Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  Harlan said, “Well, that was extremely exciting. How about if we go put some ice on that, uh … bruise? That looked like it hurt. And while we do that, you can tell me why you’re out on the sidewalk selling your stuff when you promised me you’d be taking it easy. I can’t wait to hear this.”

  44

  Bees in the Brain

  She told Harlan, as he led her into the house, “I’m shaking. It’s like I’ve got bees in my brain. I could hit something. I could hurt something.”

  “Oh, baby,” he said, “I think you already did. I’d call that a mortal blow to the ego. How much does that hurt?”

  Oh. She had her hand on her breast. “Some. Oh—” She turned and called to Dyma, “You’re in charge for a little while, OK?”

  Dyma waved at her, and Annabelle called out, “We’ve got it.”

  They got into the apartment, and Harlan said, “Well, hell. Nothing but boxes in here.” He sat her down on a stack of two of them. “Right. Ice. Hang on.”

  When he came back with a handful of ice wrapped in paper towels, she eyed it and said, “That’s going to hurt worse.”

  “Ten minutes. You OK? Is there any … any danger in getting hit there, with pregnancy? Should I take you to the doctor? Man, I wish I’d taken him out. If you hadn’t stepped in there, I would’ve done it. ”

  “I’m sure it’s fine. It just hurts more than usual, that’s all. Ow. And no, you shouldn’t have taken him out. Not on camera. How would that look? Also, he’s a cop. Well, a sheriff’s deputy. Which would make it a very bad idea.”

  “I don’t care. It would’ve been worth it.” He sat down on a neighboring stack of boxes. “So. Garage sale. Why, exactly? I told you, you can store your stuff at my place. I’ve got a six-car garage, and I don’t have six cars.”

  She sighed. All of a sudden, she was so tired. Of course, that tended to happen when you’d been packing every night after work, and you’d gotten up at five this morning to set up for your garage sale. “Where do you think this furniture came from? I saved everything that’s worth anything, or that I actually like. For the rest—I’ll go to more garage sales and thrift stores, that’s what, once I move out of your place. Which is three months after the baby, I’ve decided. I’m giving myself a maternity leave, but at the end of January, I’m gone, and we both … move on into our next chapter. Meanwhile, this is recyclable furniture, and I’m recycling it. Anyway, there’s only so big a U-Haul I’m willing to drive.”

  He said, “I knew I should’ve said more about this. All of this. I should’ve asked more. Why would you be driving a U-Haul in the first place?”

  “Uh … because I’m moving?”

  “Here’s a concept. Movers? What part of, ‘I’ll pay for the move’ didn’t you get? Also—who exactly were you figuring would be loading this U-Haul?”

  She spread her arms wide, and an ice cube dropped to the floor with a musical ting. “You’re looking at her. Well, Dyma and me, and a couple of Dyma’s friends. They helped move the furniture out to the street this morning.”

  “Yeah, no. That’s not happening. This is why I came. I had a bad feeling.” He looked around. “Where were you planning to sleep tonight?”

  “Grandpa’s. We’re loading up in the morning.”

  He looked her over. Too closely, as far as she was concerned. She said, “What?”

  He stood up. “Nope. Just—no. To all of that. That’s a hard no. How much were you aiming to make on that garage sale?”

  “Six hundred. I hope.”

  He pulled out his wallet and started peeling off bills. “Here’s two hundred. I’ll owe you for the rest. Your garage sale’s over. Get those friends of Dyma’s to take all that stuff to Goodwill or whatever.”

  She looked at the money, but she didn’t take it. “I promised the couch to somebody. Her husband’s coming to get it at four.”

  “Fine. Everything but the couch. And meanwhile, you can use those assistant skills of yours and find a moving company. Tell them you’ll pay a rush charge to get you out of here fast.”

  “That is so pushy of you. All of it. I can handle my life. I’m handling my life!”

  He set the bills down on her box, since she still wasn’t taking them. “I know you can. I see you doing it. But I’m not that guy. Mark.”

  “I know you’re not. That’s obvious. Thanks for … for standing up for me out there.”

  He put an arm around her, hugged her close, and kissed the top of her head. “Yeah, well, see, that’s what a man does for the mother of his child.”

  It took her a second. “Oh.”

  “And that’s why I need to do this. Come on.” He stood up and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll get Dyma and Annabelle onto that ending-the-garage-sale thing, and then you and I can head out. Got a suitcase packed?”

  “Uh … Yeah.” Wait, what?

  “Good. Because we’re going to Blake’s resort for the night, and as soon as we’ve got the movers organized, Dyma’s driving your car to Portland with Annabelle—who’s a pretty damn good driver, in case you’re worrying, because you have to be, when you live out in the sticks in North Dakota—and you’re flying home with me.”

  “What? That’s crazy. I’m not even five months pregnant. I’m fine. I’m great.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s see. How tired are you, exactly?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Yep. That’s why.”

  “Seriously, though,” she said. “All of that is overkill. All right, it would be nice to have your help loading the truck, but we’ve got a plan. It’s only a seven-hour drive to Portland. Maybe a little more, with a U-Haul. We stop for lunch, and we’re there by five. One day. Well, unpacking, too, but that’s just one more day. Which I have off and then some, because I don’t start the job with Blake until Wednesday. If you want to help more, you could come with me and trade off on the driving. See, that’s how a guy helps. That’s normal helping.”

  “Except that we’re not doing it for you,” Harlan said. “We’re doing it for me. I can’t let you do it alone, but I’m allergic to U-Hauls. That’s a what-do-you-call-it A conundrum. And besides, there’s this thing I like doing that I haven’t gotten to do at all lately, and it’s taking you to a resort. Swimming pool. Hot tub. Restaurant, too, where you can eat that filet mignon on a china plate. Thanks for that, by the way. Good to know I’m not bologna. No man wants to be bologna.”

  “I can’t use a hot tub. It can raise the baby’s temperature.” She thought about the swimming pool, though. That sounded good. It sounded great. Her bikini would still fit, right? She even knew what box it was in. Well, the bottom would fit, anyway, because it would stretch, and as for the top … she’d just go on and rock that. She’d be with Harlan. Nobody was going to say anything disgusting to her, or if they did— This time, she would let him handle it. Plus, she wanted to see what he wore, and how he looked in it. That description of him on his lounge chair with a hand behind his head, needing a second pair of trunks to contain him …

  No question, he was filet mignon. Smoldering or not, he worked for her. He worked for anybody. She wasn’t going to let herself touch, but she was oh-hell-yeah going to look. Hey. She had hormones.

  And, yes, she’d worn that bikini about five times total, all of them when she wasn’t pregnant, and had felt self-conscious every time. She’d been crazy to buy the style she had, and let’s just say guys had stared. This was her new life, though. This was the new her. She was wearing her bikini, and if anybody didn’t want to look at her pregnant belly and her thighs and her butt, they could just look away.

  “Oh,” Harlan said. “Well, all right. No hot tub. You’re going to have to educate me on this stuff. This time, though, I’m playing it safe and asking for plastic glasses. I can’t afford to have a heart attack before the season even starts. Not if I’m going to be a father.”

  45

  Resort Wear

  It took hours to arrange for all of that and haul all Jennifer’s extra stuff to a secondhand s
tore, especially since he had to stop her from carrying too much about twenty times in there, and it was nearly five by the time they were checking into three rooms at the Wild Horse Resort. One for Annabelle and Dyma, and one each for him and Jennifer. Connecting, because, hey, a guy could hope. If he was filet mignon … a pregnant woman needed some good red meat.

  He wasn’t pushing it. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be open to the possibility.

  Dyma said, once the clerk had handed over the keys, “Awesome. Let’s go swimming at the beach, Annabelle.”

  “If your friend’s suit really fits me, sure,” Annabelle said.

  “The lake is about fifty degrees,” Jennifer said. “It’s barely May.”

  “So we jump in, and then we run back as fast as we can and get in the sauna,” Dyma said. “It’s sort of a fun-torture thing. You know, like all that stuff you definitely never do.” She widened her eyes at her mother. “The video’s already on Instagram,” she informed her. “It’s had over twelve thousand views already, too, because they tagged Harlan. Filet mignon? You seriously said that? You were actually uninhibited, and without any wine or pain pills, even. It was awesome.”

  Harlan could see Jennifer opening her mouth to explain to Annabelle about her lack of an opioid addiction, and he was possibly also thinking that Dyma clearly didn’t know about her mother’s secret, dirty little piercing, or the way she could straddle a man and pull a gauzy nightgown right over her head like the most wanton little teasing redhead a guy could ever hope to have in his bed. Which would make him, yeah, the only person in the world who knew her secret self. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t had a chance to explore that secret self nearly enough, what exactly filet mignon might entail, and what else she’d like to see on the menu, which he’d have thought about more …

  … but Dyma was still talking. “I loved the bologna sandwich, though. See, I knew that, and I was never even, you know, informed. No guy who eats as fast as Mark and likes chili from the can better than homemade could possibly be any good at sex. And I’m not even mentioning the other stuff you shared. Mark’s going to be reliving that sick burn all week long in the deputy’s locker room, or whatever it is, and Annabelle probably wants to burn her ears. Talk about TMI.”

  “Hey,” Harlan said, “it’s better than her brother being the bologna sandwich.”

  Jennifer said, “This is such an inappropriate conversation. Boundaries.” But, Harlan thought, she was trying not to laugh. As for Annabelle, she looked a little shocked, but she was laughing. “Also,” Jennifer said, “Harlan and I are just friends now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dyma said. “Yeah. That’s happening. It’s worked great so far, right? ”

  “So we’ll see you guys in a while,” Harlan said, in what he hoped was a casual manner. “For dinner.”

  “Nope,” Dyma said. “We’re doing our own thing.”

  Jennifer said, “Exactly what does that mean?”

  Dyma sighed. “That we’re going to be mainlining heroin and getting matching full-back tattoos. Excuse me? Twelve AP classes here? High-school graduate, pretty much? Nineteen in a couple months? Oh, and one more—how about NFL-star boyfriend who’s the hottest man who ever existed, meaning guaranteed inoculation against any guy in or around Wild Horse High?”

  “You’re still living with me, though,” Jennifer said. “And Annabelle’s still living with Harlan. Better rein in that independence, sister.”

  “Fine,” Dyma said. “Here’s our scandalous program. We go swimming and hang out in the sauna, and possibly flirt a little if there’s anybody in there under thirty, but I keep Annabelle from throwing herself at anyone, since she’s obviously so extra, and definitely not a conservative jock from North Dakota like somebody else I could mention. We eat dinner in the restaurant, daringly ordering anything we want and charging it to the room, because Harlan’s got a thing about paying, and unlike some people, we’re willing to go along with what a person obviously wants to do already. Then we walk to his theater and meet my friends for the nine o’clock show, putting money back in his pocket. Though not as much as we’re planning to spend on dinner, because this is where Owen took me before prom, and they have this chocolate volcano dessert with raspberry and fudge sauce that’s beyond amazing. And after that, we probably hang around at the beach with the friends for a while, since it might be my last Saturday night in Wild Horse, and we sit on picnic tables and talk about life and boringly ingest no controlled substances, and Annabelle and I retain our virginity, even though it’s an outdated and misogynistic concept, because we’re waiting for filet mignon, seeing as we’ve heard it’s an entirely different experience. And then we walk six blocks home and go to bed, prepared to get up in the morning and drive your car all the way to Portland. While you take a private jet. Does that meet with your approval?”

  Jennifer said, “You remember that sweet blonde baby in my fifteen-year-old fantasies? The one who’d be laughing into my face as our hair was backlit and all that?”

  “Yeah,” Dyma said.

  “I want her.”

  Dyma laughed, kissed her cheek, and said, “Yeah. Sorry. Too late. Maybe next time. Whoops. Maybe this time, huh? I bet Harlan makes sweet babies.”

  The two of them took off, and Harlan stood there, feeling a little stunned. Possibly by that last thing most of all.

  I bet Harlan makes sweet babies.

  “Yeah,” Jennifer said, shoving a wayward curl back into her topknot, like you’d ever contain it, giving him a rueful glance out of her golden eyes. “So—you see.”

  He was laughing, now, pulling her into his arms, kissing that soft, curvy mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’d say you make some pretty fine babies yourself.”

  She relaxed against him, and he thought for a second about how they were standing in a hotel lobby, and then didn’t, because he needed to kiss her again. He did it a little better, and she wound her arms around his neck and made some noise into his mouth, and he thought about that silver ring with the black bead. About whether you’d see the outline of it under her swimsuit, and if not, how about under a lace thong? You could definitely see it then.

  He wanted to see it. He wanted it bad.

  Also, what would happen if you bought her another one? Say, yellow gold, with a diamond embedded in the bead? If you took her out to dinner and looked at her dressed in something silky and not too long, and thought about taking her home and putting her on her back, pulling that dress up nice and slow, and finding that diamond?

  He got a hard rush at the thought, and, yeah, he wanted that connecting room.

  She pulled back and said, “Let’s go swimming. Since you came all this way to see me.” And smiled at him, slow and dirty and sweet.

  Holy hell.

  He said, “Twenty minutes.”

  She said, “Aw. Isn’t that a little slow? Is there a reason you’re making me wait?”

  He just about groaned. “I need to buy a swimsuit.”

  “Didn’t they give you that one from the shoot? I want to see that one.”

  He laughed. It came out a little strangled, because that was how he was feeling. “Nope. That one’s definitely not going to work today. If you look anything like what I’m imagining in a swimsuit … they’d kick us out.”

  “Yeah?” she asked. “Having trouble controlling yourself?”

  He did his best to smolder. It came surprisingly easily. “Twenty minutes. See you out there.”

  He would’ve smacked her butt, pregnant or not, because that was what this moment called for. Unfortunately, they were still in the lobby.

  Friends, Jennifer told herself while she was opening her suitcase in a room that had—surprise!—a fireplace, a soaking tub that she could use, a balcony, and an endless view over the lake and the mountains. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t cooperating. Her body wanted that filet mignon, and she wanted to eat it slow.

  She couldn’t. She knew it. It would be crazy.

  There were people at the poo
l when she got down there. Well, of course there were. It was a resort, it was May, and it was Saturday. No Harlan, though, not yet. She hesitated outside the gate and thought about going back upstairs for five minutes, by which time he might be here, then told herself, No. Remember? This is the new you.

  A guy was doing laps in the far lane, and a woman was doing the same thing a couple lanes down, so she headed over there, past the teenage boys who were horsing around and shouting, tried to ignore the dozen or so people in lounge chairs arranged around the pool deck, took a deep breath, untied her robe, put it and her towel on a lounger of her own, and pretended to be casual.

  Own it, Harlan had said. She tried. She didn’t instantly slide into the water and into oblivion, anyway. She kicked off her sandals and walked to the edge of the pool, and she didn’t hurry.

  Which was when she heard one of the teenagers say, “Check it out.”

  Another deep breath. That’s your superpower. Harlan had said that, too. Another boy said something else, and she tried not to hear it. All she wanted to do was to vanish into that water. How long did she have to stand here before she did it?

  “Hey.”

  It wasn’t Harlan. It was the guy in the corner lane, who’d stopped swimming and pushed his goggles up. He was holding onto the edge, too. And smiling.

  “Hi,” she said back, though she didn’t want to. She wanted to ignore him, but wasn’t that worse? Face it, she had no idea how to own it. I’m pregnant, dude, she wanted to tell him. It should be obvious.

  Right. She was sliding into the pool. She was disappearing. This was so not fun.

  Harlan came through the pool gate after a hasty change and … didn’t stop dead. Instead, he headed over there fast.