Explosive Forces

by D. D. Ayres

“I get that. But you had a whole lot of women’s dreams pinned to your success. What about what you owe them?”

  “I know you’re not trying to preach about responsibility to me.”

  “I’m just saying. You made some promises. People believed in you. One little setback and, what? I never thought of you as a quitter.”

  That stung. “You’re the second person to accuse me of that this week. I didn’t like it any better the first time.”

  “So then, do something about it.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t had my week, or my life.”

  “Why do you do that? You push me away anytime the talk gets personal.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”

  “About Glover.” Jarius’s generous mouth crimped in the middle. “You seem to have a thing for men in trouble. First the Frenchman junkie and now a suicide risk.”

  She slanted him a hostile glance. “Do you really want to compare our private lives?”

  “At least my business wasn’t on every “Extra”-type tabloid program for a week. But seriously, Carly. There’s nothing you can do about Glover for a while. Maybe months. Trials take their own time.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “That’s what they all say.” He shot her a jackpot smile. “I’m a cop. That makes me a cynical bastard. Stay away from Glover.”

  “Now you sound like him.”

  “Glover told you that? Huh. Maybe’s he got some sense after all. He didn’t do you any favors by getting all up in your life.”

  “What makes you think…?”

  “Like I always say, you can’t play a playa. He’s got you tied up in knots. Bet you even think you’re in love.”

  She sighed, stretching her legs out before her. “Did you ever meet someone and you think, ‘This is important. Big. Huge. Got to go with it’?”

  “All the time. It’s usually the booty that speaks to me.”

  Carly laughed. “You’re impossible.”

  “Maybe. But I see life for what it is. The booty is a powerful thing.”

  “And when that’s not enough?”

  “Girl, you’re scaring me. Look your cousin Jarius in the eye and hear me good. You can’t be in love with a man you met three days ago. You might be sexed up, jammed up, and cross-eyed crazy about what’s in the man’s shorts, but you can’t be in love.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why do I think you’re not listening to me?”

  “Can you drop me off at my apartment?”

  “So you can run the gauntlet of reporters?”

  “No, so I can get on with my life. All the merchandise I was able to salvage is covering nearly every surface in the space. I need to make calls to the craftswomen and see what we can save.”

  When he had dropped her off, Carly quickly made her way up to her apartment, simply ignoring the eager young man slouching in the hallway. “I’m calling security about you,” she called over her shoulder as she entered her door and then slammed it in the guy’s face.

  Two hours later, she had made contact with all her clients who lived within a hundred miles and made arrangements for them to come into town on Thursday for a meeting. Only Indija refused to say she’d be there.

  And just maybe she’d been hasty about asking to be let out of her lease. Jarius was right. She shouldn’t give up without a fight. She picked up the phone and called Mr. Wise.

  “Well, now, I was already showing the space to another client.” Wise sounded smug about his new deal. “The cupcake baker thinks she could make good use of the extra space in that corner shop. She’s willing to pay more for the space, too.”

  Carly was ready. “Since you haven’t signed any agreement and I certainly haven’t, we still have an active contract, Mr. Wise. You can’t legally negotiate for another tenant. You really don’t want me down at the better business bureau complaining about shady tactics by Wise Developers by negating my lease. And me, the heroine of today’s page one. Without Flawless to keep me busy, I’ll have plenty of time to complain—every place I can think of.”

  “You want to come work for me? I could use a negotiator like you.”

  “We’ll just reinstate our present agreement, providing you start professionally monitoring your security cameras at my location. Think of it this way, it’ll be cheaper than what you’d have had to pay my relatives if I were dead. Did I mention my aunt’s a local judge?”

  “Sure, sure, whatever. Only don’t do me any more favors. I can’t afford them.” He took a deep breath. “And about the fire. I’m sorry that happened to you. But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “The authorities asked me not to speak to anyone until they had done their investigations.”

  “From the sound of it, you risked your life for the last person who’d be grateful.”

  “There was the dog.” Carly hung up before he could reply. For a moment she sat staring out her window, wondering how Noah was. He was free, so he was okay. Just the thought of him sitting in a cell made her stomach queasy.

  She would stay away from him, because that was what was best for him at the moment. This was no time for her to make his life harder. The only way she could help was to get on with her life so she didn’t worry. Too much.

  But not contacting Noah wasn’t the same as not thinking about him. Hardly a moment went by without Carly remembering a moment or two of the last time they’d been together.

  Their love making had been interrupted by a particularly close lightning strike that made the hair on both their arms and heads stand on end. It must have happened to Harley, too, because he howled in sudden surprise, then ran in circles until Noah subdued him.

  Her mouth softened in a smile, remembering Noah’s scramble to pull up jeans and leap off the truck bed at the same time. They were getting rained on by the time he turned to the truck cab, with Harley in tow.

  Strange. She’d never thought anything in her life could make fodder for lyrics for of a country and western song. But last night there’d been the guy, the sky, the truck, and the dog. It didn’t get much more Texas than that. No longnecks needed.

  She looked around her apartment, overloaded with items from Flawless. She needed to find a place for her vendors’ meeting. Churches and community centers usually had space for rent. And then she needed to hit Costco for lots of plastic bins in which to store things until then.

  * * *

  It was in the papers. And all over the local news channels. He’d bought the paper, which he rarely did, and recorded all the local channels at the same time to make certain he didn’t miss a single word about Noah Glover being arrested. This was better than the Cowboys winning the Super Bowl. This was payback. It felt better than sex.

  Now he knew why Noah hadn’t died in the fire. He hadn’t fucked up after all. Pure bad luck had screwed up his plan. And that hot chick.

  There it was in print. The owner of the women’s boutique Flawless had been in her store and heard something that prompted her to call 911.

  Carly Harrington-Reese. She had not only been on the premises that night, she’d saved Glover’s life.

  He’d read all about her online this morning. Looked at her nasty pics again too. He remembered pilfering the catalogues of scantily clad women that had come in the mail for his mom when he was in junior high. Those women striking provocative poses were the closest thing to porn he could get his hands on. Whacking off to them was his first real thrill.

  Carly could have and probably had had any man she ever wanted. Famous men. Actors and shit. But it was well known that uptown women liked to go slumming. Glover must have been fucking her crossways. That’s why they were sneaking around together.

  But Glover had been eliminated.

  He sat back with a silly grin on his face, flicking his lighter up and closed, entranced by the flame.

  Carly must be a total freak, like the women in the porn he preferred. Darlene could never be like that. For all her love of liquor a
nd a little weed, she stopped him whenever he wanted to try something different. Said she wasn’t no whore.

  He’d bet Carly slept in satin sheets.

  He was getting a hard-on. But not now. Now he had to be cool. But soon, fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I can salvage most of the feather headbands and collars.” Joi Caruthers had spread out her feather creations on one of the newspaper-covered banquet tables set up in the church basement. “They’ll need to be refluffed and restrung on dry leather.”

  Carly looked up from where she was seated at the table, her fingers posed over her laptop keyboard. “How soon can you deliver two dozen?”

  “Let’s see.” Joi nervously pushed a long strip of straight dirty-blonde hair back from her plump pleasant face. “I’m busy with an order for a dance troop over in Dallas. But Spirit and her friends are about to be on spring break. I could maybe get them to help.”

  “That would be great. I’ll try to think of some way to reward them if they do a good fast job.” Carly smiled encouragingly at her client. “Thank you, Joi.”

  Joi was very talented but she was also painfully shy. It wasn’t just the wheelchair that confined her spirit. Something long ago had stamped “damaged goods” on her features. A single mother, she made and sold whatever she could think of to keep a trailer around her and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Spirit.

  Carly tapped down the empathy welling up. Joi didn’t need sympathy. She needed a livelihood.

  Carly glanced over to where several of the other women who’d made it to the meeting were still sorting and gathering their crafts from the plastic bins. Most of them had never met. So far, the meeting wasn’t going well. They seemed uncertain of why they were there, tentative, and wary of one another. Pots of coffee and mounds of sugary donuts hadn’t made a dent in the frosty atmosphere. Her artists weren’t gelling.

  Two women kept glancing at Carly as they rummaged and murmured back and forth. Those sounds weren’t encouraging. So far, only eight of the fifteen craft persons who’d said they could make it had arrived. If anyone else came, they’d be almost an hour late.

  Footsteps and raucous laughter sounded in the hall a few seconds before the double doors to the church basement were shoved open. Through them came five young women dressed in painted-on leggings or butt-skimming shorts, hair in various lengths and shades and architectural shapes, and enough jewelry to choke a zoo’s worth of elephants. They were dressed for maximum effect and trailing lots of attitude. Indija had arrived, entourage in tow.

  Carly sighed and stood up as they approached. She recognized insecurity masquerading as overwhelming force. She just wasn’t certain how to defuse either. If the look on Indija’s face was any indication, that might not be possible.

  Carly didn’t get to speak before Indija interrupted, her black eyes bright with mischief. “What you got going on here? I thought you were running a business.” She flicked her gaze around the room to include everyone. “Looks like a rummage sale up in here.”

  Carly sighed. Indija was throwing shade. “Glad you’re here, Indija.” Sort of.

  “This is Kamiska.” Indija pointed a stiletto-like gold fingernail at the young woman to her right. “She’s at the art institute, too. Designs clothes and does nail art.”

  Kamiska held up a hand of manicured nails. They were stunning, a French manicure using black polish with silver tips. Then she held up her other hand where the colors had been reversed. “Can’t sell that in your shop.”

  “But it’s gorgeous work,” Carly answered, impressed. “Do you work in a salon? I’d love to come by.”

  Kamiska rolled a shoulder in irritation. “I only do custom work.”

  Indija took the moment to move in closer to Joi, as if sensing a weakness. Carly held her position but readied herself to stop a bully.

  Indija gazed over Joi’s shoulder. “That’s pretty.” She pointed at a feather necklace. “But can you do something street?”

  Joi looked from Indija to Carly, her expression puzzled. ‘I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “This is faux Native American rip-off Boho chic. Pretty but weak.”

  Joi jerked as if she’d been struck, but Indija didn’t seem to notice. She went on speaking.

  “But you got potential.” Indija grabbed up a necklace to which long iridescent black and purple feathers had been attached, creating a fringelike bib. “You made this?”

  Joi nodded but pushed deeper into her chair as if expecting another assault.

  Indija held it up and studied it. “Reminds me of grackle feathers. Those rackety birds are everywhere you look in the summer. Loud, rude, struttin’ around in parking lots and people’s yards like they own it all. Crap that white mess all over your car and don’t care. That’s street.”

  Joi smiled tentatively. “So my necklace is street?”

  “Not yet. But watch this.”

  Indija opened the necklace, but instead of putting it around her neck, she whipped it behind her and pulled it around her waist so that the feathers trailed down over her skimpy shorts. She began strutting around, the bounce of her rear making the feathers dance with her movements.

  The other artists who’d come closer to watch the exchange laughed and clapped. Indija’s friends were more vocal.

  “Now I know that’s right.”

  “That’s so sexy.”

  Indija struck a pose near Joi. “You got to sell your merchandise. Pretty isn’t enough. I’d name your line ‘Tail Feathers.’ This baby should be ‘Street Grackle.’”

  “Wait ’til I hit the club wearing one of those.” Kamiska stood up and shook her generous behind. “Talk about shaking a tail feather. I’ll need an extra large, all right?”

  Another of Indija’s girl pack stepped up. “Could you do a necklace—Oh! I know what you should call them. Buttlaces. I want a buttlace made of blue jay feathers. Blue jays are the original gangsters at my mother’s bird feeders. Definitely street.”

  Joi looked stricken. “I’m sorry but I can’t do blue jay feathers. They’re protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. So are cardinals and grackles and almost every other local bird, except mallard ducks. Even if I found the feathers, I’d be in trouble if I used or tried to sell them.”

  Indija frowned at Joi. “Then where do you get your feathers?”

  Joi paled at the sound of Indija’s sharp tone. “I buy legally on line, when I can afford it. Most times, I search them out. My uncle Bernie and his friends raise domesticated chickens for show at stock shows. Their feathers are legal. Some have gorgeous plumage.” She pointed to the necklace Indija still wore around her waist. “Those are from his Black Breasted Red Phoenix Rooster. Of course, I got to clean them good. Birds carry parasites such as mites and lice and diseases, too.”

  “Eeek!” Kamiska dropped the necklace she’d been admiring and stepped back.

  “It’s okay. I work them real good. First with mothballs and then soak them in a fifty/fifty mixture of Isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. Then I wash and dry them with a hair dryer.”

  “Girl, your face is pink. Bet that’s the most words you spoke all week.” Indija offered her a small smile as Joi went scarlet.

  “My granddaddy raises pheasants for restaurants over by Sherman.” One of the women who’d collected her batik purses approached Joi. “I could get you feathers.”

  “Me too.” Kamiska leaned down next to Joi. “My cousin volunteers part-time in the bird area at the zoo. She’s always bringing home something weird, an ostrich or a parrot feather. She says they molt. Anyway, if you could get my buttlace ready by Saturday, I’ll supply you regularly with all sorts of exotic feathers.”

  Joi beamed. “I’ll have to check on which ones I can legally own. But that would be nice.”

  Carly sat back with a big smile as she listened to her artists toss around other ideas for Joi’s next collection.

  One hour, two empty coffee urns, and several empty donuts boxes later, there w
ere no strangers among the group of local artists. They were bartering and sharing expertise. Even better, three women had volunteered to help Carly repaint and paper Flawless.

  Carly caught up with Indija as she was about to leave. “Got a minute?”

  Indija looked at her friends. “Hit you later.”

  When they were alone, Carly put on her all-business face. “You’ve got a rare creative gift, Indija. You look at one thing and see the possibilities of turning it into something else. But do you have to jackhammer your ideas into people?”

  Indija rolled her eyes. “Made them listen.”

  “Perhaps. I’d like to offer you a job, as my creative assistant.” Carly held up a hand. “But I’m not convinced you can handle it.”

  “What do you mean? I just gave a person work. That Joi person was about to bolt and never come back.”

  “You intimidated her. And, for the record, you expanded Joi’s collection, not changed it. That’s the kind of imaginative thinking I can use from a creative director. But if you work for me, you’ll have to work with every personality type. Your job would be to help keep Flawless’s offerings unique by challenging our artists to continually be better than they already are.”

  “I can do that.”

  “But will they let you? You know how you feel when someone disses your work?” The face Indija made said it all. “Pull that feeling out before you sit down at the table with whomever you’re working with from now on.”

  Indija shrugged carelessly, but Carly could see her already thinking of things she might do. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. You can’t be late. Ever. I don’t do diva. Been one and am so over it. If you’re late even one time, I’ll find someone else.”

  Indija’s mouth twisted. “You said my talent is rare.”

  “Not rare enough for me to deal with cheap grief from you. Don’t test me. I don’t want to lose you. And trust me, you don’t want to lose me. Meet me at Flawless at nine a.m. tomorrow.”

  Indija struck an impatient pose. “You really save a man from a fire?”

  Carly folded her arms and cocked a hip, giving attitude to attitude. “I really did. Is there anything else important you want to talk about?”