her head oh-so-slowly to see Alan zonked out, snoring softly and leaning against the wall. His expensive black tux was probably beyond cleaning, but his mottled jacket still lay folded neatly across his lap. Embarrassment flooded her when she remembered how he’d held the airsick bags as she filled them. She smiled wryly. Alan had surprised her.

  A ball of white fuzz dangled in his hair, and she reached forward impulsively to remove it. Awareness leaped through her when she touched the silky blond strands, which was almost as alarming as the feeling of warmth that flooded her as she watched his chest rise and fall. Awake, he was Alan the Automaton. But relaxed in sleep, he looked downright sexy. A memory surfaced...she’d had an absurd crush on him for the short time she had attended the private school his family practically owned.

  Before she had time to explore the amazing revelations, the attendant who had earlier emptied the linen closet on Pam’s behalf, touched her arm and murmured, “Are you feeling better, ma’am?”

  Pam nodded gingerly.

  The woman smiled gently. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Parish—this flight wasn’t a very promising start to a honeymoon.”

  Confusion clouded her brain. “But I’m not—” She glanced up at the woman and smiled tightly. The situation was too convoluted to explain. “It’ll be fine once we get to Fort Myers.”

  “Congratulations—was it a long engagement?” the woman pressed.

  “N-no,” Pam stammered, suddenly nervous. “This was all quite sudden. Could you direct me to the bathroom, please?”

  The blue-suited attendant pointed and smiled, then walked back down the aisle.

  Pam slowly pulled herself to a standing position, but the movement stirred up a fetid smell from her dress. Swallowing her urge to gag, she gathered her skirt in her hands, hiked her dress up to her knees and sidled her way to the lavatory.

  Not sure what she expected, she was nonetheless disappointed by the cramped booth. “People actually have sex in here?” she mumbled. A glance in the mirror evoked a shocked groan. Her makeup had disappeared, except for mascara that rimmed her eyes. Her hair was a sky-high rat’s nest of tangles. Miserable, she looked down at her dress and shuddered—nothing much she could do there.

  After washing her face with cool water, she opened her makeup bag to repair as much damage as possible. At the last minute, she held up a perfume bottle and gave her dress a couple of squirts. Too late, she realized she’d only intensified the stench. Cursing under her breath, she exited the cubicle and made her way self-consciously back to her seat, aware of passengers recoiling in her wake.

  Alan was still dozing when she lowered herself into the seat. The pounding in her head had lessened, making room for reality to ooze into the crevices of her brain. In her occupation, vacations were hard to come by because time off meant missed commissions on home deals that were possibly months in the making. She’d passed up a week in Jamaica with Nick the All-Nighter, and a long weekend in San Francisco with Delectable Dale.

  Only to squander seven days in close, romantic quarters with Annoying Alan.

  The captain’s voice came over the intercom and announced they were beginning their final descent to Fort Myers. Beside her, Alan roused and started to smile, then his nostrils flared. “Oh my,” he said, his eyes watering.

  Pamela frowned sourly. “You’re no fresh breeze yourself.”

  “A shower would feel pretty good right now,” Alan agreed, then touched his forehead. “Not to mention a couple of aspirin. We really tied one on.”

  Pam nodded. “Tequila will make you say and do strange things.” She caught his gaze and studied his eyes, wondering if he was having as many misgivings about his hasty invitation as she was about her impulsive acceptance.

  But his ice-blue eyes gave away nothing. “Better buckle up,” he said, pointing, then smiled shyly. “Need a hand?”

  Inhaling sharply, she shook her head. She could handle the guys who thought they were macho, the self-assured lady-killers—they were safely shallow. What she couldn’t handle was Alan’s Mr. Nice Guy persona...it threw her off balance.

  It was six-thirty when they emerged from the airport, and dusk appeared to be converging. With only a few wrong turns, they found the car rental where Alan’s reservations had been made.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said, smiling sympathetically. “We’re all out of full-size luxury cars. We’ll have to step you down—with a sizable discount, of course.”

  Alan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’ll take a midsize.”

  The man tapped on the keyboard, then made a clicking noise with his cheek. “No, sorry.”

  “Utility vehicle?”

  More clicking. “Nada.”

  Alan pursed his lips. “What do you have available?”

  The man smiled and pointed out the window to a row of tiny white compacts.

  Alan shook his head firmly. “No way.”

  Pam frowned. He was exhibiting typical Parish behavior. “Alan,” she whispered loudly. “What do you mean ‘no way’? It’s a lousy rental car—what do you expect?”

  He looked at her and mirrored her frown. “The best.”

  She crossed her arms impatiently and tapped her foot. “I’m tired, sick and cranky—get the stupid car and let’s go.”

  His mouth thightened in displeasure, but he nodded curtly to the clerk.

  “I’ll drive,” Alan announced firmly a few minutes later as they approached the little car.

  “Fine,” Pamela said, not missing the dig. “I hope this resort is close by—I’m beat.”

  With a lot of cursing from Alan, and frustrated mutterings from Pam, they finally managed to wedge themselves into the car. Alan unfolded the map he’d purchased, taking up the entire interior of the car. “Looks like about a twenty-minute drive.” Then he spent fourteen minutes rattling the map, trying to refold it.

  Pam leaned her head back, forcing thoughts of the coming week from her mind. She’d just roll with the punches, as always. Why was she letting a few days with Alan rattle her? She was safe—the man wasn’t the least bit attracted to her. But it was his uptight idiosyncrasies that were going to drive her crazy. He was still rattling that damned map-She reached over and tore it from his hands, wadded it into a ball and tossed it in the back seat. “Let’s go.”

  ALAN SQUINTED at a sign as they drove by. “Did that sign say Penwrote
or Pinron?”

  “We’re lost, aren’t we?”

  He scoffed and pushed up his glasses. “Of course not.”

  She sighed dramatically. “Oh, yeah, we’re lost, all right.”

  “‘Lost’ is a relative term.”

  “And I guess you’re one of those guys who’d rather run out of gas than stop and ask for directions.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t destroyed the map—”

  “Forget the map—pull off at the next exit.”

  Suddenly the car wobbled. At a thumping sound on the back right side of the car, he slowed. “Dam it,” he mumbled as he steered the lame car to the shoulder of the road. “We’ve got a flat.”

  “Beautiful,” Pam said, throwing her hands up in the air. “We’re lost and we have a flat.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault.” He shoved the gearshift into park. “You’re the one who insisted we take this, this...matchbox car to begin with!”

  “So call them to bring us another car.”

  “My cell phone is in my suitcase in Savannah.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out her own mobile phone, but frowned. “The battery’s dead.”

  “Great. This is just great!”

  She pointed down the highway. “There’s probably a phone off that exit.”

  Exasperated, Alan said, “I’m sure there is, but by the time I’ve walked that far, I could have the tire changed.”

  She sighed mightily once more, then opened the passenger-side door and stepped out. Alan did the same and walked back to the tiny trunk, swaying as vehicles passed them at terrific speeds.

  “Are you sure you know how to do this?” Pam asked suspiciously.

  “Sure,” he said with false confidence. He’d once read a roadside manual, and he was sure the information would come back to him. Men just knew these things, didn’t they?

  Thirty minutes later, he was on his back, still trying to position the jack, when he looked over to see Pamela standing with her skirt hiked up to her thighs, and her thumb jerked to the side.

  “What the heck are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Getting us a ride,” she yelled matter-of-factly.

  “Would you please cover yourself? You’ll attract every serial killer in the vicinity.”

  “I don’t care, as long as he’ll give us a ride to the resort.”

  “I’ve almost got it,” he lied.

  “Sure,” she said, unconvinced, then smiled wide into oncoming traffic.

  He heard the sound of a large vehicle slowing down and glanced over to see a big rig edging onto the shoulder in front of their cracker-box car.

  “It worked!” she squealed, trotting toward the truck.

  Alan heaved himself to his feet and took off after her, grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to a halt “Are you crazy? Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to accept rides from strangers?”

  Pam angled her head at him. “Alan, there’s no one stranger than you.” Then she yanked her arm out of his grasp.

  He frowned at the tire iron in his hand, then tested its weight and hurried after her. At least he could break the serial killer’s knees if he tried anything funny.

  The burly, bearded murderer was already climbing down from his rig, doffing his cap to his vivacious victim. The man hadn’t yet noticed him, Alan observed.

  “Howdy, little lady, having car trouble?”

  He couldn’t hear Pam’s response, but from the tilt of her head, he assumed it was something pathetically feminine and appropriate. She did at least gesture back to Alan, and the man looked up at him, frowning at the tire iron in his hand. Alan swung it casually as he stepped up beside Pain, slapping the metal bar against his left palm as if he wielded the weapon often—and well.

  “Name’s Jack,” the man said cautiously as he extended his grubby hand to Alan.

  Alan sized him up. Jack the Ripper, Jack the Jackal, Jugular Jack.

  Shifting the bar to his left hand, Alan firmly shook the paw the man offered, then spit on the ground in what he hoped was a universal he-man gesture.

  “I’m Pamela and this is Alan,” Pam said cloyingly, her eyes shining.

  Jack looked them over. “You two just get married?”

  “No,” Alan said.

  “Yes,” Pam declared.

  The trucker looked between them, and took a tentative step backward.

  Pam shot Alan a desperate look. “I mean, yes,” Alan said, conjuring up a laugh. He shrugged and winked at the man. “Still can’t get used to the idea.”

  “We just need a ride,” Pam said quickly. “To the...” She looked to Alan for help.

  “The Pleasure Palisades,” Alan said, somewhat self-consciously. Pam raised an eyebrow and he felt his neck grow warm.

  Turning back to the man, she asked, “Do you know where it is?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, tugging at his chin. “Y’all ever been there?”

  “No,” Alan said. “My secretary moonlights as a travel agent—she made all the arrangements. I hear it’s a very nice place.”

  The trucker pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. “Yep.”

  “Can we get a ride?” Pam pressed. “We’ll be glad to pay you for your trouble.” She dug her elbow deep into Alan’s rib. He gasped, then nodded.

  “No bother,” Jack said, turning to walk toward his truck. He swept his arm ahead of him. “Climb on in.”

  “What’re you hauling?” Pam’s new drawl and buoyant step were evidence she’d already bought into the little adventure.

  “Hogs,” the man said proudly as he climbed up to open the passenger-side door.

  “Hogs?” Alan parroted as Pamela clambered inside. She was barefoot again, carrying her shoes in one hand.

  “Yep.” The man grinned as he waited for Alan to get in beside her. Still gripping the tire iron solidly, Alan glanced over his shoulder uneasily.

  “You’ll need to put down that tire iron, son,” the man said bluntly.

  Alan straightened and puffed out his chest. “And why is that?”

  Another grin. “So you can hold Barbecue,” the man said, pointing inside.

  “Oh, it’s a baby!” Pam cooed.

  Letting down his guard slightly, Alan slid one eye toward the cab. Pamela was sprawled in the seat, leaning over to fondle a tiny pig on the floorboard.

  “That’s Barbecue,” the man said, laughing. “Born a few days ago. The rest of the litter died, so I figured I’d keep him up here till the end of the run.”

  “He’s adorable,” Pam said, squealing as loudly as the nervous, quivering pig.

  “Get in, son,” Jack said, giving him a slight shove.

  Alan spilled into the deep seat. The door banged closed behind him. “We’re goners,” he said to Pam.

  Her forehead creased. “What?”

  “The man’s probably got all kinds of butcher tools on him, and a meat hook for each one of us.”

  “You’re paranoid,” she scoffed. “We’re lucky he stopped.”

  Jack opened his door and climbed up behind the huge steering wheel, effectively halting their conversation. He pulled down the bill of his cap, then started the truck. It rumbled and coughed, then lurched into gear. “To the Pleasure Palisades,” he crowed, slapping his knee. “You folks will have a dandy wedding night there.”

  Alan’s heart pounded and he didn’t dare look at Pam. He glanced at his watch and almost laughed out loud. Less than eight hours ago, he was ready to walk down the aisle to marry Jo Montgomery, hoping the act of commitment would put a new spin on their lackluster sex life. Instead he was sitting in the cab of a big pig rig with a woman who smelled almost as bad as the cargo, with only the promise of a lumpy sofa bed to sleep on—if they ever made it to the resort.

  Pamela chatted with Jack, while Alan sank deeper into the seat. He felt moisture on his foot and looked down in time to see Barbecue squatting over his shoe. Alan didn’t have the energy to pull away, so he simply lay his head back on the cracked vinyl. H
e’d officially sunk to the level of piglet pee post. What a poetic way to sum up the day.

  3

  “ARE YOU SURE this is it?” Pamela peered out the window at the four-story structure. Half of the sign’s neon letters were unlit.

  “Yep,” Jack said.

  “Linda said it was an older resort, but with a lot of atmosphere.” Alan said, frowning slightly. “It’s beach-front, though—I think I can see the water from here.”

  “Well, it’s hard to tell much in the dark,” Pam said agreeably, allowing Alan to help her down from the truck. His hands were strong around her waist, and he set her only a few inches in front of him. Surprised at her body’s reaction, she quickly stepped back.

  They looked up and waved to thank the trucker. Jack leaned out of his window and yelled, “Wish I were you tonight, son. She’s a looker!”

  Pleased, Pam grinned, then glanced at Alan. He’d turned beet red and his smile was tight as he nodded at the man, speechless. Pam felt sorry for Alan being put on the spot, so she scrambled for something to smooth over the moment. “Well, let’s get checked in. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”

  Too late, she realized she’d only added fuel to the fire. Alan cleared his throat, then turned toward the entrance. Without the lights of the truck, the parking lot was plunged into darkness. She took a step, then stumbled and grabbed the back of his jacket on the way down, very nearly taking him with her. He straightened and reached for her, his hands moving over her in search of a handhold. She felt him latch on to her shoulder and heard the rip of fabric as he came up with a handful of chiffon ruffles. He cursed and pulled her to her feet with an impatient sigh. “Do you think we can manage the last hundred yards without another catastrophe?”