Hurts So Good

by Mallory Rush

  Andrea took the hint, as well as the job, and hurriedly left the office. As she rested her head against the door, she heard the distinct sound of a dart sinking into wood.

  She left with more than a job and bright prospects ahead. She left with the knowledge that Neil Grey, despite his success and stranger than strange quirks, was not a happy man.

  Chapter 2

  By 3:00 a.m. the following morning, Andrea braced herself for the possibility that her employer was going to be not only unhappy, but furious. The bartender who was to train her had called in sick.

  With the last chair turned up, the hardwood floor swept clean, and every waitress gone, Andrea surveyed the aftermath of a nightmare. Glasses were scattered from one end to the other of the long mahogany bar. Ashtrays brimmed with crushed-out butts. Behind her, bottles were in disarray: scotch, beer, wine, vodka, and liqueurs she'd never even heard of before they'd been ordered. On the floor lay puddles of spilled drinks.

  "Buy you a drink?" asked Lou, the pianist and last musician to leave. "Looks like you could use one, chile."

  "Thanks, Lou, but if I never see another highball again, it'll be too soon." She summoned a weary smile as he leaned against the bar. His chocolate eyes crinkling at the corners, he smiled with the innate kindness she'd sensed in him when he'd welcomed her aboard. She could use some kindness. Her back hurt. Her feet hurt. Even her skin hurt.

  But what hurt most was feeling like a failure.

  "Now, chile, don't you fret, 'cause Big Daddy's here to help. I'll get dis, you get dat, an' 'fore you know it, we'll have the place shinier than a new penny."

  Andrea suppressed the urge to throw her arms around his neck in thanks. She'd never had a daddy, much less a Big Daddy who was as cuddly as her frayed teddy bear with the stuffings long hugged out of it.

  "Lou, you're a sweetheart to offer, but I've got it under control." Yeah, right, just like that time your Ivy League scholarship got revoked. "I just hope Mr. Grey doesn't decide to fire me." She darted a furtive glance at the empty stage. "Is he gone?"

  "Slick? Hell no, he ain't gone—this here's where he lives. And he ain't about to fire you, I guarantee it."

  "You're sure?" she asked, taking hope.

  "He ain't no Goody Two-shoes but—"

  "Thought you'd flown the coup, Lou. You're not drinking up my profits are... you?"

  Neil's eyes squinted as he took in the state of the bar. His surroundings had been no more than a blur while he'd been onstage. His energy had been concentrated on performing—and ignoring the redhead who he'd hoped would be gone by the time he left the office. Since the interview she'd been stuck on his brain like a needle grooved into a record.

  He was beat and disgusted after tallying up the night's take and splitting the profits. Christine had another check on its way to L.A.

  And a whole new set of dart holes right between the eyes.

  "Must've been a real animal party I missed. Looks like a frat-house keg orgy minus the stripped-off togas."

  "Mr. Grey, please, I can explain—"

  "Aw, quit your stewin', Neil. Give the poor chile a break. Cain't you see—"

  "What I see, Lou, is that it's time you headed home to Liza. Catch you on the flip side?"

  As Neil closed the distance, he saw Lou pat Andrea's pale hands and whisper something before turning and sending him a distinct, silent message. Big Daddy was the best piano player around, and if the young upstart didn't give the little gal a break. Nimble Fingers was taking a powder.

  As the two men slapped palms, Lou muttered, "Watch yo' mouth and mind yo' manners. Ain't all women bad. Cut her some slack, Slick."

  "You giving me a choice?"

  "Sho' I am. Be nice or be sorry. You got an ax to grind fo' sho', but it's wearin' thin on them who don't deserve it. Behave."

  Neil grimaced as he locked up behind Big Daddy. The only real daddy he'd ever had, the man who took him off the streets. Mentor and friend, the old giant seldom made demands, but when he did, Neil always gave in.

  "Rough night?" he asked as he strode behind the bar—and promptly stepped on a cherry. Looking down, he saw the spilled liquor and shuddered. What he was seeing was a waste of food and money, and that was a sin he couldn't abide.

  "I'm really sorry, Mr. Grey." The wide eyes pleading for his understanding and the mussed hair that looked as though a thousand fingers had raked it overrode the memory of his childhood poverty. He put his anger on hold. "I know it's a mess, but I did my best. You can dock my salary for however much you lost tonight."

  He couldn't help but respect the woman for making such an offer. Life had made him mean, but he prided himself on being fair.

  "Don't sweat it. The fill-in I called didn't show?"

  "Take a look and guess."

  He did look. At her. Even frazzled, she had a certain spark he could have related to ten years and a lifetime ago.

  "Give me my week, and I promise to make this up to you."

  Neil studied her determined, fervent expression and saw himself begging for a gig. She reminded him of himself when he'd been a kid, with dreams and ambitions and enough stupidity to believe in great beginnings and happy endings. Just looking at her made him feel wasted and angry for it. And jealous for some of what she had that he'd lost along the way.

  "I won't leave until it's clean," she rushed on in the taut silence. "The register's already been emptied, so there's no reason for you to stay. I'll lock up when I'm through."

  She reached for an overfilled ashtray, and he knocked it away. Her breath audibly caught, and she took a step back. Her eyes—Lord were they gorgeous—darted uneasily to his. So, he made her nervous. Dandy. He supposed that made them somewhat even.

  "Aw, no no, chere," he said, his voice as smooth as the worn leather flask he pulled from his back pocket. "What kind of man do you take me for? I wouldn't dream of leaving you all alone. Lots of dangerous sorts roaming around this time of night, and you such a sweet thing. I insist on offering my protective presence, seeing that I'm not only generous but a gentleman."

  He saw her swallow, but when she spoke, her words were steady. "I can take care of myself, thank you, Mr. Grey. If you'll excuse me, I have enough work to last me until daybreak. No need to worry about the 'dangerous sorts' on my behalf. See you tomorrow at five? Sharp."

  Seemed that she could take care of herself, he thought, admiring her nerve and wishing he didn't.

  "Trying to get rid of me? I'm hurt." The small snort she made told him she doubted he was capable of that emotion under any circumstances. Strangely enough, he was a bit stung. First honest-to-God twinge of personal injury he'd felt in a long, long time. "You don't think I can hurt, do you?"

  "Can you?"

  Neil frowned and uncapped the flask. There had been a sudden eagerness in her question that smacked of a newshound sniffing his tracks. Those story-mongers couldn't get it through their shifty heads that Neil Grey was old news. Sure the new and diehard fans paid their respects, along with the big-draw hotshots who needed his compositions to stay that way. But his recording career was dead. A fact that only seemed to fuel the public's fascination, as if he were an artist who'd died in his prime while his mystique lived on.

  Tilting the flask to his lips, he paused. As many times as he'd been burned by the press, he wasn't taking chances. He'd make nice with Andrea, maybe tantalize her a tad, and find out in his own way whether she was up to no good.

  "Make you a deal, I'll tell you. For a price."

  She suspiciously eyed the flask that he'd extended.

  "Name your price, and I'll decide if knowing's worth it."

  "Best deal you ever cut, chere. I want four things from you. One: Join me for a drink. Two: Quit calling me Mr. Grey. Three: Tell me what brought you to the Big Easy when that accent of yours pegs you as a damn Yankee. And four: I could go for a good-morning kiss, and I'm willing to work hard to earn it. What do you say we pitch in together to clean up this hellacious mess, and then I'll see you home sa
fe? Then, after that kiss, I'll answer your question. Deal?"

  Andrea wondered if she'd actually heard right.

  She'd braced herself for a request to join him for another dart game. Or a threesome—him, her, and his sax, since his ex-wife had told reporters she'd caught him sleeping with it once.

  In fact, Andrea had anticipated anything but his offer of help, good-humored camaraderie, and concern for her safety. Those were rare commodities in her life that she'd long quit expecting to find. And she most certainly hadn't expected them from the man who'd been called schizophrenic by the tabloids.

  Nostalgia stirred, and bad as it was for the super scoop she wanted, she hoped that she, and his many detractors, had misjudged him.

  "The first three are fine... Neil. But that last one—"

  "Aw, c'mon, Andrea. Be a good sport. Let me help clean up. And it would surely be my pleasure to walk you home."

  "I'm talking about the kiss, and don't think for a minute I'm buying that innocent act of yours," she said sternly when he gasped dramatically. "Just a kiss? Uh-huh."

  "Just a kiss, nothing else. On my mother's grave"—he took a quick swig from the flask, wiped his mouth with his forearm, then held out the brandy—"I swear it."

  "Why do you want to kiss me?" she pressed, still not believing him.

  "Because I like to kiss, and I pride myself on being a connoisseur of mouths. They're all different, but yours is more different than most, and I'd really appreciate the chance to sample the contents. Nothing personal. I'm only looking to expand my resume. Surely, you can understand that."

  Her lips twitched with amusement. And anticipation. A kiss from Neil Grey? Mr. Hot Lips himself, whose signed glossy she'd drooled over while the other kids at the orphanage had gone wild over rock-and-roll musicians, and for whom she'd dared to turn the radio dial from a Top 40 station to a jazz station? He wanted to kiss her?

  "How is my mouth different?" And whose mouth had she inherited? Her mother's, her father's? One answer she'd never get. "Is it a good different or a bad different?"

  "Hmmm. Let's see. Open your lips a tad, chere.... That's perfect, just enough so I can see your teeth. Great teeth, by the way."

  "Great?" she repeated, trying not to move her lips while he studied them with what seemed to be detached interest. "But they're spaced a little in the front. I wish I'd had braces growing up. They're—"

  "Sexy, that's what. Damn sexy. There's just enough room for the tip of a tongue."

  Lord, she hoped he didn't ask for a peek at her tongue. What he might say about it—and its erotic possibilities—could have her begging for his kiss right there and then.

  He didn't. Instead, he slid a finger over her lips, and she felt her soft flesh quiver. Despite her urgent message to her tongue not to touch, it did. He tasted of salt skin flavored with liquor and smoke. He tasted delicious.

  "Curious tongue too," he said huskily. "Active little critter. Definitely an asset. Goes real nice with about the finest set of lips I ever checked out."

  Andrea pinched her lips together. He rubbed them with his thumb, then traced them with a feather-light stroke before pulling back with a satisfied nod.

  "Good muscle tone," he pronounced. "What's the longest kissing session you ever had?"

  "Well, I've never timed one, but maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes?" She was suddenly ready for the drink he'd offered, though she already felt rather woozy.

  "Practice makes perfect, and with such an incredible mouth, you should've had more practice than that. Stingy kissers who want to cut the fine art short rank with quitters and cheats in my book. How about you? Did you ever want to keep kissin' when some monsieur got antsy to move things along?"

  "Well... yes. How did you guess?"

  "I know men. And I know women. There's a reason why they're crazy about me. Tell the truth. You think it's the fame and fortune and a chance to get into my dancin' pants that have quite a reputation to please—or so said something I read. Used it for toilet paper, though I had a full roll."

  If it hadn't been for his slow, easy smile, she would have thought he was testing her. But he seemed to be laughing at himself and inviting her to join him. Maybe that was the source of his brash but fatal appeal.

  "Those reasons would be plenty for a lot of women."

  "Don't I know it. But it's not reason enough for the ones with class and character. You've got both, don't you chere?"

  "I like to think so."

  "Could be you fall into a special slot. Could be you're one of those gals Lou keeps prattling about, who care more for kissin' than what it'll get 'em in the long run. A very rare breed."

  "You sound cynical."

  "Got good reason to be."

  "I also get the impression that you like to kiss."

  "Well, if you're not a genius and a dog groomer too. I'm a fool for kissing. Haven't met a woman yet who could outlast me. But I'd thank you for the opportunity to try you out."

  Their fingers touched as she grasped the flask. He didn't let go. The sustained contact packed a hurricane punch. His lids lowered, and she thought he might try for a kiss without the promised preliminaries.

  She wished that he would. If his kissing expertise half lived up to her expectations, she'd have a new facet of Neil Grey to write about—and just maybe she'd rediscover an old facet of herself in the process.

  He didn't kiss her. But he did slide his fingers over hers and slowly urged the rim of the flask to her mouth.

  Andrea pulled back. "We're in a bar, Neil, with a few clean glasses left."

  "Are you that particular or just afraid of catching some social disease? Believe it or not, I'm cleaner than those glasses, and Lou's faithful to his wife, Liza. He's the only person I ever share with."

  It was a challenge. His reputation over his word. Andrea debated, then made a choice. She never could stand cowards or liars—any more than quitters or cheats.

  "I'm careful of the company I keep, Neil. And as far as I can tell, you and Lou are better than what I've had in a while. Why am I in the Big Easy instead of the Big Apple? It's all a calculated risk to make my life what I want it to be. I'm here because that's my choice. And so is my decision to accept your deal."

  "Yowzah. I knew there was a reason besides great lips and great... um, great conversation that attracted me to you. My own choices haven't been anything to whistle Dixie about in the past, but according to Scarlett, tomorrow is another day. Maybe you'll prove her and Lou right. If you don't... here's to a little more pain shoveled onto the heap."

  His coarse laughter doused her impression that he spoke from the gut. Andrea put the flask to her lips. The rim was still wet from his mouth. A vulgar mouth, a sensual mouth, out of which came revelations she was sure no reporter had been privy to before.

  She felt like a cheat, and it didn't set well.

  Neither did the brandy.

  As she coughed and sputtered, she felt his palm slap between her shoulder blades, then lessen to a gentle stroke.

  "Does a body almost as much good as harm, huh, chere? Sorry about tonight. I'll make sure you don't get dumped on again. My fault. Not yours. Take another nip, and let's get to work. The sooner we're out of here, the sooner I can collect on that kiss."

  Chapter 3

  The first rays of sun slitted through a hung-over sky as the second order of beignets arrived at their Café du Monde table and their cups of café au lait were refilled for the fourth time. The creamy brew of chicory coffee and steamed milk was hot, but nothing like the scorcher the mid-May day promised to be.

  Neil stretched, luxuriating in being a paying customer. He could remember scrounging for scraps in the café's trash cans while a train, whose tracks ran a spitting distance away, blew its midnight whistle down his back. The cook had found him out and had snuck him fresh beignets and glasses of milk, along with whatever change he could spare. It made Neil feel real good to send his benefactor an anonymous payback each month. Yessir, Neil Grey was a filthy-rich m
an. And just as he never forgave those who crossed him, he never forgot those who showed a kindness.

  Those were the rules. And he did take pride not only in being in a position to set them, but in abiding by them as well. How he had come up in the world, sitting here next to a class-act woman.

  The fans overhead circulated the thick, humid air, while Neil watched Andrea bite into the hollow pastry known as a beignet. Powdered sugar dusted her cute upturned nose. He didn't mention it. Went nicely with her freckles. He liked them. He liked her—too much.

  She took another bite of the messy French doughnut, which she held gingerly. Neil chuckled, amused by her efforts not to get her fingers too sticky though she looked as if she wanted to suck them clean.

  He'd like to see her suck a crawdad head, get her to forget those proper manners and cut loose. Hell, who could have a stompin' good time if they were gonna be prissy?

  "You like those things, do you?"

  "Mmmm, Neil, they are out of this world. I hate to admit it, but lately I've been having trouble getting into my jeans. I blame it on finding this place the first day I moved here, and a disgusting lack of self control when it comes to sweets."

  An image of her lying on a bed to pull up a zipper caused him to shift in his chair. He'd like to tell her that he was sweet in hopes she'd try a bite of him, but that would be about the biggest lie he'd ever told, and he had a disgusting lack of self-control when it came to dealing with liars.

  "And how long have you been here?"

  "Um..." She lingered over a sip of coffee. "Two weeks."

  "Did you come to see friends and decide to stay?"

  "No friends." She looked away, then suddenly smiled. Whoooee. When she smiled like that, he did believe the sun couldn't compete with the heat she generated. "At least, no friends to begin with. It seems that I've made a couple recently. You and Lou are really nice people."

  "Lou's nice, unless you cross him. I learned not to do that years ago. As for me..." He'd suckered her in so far, but, good sport that he was, she deserved a reminder of just who she was in cahoots with. "I'm anything but nice, chere. Best you remember that for your own good."