by Meryl Sawyer
She left the doctor and went to meet Bubbles, aware she didn’t have much experience with “scenes.” Duval Street just before sunset was a scene to end all scenes. Middle-aged tourists wearing T-shirts and baggy bermudas with white socks and sandals paraded along the sidewalks beside teenagers wearing little more than suntan lotion.
No wonder the locals called it the “Duval crawl.” Teeming humanity slogged its way past T-shirt shops, ice cream stands, more T-shirt shops, restaurants, croissant shops, another T-shirt shop, a swank gallery, jewelry shops selling items made from pieces of eight Mel Fisher had brought up from the shipwrecked Atochia, and yet another T-shirt shop. Between each shop was an open air-bar blaring live music.
It was a laid-back, anything-goes place, eccentric yet exhilarating.
“Yo, mama,” one guy said as she tried to pass.
She kept her head turned to the side, the way she always did when men looked at her. It took a second to remember that she no longer had to look down.
He leered at her, blocking her way and blasting hundred-proof breath in her face as he brazenly rubbed his body against hers. “Babe, you’re making my eyeballs sweat.”
His friends hovered nearby, inspecting every inch of her body as they slurped from long-necked bottles of beer. She dodged the creep. The other guys howled and jabbed one another in the ribs.
Instantly, she remembered that day so many years ago when Trent Hastings had said: “I thought beauty and the beast were two people, not one.” His buddies had laughed just the way these guys were laughing now.
“Some things never change—even if you do,” she muttered to herself. The hair across the back of her neck prickled the way it had when her hideous birthmark had brought humiliating snickers and sneers.
You’re still The Beast, cried the voice in her head, the echo in her soul. She still felt odd, different.
“Shel—lay!”
She looked up, startled to see Bubbles waving madly at her, a scroll of white paper in one hand.
“Is this where you’re selling insurance?” She gazed at the coral building with the aqua writing: Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.
“Yeah. Ya okay? Fixin’ to feel puny?”
Was she going to be sick? No, she didn’t think so, but she was a little weak. Walking to Margaritaville from the doctor’s office meant she’d been on her feet for longer than she had since the accident. “I’m fine … fine.”
“I’ve made my quota,” Bubbles said. “Let’s get a drink.”
She followed Bubbles to a sidewalk café nearby. Trevor was supposed to meet them at Mallory Dock to watch Key West’s famous sunset show.
“Give us two Hog Snorts,” Bubbles said as soon as the waiter came to their table.
“What did you order?”
“It’s rum and blue curaçao. We’re in the Hog’s Breath Saloon. What else would we, like, drink?”
She’d thought they were in an open-air café, not a bar, but as she took a closer look around, her mistake was evident. From the looks of it, they were selling as many T-shirts—HOG’S BREATH IS BETTER THAN NO BREATH AT ALL—than drinks.
She never drank, but tonight she felt so different. She might hate creeps like the guys who’d stopped her on the sidewalk, but going out in public was no longer the intensely degrading experience it once had been. The Beast still lurked inside her head, but the world saw a different person.
As dreadful as it was to be Rochelle Ralston, she was at last a normal person. It felt so good, so liberating. Something other women took for granted.
The drinks came and she sipped hers, savoring the languid feeling of the alcohol invading her bloodstream. Along with it came the hypnotic sensation of stately palms slowly casting shadows across the small patio. With the sun sinking into the sea, the breeze became gentle, almost nonexistent.
“Can we, like, have a talk?” Bubbles asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Sure,” she replied, unable to imagine what Bubbles could need to discuss with her.
“Do you have any shorts?”
She hesitated, wondering where this was going. There were a few pairs of shorts among Shelly’s things, but they didn’t fit. “Not really. A lot of my stuff burned in the accident.”
“There’s a shop in Bahama Village—that’s just around the corner. Jo Mama’s Duds sells T-shirts and shorts cheaper than anyplace around.”
Obviously, Bubbles thought her clothes were a disaster, an insult coming from someone who believed body piercing was a fashion statement. “What I really need is a bra that fastens in front.”
“Jo Mama’s has undies too.” Bubbles smiled, pleased with herself, and the stud in the tip of her tongue caught the light. “What ya really need is a sthaawlk.”
“Sthalk?” Bubbles’s vowels were like warm honey. It was often difficult to understand her.
Bubbles waved her hand. “An act that’s all ya own, like selling alien abduction insurance or playing Tupperware with a wooden spoon in front of the Hard Rock Café.”
“Aw, a schtick.” An act. “Why?”
“How else are you going to make money?”
Make money? She almost laughed. If only she could use both hands and get on a computer, she wouldn’t need a schtick. Before she could respond, Bubbles added, “And ya need an attitude.”
“Attitude?”
Bubbles leaned closer, a brash smile on her freckled face. “I saw those guys hasslin’ ya. Why didn’t ya flip ’em off? If I had your looks, I’d have one badass attitude.”
She had to admit Bubbles was right. She needed an attitude if she planned to successfully deal with Matthew Jensen. She needed to be strong, tough like … Like who?
Jill on The Young and the Restless came to mind. So did Lucy on General Hospital. Those women weren’t tough; they were ruthless.
During the last year of her mother’s life, she could do little more than watch television. Each day she tuned in faithfully to see what cruel trick the bad girls would play next. She loved to hate them.
Character determines fate, she reminded herself. The Beast couldn’t suddenly become a bad girl, but, maybe, if she modeled her new self after them, their toughness would give her more “character.”
Bubbles tapped the rim of her nearly empty glass with the tip of her tongue, and the stud made a clicking sound, breaking into her thoughts. “Are you and Matt, like, still hot?”
“Still?” She tried to say it with an attitude like “mind your own business,” but Bubbles didn’t notice.
“Go on, Shelly. I’m no bimbo. I saw the way the two of you looked at each other last night. You two were an item, right?”
She tried to imagine what Bubbles knew about her supposed relationship with Matthew Jensen. “I guess … so.”
“Matt looked at you like he was smokin’.”
She decided to play along. “We split up some time ago.”
“Yes!” Bubbles shrieked. “I knew it! Do I have good instincts, or what?”
Or what.
“Then you don’t mind if I, like, go after Matt, do you?”
Chapter 12
“Come on. We’re late.” Bubbles rushed ahead of her. “Trevor must be wondering what happened to us.”
What had gotten into her? Allowing Bubbles to drag her into the Bahama Village to buy a bra had turned into a minor shopping spree. Instead of just buying a bra, she’d gone overboard, using a little of the money Trevor had given her, to buy shorts and T-shirts as well as two bras and a bikini. They were such a bargain that the clothes would probably fall apart when she washed them.
How long could she mooch off Trevor? He’d helped her in so many ways. She was determined to pay back Trevor every cent. But it was going to be some time before she could use her right hand well enough to get a job using a computer.
Once again she considered contacting the FBI, and once again she discarded the idea. Dexxter must have a source inside the agency. She had been using her new identity, living in her little house f
or less than a week, when it had been firebombed.
She didn’t trust the FBI to protect her. Until she could use her hand to defend herself, she was better off right where she was.
Maybe Bubbles was right. If she had a schtick, she could earn a little money to tide her over until she came up with a plan for dealing with Dexxter. But what could she do?
Computers had been her life, her sanity, since she discovered them in high school. An intelligent, entertaining companion, a computer didn’t care what you looked like. It had been a way of avoiding contact with people, she reflected as she ambled along, everyone passing her by without the usual stares.
Duval Street’s sidewalks had been packed, but that was nothing compared to Mallory Dock. It took all her strength to keep up with Bubbles as the redhead elbowed her way between people.
“Look,” Bubbles cried. “There’s Kyle.”
“Who’s Kyle?”
“Kyle Parker is, like, this awesome hunk. He’s house-sitting next door to Half Moon Bay. He would have been there last night except he was training or something.” Bubbles waved at a tall man with dark hair. “Don’t ask Kyle about his job. It’s top secret. He’s a civilian, but he works at the naval station.”
Kyle approached them, angling his wide shoulders to the side to work his way through the mob. He smiled, his deep blue eyes traveling from the new shorts and T-shirt she had purchased to the toes peeking out of her cast.
Suddenly, she was sorry she’d given Shelly’s dress to the woman who’d sold her the new clothes. The baggy dress had concealed her body while the shorts and cropped T-shirt exposed quite a bit of skin.
She’d bought shorts and lightweight T-shirts because the price was right, and the warm, humid climate called for outfits like this. At least she had on a bra, she thought, recalling Matt’s scathing remark about flaunting her breasts.
“Isn’t Kyle, like, to die for?” whispered Bubbles.
She wasn’t accustomed to men looking her in the eye, and she certainly wasn’t used to men looking at her with such … interest. She mustered a smile as she gazed sideways at him. His nose was a bit too long, and his jaw was slightly angular, but there wasn’t a woman on earth who wouldn’t take a second look at him.
“Kyle, this is Shelly. She’s staying at Half Moon Bay.”
He stuck out his hand and uttered a single word, “Shelly.”
He took her hand in his. A choking sigh rose from her throat before she could muffle it, but he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t release her hand the way she expected. Instead, he held it, saying nothing, merely gazing at her for a moment.
Don’t look at me, she silently cried. Something inside her shriveled when a man looked at her. Then she drew in a calming breath. Let go of The Beast. Get an attitude.
She stiffened her back and raised her eyes to look directly at Kyle. It took all her strength not to take a step back. Kyle’s smile was charming, yet his eyes were wary, emotionless. Gypsy eyes.
Here was a man who carefully watched everyone, everything. She couldn’t help wondering what he did that was top secret. Intuitively, she knew his work was very dangerous.
“You broke your leg,” he commented.
Bubbles piped up. “Shelly was in an accident and almost died.”
“It’s a special cast,” she explained. “I undo the Velcro and take it off to sleep.”
She pulled her hand out of his and feigned interest in the carnival-like atmosphere around her. It wasn’t hard. Ahead of them a golden retriever was doing a high-wire act, running along a narrow wooden plank suspended above the crowd by two tall ladders.
A melange of odors assailed her from every direction. Popcorn and cotton candy. Suntan oil on people who’d come directly from the beach without bothering to shower. Cloying incense wafting from a small basket where a snake charmer had a python swaying hypnotically.
“You’d better let me help you through this zoo.” Kyle slipped his arm around her waist.
Bubbles rolled her eyes and winked. Oh, my, she thought, feeling Kyle’s powerful arm, guiding her.
“Is this your first Mallory Dock sunset?” He negotiated a path around vendors selling woven palm hats, Key West Sunset T-shirts, visors with miniature fans on them, as well as all sorts of food.
“I’ve seen the town, but this is my first sunset on the dock. Trevor insisted I see the show.”
“It’s more like a pagan ritual,” he said as they passed a man wearing nothing but a thong. He’d been spray-painted metallic silver and he was standing on the ball of one foot, his other leg gracefully pointing backward like a ballerina.
“He can hold that position for hours,” Bubbles said as she tossed a coin in the cigar box at his feet.
“It’s all about money,” Kyle informed her. “The golden retriever is on the ground now, picking up dollar bills people have thrown down and putting them in a bucket. This is how most of these people make a living.”
“Just like I told you,” Bubbles said. “Everyone has a sthaaulk.”
“I was expecting people to be standing around, watching the sunset,” she said. The lingering rays of sunshine filtered through the crowd to warm her body. In a few minutes, another day in paradise would be over.
“The sunset is just an excuse to gather and see a bit of street theater,” Kyle said. “I for one am sorry the police won’t let the naked bagpiper perform.”
Bubbles giggled, then waved. “There’s Trevor. Matt’s with him.”
Matt. The blood froze in her veins, despite the warmth of Kyle’s arm. Oh, God, could she pull this off? Remember your attitude.
Matt caught a glimpse of Shelly with some guy, who had his arm around her. A spark of some elusive emotion surprised him, but he tamped it down. On the beach last night, something about Shelly had appealed to him.
His reaction had kept him awake until the pink edge of dawn slowly reclaimed the night sky. Only then did he climb out of the hammock swinging between the palms and go to bed, deciding he’d been without a woman too long. Despite his better judgment, he couldn’t keep his mind off a certain blonde.
“Who’s the guy with Shelly?”
Trevor answered, “Kyle Parker. He works at Fleming Key.”
“His hair’s too long for the navy.” Even from this distance, Matt picked up on a certain I-have-the-world-by-the-tail cockiness emanating from Kyle.
“I think Kyle may have been a SEAL once, but he’s not in the service now. I’m not sure what he does out there.”
“Could be with the DEA. Who actually knows what goes on at Fleming Key?” Matt commented. “SEAL training, for sure, but the DEA also has a unit there to stop the drugs coming in from the Caribbean.”
“Kyle’s a stand-up guy, and that’s what counts.”
A stand-up guy, someone you could count on in a crisis. Okay, maybe. The possessive way Kyle had his arm around Shelly almost irritated him.
“Who’s going to tell Shelly the bad news? You or me?”
“I am,” Matt said without thinking.
“Matt, how ya doin’?” Bubbles asked as she reached them before Kyle and Shelly.
“Great,” Matt replied, watching Shelly. Even to his own ears, he sounded like a wounded bear.
“Kyle, meet my closest friend, Matthew Jensen,” Trevor said.
Matt didn’t catch what the guy said as he stuck out his big hand for Matt to shake. Shelly hadn’t even glanced his way. She kept gazing up at Kyle as if he’d hung the moon.
Kicking himself for noticing, Matt realized that nothing turned heads like a natural beauty. Shelly wasn’t natural—not by a long shot. Still, in the amber light of the setting sun, no one could have guessed she was a cosmetic surgeon’s creation.
There wasn’t any makeup on her face and not a hint of lipstick on a generous mouth that curved up at the corners as if she were on the verge of a smile. Silky, tousled hair fluttered in the light breeze. A bod that was perfect for the swimsuit calendar. If her lower leg hadn’t been in a
cast, she could have been perfect.
On the outside.
“Thar she blows!” bellowed a man through a megaphone.
For a moment the crowd stopped watching the various acts and turned toward the setting sun. Only a thin ellipse of the light could be seen on the horizon. In front of it, the ocean was molten gold.
A drumroll sent the crowd into frenzied cheering, which reached a fever pitch when the ocean swallowed the sun in a kinetic bolt of color, representing the entire spectrum of light. Matt studied Shelly as she watched, awed. The childlike delight on her face was captivating.
The second the sun disappeared, most people turned to watch the various acts, the still beautiful spectacle taking a backseat to the human circus. Shelly kept watching, transfixed by the misty violets and rich ambers of the lingering sunset. He wanted to look away—look at anything but her—yet a supernatural force had seized him. He was powerless to take his eyes off her.
“Let’s go see the cat show,” Bubbles cried, breaking the moment.
Shelly turned, looked straight through Matt as if he were just another tourist, then smiled at Trevor. So what else was new? Every woman went for Trevor.
Matt followed the group, trailing behind as they made their way to where a man with green hair like plastic grass in an Easter basket was setting up hoops on boxes of various heights. Nearby, half a dozen cats where waiting in small cages.
“It’s a big mystery how he trains them,” Bubbles said.
He realized Bubbles had been at his side for some time. She was flirting with him for sure, but Shelly had yet to notice him. Obviously, she was keeping the promise she’d made last night. She’d ignored him at breakfast when they’d chanced upon each other just as she was ignoring him now.
The green-haired man with a GOD SAVE THE QUEEN tattoo on his biceps was now taking the cats out of their cages and placing them on stools. The alley cats docilely waited, alert, but unfazed by the throng around them.