Authors: Tawna Fenske
She didn’t bother to stifle the moan as his fingers traced the sensitive curve of her thigh. She closed her eyes again and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.
“Violet…”
“Yes?”
“I should probably stop.”
“Oh, please don’t—”
“Violet,” he repeated, his voice tense now.
Violet opened her eyes and looked at him. His jaw was rigid, his eyes dark and dangerous. She watched him swallow, his eyes never leaving her face. “If I don’t stop now, I’m not going to—”
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Please?”
They stared at each other for a few beats, neither willing to be the first to move.
Somewhere in a far corner of the house, Tarzan began to yodel.
Violet groaned, not in the good way this time.
“What is that?” Drew asked, sounding a little dazed.
“That’s the boring factory ringtone you were so certain I had,” she replied as she reluctantly lifted her legs off his lap. “And I’d better answer. It might be the hospital.”
She stumbled to the entryway, where she’d hung her purse, her brain still fuzzy with lust and heat. Grabbing the cell phone, she fumbled with the buttons, not recognizing the phone number on the readout.
“Hello, this is Violet McGinn speaking.”
There was a short pause, followed by an angry-sounding grunt.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
When Violet hung up the phone, she didn’t look good. Her face was pale, and her bottom lip looked like she’d been biting it for the last five minutes. Actually, that’s exactly what she’d been doing. Drew had watched from his perch on the sofa, trying hard to focus on whatever grave news she was getting instead of on his fascination with her mouth.
Violet set the phone down and walked wordlessly back to the living room. Her posture was stiff, like someone had fused a stripper pole to her spine.
Hardly the woman who’d been melting into his lap mere minutes before.
“That didn’t sound good,” Drew said, watching her step into the living room. “Are you okay?”
Violet didn’t say anything. She just sat down beside him and picked up her wineglass. Without a word, she tipped it back and drained the rest of it in one gulp. Drew watched her throat as she swallowed, feeling edgy.
Violet set the wineglass down and looked at him. Her expression was perfectly calm, but her eyes flashed fire. Drew scooted back a little, moving all extremities out of her reach.
“That was Frank,” she said at last.
“Frank?”
“Mrs. Rivers’s professional squash partner. You mentioned him the other day when Mrs. Rivers came in for a reading and I told her Frank was cheating?”
“Sure, Frank. How’s he doing?
Violet stared at him, unblinking. He saw her fingers clench in a fist. When she spoke, her voice was icy.
“Do you think, perhaps, that when you mentioned that Mrs. Rivers’s cheating man was her professional squash partner, maybe that would have been a good time for you to mention the fact that he’s also the owner of our entire fucking building?”
The last three words came out in a snarl. Drew tried to edge back farther, but his spine was already pressed against the arm of the sofa.
“I figured you knew.”
“How the hell would I know something like that?”
“Well,” Drew said carefully, “I assumed Moonbeam would have told you. Or that if she hadn’t, your psychic powers might have clued you in.”
The last words were a cheap shot, so he should have expected the blow. Even so, he didn’t duck fast enough when the throw pillow came hurtling toward him. It grazed the side of his head, smacking his left ear. Drew reached back and caught the pillow before it hit the ground.
“Ouch,” he said dryly.
“What am I going to do?” she cried. “He’s mad as hell. He wants to see me as soon as he gets back from Chicago. He said we’re running a crooked operation and that he has every right to kick me out of the building.”
“He said that?”
“He’s pissed. He’s a professional athlete, and I told his partner he was cheating. Wouldn’t you be mad?”
Drew tucked the throw pillow under one arm and considered the question. “Did he deny cheating?”
“What?”
“At squash. Did he tell you he wasn’t cheating?”
Violet rolled her eyes. “We didn’t discuss the fine points of the game.”
“Did it occur to you that if he’s that angry, you were right? He
is
cheating.”
Violet stared at him, her expression still panicked. “How do you know that?”
“Cheaters get angry. Don’t you remember anything from schoolyard politics?”
“Even if that’s true, how does it help? He still hates my guts now and wants to kick us out of the building.”
“He won’t do that. He needs the tenants.”
“But that’s what he threatened.”
Drew shrugged. “So what’s the worst-case scenario? Moonbeam can move.”
“You don’t understand. She’s been there for thirty years. Her location is everything. It’s not just the auras and the alignment of the space with the moons of Jupiter and the feng shui—it’s the walk-in traffic she gets from being right on the edge of the Pearl District.”
“Okay, I see what you mean. Still, it’s a moot point. He’s not going to kick you out. He’s just mad now, but he’ll cool off.”
Violet looked at him uncertainly. Now that she’d stopped spitting fire, he almost wanted to hug her. Maybe pick up where they’d left off. The thought of taking her in his arms and stroking her back, then maybe sliding his hands down and cupping her—
He stopped, aware that his eyes were probably starting to glaze over. “Look, Violet,” he said. “Just talk to him. Explain that you got a bad deck of tarot cards or your crystal ball was cloudy or something. Call Mrs. Rivers and tell her the whole thing was a big misunderstanding. I doubt she’s reported it to the Professional Squash Association. I’m sure it’s not that big a deal.”
“You want me to lie,” she said flatly. He saw her grip the remaining throw pillow so hard that her knuckles turned white.
“Well what the hell was the first reading, the biblical truth?”
She frowned. “Just because you’re a nonbeliever doesn’t mean—”
“Come on, Violet.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute. He expected her to keep fighting, but she just sat there, looking glum.
“But you just said he’s cheating,” she said at last. “Why would I need to lie about the reading?”
“Can you prove he’s cheating?”
“No.”
“Did your psychic powers really tell you that without a doubt, he’s cheating at squash?”
Violet blinked.
“Exactly.”
She slumped down a little on the sofa, looking defeated. “This is so stupid. I don’t even know what professional squash
is
, much less how you’d cheat at it.”
“Well, squash is a little bit like tennis, only it’s played on a four-walled court with a small, hollow rubber ball. You’ve got singles or doubles, just like tennis, and professional players like Frank and Mrs. Rivers can actually make some decent money at it. You can cheat in several ways, like bribing an umpire or failing to clear the line quickly after a drop shot or—”
He stopped, conscious of the fact that Violet was staring at him like he had a scorpion crawling out of his nostril. “What?”
“How the hell do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I’m a guy. We’re born with a compass and a sports almanac in our heads. You have your data and random trivia, I’ve got that.”
Violet shook her head, but she wasn’t frowning anymore. That was a good sign. Drew thought about covering her hand with his, but decided against it. She’d probably bite a finger off.
On the stereo, Sarah McLachlan began singing “Train Wreck.” Drew could relate.
After a long silence, Violet sighed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It wasn’t your job to tell me about Frank.”
“I know.”
“I’m just scared.”
“I know.”
“Moonbeam trusts me to keep her business running. It’s my job to protect it… to make sure everything goes okay.”
“I know.”
She looked at him. “Is there anything you
don’t
know?”
Drew thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know what that blue stuff is in the Magic 8 Ball. That’s always perplexed me.”
“It’s alcohol with blue dye dissolved in it.”
Drew grinned. “Now my life is complete.”
Violet sighed again. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay. Need company?”
He meant it as a joke—just something to make her smile—and he succeeded there. But there was something else in her eyes. A flicker of surprise, maybe intrigue. She just looked at him for a few beats, making him dizzy.
The room felt too warm all of a sudden. How high was the damn heat turned up? He was pretty sure Violet wasn’t wearing anything under that thin little tank top. If he could just move his hands up her legs again…
Drew stood up quickly, knowing he had to flee before he did something wildly stupid.
“Fine, I can take a hint,” he said. “I’m going home now. Try not to annoy any professional squash players between now and tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll try,” Violet said faintly.
“And no more Manhattans,” he added, practically running toward the door. He had to get away from her before…
Before
what?
He didn’t care, he just had to escape. He yanked the door open and felt instant relief as the cold wall of wet air hit him in the face. He headed out into the rain, picking up speed when he thought of Violet sitting there, so warm and soft and inviting.
He was halfway to his car before he realized he’d forgotten his shoes.
***
The next morning, Violet was tidying up in the shop after two back-to-back appointments. Both had been basic tarot-card readings, which was a relief. She had learned to shuffle a tarot deck before her childhood pals were playing old maid. Laying out a Celtic Cross spread and waxing philosophic about the culmination card was something she could do in her sleep.
She was standing on tiptoe to tuck the cards back in the cabinet behind Moonbeam’s chair when Drew came barreling through the door. He looked disheveled and a little frantic. His eyes lit up the second he saw her.
“Thank God you’re here.”
“Oh,” she said, and dropped the deck of cards. All seventy-eight of them went fluttering to the floor, the Lovers card landing face up on her shoe, while the King of Cups hit her square in the boob.
Drew dropped to a crouch and began scooping up the cards. “Sorry about that. Look, do you have an appointment right now? I could really use your help with something.”
“My help? With what?”
Drew finished piling the cards in a neat stack and handed them back to her. Violet tried not to notice the buzz she felt when his knuckle grazed hers.
“I’m auditioning a new entertainer to replace a guy who just busted his knee. The first applicant is going to be here any second and Sam just called in sick.”
“You can’t do it alone?”
“No way. Sam’s a woman, so she takes the lead on all the auditions. Otherwise—”
“Ah, I see,” Violet grinned. “You don’t want to look like a creepy guy who likes gawking at naked men.”
Drew frowned. Violet laughed and reached up to tuck the cards back in the cabinet. She turned back to him and shrugged. “Well, I don’t have anyone coming in for a couple hours, but really, I don’t know anything about judging strippers.”
“
Entertainers.
And there’s nothing to it, I swear.”
“Well…”
“Come on, Violet, please? I’m really in a bind here.”
She grinned. “You’re begging me to come watch good-looking men take off their clothes? I’ve gotta think about this.”
He grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her toward the door. “Thanks, Violet, really, I’ll owe you one. I’ll buy you a drink or hook up another stereo. Whatever. Just get in here, fast.”
Violet allowed him to march her down the hall and through the door, hating to admit she loved the forcefulness of his fingers clamped around her arm.
She blinked a little as they stepped into the dimly lit bar. Though the place wasn’t open for hours, she half expected a naked man to jump out from behind the crates of liquor piled in one corner.
“So how does this work, exactly?” Violet asked as he deposited her in a chair directly in front of a round stage in one corner. “Do I have to throw dollar bills at him or anything?”
“Please don’t throw money. And no drinking, either. Or shouting obscenities.”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “So what
do
I do?”
“Here are their applications. The first guy will be here any minute; his application is on top. We have them do two songs, and they can pick the music. We’re judging technique, charisma, overall appearance—”
“Wow, I feel like a guy. Can I get a cigar?”
“No. No cigars. And no touching.”
“Do I need to take notes or something?”
“Here’s a notepad. Pens are right there.”
He squeezed her shoulder, sending shockwaves of warmth down her arm. Violet hoped she wasn’t having a stroke.
“Thanks, Violet. I really owe you one.”
“No sweat.”
A bell chimed at the front door, and Drew raced off to answer it. Violet studied the application, not entirely sure what she was supposed to be looking for. An advanced degree in stripper science?
Moments later, Drew came trudging back to the center of the room, followed by a man who looked like he probably bench-pressed Volkswagens. He had dark hair, a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his bicep, and a small scar on the edge of his chin.
“Violet, meet Jerry,” Drew announced. “Jerry, meet Violet.”
Violet stood, not that it did her much good. Her eyes fell somewhere in the middle of his sternum. She looked up at him, admiring the view. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.
He gripped it in one meaty paw and pumped it so hard Violet staggered. “It’s so good to meet you, really. So good. This is a big goal of mine. I’ve been practicing hard ever since I got out of prison.”
“Oh, wow,” Violet said, taking a small step back and retracting her hand. “That’s really… ambitious.”
“Sure is,” he agreed. “When Mr. Watson here called me, I got so excited I shit myself. No joke, I had to go home and change my undershorts, and then—”
“Okay, Jerry,” Drew interrupted. “Let’s just move on to the audition, shall we?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Watson,” Jerry said with a nod.
“We’ve already cued up the music you requested, so whenever you’re ready.”
Jerry nodded again and bent down to untie his work boots. Violet studied his application again, finding it more intriguing than watching Jerry unroll his tube socks.
Jerry
Jester, age 24, a graduate of Sandy High School. Relevant experience: three bachelorette parties and one ballet lesson at age five.
Violet looked up, pretty sure she wasn’t going to form any useful opinions about Jerry from reading his application.
With his socks and shoes removed, Jerry took a deep breath and paused before marching up the steps like a man on a mission. He stood there at the center of the stage for a moment, hands clasped in front of him as though in prayer. He was wearing a police uniform with several buttons missing and a smear of something pink on one sleeve.
“Whenever you’re ready, Jerry, just give me a nod,” Drew said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Jerry said. He stood there for a few more seconds, looking very spiritual. Or constipated. It was tough to tell. Finally, he gave a solemn nod.