Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  Even if I decided to give Nick a chance, the right thing to do would be to discuss things with Brett first, let him know I wanted to slow things down, keep my options open, see other people. It would be unfair to start something with Nick before extending Brett the courtesy of letting him know where I stood.

  Did the fact that I was thinking this through mean I was seriously considering giving Nick a shot?

  Hell, I didn’t know. It could be the margarita talking.

  Nick expertly maneuvered me around the dance floor. I tried to avoid eye contact with him, but it wasn’t easy when he spun me around and I instinctively looked up at my partner to keep myself oriented. Each time I looked up, he was looking down at me, an expression on his face that was equal parts desire and pent-up frustration.

  Just say the word.

  The band played another two-step. Nick pulled me into a three-turn spin, then drew me back toward him, noticeably closer than before. Our knees and thighs bumped lightly as I tried to keep pace with his longer strides. I could feel the heat from his body against my chest, feel my nether regions swell with need.

  He pulled me closer still, until I felt the hardness of his belt buckle pressed against my stomach. There was another hardness not far below, a long, thick hardness pressed firmly against my abdomen. The guy hadn’t been kidding. He was hung like a horse.

  Hi-ho, Silver!

  Just say the word.

  The band picked up the tempo, issuing a musical challenge. Nick, likewise, picked up the pace. I was virtually running backward now. No easy feat. When the band upped the tempo once more, several couples left the dance floor, unable to keep up.

  “Come on, Tara!” Nick urged, smiling down at me. “We can do it!”

  “I can’t go any faster!”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I can!” Nick’s hand moved from my waist to cup my rear as he hoisted me onto his hip.

  Laughing, I wrapped my legs tightly around his hips and my arms around his neck, pressing my body to his chest and holding on for dear life as he spun around the dance floor with me clinging to him like a baby monkey. I felt the rumble of his chuckle in his chest, the stimulation causing my nipples to harden into almost painful points against him.

  Laughing, I threw my head back. “I’m getting dizzy!”

  He smiled down at me again. “You can do it!” He spun me around again.

  With a final burst, the song ended. Nick came to a stop, but momentum carried me around a few inches before my body stopped moving. My breasts were now pressed directly against his chest, my legs wrapped around his back, my crotch now directly aligned with his.

  I looked up at him, at those eyes that could drink a girl in, at the manly scruff on his cheeks, at those soft, warm lips that figuratively and literally begged to be kissed.

  “Kiss me, Tara.”

  I couldn’t help myself.

  I closed my eyes.

  I raised my lips to his.

  And, at the last second, I turned my head.

  Nick buried his face in my hair, groaning in my ear and pulling me even tighter against him, so tight it seemed he’d never let me go. “You’re killing me, woman.”

  He pulled his head back, put his fingers on my chin, and turned my face to his.

  Our lips were mere inches apart.

  And he was closing in.

  If he kissed me now, I’d kiss him back. I wouldn’t be able to resist. It had taken everything in me to turn my head away from him a moment before. “Please, Nick,” I whimpered. “Don’t.”

  He emitted a sound that was half moan, half sigh.

  I felt as if I were going to be ill.

  I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away. He loosened his hold on me and I slid down his body to stand in front of him.

  I couldn’t help myself this time, either. I balled my hands into fists and banged them once against Nick’s chest as hard as I could. A first kiss was supposed to be something special, not something that made a person feel sick with guilt and shame and remorse. Not that we had actually kissed. But we’d come close.

  Too close.

  How could I have let this happen? How could I have done this to Brett?

  I was a skank. A slut. A whore. No better than the woman in the halter top who’d all but thrown herself at Nick and was now watching us with an amused smile on her face.

  I turned and stormed toward the door, running away from Nick, away from my feelings.

  Nick was hot on my heels. “Tara, wait.” He reached out to grab my arm but I jerked out of his grip. I headed out the door and into the parking lot. Nick grabbed my arm again, more forcefully this time, pulling me to a stop. He stepped in front of me, holding me by the forearms, pinning them to my sides.

  “Tara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t! You … you don’t owe me an apology.”

  What had happened wasn’t Nick’s fault. Well, not entirely. Whether he’d intended to or not, he had seduced me. Slowly, subtly, and successfully. But I hadn’t exactly resisted. I’d been weak.

  He released my arms and stepped back. “Please look at me.”

  I turned my head up to face him, though he was a kaleidoscopic blur through the tears forming in my eyes.

  He emitted a mirthless chuckle. “Now I know how Georgie Porgie felt.”

  “Who?” I croaked, my throat tight.

  “Georgie Porgie, puddin’ and pie. Kissed the girls and made them cry.” He used his warm thumb to brush away a tear that had escaped my eye to run down my cheek.

  I smiled, despite myself, and looked up at him. “We didn’t kiss.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “I’m acutely aware of that fact.” He tilted his head and looked at me. “Would kissing me have been so bad?”

  I shook my head. “It would probably be wonderful,” I said, feeling myself choke up again. “That’s the problem.”

  Nick pulled me to him and I rested my head against his chest, my eyes closed, listening to his strong, fast heartbeat. “What do you want, Tara?”

  “Honestly?” I whispered, my eyes still closed. “I wish I could have you both. At least until I figure things out.”

  To Nick’s credit, he didn’t get angry. “I don’t like to share,” he said finally, “and I’ve got a suspicion Brett would feel the same way.”

  He stroked my hair once, then released me. “You know how I feel. I’d like to give us a shot. But it’s your call, Tara.”

  “I … I just need some time,” I said. Time to sort through my feelings, time to evaluate the situation, time to figure out what to do about all of this.

  Nick stared intently at me for a moment, then released a long breath. He looked down at his boots then. “All right.”

  We walked back to the car. Josh stirred as we opened the doors. “Are we there yet?” he asked again.

  “Almost,” Nick and I said in unison.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Bed and Breakfast

  It was two A.M. when we pulled up the gravel drive to my parents’ Victorian farmhouse. Mom had saved the soon-to-be-condemned house years ago and, with my father’s help and a grant from the local economic development office, she had fixed it up and turned it into a beautiful showcase. She’d furnished the place with antiques she’d snagged at yard sales, secondhand stores, and antiques shops, spending hours restoring the pieces herself. She financed the costs of upkeep by renting out the bottom floor on occasion for bridal and baby showers, rehearsal dinners, that kind of thing.

  Nick parked Josh’s car next to my father’s pickup, and we helped our coworker out of the backseat. One of the barn dogs trotted up, wagging his tail but barking, too, as if unsure whether to welcome us or warn us off.

  “Hey, Cooter,” I said, giving the shepherd-mix mutt a quick pat on the head. “It’s me, sweetie.”

  He gave my hand a quick swipe with his warm, wet tongue, then headed back to his blanket on the porch.

  Josh swayed as we led him up the steps.


  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “My parents’ house in Nacogdoches,” I told him. “We’ll crash here for the night and head back to Dallas tomorrow.”

  While Nick held on to Josh, I fumbled in my purse for my keys and opened the door.

  My mother, apparently alerted by the barking dog, flipped on the light in the front hallway and stepped to the door, her expression alarmed. “Tara, honey! Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  She pulled her white terry-cloth robe tighter around her and tied the belt when she noticed Nick and Josh behind me. “Hello, again, Nick. Good to see you.”

  He dipped his head. “Nice to see you again, too, ma’am.”

  I told her where we’d been, what we’d been doing, and apologized for waking her up.

  “Nonsense.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You know you’re always welcome home no matter what time it is.” She eyed Josh. “He sure looks worse for the wear.”

  “He’s drunk,” Nick said.

  “And a virgin,” I added.

  “Tara!” Mom scolded. “Watch your mouth.”

  “‘Virgin’ isn’t a bad word.”

  Mom shot me her don’t-make-me-get-the-wooden-spoon look. She gestured for us to follow her. “We’ll put Josh in your brothers’ old room. Nick can have the guest room.”

  We led Josh through the living room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom my two older brothers had once shared. The walls still sported their Faith Hill and LeAnn Rimes posters, along with high school team pennants. We deposited Josh onto the bottom bunk of the bunk bed.

  “Bunk beds. Cool.” He looked up at Nick. “Want to hang a sheet from the top and make a fort?”

  “Dear Lord,” my mother said. “No wonder he’s still a virgin.”

  Nick gently pushed Josh down onto the bed. “Go to sleep now. We’ll make a fort in the morning.”

  “Okay.” Josh rolled onto his side, facing away from us.

  While I pulled off his shoes, Mom inserted the bed rail she used when my young nieces and nephews came to spend the night. “Can’t have him falling out of bed and hurting himself.”

  She turned and looked up at Nick. “I’ll show you to the guest room.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nick slid me one last look before following my mother out the door and down the hall.

  * * *

  I washed my face and brushed my teeth, grabbing a new toothbrush from the supply Mom always kept in the medicine cabinet for guests. I left it on the counter for Nick.

  I stepped to the open door of the guest room, lit dimly by the bedside lamp. Nick sat on the end of the brass bed, pulling off his boots. He stood and unbuckled his belt, easing it out through the loops. My girly parts clenched in agony. His unintentional striptease was pure torture to me. Water-boarding would have been less cruel.

  I rapped on the door frame to alert him to my presence. “Bathroom’s all yours. I left a clean towel and toothbrush on the counter for you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, looking tired now, defeated even. “I appreciate it.”

  I wanted to say something, anything, but given my state of uncertainty anything I might say would only complicate things further. I finally settled for a simple “good night” and went to my room.

  I pulled my charger and cell phone out of my purse, wanting to ensure my mobile had plenty of juice for the drive home tomorrow. The voice mail icon indicated two messages. I punched the button and listened to them. Both were from Brett. The first asked me to return the call as soon as I got the message. In the second, he said he’d called my home number but got a message that the service had been disconnected. Oops. I’d forgotten to tell him I’d had my home phone shut off after all the hate calls I’d received. Brett also mentioned he’d stopped by my town house but I wasn’t there.

  Brett was in Dallas? He hadn’t told me he was coming home for the weekend. If he had, I wouldn’t have agreed to play spy on Fischer.

  Why was he home? And why hadn’t he given me advance notice?

  I wasn’t sure if he’d still be up this late, so I texted him instead of calling. At parents’ house in Nacogdoches. Let’s touch base in morning.

  I slid out of my clothes and into a soft pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up.

  I had two men in my life, but none in my bed.

  Damn, but it felt awfully lonely.

  * * *

  When I woke the next morning, I heard a murmur of voices from the kitchen downstairs and breathed in the inviting aroma of fresh-perked coffee.

  I checked my cell phone. No response from Brett yet. He must be sleeping in.

  I went to the guest room and peeked inside. No Nick. The guy was an early riser. To be expected of a farm boy, I guess.

  I took a quick shower, dressed in an old pair of jeans and one of my volleyball T-shirts from high school, and headed down to the kitchen. Nick, my mom, and my dad sat around the oval table, chatting and drinking coffee. Mom and Dad were in their bathrobes. Dad had the newspaper sports section spread out in front of him. Some things never change.

  “Mornin’, Miss Merry Sunshine,” Mom said, getting up to pour me a cup of coffee.

  I grunted in reply. I hadn’t slept well, tormented alternately by feelings of guilt and images of Nick undressing.

  Nick looked up and gave me a soft smile. He wore his jeans and boots, along with one of my father’s Dallas Cowboys jerseys. “Your mother’s washing my shirt.”

  Mom set the mug of coffee in front of me. “I’m not sure if the bloodstain will come out, but I put some hydrogen peroxide on it, gave it my best shot.”

  I half wondered if Mom offered to wash his shirt just so she could see his bare chest when he took it off.

  “How does huevos rancheros sound?” Mom asked Nick.

  He put a hand on his taut belly. “Very bueno.”

  Mom went for the can of grease she kept in the cabinet.

  Nick raised his coffee mug to his mouth, drawing my eyes to his lips. Those warm, soft lips. The lips that had almost kissed me last night. The lips that I longed to actually kiss.

  I snapped out of my trance to find Nick’s gaze on me. I turned to my father. “What are your plans for the day, Dad?”

  “Taking a load of hay to Lufkin,” he said, referring to a town a half hour down the road.

  “Could you use some help?” Nick asked.

  “Heck, yeah, if you’re willin’,” Dad said. “My back’s not what it used to be.”

  When Nick looked my way, I mouthed the word “ass kisser.” He merely grinned in reply.

  I took a swig of coffee and stood to help my mother. While she fixed her homemade biscuits, I dropped a spoonful of grease into the cast-iron skillet and scrambled the eggs, topping them with a healthy dose of fiery salsa. I served up four plates and plunked one down in each of our places.

  Josh wandered in, looking a little green around the edges. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his spongy curls flat on one side.

  Mom pulled out a ladder-back chair. “Take a seat, son.”

  Josh fell more than sat in the chair.

  I fixed another plate and slid it in front of him. “Have some breakfast.” I grabbed one of Dad’s beers from the fridge and plopped that down in front of him as well. “And some hair of the dog that bit ya’.”

  Grimacing, Josh pushed the beer away. He stared at the eggs for a moment as if wondering whether they’d stay down. Eventually he picked up his fork and poked at them.

  While we ate, we made small talk about the weather, the neighbors, the latest happenings in town. When we finished eating, Mom and I set about doing the dishes while Josh retrieved his laptop from the car. He returned to the kitchen table to download the photo files from his wristwatch and the video files from the pen.

  Nick slid his chair closer to Josh so he could better see the computer screen. “I can’t wait to see what you got.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE />
  Caught on Tape

  Josh plugged a thin, short USB cable into the side of the wristwatch, stuck the other end into his computer, and downloaded the photos to a newly created folder. When he finished, he unplugged the cable from the watch.

  Mom flung her dishtowel back over her shoulder and picked up the watch, looking it over. “This watch has a built-in camera? How nifty. Did the Treasury Department supply this to you?”

  Josh, Nick, and I exchanged glances.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  She put a hand on her hip and frowned at me. “It is legal for you to use it, right?”

  “Sure,” I replied, though in all honesty I wasn’t entirely sure. I didn’t think it was illegal to take photographs in public places. Still, legal or not, I assumed those up the chain at the IRS might not approve. Following Fischer around could be considered harassment, abuse of authority. Which was precisely why we’d have to send the photos out anonymously.

  The dishes now done, I hung my towel on the stove-mounted rack and pulled my chair up on the other side of Josh so that I could see the laptop screen, too. He opened the folder and clicked on the first thumbnail image to enlarge it.

  The photo showed Fischer at the blackjack table, cards in one hand, a highball in the other. The next showed him pushing a stack of chips forward to place a bet. The third showed him pulling an even bigger stack of chips back toward himself, a wide smile on his face.

  “He won?” I asked. Looked like I wasn’t the only one who’d struck it big at the casinos last night.

  Josh nodded. “A couple thousand, at least.”

  As if the guy needed any more money. He had the Arc’s overflowing coffers at his disposal. How greedy could one person be? I bet none of his winnings were going to charity.

  Unfortunately, the photos weren’t the highest quality. Despite all the bright lights on the slot machines in the casino, the overhead lighting was dim. The thick haze of cigarette smoke didn’t help, either. Add that to the disguise and it was questionable whether Fischer could be identified from the photos.

  “What do you think?” I asked, leaning forward to make eye contact with Nick, who sat on the other side of Josh.