Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Of course you did.” She tossed her bag onto the bed and glared at me.

  A tiny, not-pissed-off, naively hopeful part of my heart realized Polly sounded as irritable as I felt, and I wondered if she cared a little, too.

  “What?” she snapped.

  I ground my teeth. “Just wondering if you’re cranky because you’re hungry.”

  “Why? You going to order room service?”

  “I don’t think they have room service, but the brochure says they’ve got some food for sale at the front desk,” I told her in as pleasant a voice as I could manage. “My treat.”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “You say that like you don’t have all of my money at your disposal.”

  “That would be Cohen’s money,” I corrected.

  Her eyes flashed like she wanted to argue, but she just narrowed her eyes and asked, “May I freshen up?”

  “Ladies first,” I replied. “Be quick, though. I want to shower and nap before we head back out. And this place charges by the hour.”

  “Classy. Once again.”

  I grinned darkly, but stopped short of a biting comment about it being just the kind of place she was used to. As she headed into the restroom, my phone rang once again, and I decided not to risk letting Cohen’s call go unanswered a second time.

  “What?” I growled.

  Cohen laughed. “Ah. The girl. She’s getting to you, I take it.”

  “You could’ve warned me.”

  “Figured if I gave you any warning, you’d say no,” my boss replied.

  “Yeah, I probably would’ve,” I agreed.

  “Right. And then I would’ve had to convince you, and that wouldn’t have been fun for either of us.”

  I kept in a sarcastic remark about it maybe being a little fun for him, and instead said, “She’s going by the name Polly, by the way.”

  “Polly?” There was genuine surprise in his voice.

  “Yep.”

  “Was she…dancing?”

  In spite of my Polly-directed anger, I felt suddenly defensive of her, too. The thought of Cohen watching her up there on stage made my blood boil.

  “Does it fucking matter what she was doing, Blue? I’ve got her and all her baggage. I’m marching her ass to you right now.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter. I just find the name interesting. Polly was her mother’s stage name.” The other man paused, then sighed. “But Painter?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t let her fool you. There’s nothing she won’t do to get her way. She’s been a manipulative bitch since she was a little girl. Forget that for one second and she’ll fuck you over faster and harder than the wannabe porn star she is.”

  Cohen hung up then, and left me staring at my phone. As cruel and Cohen-typical as his words were, I was sure the bitterness was sincere. I couldn’t help but wonder just what the hell this girl really meant to him.

  * * *

  I grabbed two cups of instant noodles from the vending machine just around the corner from our room and brought them back to the room.

  As Polly came out of the bathroom, I held out one of the cups and a spoon as a peace offering. She turned toward me, and when I caught sight of her face, I inhaled sharply and nearly dropped the noodles.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I took off my make-up.”

  “Not that. Jesus, Polly. The huge fucking black eye,” I growled.

  A mottled purple mark highlighted her left cheekbone and trailed up to the corner of her perfectly arched brow. It sickened me.

  She shrugged. “I walked into a door. You call this dinner?”

  “You said he didn’t hit you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “Oh. He didn’t. He doesn’t. Sometimes a girl just has an accident, Painter.”

  “If you’re lying to me—”

  She cut me off. “You’ll what? What exactly do you think you can do to me that’s worse than this?”

  “Goddammit.”

  She sighed. “What can I say to get you to believe me?”

  “The truth!”

  I raked my fingers through my hair in an exasperated motion. I was as frustrated with myself for not noticing her injury as I was with whoever had done it to her.

  “Stop looking so disappointed in yourself. Stage make-up is pretty effective at covering up bruises,” she told me.

  “And you know this why? Because you have to cover them up often?”

  “No!” she said sharply, then sighed again.

  “Jesus,” I swore. “And you’ve been trying to go home? To that?”

  Polly glared at me. “I’d rather go home than have you deliver me to Cohen. What does that tell you?”

  “You’re not giving me a lot to go on here, Polly. Are you seriously asking me to take you back to a guy who beats you? Because I can’t do that. Not after we—” I cut myself off and cleared my throat. “You can’t stay with some bastard just because you think it’s the only option.”

  “I take care of myself, Painter. I’ve been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember. I kept myself safe when I lived with my mother, and I kept myself safe when I lived with Cohen. I don’t need you and your muscles to protect me now.”

  “It sure as hell looks like you do.”

  Her face was pink. “He doesn’t hit me, Painter.”

  My earlier anger at her morphed into something else. Something less definable, more protective, but equally heated. I was also sure she was lying, and that made it even worse.

  “Right.”

  “Listen…when I’m not at the club dancing, I sometimes watch my friend’s son. Two days ago we were playing catch and I missed. It’s that simple.”

  It took all of my self-control to keep from tearing apart the room.

  “Five seconds ago,” I said in a strained voice. “You said you walked into a door.”

  She crossed her arms defensively. “Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

  “In the middle of a baseball-throwing kid and a door?”

  “I told you before…it’s complicated.”

  “How?”

  “In a way I can’t explain.”

  “In a way you can’t explain, or in a way you won’t explain?”

  Her lids closed briefly, and when she opened them, they were heavy with unshed tears. “He saved me, Painter. The guy you think hurts me? It’s just the opposite. He’s the one who made me realize how much my life matters. He’s the one who helped me see that I could get away from Cohen. So I can’t leave him behind. I don’t want to.”

  “So if I told you I would let you go and the only condition was that you didn’t go back to him?”

  “I would lie.”

  I stared at her from across the table, a mix of emotions playing through my mind. Anger that she couldn’t see that whoever this man was, he held her in an even worse way than Cohen did. Jealousy at her devotion to him. Desperation to give her freedom from both.

  Feelings were messy. I’d said so myself.

  “You were right then,” I announced roughly. “What happened out there between us in the desert? It doesn’t change a thing.”

  She was silent for a moment, then asked softly, “Can we just eat?”

  I shoved the cup of noodles at her.

  “The options were limited to this or day-old tuna sandwiches. Wasn’t sure where you stood on those, but everyone loves instant noodles.”

  She smiled a little.

  “What?” I said from behind a mouthful of the salty soup.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  I watched her take a tentative bite. She grimaced.

  “Not your favourite, huh?” I guessed.

  “They’re fine,” she replied stiffly.

  “Okay,” I said. “Soup is too personal, too?”

  “They remind me of someone.”

  “Noodles do?”

  She sighed. “I just think it’s a bad i
dea for us to get personally involved. If we start feeling like we owe each other explanations, Painter, this is only going to get harder. It’s complicated enough.”

  I still didn’t believe her about the baseball or the door, but she was right about everything else. That didn’t mean I had to like it.

  Polly took a second big bite of the noodles and made another face.

  “You really don’t like them.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Like I said, there’s a vending machine out there. But I think it’s out of steak and potatoes.”

  “Isn’t there a store around?”

  “The desk clerk told me the closest one is ten miles away,” I replied.

  “But you don’t trust me as far as you can throw me, so you’re not going to take us there,” she stated.

  “That’s about right,” I agreed. “Except I could probably throw you a little further than you think.”

  “Yeah, you’re so tough. Kidnapping a girl.”

  “Oh. So now you’re admitting that you are just a girl?”

  “Only if you’re just a boy.”

  I leaned toward her so our elbows were almost touching and raised a suggestive eyebrow.

  “Just a boy?”

  I waited for the soft blush to cover her cheeks, and it did, but she didn’t look away. She lifted her chin defiantly instead.

  “Just a boy,” she stated firmly. “And that’s what makes you weak.”

  “How do you figure?”

  She placed her instant noodles off to one side of the table, then gripped my wrists. Her thumbs moved almost imperceptibly across the lower half of my palms. Even though the motion was small and gentle, it sent a tingle up my arm. I wanted to pull away. Instead, I had to work to keep from knocking aside everything on the table and dragging her to me.

  “Men think with one part of their body, and one part only,” Polly said. “Every other part is an extension of that one thing. It makes you easy to manipulate.”

  My half-closed eyes flew open, and I jerked myself out of her grasp.

  “Not all of us are as two-dimensional as you think,” I growled.

  “No?”

  “No. I’m sure as hell not. But you don’t want to get personal,” I reminded her.

  I chugged the leftover broth from my soup. Then, in a smooth, practised motion, I slapped the handcuffs onto her wrist, then onto the tabletop lamp.

  “Hey!” she yelped.

  I tested the cuffs to make sure they were solidly latched. The last thing I needed was a repeat of the gas station incident.

  “Just so you know,” I told her. “I’ll have the key in the shower with me. Feel free to come and get it.”

  “You wish.”

  “At least I’m not lying to myself about what I want,” I countered.

  “If you had any idea what I’ve been through—”

  “Tell yourself what you need to,” I interrupted coolly. “Whatever kind of suffering you think you’ve seen…triple it, and it still won’t match what I’ve been through. I’m taking my shower.”

  With false offhandedness, I slipped my T-shirt over my head and stood facing her. I waited for her mouth to open before I turned and sauntered into the bathroom. I closed the door quietly. And I finally breathed out.

  I wasn’t sure what possessed me for that second. Maybe I wanted to show her exactly what I’d been through, and how it had left me. She thought she knew me. She thought she could read me. She had no idea what had turned me from a hopeful young man with a bright future into the cold person I was today.

  Let her have that little taste, I thought. Let her wonder. Hell. Let her have another excuse for keeping her distance.

  My physique was both impressive and frightening. I’d been told as much on a few occasions in the past.

  It wasn’t so much the thick, corded muscles, or the shoulder breadth that did it. Yes, I maintained those on purpose. My job needed me to be strong, to be intimidating. Any dummy with the time and a gym membership can achieve at least a minimal amount of success in that regard.

  It was the marks overtop of the muscles that made me grotesque. The majority of the left half of my body—from my shoulder all the way down to my abdomen, if anyone cared to look—was covered in the kind of puckered scars that only burns can leave behind.

  I’d learned to hide them out of necessity. When I worked out, I did it in the privacy of my home. I avoided the beach. I shied away from women. Anything to keep from explaining them to someone else.

  I didn’t stop to look at them in the mirror as I turned the shower. I didn’t need to. I’d stopped checking if they’d faded or grown less visible a long time ago.

  They were there. A permanent reminder of my past, a permanent punishment for my sins.

  I put the water on as hot as it would go and climbed in. It didn’t hurt as the steaming water cascaded down on my marred skin. It never did. Not since the burning pain in my chest subsided for the first time, and I found out that Cohen Blue had saved my life.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been experiencing the in-and-out of moments of consciousness. Sometimes it felt like moments, other times like days. As I tried to focus on the elusive matter of time, my mind drifted, and I almost wanted to slip out again, but forced myself to focus. I didn’t know where I was, or even what events had led me there. I was only aware of the present. Parts of me ached. Parts of me burned. Something was lodged in my throat and an oxygen mask covered my face.

  Jesus.

  I dragged my eyes open. A man in a white coat hovered beside my bed, fiddling with an IV. With arms that felt like lead, I lifted my hands to my head and yanked off the mask. I pulled at a tube fastened to my nose, but it was taped down tightly, and it wouldn’t budge. After a moment I gave up, then cleared my throat as best I could.

  “What happened?” I croaked.

  The second the words were out of my mouth, I coughed and spluttered, and the man in the white coat whipped around to place a firm hand on my shoulder.

  “Easy there, son,” he said.

  I tried to stutter out another question, but that too ended in a choked cough.

  The doctor—assuming that’s what he was—stepped away, then returned a moment later with a cup and a straw.

  “I’d like to give you ice chips,” he told me. “But supplies are a little hard to come by.”

  I sipped the water with a grateful nod, then held still as the other man took my pulse and my blood pressure. My eyes wandered the room. It wasn’t a hospital. That much was clear. There were bars on the windows, and the smell of concrete mixed with gasoline permeated the air.

  “We’re above a garage,” the doctor explained apologetically. “It was the closest safe house.”

  “Safe house?” I managed to get the question out without wheezing.

  “Maybe you should let me explain.”

  The cold voice came from the other side of the room, and it made the doctor’s eyes dart nervously to his feet. I settled my own gaze on the source of the words. A man unfolded himself from a chair in the corner and took a few steps toward my bed.

  “Just give us a moment, Dr. Howell,” he said.

  “Please, Cohen. I’ve told you before. It’s just Howell, plain and simple,” the man in the coat muttered as he backed away.

  The cool-eyed man laughed a humourless laugh. “You’ll always be a doctor in my book.”

  Something about this man—Cohen—set my teeth on edge. I kept silent as the doctor-who-wasn’t-a-doctor exited the room, and didn’t speak until Cohen addressed me directly.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Darren?” he asked.

  “Tired as hell and sore as fuck,” I admitted.

  “I can get Howell to give you some more pain meds, if you like.”

  I shook my head. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  “Good.” He sounded a little too pleased.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two weeks.”

&nbs
p; “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Two weeks,” the man repeated.

  My heart dropped and my throat constricted. Fourteen days? How was that even possible?

  Cohen answered my unasked question as if I’d spoke in aloud. “For the first two days, Howell thought you were a write-off. He pumped you full of morphine, just to make you comfortable. When you kept breathing…he insisted on tube-feeding you, too.”

  My guts churned at the casual way he talked about my life. Like it didn’t matter if it went on or not.

  “The fourth and fifth day,” Cohen went on. “Howell kept you under on purpose. Pumped in the oxygen along with the morphine and antibiotics. Said you got lucky. Not too much smoke inhalation. Sixth and seventh day, he dialled back the drugs and you came in and out, muttering, screaming about the pain. Apparently that’s pretty normal. I hear second- and third-degree burns are excruciating. But you got lucky there, too, I guess. Howell told me the burns were limited to one side of your torso and things would’ve been much worse if it’d been your legs or chest. He still thought you ought to be in a burn-trauma unit and could’ve done with some skin grafts. But it’s too late now. And besides that…a tough fucker like you doesn’t need all that coddling, right?”

  My head was spinning. Burns made the pain make sense. Smoke inhalation explained the ragged feeling in my chest. But none of it jogged my memory. Had my employer been notified? My few friends? I shook my head, and nausea overwhelmed me.

  “When can I go home?” I rasped.

  He laughed. “Home, Mr. Darren? Never. Not unless you want to go to jail.”

  “Jail?”

  “You got drunk and drove. You killed a girl, my friend. The only reason you’re not behind bars right this second is that Howell was kind enough to pull you from the wreckage.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?” Cohen asked. “Because you’d remember it? You don’t even remember how you got here.”

  I turned over that statement in my mind and couldn’t refute it.

  “Let me show you a picture,” Cohen offered, sounding delighted to inflict more pain.

  A cold, hollow seed sprouted in my chest and spread out with a self-loathing I knew I would never be able to shake.

  Chapter Twelve