Isabel Sharpe Page 6

  If her luck held, Stoner would have nothing better to do after his gig than take every stitch of it all the way off.

  EXACTLY EIGHT O’CLOCK. Melanie stayed in her car, peering at the bar entrance. For once, for once she was on time—and she didn’t want to be. Preparations for her date had gone at the speed of light. She’d known exactly what she was going to wear, which cut at least forty-five minutes. Then, once downstairs, she couldn’t stand being around her mother’s silent disapproval. Mom hadn’t even met Stoner. How she’d figured out he was “wrong” for her was beyond Melanie. In any case, she was over her family trying to talk her out of what she had to do. Alana, Mom, Gran and Grandad—did they think she was just flitting around from one feel-good moment to the next without giving her actions any thought whatsoever?

  Apparently.

  Well, guess what, she’d given her own life a lot of thought, thank you very much, and had come to a rational and mature realization. She couldn’t change her character before she was ready to, and she wasn’t ready to. So…she could sit around beating herself up, wishing she was different, or she could en joy life, accepting the consequences of her choices.

  Seemed like a no-brainer to her.

  Gran and Grandad, Alana and Tricia wanted Melanie to be someone else. For some reason she hadn’t been able to make them understand it was like trying to convince an apple to be an orange, or a mosquito to be a fly. Or a Melanie to be an Alana. Ahem.

  She glanced at her watch again. One minute after eight. She should wait at least fifteen minutes before…

  Aw, to hell with it. Bouncing out of her car, she hurried down the sidewalk to the bar entrance, pushed her way in and eagerly scanned the interior.

  There. There he was. Stoner. God, he was sexy. So masculine, so handsome, all in black again—did he own clothes in other colors? Fine by her if he didn’t. Everyone knew dark colors attracted heat, and Melanie was heat personified.

  She hurried forward and stopped short when Stoner leaned to his left to speak to someone. Someone unmistakable, even though all she could see was the back of his head. Edgar.

  Oh, my God.

  Her reaction surprised her almost as much as seeing him.

  Okay, regroup. It was fine that he was here. Really. Fine.

  It just didn’t feel fine, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because of that weird joke he’d pulled in the office. Maybe Tricia’s odd conviction that Melanie was in love with him.

  Arghh. She couldn’t stand being anything but happy around Edgar. He was such a bright spot in her life, a good friend amid the parade of changing lovers. If her mom’s misguided theory ruined their close friendship, Tricia would have a lot more to pay for than destroying Melanie’s childhood.

  So. Edgar was here on her date with Stoner. Okay.

  She continued her purposeful stride forward—as purposeful as she could manage through the bodies. Edgar wouldn’t stay long. He liked his bars as quiet as libraries.

  “Hi, there.” She smiled warmly at Stoner.

  “Mel-an-ie.” He gave her outfit a searing once-over with those hot blue eyes. “Baby, you are looking fine.”

  “Thanks, Stoner.” She nodded to Edgar, for the first time ever wishing he wasn’t around, because she wanted to kiss Stoner’s sexy lips more than she wanted to go on breathing. He was the most incredible kisser. “Edgar, what a surprise. This isn’t your type of place.”

  He shook his head, looking more miserable than she would have expected. It wasn’t even that crowded yet. Ten o’clock and patrons would be elbow to elbow. “Stoner convinced me to come out with him. I didn’t realize…that you…”

  He didn’t know she was coming? Would that have made a difference? She glanced at Stoner, wondering why he hadn’t told his brother this was their date, but his eyes were wandering, his finger tapping on their table in time to the pumping music.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m here, Edgar?”

  If he did, part of her would die. She would never want to have to choose between Stoner and Edgar. She couldn’t. “No. No. It’s fine. It’s great.”

  He did mind. This was awful. She needed to make him comfortable, show him the three of them could work even if it was weird for him at first that she and Stoner were together. If the way Stoner had checked her out was anything to go by, there would be plenty of time for kissing later on. She’d stay away from him now. Though frankly, she wanted to put her hands all over and all under black cotton and leather and send them both to heaven.

  “I’ll get you a drink, Mel.” Edgar tried to flag a passing waitress, who ignored him. “Thanks, Edgar.”

  “Excuse me!” He called to another woman with a tray, who also ignored him.

  “Nah, little bro, this round’s on me. What’ll you have, Melanie?”

  “How about a cosmopolitan?” She beamed at Stoner, noticing Edgar scowling in her peripheral vision. For heaven’s sake, she couldn’t even smile at her own lover?

  “And another beer for me. Edgar, what’s that…thing you’re drinking?”

  “Courvoisier XO Imperial.”

  “Got it. Yo’, right here, darling.’” He beckoned with one finger to a stunning redheaded waitress way across the room, who immediately made a beeline for him. Edgar’s scowl grew darker. Did these two compete?

  Worse and worse.

  “What’ll you have, sweetie?” The waitress stood too close to Stoner, offering a sexy smile and a view of her cleavage, which he seemed to be enjoying.

  Men.

  “Refill for me, another fancy-pants brandy for my brother here, and the lady will have your very best cosmo, straight up.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” She gave him the barest suggestion of a pouting air kiss and headed for the bar.

  “This is shaping up to be an excellent weekend.” Stoner winked at Melanie, which made her forgive him the boob-peeking, and slapped Edgar on the back. “You guys should come hear me play tonight.”

  “Thanks, not me.” Edgar looked pained.

  “Edgar, Edgar, Edgar.” Stoner shook his head. “Dude.”

  “It’s not his scene, Stoner.” Melanie was annoyed on Edgar’s behalf. He was into what he was into. Stoner shouldn’t be berating him for that. She sure knew what that felt like. “I’ll come, though.”

  “I thought you were going out with girlfriends.”

  Oops. She forgot she was “busy.” Who could she ask for a last-minute date on a Saturday night? None of her regular crowd would be at home with nothing to do. Alana wouldn’t be caught dead at any bar that would hire Stoner’s band. Damn. Maybe she’d swallow what was left of her pride and sneak in by herself, see if she and Stoner could spend some more bed-rumpling time. “Yeah, we’ll catch the last set, maybe.”

  “That’d be excellent.” He grinned and her blood ran hotter. He was right. This would be a really good weekend. She was ravenous for a repeat, to reassure herself she hadn’t imagined any of the deep emotions they’d shared Thursday night. Because honestly, seeing him here now wasn’t exactly…

  Well, he was very hot, but…

  She didn’t quite feel…

  Stop! She wasn’t going to start doubting the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  “Stoner, where does your music take you next?” She couldn’t bear to think that he’d be leaving. Ever.

  “Indiana, then to Cleveland, Harrisburg, and on east to Connecticut before we start heading south—Carolinas, Georgia, maybe Florida.”

  “Wow, lots of traveling.” She wasn’t sure she would like that life. Maybe if they got serious he’d agree to settle down for her.

  “Yeah, lots of traveling.” He continued to look around the bar, drumming incessantly on the table. She would have preferred he be unable to take his eyes off her. At least Edgar seemed to be paying attention. She’d bend over to flaunt her cleavage for Stoner, which usually trapped any pair of eyes fueled by testosterone, but she didn’t want him comparing her to the considerably better endowed waitress.


  “You must love what you do enough to make all that wandering worth it.”

  “Worth it? You kidding me? I love the road. Damn, it’s the life. New places, new faces, wine, women and song, you know? What’s not to love?”

  Melanie started feeling a little sick. That didn’t sound like the words of a man ready to settle down, even for her. And she didn’t like the plural “women.”

  “Ugh.” Edgar made a face. “I’d rather be chained to a rock with vultures eating my liver.”

  “Dude, that is nasty.” Stoner grimaced. “Man, the stuff you come up with.”

  Melanie blinked. She wasn’t exactly an intellectual, but even she recognized the mythological reference. “That was the Greek gods’ punishment for Prometheus, who gave fire to humans.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Stoner nodded vigorously, obviously embarrassed. “I knew that. I did.”

  “Here we go.” The waitress put down their drinks and winked alluringly at Stoner. Melanie grabbed her cosmopolitan and toasted Stoner, then Edgar, before taking a large gulp. This outing wasn’t what she had expected. The dynamic was very, very weird. She’d always been comfortable around Edgar. And Stoner…well they should be acknowledging something about what had gone on the other night, shouldn’t they? Playing footsie under the table, unable to tear their eyes off each other? Something? Shouldn’t she be feeling at least a vestige of that incredibly powerful emotion around him? All she felt was her usual lust.

  “Cheers.” Stoner tipped his beer glass up and emptied half of it down his throat. “Ahhh, good stuff. Edgar, my man, what’s new in the fencing world?”

  “Not much this time of year. Competition heats up again in the fall.”

  “You watch fencing?” Melanie turned to Edgar. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know it was broadcasted.”

  Stoner laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Melanie started to wonder how many beers he’d had. “Babe, he doesn’t watch fencing, he is fencing. Champion of our high school. Wisconsin Division champion. He never told you?”

  She gave Edgar an incredulous look. “Why didn’t you?’

  “Dude!” Stoner slammed his fist on the table. “Where are your balls? Impress the lady, for God’s sake. Hell, it even impresses me.”

  Edgar shrugged, looking down at his drink. “Didn’t think it would interest you, Mel.”

  “Edgar!” She cried out in pained protest and had to lower her voice. “I’m your best friend. I want to know everything about you.”

  “Well, now you know.” He looked up then, his blue eyes, so like Stoner’s, almost defiant. She felt a funny jolt when he made the contact, and had to look away.

  “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  “He’s a cross-dresser.” Stoner nudged Edgar with his elbow. “Black lace panties and antique corsets and lace-up boots with stiletto—”

  “Stop. It’s not funny.”

  Both men turned in surprise. Melanie would have turned to herself in surprise, too, if she’d been physically able to. Where had that come from? A wave of annoyance at this guy who was supposed to be the love of her life? She just couldn’t connect the man here tonight with the tender passionate hero of the darkness. It made no sense.

  If Edgar hadn’t admitted he was kidding about it being him in bed with her that night…

  No. She couldn’t think about that anymore. It was just too…she didn’t know. Threatening. No, not that. Sort of…wrong.

  “Sorry, Ed.” Stoner narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at Melanie, as if he was expending major brain power calculating something. “I was out of line.”

  “S’okay.” Edgar threw her a speculative look, too.

  She was getting really sick of people trying to figure her out without her permission. “When you’re not traveling, Stoner, what do you do for fun?”

  “Oh, well, I’m really into World of Warcraft. Amazing game. I could spend the rest of my life in that world.” He finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “I like to hang with friends, watch football, basketball. Rock out on guitar, of course. Oh, and movies. I’m a big movie buff.”

  “Cool.” Melanie grinned hopefully. She wasn’t much into computer gaming or football, but movies she could relate to. “Edgar and I just saw Charlie Bartlett. I thought it was really fresh and fun. Did you see that? About the rich kid who sells pharmaceuticals and therapy to his high school classmates?”

  “Hmm.” Stoner scratched contemplatively under his chin. “Missed that one. Did you see Saw 5? I just rented that again. Great movie.”

  “Saw 5?” She frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  “Fifth in the Saw series.”

  Melanie’s eyes shot wide. “Fifth? As in there were also Saws 1, 2, 3 and 4 and I never heard of any of them?”

  “You should be glad,” Edgar said.

  “Babe, where have you been? Greatest slasher films ever made. There’s this scene in Saw 5 where this guy has his head in a box, and the box starts filling up with water. He has to give himself a tracheotomy. Man, that was so intense. Cutting into your own throat like that? Killer.”

  “Ew.” Melanie couldn’t think of any other fitting comment.

  “At the end the only two survivors of this whole gang have to fill buckets with blood, but since their friends aren’t there anymore to help, they have to cut off their own…”

  Melanie tuned him out, drowned herself, without benefit of a tracheotomy, in her cosmopolitan. Who was this guy? How could he be so different today than he’d been that night in Edgar’s apartment? So devoid of sweetness or sensitivity? This made no sense.

  There was only one solution she could think of, only one way of figuring out what Stoner had in common with her perfect lover.

  And that was to get him in bed again as soon as she possibly could.

  5

  TRICIA SAT MOTIONLESS on the floor of her childhood bedroom, now the guest room in a house that belonged to her daughters, in the half-lotus position, palms up on her knees, thumbs and forefingers in chin mudra—forming a circuit so her body’s energy could flow down to the tip of her fingers and circle back up her arms. The hand position also represented the rising of the higher mind over material and bodily concerns—forefinger over thumb.

  She’d been meditating for half an hour, but her usual quick descent into peacefulness hadn’t come easily today. Melanie was out with this Stoner person tonight, and Tricia’s instincts were flashing warnings. The description of Stoner provided by Alana that morning while Melanie had been in the dressing room didn’t help.

  The only thing Tricia couldn’t fit into Melanie’s pattern of chasing bad boys—one Tricia understood all too well—was how she had behaved when she’d come home from spending the night with Stoner. She’d acted like a woman truly in love, but nothing about Stoner seemed to inspire such depth of emotion. Tricia knew that great sex could count for a lot of fluttery excitement. But not love.

  She pushed the conscious thoughts out of her head, leaving herself open to her inner voice, which never failed her. If only she’d discovered meditation during what she now called her wasted years. So many people put so much energy into ignoring those internal nudges pointing them to the truth. Tricia had not only ignored them, but unfailingly chosen to act in direct opposition.

  Swaying gently, she sank further into her trance.

  Help her.

  The voice was adamant. Tricia’s conscious instincts had been correct. Melanie needed her help.

  She waited expectantly, calm, head clear, full of the joyful peace she never found any other way.

  Unfortunately, the voice wasn’t going to tell her how.

  Body heavy and relaxed, she opened her eyes and let herself come slowly to the present, aware of the carpet under her, the rose-colored bedspreads over the twin beds, her easel set up in the corner, the Impressionist prints on the walls. When she was a girl, those walls had been a collage of pictures and posters cut from teen magazines or mailed from fan clubs—Da
vid Cassidy, Randolph Mantooth from the TV show Emergency!, Richard Hatch from the first Battlestar Galactica series, Alan Alda from M*A*S*H. Always men. She so wished she hadn’t passed that obsession along. At least Alana had escaped it.

  Enough. Tricia had decided that her life would not be about regretting the past, but about looking forward to her remaining decades, building a life she could be proud of when she came to its end.

  She got up, wincing slightly when her knees took a few seconds to un-stiff themselves. She was in decent shape, had started working out when she went clean, but some things about aging you just couldn’t fight. After shaking out her legs one at a time, she stretched her arms up to the ceiling, wondering how to help her younger daughter.

  According to Melanie, she’d already tried to love a “nice guy” when she’d invited her friend Sawyer to be her roommate, but Alana had shown up right when he’d moved in—apparently straight into Alana’s bed. “By mistake,” Alana had insisted. Tricia smiled and moved to the back window, gazing at the stately elm in the yard. There were no mistakes. Fate had brought Alana and Sawyer together, just as fate had brought Tricia home when her younger daughter needed her most.

  Melanie did need a “nice guy” to ease her away from Stoner and his type. Tricia would help her find the right man. Somehow.

  Since she hadn’t lived in Milwaukee for decades and wasn’t keen on looking up people who knew her then, Tricia wasn’t going to be much help introducing Melanie around. However, the Internet was full of dating sites. She could go online and find a decent, responsible man with a regular job and a real name. Or several decent responsible men, so Melanie could choose.

  Onward. Tricia went next door into Melanie’s room, smiling at the chaos that so reminded her of the state of her own childhood bedroom. Clothes here, jewelry there, firefighter calendar on the wall, the Betty Boop clock and telephone that Tricia had sent for Melanie’s tenth birthday—even though Melanie had no idea who Betty Boop was back then.