Rhythm

by Gem Sivad

  I appreciated loyalty, and it was clear I wasn’t getting more info from the escort agency owner.

  On my way back upstairs I studied the card, recognizing the name. I didn’t like the idea of competing with other men for her attention. I remembered bending her over my arm during the dance and watching her eyes light up in delight. Sort of how they’d lit up when she’d come. I didn’t want anyone else making her eyes light up like that.

  I’d have to go to the sports bar and convince her I would make a better client than anyone else she’d meet. I’d offer her… My thoughts dwindled to a close. I lived in my office.

  Shit. I’d have to set her up in a place. I’d start looking. First though, I had to deal with Elaine.

  “Well?” My secretary hovered just inside my office door when I returned. I knew from experience that she wouldn’t leave until she’d extracted every drop of information to be had.

  “She quit working for Maxine, Elaine.”

  “Are we speaking of the Baby Doll escort woman who just left the terrorist note?”

  “She’s not a terrorist and evidently she’s not one of Maxine’s escorts any longer, either. I think her real name is Holly.” I hated to admit I wasn’t even sure of that. “She doesn’t want to dance with me again.”

  “I saw the two of you on the news. You were smiling. I drove downtown just so I could watch you in person. You were both smiling. Persuade her.”

  “The night didn’t end well.”

  “Well enough,” she snorted. “I saw the security tapes before you wiped them.”

  What could I say? Elaine was Elaine.

  Holly

  As degrees go, mine proved my endurance if nothing else. If I could have decided on a major, I’d have finished sooner. As it was, it had taken me six and a half years, and the threat of my advisor saying, “You’re close to losing everything you’ve earned. You’ve got to declare a major and get on with things.”

  I hated endings. I liked school. Anyway, it had been fun while it lasted. I’d sampled subject areas until I had an enormous number of hours and an impressive student loan with no degree in sight.

  Finally, my advisor assembled my smorgasbord of learning into a General Studies degree.

  “This doesn’t certify you’re qualified to do anything. But it will get you through a few doors. You’ll have to take it from there.”

  The degree had gotten me through the substitute teacher door, where, apparently, a degree was a degree.

  I always applied the money I made from teaching gigs to my student loan. But if that was all I fed the degree, it would never get paid off. Nor would my kitchen upgrade-house revitalization project continue.

  Despite the fact I enjoyed being in a classroom full of hormonal, smart-ass kids, I didn’t qualify for full time teaching, nor did I want a permanent spot any way.

  I considered myself a mercenary—selling my skills to the highest bidder. I paid my own bills, managed my own time, and I intended to keep it that way.

  I had a plan. Live cheap. Work hard. Fix up my house. And maybe someday have a kid, or go back to school to learn something else. My future plans seemed pretty vague mostly centering around paying off my student loan.

  Weather issues—ice, snow, sleet, repeat for more of the same—had closed public schools most of the week. I’d had my warehouse night job and nothing else to occupy my time other than priming the kitchen cupboards. I tried turning the music on for company but found myself dancing instead of sanding every time. Worse, I practiced Marty moves from the dance-a-thon—half wishing I’d get to use them again.

  Knowing that I could do it all over again was tempting. Too many times I almost called Maxine to volunteer for dance duty. But, I didn’t. Meeting Marty again would lead no place I wanted to go.

  Thursday, I wiped down the cupboards prepping them for the first coat of finish. I thought I could get away with varnishing them if I opened the oven door to keep the kitchen warm enough to enhance the drying time.

  Friday, I set aside my project plans to substitute teach. It was blustery cold, most of the kids had stayed home, and that afternoon, seven students and I watched the hands of the clock creep toward freedom.

  The bell finally rang, and my students departed. I bundled myself into cold weather clothes, stuck my earbuds in, and boogied out the door. Thank God it was Friday.

  I went home, and showered, but skipped eating when my stomach cringed at the contents of my refrigerator.

  Nevertheless, I was in a pretty good mood when I started out for work that night. My happy frame of mind slipped a bit when I arrived and discovered my B&B tee gone from my locker.

  I checked with the other servers to see if they’d found my missing gear, but no one knew a thing. I’d written my name in permanent marker inside the neck, but without checking shirts already on the servers, I wasn’t getting mine back.

  “I must have taken it home to wash,” I told Ted, the manager. But I couldn’t remember doing that. Anyway, I had to buy another one before I could clock on.

  Marty

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind.” I stared out the window at the street below and muttered to myself. I wanted to see her again. No explanations, no apologies. I wanted to track her down and arrange another dance session with her. At least.

  I’m not crazy. Crazy is being so bored and depressed I considered choking to death. Geez.

  Sane was finding my dance partner. She’d pissed me off, made me laugh, fucked me unconscious, and hadn’t stolen my wallet on her way out the door.

  “Since you can’t seem to connect with your escort through a third party, why don’t you approach her yourself?” It was Elaine’s idea.

  Yeah, I’d blame my crazy behavior on Elaine. I didn’t bar hop. Not since Kit, anyway. But there were plenty of crew members who did. I had no trouble rounding up drinking buddies for Friday night. If they thought my behavior odd, I didn’t care. I didn’t say why I was suddenly thirsty. And none but Jack Cahill gave a fuck, anyhow.

  “Tracked down Marilyn, didn’t ya?” When word got out about my outing, Jack didn’t let my unusual plans go unchallenged. Since he was my father-in-law, I answered.

  “Maybe. You got a problem with that?”

  “Nope. Wondered when you were gonna get it out, again.”

  “I’m not…” The denial died on my lips and I let it lay. I was. Hell-and-damnation, I sure was. I was looking to hook up with Marilyn, again. Jesus. Just thinking of her had me hard. I wanted her back under me and this time I’d fucking stay awake.

  Jack had once been my boss. He’d hired me when I was fourteen. I was a big guy, and lied about my age when I applied for my first oilrig job. Three years later, I’d married Kit, Jack’s thirty-four-year-old daughter. Jack and I had kept right on working side by side.

  We’d worked together for so long that no one remembered or cared who was boss. We were friends. Jack always worked at something and had an opinion about everything. He’d now appointed himself my romance coach.

  “What kind of clothes you wearin’?”

  “What?” What kind of a dumb-ass question was that? “Whatever I have on at the end of work, Friday. Leaving at six.” I had it all planned. I’d find her fast and get her out of there early.

  “Not to be disrespectful, but a suit and pants ain’t gonna cut it at a sports bar. You’re gonna be competin’ with young studs. You need to change into what they call casual before we go.”

  We? Jesus.

  By Friday, Jack had announced the dress code. At six that night, Jack, Steve Deakins, Ross McKenzie, Teague Logan, and Gable Matthews all went to the bar dressed in jeans, rugged man boots, Henley’s and leather jackets. So did I.

  “We look like fucking clones,” I growled playfully, not really caring. I felt loose, ready for anything. When we arrived at Balls & Bones, I did a perimeter scan and left the men standing out front.

  “Best to know ahead of time how to get out.” Just as a precaution, I always checked o
ut the exits before I entered a public building. This time, I paid attention to the alley, too, noting all the shadowy areas where a couple might fuck.

  Satisfied that Marilyn wasn’t already out plying her trade, I went back to the front sidewalk and found it empty. Jack and the rest of the men were already drinking beers when I walked inside.

  By six-thirty, the place was starting to fill, and my dance partner was nowhere in sight. There was nothing to see on TV, nobody wanted to talk shop, I could see no evidence of a dance floor, the beer sucked, and I wanted to leave. Maxine had steered me wrong. I flexed my hand, wishing I could wring her neck.

  “Your girl was in costume before. Maybe you just don’t recognize her out of Marilyn clothes.” Jack’s comment had the crew eyeing the female customers. I’d already checked them out. My dance partner wasn’t one of them. I spent three more hours sucking down beers and watching the front door. Twice, I went outside to check the alley, feeling like a fool, but still glad when I found it empty.

  Maybe the owners thought I was vice and had put the word out. The same nothing taking place inside the Balls & Bones was happening behind the building. By nine, I’d eaten more than my share of ribs and tossed back too many beers. After I’d made my second trip through the packed room to reach the john, I decided to quit searching.

  “I’m gone,” I told Jack as soon as I returned to the table. I was already standing with my arm in my jacket, ready to shrug it on, as I prepared to leave. Using the advantage of my height, I let my gaze roam over the packed bar one last time.

  After someone behind the bar switched the television program to an awards show, and cranked up the volume, the whole bar started jamming to the sound of Robin Thicke performing Blurred Lines.

  The rhythm sank into my bones, and a grin froze on my lips. Across the way, a server danced through the swinging doors separating kitchen from bar. Even khaki pants with a green apron bow dangling in back, couldn’t disguise the roll of those hips.

  Coat hanging off my arm, I moved toward the dancing server. “I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Six

  Holly

  The place was rocking, the booze was flowing, tips were huge, and I was going home. Crap.

  Gable Matthews, leading a posse of Neanderthals, had descended on the sports bar. Geez, it took two tall tables shoved together just to seat the five of them. Matthews didn’t recognize me, and that was good.

  I’d taken the food order and left another stool there when he said his boss was on his way. Boss covers a lot of territory but just in case, I traded tables with a server from the other side of the bar.

  It grieved my bank account mightily to watch the waiter deliver the first round of beers, wings, ribs, and onion rings and pocket the big tip. It had been a hardship giving the table away. But when my former dance partner, entered the front door and took his seat, I was glad I’d made the switch.

  I pulled on a ball cap, untucked my tee, glad that I’d bought and extra-large that hung loose over the white shirt I wore underneath, and served tables on the other side of the room.

  Still, by nine o’clock I was so exhausted from dodging Marty’s trips to the john, his forays to the bar where he walked up and down peering at the people on the stools, and his unexplained ventures outside, I was ready to call it quits for the night.

  I told Ted, doubling as the night’s bartender, I felt sick, which was true, and I was leaving. Relieved at that decision, I bounced through the kitchen doors to the music somebody turned on.

  “Hey, you can’t go back there.” Ted’s warning reached me too late for me to hide. The kitchen doors swung open behind me, and I knew without looking who lurked there.

  I turned and glared. “What?”

  “This guy giving you grief, Holly?” Ted along with two of his friends ready to play bouncer, followed Marty into the kitchen.

  Before I could say, “Yes, beat the crap out of him,” I recognized Gable Matthews as one of the men who’d followed Marty from the table. He crowded in the doorway behind Ted and his friends and brought more of Marty’s posse along.

  “Good to see you again, Marilyn,” Gable, wearing a cowboy hat and looking damned good in it, drawled.

  “That her?” The older guy next to him studied me hard.

  Much as I’d like to punch Marty in the nose, I had no desire to see his crew demolish the bar’s kitchen in a stupid brawl. Marty stepped closer to me. I stepped back.

  “Did you want something specific or just dogging me because you’ve lost your mind?” I tried to be civil. Really, I did.

  He crossed his arms and stared down at me. What? Was I supposed to be clairvoyant or something? I remained silent, letting my expression speak for me. If he got my “drop dead” message, he ignored it.

  “Maxine says you quit.”

  Ahh. It has a brain. “And?”

  “I need you for a dance.”

  “No.”

  “The company agreed to participate in another charity dance. I need to hire you again.”

  “So, I heard. And declined like I said. No thanks.”

  “Why?”

  By this time, Ted, along with most of the wait staff and Marty’s posse, all listened to the exchange.

  “Look, if you two need to work something out, cool. But not in the kitchen.” Realizing our drama was interfering with his business, Ted pointed at the door urging me to leave.

  Ted was right. I needed to go home, and Marty needed to tie a cement block around his neck and jump into a large body of water.

  “Sorry, Ted. I’ll collect my tips tomorrow night.” I set things in motion by retrieving my coat and purse from my locker. I intended to get out the back door while I still had a job.

  Marty followed.

  “Hey, you can’t go there,” Ted decreed. “No customers using the back exit.”

  Marty looked crestfallen. Really, he did. I’d never consciously used that word before, but if it meant downcast, deflated, dejected and disappointed, Marty was crestfallen. I felt bad for making him sad.

  “Fine, fine. Sorry Ted.” I ended up going out the front accompanied by the goon squad. Marty perked up noticeably as we left.

  Once we hit the street, I tucked my head into my collar, jammed my hands into my pockets, and peeled off to the left. I knew the area, something, I hoped, Marty didn’t; but of course, he did.

  “Church’s place is two streets over and four blocks down,” he volunteered. “We can talk there.”

  “We can talk here. What do you want?” I asked, plowing to a halt.

  “First, let’s find a place to sit and get to know each other.”

  While I mentally debated whether to be friendly or smack him upside the head, the dance partner from hell slid his hand through my arm and urged me across the intersection toward Church’s Bar & Grill.

  Megan had once described the bar as a place featuring peanut shells on the floor, the smell of old beer hanging in the air, and big men lumbering in and out morning noon and night.

  I glanced behind at the crew trailing us, then back at Marty. I’d already met the animals, and they appeared not too bright, but harmless.

  Marty

  Jesus. I hung onto her arm, feeling her tensed muscles through her sleeve. I wondered if she planned to swing at me. Kit would have kicked my ass by now. I knew it and cringed inside. Nevertheless, I hung onto my dance partner’s arm, ready to waltz her down the street if that’s what it took to get her into my arms again.

  I admit, I wasn’t making good sense even to myself.

  “Hungry?” I asked hopefully. Now that I’d found her and had my hands on her, I wanted to make sure I got things right this time.

  She turned her head, baring her teeth at me. Shit. My cock surged to full stance.

  Dear God, don’t let her notice and get scared off. I suddenly had humiliatingly limited control over my body. I lengthened my stride, guiding her toward a place where I could sit her down, talk to her, and get to know her. I might have ru
shed us a bit. She jerked on my arm and forced a slower pace. I risked a peek at her, not surprised she was scowling at me.

  “I’ve been on my feet all night and I don’t appreciate being dragged along as if we’re sprinting toward a finish line. Slow down or let loose. Come to think of it, just let go of me.” She shook off my hand and continued walking, but since it was toward Church’s, I stayed quiet and kept pace with her.

  Behind us, I heard someone snort. I turned my head and snarled, “Get lost.”

  “Not a fuckin’ chance in hell,” Ross answered. I could hear him laughing behind us.

  “Sorry about them,” I told her. “They don’t get out much.” No doubt it seemed weird to Holly that we were being escorted to our destination. I’d dragged the crew along and now felt like a class-A fool. Not soon enough, we arrived at Church’s. I could see it was quiet for a Friday night. I grabbed the end barstool for her and sat down beside her.

  “Evening, Marty.”

  “Church, this is…”

  Church polished the already clean area in front of her, waiting for me to finish.

  “Uh, this is a friend of mine.” I didn’t say more when I remembered I didn’t know her real name. It might be Holly. That’s what the sports bar’s bartender had called her. Evidently tired of waiting, Church introduced himself.

  “Name’s Church. I own this place and make the chili. It’s hot. Want a bowl?” He ignored me all together, and as he talked, he leaned over the counter, ostensibly to reach a spot on the bar.

  When he got close enough to smell her hair, he inhaled, and a big grin spread over his face. “Hmmm… green apples. Seems like I caught a whiff of that earlier in the week.”

  “I’ll have a beer.” I cut the conversation off before it could develop further. I’d discuss her Wednesday envelope-dropping, alarm-sounding visit when the time was right.

  Church took the hint and kept his mouth shut while he served her a bowl of chili, side order of crackers, and added two pickles. When she asked for a glass of milk, he poured that, too.