Marilyn Pappano - One Stormy Night

The three faint lines showing where the chair had spent many hours were impossible to deny. So was the foolish feeling that curled through her. You could have told me that, Jen .

Of course, there was no response from her sister.

“I’m going to that little barbecue place out on the east side of town,” she said. “In case you lose sight of my car on the way.”

Tilting his head, he studied her a moment before saying, “I told you, I’m not working. But if you want my company for dinner, all you have to do is say so.”

She blinked at the remark, thoroughly unexpected. She wanted his company like she wanted a hole in her head. He was Taylor’s buddy. The enemy. Not to be trusted.

But someone was going to be watching her. Better him than the creepy kid who’d hung around part of the morning and all afternoon. Even with the drapes drawn, she’d known the kid was there, had felt his presence.

“I assume this restaurant requires shoes and a real shirt.”

“This is a real shirt,” he protested.

She looked at the jersey. Truthfully, it was perfectly adequate, particularly in a beach town. But it showed a lot of smooth brown skin and muscle and sinew and all that other sexy physical stuff. She would be lucky to taste her dinner, and the same could probably be said for any other female diners in the restaurant. Since she was a firm believer that barbecue, especially Southern barbecue, required all of a diner’s attention, she repeated, “Shoes and a real shirt.”

Scowling, he carried the chair, book and can into his apartment, then returned two minutes later wearing a pair of disreputable running shoes without socks and a black T-shirt with the same denim shorts.

He still looked hot.

“We’ll take my car,” he announced.

Jennifer was used to Taylor making unilateral decisions. Jessica was used to making decisions for herself. “What if I want to drive?”

He looked from the Mustang to the rental and his lip curled in a sneer. “Yeah, right.”

He was right. The temperature had dropped by fifteen degrees, but it was still a warm evening, with a nice breeze blowing in off the gulf. Who in their right mind would choose the standard rental-car sedan over a vintage Mustang convertible?

He headed toward the Mustang. It took her a moment to get her feet moving. Somewhere deep inside her brain she was sure both her sister and her conscience were telling her what a bad idea this was, but some other part of her she didn’t even want to put a name to—the risk taker? the woman? the fool?—was sticking her fingers in her metaphorical ears and babbling to block them out. It was just a short ride to the restaurant. Dinner. A short ride back. They would actually be alone ten, fifteen minutes tops. No big deal.

The Mustang’s leather seats were midnight-blue to match the exterior and still held the sun’s heat. She settled into the passenger seat, squirming a little, and fastened the seat belt. As Mitch started the engine, she dug a pair of sunglasses from her purse, put them on, then glanced at him. “Is it supposed to vibrate like that or is something wrong?”

He gave her a look she’d seen before—the condescending car guy pitying the uninformed noncar guy. “Nothing’s wrong.”

She wasn’t about to admit it, but she kind of liked the quiet rumble that all but growled “power.” She wondered how fast the car would go, how a hundred and twenty miles an hour would feel through her hair, whether he ever kicked it up and let it out. She liked the sun on her face, as well, and the feeling of openness and freedom. Maybe she would buy a convertible when she returned to Los Angeles…and choke on all that L.A. smog.

She was enjoying the ride enough that it took her a few moments to realize that they weren’t headed east. She looked around, not recognizing the road he’d turned on, then jerked her gaze to him. “This isn’t the way to the barbecue place.”

“This is the way to my favorite barbecue place. It’s better.”

“But—” She swallowed hard, the skin on her neck prickling. The street they were on was apparently part of Belmar’s poorer side of town. While the downtown area held a certain old-fashioned charm and the highways leading into town were the stereotypical gas station/motel/ fast-food strips, these blocks were just shabby. The businesses were run-down, built of cinder blocks or occupying converted old houses. The houses themselves were dilapidated, as well, and interspersed with the businesses, as if the concept of residential versus commercial hadn’t made it to this neighborhood.

“Relax,” Mitch said, then suddenly grinned wolfishly. “Trust me.”

Yeah, right .

As buildings of any sort came farther and fewer between and her heart rate started edging into double time, he slowed and turned into a gravel-and-shell parking lot. Down Home Q had once been someone’s home, with a steeply pitched tin roof and a wraparound porch. The roof was streaked red with rust, the siding aged to silver. If paint had ever coated the boards, there wasn’t so much as a flake remaining. Dark screens covered the open windows, and music and voices drifted out, along with tantalizing aromas.

Mitch parked at the end of a ragged row of cars, and they climbed the steps to the porch, where a screen door opened into the foyer, now a waiting area. The floors were wide planks of wood, the finish worn over the years, and faded cabbage-rose paper covered the walls. A wide doorway to the left opened into one dining room, a similar door on the right led to another and a hallway straight ahead went into the kitchen.

For a moment Jessica again debated the wisdom of coming here with him. Hadn’t she been stared at enough for one day? Then she took another look around. Down Home Q wasn’t Taylor’s sort of restaurant. Jen had given her pretty much the minutiae of his likes and dislikes, and this place hadn’t been mentioned at all. So far, none of the diners, plentiful in both rooms, had given them more than a disinterested glance.

A young girl came from the kitchen, her broad grin doubly bright against her ebony skin. She was about twelve, tall and gangly, waiting to grow into both her body and her beauty. “Hey, you. Daddy’s been wonderin’ where you are. Pick a table, and I’ll see if I can find someone willin’ to wait on you.”

“Aw, Shandra, you know your older sisters all fight to wait on me,” Mitch said with a wink.

She pretended to be unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth was twitching with a smile. “Yeah, you bein’ such a good tipper and all.”

“We’ll be outside.”

Mitch Lassiter, Taylor’s thug, teasing with a twelve-year-old girl. Not much surprises you , he’d told Jessica earlier, but that did.

She followed him back out the door and around the corner. There were two tables on the porch there, each with four chairs, and a box fan was braced on the railing and turned to low.

“To discourage the bugs,” he said as he sat down.

She sat opposite him, out of reach of the sun’s setting rays. The chairs were metal, mismatched and painted different shades. The table was metal, too, sporting layer upon layer of paint. The most recent was lavender; chipped places showed flamingo-pink underneath. In the center were salt and pepper shakers, a bottle of pepper sauce, ketchup, a roll of paper towels and packets of moist towelettes.

She folded her hands on the tabletop, moved them to her lap, then rested her arms on the chair arms. “The food smells good.”

“It’s the best you’ll find in town.”

She thought of the familiarity with which the girl had greeted him and the mention of her father. “You’re a regular?”

“I’m here two or three times a week. Willis’s barbecue is the best part of coming back to Belmar.”