Rachel Gibson: True Confessions

Hope raised her hands to her face and rubbed her forehead. She was sorry she’d come here. Myron would pay a fine, and then be free to hassle her by morning. She’d accomplished nothing by talking to Dylan, and ultimately, she would pay for it more than Myron. Myron would pay in cash, but looking at Dylan, hearing his voice, and loving him cost Hope another chunk of her heart.

She dropped her hands and shook her head. “Just forget it,” she said. “I guess that little weasel is free to harass me.” The tears which had stung the backs of her eyes since she’d walked into the room collected on her bottom lids and blurred her vision. She wasn’t sure if she was crying out of frustration with Myron or because the man she desperately loved didn’t feel anything for her. “The restraining order means nothing to him, so just forget it.”

As if he could no longer stand the sight of her, Dylan turned his attention to his computer monitor and seemed to become instantly absorbed in whatever he read there. One appalling tear slid over her lower lashes and down her cheek.

“Just forget I was here,” she said and practically ran from the room before she embarrassed herself further.

Dylan watched Hope leave his office and rose from his chair. He started to go after her but stopped. If he caught up with her, he wasn’t certain what he’d do. He wasn’t certain he wouldn’t pull her against his chest and bury his nose in her hair. The second he’d heard she was in the building, his body had responded to her. His chest got tight and that was before she’d even walked into his office, looking incredible in a simple white shirt and jeans just tight enough to hug the curve of her sweet behind.

Thankfully, he’d been able to ignore his body. He’d been in control and handling the situation as if she were just another citizen off the street. Until she cried. Seeing her tears, he’d about jumped out of his chair and gone to her. Even after everything, she still tore him up inside. He still wanted her.

He leaned his behind against his desk and stared at the framed accommodations and service awards hanging on the wall. He remembered the day he and Hope had hiked to Sawtooth Lake and she’d joked about coming to his office and filing a complaint just in case she got lonely for him.

Ten minutes ago, when Hazel had buzzed to say Hope was in the reception area, the memory of that day had popped into his head with the subtlety of a lightning bolt. The memory of her hand on the zipper of his Levi’s and her tongue in his mouth had had him holding his breath, wondering if she’d made up an excuse just to see him. When he realized she hadn’t, there was a part of him that was disappointed as hell.

He missed Hope, or rather the Hope he thought he knew. He missed talking to her. He missed the sound of her voice and the scent of her skin. He missed making love to her and waking up seeing her head on the next pillow. But perhaps most of all, he missed looking across his dinner table and seeing her face.

He crossed one foot over the other and studied the razor crease running down the leg of his pants. As much as he missed her, and as much as he wanted her, he distrusted her that much more. Although he couldn’t reconcile the Hope he knew with the Hope who worked for a sleazy tabloid, he knew she was one and the same person. She’d put her loyalty for her job over him. She’d had two choices: her desire to report a big juicy story, or her desire for him. She hadn’t chosen him.

Dylan walked to the corner of the room and grabbed his hat from the coat rack. Now he had no choice but to forget about her. And he would. Just as soon as he took care of her problem with Myron the Masher.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Myron Lambardo sat on a stool at the Cozy Corner, munching on French fries and polishing off a BLT. He’d eaten in worse dives, he supposed. Wrestled in them, too.

Some kind of shitty country-and-western music poured from an old jukebox, and he wondered if they had any head-banging music, like Metallica. The place was deserted except for the cook, who’d gone on a break in the back, and a waitress with a long braid. Paris; he’d read her name off her tag and thought it sounded exotic. She had big hands, big bones, and big breasts. Just the sort of woman he loved to wrestle. There was a lot to grab. She brought him a refill on his Coke and didn’t stare at him like he was a freak.

“Thanks, Paris,” he said and decided to strike up a conversation and maybe get information. “Are you named after Paris, France, or Paris, Texas?”

“Neither. My mom just liked the name.”

“So do I. It sounds exotic.” He took a drink of his Coke, then asked, “How long have you lived here?”

“All of my life. Where are you from?”

“Everywhere and nowhere. I’m a professional wrestler, so I move around a lot.”

“You’re a wrestler?” Her eyes got wide, and her cheeks flushed red with excitement. “Do you know The Rock?” she asked.

“Sure,” he lied. “We’re tight.”

“Really! He’s my favorite wrestler.”

He was every woman’s favorite wrestler. The Rock was famous, and for a short time, Myron had touched a bit of fame himself. While he’d been Micky the Magical Leprechaun, people had wanted to talk to him. He’d even swung a few matches in higher-ranking venues and wrangled a few dates with normal-sized chicks. Then that bitch of a reporter, Hope Spencer, had turned him into RuPaul, and poof, it was all over.

At twenty-six, he was a has-been. He wanted the fame back. One article. All Hope had to do was write one article and restore his reputation. Give him everything he wanted, and then he’d leave her alone.

“Do you wrestle in the WWF?”

“Nah, but it’s my dream,” he confessed and polished off his BLT. The current wave of political correctness riding the country had killed the sport of midget wrestling. The WWF was too afraid of the backlash to sponsor matches, like somehow what he did was less dignified than regular-sized men. Lately, he’d been thinking of going to Mexico, where mini wrestling was big. “Have you ever thought of wrestling?”

“Me?” Paris laughed and placed a hand over her heart. “I could never wrestle.”

Myron focused on her hand and large breasts. “Sure you could, sweet thing. I bet you’d look great in spandex.” He gazed into her flushed face. “I’d love to wrestle you sometime.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She glanced over the top of his head, and a worried wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Oh, no, here comes Dylan,” she said.

Myron looked over his shoulder at the tall cowboy getting out of a sheriff’s Blazer. “Holy frijole,” he said. “You’ve got to hide me.” He jumped up onto the stool and vaulted over the counter like it was a pommel horse, landing on the other side. “If he asks about me, don’t tell him I’m here.

“I think he’s here because of something I did.”

Myron squatted down and pressed his back against the shelving behind the counter. He hoped Paris was right. He hoped the sheriff wasn’t after him. He’d heard plenty about people rotting in small-town jails, and the network of wrestlers he knew had all heard the story of the time Tiny Ted had been arrested in Oklahoma and forced to dance around like a Munchkin while singing “The Lollipop Guild” for a bunch of drunk deputies. He figured something like that had to be twice as degrading as being morphed into a drag queen.

Myron heard the door swing open, then shut, and the heavy thud of bootheels on the linoleum.

“Hey there, Paris,” said a man no more than a few feet from where Myron hid. “How are you doin‘?”

“Good. What can I get for you, Dylan?”

“Nothing. There’s a mini Winnebago outside with Las Vegas tags, and I’m looking for the owner. His name is Myron Lambardo and he’s about three-feet-six. Have you seen him?”