“What do you want, Cooter?”
He sidled up to the counter and a brick wall of noxious aftershave hit her.
“Is that any way to greet a customer?” He wore a flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a ratty red baseball cap, pulled low.
“No, it isn’t. But then, you’re not here to buy anything, are you?”
His smile twitched. “Straight to business, huh?”
She nodded.
Cooter leaned in, his stick-figure body exuding all the sex appeal of a flagpole. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I’ve stopped by your house on several occasions, but you don’t answer your door, and when I’ve come here, that Bernadette girl is entirely uncooperative.” He looked around. “Where is she, anyway?”
“It’s her day off.” It wasn’t entirely true. Given the week’s explosion of customers, Madison and Dette had both been working, but Dette had taken a long lunch today. She was still shaken up about the man she’d hit on her way home Sunday night, and now that the shock had worn off she wanted to give him flowers as an apology. He hadn’t sustained any serious injuries, thank God. Dette’s accident was another thing Madison intended to make sure Eric Cooterman never found out about.
“She’s a very pretty girl,” said Cooter. “But anyway, I’m here to see you. I want to talk to you about the young man who’s-”
“No.”
“If you’ll just give me ten minutes of-”
“No.”
Cooter’s eyes narrowed. “People want to know, Madison. And why shouldn’t they? He’s a hero!”
“He doesn’t want publicity.”
Cooter pulled a steno pad from his pocket and jotted. “Is he a celebrity?”
Madison sighed. “Only thanks to you.”
“That’s true.” He grinned. “Everyone wants to be famous. And he is famous now. He’s the Disrobed Daredevil.”
“The Disrobed Daredevil?” Madison frowned. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
Cooter sniffed and raised his chin. “Well, his followers certainly like it.”
“His followers?”
“His Instagram account has one-point-three hundred thousand follows.” Arrogance edged his voice.
“His Instagram account? Who created an Instagram account for him?”
Cooter shrugged. “You know how people are.” His gaze shifted. The man was shameless. Eric Cooterman would stop at nothing to make a name for himself.
“Well, they’re just going to have to get tired of looking at the same three pictures of him because he’s not available to the press.”
“Oh, there are more than three pictures of him, Madison.”
Madison had suspected she and Alejandro had been tailed more than once. And clearly, she’d been right.
Cooter clicked his pen. “Can you at least tell me who he is to you? A relative? A family friend?”
“No.”
He wrote on his pad. “A lover, perhaps?”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Look, if you have to print something, tell people he’d appreciate it if they’d stop hounding him. I don’t want to get nasty, but if your harassment doesn’t let up, I’m going to the police.”
Cooter shrugged. “Fine. Do what you have to, but I wouldn’t expect this to go away anytime soon. In fact, the more secretive he is, the worse it’ll get.” He put his pad back in his pocket. “People are interested. And there’s nothing illegal about taking an interest.”
“But it is illegal to harass people, Cooter.”
He smiled, tipped the bill of his cap, and left the shop.
Madison wondered if she was being too protective. The truth was, in the few days she’d known Alejandro, she’d developed a serious affection for him … and a dread that he’d recover his identity and leave Prominence forever. It was ridiculous, she knew.
She tried not to think about what his life had been like before the amnesia. What if he has a girlfriend … a wife and children … a family who’s looking for him? She secretly hoped none of it was true, that no one would ever come and claim him - and for this, she felt like a terrible person.
At the window she watched Eric Cooterman leaving The Psychic Sidekick. She was glad the woman hadn’t welcomed him. When the coast was clear, she opened the office door and said, “He’s gone, but I think you should stay in here for now.”
Alejandro nodded but didn’t look up from the book. It occurred to Madison that her father would have loved seeing someone so engaged by his work.
“I want to go here.”
“To Mono Lake?” Cold dread needled into the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t been to Mono Lake since she was eleven years old. When her father had drowned. “Why?”
He tugged at the neck of his hedgehog hoodie. He’d worn it for two consecutive days now and it needed laundering. But getting it away from him … that would be the trick. “It’s pretty.”
“It is.” Though the beauty of the place wasn’t what Madison saw when she thought of Mono Lake. She saw her father. Gasping for air. Struggling to the surface even as his heart betrayed him … sinking. “Maybe someday.”
He watched her a moment, then tilted his head. “It makes you sad.” He looked down at his book. “I understand.”
She swallowed hard. And he does. Somehow, he does. She’d been overwhelmed by a need to confess the story so he’d say it was okay like he had for Paulette at the Sandman Motel. She wanted to tell that story now more than ever … but she didn’t. She cleared her throat and said, “Are you okay in here for the rest of the day?”
“Yes. I am enjoying this book very much. Your father was a very smart man.”
“Yes. He was.” She stared a moment longer, taking in this stranger in his dark blue sweats, tan hoodie, and her father’s worn-out hiking boots. Beyond the silvery blaze of his eyes and the bronze of his golden skin, beyond the beauty of his face, she saw a kindness she’d never seen in another living soul. A man with such understanding - and acceptance - of the human heart that even his silence tugged out the deep pain, the secret anxieties, the black terrors of those around him; it was nearly impossible not to drop your guard and go to him, wounds weeping and secrets spilling.
And again she wondered, Who are you?
So Much Skin
At Farney’s Flowers, after deliberating over a male-appropriate sorry-for-running-you-over package, Bernadette Watkiss settled on a potted poinsettia and made her way to St. Agatha’s to offer an apology to the man she’d hit Sunday night. As she drove, she wondered how awkward this was going to be. Certainly not as awkward as our first meeting.
She didn’t even know the guy’s name. He’d let her drive him to St. Agatha’s - he was living in the old rectory next door, though why he was so far out of town on foot in the rain, he didn’t say.
She’d learned nothing about him on the drive. He’d been more concerned with her and asked plenty of questions - he was a very curious guy. A nice guy, and as the days passed, she found herself thinking of him more and more.
On Killakee Road, she pulled up to the old church where several construction trucks were parked and men on scaffolds dotted the building like tiny gargoyles as they painted, hammered, and probed. The exterior looked about the same as it always had, minus the massive cross on the bell tower.
Dette parked, signed the get-well card, grabbed the flowers, then got out, making a wide arc around the church. She ignored the catcalls and whistles of construction workers, and followed a narrow cobblestone path toward the rectory.
A two-story white frame house surrounded by trees, both evergreen and leafless winter oaks, the rectory looked welcoming, though a little spooky around its shadowed edges. The paint gleamed and as she drew near, she could smell its freshness despite the scent of wood smoke belching from a tall chimney.
She approached and rang the bell. It chimed deep within the house. She heard footsteps, then the door opened, revealing a beautiful black-haired woman with pale skin and dark makeup that was appropriate for nightc
lubbing, but odd in the middle of the day. Her crimson lips were shocking against the paleness of her skin. Blood on snow. “May I help you?”
Dette shrank under the invasive crawl of her eyes, yet she couldn’t look away; she was pierced, nailed into place. “I’m, uh, I’m looking for a man.”
“Aren’t we all, sweetheart?” The raven-haired woman blinked slowly.
“He, uh, I - I didn’t get his name, but I hit him-”
“I didn’t get your name either.” The blond man appeared from the shadows of the house as deftly as he’d stepped in front of her Mustang. He smiled in a tight black T-shirt and snug acid-washed jeans fraying at the thighs and knees. There were no visible scrapes or wounds on him and for that, Dette was grateful. “So what is it?”
“Huh?”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh! Dette. Bernadette,” she stammered, trying not to stare. He was even more handsome than she recalled. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising she’d hardly noticed his dimples, strong jaw, and well-muscled physique. His eyes, however - she remembered those. She could fall into them. “These, uh, these are for you.” She held out the poinsettia that now seemed too girly a gift for such a strapping man.
He grinned and took it. “Come in, Bernadette.” The dark-haired woman echoed the invitation and stepped back to allow her entrance. As she passed her, she could’ve sworn she felt her warm breath against her neck. But that was impossible.
The man offered her his elbow. “You’re just in time for tea. My associates and I start our day pretty late, don’t we Tyranny?”
The black-haired Athena locked the door and chuckled. “I’m afraid we do.” She took Dette’s other hand and put it through her elbow. “Let’s go to the living room, shall we?”
Cozy between the handsome man and the beautiful woman, Dette’s head swam and her belly warmed. It was a disturbing sensation. She was attracted to the man - that was nothing unusual - but the woman had her attention too, and that was just plain weird.
In the living room, the man placed the plant on a low table. Tyranny smiled at the flowers. “I love poinsettias. They’re quite poisonous, you know.” She paused. “I’ll get the tea.”
Two antique couches, their floral upholstery pristine, faced each other on an Oriental rug next to the crackling fireplace. The man with spiky platinum hair and sapphire eyes gestured at her to sit. She did and he sat next to her.
“I’m Astaroth,” he said.
She gawked. “Astaroth?”
“It’s my stage name. We all use stage names here.”
“Stage names? For what?” Dette felt stupid.
“Tyranny and I will be working at the club.”
“The club?”
“The nightclub that’s about to open in the old church next door. There are six of us. We’re entertainers.”
Tyranny returned with a silver tea service, which she set on the walnut coffee table dividing the sofas. “How do you take your tea, Bernadette?”
“Sweet and white.”
Tyranny winked. “Like Astaroth.”
Dette flushed. An unexpected image of herself, naked, tangled on a bed with Astaroth and Tyranny came into her mind; she forced it away. What’s wrong with me?
Tyranny poured her own tea - black - and sat on the opposite sofa. She wore a purple turtleneck sweater over black leggings. Her feet were bare and her toes were painted violet; they matched her sweater. A large crescent moon dangled from a silver chain between her voluptuous breasts, glinting in the firelight.
“I got it in Paris.” Tyranny touched the edge of the sterling moon.
Dette averted her gaze.
“What was the name of that little boutique, Astaroth?” Tyranny sipped her tea.
Astaroth shrugged. “You know I don’t keep track of those things.” As he bent forward for his tea, his thigh pressed against Dette’s. It was hard and warm; she wanted to run her hand along the tight denim.
“It’s a beautiful necklace.” Dette’s mouth went suddenly dry. She wanted some tea, but didn’t trust her trembling hands to hold the cup.
Tyranny tilted her head. “I think it would look lovely on you.” She smiled. “It would flatter the shape of your eyes and stand out nicely against your skin.” Her gaze crawled over Dette, slow and deliberate, and Dette found herself relishing the scrutiny, enjoying the way the woman’s eyes inspected her like an art piece on exhibit. And Dette felt like a masterpiece. Her nerve endings buzzed and sparked as warm desire stirred deep in her belly.
“Yes,” said Tyranny. “It would be lovely on you.” She tilted her head toward Astaroth. “Don’t you agree?”
He sipped his tea, biceps flexing as he brought the small cup to his mouth; the sight of the muscular man sipping from the dainty cup was oddly mesmerizing, like seeing a bull in a garden of roses. When his lips touched the rim, Dette’s skin tightened and puckered. After sipping, he said, “I’d have to see it on her.”
“Then we must see.” Tyranny stood and unclasped the silver chain, her breasts pressing hard against the fabric of her sweater, revealing details Dette had never noticed about another woman’s breasts before - their soft, graceful contours, their perfect teardrop shape. She swallowed as Tyranny bent close to her. Her heart hammered painfully, but she didn’t move an inch as the necklace was fastened around her throat.
Then Tyranny sat down beside her, close enough that Dette could smell the warm female scent of her.
“Well? What do you think?” Tyranny asked Astaroth.
He leaned forward and stared, his sapphire eyes moving down the silver chain to pause on the crescent that now hung between Dette’s breasts. “Lovely.” The depth of his tone awoke a primitive part of Dette. She felt as if some untamed beast within her had raised its head, pricked its ears, and licked its lips for the first time - and it wanted to be satisfied, hard, fast, recklessly … right now.
His gaze slid up. “It does just what you said it would, Tyranny. It flatters her eyes.”
Though she wanted to, Dette couldn’t pry herself away from his improbably blue, oceanic stare. She was transfixed, swaddled in those impossible depths.
His lips rose, revealing a straight, white smile and dimples.
Her fingertips trembled with the need to touch his face, to explore the edges of his jaw and wander the valleys and peaks of his hard body. Her lips buzzed and her mouth watered with a succulent hunger. She wanted to suck his bottom lip into her mouth, to taste his lips, his teeth, his tongue - she had never wanted anything more.
“But,” he said, “does it flatter her skin the same way?” Again, that deep voice stoked the rising flames within her and she felt she was only seconds away from losing self-control. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room; sweat dampened her temples and upper lip and she had to fight to still the tremor in her legs.
“Trust me,” said Tyranny. “It will.”
There was the soft brush of Tyranny’s breathy laugh, and then - as if by magic - Dette’s arms were raised and Tyranny lifted her blouse, pulled it off, and laid it across the sofa’s arm. She moved in close and Dette felt the heat of her stare on her bare skin. There was a moment of panic, the sudden realization that she was in only her bra, as Astaroth ran the knuckle of his index finger down the length of the silver chain.
“You were right about that, too, Tyranny,” he said. “It’s very flattering.”
“I told you so.” Tyranny’s voice was soft and singsong.
Astaroth’s hand traveled down and when he neared her breasts, Dette was caught in a wave of dizziness. Had she been standing she would have swayed. Her hand found the rock-hard length of Astaroth’s thigh and he sighed, deep and slow, closing his eyes.
Tyranny’s warm touch caressed Dette’s shoulder, and when she slipped a finger beneath her bra strap, Dette stiffened and began stroking Astaroth’s thigh - the feel of him was magnificent, majestic - like stroking a wild tiger.
Astaroth’s deep laugh vibrated. “You can g
o as high as you’d like.”
Tyranny’s breath was hot against Dette’s neck - and then her tongue, like warm, living velvet - caressed her skin in long, slow strokes. Compelled by desires of its own, Dette’s hand slid higher, pausing and trembling just inches from going too far - inches from bliss.
“You can do anything you like. To either of us.” Tyranny’s warm, slick tongue traced the ridge of Dette’s ear. A languid sound vibrated from deep in her throat, and Dette realized that the woman was purring - like a cat.
“Please …” Dette’s heart hammered, her mind spun. She wasn’t sure what she was begging for. “Please …”
“Just close your eyes.” Tyranny’s whisper probed her, touched that dark private sector of her soul, and Dette’s inhibitions crumbled - not piece-by-piece but in one gratifying downward crash. The beast within her was awake, had scented blood, and Dette did as she was told. She closed her eyes ... and surrendered her body.
Hands prowled her flesh like hounds on a hunt, tearing at her clothing as hot mouths fastened on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She moaned, her body and mind as willing, as pliable, as sheer curtains on a breeze.
And then there was skin, by turns soft and hard. Tender and firm ... then dense and thick with muscle. Delicate and feminine ... then rocklike and sculpted. Feathery … then stony. Soft and hard, hard and soft - but always smooth, always hot, always misted by a warm, salty sheen.
So much skin.
Dette’s eyelids fluttered and in sporadic flashes she saw firm, upturned breasts, the voluptuous swell of hips, the length of a smooth, creamy thigh, Tyranny’s crimson smile - blood on snow. She glimpsed the flex of hard muscle, thick veins straining at the surface of tight humid skin, the sandpapery edges of Astaroth’s hard, square jaw. The man and woman ravished her flesh with hands and mouths, the pleasure so intense she willed her eyes closed, afraid that the addition of sight amid the other sensations would shatter her mind, short-circuit her brain.
She nipped, nibbled, and bit, laved her tongue over alternating textures - some silky and soft, others coarse and rigid, not sure which of the two she was tasting as the animal within her feasted. Her bra had been unfastened and removed, and now she felt her panties being drawn downward, a slow, satiny descent down her thighs, over her knees, past her calves and ankles.
The Angel Alejandro Page 16