by Jaycee Clark
“Sounds good. See you at seven across the street, Max.”
Just as she walked through the door she heard, “’Bout time. God, Dad, I thought you’d never actually spit it out.”
2
Now what the hell was she going to wear?
A closet full of clothes. She had them, plenty to choose from. She’d rummaged and pawed through the outfits, skirts, shirts, pants looking for the outfit, but it was like freaking geometry. Nothing was congealing. The short purple skirt? Or the long purple skirt? The purple velvet dress? The hangers screeched over the rod and she realized she didn’t have a broad rainbow in her wardrobe.
Black.
Black.
Purple.
Blue.
White.
Black.
Granted with her red hair, it wasn’t like she wore scarlet—or God forbid pink—but yellow would be nice. Tonight she’d like a lovely golden…something.
And not a burst of sunshine in the whole damn closet. At least she had a sexy golden lace lingerie set. Not that she was looking to get laid, at least not yet. An image of Max popped into her head, the grace and ease of his movements. Then again, if getting laid tonight was in the cards, she might just go along with it.
So what the hell to wear? Of course, she could go buy something, but that put too much importance on a casual date.
And lingerie didn’t?
It was casual, wasn’t it? Or was it more? Should she dress it up? Keep it simple? Had he really wanted to ask her out or had he been on the spot?
The landlord’s deep voice rumbled up through the open balcony door. What if the Howards had said something to Maxamillan? Then said something to her? Then he’d felt compelled to ask her?
She was losing her mind.
What if he made a habit of taking out girls who were renting from the Howards?
What if he was an ax murderer?
Frowning, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed her closest friend, Cora. Why couldn’t she be more like Cora? Even after almost dying, Cora had her life more together than she did.
“Hello, Mystic Moons. How can I help you?” Cora’s voice floated over the phone all cheery and calm.
“Why is it always an ax murderer?”
A silent pause.
“Lake?”
“Why an ax murderer? Why the hell doesn’t anyone ever say, ‘Oh, he could be a deadly arsonist’? Or—or, why don’t they say, ‘You just never know, he could be a KGB assassin’?”
Another pause. “Ummm…the KGB’s no longer an issue? He’d be really old then, and I’m going to take a wild guess here that this is about a guy who can’t be old enough to worry about KGB assassins or he’d be our father’s age—which I suppose is okay, if you’re okay with that, but you like them younger.”
There were few people who could keep up with her.
“Then why doesn’t anyone say, ‘He could be an armed terrorist’?”
“Versus as unarmed one? Yes, I always thought they were so much sexier unarmed.” Something rustled in the background. “What are you talking about? What guy? Have you finally asked out the gallery owner?”
She sighed and sat on the bed. Cora knew all her secrets. “He asked me out and I have nothing to wear.”
“Smart man. I’ve no idea what’s taken you so long. I was starting to worry you were going to become some pagan fanatic forswearing men and sex.”
“Bite thou tongue.”
Cora laughed. “I’m betting he’ll bite yours later if you ask him really nicely—with or without you wearing anything. Nothing to wear? You’ve got more clothing than anyone I know. Yes, I’m sure he’d be hugely disappointed if you showed up naked. That would just ruin all those artistic thoughts I’m certain he’s been having about you.”
Clothing lay scattered across the bed—the remains of a deranged woman blasting her closet. She picked up a blue crushed-velvet dress. No, not that one, not that one either.
“You’re not helping. I need something to wear and I have nothing but water colors.”
“Kinky. Did you paint them on, or did he? I must come visit this gallery of his.”
Lake laughed. “Help me. You’re supposed to be helping here. I need help.”
“This is not news to me. You’ve always needed help, honey. Acceptance is the first step. Now we have hope.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Cora’s laugh warmed her. “I miss you. When are you coming home?”
Lake sighed, still horrified by what had happened months before when her abilities had failed to read true evil. An evil that had almost cost Cora her life. Could she ever go back?
“I don’t know, Cora.”
For a minute Cora said nothing, then tsked. “It wasn’t your fault. How many times do we have to go through this? No one blames you.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t stop me from blaming myself.” Or questioning her own abilities about reading people. “Nothing like sleeping with a serial killer to make you question yourself.”
“Sorry, forget I asked,” Cora said. “Just take your time. Things are fine here. Oh and I went over and grabbed some of your stock to sell here while you’re on your sabbatical. I hated to think of everything just collecting dust. I marked it up twenty percent, then put ‘on sale’ and took off ten percent, and I’ll keep the other ten and you still get your regular prices for things.”
Lake smiled. “Good business brain. If you hadn’t marked things up, I’d have come over there and told you to close shop because you didn’t have the brains to make any money.” She shifted back against the raw pine headboard and stared at the latilla ceiling. The walls were bare of all but a few strategically placed southwestern artworks. Koki eternally played his flute. She was starting to get tired of the curved flute player. And she missed color, there just wasn’t a whole lot of color here in the décor. “So tell me how things are going.”
“Where do I even start?”
“You and Rogan okay?”
Cora chuckled. “Great. He wants to get married.”
“And this is news to you how?”
“Shut up. I haven’t answered.”
Lake laughed. “Making him wait for something, that’s almost cruel of you. You’ve been keeping secrets.” She listened as Cora filled her in on things she’d been missing.
Cora sighed. “Soooo tell me about the gallery owner and why you’re stressing about what to wear. Date? Casual or hoping-for-more? Dinner?”
“I’ve decided on the long slinky rust dress.” Lake picked up the amethyst pendant between her breasts and ran it along the chain as she studied the closet. Shoes. Which shoes?
“Very classy with a hint of sexy yet is conservative and both casual or dressy. Very good. Wear your purple wrap if you have it. And the amethyst pendant.”
Lake smiled. “I really miss you.” In the background she heard the tinkling chime of bells, which she recognized as the shop bell in Cora’s Mystic Moons.
“I’ve got to go, sweetie, take care. And I want the deets in the morning.”
“Blow by blow?”
“Only if you’ve learned some long-buried secret about a technique.”
“Well, I’m sure I could come up with something,” Lake told her.
“Not that many deets, no. Have fun. Be safe. You got a safe number? Someone know where you’ll be?”
“Downstairs in the coffee shop drinking espresso and eating biscotti.”
“Morning, deets. You don’t call, and I can’t get a hold of you, Rogan and I will be driving to Taos and banging on your door.”
“On the door? Please, at least be inside before you start giving the poor neighbors a sight they’d never forget.”
Cora laughed. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Shoes?”
“Now we enter unknown territory and I shall go. Love you. Take care and I mean it, call me in the morning so I know you’re okay.”
“I will. Love you too, tell everyone I said hello.�
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As she shut her cell phone, she dug in the closet and got out everything she needed, hanging it on the closet door.
God, she was tired. She really needed to start sleeping better.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” his daughter asked him from the doorway of his room.
Max looked at his reflection. Black pants, black shoes, black shirt and jacket. Matching, practical and classic. “No, I thought I’d wait until I got to the door and strip down to my hot pink Speedos.”
“Oh God, I need therapy now.” Alyssa covered her eyes and muttered, “Stab out my third eye.”
He grinned as he turned and studied his daughter. Running a hand over his shirt front, he asked, “You really think this won’t work?”
She opened her eyes and leaned against the doorframe. A cool breeze blew through the apartment from the open front windows and she rubbed her bare arms. Her style he would never understand. She never stuck to any one thing. At present it was what he referred to as her hip-careless-goth look. A black tank over a dark maroon tank, her dusty jeans, hair standing up, accessorized with sparkling bling mixed with skull bling. Somehow she made it all work together. At least she didn’t do the death-white face and black lips or nail polish. So he’d keep his opinions on her wardrobe to himself with the knowledge that tomorrow could be the preppy-cowgirl look. At nineteen she was moody and petulant, hopeful and funny and still too quiet for his peace of mind. Her eyes were never clear of nightmares or troubles, and she rarely smiled that big dimpled smile he remembered always on her face as a child.
After the accident that claimed his ex-wife and son, he’d decided life was too precious to worry about the small stuff, like Alyssa’s clothing. Sweat dampened his skin at the mere memory of his daughter hooked to tubes and monitors, not knowing at first if she’d live or die. Then the months of therapy here, their rocky beginning…
He sighed and shook off the dark thoughts.
Today was good. Alyssa was good and at least joking, even if he wished she ate a bit more. Not a petite woman, she should have more meat on her bones and her diet was atrocious. At least she was eating, even if it was junk food. None of these things he would mention tonight, as he didn’t want a tirade before he left to meet Lake.
Yet her staying healthy was important.
“What will you have for dinner?” he dared.
“A marshmallow.”
“Nutritious and fun at the same time,” he added dryly.
“Well, I thought if I added dark chocolate and raspberry jam I’d get some fruit and helpful vitamins and antioxidants, which are good for you.” She crossed her arms and studied him. “You really need some color in your wardrobe.”
“This coming from the girl who wore only black and gray for the first three months of living here.”
“I’m Kettle so I’m supposed to point out the obvious, Pot. It’s a rule, it’s clichéd.”
“You’re annoying and irritating, but I love you.”
Alyssa’s sigh huffed across the room. “Maybe a dark red tie? A dark silver one? No, that’s no color.” She straightened. “I know.” With that she walked to his closet and rummaged through his ties.
“I don’t want to wear a damn tie. It’s coffee.”
She stopped and tilted her head. “You’re right. That would take the casualness out of it. Maybe…” Her hands quickly sorted through his shirts. “There!” She pulled out a dark purple silk shirt. “Wear this with the black jacket. You’re still the dark moody artist, no yellow, no pumpkin orange.”
“God forbid.”
She shrugged. “Could be worse, pink.”
“You’ll know I’ve gone off the deep end if ever there is pink in my closet.”
She waggled the hanger at him.
Max took the shirt, heading to the bathroom.
“And we’ve already gone over the safe-sex speech before. You still have condoms?”
He froze, her words tumbling in his brain. Speechless, he could only stare at her. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then frowning, opened it again. Shaking his head, he shut the door.
Alyssa’s voice traveled through the wood. “You know if you have any questions—”
“I sure as hell won’t be asking you.” He jerked off the shirt he’d chosen, changing into the one Alyssa had handed him, fumbling with the buttons. Sex advice from his kid? Legal and grown kid? Still his kid. He took a deep breath and stared at his reflection in the mirror while he said, “You’re—you’re nineteen.”
Legal or not, there were just certain things fathers should never…
“So? Sex today is different than sex when you were nineteen.”
He knew better than to ask, but it was so absurd. He’d survived the disco age, the flashing eighties for God’s sake. “Really? And here I thought some things were basic.”
He tucked in the bottom of his shirt. She was right, this looked better.
“Safe sex, Dad. There are diseases and things you should worry about now. Talking about important issues often makes them second nature. Safe sex, no to drugs and always put on clean underwear.”
Max opened the bathroom door and stared at her.
She grinned and wiggled her brows.
Shock. She loved to shock.
“Maybe Lake will like my pink Speedos.”
“Ewww…I’m leaving now.” She hurried from the room.
Max laughed as he put on his watch. He wondered what the long, leggy, built-like-an-Irish-goddess woman would be wearing tonight.
Lake—strange name. Different. Original. Unique.
Rather like the woman.
The coffee shop hummed with the evening crowd. Lake wondered how they stayed open as long as they did. The Howards were up at dawn or before—the smell of baking treats always woke her up, mixing with the heady scent of Arabica beans. She chose a table near the front windows.
“Is this table fine?” she asked Max. “If you smoke we can sit out on the back patio.” Nothing like cigarette smoke mixing with coffee, spices and cinnamon to bring one awake in the mornings. To each their own.
“This table is fine. And just for the record, I don’t smoke.”
As they sat, she looked across the little iron table at Max. Dressed in dark plum and black, he looked good enough to lick. And here she was in her purple wrap and copper gown. At least she hadn’t gone with the black dress or they could have looked like Ken and Barbie. Coordinating outfits and as it was, they already…already…fit, she decided. They fit just a little too well. When he’d pulled her chair out for her, the warmth of his hand just above the base of her spine zinged excitement through her. Goose bumps again pricked her skin just at the memory.
His eyes perused her, catalogued her features, not as a man deciding on whether or not he liked what he saw—hell, she knew enough about males to know that he liked what saw. No, it was the subtle appreciation in his eyes that gave her pause. He studied her like the art aficionado he was, as if she were some rare painting or sculpture he wanted to memorize.
She smiled and he blinked.
“Sorry, I’m staring aren’t I?” he asked, shifting to lean back and sip his little cup of espresso. Biscotti lay to the side on a little blue pottery plate.
She tapped a nail on the side of her café mocha. “Yes.”
“Sorry,” he said again, the edges of his eyes crinkling.
“It’s okay. I’d let you know if I thought it was creepy.”
One brow arched. “And it isn’t?”
Lake sighed and let the wrap slide down to her elbows. “I know creepy.” At least she thought she did. “No, it’s more like…” She thought about her words. “It’s more like you’re trying to figure out which colors to use on a canvas, or what medium you’d like to use.”
The right corner of his mouth edged up. “Then, can I stop worrying about how to ask you if you’d like to model for me?”
It was her turn to grin and lean up on the table. “You want me to model for you?”
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He leaned up as well, those intense eyes scanning her face before they met hers straight on, heat in their depths. “In this day and age, most women are too skinny, or let themselves go too much. Around here in Taos, you’ve got tourists, the local health freaks, and those who don’t care. There are few who fit the balance perfectly.”
She moved her hand closer to his on the table. “Balance. You’re a Libra.”
“I’m that easy?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Easy? If you were easy, Max, I’d have asked you out weeks and weeks ago, instead of stressing about it.”
“Yeah, well, I like balance. I don’t do chaos very well, but perfect order drives me nuts.”
“Me, too.”
“You a Libra as well?”
She tilted her head. “We’ll wait on me. So you want me to model for you?”
“Ohhh yeah,” he drew out.
“Why?”
“You remind me of a goddess.”
She gave him a long blink. Something must be wrong with this guy. A goddess? There was a line she hadn’t heard before. For a moment words failed her.
“Goddess? I’m no goddess.” Then she smiled. A goddess. Butterflies danced in her stomach. She wasn’t that easy, was she? Touching his hand with hers, she again felt that charged hum between them. Not a bright burst of energy like she’d had with others—like heated passion that could quickly burn out. Nor the electric bolt of pure sex and just sex. This was different.
With Max, all those charges were there, but not. It was as if those feelings were there, but all rolled together so that the hum was a twisted, intertwined cable, coating and protecting the current. She’d never experienced this before and she was honest enough to know she wanted to feel more.
“You’re different,” she whispered.
His brows wiggled and he smiled, a wicked smile that left her wondering what he was thinking.
For a moment they only stared at each other.
“So are you,” he answered, his voice low and caressing. He broke eye contact and glanced at their coffees sitting between them. “This has been fun, but I’m hungry. You want to go eat?”