Borrowing a Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

  “I didn’t coldcock him. I jumped out of the cake and he was standing sort of behind me, and my elbow slammed into his nose—”

  “Spare me the details, estupida bruta! Like I care.” Yvonne was literally spitting mad. Tiny drops of saliva flew from her mouth and spattered Nikki’s face. Ugh.

  Nikki removed Yvonne’s index finger from her breastbone and went into the kitchen for a paper towel. Undeterred, her neighbor followed her.

  “Do you even care that you made me look like a moron?” she asked. “That we had to deal with all the drunk, pissed-off, horny guys who then called the competition, so that we lost the business? Do you care that because of you, I forfeited not only my booking fee, but future gigs with my own goddamned cousin?”

  Nikki wet a paper towel and mopped her face with it. “Yvonne,” she said quietly, “it was an accident. I never meant for any of this to happen. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Really.”

  “I don’t want your lame apology.”

  “Then what do you want?” Nikki asked, stung.

  “For starters, I want my money back, the money I loaned you. By the end of the day tomorrow—”

  Nikki’s stomach did a greasy slide. “But I don’t have it yet.”

  “I don’t care. Figure out a way to get it.”

  “Yvonne—”

  “You get it to me by five o’clock tomorrow, or I’m going to take it out of your ass. Understand?”

  Nikki was genuinely shocked. “Are you threatening me?”

  Yvonne poked her tongue into her cheek and folded her arms under her sizable breasts, which looked like twin torpedoes under her tight white tank top. “Nah, of course not. I’m just tellin’ you that come five-fifteen tomorrow and no money, me and Ricky gonna pay you a friendly little visit with some baseball bats we just got autographed by the Marlins.”

  Nikki shivered as, paradoxically, tiny bullets of sweat broke out at her hairline and under her arms. Ricky was Yvonne’s Cro-Magnon boyfriend. He had a protuberant brow and biceps the size of beer steins. He’d also done time for assault and battery on his ex-wife, something that Yvonne insisted was all a big “misunderstanding.”

  Nikki personally didn’t think there was anything to misunderstand about a black eye, a broken jaw and three cracked ribs, but Yvonne maintained that she could take care of herself if Ricky ever lost that lovin’ feeling.

  Nikki had her doubts, but as Yvonne had pointed out, he had to go to sleep sometime and she was skilled with a serrated-edge knife.

  “You understand me, blondie?” Yvonne’s voice was every bit as cutting. “You’ll be seeing those autographs up close and personal.”

  A cactus had sprung up in Nikki’s throat. She tried to force a couple of words past it, but they got impaled on the spines.

  Like an enraged goose, Yvonne angled her nose forward and bobbed her head up and down in rhythm to her next words. “Do. You. Get. What. I’m. Sayin’?”

  Nikki nodded.

  “Good. Now, besides the money you borrowed from me, you can pay me my booking fee from tonight—fifty bucks—plus another fifty for my trouble.”

  What? She wanted an extra hundred dollars, too? Nikki opened her mouth to protest, saw the dangerous glint in Yvonne’s eye, and closed it again.

  “You got something to say? Because I’m being generous. I should charge you for, like, twenty booking fees—”

  A thousand dollars. Nikki almost fainted.

  “—since that’s what I’m going to miss out on, thanks to you, until I can get my cousin to trust me again.” Yvonne blew out a malignant breath.

  “So, with the extra hundred, that’s five hundred bucks.”

  Blink. Gulp.

  “And bring me cash,” Yvonne ordered. “Not some rubber check.”

  Blink. Blink. Nod. Please, just go away and leave me alone.

  Yvonne, having vented her rage and asserted her power, swiveled and marched to the door, each cosmetically enhanced buttock fighting for space in her sprayed-on jeans.

  If Nikki hadn’t been so tired, demoralized and frightened of the witch, she might have laughed. Instead, she double-locked the door again behind her and slid to the floor. Where was she going to get the four—make that five—hundred dollars she owed Yvonne?

  ADAM FIGURED THAT he didn’t have the right to be miffed about Nikki denying him her phone number. The night had been one big, humiliating fiasco. No wonder she wanted to forget it—and him. But he wasn’t happy.

  He was even more unhappy when Dev stumbled through the hotel room door at 4:21 a.m., bringing with him a dense fog of alcohol fumes mixed with the aroma of fast-food burritos. Dev trumpeted his arrival with a burp that reeked of hot sauce and then peed for what seemed like a half hour, without closing the bathroom door. Then he proceeded to snore for the rest of the miserable night.

  At 7:09 a.m., he awoke cheerfully despite a raging hangover, popped four ibuprofen and grilled Adam about his evening’s entertainment.

  “So, dude. Did the hot little stripper grease your pole?”

  Adam touched his nose gingerly, lifted his head from the pillow and squinted at him. “Wow, that’s such an elegant way of putting things, Dev.”

  “What can I say? I’m famous for being classy. Well, did she?”

  “No. Now go back to sleep.”

  “You didn’t even try to drill her doughnut?”

  “Dev, my nose was almost broken.”

  “Yeah, so? That’s at the opposite end of things.”

  Adam sighed.

  “C’mon, just give me a brief rundown. Didja go to the E.R.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she find some clothes first, or did she put the docs into cardiac arrest?”

  “Yes, she put her clothes on.”

  “A damn shame. I was afraid you’d say that. So what happened after you left the E.R.?”

  “She drove me back here, Dev.”

  “And? Did she tuck you in? Read you a naked bedtime story?”

  “No, Dev. She’s actually a nice girl,” Adam said stiffly.

  “A nice girl,” Dev said with a guffaw. “Right.”

  “She is.”

  After Adam had told him a highly edited version of the story wherein he and Nikki had simply talked, Dev assumed a sportscaster’s voice. “So Doctor Burke goes down in flames,” he announced.

  Then he added, “I don’t get why she wouldn’t give you her number. You’re studying to be a doctor, man. Chicks dig that. You must have done something really crappy for her to stiff you on her phone number.”

  Studying. Yep. What he should have been doing all night, instead of being a crazed and horny hound, thanks to Nikki. Adam sighed. “I did not do anything crappy.” Liar, liar, dick on fire.

  “Did you have sex with her?”

  “That would be none of your business.”

  Dev grinned unrepentantly. “I know—that’s why I’m asking.”

  Adam made no comment.

  “The only reason for a girl not to give you her phone number is that you had bad sex. Lemme guess. You couldn’t get it up. Or you blew early. Which was it?”

  “I’m not discussing this with you, Dev.”

  “Why not? It’s just biology. Having erectile dysfunction is nothing to be embarrassed about, you know—”

  “I do not have E.D.! We did not have bad sex!”

  “Aha. But you did have sex.”

  Adam said nothing.

  “So was it good, then?”

  I made the girl come three times and she finally begged me to stop. You tell me. But Adam didn’t say a word aloud. Another rule of Burke men: gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell. “I never said we had sex. All I said was that we didn’t have bad sex.”

  “I’m not getting anything out of you, am I?”

  “Nope. So how was your night, Dev? Did you have sex?”

  “Not even with myself,” he said regretfully. “Too drunk. We did get two alternative strippers after about an hour. They got a little ups
et when I ripped off my shirt and went onstage to dance with them. One took off, but the other one stayed to party. She was a good sport. The bartender, now—he’s another story. Got all riled up because the boys took his whole container of sliced limes and threw them at me.”

  “Ah. That explains why you smell a little tropical, on top of the b.o.—and the miasma of burrito farts, alcohol and morning breath. I don’t suppose you’d consider showering and using some mouthwash?”

  Dev shrugged philosophically. “Why would I clean up for you?” He yawned. “I’ll wait until later. What d’you say we go facedown until five, then shower, spruce up and go find us some cute bridesmaids?”

  “Sure, man,” Adam said without enthusiasm. None of them could possibly be as hot as Nikki. Too bad he’d never see her again. “Whatever you say.”

  He couldn’t go facedown. He needed to stay face-up and at least semi-vertical, with his books. Suddenly Dev’s snoring held more appeal: it would help to keep Adam awake.

  He made coffee, poured it into a tall paper cup and dumped every available sugar packet into the vile liquid, stirring it up with a pen. Then he took a giant gulp, burning his mouth, and cracked open a chapter on molecular biology.

  Reading was a challenge, since his nose was swollen…and every time he looked down it to focus on the text, he revisited the image of Nikki bursting out of the plywood cake, her elbow smashing into his face because he’d been so stupefied by her delectable ass in the red G-string that he forgot to dodge.

  He was focused on biology, all right—every molecule in him wanted to fuse with every molecule in her. Again.

  8

  NIKKI SAT IN HER LITTLE blue Beetle, clenching her hands on the wheel. She was parked in her mother’s driveway, in front of the small two-bedroom stucco house she’d grown up in. In the front yard was the now huge royal palm that she and her mom had planted in a pot as a seedling and carefully tended because the more mature ones cost hundreds of dollars.

  The streamlined palm stood straight, proud and true in the late-morning sunlight and seemed to reproach her for being here, for needing to ask her mother for a loan to cover yet another loan. It fed itself through photosynthesis and water, taking nothing that it didn’t need and giving back oxygen to the atmosphere in return. Nikki envied it. She might not be the most ambitious person on the planet, but she did want to find a way to give back to others.

  Right now, though, she had to focus on paying back, not giving back. She hated being in debt.

  Slowly she got out of the car, her feet feeling like lead in her old Crocs as she moved up the driveway toward the varnished front door of the tiny home. Cement-and-resin garden frogs in all shapes and sizes dotted the little porch. Why her mother had a thing for frogs, she didn’t know. Maybe she hoped that they would all turn into princes one day?

  Nikki averted her eyes from the roof, which had once been an expanse of lovely terra cotta barrel tiles that had now faded and cracked and succumbed to blackish green mildew. The roof was an ongoing nightmare that her mother couldn’t afford to fix.

  Tara Fine, her mom, had dark red hair that owed its richness to Clairol. She had abundant curves and owed those to her own baking. And she had the same large, seawater-green eyes as Nikki. She wore no wedding ring since she’d never been married—Nikki’s dad, the drummer in a band, hadn’t offered that option.

  She’d raised Nikki by herself with a lot of love, very little money and some occasional babysitting from her sister, Dee, and her parents, Nikki’s Gran and Poppy.

  Tara opened the door at Nikki’s knock and immediately enfolded her in a big, squishy, wonderful hug. Like the palm tree, it made Nikki feel guilty. She wasn’t here out of daughterly affection, she was here to ask for money. Money that her mother probably didn’t have to spare.

  But Aunt Dee had her own issues, so was out as a source of cash, and none of Nikki’s friends could loan her five hundred dollars right now.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Tara exclaimed, smelling of vanilla extract, butter and flour. “What a nice surprise. Good timing, too. I just pulled a tray of raspberry scones out of the oven.”

  The house smelled wonderful as Nikki stepped inside, like a smaller version of Sweetheart’s, her mother’s bakery. The living-room walls were painted in a soft cinnamon color, airy olive curtains that Tara had made herself hung in the windows, and the love seat and matching chair were draped in striped-gold-and-olive slipcovers. Instead of throw pillows, there were cats on the furniture. Cats that blinked sleepily, yawned and stretched. Cats in every color: tabby, calico, orange, white and black.

  Nikki wrinkled her nose as she caught the familiar ammonia stench that underlay the aroma of the fresh scones. With so many cats inside, it was simply impossible to disguise the presence of their by-products—especially since the dear kitties were partial to the dozens of potted plants and delicate fruit trees that filled the house.

  The sunroom, in particular, was in constant disarray, since the cats chewed on the wicker furniture, used the cushions for sharpening their claws and gleefully dug the soil out of the plants, sending it flying, in order to make their deposits. Tara scolded them but it did no good.

  Nikki followed her mother through the vanilla-painted dining room, where books and papers constantly covered the table since Tara had started taking classes part-time. Nikki’s childhood paintings of lopsided cakes and pies and cookies still hung framed on the walls in this room, though they embarrassed her and she’d begged her mother to take them down.

  Tara had painted the kitchen a chocolate-brown with bright white trim. A tiny bistro table and two chairs occupied the nook by the window. Shiny copper bakeware hung in artistic arrangements here, along with framed magazine pictures of fantastic chocolate creations and elaborate gingerbread houses. A solid wall of colorful dessert cookbooks stood opposite the stove. This room, more than any other, defined her mother’s life.

  “Would you like whipped cream on your scone?” Tara asked.

  Nikki chuckled ruefully. “Sure, why not add another couple hundred calories to the four hundred in the scone.”

  Her mother waved a dismissive hand and got two delicate porcelain plates out of a cupboard. She loved to scour antiques shops for two sets of things like tea cups and saucers, plates and bowls. Then when she threw the occasional party, she’d mix and match them all to the delight of the guests.

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Do you have some leftover coffee from earlier? I’ll ice it.”

  Tara nodded and then cast a shrewd glance in her direction as she plated a couple of the golden-brown scones. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “Nothing,” said Nikki, but she knew she hadn’t fooled her mom.

  “Hmm. I always walk around with a frown and a wrinkle in my forehead when nothing’s wrong, too.”

  That brought a smile to Nikki’s face despite her mood. She mixed her iced coffee and the two sat at the table. One bite of fresh, hot raspberry scone with whipped cream did a lot for her spirits. A moan of pleasure escaped her and she scarfed down the rest of it in record time.

  “All right,” said Tara. “What’s on your mind?”

  Ugh. Okay, it was time to ’fess up. “Mom…I hate to ask you this. But could you possibly loan me five hundred dollars until I get my first paycheck in two weeks?”

  There was the tiniest, most infinitesimal hesitation before Tara said, “Of course. No problem.”

  Nikki squirmed. “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t kind of desperate.”

  “I know that. I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever asked me for money. When do you need it?”

  “Um. By four-thirty today.”

  Tara set down her coffee. “Are you in some kind of trouble, honeybun?”

  “No, no. Of course not. It’s just that I had to borrow the money from someone who, um, unexpectedly needs it back right away.”

  Her mother looked at the clock on the stove, which said 10:45 a.m. “Well, I was hoping we had mo
re time to chat, but we’d better get to the bank right away. It closes at noon on Saturdays, and I can’t get that much money from my ATM card.”

  Nikki nodded and inspected the crumbs on her plate, feeling terrible. Tara had her classes to pay for, plus the new part-time help at the bakery, not to mention the roof. The last time Nikki had been here when the weather was bad, she’d noticed the old lobster pot sitting on a towel in the hallway, collecting rain from a leak.

  “I’ll get changed and we can go,” her mother said as she stood. Then, unexpectedly, she grabbed for the back of her chair and leaned on it, hard.

  “Mom?” Nikki jumped up. “What’s wrong?”

  Tara blinked and took a deep breath. “Nothing. I got up too fast and lost my balance, that’s all.”

  “Are you dizzy?”

  Tara shook her head, but she didn’t let go of the chair.

  Nikki took her arm, guiding her back into the seat. “Has this ever happened before?” Her mother was only forty-seven—surely too young to be having health issues. Right? But fear coiled low in Nikki’s belly.

  “N-no.”

  The hesitation was the giveaway. “Mom, don’t lie to me. This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

  “Only a couple of times. It’s nothing serious, so don’t fuss.”

  “How do you know it’s nothing serious? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “You don’t really know that, now do you? I’d feel better if you’d see a doctor and get this checked out.”

  Her mother’s mouth flattened mulishly. “You know my opinion of so-called Western medicine. It’s a racket. Take this pill, take that pill, have this outrageously expensive test, have that one. Do you know how many people’s lives are compromised by the giant pharmaceutical machine? They’d feel a lot better, most of them, if they’d stop taking three-quarters of their prescriptions. They should try acupuncture.”

  Nikki sighed. “You still haven’t gotten health insurance, have you?”

  “Oh, that again.” Eye roll. “I did look into it, honey, but I simply can’t afford those premiums right now. It’s a crazy amount of money, just to be able to go to a bunch of arrogant quacks intent on milking the system for every dime they can get. No, thank you.”