Hot Pink

by Susan Johnson

  He shot her a look. “No shit.”

  “I’ll tell what’s-her-name.”

  He slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway. “If you’re fucking with me again, I’ll wring your neck.”

  “Really, Rocco, there’s no need for violence. It’s no big deal.”

  Reaching out, he took her chin in his fingers and held it firmly so his gaze lasered her brain. “Tell me it’s no big deal again.”

  His voice was harsh, his dark eyes piercing, and she understood chill sarcasm when she heard it. “My mistake.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, releasing his grip. He shoved the car into gear, pulled out into the busy Sunday night return-from-the-lake traffic and cut over three lanes to the ramp heading east, back into town. “You’ll tell her we were never engaged. You’ll tell her you’re not pregnant by me.” He slanted a glance her way. “I doubt you’re pregnant by anyone. You don’t like kids.” He blew out a breath of relief and apprehension too, because no matter what Amy said, Chloe wasn’t going to take it well. “And you’re going to be so fucking polite you could be meeting the queen. If you’re not, I will talk to your parents.”

  “I don’t care if you talk to my parents.”

  He half smiled because he’d finally found a chink in her bitch-of-the-world armor. “Yeah, you do. So keep it in mind.”

  “You’ve turned out to be a real ass.”

  “You’re the same bitch you’ve always been.”

  “I don’t know what I ever saw in you.” Sliding down in the seat, she stared out the window in a sulk.

  This was one of those occasions when a heavenly choir of angels broke into song on high, Rocco thought—the music faint but verifiable. It was looking as though his troubles with Amy were finally over.

  * * *

  BUT CHLOE WASN’T at home when he drove back. Her car was gone. His jealousy meter immediately spiked into the danger zone and he said, curt and low, pulling out his cell phone, “Sit tight. I’ll find her.

  “Where are you?” he asked a moment later.

  Chloe had debated answering when she’d seen Rocco’s phone number and name on her cell phone screen, but she’d never not answered a phone in her life. A therapist probably would have a good reason for that. “I’m having a drink far away from your pregnant fiancée.”

  “She’s changed her mind. Tell me where you are.” He could hear noise, people talking in the background. He could picture some guy with his arm around her, motioning for her to hang up her phone.

  “None of your business.”

  “She’s going to tell you the truth and apologize.”

  Amy did one of those half-snort, half-sniff things as she stared out the window.

  “Tell me where I can find you.” Chloe couldn’t have gone too far. He hadn’t been away long. “Are you with Colin?”

  “At least I’m not pregnant with his child.”

  Bitchy as her reply was, he was heartened. She wouldn’t be talking that way if a guy was hanging on her. “I can straighten everything out. Amy’s sitting right here. She’s going to apologize. Word of honor.”

  “Somehow ‘word of honor’ rings a little hollow at the moment.”

  “Just tell me where you are. Don’t you want Amy to apologize to you?” He was counting on Chloe’s need for revenge. He was praying for it.

  “I’m at Louie’s.”

  That simple phrase was capable of parting the waters, soothing the savage beast, generating rainbows after a week of stormy weather. “Don’t move.”

  “That’s my line.” Jeez, when would she stop being a wiseass? This wasn’t the time. This was one of those times when you needed those folks from Florida who looked at chads with a magnifying glass to distinguish intent and genuineness.

  “That’s true, babe.”

  “I’m not your babe.”

  Ignoring her grumpy tone, he said, “Yeah, you are. Wait and see.”

  Firing up the car, he drove too fast down the residential street, swerved around the corner and pulled into the no-parking zone by Louie’s front door. He gave Amy a don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Talk to her politely or I’ll tell your parents things you don’t want them to hear.”

  She glared at him.

  “You pushed me too far. I don’t care anymore. And I know shit about you that goes back to junior high, so watch your mouth.”

  “This is out-and-out blackmail,” she snapped.

  He turned back to her, one hand on the door latch. It was fortunate she couldn’t see his white-knuckled grip. “You’re accusing me of blackmail?” Each word was uttered through clenched teeth.

  Maybe it was just as well she wasn’t going to marry him, she thought. He was getting hard to handle. The word “frightening” came to mind, but she was too arrogant to let it remain there long. After all, she was Amy Thiebaud. “For heaven’s sake, Rocco, don’t take everything so literally. This is all a little annoying, that’s all.”

  Annoying? He thought of the cops, of Mrs. Gregorich, of Chloe’s anger, of all the machinations prior to tonight. Amy had tried to ruin his life in a dozen different ways. He drew in a deep breath to keep from slapping that annoying pettish look from her face, slowly counted to ten, hoping like hell his temper held.

  “Have you gone to sleep?”

  She didn’t have a clue, he thought. Everything was always about her. He jerked his head in her direction. “Get out. We’re going in.”

  * * *

  CHLOE WAS SEATED at a bar lined with elderly people; everyone had their eyes on the TV set. Judge Judy was looking peeved as two women screamed at each other.

  “Ew . . .” Amy wrinkled her nose.

  “They won’t like you either. Just say what you have to say and you can go.” He shoved her in front of him, nudging her back with his hand until they reached Chloe. “We’re here,” he said. “Amy has something to say to you.”

  Everyone at the bar turned around, Chloe included.

  Rocco gazed down the curious faces and felt like he was in court. “Do you want to talk here or outside?”

  “Here’s fine.” Chloe didn’t feel like making it easy. She felt like making him pay. She felt like making Amy push a boulder uphill in the hot sun for about a month. And that was after she decided if she was even going to believe anything either one of them said.

  “Start talking,” Rocco ordered, nodding at Amy.

  Amy’s expression was sullen, her baby blues glittering with resentment. “Must we go through this charade?” she snapped.

  “If you want to keep on living you do,” he snapped back.

  She gave Chloe one of those down-the-nose sneers. “Then I apologize, I suppose.”

  “Not good enough,” Rocco growled.

  No way good enough, Chloe thought, as sullen as her rival.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Amy’s voice was a modicum less snappish, but not in the least apologetic.

  “About what?” Rocco prompted, his voice chill.

  “Rocco, for God’s sake”—her gaze narrowed as she took in the rapt audience—“we’re in public here.”

  “Good. Then we’ll have plenty of witnesses.”

  She tossed her hair with a little flick of her wrist. “This is really so ridiculous.”

  “We’re standing here for as long as it takes.”

  “Very well,” she said, huffily. “I’m not pregnant.”

  A collective gasp ran down the customers at the bar.

  Amy’s spine stiffened and she swiveled around to glare at Rocco.

  “Keep going. You’re not done yet.”

  “We’re not engaged.”

  “And?” he prompted.

  “We’ve never been engaged.”

  “Because?”

  “Bastard,” she hissed.

  “You’re done ruining my life. Because?” he repeated, coldly.

  “Because I made it all up.”

  “Like you made up . . .”

  �
�The pregnancy,” she said, looking at him with fury.

  He turned to Chloe. “Will that do? Do you have any questions?”

  “When did you sleep with him last?”

  Amy’s mouth twitched, but Rocco said, “The truth or I’ll be doing some talking of my own,” and she said, each word virulent, “A year ago, last spring.”

  “Tell her how many times we did it.” He was taking a chance, but he wanted Chloe to know.

  It looked for a moment as though Amy was going to explode, her face turning red and blotchy, then white, then red again. “Four times,” she muttered.

  Rocco looked at Chloe. “Have you heard enough?”

  Four times, she was thinking. They’d done it four times in—hell . . . twenty minutes once. And she’d lost count of the times they’d made love even in their very brief relationship. So if one-upmanship was a sign of victory, she’d definitely won. She held Rocco’s gaze for a moment. “It clears up a few things.”

  “Are we done?” Amy spat.

  Rocco swung around. “Here’s your keys. Go.” He shoved Amy toward the door, then turned back to Chloe. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “about her . . . the whole mess—everything. Do you think you can forgive me?”

  “Hey, honey, I’d forgive him no matter what,” an old lady shouted in a husky, cigarette voice. “I’ll bet he looks great with his clothes off.”

  Laughter rippled down the bar, Rocco looked embarrassed and Chloe felt her first twinge of forgiveness. How much could she blame him for Amy’s maliciousness? How much did she wish to harbor a grudge? He’d put himself on display here tonight to get her attention, to make her listen. That had to count for something.

  “Could we go?” he murmured, touching her hand.

  “I’m looking for dependable. Are we clear on that?” She didn’t feel like rolling over yet.

  His smiled was boyish and sweet. “Did I tell you I used to be a Boy Scout?”

  “Liar.”

  “Well, I thought about it in the second grade.”

  She exhaled, the tension in her body ebbing. “Is she really gone?”

  He glanced out the window. “Looks that way.”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “If you want to stay and talk about it, could we get a booth at least?”

  “You don’t like to be on stage?”

  “Not usually—but whatever you want,” he added quickly.

  “Don’t tempt me with whatever I want. I’m still pissed.” She was having trouble shifting gears—saying, “Okay, you’re off the hook. It’s not a problem for me that you attract female attention wherever you go; I’m mature enough to deal with it.”

  “I could walk you home. Or we could take your car, but there’s a nice moon out tonight.”

  She smiled for the first time since he’d walked in. “You’re pretty damned accommodating, aren’t you?”

  “I’m on my best behavior . . . for obvious reasons. This has been one helluva ride. Could we go?” he whispered. “Please . . .”

  “Go where?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  “Not to my place.” She wasn’t quite ready to forgive and forget entirely; she could still see Amy standing on her sidewalk with the cops.

  “You name it, we’ll go there.”

  “I’ve never seen your place.”

  She’d said it like she was testing him. “It’s not far,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s walk back and you can decide on the way.”

  If she left the safety of Louie’s, she was on her own. She’d never been able to muster the necessary restraint to deal with him; she wasn’t sure she could do it now. “I might send you home,” she said, sliding off the bar stool.

  “Whatever you say.”

  They exited Louie’s on a wave of cheers and whistles, but the walk to Chloe’s was subdued, neither sure what to say.

  A boatload of uncertainty and the enduring image of Amy at her door had Chloe’s anxiety and indecision at peak levels—should she or shouldn’t she, a running litany in her brain.

  It was impossible not to notice her quietness. Rocco had already decided to leave this all for another day. He wasn’t in the mood for battle, and at least Amy was gone—so he had another day.

  “Why don’t you call me tomorrow?” Chloe said when they reached her door. She felt like an actress in a clichéd movie, but she did need more time.

  It was probably a good idea. He was exhausted anyway, not having slept much the past week. “How about dinner?”

  “Like on a date?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  She nodded.

  “Six-thirty?”

  “How much did you mean—about getting married?” she asked, needing to know so she could maybe sleep tonight.

  “I meant all of it.”

  Did other people hear violins tuning up at a time like this? She kinda thought hers might be playing all night. Reaching up on tiptoe, she gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t make a move. Somehow he knew he shouldn’t. He watched her open her door and go inside and then walked to his car.

  If he was a betting man, he’d figure he had fifty-fifty odds.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  CHLOE CHECKED THE TIME AS SHE WALKED into her living room. Twelve forty-five. She needed to talk to somebody; she needed advice. But when she went to pick up her phone, she saw the screen flashing twenty-four messages and ran through them first. Six from her mother, starting Friday afternoon—something rambling about Rocco; five from Gracie, same start time—equally vague message; three from Colin, two drunk and one half-sober; five from Tess saying her mother was trying to get hold of her; another five from Rosie with the same message.

  It was too late to call her mother. Gracie was a probable, but she didn’t know if she wanted any family advice at the moment. What she needed was unbiased and sexually aware advice. Tess, the night owl, answered on the first ring.

  “You must be waiting for a call,” Chloe said.

  “He said he’d call, damn him. And he’s not at home.”

  With trouble in paradise, Chloe debated how explicit she should be about Rocco’s marriage proposal or whether she even wanted to mention it considering his track record with women. “Rocco asked me to marry him,” she heard herself saying as though her frontal lobes were asleep at their censuring switch. And when Tess shrieked, “WHAT!” in a completely nonsupportive tone of voice, Chloe found herself excusing and justifying and outright lying about what had happened.

  “Well, that’s more like it,” Tess said. “I couldn’t take any really good news in the mood I’m in. I wouldn’t want to hear that there are nice, good, kind, loving men in the world.”

  “Bad weekend?” Chloe asked, thinking she could probably top anything Tess had lived through.

  “Dave showed up drunk Friday night—late. He didn’t come over at all on Saturday. And when he arrived here this morning, I could smell another woman’s perfume on him—the bastard!”

  “Oh, dear.” There was no way to sugar coat that sorry picture.

  “And your mother kept calling here looking for you,” Tess said in her resentful tone that included everyone in the world at the moment.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll call her in the morning. Let me know how things go with Dave.”

  “They’re not going to go anywhere. If he’d ever pick up his phone, I’d tell him to go to hell. Not that I haven’t left a few messages to that effect already.”

  “It’s really hard to know who to trust,” Chloe replied, soothingly. Her current dilemma as well.

  “You can’t trust a single one of them,” Tess muttered. “Not. One. Single. Rat. Bastard.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Damn right I am. Rosie discovered the same sad fact. It seems Ian forgot to mention that he’d been divorced twice. She’s not talking to him until she decide
s if she wants to date a man who’s struck out on two marriages already.”

  “Rich people seem to get divorced more often. I suppose they can afford to.”

  “She doesn’t know if she wants to consider being divorce number three. You know Rosie. She’s always wanted the white picket fence and moonbeams and roses.”

  “Forever.”

  “Yeah. When you and I know better. There’s no forever.”

  Tess wasn’t exactly serving as the comforting, bolstering voice of friendship Chloe had been looking for tonight. Which meant she was on her own to struggle through her minefield of uncertainty and doubt. “Life sure can get complicated,” she murmured. “It makes you wonder if there really are people out there who meet, fall in love, marry and live happily ever after.”

  Tess snorted. “Hel-lo. How old are you?”

  “It must happen to some people. Otherwise, all the love poetry and prose through the ages wouldn’t have been envisioned.”

  “Exactly. Envisioned. It’s all a fantasy, darling. I’m thinking about going celibate in retaliation.”

  “You’ve tried that before. Have you ever lasted more than a week?”

  “Well, even a week sounds good right now. Damn phony love and bastard men.”

  “Dave might have a good excuse. You never know.”

  “The mood I’m in, it would have to be the mother of all excuses—like he was captured by aliens or the CIA.”

  “You should give him a chance to explain anyway.” How easy it was to be objective about other people’s love lives. “I thought you said he goes paranoid whenever he sees his family. Maybe they came into town this weekend.”

  “If they did, he was too out of it to explain on Friday night.”

  “There’s a possibility then.”

  “You’re really stretching, sweetheart, but thanks for trying.”

  “Don’t leave any more nasty messages until you hear from him—just in case.”

  “Okay, Mom, and I’ll brush after every meal.”

  “You were saying how much you liked him a couple of days ago. Don’t let your temper get in the way.” Maybe she should take her own advice.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know, screw it—East Enders is coming on. At least we know that’s not for real.”