“You sure are excited, Ginger.”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “For good reason. We’re about to make history.”
Brock’s insides were dancing as if he’d just guzzled a full bottle of moonshine. Even though excitement swam through him like music, he knew he had to drive straight to the train station and plunk Ginger’s little behind on a train back to Minnesota. If he wanted to live. Which he did.
That meant driving right past his dream. It wouldn’t take long to buy her a ticket, but delaying things even that long was souring. As was ditching her. He’d tried staying mad at her, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault his family was broke, neither could she know he’d dreamed of the day he’d be rich enough to swoop in right under her daddy’s nose and claim her as his own. Feeling guilty at having taken his frustration out on her after her money-dropping stunt, he’d let her read the letter the radio station had mailed him. She’d been flying high ever since. So had he. He’d never had someone be so excited for him. It made his dream bigger. More thrilling.
“What are you doing?” he asked when she pulled the hat off his head.
“Just spiffing you up there,” she said, dragging a comb through his hair. “Lean over so I can get to the other side.”
“I’m driving.”
“So?” She moved the mason jar onto the floor and scrambled onto her knees to reach over Brock’s head, complaining when she banged her own on the cab’s roof. They both laughed. She was just as excited about all this as he was. Surely his audition wouldn’t take long. He could drop her off afterward.
Once she replaced his hat, she straightened the collar of the black-and-white shirt his mother had made for his gigs. Ginger then rolled down his shirt sleeves, buttoning the cuffs one by one.
All her fussing was getting him as worked up as good as a bout of necking. If he wasn’t preoccupied with all the traffic, he might have taken advantage of her closeness by getting a thoroughly good taste of those red lips.
Something he couldn’t do.
“That’s good,” he said, twisting away.
She planted her bottom on the seat right next to him, their sides touching, which had little lightning sparks shooting down his legs.
Taking a little mirror out of her purse, along with an assortment of other things, she started spiffing herself up.
“How does all that fit in that little bag?” he asked, needing something to focus on besides kissing her. She was running that lipstick over her lips and the action affected his good sense.
“You’d be amazed by what’s in this bag.”
“I already am,” he admitted.
“Oh, look, Pershing Street. Turn!”
He wrenched the wheel, glad she’d seen the sign he’d obviously missed. Horns honked and people shouted. He hit the gas a bit harder, swerving around traffic and hitting the bridge at full speed. The wood rumbled beneath the truck’s tires.
She laughed over the echo. “It’s like we’re outrunning the coppers. Rumrunners chased by bulls.”
Her enthusiasm was contagious and Brock laughed along with her. “We aren’t going that fast, doll.” The truck rolled off the bridge and onto the road with a bump that jostled them both.
“It’s just as exciting, though, isn’t it?”
Her wide grin showed her pearly white teeth. On impulse, Brock dropped an arm around her shoulder. “Yes it is.”
She snuggled closer and the V-neckline of her purple dress gave him a good view of the red lace on her undergarment. Air caught in his lungs and he dragged his eyes back to the windshield, but couldn’t help wondering if her underpants had red lace on them, too.
Needing to erase those thoughts from his mind, he removed his arm and placed both hands on the wheel. “Keep a lookout for a brick building.”
“They’re all brick,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’ll see the one we’re looking for.”
* * *
Ginger did see the building, just a short time later, and all but leaped out of her seat at the thrill shooting through her when she spied the big blue letters painted above a set of double glass doors. “There, Brock,” she squealed and grabbed his arm. “There it is! Pull over.”
“I am,” he said. “At least I’m trying to. You’re cutting off the circulation in my arm.”
Knowing she was doing no such thing, she laughed and held on tighter as he turned the corner and eased the truck to a stop on the road beside the station. When he turned off the engine, she said, “Here, look at me, let me check your hair one last time.”
Touching him made her heart hammer, and after doing it once, all she could think of was doing it again. Tilting his hat slightly, she adjusted it to sit at the charming angle he always wore it. “There. Perfect.”
The look in his eyes made her heart turn a somersault, all the while beating at top speed. A desire that had lived inside her for months sprang forth with such force she couldn’t think of a single consequence. She leaned forward.
The heat of his lips was stunning when her mouth first touched his. Ginger’s first reaction was to pull back, but then the fact he wasn’t trying to stop her hit home. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him for all she was worth. When the tip of his tongue poked at the seam of her lips, bidding entrance, she opened her mouth.
His tongue swept between her teeth and she leaned closer, inviting him to explore at will. It was the most fascinating thing she’d ever experienced.
He tilted his head, driving the kiss deeper while his hands slid down her sides. The heat of his fingers penetrated her dress and set a thousand little jolts of electricity sparking under her skin. She’d known kissing him would be the real cat’s meow, but this was beyond that. Her toes curled inside her shoes, and warmth swirled through her system.
Her nipples grew hard, too, straining against the silk of her white-and-red set of cami knickers. The brilliance of it all confirmed she’d been right. Despite everything, the two of them would make history together.
She was in the midst of savoring each moment of the kiss, a feeling comparable to reading a good book, where a person slowly focuses on each word, not wanting to miss anything, when Brock pulled away so fast his hat toppled off his head. He pulled her hands off his shoulders, too.
* * *
Brock tried to get his breathing under control, but was failing at that, too. What was he thinking? He couldn’t do this with Ginger. It was a surefire way to get zotzed. Not to mention blow his chances of ever having a future with her.
“Oh goodness,” she said, sounding as rattled as he felt. Opening the clasp of her purse, she withdrew a flower-print handkerchief. “You have lipstick on your lips.”
He twisted and licked his lips when she attempted to wipe them.
“It’s cherry-flavored,” she added.
Of course she’d have cherry-flavored lipstick. He loved cherries.
Grabbing the hanky she’d wet with her tongue, he scrubbed a layer of skin off his lips. He should have driven straight to the train station. He still could.
“How’s that?” he asked, handing her back the hanky.
She nodded, but the dejected bow of her head struck him like a punch to the belly. He couldn’t fault her for doing something he’d dreamed of for months, and he couldn’t deny her this one glimpse of fame any more than he could deny himself. Planting his hat on his head, he opened the door and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
Her smile reflected the sunshine brighter than the windshield. He returned her grin, and, hand in hand, they ran across the street.
Chapter Five
Pictures and posters of musicians Brock coveted lined the hallways and electrical equipment filled the rooms behind the huge glass windows of the second floor they’d been directed to. This was it. The big time. Money. Recognition. A life where he’d never be indebted to anyone.
He glanced at Ginger and the smile on her face sent his heart racing faster than a hayburner. Those cars, though gas guzzlers, could out
run anything set to chase them, and the rate his blood was flowing right now said nothing much would ever catch him. He drew in a deep breath, trying to knock the speed of his blood down a notch. The breath didn’t help. Not when he caught sight of her red lips. She’d added more lipstick to them in the elevator, and recalling the cherry taste set him on edge like no booze ever had.
“There!” Ginger pointed at a door with KYX painted on it.
Brock took a stabilizing breath, but sweat still covered his palm as he turned the doorknob.
A redheaded woman behind a desk glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Brock Ness, here to see—”
“Thank goodness,” the woman said. “Come in.” She scurried around the big desk complete with a telephone sitting on one corner. “I’m Rene Goldman. My husband, Oscar, is in the studio. Let me get him.”
The woman shot through a side door, and Ginger let out a low whistle. “This is one swanky place. It rivals the resort.” She took a couple of steps to run a hand over a plush, red-cushioned chair. “Velvet.”
Brock didn’t need any reminders of the resort. His gaze was already locked on the candlestick telephone. Local calls were usually a dime, but long-distance was a whole different ball game. Only the rich could afford them. A call to Minnesota could very well empty one of his pockets.
The side door opened again and a tall, bald man followed Rene Goldman into the room. “Hello, Brock,” the man said. “I’m Oscar, as my wife said, and I’m glad you made it.” Oscar turned to Ginger. “This must be your wife.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Both he and Ginger had spoken at the same time. “Yes,” Brock corrected, but Ginger spoke again, too, saying no this time.
“Well, which is it?” Oscar asked.
Brock didn’t have a chance to speak before Ginger said, “Either-or. Sometimes I’m his wife, sometimes I’m his manager.”
A distinct sensation of his stomach falling had Brock clenching his teeth. While reading his letter, she’d questioned him on having an agent. The letter had specifically asked for one. He’d told her he planned on being his own agent.
Rene Goldman laughed. “I know that feeling. Sometimes I’m Oscar’s wife, sometimes I’m his secretary.”
“Exactly,” Ginger said, smiling brightly. “And, as Brock’s manager, I have a few questions concerning his contract.”
Brock couldn’t stifle the groan that bubbled in his throat.
Oscar laughed. “Before he gets a contract, he has to audition.”
“Then let’s do it.” Chin up and strutting so the fringe of her purple dress bounced around her knees, Ginger marched toward the open doorway.
Brock caught up with her, whispering, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making sure you are the next big thing,” she whispered in return.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” she insisted.
“What do you think?” Oscar asked.
Brock pulled his focus away from Ginger to glance around. The desire to whistle, much like Ginger had in the front room, overcame him. Shiny instruments, speakers, a microphone. This was it, the real McCoy. Trying to quell his excitement, he answered, “It’s nice.”
“Nice?” Ginger asked. “It’s divine.” Her heels clipped on the black-and-white tiled floor. “Look at that piano. It makes the one you played on back in Minnesota look like cheap-change.”
Brock had seen the piano, and the other instruments. His hock shop guitar and decades-old horn sure wouldn’t fit in in this place.
“You came highly recommended, Brock, but we still need to hear an example,” Oscar said.
“What would you like to hear?” Ginger asked.
Brock clenched his teeth. It didn’t matter what song they wanted. He could play them all. As long as he’d heard it once. That was all it took. One listen and he knew how to play it, on almost every instrument. He wasn’t sure how it worked, it just did, and he’d taken advantage of that since he’d started playing. But Ginger had him seeing red. She’d been playing him like he did his instruments. There was no reason for her to help him. She probably just wanted to finagle her own radio deal. Well, he was no patsy. As soon as this audition was over, she was going home. Cherry lipstick and all.
Skirting around her, Brock went to the piano, his favorite instrument, and sat down.
“How about—” Ginger started, but Brock interrupted by hitting the ivory keys.
One note was all it took for the transformation to take place inside him. Combining notes into chords and chords into tunes happened naturally. His fingers floated over the keys, bringing forth a popular ragtime tune with absolute perfection. It was the best he’d ever played. The piano was dead-on and enthusiasm zipped up his spine.
The music entered his soul and shot out of his fingers. He played stronger, faster, thrilled at the way Oscar tapped a toe and Rene clapped to the beat. Brock kept his gaze from going to Ginger. Though he never got distracted while playing, he couldn’t take that chance. Sitting here, feeling the music entering his bloodstream had him recalling kissing her. That had been just as natural, just as addictive as his music.
He played the entire song, adding a few extra bars so it ended on a high note, leaving people wanting more. It worked, as always. Oscar and Rene were beaming, and Ginger was demanding an encore.
“Welcome to KYX,” Oscar said, approaching the piano. “You’ll play five nights a week, Wednesday through Sunday, from six until midnight.”
Ginger cleared her throat loudly. “There are a few things we still need to discuss.”
“But,” Brock stuck in, “not right now.” He turned to Oscar. “I need to find accommodation for Ginger—” He paused before adding, “—and myself.” Her accommodation would be the first train to Minnesota, and for all he cared, he’d sleep in the truck. He had before.
“Rene will take care of that,” Oscar said. “I need you on the air in an hour. The guy who was supposed to play, well, let’s just say he never made it home the other night.”
“Come with me, Ginger,” Rene said. “I’ll get you settled in the Palmer House. It’s right across the street and one of the radio’s best customers. Most musicians stay at flophouses, but they aren’t married.”
Ginger nodded, but Brock growled, “No.” Catching all three staring at him, he struggled for an excuse. “I thought this was just an audition.”
“It was,” Oscar said, “and now it’s a paying gig.”
“The Palmer House is reasonably priced,” Rene said, “and you’ll get the radio discount.”
“Settled,” Oscar said.
Brock didn’t say that nothing was settled. But it wasn’t. They certainly weren’t married either, and the way Ginger kept nodding, acting as if they were, galled him to no end. “There are a few things I need to see to.”
“Tomorrow,” Oscar said. “Right now, there’s a lot I need to show you.”
“While you get started,” Rene said to her husband, “Ginger and I will run across the street and reserve a hotel room. We’ll bring back something for everyone to eat before the broadcast starts, too.”
Oscar nodded absently. Pointing across the room, he explained, “Behind that curtain is the window to the broadcasting booth. There are four rooms just like this one, for performers, surrounding the booth. Right now, they’re wrapping up a comedy show in room three. News will happen in two after that, and we’ll follow them from this room. This is room one. Room four is for sport and political interviews. We rotate shows all day long.”
Brock was listening, but his gaze was fixed on the door Ginger was following Rene through.
“They’ll be fine,” Oscar said, and then continued on with a thorough explanation of the station.
They ended up in the front office with Oscar searching Rene’s desk for the night’s program sheet. Brock was once again drawn to the phone. It would take a wad of money, but he had to let Roger know Ginger would s
oon be on her way home. “Oscar,” he said, his mind made up. “Could I make a phone call?”
“Sure.”
“It’s long-distance, to Minnesota.”
Oscar whistled. “Rene will have to take it out of your wages, once the bill arrives.”
“All right.” Brock stuffed his hands in his pockets, wondering how to ask for a bit of privacy.
“Just pick up the receiver,” Oscar said. “An operator will come on. Tell her where you want to call.”
Brock still hesitated, even though he wanted the call over with before Ginger returned.
The door opened and a man stuck his head into the room. “Oscar, we need in you in the booth for a few minutes.”
“Coming.” Oscar pointed to the telephone. “Go ahead and make your call. I’ll be back shortly.”
As soon as the man stepped out of the door, Brock grabbed the earpiece from its holder with one hand and picked up the candlestick base to talk into the speaker with the other. An operator came on. He asked for the Nightingale resort in Minnesota. She told him to hold.
A moment later ringing echoed down the line, and then a voice said, “Nightingale’s.”
“Is Roger Nightingale there?”
“Yes, he is, but he can’t talk right now.”
Brock recognized Norma Rose’s voice. It was odd, knowing she was miles away, yet he could still hear her as plain as day. “Norma Rose, this is Brock Ness.”
“Oh, Brock,” she said. “I’m sorry, but Daddy is out talking with the sheriff. Ginger ran away last and we can’t find her anywhere.”
“I know,” he answered. “She stowed away in the back of my truck.”
“What? She’s with you? In Chicago? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” he answered. “I’ll—”
“Where are you? I’ll have Daddy call you right away.”
Brock gave her the station name and set the phone down, hooking the hearing piece on the side handle. Then he started pacing, hoping Roger would call back before Oscar appeared. Or Ginger. He would put her on the first train after midnight and tomorrow explain to Oscar and Rene that she’d had to go home. That should work and he wouldn’t have to explain that they weren’t married.
The Runaway Daughter Page 3