by Leslie Kelly
“Her?”
“You’re the one.”
The one. Right. The one who’d been arrested for assaulting a local construction worker. Who’d had a screaming match with him. Who’d landed in jail looking like a homeless drunk picked up on the street during a late-night episode of Cops. The one who’d delayed an entire work crew with her bright red convertible yesterday morning.
Yeah, she was the one all right.
“Can I have your autograph?” someone else asked.
Emma stared past the mechanic toward a second young man sweeping the sidewalk in front of a pawnshop. His broom managed only to swirl up some dust and tree pollen on this hot June day, but his earnest expression said he wasn’t going to give up his job. Nor give up talking to her.
“I saw her first,” the first guy said. “I get an autograph.”
“I’m nobody famous,” Emma murmured, trying to step around the broom, and the pathetically small pile of dust the second man’s efforts had garnered.
He didn’t budge. “Sure you are.” Then he looked around, as if to avoid being overheard, and lowered his voice. “Are you just, you know, in…in-congenital?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s incognito, dipshit,” the first guy said with a snort. Then he turned to Emma. “And you don’t have to be in disguise. Because I think it’s too late. Everybody knows.”
Everybody? Great. The whole town knew she had a record. She wondered how prospective employers would look on felons in the workplace. “Look, it wasn’t a big deal. You don’t know the whole story. I didn’t do anything illegal and I’m sure the whole fuss will die down soon.”
The broom-holder didn’t look dissuaded. In fact, his gaze was downright worshipful. “I think it’s a big deal. Things like this don’t happen very often in Joyful.”
“He got what was coming to him. He deserved it.”
Four eyes widened. The men asked in unison, “Deserved it?”
Emma nodded. “That foreman was begging for it.”
“Begging…”
“He needed to be laid low. I happened to be the one to bring him down.”
This time the sweeper dropped his broom, and the other guy his jaw. “Laid…low…” one of them whispered.
“Brought down flat,” Emma added, wondering if the young men were on the slow side.
“He was flat?”
She nodded.
“On his back?” the other asked.
She nodded again.
They glanced at each other. “In public?”
“Yes, in public. Are you two hard of hearing or something?”
One whistled as the other slammed down the hood of his car.
“I gotta get me a camera.”
“I gotta get me a pen.”
“I gotta get my brother on the phone.”
Emma clenched her jaw, really annoyed at the fuss these two were making. It didn’t say much for how the rest of her day was going to go. “I barely touched him,” she muttered.
“Who?”
“The foreman. I mean, I sort of ended up on top of him, but that was only because I lost my balance.”
Wide-eyed? Now the two young men wore almost cartoon expressions of shock, with eyes bugging out of their sockets. Emma’s explanation about how she’d flattened a construction worker was making things worse instead of better.
“Was this here, in town?” the sweeper asked in a whisper.
She nodded. “Yes, but honestly, there was no harm done. He was fine. I expect he’s used to rough-and-tumble experiences in his job.”
Mechanic boy jerked upright. “So do I. I’m rough. I tumble.”
Sweeper elbowed him away. “I’m rougher. I can take anything. Right here on the hard concrete, or anywhere else. Tumble away.”
Okay, she hadn’t left home. She was still in bed, asleep, dreaming she’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole and was having a conversation with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber.
“Land on me,” the sweeper ordered. “I’m soft.”
“She don’t want soft, ya moron.” The greasy mechanic gave her a salacious smile. “Do ya, sweetheart?”
Oh, lord, now she got it. They were hitting on her, not accusing her of being a criminal. They were trying to pick her up. Emma had just been so focused on the ridiculous arrest thing and how it would affect her job search that she hadn’t been paying proper attention. “Thanks anyway, guys, I’ve got business to do today.”
“Can I watch?” the mechanic said. “I won’t say nothin’, I’ll just, uh, you know, be there.”
Mercy, things must be boring in Joyful if amorous young men got their kicks out of watching women job-hunt.
“Why don’t you go home to your wife?” the one who’d been sweeping said, his face growing red.
“Why don’t you go home to your mama?” he got in return.
Ahh, such a proud display of Joyful’s male population. They looked ready to start bitch-slapping one another at any minute.
The two men’s voices escalated as they focused their attention strictly on each other. One called the other a soft-kneed, whipped sissy boy, which inspired the sweeper to step off the curb, swinging his broom in a threatening manner. Emma almost warned him about the broom swinging—given her recent experience with the cane—but refrained, since their distraction helped her escape.
They didn’t even notice as she hurriedly ducked into the closest store—a dress shop. Hiding behind a rack of clothes near the front window, she peeked outside, noting the exact moment they realized she’d vanished. They both looked around, frowned, then started to yell at each other again.
“Bizarre,” she whispered, wondering if there was a dearth of women in Joyful. Sure, she was cute and she got her share of male attention, but she had never inspired brawling on a public street. The closest she’d come to driving a man crazy with lust lately was when she’d told a Manhattan businessman that one of her investments had garnered a thirty percent return. It hadn’t been her body he’d lusted for, just her brain. And her portfolio.
Correction, her former portfolio.
“You’re her, aren’tcha?”
Oh, God, no. The news of her arrest must have been shouted from the pulpits of local churches yesterday. Giving her attention to the woman who had spoken, Emma said, “Good morning.”
The woman—girl, really, she appeared to be a teenager—gave her a big toothy grin. “Mornin’. Don’t pay any attention to them,” she said, nodding out the window. “Tony’d never cheat on his wife, fr’fear she’d cut off his dick while he slept.”
Emma raised a brow.
“’Cause, you know, that’s what she tried to do when she caught him tinkering with Suellen Gantry’s tailpipe when he was supposed to be working on her transmission.”
So, Mr. Mechanic was named Tony. And he might very well have only a partial penis. She tucked the information away for future reference.
“And Bobby, well, he wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if one landed in his lap. Naked.” She lowered her voice. “I should know. He started looking mighty good after I’d helped empty a pony keg of beer at a grad night party last year.” She gave a rueful shake of her head. “Me, naked on his lap and he passes out. Can you believe it?”
Emma didn’t know whether to laugh or merely drop her jaw as this teenage girl with puffed up blond hair, big blue eyes and freckles rattled on like they were long-lost friends.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Here it comes.
“Uh, if you must,” Emma replied slowly, hoping the girl could pick up on the unspoken “no” in her voice.
“How’d you get your start?”
Obviously subtle nuances in voice and speech were lost on the Joyful crowd. “Start?”
“You know…”
Emma rolled her eyes. “On my life of wickedness?”
The other girl didn’t notice her sarcasm. She nodded so hard her hair flopped into her eyes and she had to reach up to sweep it aw
ay. “Yeah, how’d you know you were, you know, doing the right thing? That you could handle it?”
Emma sensed the girl would be bored stiff if she started telling stories about picnics in the grove, and summer vacations, and her grandmother’s pecan pie. So she went straight for the good stuff, the important stuff, trying to impress on the girl how important it was to stand up for what you believed in.
“I’m not one to take things lying down.”
The girls eyes widened. “You like it standing up? Lying down’s no good?”
Letting out an unladylike snort, Emma shook her head. “Only if you want to get screwed.”
When the girl’s mouth dropped open, Emma nibbled her lip. “Sorry. What I mean is, a woman’s got to be in control.”
The girl nodded. “Yeah. In control.” Then she cocked her head. “Uh, how?”
“Well, by being in the driver’s seat. In charge.”
“Like, on top, you mean?”
“Exactly. On top of things at all times,” Emma replied.
The girl didn’t look too enthused. “I’m not much good on top. I tire out. And things tend to jiggle around too much.”
Emma almost laughed at the girl’s unusual description. But it made sense. She sometimes got weary and her own emotions often “jiggled around” when she fought too hard for something she believed in. That didn’t make it any less important to keep trying. “You just have to try harder. I’ve always believed in coming out swinging.”
“You were a swinger?”
“Not literally. What I mean is, when I see something I want, I go after it. I’m not afraid and I can go head to head with anybody.”
At least, the Emma she used to be was like that. Lately, she seemed to be more the blubbery, sad-sack, arrested type. But not anymore, dammit. Emma Jean Frasier had steel in her spine.
She’d been a hard-hitting New York financier for the past three years and it was about darn time she started acting like it again. Broke, jobless, arrested—so what? She was alive and healthy and she had her grandmother’s beautiful house. That was a lot better off than some people had it.
She began to feel better than she had in days.
“So, you, uh, like going head to head,” the girl was saying, looking shocked. “With anybody? Is that how you decided what you were going to do? Because you liked the, uh, head stuff?”
Emma nodded. “I’ve never backed away from something just because I thought it was too big or too hard for me to handle.”
The girl’s gulp was visible. “You have to be able to handle a lot of big heads, huh? Are they really big? Really really big?”
“There are definitely some big-headed men out there,” Emma replied, thinking of the construction foreman and of her former boss at Parker Securities. “But I can give as good as I get.”
The girl’s jaw dropped. “Have they told you that? I mean, how’d you know you were good at giving the head stuff?”
Emma was barely listening. The more she talked, the better she felt, until she was pepping herself up, more than the teenage girl, who was positively goggle-eyed by this point. “It takes practice. Confidence. And a willingness to bite off as much as you can chew, without swallowing anything.”
This time the girl started to cough into her fist. “Don’t swallow anything,” she mumbled when she could speak again.
“You okay?”
She nodded weakly. “Uh, yeah. I umh…well, I’m not much into swallowing, so that’s not a problem. But I didn’t even know there was biting and chewing involved.”
Emma didn’t entirely follow the girl’s train of thought, but gave her a friendly smile, anyway. “It’s okay. You’re young. You’re starting out right.” Then she frowned. “Just remember, don’t sell yourself short. You’re worth a lot, don’t go offering yourself up for free on guy’s laps at parties.”
“I won’t,” the girl said vehemently. “No more freebies.”
They stared at each other for one moment, and Emma had to wonder if her makeup was smeared or if she had lipstick on her teeth. Because the teenager just stared and stared. “Is everything okay?”
The girl shook her head, hard. “Sorry. Fine. Uh, now, I know you came in here to hide, and you probably don’t do your shopping at a place as boring as this, but can I help you anyway?”
Emma looked around at the small shop, with clothes racks only half-full and Giant Colosul Sale signs everywhere. The place looked like it was about to go out of business. If the bookkeeping was as bad as the spelling, she could see why.
Too bad she didn’t have any money because she saw some really cute things hanging within reach. Well, within reach of her fingers. Not of her empty wallet.
“Do you like working here?” she asked, pulling her attention off an adorable beaded black cocktail dress.
The girl nodded so hard she almost smacked her chin on her collarbone. “Yes. Love it. I am not looking for another job.”
“Good,” Emma murmured. “I don’t suppose you’re hiring?”
The girl snickered. “Funny.”
Emma had figured as much. Her luck couldn’t possibly be good enough to have her ducking into a hiding spot and coming out with a job. No matter how much the store might need someone to do their books…or heck, dress their mannequins. Emma couldn’t afford to be picky right now.
“I figured as much,” she murmured to the girl, then peeked outside to see if the coast was clear. It was. Thank heaven.
So she’d struck out on her first try. She wouldn’t give up. The day was young. The guys were gone. She had two good ankles.
How hard could it be to find a job in a small, friendly town like Joyful, Georgia?
JOHNNY ALMOST didn’t recognize Emma when he spotted her, trudging up Bliss Avenue, late Wednesday afternoon. He hadn’t seen her since Monday, which was fine with him. But now, the bright blond hair caught his attention, as did the hot pink dress that pressed against some illegally fine curves. The shoes dangling from one hand, the bright pink scarf trailing the ground, and the slumped shoulders, however, just didn’t scream Emma Jean.
“Hey!” he called out when he realized the blonde was about to step into the street, onto the hot black pavement, in her bare feet. Not to mention into the path of J. R. Brandon’s pickup, which had turned out of the post office parking lot.
His cry caught her attention and the woman turned around.
Yeah. It was her.
He shoulda stayed where he was—in the open doorway of the diner where he’d bought himself a sandwich for dinner. Or kept right on going where he’d been headed—back to his office to consume that sandwich during a rare late-night working glom.
Instead he walked down the block. Toward Emma. She watched him approach, saying nothing.
“Em,” he said with a nod.
“Hello, Johnny.”
“You out to break your head open again by stepping in front of a truck?”
She gave a disinterested look over her shoulder at the late-afternoon traffic. Not that the few cars chugging up the avenue could be considered traffic. But hit by a truck was hit by a truck. It didn’t really matter how many cars were on the road in the meantime, did it?
“Guess I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Anyone ever tell you how to cross a street.”
She frowned. “Are you on safety patrol duty this week? Don’t tell me, when you’re not working as D.A., you’re a substitute crossing guard?”
Testy, testy. But there wasn’t any real heat in Emma Jean’s words. She looked uninterested…distracted. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tsk tsk. Such language.”
He grinned. “Eve’s not around. Besides, I have the feeling that kid has a heck of a vocabulary of her own.”
For the first time, a real smile appeared briefly on her lips. “I think you’re right.”
Seeing the way Emma eyed his foam cup, from which he’d taken only a sip of his
Coke, Johnny held it up. “Want some?”
She grabbed the cup with a grateful nod, and took a sip. Johnny watched, the strangest heat filling his gut as her lips curled around the straw. When she pulled it away from her mouth, she left a smear of bright pink lipstick there.
He swallowed. Hard. Unable to tear his eyes off of that pink smear. Finally, though, he cleared his throat and gave himself a good mental kick. “Better?”
Nodding, she fanned herself with her free hand while she passed his drink back to him. “I’ve had yet another long day, just like yesterday. God, people in this town are so strange.”
“How so?”
“They’re either rude to my face or they ask a bunch of weird questions. Or they try to pick me up.”
There was a perfect opening to bring up the whole porn star rumor, which was still flying around town like a spastic hummingbird. But Johnny didn’t particularly want to get kicked in the nuts on a public street in broad daylight for asking a woman if she had sex for money.
Besides which, it didn’t exactly seem polite.
“But nobody, nobody in this town is hiring.”
That thrust the Emma-as-porn-star out of his mind, even though the image of Emma-having-sex was never far away.
“Hiring? What do you mean?”
“You know, the regular old kind of hiring. Cashier at the drug store. Teller at the bank. Popcorn maker at the movie theater.” She gave a humorless little laugh. “Ditch digger. Anything at this point.”
He just stared, until Emma’s face pinkened and she drew in a few deep breaths. Her frustration had made her reveal more than she’d probably intended. Like the fact that she was staying. Here. In Joyful.
“This isn’t a social visit for your ten-year reunion, is it?” he asked slowly, hearing the dread in his voice.
She shook her head.
“You’re staying.”
She nodded.
Staying. Christ, she was staying. This wasn’t a week or ten-day-long game of let’s-torment-Johnny. This was a frigging nightmare straight from the most tortured part of his subconscious. Emma Jean was moving back to Joyful for good. “You can’t mean it.”