Talking After Midnight

by Dakota Cassidy

  Gage slid off the counter and slapped Tag on the shoulder before taking his leave.

  Gage was right. He was still stuck. Stuck somewhere between finding his way out of the mess he’d been in, accepting that it had happened and moving on.

  He was almost there. Sometimes he thought he was there.

  There were days when he didn’t get that slice of searing pain in his gut thinking about how stupidly blind he’d been about Alison or about his sister Harper’s death. In fact, a couple of weeks could go by before something reminded him of his sister.

  But he still wasn’t past having everything he’d worked almost his entire life for taken away from him by a greedy, scumbag son of a bitch like Leon Kazinski, and his even greedier intern, or femme fatale as the press had dubbed her, Carson Chapman.

  They’d taken off with his money, disappeared as if they’d never existed and left him with nothing but the money in his savings account.

  So hell, yeah. That still stung like a bitch.

  * * *

  Marybell’s mouth dropped open as she crossed the street from the square and headed toward Call Girls.

  A dozen or so people were assembled, tucked into winter jackets, their heads in an array of colorful caps, holding signs as they paced along the sidewalk.

  Signs that read Keep Plum Orchard Pure!

  They were picketing Call Girls? Priceless.

  Marybell skirted the crowd gathering and pushed her way toward the path that led to the guesthouse, pleased with the sound of the clank of the chains at her waist.

  Leading the pack was none other than Louella Palmer. Marybell sidled up beside her and growled. To her maniacal delight, Louella jumped. “Gee, Louella, didn’t you get that hobby we were talkin’ about the other day? Or is knit one, pearl two too complicated?”

  Louella swung around, her fluffy blond hair catching on one of Marybell’s eyebrow rings. She tugged at it with a hard yank, and irate eyes. “I’m just doin’ the right thing. You women are bringing filth to this town. You’re all a bad influence on our youth, deflowerin’ their innocence. And me and the Mags here are determined to see you all gone, sooner rather than later.”

  Annabelle Pruitt and Lesta-Sue Arnold stopped their endless motion and came to stand behind Louella.

  Marybell crossed her arms over her chest and grinned, the kind of grin that made her makeup look as if it came fresh out of someone’s worst nightmare. “You spelled fornication wrong, Annabelle.” She flicked the homemade sign with a finger, successfully making three Mags jump at once.

  Lesta-Sue made a face, from far enough away that she felt safe, but still it was a face full of scorn. “You take your Satan-worhippin’ self elsewhere, Marybell Lyman. We’re picketing your establishment and all it stands for!”

  “Fornication!” she yelled into the crowd, placing a finger under the word on Annabelle’s sign. “F-O-R-N-I-C-A-T-I-O-N! Forn-i-ca-tion!” Tapping the sign, she said, “It’s not F-O-R-N-I-C-A-S-H-U-N. An easy mistake. You just sounded it out wrong, Annabelle.”

  Annabelle’s face went sour, her cheeks bright red. “Go away.”

  She clucked her tongue and made a sad face. “That’s not very inclusive of you, Annabelle.”

  “You are not welcome here, Satan worshipper,” Lesta-Sue whisper-yelled, her eyes fierce and fiery.

  There were rumors in town Marybell worshipped Satan because of the music she blared from her car and her crazy out-of-place makeup and hair.

  She didn’t tell anyone otherwise, but she did show up at church every single Sunday, even if she’d worked the night shift the evening before.

  It was her personal, but very public, stab at their scorn. “You’re a mean one, Lesta-Sue. Cuts me right to the core, but at least your spellin’s better than Annabelle’s. You got the word deflower down. Up top on that.” She held her hand up to a glacial response.

  “We’ve got a petition going, you know. Won’t be long now before we have enough signatures to take it to Mayor Hale, and then he’ll have to listen, and not even all of Landon’s money will save you lot,” Louella said, dropping her sunglasses back down over her eyes.

  Marybell cocked an eyebrow at one of Plum Orchard’s finest. She’d practiced in the mirror, raising an eyebrow with all the goop on her face, and her eyebrow rings made her look like the epitome of creepy. “I hope you didn’t let Annabelle write it. Who knows what you’d end up petitioning?”

  Among the crowd, she saw Blanche duck under the cover of a towering oak, avoiding Marybell’s eyes. It didn’t hurt her feelings that her own landlord didn’t acknowledge her.

  The pressure of the Mags was intense with all their decades-old rules for decorous behavior. Renting to Marybell via the blackmail of Caine and Dixie’s money was one thing, doing it of her own free will quite another.

  Nanette Pruitt adjusted her fancy hat with the feathers and shook her sign at Marybell, repeating her daughter’s words, pious indignation in her eyes. “Satan worshipper!”

  Marybell laughed. “Nice one, Mrs. P, but can you spell it?”

  “Nanette Pruitt, for shame,” Tag drawled from behind Marybell. “Are you pickin’ on my girlfriend?”

  Yeah. Are you picking on his—his—wait, his what? She was ready to turn around and protest, but Tag draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side, and she forgot to protest because he smelled so amazing. Looked so amazing.

  Nanette’s face screwed up, but her eyes softened in Tag’s direction. “Your girlfriend? Have we lost another Hawthorne to the likes of these Jezebels?”

  Tag grinned down at her. “Lost? I don’t feel lost.”

  “Surely you’re lost, Taggart, if you’re datin’ the likes o’ her.”

  “Then I like being lost, Miss Nanette.”

  She harrumphed him, the rolls of her neck jiggling against the pearls she wore around it, and stomped off.

  Tag squeezed her tighter. “So, how are we today, Marybell Lyman? Still basking in the glow of the other night? Ready to do it again?”

  She gave him her elbow. She’d thought of nothing but Tag since he walked out of her door the other night. Tag and his lips. Tag and his muscles. Tag, Tag, Tag.

  “I’m not your girlfriend. Stop givin’ people the wrong impression.” Especially all of these people. People who’d just as soon see her strung up in the town square than corrupting one of the rare bachelors in town.

  He looked down at her, his blue eyes sparkly and amused among all those thick lashes. “You know, that hurts. You don’t care if people think you worship Satan, but letting them think you’re my girlfriend is the worse of the two evils?” He pounded his fist against his heart. “Ouch.”

  “You know,” she mimicked him, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight, “you’d think after the other night, you’d be too embarrassed to be within a hundred paces of me.” And angry. How could he not be angry with her for booting him out of her apartment?

  “Why? Because we had amazing sex and you not only kicked me out, but kept my lasagna I worked so hard to impress you with?”

  “Shhh!” Marybell stood on tiptoe and pressed her hand to his mouth, still surprised he was in such good spirits where she was concerned. “Blanche is here. If she finds out you were at my place—”

  “Making amazing love to you—”

  “Stop! Clearly, you can see, I have plenty of trouble without you adding to it.”

  “Only if you agree to have a real dinner with me again. Otherwise, I’m telling everyone in the square we—”

  “Okay!” she yelped. Anything to hush him.

  He nibbled at her fingers, making her giggle. Tag placed a finger over her mouth now. “Shhh! You don’t want people to actually believe you’re enjoying yourself, do you? Next you’ll have them believing the sunlight doesn’t hurt.”

  Marybell bit her lip hard to keep from laughing out loud. “This is blackmail.”

  “Yeah. Of the worst kind. The food kind.”

  “Name your terms.”
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  Tag rocked back on his heels, clearly smugly satisfied with himself. “Madge’s, tonight.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, the last time I named my terms, look what happened. We ended up sleep—”

  “Shhh! Okay, okay. Madge’s. What time?”

  “Six sharp. Make sure you wear extra hair gel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I plan to make it curl and that would ruin your spikes.” Swooping down, he dropped a kiss on her lips. “See you tonight.”

  The stares of the most disapproving in Plum Orchard bored holes in her back as she made her way to the guesthouse, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her face.

  Which, if she were a smart woman, she’d wipe directly off her face this instant.

  She’d agreed to another date with him.

  What had made her do that? What had possessed her to encourage being found out? She couldn’t keep dating Tag. It was one big fat lie. She’d have to lie to him every moment she spent with him. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, if she truly wanted Tag to stop pursuing her, he would. Because he was a gentleman.

  Which meant she had to either give in or really take a stand. A real stand. Not the kind of stand where she let her needs send the mixed message she’d been sending.

  Tell him. Just do it.

  No. I’ll lose everything. Everything I have. Millions of people didn’t believe me—why would my friends feel any differently than millions of people?

  Millions of people don’t know you. Dixie and the girls do.

  No. No, they don’t. They don’t know the Marybell before Landon. They don’t know the woman who had no place to live. Who lost her scholarship and ended up sleeping in abandoned buildings and alleyways.

  They don’t know the woman who dug food out of Dumpsters.

  You’re ashamed.

  Of course I’m ashamed. I sank so low. The lowest I’ve ever been. Dixie and the girls know Marybell the phone sex operator with the youthful, innocent voice and the spiked hair who thumbs her nose at propriety. They don’t know she was a homeless squatter.

  If she could just get Tag to go away—leave her alone—move on.

  Because you did a stand-up job of that, didn’t you? Sleeping with a man doesn’t succinctly say, “Go away.” Now you’ve agreed to another date. You’re sending out mixed messages, and that makes you a tease. Add to that, you’re a liar. What’s your trifecta?

  Just one more date. One more and she’d call it quits. Hang up her datin’ shoes and become a spinster.

  Just one more.

  Nine

  Sliding into the booth at Madge’s while she waited for Tag, she winked at Essie Guthrie, one of the older Magnolias, and waved. While she mostly liked to keep a low profile, she hated the way the Mags treated Dixie.

  It made her act out in ways she wasn’t always proud of. From behind her people shield, fighting back was much easier, though. She used that protective cloak to loosen up the part of her that normally remained silent in the face of injustice.

  Essie turned her nose up at Marybell, making her chuckle. She grabbed a menu and tried to focus on how she was going to end this madness. Every second she spent with him was every second she spent lying to him.

  You’re doing that whether you’re with him or not, Marybell.

  Tag breezed in, lifting a hand to Coon Ryder before swinging around, a bouquet of yellow-and-purple flowers in his hand. He handed them to her with one of his delicious grins. “I imagine you’ll probably pluck the heads off these, but at least it’ll remind you of me when you’re doing it.”

  Rolling her eyes, she took them from him. She loved flowers. No one had ever bought her flowers before. It might seem unoriginal to the more experienced dater, but to her, it made her breath hitch. Still, she caught herself before she gushed. “Thank you. What made you choose yellow and purple?”

  “They didn’t have any black?”

  Marybell cracked her knuckles. “Okay, so we’re here. Let’s eat and get this over with.”

  Tag walked his fingers across the table and snatched her hand up. “Don’t make me call you my girlfriend again. Now play nice and decide what you want to eat, cranky.”

  She snatched her hand away and shoved it under the table. “Stop calling me your girlfriend. You can’t make me be your girlfriend if I don’t want to be.” The mature response, of course.

  He held up a finger, and mimicked her voice. “Shhh! Stop using the word girlfriend.”

  There was no stopping her giggle of laughter, which was probably some type of encouragement she shouldn’t indulge in. “Fine. Let’s just order and be done.”

  Tag fanned the menu out in front of him with a snap. “So, what do you like to eat, Marybell Lyman? The freshly plucked wings of moths? Souls, perhaps?”

  “Moths are for the ill-informed novice. Butterfly wings, now—butterfly wings, they’re for the true connoisseur.” Staring down at the menu, she kept her eyes on the shiny plastic and off his incredibly gorgeous face.

  “I doubt Madge has any of those. I think they’re too delicate to dip in gravy.”

  “Pity. Guess I’ll have to settle for a cheeseburger with bacon.”

  “Favorite food?”

  “Lobster thermidor.”

  He whistled. “Fancy, Ms. Lyman.”

  “Landon. He taught me a lot about food. Your favorite?”

  “Hot dogs dripping in chili and onions and cheese. I know, not the most health-conscious choice, but there it is. Favorite color?”

  “Pink.”

  He dropped the menu, giving her a comical look of disbelief. “It is not.”

  “It is, too.” She loved pink. She’d wear more of it if her people-shield clothes came in any other color but black and deep reds with the occasional splash of purple thrown in.

  “I’ve never seen you wear a single pink thing.”

  “Who said I had to wear it on my body to like it?”

  “I was stereotyping, wasn’t I?”

  “It’s to be expected. Your favorite color?”

  “Green. Dark green, not the minty frilly kind that looks like a SweeTart. A manly green.” Tag wiggled his eyebrows over the menu.

  “Favorite movie?”

  “The Notebook.”

  Marybell snorted, making a few heads snap up in the surrounding booths. “Stop.”

  “Okay. Never saw that. I was trying to be a sensitive male. Truth is, anything that blows things up or makes me laugh. Yours?”

  She shrugged. There wasn’t much TV watching when you were a foster, and certainly no extra money to see a movie. Being a poor college student, then homeless didn’t lend itself to many movies, either. “I don’t really have one. I haven’t seen very many.”

  “Not a fan of the movies?”

  “No. I love them. Just haven’t gotten around to seeing very many.” Nosy.

  “So you’ve never seen The Little Mermaid? Cinderella? Beauty and the Beast?” He gasped in that goofy way he had. “I’m sure they’ll all offend every feminist sensibility you own, but all little girls should at least see the classics once if for nothing else than to scoff derisively at them. Not even Snow White?”

  She shook her head. “Not a single Disney princess.”

  He made a disgusted face, scrunching up his nose. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”

  And here she was, being sucked in again. She slammed her mental brakes on. “This is our last date. No fixin’.”

  “Right. Tell me that after you’ve seen Aladdin with me. There’s nothing like a little Jasmine to change your life.”

  “You’ve seen them all?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I have. I live with the ultimate princess. You know, Maizy?”

  He watched Disney movies with Maizy? Her heart fluttered. She’d seen him with Maizy a time or two at town events. They were sweet to watch together. But she hadn’t realize he was so involved with her.

  “Princess night is a big deal at our h
ouse. We all have to wear fluffy boas and crowns on our heads. We make popcorn and milk shakes. I’ve seen them all. I call you’re a Mulan girl. A badass who dresses up like a boy to save her country.”

  “Bet you’re glad Em’s around now so you can retire your boa.” Cynicism. Good on you. Keep that candle burning, Marybell.

  Tag shook his head. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t miss princess night for the world. It makes Maizy happy. It makes her happier that Em joins us. That’s all that matters.”

  No matter how hard she tried to knock him down, he just kept getting back up again, and when he was on his feet, he was right back to making her heart do jumpy things in her chest.

  Their waitress, Carlene Clement, approached their table as if she were approaching alien life-forms. Marybell was used to it. She did, after all, growl at Louella on a regular basis.

  But Tag smiled at her, warm and reassuring. “It’s okay, Carlene. She doesn’t bite. Satan worshippers only snarl. All bark, you know?”

  She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Her mouth opened wide and she laughed, scaring poor Carlene. She clapped a hand over her lips before saying, “Sorry, Carlene, but I promise, I really don’t bite.” And then she laughed some more.

  “Look who it is. Marybell and Tag.” Louella strolled up behind Tag’s shoulder to center herself beside their table.

  Tag leaned forward over the table and whispered, “Enter the evil queen. You wanna hide your face in my chest like Maizy does?”

  Marybell snickered. “I think I have this.” She turned toward Louella, perfectly coiffed, perfectly outfitted for a night of dastardly dealings, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. “Look who it is, the petition starter. Did you get enough names to go to Mayor Hale today, Louella?”

  Her pink lips flattened, meaning no. But she rallied in the face of adversity “We’re very close. You women better watch out. You’ll be out of business in no time.”