Rock Chick Rescue Page 4

I had no intention of telling her Dad was in town. Un-unh, no way.

  I went into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. She rolled into the doorway and blocked me in.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Henrietta Louise,” she said.

  She always used my real name when she was ticked at me. Either that or “Missy”. I didn’t know where “Missy” came from but that name came out when she was super angry.

  Mom had bright green eyes and great, thick blonde hair (blonde because Trixie came to the apartment and gave her a cut and color every six weeks—Trixie also gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks. Trixie had been my Mom’s best friend since high school, she loved her to death and she was an absolute gem). Mom also had a great smile, before the stroke, now it was still good but kind of lopsided. She was a baton twirler in high school and she said they taught you how to smile when you were a baton twirler. They did a good job, she had a world-class smile, even Dad said that.

  She wasn’t smiling now, she was frowning. “You look worried,” Mom said.

  I always looked worried, how she could decipher that I was more worried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instilled with the “Mom Ability” to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.

  I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent (in other words, I kinda lied).

  “Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  I shrugged.

  “What would make him think that?” she asked.

  I put away the milk, “It’s a misunderstanding.”

  “I’ll say. Do you want me to call him?”

  I had my head in the fridge but at that, I straightened and whirled around.

  “No! Do not call him!”

  My Mom would call him, no doubt about it. She didn’t have his number, but she’d find it. Not only would she call him, she’d call his mother, just to cover her bases and get the mom-to-mom business going. And not only that, she’d get Trixie to call him and I really didn’t want that. Then, they’d get my ex-boyfriends, Javier, Alex, Luis and Oscar to phone him as well, as anti-racist character references.

  “Indy’s straightening it out for me,” I said. This was also kind of a lie but also kind of the truth because I got the distinct feeling Indy was the kind of person who meddled.

  “Well I hope so. That’s awful. No wonder you look worried sick.”

  I took a mental deep breath.

  With that hurdle out of the way, we tackled the rest of the hurdles of the night: laundry, exercises, dinner, dishes and my transformation into Smithie Bimbo.

  I was tottering out of the house in a pair of black pumps with three and a half inch stiletto heels and thin straps around the ankles, calling good-bye to Mom when I opened the door and let out a little scream.

  Ada, our next-door neighbor was standing outside the door. Ada was older than dirt, deafer than a doorknob and had a soul made of pure sunlight. She smiled at me, looked at my slut attire and said, “What a lovely outfit.”

  I looked down at the ultra-mini, mini-skirt and the black camisole that showed too much cleavage that was peeking through the opening of the big black cardigan that I had to wear to keep out the late September chill. Then I looked back at Ada. Maybe she was going blind too.

  “I’m going to watch television with your mother. There’s a good episode of Cops on tonight, I don’t want to miss it.”

  Ada was addicted to Cops and America’s Most Unbelievable Police Chases and pretty much anything that had to do with policemen, bounty hunters, high speed chases, drug busts, hand-held cameras chasing after people running through backyards, and people whose faces had to be made fuzzy.

  She shuffled in and I went out shouting, “Have fun girls!”

  When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start.

  I tried it again.

  It still wouldn’t start.

  I tried it a third time.

  Nothing.

  “Piece of shit!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the wheel and then maybe cursing more and even pounding my forehead on the wheel a bit.

  Guess that tank of gas was a waste of good money.

  I’d been in the market for a new car before Mom had her stroke but that went out the window. Mom’s car was worse than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the deposit money. Now, the old jalopy that was second hand when I bought it five years ago was coasting on a wing and a prayer.

  I yanked out my cell and called JoJo, one of the dancers, who was also always late. JoJo came and got me and we both hurtled through the doors of Smithie’s fifteen minutes after we were supposed to.

  Smithie was at the bar and he looked up at us as we came through the door.

  “You’re fuckin’ late, a-fuckin’-gain,” Smithie greeted.

  “My car wouldn’t start,” I told him, approaching the bar. JoJo shot like a rocket backstage to avoid the Smithie confrontation.

  He gave me my apron, I took out my cell and slid it into a pocket and handed him my purse and cardigan that he put behind the bar.

  “At least come up with somethin’ original,” he said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re a walking disaster.”

  I smiled at him. Smithie was all bark and no bite, at least with his girls. He was a big, black guy, used to be muscle but he’d gone a little soft. He had half a dozen kids with four different women and he doted on all of them, including the women.

  “Listen, Smithie, I need to pick up a couple more shifts.”

  He looked at the ceiling, “She comes in late and, right away, she asks me for more fuckin’ shifts.”

  “I have to get my car fixed!” I cried, tying my apron around my waist.

  “You work more shifts, I have to pay you overtime. I don’t pay overtime.”

  “Smithie.” I gave him a wide-eyed, girlie, “please” look that I saw other girls use on him. It worked so I’d tried it and found it worked for me too.

  Smithie wasn’t in a generous mood.

  “You want more money, you work a pole.”

  I looked at the stage. Three dancers were working poles, all oiled up, all wearing nothing but g-strings and pasties.

  Not on your life.

  “I’m not working a pole,” I told Smithie.

  “You’d be doin’ me a favor. Mandy told me today she’s gotta quit. She’s pregnant.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I clapped. Mandy and her boyfriend Ronnie had been trying to get pregnant since before I worked there.

  “That’s great!” I cried.

  “That is not fuckin’ great. I’m a dancer down. You work a pole, you’d have my ever-fuckin’-lastin’ gratitude and so much money, you could buy a Porsche.”

  “JoJo’s your best dancer and she doesn’t own a Porsche,” I told him and she didn’t. She drove a Corolla.

  “JoJo can dance but her tits aren’t real and she’s short. Guys can tell the real from the fake. Your tits are real and your legs go on for-fuckin’-ever in those fuckin’ shoes. Men look up those legs to those tits and they’ll give you fifty dollar tips.”

  “I’m not working a pole,” I said in a way he knew I meant it.

  He sighed.

  “You want me to have a guy look at your car?” He asked.

  See, Smithie was a softie.

  I nodded and smiled.

  “You’re a pain in my ass. Get to work.”

  I got to work and made extra nice with the drunks and idiots who paid good money, essentially for nothing. Though they obviously didn’t see it that way. Tips were good, gropes were few and it was a decent night.

  I arranged for Lenny to take me home and, when everyone was gone, I waited at the door for him.

  Lenny was a bouncer, midnight skin and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle on a six
foot four inch frame. He was getting a Masters in Biochemistry at Denver University.

  He walked to where I stood at the front door. “Wait outside, I’ll do a sweep, set the alarm and lock up.”

  “Gotcha,” I said and walked out to stand outside the front door.

  Smithie’s was on Colorado Boulevard and even though it was three in the morning, traffic was passing steady. The days were still warm, but the nights were chilly and I pulled the cardigan closer around me. I was tired, my mind beginning to shut down and found myself dazedly looking to the right.

  Something came at me from the left; I was thrown against the wall of Smithie’s and saw the flash of a knife from the lights of the club.

  A hand was at my chest, pinning me to the wall. I could feel the cold blade against my throat.

  “You Ray McAlister’s daughter?”

  I was looking at a guy who was several inches shorter than me, due to my heels. He had black hair that looked dyed and it was greased back from his forehead. He was super thin, rodent looking and sometime in his life, his nose had been broken and not set well.

  He pushed up against me with his hand, body and the blade. “You hear me, bitch?”

  I nodded, to both of his questions.

  “You know where he is?”

  I stared at him; my breath caught in my lungs and my heart was beating so hard I thought it’d jump out of my chest.

  Instead of pushing for an answer, his head shot around and he looked over his shoulder.

  Then he came back to me.

  “Tell him Slick wants what’s owed him. Got it?” Then he pushed against my chest, hard, which hurt because I was already against the wall and had nowhere to go. Then he took off, got in a car and peeled out.

  The next thing I knew, Vance was there, like he’d formed out of thin air.

  Vance worked for Lee. He had black hair (not dyed, definitely the real thing), long and straight and he pulled it back in a ponytail. He was tall, lean, soft-spoken, Native American and hot.

  I didn’t know if I was more surprised to be held at knife point or to have Vance materialize just afterward.

  “You okay?” he asked, his hand on my shoulder, his dark eyes intense.

  I was not okay. I was so far from okay that I might never be okay again but I nodded anyway.

  “What’d he say?” Vance asked.

  “He wanted to know where my Dad was.”

  Vance made no comment to this because he was busy shifting as Lenny came out of the club toward us.

  “Hands off,” Lenny warned, morphing into bouncer mode.

  “It’s okay, Lenny. I know him,” I said.

  An SUV came screeching up to us, another one of Lee’s boys, Matt, was behind the wheel. Regardless of this, neither Vance nor Lenny moved. They were in a face-off.

  “Lenny’s taking me home,” I told Vance.

  Vance looked from Lenny to me and nodded. Once.

  Then his eyes moved back to Lenny.

  “Walk her to her door,” Vance said, moved to the SUV, swung his body in and Matt took off.

  Chapter Three

  Then Life Got Really Interesting

  Tips were so good at Smithie’s, the next morning, instead of the bus, I treated myself to a taxi. Before going to Fortnum’s, I went by LaMarr’s and bought enough donuts to feed an army. I couldn’t exactly get them for Dad and me without getting them for everyone else.

  I walked into work at 7:15 am, carrying my donut box and hoping Vance and Matt had kept themselves to themselves and hadn’t shared last night’s incident with anyone—namely Lee, who might tell Indy, who might tell everyone.

  On the way home last night, I told Lenny what happened and he got all tight around the mouth. We got into a discussion about calling the police (no way, no how, not when my Dad was involved) then calling Smithie (worse than calling the police, Smithie would have a shit hemmorrhage). Finally, Lenny walked me to my front door and made sure I was safe inside.

  I got approximately seven seconds of sleep because I was either reliving having a knife at my throat (which was not fun) or worried about what in the heck my father was caught up in now.

  Dad was a bit of a bum; never had any money, never had a job that I could tell and I pretty much figured (and some of the comments Mom made confirmed it) he had a chequered past, present and future.

  This, however, was a bit different from the usual Dad bumdom stuff.

  Since I hadn’t had a midday nap, my seven seconds of sleep did not exactly put me in good stead for anything, much less work, but I had to keep going. I didn’t have the luxury of taking time off.

  Tex, Duke and Jane were all there when I got to Fortnum’s, Indy and Ally were nowhere to be seen.

  This, I took as a good sign.

  The minute the doors opened at 7:30 am, the coffee crush came through.

  Tex was Indy’s main barista and somewhat of a coffee virtuoso. People drove out of their way for one of his creations. This was one of the reasons Indy had to hire me; they became mega busy because Tex was so popular. I was also pretty good with a portafilter, which helped me get the job.

  I was cruising through eight o’clock, relaxing a bit and thinking that maybe Vance and Matt decided not to share when the bell went over the door and Eddie walked in.

  I held my breath when I saw the look on his face. To say Eddie was unhappy would be like calling the Grand Canyon a sweet, little canal. In other words, Eddie was supremely pissed off.

  I should have known Eddie wouldn’t like someone who might bring unsavory characters and possible danger into Indy’s bookstore. I was surprised Lee hadn’t come in first.

  Eddie’s eyes caught mine and burned into me from across the room and I stood frozen to the spot. He walked straight up to and around the counter and, his eyes still on me, grabbed my upper arm and hauled me out from behind the counter.

  “Hey! What the hell you doin’? Do you not see the twenty people who want coffee out there?” Tex boomed to Eddie.

  Eddie ignored him and dragged me into the bookshelves, back a half dozen rows to the Crime section (which was appropriate, I thought). He turned in then walked me all the way down the shelved row to the book-lined, side wall before he stopped.

  We were well away from the coffee crush and well hidden; no one came looking for books during coffee time.

  Eddie maneuvered me so my back was to the books then he moved in, his body in front of me, his left hand resting on a shelf by my head.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, deciding to act innocent.

  “You tell me,” Eddie said.

  He saw through my act. How I knew this, I was not sure. It could have been either the narrowing of his eyes or the tightening of his jaw when he clenched his teeth after he was done speaking.

  “I was helping Tex make coffee,” I told him.

  He shook his head.

  “Let’s talk about last night.”

  My hopes were dashed.

  Damn.

  “Last night?” I asked.

  “Last night.”

  “What about last night?”

  I had to admit, I was feeling a bit like I felt last night. At least my heart was beating as hard as it was last night.

  “About you having a blade at your throat.”

  I gave up on innocent and tried nonchalant. “Oh, that.”

  Nonchalant wasn’t a good call. If Eddie’s eyes were burning into me before, they were scorching now.

  “Yes, that,” Eddie said.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I told him.

  He stared at me for a beat as if antlers just sprouted from my forehead. Then he said a bunch of stuff in rapid-fire Spanish.

  I knew a little Spanish, what with having four Mexican ex-boyfriends, and I think I caught some naughty words but I couldn’t be sure.

  He reverted to English.

  “You call having a knife at your throat nothing?”

  I didn’t answer, thinking maybe silence was the way t
o go.

  Wrong again.

  He got closer and because he was already pretty close, this “closer” was predatory.

  “You had a knife to your throat before?”

  “Not that I can recall,” I told him.

  His black eyes got kind of a scary glitter.

  “Would you forget something like that?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” I allowed.

  He came nearer and, at this point, his body was brushing mine.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” he asked.

  “It didn’t seem that big a deal,” I answered.

  “Someone holds a knife to your throat, it’s a big deal. You report it to the police.”

  Normally, I would agree with him.

  “Dammit, Jet, for once, talk to me,” he said and it certainly wasn’t a request.

  I stayed silent. Not being a bitch, mainly because I didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you know Slick?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Vance says he was after your Dad.”

  I nodded my head.

  “Do you know what this is about?”

  I shook my head again but then I said, “Slick told me Dad owed him something.”

  I could tell by the look on Eddie’s face that this was not good news and my heart started beating even faster.

  “I know Slick,” Eddie said, “and Slick is not a nice guy.”

  “I got that impression when I met him,” I agreed.

  At that answer, there was more teeth clenching.

  “Where’s your Dad?” Eddie asked.

  “He’s coming in this morning for donuts.”

  Eddie’s free hand came up and he dragged his fingers through his hair. He did this occasionally, pulling his hand through his hair. At close range, it was fascinating. But then again, at deep range it was fascinating too; it was just that I’d never seen him do it close up.

  Eddie started talking again, shaking me out of the moment. “I gotta tell ya, I’m not getting a happy feeling about this.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I told him.

  That made Eddie’s face change. I couldn’t read what it meant but I saw the change.

  “How’re you gonna do that?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”