by Alison Kent
"There! Is that better?" Two of the boys behind whooped and hollered; the third yelled a pained, "Shut the hell up!" The one facing her directly refused to look away from her eyes. She'd fix that.
"Wait." She went on, whipping off her bra before she changed her mind. "I wouldn't want you to strain your eyes or your imagination wondering how I compare to Maryann Stafford."
Ben's chest rose and fell in near-breathless pants. His eyes were wild and bright when he looked over her head toward Quentin and the other two boys. A brow went up. He nodded. Heidi waited for an eternity for Ben to say something, anything.
When he did, he didn't even speak to her but to the boys behind. "I'll take Heidi home. Quentin'll give y'all a ride."
"C'mon, Ben—"
"Practice is over." He didn't even let Randy finish his complaint. Ben's commanding tone was surprisingly calm. He rounded the end of the table, snagged Heidi's T-shirt from the floor and held it out to her with a hand that trembled as he spoke to the others. “Leave the instruments. I'll bring them to band tomorrow."
Heidi grabbed the T-shirt and held it to her chest. Behind her she heard lowing moans and the shuffle of six overgrown feet on indoor/outdoor carpeting. The longer it took Quentin to herd his reluctant cattle, the faster her rush of brazenness trickled away. God, she was going to vomit.
The game room door closed and the three of them were finally alone. She and Ben and her behavior. She'd taken off her shirt—still had it off, in fact—and he hadn't even looked. She couldn't decide whether to be humiliated or insulted or to sink to the floor behind the table and hide.
What she finally did was slip her shirt over her head and down, tugging the hem as low as it would go. Her vest was at her feet, her bra on the floor closer to Ben's. Definitely closing in on humiliation, she managed to retrieve both pieces of clothing, shrug into the vest and stuff the bra into the pocket of her jeans without once looking at his face.
She'd started disassembling her sax when he spoke.
"Heidi, Maryann's lying."
Her nod acknowledged that she'd heard him, not that she believed him. She wasn't in the mood to believe him. All she wanted to do was start this day over from the blast of her alarm clock this morning.
"She didn't lose her top in the pool." He shuffled from one foot to the other. "Well, she lost it, but it wasn't like it was an accident or anything. You know Maryann."
"Not as well as you do, apparently." She locked the saxophone case and turned; she locked her jaw as well. It kept her chin from quivering. "You can take me home now."
Ben pushed back the hair from his forehead. "Dammit, Heidi. Nothing really happened."
"Really?" The bum in her stomach flared. "What does that mean, 'Nothing really happened.'? That nothing happened at all? That whatever happened didn't mean anything?" Her voice and temper rose in unison. "That everything's okay because we all know Maryann?"
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, standing with his arms crossed, the pool table squarely between them.
His defensiveness answered her question. She grabbed her sax and lifted her chin. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to take me home."
"I'm not taking you home until you listen to me." He started forward.
She headed toward the door. "Fine. I'll walk."
He changed directions, rounding the table to head her off. "You can't walk."
"I have two legs. I most certainly can."
"That's not what I meant. It's too far." He'd reached the door now and blocked it with his body. "And it's not exactly the safest neighborhood to be walking through at night."
His lack of tact and consideration amazed her at times. She wondered if he'd taken lessons in holier-than-thou along with deportment. "I live in that neighborhood, Ben."
"Cripes, Heidi. Do you have to twist everything I Broad hands gripped her shoulders, green eyes made a great show of caring. "I don't want anything lo happen to you."
"Thanks for the concern. But I'd rather take care of myself. I can make sure nothing happens to me." She shrugged off his hold, took a step back while he i rossed his arms and leaned back on the door. "You see, I'm not Maryann Stafford."
"You're still not walking home."
She shook her head. He was totally impossibly arrogant at times, but she didn't hate him anymore. Never had hated him, in fact. What she felt deserved a deep and thorough and very private exploration, but not tonight. Not tonight. "I know you're used to getting your way, but it's not going to happen this time. Now, move please, so I can go."
He sidestepped, but left his hand on the doorknob. "If you don't want me to drive you, I'll ask my dad to take you."
"Uh, no thanks."
"Then I'll call you a cab."
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. She pressed shaky fingers to her forehead and sighed. "You and your money."
"What about my money?" he asked but he did finally open the door.
She didn't want to talk or explain or answer another single question. She was tired and she wanted to go home. That was all. "You know how it is. The rich get richer, the poor pay taxes." Then she tried to bite her tongue, but the words had already rolled from the end. "And if there's anything left they might be able to afford tuition."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing, Ben. Just take me home." Head held high, she left the game room. Ben followed, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled.
His steps were heavy and close behind her, but she didn't move aside. And she swore no matter how much money she made in her lifetime, she would never hang a chandelier in a hallway.
"EIGHT BALL IN the corner pocket." Heidi made the call, made the shot and made the crowd of onlookers cheer as she whipped the pants off Quentin Marks. Figuratively speaking, of course.
As she'd told him earlier, clothes had not been removed during a game she'd played now for fifteen years. "Best two out of three? Winner buys dinner? I'm dying for a burger and fries."
"You want a burger, you got it. But the competition's over for tonight. Gotta save my strength for tomorrow's softball tourney." He took her cue, laid it across the table next to his and wrapped her in a bear hug that crushed a rush of laughter from her chest. "Damn but it's good to see you, Heidi."
"I'll second that."
Oh...nooo. That voice. Not that voice. She whispered up to Quentin because whispering was all she could coax from her voice box. "Tell me that was all in my imagination. Tell me I'm hearing things."
"You are hearing things." Quentin glanced over his shoulder, then, smiling, looked back and down into Heidi's face. "You're hearing exactly what you thought you heard."
Slowly, Heidi extricated herself from Quentin's arms. Her hands remained on his chest. She needed that moment of stabilizing support before she stepped out from behind the shield of his larger broader body and faced the owner of that voice.
Ben Tannen.
Chapter Two
QUENTIN TURNED AROUND, his body momentarily shielding Heidi's as he held out his hand to shake Ben's. "Hey, Ben. Lookin' good for a small-town newspaperman...except for that gray, there. Age taking up where stress left off?"
Newspaperman? Small town? What was wrong with this picture? What had happened to the big city, the big daily, the big editorial position?
And what had happened to Quentin's priorities? Heidi didn't care about the past fifteen years of Ben's life but that was no reason for Quentin not to tell her every detail.
"At least I don't look like a Samson wannabe," Ben said, his voice an even deeper version, if that was possible, of the one Heidi remembered.
She didn't really want to remember how that voice had made her face flush and her heart trip. She didn't want to remember how beckoning was the safe harbor of that voice in the turbulent waters that had been her life.
She leaned her forehead into the center of Quentin's back and anchored her fidgety hands at his waist. Next time she'd listen to Georgia—as much as it went against her personal karma
to do so—and spend future weekends off in a more productive activity.
Like doing her nails.
Ben went on. "What happens if you cut off that tail, Marks? You lose your musical talent?"
Quentin chuckled, his shoulders shook. "If I find a Delilah worth cutting it for, you'll be the first to know. In fact, I'll give you and that weekly rag of yours the exclusive."
"Delilah, huh?" Ben did a quick clearing of his throat. "Wouldn't happen to be her nails there clawing into your shirt?"
Heidi made two fists even as Quentin took hold of both her hands and pried open her fingers. "Nope. I think this particular Delilah has another man's downfall on her dance card."
"Ha!" Heidi yelped and butted her forehead into Judas's back. Then she jerked her hands away and peered around Quentin's shoulder at the man she'd come here to forget.
How could she ever forget? Why, oh why had she thought time would make a difference? Her face burned, her belly trembled, her palms began to sweat. Her earlier schoolgirl jitters had been easily banished.
But that was before she'd laid eyes on Ben.
Jitters were nothing compared to the purely adult, purely female recognition of the temptation he offered, a temptation born of all things male—confidence, control, an acceptable measure of arrogance. He was a man secure in who he was and he was more, oh much more, than Heidi had expected to find.
He stood with a longneck dangling from the fingers of one hand, the other stuffed in the pocket of navy slacks with a custom-tailored fit. His hair was a richer, thicker brown than that of years ago and Quentin hadn't been kidding about the sprinkling of gray. The cut was definitely better than the rock 'n roll look he'd favored as a teen.
She'd never paid a lot of attention to the clothes Ben wore. At least compared to the attention she was paying now. Above the dark blue slacks, he wore a yellow crew-neck sweater of what appeared to be cashmere, the long sleeves bunched at his elbows. The pastel set off the dark shadow of his evening beard and his even darker hair.
The entire look was so fashionably casual that it screamed class and money. No, Heidi mentally corrected. What it screamed was Tannen. But for some reason that didn't turn her off the way it had in the past. In fact, she found herself quite turned on.
"Hello, Ben." Long time no try to kill. "It's been a while." At least fifteen years and fifteen stitches.
Ben frowned, and to Heidi's consternation, took his time taking in her short short skirt, her long long legs, her curled and colored hair. A sip from his longneck and still he took his time. So Heidi gave him plenty to look at.
Standing at enough of an angle that Ben wouldn't see more than she wanted him to see, she leaned down to adjust the strap of her strappy low-heeled sandal. Her nails were a seductively flirty red which helped with her seductively flirty move.
Her dress lifted in the back, lowered in the front, but all in a most tasteful display. Along with the rest of her education, Heidi had learned the difference between a thoughtful, artful exhibition and one fueled by emotion and made on the spur of the moment.
And the confidently controlled, arrogant man stood silent.
Ignoring Quentin's low chuckle and the impulse to jab an elbow into his midsection, Heidi straightened, slid her fingers into her hair and pushed it back from her face. Then she took a good look at Ben's eyes.
Her fingers slowed and slipped free. Her hair tumbled back into place and she lowered her arm. Her hand slid along her side to her hip, the move all the more enticing for its lack of guile. She knew that by the flare in Ben's eyes, a smoky reaction her outlandish display hadn't come close to producing.
He might stand there looking like a study in Tannen class and fashion, but Ben wasn't as coldly unaffected on the inside as his outward demeanor might indicate to those who didn't have Heidi's eye-to-eye perspective.
She wasn't sure what to do with the implications of that realization. Or what to do next. Even after he smiled and said, "Hello, Heidi," in that low sexy voice and she answered, "Hi," with as much calm as she could manage, she didn't know what to do next. So they stood there, both of them waiting, like the past would take care of itself if they gave it enough time.
"Tell you what," Quentin said, jumping ship when the silence grew to titanic proportions. "I'm going to let you two stand here and look at each other while I make the rounds. See if Jack or Randy decided to show their faces."
'Traitor,' Heidi mumbled under her breath, shrugging off the hand Quentin had placed on her shoulder just as another couple walked up.
"I'm showing a lot more than my face, Queenie Boy. Just not enough to get arrested for."
"Randy!" Heidi took in the third of the four best friends she'd had in school.
His khaki slacks and crisp blue chambray shirt were as trendy as the clothes worn by both Ben and Quentin, as was the cut of his dark-brown hair. He was shorter than the other men, and stockier and the looks that had been average in school had matured into a face that had Heidi catching a breath.
"Randy, you look great," she said and meant every word.
He gave her a loud smooch on the cheek and pulled back. "Nothing like the high-school jock with the big head and big mouth, eh?"
Quentin rubbed at the fuzz on his chin and considered Randy from all angles. "Big mouth? Big head? Yep, I'd say that's exactly what you look like."
"And you weren't a jock. You played golf," Ben added.
"Hey, hey, hey. I coulda played football. I coulda been a contenda, I coulda been king of the world instead of The King of The Deck." Randy raised his hands, wiggled his fingers. "But I had to save these jewels for my horn."
The group laughed as Quentin said, "Better a trophy case of blue ribbons than a perennial case of benchwarmer butt."
Offering Randy's female friend a silent apology for the exclusion, Heidi's hands went to her hips, her gaze from Randy to Quentin to Ben. "You guys! I swear y'all sound like you're still in high school."
"I thought that was the point of a reunion." Ben gestured with his longneck. "Remembering."
"Reminiscing," Quentin said.
"Regurgitating," Randy added.
Heidi groaned. "Well, at least give Randy a chance to introduce his date, not that she wants to meet any of you after all of that."
Randy placed his hand in the small of the woman's back. "Julie, this quick and witty bunch makes up three fifths of The Deck. Heidi Malone, Quentin Marks and Ben Tannen. And this is Julie Damon."
"Hi, Julie," Heidi began, warmly shaking hands with the petite, dark-haired woman. "I'm not sure what Randy's told you, but playing with this deck requires checking your sensitivity—not to mention your good taste—at the door." She punctuated her statement with a sharp glance at each of the three men.
"Speaking of bad taste, where is Jack?" Randy hooked a friendly elbow around Julie's neck.
Patting his hand where it rested on her shoulder, Julie smiled at Heidi with shared female long-suffering. "I've known Randy awhile now. I'm on my second fitting of asbestos skin so don't worry about me. Revisit your memories to your heart's content."
"Well, well, well." Quentin rubbed his hands together, the devil all in black. "I do believe Julie will fit right in as The Deck reverts to a weekend of immaturity."
"Be warned." Julie pointed a finger in Quentin's direction. "I refuse to wear a playing-card sandwich board."
He shook his head vigorously. "No need to advertise what's an obvious ten."
"A ten dressed to the nines,' Randy added, wiggling both brows as he took in Julie's red silk oriental-style pantsuit.
A collective groan rose from the group. Julie put up a hand. "Enough already! Randy, buy me a beer. If you're going to work your way through the entire deck, I'm going to need reinforcement."
"Yes, dear. Anything you say, dear." Randy signaled a passing waitress and ordered drinks for the group. The conversation deteriorated into numeric cliches until Randy managed a segue from card decks to the upper deck of the Houston Astros' new base
ball stadium and the home-run distances involved.
The talk turned to baseball then and Heidi's gaze moved over the small circle of men, her expression softening with memories. She studied the obvious changes in hairlines and muscle definition, the outcome of games played by the years and Mother Nature.
She studied the subtler changes as well. There was Quentin's sense of confidence and self, which she knew stemmed from the success he'd found in his music, a success all the more priceless for being his heart's calling.
Not many people were able to make that claim. She felt a tightening in her chest, realizing what a lucky man was her friend, and how lucky she was to call him one. She made a vow right then to get his number and remember to call him more often than once in half a lifetime.
Randy also appeared to have done well for himself, but then she'd never expected less. He may not have had Ben's wealth or Quentin's talent, but he'd come from a solid family, had kept a near-4.0 grade point average throughout school.
He hadn't shared that secret with many. It wasn't cool to be smart. He'd had the brains but not the maturity to use his intelligence to his advantage, and the one time Heidi had tried to do it for him...well, that was one memory she'd sooner forget.
And then there was Ben. Oh, Ben. Heidi released a shuddering sigh. He'd been as hard on her as she'd been on Randy. As responsible as Quentin was for keeping her from dropping out, Ben had been the reason she'd stayed.
From that first time she'd walked into that freshman band hall and seen the boy who had everything, she'd known that there would be a day when she and Ben—
"I can't believe these guys," Julie said, her laughter cutting into Heidi's musing. "It's like they see each other every day. Men seem to be able to pick up where they left off, down to the very conversation they dropped fifteen years ago."
The men's conversation was working its way from professional sports to locker-room tales. Heidi rolled her eyes. "I think that's because men have the same conversation for years. They just switch the references. From VHS to DVD. From Reagan to Clinton. From Farrah Fawcett to Pamela Lee."