That Boy From Trash Town

by Billie Green

  He had to tell himself over and over that Whitney was just another pampered Harcourt brat, as different from himself as night from day. There was no place in his life for someone like Whitney. Chance had brought them together, but reality kept them from being anything other than friends. That was the way Dean wanted it, he told himself. A friendship he could handle. Anything else didn't bear thinking about.

  Whitney accepted the new restrictions he had placed on their relationship. Without demur, without questions. But although she wasn't as free with her affection as she had been in the past, she flatly refused to let him step out of her life completely. They remained friends, and as the years passed, Dean had learned to control the demon within him. There were times he even thought he had conquered it.

  But on the day she left San Antonio, on the day she had walked unannounced into his bedroom, he had been forced to acknowledge the truth. The demon— the overpowering need, the devastating hunger—was still there inside him, waiting to get put and destroy them both.

  But in spite of all that, it had all worked out. Dean's strength of purpose, the control he has imposed on his own will, had worked. Whitney was over her infatuation. She had finally recognized the fact that heroes could live only in the rarefied atmosphere of childhood. You couldn't carry them along with you into the adult world.

  Whitney was at last making a new life, a real life, for herself. Dean had won. So why didn't he feel triumphant? he wondered. Why did he feel so damned empty?

  Chapter 8

  "I don't understand it," Lloyd said. "How can you be so brilliant at darts and so pitiful at bowling?"

  Unaffected by the insult, Whitney held her hands over the air dryer as she waited for her ball to return. "It's very simple. Pick up a dart, then try picking up one of these bowling balls. 'You canna change the laws of physics, Captain Kirk.' It has something to do with thrust and force and expendable energy."

  "And that's why the ball lands in the gutter every time?" Lloyd asked.

  "She's conning you," Frankie called from the next lane. "Face it, Mary, you stink like a big dog. You're the only person in the history of bowling to come up with a negative score."

  Frankie's opinion and her digital response brought a roar of raucous laughter from the group, but Whitney ignored them and picked up her ball. She went carefully through the steps that Lloyd had taught her—hold the ball at chest level; step and thrust out; step and swing back; step and release on the return swing—then she sighed heavily as the ball headed straight for the gutter.

  After curtsying to the burst of enthusiastic applause—people she didn't even know were keeping track of her score—Whitney headed for the ladies' room to freshen up.

  She was washing her hands when a petite, attractive blonde came out of one of the stalk. Linelle Pierce also worked at the toy factory, but since she had an office job, Whitney didn't see her as often as she did the rest of the group.

  "I'm glad you don't let their teasing bother you," Linelle said as she fussed with her ham "They all like you a lot. Especially Frankie."

  Whitney studied the blonde's carefully composed features. "Do I detect a hidden question there? Like, am I interested in Mr. Watch-Me-Flex-My-Muscles Halloran?" Whitney grinned. "You don't have to worry about me, Linelle. Frankie is right out of my league. I would never aspire so high."

  "Somehow I get the feeling Frankie wouldn't agree with you," the woman said gloomily.

  Whitney took a lipstick out of her purse. "Frankie simply likes a challenge. If I were really hot for him, he wouldn't give me the time of day. Next time you're talking to him, let your attention wander off to another man. Just see what kind of reaction you get then." She grinned. "If he doesn't strain a tendon trying to impress you, I'll eat my bowling shoes."

  After a moment of thought Linelle gave a slow smile. "Why not? I couldn't be worse off, that's for sure."

  As she watched Whitney apply her lipstick, the blonde's expression grew thoughtful, and after a moment she dropped her gaze to her hands. "Mary-Look, we don't know each other all that well, and you can tell me to mind my own business if you want, but..." She raised her head and met Whitney's eyes. "You're not thinking about going after Lloyd?"

  Whitney choked back startled laughter. "No... really," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "It's nothing like that. Lloyd and I are friends. Just friends."

  Linelle relaxed. "That's a relief. I like you, and I like Lloyd. But the two of you together? Know what I mean?"

  "Is anyone else thinking along those lines?" Whitney asked with a worried frown. "Do the rest of the gang think that Lloyd and I are, you know... together?"

  The blonde shrugged. "A few of them, maybe. I mean, you spend all your time hanging around Lloyd, and as far as we know, you haven't had a single date since you started out at the factory. Lloyd told them nothing was going on between the two of you, but you know how men are. They just wouldn't let it alone."

  "Lloyd told them—" She broke off and shook her head. "He didn't say a word. Why didn't he tell me the guys were razzing him?"

  "Maybe he was embarrassed. You know how private Lloyd is." Linelle paused. "If you haven't got a thing for Lloyd, then how come you don't ever date? There are plenty of guys at the factory, not all of them slugs, either, who would jump at the chance to go out with you. Say, I could fix you up if you want. Maybe we could double."

  "That's really sweet of you, Linelle, but I don't think so. I'm just not ready yet."

  "Yet?" Linelle narrowed her eyes at Whitney, giving her an ah-ha look. "I thought so. You're coming down from a bad man trip. Am I right?"

  "Something like that."

  "Hey, forget him. Men are worms." The blonde leaned back against the vanity counter. "Have you ever looked at a night crawler up close?"

  "Noo-oo," Whitney said slowly. "I can't say that I have."

  "Try it sometime. Get two of them and see if you can tell any difference. It's impossible. One might be longer or shorter than the other—you can take that any way you like—" she added with a grin "—but they're basically the same. You gave me some advice, so now I'm going to return the favor. It's stupid to let yourself get all messed up over one worm when you can dig up another one. Just use it."

  "Pithy," Whitney said, nodding judicially. "Really pithy. The only flaw I see in your hypothesis is a muscle-bound wonder named Frankie."

  Linelle laughed and shook her head. "I was afraid you'd remember him. Okay, so I don't believe a word of what I just said. And apparently, neither do you."

  "No." Whitney smiled.' 'Because my night crawler wasn't a duplicate of anything. You could line up a thousand earthworms beside him, and I'd still know the difference. Instantly and without a doubt."

  As though she had seen something in Whitney's eyes, Linelle put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, honey. Sometimes it works out that way, damn their eyes."

  Whitney shrugged. She knew Linelle wanted to hear the details of her "bad man trip," but Whitney wasn't willing to have her relationship with Dean turned into just another affair gone wrong. She wouldn't ever be able to talk about it with the casual but enthusiastic indignation with which most women treated their past love affairs.

  Turning toward the door, she smiled again and said, "I hope you'll have better luck with Frankie."

  After playing another game the party began to break up, and it was just after three when Whitney followed Lloyd out of the bowling alley to his station wagon.

  She and Lloyd still took separate cars to work, but occasionally on the weekends, if the gang from the factory was getting together at the lake or the bowling alley, she and Lloyd would ride together. It was a small step, but she figured a small step was better than no step at all.

  Linelle had been right when she said Lloyd was a private person, and Whitney disliked knowing that their friendship was causing him problems, but she couldn't back off now. She simply couldn't.

  In the two weeks since Dean's sudden appearance, Lloyd had gradually
begun to grow more comfortable in her presence. There were even times when he seemed glad to see her, which was fortunate, because Whitney made sure he saw her as often as possible. He laughed more often now; and what was even more important, his laughter no longer took him by surprise. Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but it seemed that he was coming back to life a little more each day.

  And not before time, she told herself as he parked the station wagon in his regular space at the side of their apartment building.

  Garden Court Apartments was a small complex that consisted of four separate, two-story buildings that were arranged around a central courtyard. The Court contained no indoor corridors; the apartments all opened onto covered walkways that overlooked the courtyard.

  Lloyd's apartment was on the upper level of the west unit and, with some careful maneuvering, Whitney had managed to get one just three doors away.

  "I don't know what you keep going on about," she said once they reached his door. "I took out six pins in that last game. That's definitely progress."

  "You might say that," he said, nodding sagely. "Bat you'd be the only one. I probably should have explained that the object of the game is to try and knock over the pins in your own lane."

  "I was hoping you hadn't noticed that," she said, her voice peevish.

  As she stood watching Lloyd laugh at her expense, Whitney moved out of the way so that a man with a large cardboard box could pass by them. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the newcomer stop in front of an apartment four doors down, just on the far side of Whitney's.

  When the man put down the box and inserted a key in the door, Whitney frowned. Something about him was beginning to nag at her. She turned her head for a better look and instantly drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening in shock.

  The new tenant wore a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out, and his faded jeans fit like a glove across well-shaped buttocks. Even though the man had his back turned to her, Whitney recognized him now.

  Oh yes, she knew that backside.

  Dean turned and nodded his 'head in greeting. "How're you doing?" he said, his smile polite, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter.

  "Mary?"

  Whitney turned to find Lloyd watching her, making no effort to hide his amusement. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Lloyd asked.

  Leaving the box on the walkway, Dean walked back to where they stood. "Yes, Mary, introduce us."

  She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him in a way that was painful. And slow.

  After sending Dean a vengeful look, she said, "Lloyd, this is Dean Russell... an old friend. Dean, Lloyd Grant."

  "A new friend," Lloyd said as he shook Dean's hand.

  Whitney stood a step away from the two men, feeling anger and a lot of other things she didn't want to think about at the moment. She wanted to concentrate on the anger. At least until she found out what in hell was going on.

  "The apartment only became available yesterday," Dean was telling Lloyd. "I was really lucky to get it. Fortunately the manager thought I had a trustworthy look about me."

  Enough was enough. Grasping Dean's arm tightly, Whitney began walking back toward the door that he had left open.

  "Dean, dear, you probably need some help getting unpacked. You should have let me know you were moving in today. You know how helpful I can be." She glanced over her shoulder. "See you tonight, Lloyd."

  "Yeah... see you tonight, Lloyd," Dean called.

  When they were both inside his apartment—his apartment—Whitney slammed the door behind them and looked him over slowly and carefully.

  The way he was dressed reminded her of the way he used to look back when he was that wild boy from

  Trash Town. A little uncivilized and totally sensual. He also looked as though he were laughing at a secret joke, as if he were thoroughly enjoying her anger, damn his sexy eyes.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing?" she burst out, her voice high with incredulity. "Why are you here? What about your practice? If you mess this up for me, Dean, so help me God, I'll never forgive you."

  Dean threw back his head and laughed. Sweet heaven, it was good to see her again.

  "Let's take those in order," he said. "Your first question, I believe, was what in hell do I think I'm doing here? That's easy—I'm moving in. Second, why am I here? Because for good or for bad, and no matter what I've said to make you mink otherwise, I made myself responsible for you eighteen years ago. I can't let go until I know you're okay. What I saw last tone I was here didn't convince me of that. The third question was, what about my practice? I turned most of my cases over to Sam. The rest I'll handle from here, flying back to San Antonio when I need to."

  What he didn't tell her was that the past two weeks had been pure, unadulterated hell, first making the decision to come here, then arranging to handle, on a commuter basis, the cases he couldn?t turn over to Sam.

  "And as for the last question," he continued. "But that wasn't a question, was it? It was an assumption that would probably offend me if I were in the mood to be offended, which I'm not." He met her eyes. "I have no intention of messing this up for you. I think you should get to know your father. When have I ever wanted less than the best for you, Whitney?"

  Whitney turned away from him. Damn it, she didn't want to love him. Why couldn't she stop? Why couldn't she stay mad? It wasn't right that he could walk in, say a few words, and have her melting inside all over again.

  "It just seems like you're going a little overboard," she said, her uncertainty showing in her voice. "I knew you felt responsible for me, but this is too much, Dean. Why should you neglect your own life just to make sure mine is going well?" She shook her head slowly. "I don't like it. I've never asked this kind of thing of you."

  "I know you didn't." She heard him move, then his voice came from directly behind her. "You never asked anything of me. This is for me, Whitney. Strictly for me. Okay?"

  She turned to face him, examining his eyes. She could always see the truth in his eyes. "Okay," she said after a moment

  He picked up her hands and gave them both a slight squeeze. "That's better."

  This was going to take some mental adjustment, Whitney told herself as she casually pulled her hands free. Dean was in her life again, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wasn't sure how he wanted her to feel about it.

  For most of her life Whitney had chased Dean, and Dean had done his level best to hold her off. She didn't know how to react to this obvious reversal of roles. Who was she supposed to be now? What was she supposed to be to Dean? Had all the rules changed, or only some of them?

  There was an awkwardness, an awareness, between them that had never been there in the past, and that was what she was going to have to learn to deal with.

  The situation needed thought. A lot of thought. But that would have to come later. Maybe later, when she wasn't thrown into turmoil by his presence, she would be able to think more clearly.

  "The Gutierrez case," she said suddenly. "That was important to you. How can you leave it to Sam? That boy was counting on you."

  He smiled. " Alvo's fine. I had it all but wrapped up before you did your disappearing act."

  "Really?" She was surprised and pleased, for Dean and for the boy. "How did you pull it off?"

  "I didn't. Tess gets all the credit."

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting on cardboard cartons, while he finished telling her about what had really happened to Alvo Gutierrez. As she listened, Whitney's blue eyes grew sad, her natural empathy tuned to a couple of children she had never met.

  "What's going to happen to them now?" she asked.

  "We'll be lucky if Jackson gets six months."

  She made a disgusted sound. "That stinks, Dean. That really stinks."

  "I know," he agreed, "but at least it's a breathing space. The three of them—Alvo, Tess and their mother—are in counseling and—"

  "How did you manage that? I tho
ught the mother was obsessing on her husband? How did you get her to consider her children for once?"

  "You'd be surprised what a little unofficial visit from the district attorney's office will do. I asked a friend to call on Mrs. Jackson and suggest that she could possibly be charged with aiding and abetting ... unless she decided to get help for herself and the kids. By the time Jackson gets out, Alvo and Tess—if not their mother—will be stronger. Now they know that they have someone on their side. If trouble starts again, they know they can call the authorities. And maybe, if everything works out—and if I have anything to say about it, it will—they won't ever accept abuse as a normal way of life again."

  He stared out the window. "Alvo's got a lot of anger to work out, Whit. And the anger that's most damaging to him emotionally isn't what he feels for his stepfather. It's all the hidden stuff he feels for his mother. He doesn't know it yet, but he blames her. He blames her for having the bad judgment to marry that worthless sleaze in the first place. And he blames her for not protecting him. Alvo thinks he's an adult, an adult who understands all about human weakness, but inside there's still a child who thinks parents are supposed to be all-powerful and all-wise. Strong enough and smart enough to keep the bad things away."

  He exhaled slowly, his strong lips twisting in a self-mocking smile. "And of course there's always that little demon inside him that keeps telling Alvo that he got just exactly what he deserved."

  As Dean spoke the quiet, unemotional words, Whitney felt an old familiar pain well up inside her. Alvo's story was too close to what had happened to Dean all those years ago. And as always, she wanted so badly to hold him, to rock him until the past let go of him.

  Instead she cleared her throat. "You're a good man, Dean Russell," she said, her voice husky. "A good, kind, caring man. No, don't shake your head. And don't tell me you were only doing your job. You saved those kids."

  Grinning, he drew back his head to look at her. "One man against the forces of evil? I feel like I should be standing on top of a building, my hands on my hips while my cape blows in the wind."