Man in Black

by Melissa Shirley

  The DJ started the bidding at twenty-five dollars. As Jean-Pierre turned to twerk, women around the room shouted out numbers, quickly raising the price. Jean-Pierre’s fake French accent along with his flashy spending habits counteracted his need for attention and his eccentricities, and the bidding neared the four-hundred dollar point before stalling out.

  “Sold to the lady in red.” With a bang of the gavel, the deal became final, and Eilene Roper became the proud—her smile said she wanted a refund—date of the first phony Frenchman Rangers End ever saw.

  Mr. May followed Jean-Pierre and netted a whopping six hundred dollar price tag. “Phew,” Ryhan said. “Way outta my price range.”

  Lana checked the program. “My, oh my. Mr. July is looking pretty good.” She shuffled the pages before turning the program toward Ryhan. “It says here he’s in real estate and has a classic car collection. He went to college at Georgetown, has a country house in upstate Boston that he remodeled himself, and his turn-ons include classic literature and travel.”

  As her mom summed up the bio Ryhan had written and committed to memory, her heart dropped as she considered their differences. He’d gone to college and loved to travel. She’d taken one odd job after another to support herself and couldn’t afford a bus ticket across town. He liked classic literature. Her idea of good reading included words like love shaft, inner goddess, and moist heat. And he kissed like he’d been born to do it, had a smile that could melt steel, and a body that she dreamt of touching even in her waking moments. Damn.

  Jesse stepped up on stage and Ryhan’s heart ran laps around her chest. Surprised at how good he could look—again—she jerked her arm hard to the left and her hand knocked against Lana’s wine glass, tipping it and spilling the crimson-colored merlot all over the table and down the front of her dress. She bounded out of her chair, knocking it backward with a loud clang.

  The music broke off, the crowd hushed, and Ryhan’s skin heated under the scrutiny. She looked around, saw the people pointing and laughing, then righted her chair and sank back into it. Jeez! Hiding her face behind her napkin, she wished she could disappear. Lana wrapped an arm around her shoulders as the emcee made a lame joke about Jesse’s body causing women to fall out of their seats.

  After reading all of Jesse’s vital stats, the emcee shouted, “Come on, ladies. Loosen those purse strings. Let’s start the bidding at a hundred dollars.” Three women raised the bid immediately, and in no time, Jesse had brought in a thousand dollars. When the last bid of eleven hundred stood for a good going twice, Alexandra stood up and shouted, “Five thousand dollars.”

  Lana pushed Ryhan away and rose to her full height of six-feet tall, six three in heels, and said, “Fifty-one hundred.”

  Ryhan shot a glance at Mark, whose eyebrows disappeared under his hairline. His half-smirk and less than innocent shrug said he knew something she didn’t. The smile fell from Ryhan’s face.

  “Seriously? You’re trying to buy me a man?” She tugged on Lana’s arm. “Sit.”

  Lana shook her off. “Six thousand.” Alex glared at Lana as they volleyed numbers back and forth for another three thousand dollars before Ryhan tugged her foster mother back to her chair.

  “What are you doing?” Ryhan’s whispered words hissed from behind clenched teeth.

  “Buying you a present.” Lana wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Then buy me a car. I need a car. I don’t need a man. Especially not that one.” The panic caused her voice to shriek.

  “But this one is yummy. And you deserve yummy.”

  “Twinkies are yummy. I’ll buy a Twinkie on the way home. Stop bidding on him.”

  “It’s okay. My top bid was about four thousand dollars ago. I was living in the moment. Plus, Alex spent a lot more than she had to.”

  “Well, that is a bonus,” Ryhan agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “What would you have done if she had stopped bidding?”

  “Made Mark fake a heart attack before I had to pull out the checkbook and mortgage the house to cover it.”

  Mark nodded. “It’s true. We talked about it on the way in tonight.”

  They shared a laugh and watched as Alexandra bid a cool ten grand, sealing Jesse’s date fate for that night. “Sold to the pretty southern belle in the back. Come get your prize, lucky lady.” Jesse smothered a grimace with a quick smile, but not quick enough that Ryhan missed it.

  He shot her a wink and waited as Alexandra glided past Ryhan, her elbow catching Ryhan in the back of her neck. Being hated had turned exhausting and a yawn broke free. “I’m going to go home and see if I can get this wine stain out. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Lana chuckled. “Oh, just burn it. I have about eighty yards of that material left. I’ll make you a new one.”

  Ryhan smiled and gathered her handbag and program then turned and made her way to the valet. She’d driven Lana’s car and now waited to avoid the rain until the headlights of the SUV blinded her. She shuffled through her handbag for a tip she couldn’t afford. As she handed it to the white uniformed college boy, a hand circled her arm, holding her back. “Hey. I thought we had a date tonight.”

  “I thought you had a date tonight.” She pointed over his shoulder at Alex, whose mouth hung wide and whose hands fisted on her hips. “With her.”

  “No. That’s tomorrow. She wants me to go to a wedding with her.”

  “I think for her ten grand she might expect a little taste of Boston for her dessert tonight along with a bit of afternoon delight on Saturday.”

  “I promise you, that woman will not be tasting or delighting in anything except wedding cake.”

  Had he misconstrued her teasing for jealousy? Well, misconstrued might have been a strong word. Heat rose to her cheeks and Ryhan groaned. “As much fun as this is, Jess, it’s been a really long day, what with all the balloon blowing, and I’m wrung out. The last thing I want to do is stay here with these people while they gawk at me like I’m some kind of slutty sideshow.”

  He took his jacket, tented it over her head and said, “Then let’s get out of here.” He cocked his head to one side. She stifled a moan. If eye batting ever became an Olympic sport, Jesse would gold medal.

  It took all of one second to decide—home alone or Jesse. She nodded. “But let’s get one thing straight right now.” She waited for his nod. “I get to be on top.”

  “I’m still leaving here as soon as I can.”

  “Okay. I won’t beg you to stay.” She stepped closer. “You have a car here?”

  He shook his head. “I rode with my mom.”

  “We’ll take mine.” Convenient since it was sitting right in front of them.

  He raised his eyebrows and handed the valet a fifty.

  “I’ll drive. You just sit there and look pretty. Enjoy the ride.” She started for the driver’s side, but a hand on her arm held her back.

  “And you’ll return the favor later on?”

  She grinned. “Something like that, Jess.”

  “We’ll get there faster if I drive.”

  Not about to argue with that particular logic, she popped open the passenger door and climbed inside.

  13

  He’d been awake an hour and used the time to memorize the soft angles of her face, the flicker of her eyelids as dreams transformed her expressions of happiness and delight. Even with her eyes closed, the talking never stopped. She mumbled and murmured unintelligible words, but still words. Something about her had his heart aching at the thought of driving out of town and never again hearing that chatter. She stirred, and he ran a finger over her bottom lip. “Good morning.”

  “Sorry. I meant to go home.” She sat up, taking most of the blanket with her. The light of day did nothing to diminish her beauty. He’d touched every spot on her body with reverence, with need, with longing so powerful he’d lost all control. The light in her eyes and the joy in her smiles pinged inside of him. “What?”

  He frowned. “What, what?”

  She turned
her entire body, pulling her legs in front of her. “Well, when I first woke up, you looked kind of serene and peaceful. Now, you look like you ate an onion.”

  “An onion?”

  “Or maybe a really old sock.”

  He cupped the back of his neck and sighed.

  “Care to explain?”

  His eyes flashed. “So this is the part where we get to know each other? Pretend like this is more than one night?”

  She flinched, and regret along with crippling fear battled through his veins. She backed off the bed, taking the sheet with her, hiding her body. “I should go, right?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she yanked her dress over her head, reaching an arm over her shoulder to fiddle with the zipper. Unable to reach, she twisted in an honest effort to reach it and ended up spinning in circles. Jesse flashed on an image of a cat chasing his tail. He grabbed his pants off the floor and pulled them on as she continued to whirl.

  He reached out a hand to stop her, stepped behind her, and said, “Let me.”

  As soon as the dress tightened around her, she dropped to the floor to find a missing shoe. He turned away, his body responding to the sight of her ass sticking up in the air. The rustle of clothing told him that she’d stood, and he turned around to find her inches from him.

  “Screw it. Keep the shoe.” She stalked past him to the door. “Hey, Einstein, if you didn’t want me to stay, you should have booted me out last night before I had to walk of shame past your mother’s staff.”

  He slapped a hand against the door to keep her from opening it. “Don’t go. I’m sorry for being an ass.”

  She crossed her arms. After a moment, she looked at him. “What? I’m not over here thinking of ways to disagree.”

  “I’m not good at the morning after routine.”

  “No kidding.” Her eyes grated over his face, the icicles that had been forming in the cool blue dissipating.

  “Are you going to hit me now?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t have shoes. I wouldn’t be able to get any worthwhile leverage.”

  “So, my luck has continued to hold?”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “You know, bringing home the hottest chick at the party, having my world rocked all night long, and then not getting slugged in the morning. Webster’s definition of good luck.”

  “Wow, Jess. You better rush out and buy a lottery ticket.” Her eyes shifted to the suitcase at the edge of the bed. “Did you happen to pack any sweatpants?”

  “None that won’t swim on you.” He’d never been so in tune to someone else’s thoughts. Another red flag blew through his mind as he walked to the bureau where he’d stored the clothes he’d started unpacking and quit. Rummaging through briefs and socks, he found a pair of plaid boxers he used for sleeping. He tossed them to her then went in search of a t-shirt she could wear out. With a grin, he held out an old Bon Jovi concert shirt that had, in a moment of nostalgia, ended up in his luggage.

  She wriggled her lips from one side to the other then stripped the dress off and pulled the borrowed clothes into place. He didn’t believe it possible that after the night they’d shared, he could possibly be turned on again, but his blood drained from his brain to south of the border.

  “Well, barring a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction moment, I should be okay.”

  His tongue swelled inside his mouth, and he swallowed hard. “Ah, but you’re still sneaking out of my room past the staff.” He tugged her hand toward the shower they’d shared the night before. With a flick of his wrist, the handheld showerhead sprayed a stream of water down her chest.

  “What the hell?”

  “Did you know that my room is two doors from a home gym?”

  She shook her head. “I hardly think this is a good time for the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous cribs tour, rich boy.”

  He continued, undaunted by her words. He far preferred when she called him pretty boy, and more so when she called him Jess. “Well, it is, and as a teenager growing up here, I often invited my friends over to work out with me in the home gym.”

  “Well, I’m sure your high school friends were quite impressed, but what exactly does working out have to do with a wet t-shirt contest?” She yanked the damp material away from her skin, and his lungs closed.

  He threw a towel over her shoulder, trying to hide the way the material clung to her breasts, so he could think with a semblance of efficiency. “If we just sneak out of this room and walk down the hall, the staff, most of whom are remnants from my childhood, will think you’re just a workout buddy.” He tapped the wet spot on her chest. “And that, love, is pseudo sweat.”

  “What? Am I a professional wrestler? I don’t sweat rivers, pal.”

  “But the staff won’t know that. Come on.”

  With a hand on his arm, she pulled him back. “Do you always work out in tuxedo pants?”

  He looked down and rubbed a hand over his morning stubble. “I should change.” She raised an eyebrow in what he assumed was a dare, and he slid the pants down. Her eyes never wavered from his. “Are we good?”

  “I probably won’t rush out and buy a sexy voodoo doll today, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He couldn’t wipe the grin away with a rag. “You think I’m sexy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “More ego stroking?” He cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “You know you are, and me saying it is just—just—” She struggled for a word. “Oh, shut up.”

  “You’re speechless?” He clutched his chest.

  “Yeah, historical moment. Can we just get me out of here? I have to get ready for a wedding, and you have a hot date. I’m sure you don’t want to keep Miss Fake Accent waiting.”

  He closed the distance between them and wrapped her in his arms. “I already had a hot date.” He had to kiss her. The universe banded together and demanded it.

  14

  Weddings did funny things to her insides. Her biological clock ticked louder in her ears, but at least it drowned out the sound of her eggs shriveling in her uterus.

  Melanie—an old friend who’d invited Ryhan before the movie debacle and probably tried to voicemail the un-invite—wore a Lana-original design that shimmered in the light. Her happiness gave her a glow she couldn’t have faked even under the three quarts of liquid foundation she’d caked on to hide the ugly wart above her left eyebrow. Dudley, the imported from Hollywood groom, adjusted his Buddy Holly glasses, pulled his black cape around him, and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief to dab at his misty eyes as Melanie made her way up the aisle.

  The chances of someone gazing at her that way—even someone who appeared to have escaped from an Ozzy Osbourne video—had no basis in reality. Not in this town anyway. Not anymore.

  The sound of two hundred guests simultaneously sitting reverberated through the high-ceilinged church. As the preacher spoke his welcome, a microphone fizzled and went silent. Ryhan spent the rest of the hour-long ceremony bent forward, straining to hear the vows, the ‘I-do’s, and waiting for the loving kiss at the end.

  The receiving line and her lack of a plus-one only reinforced her gloom. She hugged Melanie and shook hands with Dudley before she walked to Lana’s car, head down, eyes on her shoes. The whispers as she passed congregated groups reached her ears and made her want to rush home, pack her crap and get the hell out of there. She wanted to head off to anywhere else in the world as long as no one who lived there knew her name. Maybe somewhere with a sketchy internet connection, just to be sure no one discovered her amateur porn career.

  Safely inside the SUV, she rested her head against the steering wheel and counted to ten, wishing the Marty McFly DeLorean time machine existed in more than the movies. A tap on the window ended her sad self-reflection right up to the moment she caught glimpse of the knocker.

  Rick? Really?

  It had to be a karmic fluke or some angry Greek god playing tricks on her.

  She looked into the rearview at
the empty space behind her. If she backed up and got a good run at him—no, jail is bad. She repeated the words quietly as she opened the window. “What do you want, jerk?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  She turned in her seat and banged her knee against the door handle. With one hand, she rubbed the spot as she glared at him. “Do tell.”

  “I should have asked you before I put the video on the internet. There, I said it. Are we good now?”

  Good? No. They were not good. She grabbed him by the already stretched collar of his almost white T-shirt and pulled him half through her window. “Did you get rid of the video yet?”

  “Hell, no. It’s still hitting like the lost Elvis tapes.”

  “Then no, you idiot. We’re not good.” She pushed him back to the outside of the car and tapped a finger against her lips. Before she murdered him, she needed to know she’d be justified. “Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if I said I didn’t want a sex video of us up on the World Wide Web?”

  He shrugged and ran his hand along the window frame. “I would have done it anyway, but doesn’t it mean something that I would be sorry too?”

  “No! You giant ass. It means nothing. Nothing!” She drew her fist back to swing, and would have smiled when he stepped far enough back she couldn’t reach. Instead of blacking his eye, she whipped her gaze away and gave the keys a twist. “Move or you’re gonna be sorry.”

  “I’m trying to apologize here. The least you could do is listen, Ryhan.”

  “Look, fool, either get out of the way or pick a plot because if you stand there one more minute and try to justify ruining my life, I’m going to run your skinny ass over.”

  He backed up two more steps, and she stomped the gas pedal, leaving the happy couple and the rest of their guests inhaling the scent of burning rubber.

  She drove without thought except to wish for a second chance at crunching Rick under her tires. For another run at him, she would gladly spend the rest of her days pretending orange was the new black.