Irene Radford - Thistle Down

So where had this guy come from? Maybe Phelma Jo bought him for the night. Something about the too ready smile and too white teeth of the stranger made the fine hairs on Chase’s nape stand straight up.

Phelma Jo and her escort stopped to exchange greetings with Big Mike, the mechanic who owned the car care center at the south end of Main St, and Jim Butler, his landlord, before they wandered into the back room. Mike and Jim shook hands, sealing some kind of deal. Digger snapped a photo of that, too. Neither one would be able to renege on whatever they agreed upon tonight. That’s how business got done in this town.

Not parading a trophy boy around the bar.

Chase couldn’t see PJ and her newest acquisition from his vantage point. He’d chosen this table because he could see the entire room from here. But not the back room. Not much ever happened back there. Three pool tables filled most of the available space. Players barely had room between them to maneuver their cues without putting out the eye of an opponent or clonking a neighbor in the back of the head.

Thinking only of gaining a line of sight into the room, Chase grabbed Dusty’s hand before she could completely settle in the chair next to him. “Let’s dance,” he ordered and set her on her feet with his hands on her waist.

“But… but…”

The jukebox thundered out a quick two-step. He raised his right knee and began clomping around. He whipped his head about, making sure he circled the dance floor. Just as he got the back room in full view, Phelma Jo and her trophy emerged and took seats on the opposite side of the dance floor from the table Chase had claimed. The stranger seemed to steer Phelma Jo on a broad circuit so that they never came close to the table where Dick and Thistle sat.

With a quick shift of direction that left him half dizzy, and Dusty stumbling in his arms, Chase side-stepped back the way they’d come.

Right in front of Phelma Jo, he twirled Dusty under his arm and reclaimed her just as the music tweetered to a halt.

Not knowing what else to do, he looked down at Dusty.

“That was-exhilarating,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

“Yeah.” A smile crept up on his face. “Want to go again?”

The next tune turned into a lovelorn ballad set to a waltz. Waltzes were good. Easy to dance to. A good excuse to draw his partner close within the circle of his arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Dick and that Thistle woman flitting about the floor. Dick guided her masterfully through the dance. She glided gracefully but didn’t seem to actually follow his steps.

“I didn’t know Dick could dance,” he muttered.

“Mom taught us both the basics when we were in grade school,” Dusty said. Her gaze caught the graceful couple and stayed there. “No proper and polite education is complete without ballroom dancing.”

Chase made a mental note to run a full background check on Thistle Down. He had her fingerprints. The rest should be easy.

“I’d like to dance,” Phelma Jo said quietly to her escort.

“Sorry. I don’t dance,” he replied.

“You’re my assistant now. I like to dance. I suggest you learn. Quick.”

“Trouble in paradise already,” Chase muttered. He had a clue to the man’s identity. He could mine the gossip mill tomorrow. Then he whisked Dusty across the floor.

He took a moment to look at her, feel the warmth of her back where he held her, appreciate the slight flush on her upturned face. Her eyes shone with an excitement he hadn’t seen there for a long time. Not since she got sick.

He wanted to see that glow of happiness more often. He wanted to be the one to help her grow into her self-confidence so she could look beyond her fears.

“PIZZA’S HERE,” THISTLE SAID. She wiggled out of Dick’s dance pose. A ridiculous and awkward stance. To truly dance, one needed only space and wings to catch the wind in pure joy.

She recognized the hold as part of human, unnaturally strained, courting rituals. Pixies rarely bothered with more than a few flirtatious flits around their territory. If a couple liked each other, they went off to a private glade and explored the possibilities of a potential mating flight.

Oh, well, she wouldn’t be here long enough to follow up on the interesting way Dick’s hand clenched against her back, or the way his fingers entwined with hers as they made their way back to their chairs and the fragrant and steaming dishes a waiter had plopped down in the center of the round table. Dick’s hand kept her from stumbling on every imperfection in the floor.

Chase and Dusty joined them a moment later. They looked flushed and happy.

Thistle narrowed her eyes in speculation. She could definitely see their energies reaching toward each other. At least that part of her magic hadn’t faded along with her other Pixie traits.

This wouldn’t do at all. Chase was not the man for Dusty. He’d kill her imagination and overshadow her intellect with his energy and lust for life. Dusty needed to match up with Joe. But Joe didn’t have a sitter for his daughters tonight. So he stayed home while Dusty danced with another man.

Hmm. What could she do about that?

Dusty’s aura retracted deep within herself as she sipped at the foaming brew in her glass. Good. Chase wasn’t the right man for her. Thistle needed to direct Dusty’s attention back toward Joe. There was a man who truly needed her. And so did his daughters. Two little girls at just the right age to be befriended by a Pixie.

Hmmm. Ideas spun in her head.

Besides. Chase had a mean streak. Thistle had been his victim when he was eight or nine. He couldn’t be trusted. Nope. No way.

“Anyone ever see Phelma Jo’s companion before?” Chase asked.

The two men’s attention fixed on a long-legged beauty across the dance floor. She wore a dark gray straight skirt and plain pink blouse as if they were royal robes, created to enhance her personality. Something was just a little off about her…

“Do you mean the woman with the fake blonde hair?” Thistle asked, directing her gaze across the room.

“She dyes her hair?” Dusty asked incredulously.

“Of course she does. Her roots are almost as dark as my hair,” Thistle replied.

“She was blonde when we were kids.” Dusty brightened considerably as she reached for a piece of the bread and cheese and tomato sauce confection piled high with semi-cooked vegetables.

“Never seen him before. He certainly seems attentive to Phelma Jo, though.” Dick shrugged and snagged his own piece of pizza.

“Something about him bothers me,” Chase said quietly. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” Dick laughed.

That made Thistle turn her attention across the dance floor. If Chase were truly jealous, then he needed to stay away from Dusty and not hurt her anymore than he already had.

“He reminds me of someone,” Thistle mused. “Can’t wrap a wingtip around the memory, though.” She tapped her teeth, trying to place the square face with hair the color of wheat ripening in August sunshine.

“That’s an interesting metaphor.” Dusty looked puzzled. “Not a phrase most people would use.”

“Who said I’m most people? Now what’s this on top of the pizza?” Thistle pointed to a brown blob that looked crumpled and nasty.

“That’s Italian sausage. Try it, very tasty,” Dick informed her. He picked a similar nugget off his piece of pizza and ate it separately, smacking his lips and smiling at the delicacy.

“Um… no thanks.” Thistle put her hands in her lap, though her tummy growled with demands for food. Not a bit of pollen or a mosquito in sight.