Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Misty stretched a bit and eyed me carefully.

  “What’s up? You know your honey sleeps like a log when you’re at work.”

  At her use of the words your honey, my conscience got the better of me, and the tears came. I tried unsuccessfully to blink them back. All I could do was let them roll down my cheeks.

  My friend jumped to her feet and threw her arms around me. For a second, I let myself lean on her. I wished desperately that I could tell her what I’d done. I opened my mouth to confess, but clawed back the words instead.

  Trent Falls, Trentville and Trent River were small, interconnected communities. They shared not just Tangerines, but a grocery store, a tiny community college and recreation centre. Being in one, doing something in one, sharing a secret in one…it was the same as doing it in all of them. Rumours flew fast and hard, and all it would take for word to get back to Jayme was one little slip-up. And I’d already told Misty so much more about my life than I’d ever told anyone.

  Misty pulled back and looked me square in the face, and I braced myself for a barrage of questions.

  “So you told him about wanting to move?” she asked.

  She thinks I’m upset about my fight with Jayme.

  That, I could talk about.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “We argued about it.”

  “I heard you through the walls yesterday afternoon.”

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  She waved off my apology. “And he won.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Doesn’t he always?”

  Misty sighed. “Have you thought about giving yourself some distance? I could help you get some time to—”

  I cut her off, and left no room for discussion. “No. I won’t. No matter what happens.”

  My friend’s face was full of curiosity, but she didn’t push me for an explanation. She knew when to respect my privacy.

  “You want me to stay for a while? Keep you company?” she asked instead.

  I shook my head.

  “All right.” She kissed my head, and added, “For the record, I’m glad—just this one time—that Jayme won.”

  A moment later, Misty slipped up the stairs that led to her part of the split level. When she was gone, I made my way into the bedroom.

  Jayme’s handsome features were peaceful, and a surge of love, mingled with guilt, made my heart twist.

  How could I have let him down like that?

  I restrained an urge to stroke his cheek. I didn’t want to chance waking him. And as I studied his face, I realized something. Sleeping with the stranger tonight was going to force my hand. It would give me the motivation I needed to make Jayme see we had to go. We would have to move, because I wouldn’t take the chance that the man would see Jayme and me together any more than I would take that chance that Jayme might hear a rumour about the stranger and me.

  I climbed into the bed, still clothed and curled up beside him. My eyes had just started to close when I felt Jayme’s warm hand on my arm.

  “Gone a long time.”

  Were his words an accusation, or just a statement of fact? I didn’t know.

  “Work,” I lied.

  “I don’t like it when you go.”

  “I know.”

  He squeezed my elbow and moved a little closer. I counted his breaths, measuring the space between them until I was sure he had settled again. Five minutes passed, then ten.

  “Jayme,” I whispered weakly. “I’m so sorry.”

  He went rigid, then.

  I miscalculated.

  He thrashed against the sheets and lashed out.

  Please, no, I prayed, but it did no good.

  His fist met my face, and I knew that any chance of sleep was lost.

  Chapter Three

  Painter

  I was in that space, right between awake and asleep, feeling as sore as I’d felt in years. My legs and back ached in a way that the gym never caused them to anymore, and it sent my mind reeling back to the last time I’d felt any real pain.

  “You look like you hurt.”

  The nonchalant statement came from Cohen Blue, and I ignored him. I was working on a set of hanging lifts. They were painful. Especially when they followed an entire rehabilitation workout. He knew it, too. After all, Cohen was the one who hired the personal trainer and the sports therapist. The one who insisted I needed it and the one who paid for it.

  That, plus my food and my rent and God knew what else.

  “Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.” I grunted the numbers out loud so I could drown out the nagging voice inside my head.

  I dropped to the floor, panting. From my supine position on the floor, I eyed the man standing over me. He wasn’t intimidating to look at, not at first glance. He was tall but very slim, and when he stood still with his hands in his pockets as he was at that moment, he seemed almost humble.

  It was his eyes that changed him. They were mean and lifeless and held secrets. They changed his stance from humble to defensive, and his silver-grey hair from grandfatherly to cold. They made him into a man you didn’t want to meet, not just in a dark alley, but anywhere.

  In spite of myself, I shuddered.

  “That was good,” Cohen said, once again sounding too casual.

  Good? I was in the best shape of my life. I was also a steaming pile of too-tender skin, trembling muscles and an aching heart.

  “Good isn’t the word I’d use,” I muttered.

  Cohen shrugged. “I’ve got a job for you. Dr. Howell says you’re ready.”

  I doubted the doctor had said anything of the sort. It didn’t matter, though. In the nine months I’d been living under Cohen’s roof, I’d learned he played exclusively by his own rules. He had eyes in every corner of the city and his finger in just enough shady pots to matter to the criminal underground, but just few enough that the police often overlooked him for bigger fish. He dealt in girls and money and was an excellent manipulator.

  I knew there was little point in disagreeing with him. Even if I could make the argument, if I could convince him my body wasn’t ready to hit the streets, it was only postponing the inevitable.

  Cohen owned me, just like he owned every other person in his little empire. I didn’t know about the others, but with me, it wasn’t just because of the money he invested in my care.

  I still heard his voice, telling me what I’d done, every time I closed my eyes. I still smelled the fire and the gasoline. I saw the picture of the charred cars and the shapeless form that made me choke.

  From my spot on the floor, I met his eyes, wondering if I’d ever learn to project the coldness he seemed so capable of exuding. I considered the possibility that he had always lacked the most of basic of human emotions, and pushed down an urge to vomit.

  “What do you need me to do?” I asked.

  He smiled, and it didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Someone owes me some money. Quite a bit, in fact. I want you to track him down and bring him to me. Do you think you can handle that?”

  That was it? I had been expecting something far shadier. Tracking someone, I could do. It was what I had done, before the accident that dropped me on Cohen’s doorstep.

  Failed cop turned rookie PI turned…whatever it was this man wanted me to be now. It was perfect, in some sick way.

  I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  “Painter,” Cohen said then. “I expect you to use whatever means necessary to bring the client to me. If he has a family, threaten them. If he doesn’t cooperate…”

  I nodded curtly, not wanting to hear what might come next.

  Part of me knew I should turn myself in to the police. Accepting what was coming my way was the right thing to do.

  I couldn’t do it, though.

  I couldn’t bring myself to add further disgrace onto my father’s name. His reputation on the force had been legendary, and even in death, he was considered a hero. I’d brought him enough shame while he was alive. He’d never gotten over the embar
rassment of my inability to pass the entrance exams for the force. I didn’t need to make it worse now.

  I went back to my workout, using the pain to punish myself for what I’d done, and for what this other man was going to make me do in exchange for my life.

  I rolled over in my hotel bed, shaking off sleep and the memory.

  The sweet scent of the woman’s hair filled my nose, and another, far more pleasant, memory flooded my mind. Long legs wrapped around me. My hands tangled in a mess of silky, near-to-black hair. The softness of her, curled up beside me.

  I wanted that again.

  I knew she was gone, though, before I even started to reach across the bed for her, but I did it anyway. When my hand met the balled up sheets, disappointment made me ache again, this time in a surprisingly emotional way. This discomfort was so different than what I normally felt that it was almost foreign to me. This pain was a satisfying one that left me wanting more for the first time in a long time. Why had she run off so quickly? It had been a long time since I’d last taken a woman to bed, but I was sure the enjoyment hadn’t been one-sided.

  I forced my feet to the floor.

  It’s better that she left, anyway. You don’t want to feel obligated to give her an explanation before you run back to Cohen. That’s the last kind of complication you need.

  I glanced at the bedside clock and was startled to find out it was already noon. I jumped from the bed and prepared to call the front desk to arrange for a cab to take me back to my car. As I dialled, I slid open the room-darkening curtain. My brow furrowed. There, in the middle of the parking lot, was my Mustang. I yanked my pants from the floor and shook them. A few coins rattled and my wallet dropped to the floor. No keys.

  “Front desk!” The clerk’s too-cheery voice jerked my attention away from the fact that I’d been robbed, or not really robbed.

  “Do you have my keys?” I demanded.

  “Sir?”

  “My goddamned keys. Do you have them?”

  “One of the cabbies from Tangerines dropped an envelope for you at the front desk,” she replied uncertainly.

  “Fine.”

  I slammed the receiver back in the cradle and eyed the car speculatively.

  “I guess I’m not the only one avoiding complications,” I muttered.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I had a job to do, an appointment I couldn’t miss, and a man to bring back to Cohen.

  * * *

  “So you want that baby serviced?”

  I grinned at the eagerness in the mechanic’s voice as he eyed up the Mustang.

  “Not exactly,” I replied.

  “On the phone you said you were having a problem.”

  I shrugged. “I may have exaggerated a bit.”

  The mechanic narrowed his eyes. “What’re you after?”

  “Not what. Who. Are you Mike?”

  “S’what it says up there,” he told me with a nod toward the sign above our heads.

  Mike the Mechanic, At Your Car’s Service.

  “Nice slogan,” I observed.

  “Uh-huh. Wife thought it up.”

  “Well, Mike. My problem’s not a mechanical one. But I still think you can help me.”

  The other man frowned. “How’s that?”

  “Someone you know, owes someone I know, a lot of money.”

  “All right,” he said guardedly. “Who’re we talking about?”

  “A man named Duncan.”

  I waited. Outright denial of knowing the man would signal a lie. I had a paper trail to prove the relationship. But the man just looked puzzled.

  “You sold his car,” I prompted.

  “Did I?” Now there was an edge to his voice, and I didn’t like it.

  “Duncan,” I repeated firmly.

  Any trace of the friendliness Mike had shown when I pulled up in the Mustang was gone now.

  “Which name?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Duncan. Is it a first name or a last name?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think you know who I’m talking about, Mike. Jayme Duncan.”

  Some emotion flickered across his face so quickly I wasn’t even sure what it was. He didn’t speak, though, and I sighed.

  “You like it when you do a job and you don’t get paid, Mike?”

  He was unmoved by my question. “Nope. S’why I charge up front.”

  I gave him another quick assessment. I was sure intimidation wouldn’t motivate him to answer me, and being polite wasn’t getting me anywhere, either. My third option—my least favourite one—was probably my best bet.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phoney badge. Even gripping it between my fingers made me feel dirty, and I slapped it down onto the counter so I wouldn’t have to hold it longer than necessary. It reminded me too much of how my life might have gone.

  “Law enforcement?” Mike’s voice was only slightly less hostile.

  Well, enforcement, anyway, I thought.

  “Does that make you a little more willing to help me?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just where to find the guy.”

  Mike shook his head. “If I don’t tell you…you gonna take me in?”

  I put my hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Look. I don’t even know if this is the right Jayme Duncan. All I want is the chance to find out.”

  That seemed to make him consider answering. “And if it’s the wrong one…you’ll walk away?”

  “Right hand to God.”

  “All right,” Mike said. “Here’s what I’ll tell you. The only person I know with that last name works at Tangerines. If you’re there around seven, you shouldn’t have any trouble figuring out which one is Duncan. Stands out in a crowd something fierce. I can give you directions.”

  I snapped up my forged badge and suppressed a groan. “That’s okay. I think I can find it.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, I stood inside the club, frowning at how busy it was. People were crowded into the corners and around the stage, jostling each other and bristling with anticipation, and there wasn’t even a dancer onstage at that moment. There was an eagerness in the air, though, beyond the usual overly testosterone-fuelled one that accompanied the presence of nude girls.

  I looked around for the source of the baited breath atmosphere. It provided me with a momentary distraction from the nerves assaulting my system, but I couldn’t see anything that struck me as unusual. The only thing different from last night was a sign announcing that someone named Pin-up Polly was the headlining act tonight.

  My stomach, overly full of greasy diner food and too much soda, was churning, and I tried to steer my thoughts to a place that would ease my anxiousness. I needed to focus on locating Jayme Duncan. It was five to seven, and I’d been at the club for a half hour, standing in a corner. I hadn’t yet seen someone who stood out.

  When a girl, dressed in a barely there jean skirt and a stretchy strip of orange that passed as a shirt, placed a light hand on my elbow, I jumped.

  “Runnin’ from the law?” she teased in an exaggerated southern drawl.

  “Not exactly,” I growled, and it was the girl’s turn to jump.

  Another orange-T-shirt-wearing bouncer glanced our way and I sighed and made myself smile.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” I said from behind my purposely cocky grin. “It’s just that usually the law is running from me.”

  She relaxed and put her hand back on my arm.

  “Y’all need a drink and seat, darlin’?” she asked in a sultry voice.

  “In the opposite order, please,” I replied easily.

  She laughed pleasantly. I knew that her appreciation of my not-too-solid attempt at humour was probably put on, but I smiled again anyway, and I let her lead me through the crowd to a spot near the stage. The round table was only about two feet wide, and had a single chair. It was clearly designed for a man here alone. The girl patted the seat, and I eased i
nto it as she swished away.

  The fact that I was so obviously friendless cause a momentary pang.

  I wasn’t alone last night.

  My eyes sought that bar stool where I’d been sitting the previous evening. Where I’d met the girl.

  Was she here? Would she think I came back for more? Would she believe me if I said I wasn’t here for that? But if the opportunity was there, would she even want more?

  The waitress reappeared, cutting off my laughably insecure train of thought. She set a bottle of beer appeared in front of me. I frowned at it, and considered sending it back before remembering that Cohen was still paying my tab.

  “What do I owe you? Whatever it is, double it and bring me a receipt,” I told the girl.

  “It’s on the house, honey. You look like you need it.”

  I eyed the beer suspiciously. Was I that rough?

  I hadn’t touched a drop since the night Cohen found me, ash-covered and broken, and I had no intention of starting again now. I never wanted to get to that place again.

  Then it occurred to me that someone other than the waitress might’ve comped the drink. My eyes narrowed, but I kept myself from taking another look around the room. Had Mike the mechanic called Jayme Duncan and warned him I was coming?

  Hell, maybe he had, I thought. Maybe Jayme himself was the one who’d sent the beer to my table.

  On the off chance that it had been him, I raised the beer to my lips and feigned taking a sip. The icy cold rim brought the acrid taste of alcohol to my mouth, and I had to hold in a gag.

  With an unfamiliar sense of dread, I shoved the drink away from myself, and wished that this job was done.

  Chapter Four

  Polly

  “Polly!”

  My head snapped up as I realized Ellis was shouting my name. I rubbed my eyes sleepily, and realized, also, that I had more or less fallen asleep at my dressing table.

  It had taken a full half hour and a quarter of a tube of professional-grade cake make-up to cover my rapidly blackening eye.