Rhythm

by Gem Sivad

  On the other hand, if I could just keep my mouth shut and my seat planted on the chair, I’d get paid. Except for the fact I enjoyed the contracted work—dancing—it didn’t matter whether my escort appeared or not. I’d still earn enough to replace the hardware on my sink without suffering trampled feet in the process.

  We sat at one of the tables ringing the wooden dance floor. The dance-a-thon had been organized to raise money for a local firefighter who’d sustained third degree burns in a recent fire.

  It seemed like a good cause. I hoped they collected a lot, but from the half-hearted participation on the floor, it didn’t look promising. Let’s just say there wasn’t any fancy stepping going on. Regardless of the background music, most of the participants, some old enough to probably need the support, leaned on each other.

  “…Gable just finished replacing my kitchen floor.”

  While I’d been drifting mindlessly, Gable had apparently left Harley-Jane on her own to talk to me. The mention of kitchens and floors caught my attention.

  “What kind of material did you use?”

  “Oak,” she answered and smiled big. “I love it. I’d planned to replace the old linoleum with laminate someday, but Gable nudged me toward the real wood. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Did he install it himself?” I have a house I’m working on. I swear, I strangled on the words, forcing myself to keep my lips shut. I yearned to swap remodeling horror stories.

  “No, while the guys were living there, they helped Gable reroof my barn and put in the kitchen floor.”

  “You own a barn?” My covet gene went into overdrive, and I couldn’t keep quiet a minute longer.

  “My husband and I bought our farm and dreamed.” She paused for a moment, and I could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “That’s all we had time to do before he got sick and died.”

  Nooooo… Janie had just jumped into personal history land, a place I did not intend to go. On the other hand, the barn and house…

  “So, you’re finishing it by yourself?”

  Her sad expression changed to a grin. “Not any more. Gable’s sister is my neighbor, and my brother is a firefighter who knows Gable because he works for Smoke, Inc.”

  While I attempted to sort it out, she explained. “We’ve known each other a while, but we only got together as a couple at the first of the year. I saw a murder, got stranded during the big snow with Gable in the old Smoke, Inc. building. The murderer, a cop I might add, tried to kill me and burned the building to the ground during his attempt.”

  Huh. I’d thought my life exciting. Go figure. I really wanted to know her. Impulsively, I leaned forward.

  “My name’s Holly,” I told her. “Holly Smith.” Her eyebrows went up on the Smith. “For real, my name is Holly Smith, but I’d just as soon keep it between you and me.” At her puzzled expression, I kept talking. “Since I’m already disguised as Marilyn Monroe, I’d rather remain anonymous to the world. I don’t work for the escort agency. The owner didn’t have anyone who knows how to dance. Her niece, my best friend, asked me to stand in for a real escort because I can dance.”

  Janie grinned and nodded as Gable returned to the table. He kissed Harley-Jane’s forehead before he took his seat, again. She resumed her story as if I hadn’t interrupted.

  “The crew had been living there, at the old building. Gable had to keep the furnace going, and even then, the building stayed cold.”

  He slid his arm around her and looked smug. “Got you where I wanted you, just the same.”

  “Yes, you did. And it worked out well for everyone when the Inferno burned down, and your crew moved to my farm.”

  “Crew sounds like a lot of men. How many?”

  “Eight men, two months. They were gone a lot of the time, but when they were there, they made repairs.” She beamed happily and added, “And they paid rent.”

  It’s wrong to be jealous, but damn. “Wow.” I had no intentions of being drawn into a discussion of Smoke, Inc. I knew nothing about the company and suddenly wanted to know everything. Nope. I reined in my curiosity and went back to safe topics like remodeling projects.

  “I live in the worst house on the best block I could afford and dream about the day it will be the best house in the area and I can sell the money pit.” I gave her my disgruntled look, which she mirrored and nodded her head.

  Honestly though, I’d never sell my house. But being careful of who knew my business, and a lot superstitious, I never openly loved it. Instead, I poured my heart, soul, and cash into it and called it a money pit.

  “I don’t have a crew of eight men making repairs. I’m learning as I go. Kind of a do-it-yourself girl.” That was an understatement. “Parts are cheap, but labor costs the earth. I’ve been reading up on electrical wiring, building construction, plumbing, and carpentry.” So far, my projects had been defined by what I could do now, not what I wanted to do.

  “Electric isn’t something you should play around with,” he drawled. He looked ready to lecture me on safety issues, and I forestalled his advice by agreeing. Electric I left alone.

  “Janie says you installed an oak floor. What did you use to cut the planks?” I didn’t have a saw and knew I’d have to buy one eventually.

  “Miter.” He warmed to the subject and took out a pencil. I gave him some dimensions and he diagrammed the floor showing me how to calculate how many cartons of material I’d need for my kitchen. We’d found common ground and spent the next forty-five minutes discussing upgrades.

  As the time approached 8:00, I decided to give my absent dance partner until the exact top of the hour. Then I’d leave and go to the sports bar where I’d spend the rest of my Friday night waiting tables for steady tips.

  I tapped my foot to the beat as the rhythm danced in my veins. A talented DJ provided a steady background of rock and roll music from the forties, fifties, and sixties. On the dance floor, two enthusiastic couples bumped and gyrated to the sounds of The Mystics.

  The rules seemed simple. Couples clocked on and danced until they couldn’t dance any longer. For every hour completed, the participants earned money from pledgees they’d solicited.

  I’d decided I didn’t want to be stood-up. If I could keep him dancing long enough, I could earn a sink and the hardware to hook it up. I’m no plumber, of course, but Googling directions had served most of my projects, so far.

  I grinned inside at the compelling reason I was here. Kitchen upgrade. My date’s reason seemed sad. Evidently, he had enough influence to earn high dollar pledges, but he didn’t have enough charm to find a dance partner.

  I didn’t waste too much time feeling sorry for him. He could afford Maxine’s exorbitant fees, and his need for a dance partner would underwrite the cost of my bronze, oil-rubbed, Kohler faucet.

  I didn’t doubt I could fulfill his expectations if he ever arrived. I could dance to two pennies bouncing on the floor. My hips shifted impatiently. I’d given up holding my shoulders still. Every musical note sent a pulse of excitement rushing through my bones.

  I looked at the clock and automatically reached for Roger’s tiny evening purse containing cab fare and my cell phone.

  Darn it. I groused to myself. I’d borrowed the evening bag from my other best friend, Dr. Roger Valentine, City College Professor by day and Regina, The Comedy Zone’s opening act every Friday night. The phone I could replace, the vintage clutch, probably not. I sighed.

  My dance partner had evidently decided to be a no-show. Too bad for the lost revenue. Disapproval warred with relief. I wouldn’t need Megan’s final instructions.

  “God knows I want you to have sex, Holly, but if you do, make sure you clock off first. You never know, he could be vice. It’s best to skip naughty behavior when you’re escorting for Aunt Maxine.”

  “Vice?” She’d laid her advice on me on the way out the door, absolutely insuring there would be no sex on the job.

  Unfortunately, my best friend’s advice hadn’t included instructions abou
t being stood-up. I didn’t know if Megan’s Aunt Maxine would suffer repercussions if I left, but I feared we were about to find out. Patience wasn’t my strong suit. If I couldn’t dance, I wanted to get away from the sounds driving me into jitter-bugging on the seat of my chair.

  Roger had examined his Regina outfits and produced Marilyn Monroe without me having to rent a thing. Maxine via Megan had confirmed he’d be reimbursed for the costume. I smoothed the material of my dress. It was a far cry from my usual khakis and turtleneck.

  It was the bomb and I loved it. It had a floaty bell skirt with a bodice covering my breasts and tying behind my neck. The white halter framed my chest and my abundant bust rested on a shelf-bra. It showed too much of everything, so over his protests, I’d searched Roger’s closet, supplementing the outfit with a white satin, capped-sleeved bolero jacket to cover my problem area.

  Other than that, the dress clung to my frame, flowing smoothly from shoulder to waist before flaring out in a bouncy skirt. I suffered inside the iconic outfit shown in most of the pictures of the Hollywood sex bomb. Neither the dress nor the shoes were comfortable. Especially not the shoes.

  But aside from the halter barely covering my breasts, the cut of the dress accented my waist, making it appear narrow. From there it flared out, defining my hips in a totally sexy way. Under the skirt, I was sexy too. I’d have pulled on a pair of pantyhose, but Roger wouldn’t allow it.

  Instead, I wore a thong, a garter belt, and my long legs were encased in silk stockings. Dark seams marched up the back of my legs, and according to Roger, tempted even his gaze to climb higher.

  My meandering thoughts were abandoned to ogle a new arrival. Few men were tall enough to impress me. I salivated along with every other woman in the room as this specimen mopped snow from his brow.

  He was both tall and big. Even though he wore a heavy, finger-tip length outer coat, I could see he had the physique of a linebacker—wide shoulders and muscular thighs. Recognizing a prime male when I saw one, drool pooled in my mouth and my stomach muscles clenched.

  He shrugged out of his coat, stepped further into the light, and scanned the room. I felt a tingle of shock when Gable stood and waved his cowboy hat in the air. I looked closer.

  Whoa. I know him. Why I remembered him, I couldn’t say, but I had no doubt. The man who’d kept me waiting for over an hour was none other than the grump from the elevator in Megan’s building.

  Chapter Three

  Marty

  After the intense heat of the California fire I’d left behind, the fierce Pittsburgh cold revived my flagging energy. Three days earlier I parachuted with the rest of the crew into an inferno on the other side of the country. Between then and now, we’d managed to cut, burn, and beat a firebreak into existence before being relieved by local hotshot crews.

  Half way home, Elaine had called on the SAT-phone reminding me of the damned dance-a-thon commitment I’d made. As soon as we’d landed earlier, I’d cleaned up, driven across town, parked, and made it to the door by the DJ’s stage without falling down. But, shit, I was tired. Maybe Maxine’s girl will be a no-show and I can go home.

  I scanned the tables lining the dance floor and spotted Gable immediately. And Marilyn.

  Well I’ll be damned. Cowboy did good. My evening took a turn for the better when I saw my dance partner. As ordered, the escort wore a Marilyn Monroe costume and looked like the actress in the flesh.

  Surprised, I locked gazes with the blonde at the table. When I saw her deer-in-the-headlight expression, I started moving fast since it appeared Miss Marilyn was considering flight. I figured my ugly mug scared her, but tough shit.

  Instead of walking the parameter of the room, I cut through the dancing couples, intent on getting to the table before she decided to run. More than one man thumped me on the back during my journey. Good. It was the point of the evening. I said my hellos and pumped hands on the way through, doing my bit for the company.

  Good for business. Kit, my late wife, had always claimed public relations as our reason for going to events. The truth was, she’d loved mixing it up with people. And I loved watching her. Since she’d been gone, usually I sent a check and stayed home. If I did show up it was a business process without personal pleasure.

  Tonight, would be no different. The people who controlled budgets would see me here and remember Smoke, Inc. had attended and helped the community. I’d dance a couple of songs with the glamour star and then leave.

  I arrived at the table and wasted no time, ditching my overcoat, and then my suit jacket. I enjoyed her startled look. Okay maybe the pinstriped pink shirt was over the top, but I kind of liked the color. I draped the suit coat over the back of a chair, then flexed my back and shoulder muscles, testing the fit of the shirt. I didn’t want it constricting my movement.

  I didn’t eye her directly, but I gave her a good once over just the same. Marilyn looked to be an armful. No chance I’d get her confused with Kit who’d been as light and airy as a hummingbird in my hand. When we’d danced, it had been a sight to behold.

  “Elaine did you up proud,” Cowboy drawled, calling my attention back to the now.

  “Yep,” I agreed and snapped the white suspenders clipped to the front-pleated gray flannel pants. On my feet, no joke, I wore gray suede shoes. At least, they weren’t blue. I’d drawn the line there when she called me in California before she ordered the clothes.

  “You’ll be that mob boss, Sam something or other and your dance partner will be Marilyn Monroe.” Elaine got excited about shit like that. She probably didn’t get to dress up dolls enough when she was a kid. Anyway, she got a kick out of ordering my costume and I’d promised to get a couple of pictures before the end of the night.

  So much for thinking my escort might take flight. My dance partner didn’t wait for introductions. She stood up, shoved her hand at me, and said, “Marilyn Monroe, nice to meet you. Let’s dance.”

  Holly

  Being tall myself, I had the unusual experience of tilting my head to see my dance partner’s face.

  Sun lines marked his wide forehead, a shaggy lock of hair dangled above unruly brows, and dark eyes met my gaze as he frowned down at me. Apparently, his expression never changed. I resisted the urge to tidy him, as he removed his suit jacket and flexed his arm, showing off bulging pecs. Oh yeah, macho man in pink.

  Did I mention his height? At five feet eleven barefoot, I didn’t often gaze up at anyone. At six feet three in the strappy four-inch silver heels Roger had insisted I wear, it should have been even less likely. And yet, there he was, looming above me, my own personal dancing bear.

  Without a word of greeting, he led me to the official starter table and registered.

  “Good to see you Marty.” The guy at the table beamed at him and barely looked at me, which was good.

  Okay, I can do this. I gritted my teeth and scrunched my toes inside barely-there sandals, wincing as I surveyed my partner’s humongous gray suede shoes.

  “At least fourteens,” I muttered, staring at the intimidating foot gear.

  “Fifteens,” he grunted without looking at me. “Wide.”

  I was saved from further embarrassing conversation when the DJ announced us.

  “Jones and partner, Team One for Smoke, Inc.” Though the audience was meager, a smattering of applause and a few cheers from the balcony greeted us. It surprised me. He had fans.

  Gable and Harley-Jane-soon-to-be-Matthews followed behind us, registered, and were announced as Smoke, Inc. Team Two.

  “Let’s get this show on the road.” My dance partner frowned down at me as if I’d kept him waiting. His scowl deepened as he reached for me. “I’m Marty Jones.”

  Couples surrounded us on the dance floor. Whether I was ready or not, Marty snagged my hand and deftly swung me into the Beatles singing Twist and Shout.

  “I’ve been ready,” I answered, tartly, taking control. My partners until now had been shorter than me so I always navigated. I didn’t expec
t to steer him around, but I needed time to ease into the subordinate dancing position since it wasn’t my usual. Marty didn’t agree.

  “I lead. I’m boss. Understand?”

  Really? His grunted declaration made me defiant. “I said I’d dance. I didn’t say I’d take orders.”

  Before he could answer, I danced away, emphasizing my hip movement as I gazed at him over my shoulder.

  “Get back here,” he demanded, and crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring at me like a petulant child.

  I grinned at him over my shoulder, shrugged, and gave the audience an exaggerated Marilyn wink. Laughter greeted my antics, and I glanced back at him. I don’t know if he was playing along or remembered me from the elevator, but his expression changed to a frown as he stared at my butt.

  I strongly doubted he’d recognize me from the elevator. It had been a four-floor ride and he’d never seen my face, only my backside which wasn’t memorable. On the other hand, I’d seen his frown and never forgotten it.

  While I mulled it over, I waved my index finger at him, Naughty, naughty, scolding him as I danced backwards, away. Frankly, I considered giving him a middle finger salute. Someone in the balcony hooted at my antics which of course encouraged my insanity. I hoped my Marilyn lashes wouldn’t stick together as I batted them at him.

  Who knew a costume would be so liberating? Little Richard screamed as Jerry Lee Lewis hammered out Good Golly Miss Molly, and I totally owned Marilyn.

  Honestly, prior to this moment, I’d always maintained a low-key, lips-zipped profile. But the laughter and applause from the audience was intoxicating. I hammed it up. And, if you discounted all the frowns, Marty Jones was hot.

  “Did you decide to quit pouting?” I taunted when someone blew a whistle and Marty went into dance mode again. His expression was grim as he approached, but I was pretty sure I detected a smirk trying to break loose from his outrage.