Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  "I-I tried to call you," Susannah said.

  "So I understand." Joel's eyes flicked over her clothing, revealing nothing except distaste.

  Angela's charm bracelets had stilled, and Susannah could feel the curious eyes of her customers. Making an awkward gesture with her hand, she indicated that Joel should follow her into the workshop. It was empty. Sam must have gone to see someone about the cases to house the computer boards.

  The burn-in box gave off a warm plastic smell that mingled with the sharp scent of perm solution. The garage seemed unbearably hot and airless. She hugged herself. "Would you like me to get you some iced tea? There's a pitcher in the kitchen. It'll only take a moment."

  Ignoring her, he wandered over to the workbench and looked at the board that was sitting on it. He snorted contemptuously.

  "I can fix you a drink if you'd rather," she said quickly.

  He turned and stared at her so coldly, she couldn't believe that he had ever regarded her with tenderness. She couldn't bear it. Her throat tightened as she gazed at the man she had loved for nearly as long as she could remember, the golden prince of her childhood who had slain her dragons and loved her when no one else would. "Don't hate me," she whispered. "Please."

  "Surely you didn't expect me to forget all the pain you've caused."

  "Let me try to explain. Let me explain how I felt."

  "Now you want to tell me how you felt," he scoffed. "Fascinating. Now that it's all over, and hideous damage has been done, you decide you want to settle in for a cozy father-daughter chat."

  He was so cold, so accusing. "I just want you to understand that I never meant to hurt you."

  "I'm afraid the time for confidences has long passed. Why didn't you talk to me before that debacle of a wedding? Tell me, Susannah, when did I turn into such a monster? Did I beat you when you were a child and you came to me with your troubles?"

  "No," she said miserably. "No, of course not."

  "Did I lock you in a closet every time you did something wrong?"

  "No, it's not-"

  "When you wanted to confide in me, did I push you aside and tell you I couldn't spare the time?"

  "No. You were wonderful. You never did any of those things. It's just-" She struggled to find the words. "When I displeased you, you were always so cold to me."

  His eyebrows shot up. "I was cold to you. Well, of course. Why didn't I think of that? In the face of such terrible parental abuse, who in the world could fault you for what you've done."

  She bit her lip. "Please. I didn't mean to hurt you." The words seemed to be squeezing through a microscopically tiny passageway in her throat. "I didn't mean to hurt Cal. I just couldn't stand-I just couldn't stand being perfect any longer."

  "Is that what this is about?" he said scathingly. "Your perfection? I wish you'd told me, so I could have disabused you of the notion long ago. You were never perfect, Susannah."

  "I know that. It's just-I felt as if I had to be perfect or you wouldn't love me. I felt as if I always had to do what everyone expected of me."

  "You certainly chose a dramatic way to prove otherwise, didn't you?" he said contemptuously. Walking over to the assembly table, he gazed down at the assorted parts with distaste. When he looked back up at her, his features were rigid. "Now that you've had a taste of real life, I suppose you're going to beg me to let you come back to Falcon Hill?"

  His statement caught her unaware. "You're my father. I-I don't want to be cut off from you."

  "I'm supposed to forget everything that has happened and take you back? It's not going to be that easy, Susannah. You've hurt too many people. You can't just return to your old life and expect everything to be the way it was."

  "I don't want my old life back," she whispered.

  "If you expect Cal to be waiting with open arms, you'll be sadly disappointed," he went on, not hearing her. "He'll never forgive you."

  Cold was seeping through her skin into her bones. "Daddy, I don't want Cal. I want to help Sam build his computer. I want to stay here."

  Joel's entire body stiffened and his face grew ashen. For a moment he seemed to be fighting to catch his breath, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Are you telling me that you would rather live in this sordid place with that hooligan than come back to your family?"

  "Why does it have to be one or the other?" she cried. "Daddy, I love you! But I love Sam, too."

  "I don't think this is about love," he retorted. "Your relationship with that man-it's about sex."

  "No, it's not-"

  "Cal was a decent man, but apparently he wasn't hot enough for you."

  Susannah wanted to cover her ears against Joel's venom. "Don't talk to me like this. I won't listen."

  "I can only guess what your particular fetish is," he lashed out. "Leather? Motorcycles?"

  His expression had grown so ugly, she hardly recognized it. Was this vindictive, hateful man really her father? In the background she heard the hum of a hair dryer and Angela's chatter. She clasped her arms around her body and tried to hold herself together.

  Joel's complexion looked gray and unhealthy beneath his fading tan. "What do you get from your stud? Does he beat you? Are you that sort of woman?"

  A sneering voice came from the outside doorway. "Naw, Faulconer, you got it all wrong, man. She's the one who beats me. Don't you, Suzie?"

  Sam swaggered forward, every step insolent. One thumb was tucked in the waistband of his jeans, the other in his pocket. His blade-straight hair fell from beneath his sweat-band and pooled on his shoulders. The silver earring glimmered through the black strands.

  He stopped just behind her and slipped his hand possessively around her waist. "Your little girl is a wild cat with a whip."

  Joel made a choked exclamation and took a menacing step forward. "You insolent-"

  "That's right," Sam drawled. "I'm insolent, I'm crude, I'm stupid. I'm so stupid that I stole your precious daughter from right under your nose." He pulled Susannah tighter against his body, her back to his chest. Then he deliberately slid his thumb up onto her breast. "Does this give you any idea what I plan to do to your company?"

  "Stop it, Sam!" Susannah couldn't bear it. He had no sense of caution. No sense at all. She pulled away from him and stepped toward her father. "I didn't mean to hurt anybody. I'm sorry for that. I just-I just couldn't help it."

  Joel turned away as if he could no longer bear looking at her. His eyes returned to the workbench and the cluttered assembly table. When he spoke, his voice was frigid. "You've made a poor bargain, Susannah. You've tied your future to a hoodlum and a toy that no one will ever want. If you hadn't betrayed me, I could almost feel sorry for you."

  "I didn't betray you. I-I love you."

  "You've turned into a tramp. An ungrateful, cheap little tramp."

  His words struck her like small, deadly pellets. She wanted to protect herself against them, but she had no defenses left. A deafening silence filled the small garage.

  They all stood without moving, as if they had nowhere else to go.

  "Don't you think you might be getting a little carried away here, Mr. Faulconer?" The jingle-jangle of charm bracelets came from the doorway of the Pretty Please Salon.

  As Angela came into the garage, Joel gave her a look so malevolent that most women would have retreated. But Angela was a sucker for great-looking men, no matter how foul their dispositions, and Joel Faulconer was great-looking, even if he was a son of a bitch-a fact she intended to point out.

  "Your daughter is one of the finest young ladies it's ever been my pleasure to meet. And as for what you said about my son-calling him a hoodlum-I want you to know that I don't appreciate that one bit."

  Sam took a step toward his mother. "Stay out of this. This doesn't have anything to do with you."

  Angela held out her hand. "Just one minute, Sammy. I haven't had my say yet."

  Joel stared at Angela as if she were a particularly loathsome reptile, and then his eyes made a path fr
om her swaying plastic earrings to her gold-lamй sandals. "By all means let your mother speak. She's obviously a woman whose opinion deserves to be heard."

  Sam's arm shot back and his breath released in a hiss. Susannah leaped forward to put herself between him and her father. "No, Sam! You're only going to make it worse." She spun on Joel. "The problems between us don't have anything to do with Mrs. Gamble."

  Angela planted her hand on her hip, "Let me just tell you one thing before you go, Mr. Faulconer-"

  "Mom! Don't say any more."

  Angela waved Sam off and concentrated all her attention on Joel. "Let me just tell you that you might want to think twice about casting aspersions at my son, since you don't know who he really is."

  The threatening tone in Sam's voice grew stronger. "Don't do this, Mom. I'm telling you."

  Angela lifted her chin, more than willing to take on the chairman of FBT. "My son-the one you called a hoodlum-the one you think isn't good enough for your daughter-"

  "Stop it, Mom!"

  "My son happens to be the only male child of Mr. Elvis Presley!"

  The garage went completely still. Sam's face looked as if it had been carved from stone. Susannah's lips parted in astonishment. For several moments Joel Faulconer didn't move. When he finally turned to Susannah, his expression was haggard.

  "I will never forgive you for this," he hissed. And then he left.

  Susannah started to run after him, but Sam caught her arm and hauled her up short before she could take a step. "Don't you dare," he snarled, pushing her down at the assembly table. "You stay right here! Godammit, don't you even think about going after that bastard."

  Without a word of explanation, Angela returned to her elderly ladies. Sam waited for Joel's car to leave, and then he stormed from the garage. Susannah rubbed her arm where he had grabbed her and reached out to pick up the soldering iron. But her hand was shaking so badly that she couldn't manage it. She sat in silence for some time while she waited for the pain to go away.

  Sam still hadn't returned by dinner time, although Yank and Roberta had shown up several hours earlier. Roberta's mindless chatter coupled with Yank's unrelenting silence strained Susannah's frazzled nerves to the breaking point. When she couldn't stand her thoughts anymore, she retreated into the kitchen and began assembling ingredients for a salad. As she tore apart a head of lettuce, Angela came inside.

  "It'll probably just be you and me for dinner, Susannah. I wouldn't count on Sammy showing up for a while." Angela squirted some dishwashing liquid into her hands and washed them under the kitchen faucet. "Let me cut up some cheese and salami and we can have ourselves a big chef salad-ladies' night special."

  "All right."

  Angela's bracelets clinked against the refrigerator door as she opened it to pull out several deli packages. "You like olives?"

  "Olives are fine." Susannah fumbled for the paring knife.

  "I'm really sorry about that awful scene with my father. It's bad enough that I'm mooching off you all the time without putting you through something like that."

  Angela waved away her apology. "You're not responsible for your father. And I like having you here. You're a real lady. You're good for Sammy. The two of us-you might have noticed-we don't get along too well. He's ashamed of me."

  A polite denial sprang to Susannah's lips, but she bit it back. If Angela had the courage to be honest, she wouldn't insult her with well-meaning evasions. "He's still young," she said.

  Angela's face softened. "Young and a rebel. What a time I've had with him."

  The pain of her confrontation with Joel had overridden her curiosity about Angela's strange revelation. Now she remembered it. "His father…?"

  "Frank Gamble was a decent man, I guess. But he didn't have any imagination."

  Susannah's hand stilled on the lettuce. She hadn't expected to hear about Frank Gamble. What about Elvis?

  Angela began unwrapping the deli packages. "I had to marry him because I was a good Italian girl who had gotten herself in trouble, if you understand what I mean. But we didn't have too much in common. And when Sammy was a teenager, Frank was always screaming at him about being a hippie and a bum, and Sammy kept running away. It was terrible. I loved Sammy a lot more than I ever loved Frank. When Frank left me for another woman a few years ago, I was actually relieved, although whenever I went to Altar Society meetings, I pretended I was broken up about it since I'm Catholic."

  "I see." Susannah quartered a cucumber as she tried to put it all together.

  "Of course, it was hard having Frank run off with somebody in her twenties, especially when my boobs were starting to sag and my face didn't look as good as it used to. I was so pretty when I was in my twenties," she said dreamily. And then she gave a self-conscious laugh. "Listen to me. You'd think I was ready for the grave instead of just hitting my prime. You want to know about Elvis, don't you?"

  "Not if you don't want to tell me."

  "I don't mind. It's just-Sammy hates it when I talk about him. I know I should have kept my mouth shut out there in the garage, but your father was-pardon my French-acting like a real bastard."

  "He's not like that all the time. I'm afraid I've hurt him pretty badly."

  "Sammy hurts me all the time, but I don't ever go after him like that."

  Tears welled in Susannah's eyes. She blinked them away and briskly rinsed off a tomato. "When did you meet Mister-uhm, Elvis?"

  "Every once in a while during the fifties, I used to drive down to L.A. and work as an extra. I got a job on Love Me Tender. It was Elvis's first starring role, and every female extra in the world wanted to work on that film. Luckily, I had this friend in the business who had a friend. Anyway, it all worked out." She nibbled absentmindedly on a sliver of Swiss cheese. "All I have to do is shut my eyes and I can see him right now singing the title song." She began humming "Love Me Tender."

  Something didn't seem right to Susannah. Sam was twenty-four. He had been born in 1952. Surely Elvis wasn't starring in movies that early. "When was that film made?"

  "I'm not too good with dates. I met him for the first time much earlier than that anyway. In-I guess-'fifty-one. I went to Nashville with a girlfriend. Elvis was called the Hillbilly Cat then, and he was getting ready to sign his first record contract. You should have seen him. Young and sexy, with those eyelids drooping down and his hair all greased back. Don't get me wrong, Susannah. I was a good girl. I always went to mass. I even thought about being a nun for a while. But with Elvis, it was sort of holy anyway. Do you want hard-boiled egg in your salad?"

  "Fine-anything," Susannah said distractedly.

  "You really love him, don't you?"

  For a second Susannah thought Angela was talking about Elvis, and then she realized the subject had shifted back to Sam.

  "Yes. Yes, I do."

  "You're not too much alike."

  "I know."

  "Suzie, be careful with Sammy. He's different. He doesn't see the world the same way as everybody else. You're really a nice girl, and I don't want him to hurt you."

  Angela's warning made Susannah uneasy, but when she went out to the garage a few hours later and found Sam hard at work, she was so glad to see him that she pushed it to the back of her mind. They worked side by side for a while. Finally, she asked him about Angela's claim that he was Elvis Presley's son.

  "It's a lie," he said brusquely. "Something she invented around the time she got divorced. Whenever she talks about it, her story changes. The dates never match up. Just forget about it, will you? I don't want to talk about it anymore."

  She didn't press him, and sometime around midnight, he pulled her into the deserted interior of the Pretty Please Beauty Salon, where they made love in the shampoo chair. Afterwards, Susannah realized that neither of them had thought to lock the door, but since Angela had gone to bed hours before, she supposed it didn't really matter much. Yank was still in the garage, of course, but Yank didn't count. He wouldn't have noticed if they had made love right
on top of his workbench.

  Chapter 12

  "The old man's playing with his toys again."

  The two FBT grounds keepers, one plump and soft, the other thin and wiry, leaned on their shovels and gazed over at the seven obelisk-shaped fountains in the reflecting pond at the Castle. One by one, they stopped sending their silvery streamers of water into the air. But before the ripples in the pond had stilled, the columns of water began flowing again, rising systematically from the first fountain to the last.

  "Man, I'd like to have his job," the heavier of the two men commented as he watched the water catch the light, recede, and then catch the light again. "Sit around in an air-conditioned office all day, play with a bunch of fountains, and pull in a couple million a year."

  They began digging again, only to stop and look curiously back at the reflecting pond. Instead of the systematic ebb and flow they were accustomed to, the fountains had begun going on and off in a quirky, random fashion neither had witnessed before. The effect was eerie and vaguely disquieting, turning the smooth pond water choppy and gray. "The old man must be having a bad day." "What's he got to feel bad about? Shit, man. If I had his money, I'd be dancin' in the streets."

  The center four fountains abruptly stopped, as if someone had slammed a fist in the middle of the panel of control switches. The grounds keepers watched for a moment and then went back to their shovels.

  Joel swiveled his desk chair so that he was no longer looking through the window at the reflecting pond. He had once been so proud of the FBT fountains. When he had controlled the switches, he had felt as if he were somehow controlling the continent each fountain represented: Europe brought to life with a flick of his hand, South America firmly under his rule, North America beating at the heart of his mighty kingdom. Even Asia had seemed to fall under his power. He had felt like a king in command of the world.

  Now he merely felt tired.

  The nagging pain in his chest was back. He could barely comprehend what had happened in that squalid little garage. She should have been repentant. She should have begged him to take her back. Instead she had asked him to understand. As if he could understand something so sordid.