What had he been thinking of?
Her eyes were open, studying his face with a dark, smoky look he couldn’t begin to read.
“Hey,” he said huskily.
Her lips moved in and out, moistening themselves. He watched them, wondering how, after what had just happened to him, he could still be thinking about doing that for her, with his own tongue.
“Hey yourself.” Her gaze slid past him. “Sounds like the storm’s past.”
He made a soft, rueful sound. “Think it went by a few minutes ago.”
Her lips twisted as she pulled her fingers from his and covered her eyes with her hand. “I was afraid of that. How much noise did we make?”
“Nobody over there to hear except Bubba,” Troy said, nodding toward the head of the bed and the wall beyond. He eased himself to one side, propping his weight on one elbow. “Besides, I expect that’s why they call it the Moanin’ Springs Motel, don’t you?”
She gave her special snort of laughter. Troy grinned and leaned down, limiting himself to one quick, hard kiss, one he figured was ambiguous enough that she could take it just about any way she wanted to. Then he gently separated himself from her and headed for the bathroom.
Charly got herself raised up on her elbows just in time to catch a glimpse of his sculpted back and rock-hard buttocks before the door closed, blocking them from view. For a few more minutes she stayed right there, while her heart slowed its hammering and her body awoke to the reality of aches and throbbings in a dozen places, and her lips tingled with the memory of that last kiss. Then she slowly sat up, peeled back the thin covers and crawled between the tightly tucked motel sheets.
She lay in the quiet, listening to the rain drip from the eaves outside, her mind a blessed blankness. She didn’t think about the pile of sodden, dirty clothes lying in the middle of the threadbare carpet, or where her suitcases full of clean ones might be or what she was going to do about all of that tomorrow. She was simply too numb and too tired. Too tired to think about the stranger in the bathroom.
Troy. His name is Troy.
Oh, please, God, she prayed, don’t let me think about him.
Don’t let me think.
She could hear water running. She devoutly hoped he wasn’t going to be long; she needed the bathroom pretty badly herself. She needed a shower, too-probably a lot worse than he did.
Then she heard a new sound, this one coming through the paper-thin wall from the room next door. A heartbreaking, whimpering sound.
Oh, Lord, she thought, this is all I need.
She stood about a minute of it, then bounced out of bed, pulling the bedspread with her and wrapping it around her like a toga. Okay, she thought, now where in the hell did he leave the key?
It wasn’t on the dresser or on top of the TV. Pocket, maybe? Trying not to think about the intimacy of what she was doing, she snatched up Troy’s pants from the pile on the floor and plunged her hands into the pockets, one by one. Intimacy? The irony of that made her lips curl, but she didn’t feel like laughing.
The motel-room key turned up on the second try. Swearing and muttering and dragging the bedspread behind her, she threw open the door and swept through it into the muggy, dripping night.
When she opened the door to number 10, Bubba was there to greet her. A much chastened and humbled Bubba, wiggling and squirming and so glad to see her it was pathetic. And damn if she was going to hug and pet and sweet-talk the yellow-eyed beast the way Troy did.
“Well, all right,” she snapped, “don’t just stand there.”
Bubba didn’t need to be told twice.
When Troy came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, a meager motel towel knotted around his hips, there was his dog, lying right in the middle of the floor with his paws pillowed on Troy’s blue jeans and his muzzle pillowed on his paws, sound asleep. And in the bed next to him there was Charly, propped up on the pillows with her arms folded across her chest and the bedspread in a pile.
“’Bout time you got out of there,” she said, glaring at him with her whiskey eyes.
“Sorry,” he breathed. It was about all he could manage just then. He waved a hand at Bubba, who opened up his eyes just long enough to flick his eyebrows at him, give a great big sigh and close them again. “What-?”
“He was making noises,” she snapped. “Crying, for God’s sake. What was I supposed to do?”
Troy shook his head. He was trying hard not to smile, but it wasn’t easy when there was a big ol’ ball of something warm and sweet oozing like Southern molasses all through his insides. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he sure did know what had put it there. It was the challenge in her eyes, that belligerent thrust to her chin, and that rusty, go-to-hell voice that had done it. Because for the first time he saw those things clearly for the camouflage they were.
“Told you,” he said as he started toward her, letting the warmth he felt inside come into his voice and his smile. “He does cry when I leave ’im.”
She watched him come closer, and he could see the confusion building in her eyes, saw them darken as she fought to hold on to the belligerence.
“Yeah, well…I figured I might as well let him in, since you were taking so long in the shower.”
“Sorry,” he murmured again, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s all yours now, if you want it.”
“Thanks.” She stiffened, drawing the balled-up bedspread closer, fierce and battle ready as a rooster. “Look, just because I brought him in here, I don’t want you to think you have to stay.”
“You want me to go?” He reached out and touched away a strand of dark hair that had fallen across an even darker eyebrow. Her indrawn breath made a small, sucking sound. He let the backs of his fingers brush lightly downward, following the contours of her temple and cheekbone and jaw. Her skin felt warm and soft, like powder.
She lifted one shoulder, but except for that, held herself rigid and still. As if, he thought, part of her wanted him to stop touching her and the rest of her was afraid he might. She cleared her throat and said gruffly, “Just don’t want you to feel obligated.”
Obligated? He didn’t know whether to laugh or shake her. So what he did was tuck a knuckle under that belligerent chin of hers and lean over and kiss her. Just lightly, letting his mouth brush hers, like feathers over satin.
“Ol’ Bubba looks pretty comfortable to me,” he murmured as he drew away. “Maybe I better leave him be, if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay, sure.” Her breath flowed across his lips.
So he kissed her again, this time slow and sultry, pouring into her like warm molasses, savoring the sweetness of it. He hadn’t planned to take it any further than that-he swore he hadn’t, even though his belly was already curling and his body heating and tightening, stirring against the towel.
But he felt her arms relax and ease up on the bedspread she’d been clutching to her chest like a shrinking maiden, and it seemed a natural thing to slide his hand on down there and check the situation out And then her breast was filling his hand so perfectly, the nipple was hardening under his thumb’s circular stroking and her hand was a sliding warmth, creeping up his thigh. With all that, it didn’t really surprise him that the kiss should take on a life and rhythm of its own. Nor did it surprise him, when he finally ended the kiss, to find that he wasn’t wearing the towel anymore.
The only thing that did surprise him was when he pulled away from her. For the first time since he’d known Charly, he thought he saw fear in her eyes.
His heart stumbled and started again with a new and unfamiliar cadence. “I just want you to know,” he said, “if I stay…no obligation.” His voice, even his breathing, seemed bumpy and strange to him.
There was a pause-a long one. And then she slowly pulled her hand out of the tumbled folds of the bedspread and held it toward him, the fingers uncurling like flower petals to reveal the small foil packet in its palm.
“I found it,” she said in a hushed and stifled voice
, “in your pocket. When I was looking for the room key.”
Again her eyes took on a whiskey glow. Troy, laughing low in his chest, leaned over to kiss her. It was easy, then, to convince himself that he’d imagined the fear.
Chapter 6
July 4/5, 1977
Dear Diary,
It’s almost morning. So much has happened, but I don’t want to write about it. I just can’t right now. Maybe tomorrow. Right now I can’t even see straight, let alone think.
Thought for the Day: If you ask me, thinking is highly overrated.
Troy woke up in a state he could only think of as confused well-being. He couldn’t figure out how he could have behaved so badly and feel so good about it.
Here he was in a sleazy Alabama motel room, listening to the shower running in the bathroom and a woman banging around in there and dropping things, a woman he barely knew but had driven all the way from Georgia yesterday to bail out of jail and wound up spending what was probably one of-if not the most- incredible nights he’d ever spent in the company of a woman in his life. If that wasn’t reprehensible conduct, he didn’t know what was.
He just wished he could stop grinning whenever he thought about it.
About then Bubba, who’d been sitting at attention over by the door, happened to notice he was awake and came ambling over to give him a good-morning lick. And since Bubba hadn’t exactly been raised to be a house dog, Troy figured the first order of the day was going to be to take him out for a walk.
He was pulling on his pants when he heard the water shut off, and a moment later the bathroom door opened and there stood Charly with a little bitty towel knotted around her waist. She was holding another towel across her breasts and squeezing water from the ends of her hair with the end of it. Water droplets spangled her shoulders and arms and the fronts of her thighs. He hadn’t really had a chance to notice last night, but now he saw that her legs were long and looked as if she either walked a lot or worked out regularly. It was a sight to put a hitch in his breathing.
“Oh, good,” she snapped, “you’re up. I was startin’ to worry about that dog of yours. I was going to take him for a walk myself, but I thought the shock of seeing a naked woman running down the road with a bear on a leash might be too much for this town to handle.” Her voice was scratchy and sardonic. He found it stimulating as burlap on his auditory nerves.
He walked toward her, grinning and thinking about how good it was going to feel to kiss her, all fresh and wet from the shower. But the look she gave him made him change his mind about that. He could read all sorts of things in her eyes, most of which added up to one thing: the Charly Phelps who had woken up in his bed this morning was prepared to deny any and all knowledge of the wanton stranger who’d taken over her body last night. Which didn’t really surprise him. If he’d given it much thought, he probably would have expected it.
She dipped her head toward his bag, which was sitting on the dresser. “I don’t suppose you might have something in there that I could put on?”
He scooped up the bag, opened it and held it out to her. “Help yourself. How ’bout boxers and a T-shirt?”
“It’s a start.” She peered warily into the bag as if she thought it might have an unpleasant surprise hidden in it, then took it from him and backed up into the bathroom and shut the door.
Troy stood there and looked at the place where she’d been for a minute or two, then huffed out a breath. “Well, okay. You’re welcome, darlin’.” He pivoted, clapped his hands and said briskly, “Hey, ol’ Bubba, whaddaya say you and me go take us a little walk?”
Okay, he wasn’t surprised. But he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed.
In the bathroom Charly propped Troy’s overnight bag on the sink and peered over it at the faceless blur in the steamed-up mirror. She reached toward the glass with the towel she’d been holding across her breasts…then slowly withdrew her hand without wiping away the fog. The prospect of looking herself in the eye didn’t hold much appeal this morning.
Selfish… irresponsible. She heard the words again, in her father’s cold, unfeeling voice, along with another word she’d last heard more than twenty years ago. Shameless
It was true. She was all of those things, and more.
A cold, hard knot took shape in her chest, and a cold, hard voice whispered in her ear things she’d tried for twenty years not to hear. Selfish, irresponsible…shameless. You don’t deserve…
A pair of eyes took shape in the mirror’s foggy blur-not her own ambiguous hazel, but darker ones, blue, with heavy lashes and laugh creases-kind, compassionate eyes. Nice eyes. Beautiful eyes. Troy’s eyes. When they’d looked into hers, she hadn’t felt shameless, or selfish, or undeserving. She’d felt beautiful, sexy, desired.
And I used him.
She closed her eyes on the vision and rocked herself slowly, dizzy with shame and remorse. It was true. Like some use drugs or alcohol, she’d used Troy, as something to dull her own pain, to help her forget, to get her through the night. Jack Daniel’s would have been a better choice-at least she’d only have a hangover to worry about this morning. But-oh. God, this was a person. A human being, and a pretty decent one, as far as she could tell. What was she going to do about him now? How was she ever going to get them back onto a casual footing?
Especially, a hard, practical inner voice reminded her, when she still needed him. There were still some things she had to have his help in order to do.
The fogged mirror was clearing. It was her own eyes that stared back at her now, bloodshot and puffy, but determined. Oh, yes, there was still something she had to do. And she was sorry-truly sorry-but she was going to have to go on using that nice, decent man for a little while longer. There was simply no one else she could turn to.
But no more of what happened last night, she told herself firmly. That was unforgivable. I won’t let that happen again.
As if in denial, a shiver coursed through her. Her nipples pouted. Her body’s secret places throbbed and tingled, mocking her.
Jimmy Joe cradled the phone and looked over at his beloved, who was standing at the window watching traffic flow by on the Atlanta Beltway far below. He could tell just by looking at her that she was ticked off. “Well, that was Mama,” he said. “She just heard from Troy.”
“So I gathered,” said Mirabella stiffly.
He walked over to her, put his arms around her from behind and pulled her back against him. “Is all that freeway traffic makin’ you homesick for L.A.?”
“Huh? Not a chance.”
“Look,” he said in a cajoling tone, rocking her, “I know you’re disappointed with Troy for runnin’ off like he did and leavin’ the nursery job half-finished-” he paused when she snorted “-but I think maybe you’re gonna forgive him when you hear what he’s doin’ instead.”
“He told your mom he was going to Alabama.”
“Yeah, but you’re never gonna guess who he’s with in Alabama.”
She turned in his arms, scowling suspiciously. “Who?”
“Your friend Charly.”
Mirabella’s mouth dropped open. “Charly! But that’s-Charly? What’s she doing here? What’s she doing in Alabama?”
Jimmy Joe didn’t even try to stop himself from grinning; it wasn’t often he got to see his beloved dumbfounded. “Mama didn’t say. What she told me was, Troy said to tell you that your friend Charly was in Alabama, and that she was havin’ some problems over there and he was gonna stay on awhile and help her out.”
“But-but what kind of trouble? And why-?”
“And that’s all she told me,” Jimmy Joe said gently but firmly. “Marybell, honey, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
She twisted out of his arms and sat down dazedly on the bed, “Charly…and Troy? I don’t believe it.”
Jimmy Joe was still grinning. “Sort of interestin’, though, ain’t it?”
Still confounded, Mirabella said, “Mmm…” then did a double take and flashed him
one of her looks. “Oh, no-no way. That’s impossible. Out of the question. Charly and Troy? Never in a million years.”
It was her most stubborn, know-everything look. He could see she was primed for a good argument, which was fine with him. Arguing with Mirabella had a stimulating effect on him.
He went and sat down on the bed beside her and said, “Come on, now. Why not? You’ve met Troy, and from everything you’ve told me about Charly, seems to me they might just hit it off pretty good.”
“Well,” said Mirabella, thoughtfully chewing her lip, “for starters, he’s Southern.”
“Well, hell-”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s just no way in the world Charly would ever let herself get mixed up with somebody from the South. No way.”
“I know somebody else woulda said that about six months ago,” Jimmy Joe said mildly; it wasn’t in his nature to take offense.
Which was something he knew Mirabella was still getting used to. So he wasn’t surprised that she had to look into his eyes for a long measuring moment to find the reassurance she was searching for before she went on, flushed and earnest, “No, you don’t understand. Charly hates everything about the South. She grew up in Alabama, in some little tiny town-she actually ran away from home when she was sixteen. She swears she’d sooner die than ever go back.”
“The South’s not all country roads and rednecks,” Jimmy Joe argued. “You know that Troy’s seen more of the world than most people. He knows his way around.”
Mirabella was quiet for a moment. Then she let out a breath and shook her head. “It’s not just that. I mean, I love Charly-she’s a wonderful person. She’s funny and smart and has a heart of pure mush-”
“Sounds like somebody else I know.”
She laughed softly, and for a minute or two he thought she might be ready to call it quits on this particular discussion. But there was still more she wanted to say, and after too short an interlude, she gave him a gentle push and went determinedly on, “but the point is, she does a good job of keeping that fact a secret.” She paused. “Charly… protects herself. She has fun, she dates a lot of guys, but she never lets it get too serious, you know? She never lets herself care too much. Never lets herself…”
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