Barbara Dunlop - Out of Order

“No—”

“Another martini,” said Allison, holding the phone to her ear. “Make it two. You want one, Dallas?”

Dallas started to shake his head.

“Make it three,” said Allison.

Dallas gave up and sat down. It had cost him fifty bucks to get in the door. He might as well have a drink before he left.

“Greg?” said Allison, raising her voice and covering her opposite ear. “Where are you?”

There was a pause.

“I’ve been at Balley’s for half an hour. Dallas and Shelby are here.”

She glanced at Dallas, shrugging her shoulders. “Beats me.”

Then she paused again, her expression growing irritated as the seconds ticked by.

“But we talked about…”

She shook her head. “No.”

Another pause. “No. Not if you want to live.”

Her frown deepened. “Greg.” She drew his name out on a groan of exasperation.

Dallas feigned an interest in the couples gyrating on the dance floor, swearing off fiancées then and there. If a guy had to put up with whining in exchange for getting his work done on a Friday night, Dallas wanted no part of it.

“Fine,” said Allison tersely.

Dallas zeroed in on the band. They were pretty good.

“Right,” she added.

He squinted trying to make out the name stylized on the bass drum.

“Later,” she finished.

Elipso…something.

She clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Dallas, catching his gaze with her wounded blue eyes.

Oh, crap. He didn’t want to ask.

He really didn’t want to ask.

Luckily, Shelby appeared through the crowd.

Thank goodness. No, wait. He sucked in a tight breath. Not thank goodness. This was bad, too.

The shimmering emerald dress molded to her curves like a lover, showing off rounded breasts, a flat stomach, cascading over her smooth hips to mid-thigh. There was no way in the world she was wearing underwear beneath it. The realization jacked up his heart rate.

She’d pulled her hair up into a tousled bun and put on just enough makeup to deepen the color of her eyes—jade-green as they reflected the dress. Her cheekbones stood out. Her lashes were thick and lush and dark, and her full lips were something out of a midnight fantasy.

At least a dozen heads swiveled to follow her progress across the polished floor. Dallas swallowed.

The waitress set the drinks down on the table—not a moment too soon. He handed the woman his credit card and took a swig of his martini.

Shelby wriggled her way into the seat between him and Allison. “That’s better,” she sighed, scooting a little closer to the small, glass table. She picked up her own martini and crossed one gorgeous leg over the other, seeming genuinely oblivious to the stares of the men all around her.

“So, tell me what happened,” said Allison, recovering quickly from her conversation with Greg.

Shelby sucked her olive off the toothpick.

Dallas shifted in his chair.

“I lost my purse and didn’t have taxi fare,” she said.

Talk about burying the lead. Dallas crunched down on his own olive.

“Well, it’s not exactly lost,” she continued. “But it’s locked up in the Game-O-Rama. I don’t know when I’m going to get it back.”

“Go tomorrow,” said Allison.

Shelby shook her head. “I also lost my job.”

Allison sat back. “Oh, no. What did you do?”

“Nothing. My boss got arrested.”

Dallas wondered when the heck she was going to get to the part where she got arrested. Then he wondered why Allison automatically assumed Shelby had done something to get fired. Then he started wondering about Shelby’s honesty all over again.

Had she lost jobs before? Maybe pilfered merchandise from her employer?

“So how’d you end up with Dallas?” asked Allison, nodding his way.

Shelby grinned. “He bailed me out of jail.”

“I didn’t bail you out of jail,” Dallas corrected. “You weren’t in jail.”

Shelby leaned forward, giving an almost illegal view of her cleavage. “They arrested me, too. Slapped the cuffs on and everything.” Then she leaned sideways and nudged his shoulder, giving him a secretive smile.

He tried to keep his gaze under control, really he did. But a quick glance downward confirmed his suspicions that she was sans brassiere and in terrific shape.

“Dallas was great,” she said, her words turning rapid-fire as she straightened away from him. “He made them let me go. Then he bribed, like, everyone in the world to get me here so I could drink with you.”

Allison slanted Dallas a suspicious look.

What? A guy couldn’t be a good Samaritan these days?

“I simply pointed out to the officers at the Haines Street lockup that their case against her was shaky,” he said.

“You bribed the cops?” asked Allison.

“I did not bribe the cops.” He took a swallow of his martini. “I bribed the dry cleaner.”

“And the bouncer,” said Shelby.

“I tipped the bouncer,” said Dallas.

“And here we are,” said Shelby, leaning back with a happy sigh, draping her arms across the back of her chair as though all was suddenly right with her world. “Where’s Greg?” she asked Allison.

Something flashed briefly in Allison’s eyes. “Working late.”

Which was where Dallas should be, instead of taking mental liberties with Shelby’s body. Which was where he was going to go, right now before he disgusted himself further. He downed the rest of his martini.

A man tapped Shelby on the shoulder, and Dallas fought an urge to smack the guy’s hand away.

“Like to dance?” the man asked her.

“Sure,” said Shelby, rising to her feet.

“Care for another?” asked the waitress.

“Sure,” said Dallas as his gaze rested on the smooth skin reveled by the plunging V at the back of her dress—his and fifty other gazes with even less noble intentions. He probably owed it to Greg and Allison to make sure Shelby survived the evening.

He’d work all day Saturday to make it up.

COFFEE MUG STEAMING on Allison’s Formica kitchen table on Saturday morning, Shelby drew a red felt pen circle around an ad for a balloon delivery agent. Heck, she was a responsible adult, cheerful, enthusiastic, a self-starter, and she was willing to wear costumes.

Allison appeared in the doorway, leaning sideways against the white-painted jamb while she covered a wide yawn with the palm of her hand. Her dark hair was disheveled, and her flannel nightgown drooped off one shoulder. Faint traces of her mascara were smudged beneath her squinting eyes.

“What the hell are you doing up so early?” she asked. Then she spotted the coffeepot and made a beeline.

“Looking for a new job,” Shelby answered. “You suppose a balloon delivery agent would have to wear fishnet stockings?”

Allison poured a steaming mug of Costa Rican blend. “Ahh,” she sighed, inhaling deeply, closing her eyes and cradling the mug as if it were a magic elixir. “I’d say yes.”

“To the fishnet stockings or the coffee?”

“Both.” She headed for the table. “Fishnets, French maid uniform, sexy nurse outfit, you name it. And you’d probably have to learn to sing Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe.”

“I could do a clown outfit. Deliver balloons to kids.” Shelby wasn’t so crazy about the erotic slant. She looked Allison up and down. “You look like hell, you know?”

“I was two martinis ahead of you. And I was pissed at Greg.” She slumped into one of the chairs. “It’s not my fault.”

“Of course it’s not.” Shelby circled another promising ad. This one for a café waitress. It was the breakfast shift. God, she hated the breakfast shift. “Your fiancé stood you up. The evening had to suck.”