Some Rough Edge Smoothin'

by Louisa Trent

  “Hold on there!” he teased. “I happen to like meatloaf. Fact is, meatloaf's one of my favorite things. Ditto for sex.”

  When she smiled and rolled her eyes in that cute way of hers, which let him know that she was okay again, he went back to tackling the proposition he needed to make.

  “Here's the deal, Sera. You're a nice woman, and because of certain things in my background, I haven't been with many nice women. None actually.” He shoved his hands in the back pockets. “I'd like us to get to know one another. That's important in a situation like this.”

  “Really? Why?” Sera tilted her jaw.

  “Considering what we're discussing, I think getting to know one another is important.”

  “What exactly are we discussing? I'm afraid I'm not entirely following the direction of this conversation.”

  Why had he started this? He was making a mess of things. That's what sleep deprivation and a constant hard-on did to a man.

  After cleaning up the broken glass, he'd spent the rest of the night in his pickup, one bleary eye on the woods, the other on the house. With the windows broken out, Sera was more vulnerable than before; there was no way he could return to his comfy bed in the trailer, knowing Sera wasn't safe. Someone had to watch out for her, in case another low-life thought scaring her was a great idea, and it looked like that someone was him.

  Her hands went to her hips. “What kind of a situation is this, Tomas?”

  “A desperate situation,” he replied, glumly, watching her fingers tighten into fists: Sera was upset. That was the last thing he wanted to have happen. He should never have opened his mouth.

  Her forehead puckered. “Desperate? Why desperate?”

  He couldn't stand seeing that fearful look back in her eyes. He wanted that look gone. “Don't worry. I have a solution, one that will work for both of us, so that we both get what we want. I thought...maybe, that is to say, if you didn't mind too much, that you and I could...”

  Tomas ground to a screeching halt. He didn't know how to phrase his proposal and not have it come out seeming cold and calculating and unfeeling. How could he ask Sera what he needed to ask Sera and not have it come off sounding as though he was taking advantage of her, when hell, he was taking advantage of her?

  He held all the cards. He could make or break her dream for a school at the Monroe mansion. And he wasn't exactly being altruistic with his offer to help her. The lady was right about him wanting something from her in return. What words wouldn't make what he wanted sound crass, when hey, his proposition was crass?

  A golden opportunity to score points with Connor had just fallen right into his lap. The music school was Connor's pet project. All he had to do was tell Sera that he'd changed his mind about the school. That he now thought a music school on the Southside was a terrific idea.

  Nope. That would never fly. Sera was a smart lady; she'd never fall for that.

  Okay, so he'd tell her he'd decided to let her stay on at the mansion. He'd tell her he'd even fix the place up for her, soundproof practice rooms and everything. He'd tell her do all that in exchange for her agreement to help him gain him some respectability in Fenton. That was the truth.

  At least it was as close to the truth as he could get without hurting her feelings.

  The harsh truth was that helping her with the school was a great public relations move. How could Connor not approve of his bid for the Riverfront Project, then...especially if the school's director put in a good word for him? If a recommendation from Sera didn't cinch the bid, nothing would.

  Tomas let out the breath he was holding.

  He couldn't do it. He couldn't use Sera like that...even for the sake of the Riverfront Project. He'd been wrong about the lady; she wasn't a white-glove do-gooder who'd descended upon the Southside with a whole lot of pie in the sky dreams to set everything straight. She wasn't a dreamer at all. Sera was a hands-on kind of woman who believed strongly in what she was doing. He didn't happen to think the school would work out, but he couldn't fault her for trying. Not any more.

  Man, Sera was already looking at him weird. If he said what he needed to say, she'd throw him out on his ass. Worse, she'd hate him. He didn't want her to hate him-

  “Listen, you don't want to cook me supper and-and the rest, just say so. My idea wouldn't have worked out anyway.”

  “What wouldn't have worked out? What idea?”

  “Don't get all bent outta shape . I understand. A nice lady like you never would have gone along with it,” he said, heading for the door. “Forget we even had this conversation!”

  “What conversation?” she asked, and running after him to the top of the dilapidated stairs. “I don't understand what we just talked about.”

  “Us,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “And be careful of the damn stairs ‘til I get chance to fix ‘em. They're rotten all the way through.” Just like him.

  “There is no us,” she shouted after him.

  “That's where you're wrong. As of last night, we're an us.”

  “That's where you're wrong. As of last night, the candle and I are an us. But you and I?” Here, she shook her head. “We are not an us.”

  He laughed his ass off all the way to his truck. Sera had to be about the most naïve woman he'd ever known.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seraphina rushed through the service entrance of The Pink Flamingo, late for her first night on the job.

  Lou, impeccably tailored in a white shirt, red tie, striped silk vest, and pleated pants was behind the bar when she hurried over to explain.

  “I'm sorry I'm late! And on my first night too,” she fretted, picking up a drink-laden tray. “My car broke down on the way; I had to walk here.”

  Lou finished filing a patron's drink order and set the glass down on the gleaming bar. “You walked here?” he said slowly. “From the old Monroe place?”

  “It's not all that far,” she protested.

  “It's not a question of distance. I grew up in this neighborhood, the same as Rox and Tomas. A lone woman shouldn't walk these streets, and never at night. I'll give you a ride home after closing tonight.”

  Rarely if ever rude, Sera didn't tell Lou that she'd walked far worse streets, alone. In Calcutta.

  The manager of The Flamingo had a kind heart, so she smiled and said, “Thanks. I'd appreciate it.”

  The weary-faced manager of The Pink Flamingo smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his expression changing from boredom to a wary interest. In her.

  That interest was a heady realization. Lou was a handsome man, surrounded by gorgeous women, and yet he was smiling at her.

  A giggle bubbled within Sera.

  Sometimes, she felt like she was sixteen years old again, spreading her social wings for the first time. She'd never dated before marriage; her parents hadn't allowed that sort of thing. She'd never even kissed Matt prior to the wedding night-

  They hadn't kissed then either.

  The memory of her wedding night effectively squelched any girlish urge to giggle.

  Trapped once again in memories of her sterile marriage, Seraphina picked up the drink-laden tray. Balancing it on the tilt of her hip, she made her way across the floor, the dark atmosphere of the bar competing with the gloom inside herself.

  This time, though, when the familiar depression descended, as it had so often done this past year, she fought back. Somewhere, from some hitherto untapped source, came the energy she needed to lift the curtain of guilt about Matt, about her conflicted feelings for him.

  She was no longer the good little girl of missionary parents. Neither was she a saintly man's faithful and obedient and dutiful wife. She was an adult woman with needs, and the only person she was answerable to in getting those needs addressed was herself. If she chose to respond to one man's look of sexual interest-Lou's-after only just responding to another man's tersely worded sexual commands-Tomas's—it was her own dar-damn business!

  After the sterility of her marriage, af
ter all the years she had sublimated her real self, she had a right to a little adventuring, a right to a little recklessness.

  And so when Lou said, “Maybe I could come in for a cup of..."-here, he made a distasteful face-"... tea or something when I drive you home,” she bravely replied, “I'd like that.”

  Stunned by her own daring, Seraphina backed up.

  “I'll j-j-just go take this to the table now,” she stammered and fled.

  * * * *

  Achy feet and all, Sera was happy with her first Friday night at The Pink Flamingo. The six-hour shift flew right by! She'd delivered enough drinks to sink a battleship and sung herself hoarse. If her bulging apron pockets were any indication, the crowd had enjoyed the bawdy burlesque tunes and vintage Broadway production numbers. She must have received a hundred dollars in tips!

  Thrilled with her reception, Lou proclaimed the singing-waitress gimmick a huge success.

  'Lou has big plans for The Pink Flamingo', Roxanne confided to Sera in the dressing room. Roxie had gone on to whisper that Lou was ‘a strait-laced kind of guy who didn't approve of women taking off their clothes'. In fact, Rox told her that Lou hated operating a strip-joint and that he was trying to change the bar's image from raunchy to classy. Apparently, Lou saw hiring a singing waitress who kept her clothes on as a step in that direction.

  Obviously, Lou was a man of vision.

  Seraphina only wished the vision didn't include five-inch stiletto strappies; her feet really were killing her.

  But she wasn't about to complain, not about the shoes, not about some of the more enthusiastic members of the entirely male audience at The Pink Flamingo.

  By midnight, she'd become adroit at avoiding tricky gropes. Especially, those tricky gropes coming from one table of particularly obnoxious college kids in the back, a tiresome, adolescent group of frat boys intent upon besting each other by copping a feel of the waitress.

  “C'mon baby! Be nice to us and they'll be a big fat tip in it for you at the end of the night,” a boy with a buzz-cut told her in an oily voice to the gawking amusement of his drunken buddies at the table.

  “I don't get paid to be that kind of nice to the customers,” Seraphina replied, as she removed his pudgy palm from her fishnet stockings. “I get paid to deliver the food and liquid refreshments, and to sing. And that's all the nice I get paid for.”

  “There's a fifty in my wallet says you'll deliver more,” the Lothario crooned, his hand walking up the back of her leg again.

  She was about to give him the put-down he deserved, something about the size of his mouth being in direct disproportion to the size of his brain, when a deep voice resonated behind her.

  “I'm a big tipper too, pal. Here's yours: lay a finger on the lady again and I'll mess up your perfect smile.”

  It was Tomas Ruiz as she had never seen him. The sexy charmer was gone and in his place was a tough desperado.

  Two hands on her shoulders, she was placed squarely behind him. Then, he was back at the college kid.

  “It'd be a shame if my fist wasted all those years your mama made you wear braces, don't you think?” he asked the frat jock.

  The kid's hand went to his mouth; he really did have a perfectly aligned bite. “No, sir. I mean, yes sir.”

  “Apologize to the lady or I guarantee your retainer won't fit tomorrow.”

  The buzz-cut stumbled hastily to his feet. “I apologize, ma'am.”

  She nodded. “Apology accepted.”

  Tomas put out his hand. “Hand over the car keys; you're not driving back to the dorm tonight.”

  The keys were volunteered.

  “You'll find your wheels in the back parking lot tomorrow. You can pick up the car after you sober up,” Tomas advised the kid.

  One brown hand on her elbow, she was ushered away from the table.

  “You okay?” Tomas asked.

  “I could have handled that situation myself.” In a huff, Sera pulled her elbow free.

  “Yeah. I saw how you were handling the situation. Pardon my language, but any more of that kind of handling and the frat boy would've pledged in his boxers.”

  And that comment just made her so angry. She'd been in all kinds of hairy situations, situations he knew nothing about, and she'd handled every one of them. He had the wrong idea about her. To set him straight, the first thing she needed to do was take a flying leap off that holier-than-thou pedestal he'd stuck her on.

  No time like the present.

  “You're here to spy on me,” she accused.

  He had the audacity to look offended. “I always drop by on the weekends. You know, to see how everything's doin'. Check in on the girls.”

  Itching for a fight, she said, “Check out the girls is more like it. Looking to get laid, Ruiz?” Not by her, of course. She should get so lucky!

  Wide shoulders were carelessly shrugged. “Yeah, well you know how it goes. I have my reputation to uphold. Can't let the image slide. I work hard all week, come the weekend, I'm a Tomcat on the downtown prowl.”

  “Careful of the pink plumage when you go downtown. Wouldn't want a Tomcat like you coughing up feather balls ‘till Monday.”

  Tomas’ sensual mouth gaped. “What the hell kind of a thing is that for a missionary lady to say!”

  “Oh, spare me your stereotyping, Ruiz. I am so not the woman you think I am.”

  His dark eyes glinted. “I saw your car on the way into town. You need a new battery.”

  “But I left my car locked up tight! How do you know I need a new battery?”

  “I popped the lock,” he said, as though the ability to break into an automobile was a skill everyone possessed. “I'll take care of it tomorrow. For tonight, I'm driving you home.”

  “Th-thank you,” she said falteringly, adding grand theft auto to Tomas Ruiz's dubious list of accomplishments, “but Lou has already offered.”

  “He has, huh? Well, since Lou no longer lives on the Southside, and I still do, I'll spare him the trip.”

  * * * *

  True to his word, at the end of her shift, Tomas was waiting for her outside the service exit of The Pink Flamingo, slouched against the side of his company truck. As soon as he saw her, he removed his baseball cap. This was done right before opening the truck door. For a man with a street punk's reputation, he had awfully nice manners.

  Sera stared at the open door.

  What should she do?

  Her feet hurt, it was after midnight, and she lived in the worst part of town. Should she stamp her aching instep and say, ‘No thanks, I'll walk the mile and a half home to the Southside?’ Or maybe say, ‘No, I'll take a cab,’ when she couldn't afford the taxi fare?

  She was a mature and practical woman; she climbed up and into the truck without a hitch, even though her straight black skirt was too snug for comfort, the style not at all what she was used to wearing.

  They were silent all the way back to the mansion, no mention of their strange discussion about sex and meatloaf, no conversation at all.

  When the truck came to a stop on the mansion's drive, she unhitched her safety belt, and placed her hand on the door handle; still steamed about his highhandedness, her mature practicality didn't extend to thanking Tomas for the ride home. Before she could get the door open, Tomas had jumped out and opened it for her-there were those gentlemanly manners again.

  He stretched out his hand to her. “I'm walking you inside,” he mumbled. “Take a look around, turn on the lights, check the locks, stuff like that.”

  She didn't want to go into a dark house alone so late at night, not after the rock-throwing incident, but she had her pride. “Seeing me inside really isn't necessary.”

  Ignoring his proffered assistance, she slid down off the truck seat unaided and, in a really, really, graceless move brought on by a too-tight skirt and her own stupid stubbornness, fell like a flapping flounder right into his chest.

  His arms closed protectively around her. “You okay?” he asked, the scent of his warm
body rising up to her nose.

  Oh, those pheromones! The way Tomas Ruiz smelled appealed to her on a base sensory level she couldn't begin to explain. She had no idea if a male's olfactory sense worked the same way as a female's; she only knew that when a man smelled right to her, he smelled right. There was just no mimicking it. She was very receptive to the hard-working-man scent of Tomas Ruiz.

  Reaching a hand up between the press of their bodies, she made a ridiculous attempt to arrange her hair when what she really wanted to do was disarrange his. “I-I'm fine,” she stammered. “It was a long jump to the ground, that's all.”

  A long jump that had absolutely nothing to do with her current breathlessness or the rapidly hardening tips of her breasts; something else ...or rather...someone else had caused those sensations.

  Not wanting to lose contact with that someone else, she slid down Tomas’ body like suction cups were attached to her nipples.

  Much later, when her feet encountered ground, she put herself to rights. She started with straightening out her too tight skirt, which had somehow managed to creep up to her thighs.

  When she smoothed a palm over her backside, Tomas gave a cough. “I know you don't want to be seen associating with the likes of me, so I'll make the house-check quick.”

  Like his feet were on fire, he led the way to the back door.

  She had to run, in stilettos no less, to catch up. “That isn't why I didn't want you to come inside,” she said incredulously, panting at his heels. “And anyway, who's to see you? I have no neighbors. Furthermore, even if I did have nosy neighbors, there's nothing wrong with you coming inside. We're both adults. Besides which, you didn't seem to have a problem coming inside the other night. While I was bathing,” she reminded him, perhaps not with venom but with a very definite squeeze of lemon.

  She was still angry about his cavalier treatment, jumping into the fray to defend her honor like that at The Flamingo! Who did he think he was, anyway? Why, he'd been almost been...well...territorial, both with those college jocks and with Lou. He'd practically acted like he owned her-