Rock Chick Redemption Page 7

  “Identify yourself,” Hank demanded.

  He waited. I waited.

  Hank was looking pissed off. I was holding my breath.

  He pulled the phone from his ear, flipped it shut one-handed and looked at me.

  “No answer?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I closed my eyes.

  His arm tightened.

  I opened them.

  “Your trouble catching up with you?” he asked.

  I bit my lip. Then I let it go.

  “Maybe.”

  “You ready to tell me about it?”

  I answered immediately. “No.”

  This made him look more pissed off.

  It might make me a freak but Hank, normally, was seriously handsome. Hank pissed off was off-the-charts handsome.

  “You’re even better looking when you’re angry.”

  Now, why did I say that?

  He stared at me and, luckily, ignored my comment.

  Then he said, “I dated a girl all through high school. She was pretty, but when she walked in a room, only I noticed her, not every fuckin’ guy in the room. She wore normal clothes, not shit that looks like it comes from the pages of a fashion magazine. She never threw attitude at anyone. She never got drunk, never listened to music too loud, never stayed out after curfew, wouldn’t know trouble if it bit her in the ass and wouldn’t even know how to keep a secret.”

  My heart clenched, definite pre-heart-attack for sure. I should have asked for CPR.

  “You should have married her,” I said, sounding uppity.

  He let me go, closed his eyes, wiped his hand on his forehead and agreed with me. “I should have married her.”

  Well!

  “If you’ll remember, I didn’t want to have dinner with you,” I reminded him.

  He dropped his hand and his eyes locked on mine, “Sunshine, you want to have dinner with me, you want me to kiss you and, later, you’re gonna beg me to do other things to you too.”

  I put my hands to my hips even as the blood rushed to very specific parts of my body. “I don’t think so, Hank Nightingale. This has officially become the shortest date in history. You want to find your high school girlfriend? Start looking now.”

  Quick as a flash, he grabbed my waist and hauled me up against his body.

  “You want to pretend you don’t feel what’s between us, be my guest,” he said, his face close to mine. “You’ll admit it soon enough.”

  “There’s nothing to feel.”

  His brows drew together. “Honestly?” he asked.

  I scowled at him because even I couldn’t utter that lie again.

  “You shouldn’t have answered my phone,” I said.

  “I thought it’d be Indy, bein’ a pain in the ass, as usual. I didn’t know the evil wind was gonna blow through just yet. I was hoping, at least, for a little time to knock down that guard you got up. Seems I’m gonna have to speed things up a bit.”

  Speed things up a bit?

  We were going Mach Five and I wasn’t even certain Mach Five existed.

  “Who was on the phone?” he asked.

  I kept up the scowl and didn’t answer.

  “Tell me one thing, are you in danger?”

  I lost my scowl and felt my body begin to melt.

  Shit.

  He was worried about me.

  Billy had taken a sledgehammer to the door and he’d put his arm to my throat, once. Even after years of me running away and more than a year of no sex, he’d never raised a hand to me after the arm incident. He was intense, that was for certain, but every time I pretended to escape, he brought me back by talking me into it (or, at least, I let him think that).

  I didn’t think I was in danger. I was just trapped.

  “I’m not in danger, I just have… a situation. I’m fixing it,” I told Hank.

  “Now isn’t the time to lie.” Hank told me in his authoritative tone.

  “I’m not lying.”

  At least, I didn’t think so, or, at least, I hoped not.

  He watched me for a while. Then he let me go but grabbed my hand, tossed the phone on the bed and pulled me toward the door.

  “Good, let’s get some food.”

  Simple as that.

  He trusted me.

  Good God.

  I yanked hard on his hand and tugged him back into the room. He allowed this until my fingers closed around my Fendi bag, then, we were off.

  Chapter Six

  Hank Speeds Things Up

  Holding my hand the whole time, he took me to his black Toyota 4Runner, helped me in, swung in the driver’s side and off we went. He drove one-handed and natural, like he was one with the 4Runner. I was beginning to think I was seriously a freak because, for some reason, the way he drove turned me on.

  Okay, maybe it was everything about Hank that turned me on.

  “Are you a vegetarian?” he asked, thankfully breaking me out of my thoughts of him turning me on.

  “I ate three pounds of meat for lunch at Jerusalem’s,” I answered.

  “Combo platter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good choice.”

  He drove me through what could not be considered the best of neighborhoods, though it also wasn’t the worst. He parked in a parking lot and I saw Denver’s light rail train slide by. The building he took me to looked like it had been yanked right out of a John Wayne western.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “Buckhorn Exchange, the oldest restaurant in Denver. Great steaks.”

  He held the door for me and I saw that the décor consisted largely of dead animal heads but somehow it seemed cozy, romantic and elegant at the same time. We sat at an intimate table for two with big, high-backed, comfy armchairs. Hank ordered a bottle of wine while I looked at the menu. It included rattlesnake, fried alligator tail, Rocky Mountain oysters and elk.

  I looked up from my menu to Hank.

  “Is the ghost of Wyatt Earp gonna walk through the door?”

  He grinned at me, “Smart ass.”

  “No, seriously.”

  The grin deepened to a smile.

  I shut up.

  “Let me order,” he said and this surprised me. I’d never met a man who ordered for me before. I didn’t even know men did that anymore.

  What the hell, when in Denver…

  “No Rocky Mountain oysters,” I replied.

  He nodded and kept smiling.

  “And no alligator tail. Alligators are cute. I’m not a vegetarian but I don’t eat cute animals. Like lamb. Lambs are cute. We can try the rattlesnake. I think I could eat snake because snakes freak me out.”

  He stared at me. The smile was gone.

  “You think alligators are cute?” he asked.

  “They always look like they’re smiling. I think alligators are misunderstood. They just want to laze in the sun and swim but people keep bothering them, forcing them to wrestle and stuff. It’s not nice.”

  He kept staring at me.

  “Do you eat cows?” he asked.

  “I try not to think of them as cows, like that cute cow, Norman, in City Slickers. I think of them as bulls. Bulls are scary.”

  More staring.

  “How about pigs?”

  “I heard somewhere that pigs are mean, they aren’t like Babe. Babe wore a toupee.”

  His lips twitched. “You are definitely related to Tex,” he remarked.

  “Well… yeah,” I replied.

  He ordered. When the wine came, we drank. When the food arrived, we ate.

  It was good food. So good, I ate it even though I was still full from lunch. Hank ordered steak and it came in one big hunk of meat, which they carved in half at the table and plonked a big, old wodge of herbed butter on top of each portion so it melted all over. It was heavenly.

  All the time in between eating and drinking, we talked.

  I was dreading it but it came easy.

  I found out that Hank was (kind of) a
second generation Coloradan, a (definite) third generation cop. His grandfather had been killed in the line of duty in New York City and, after, his grandmother had moved the family to Denver, where her sister lived.

  Hank had gone to the University of Colorado, studying pre-law, and into the Police Academy a couple of weeks after he graduated from college. His Dad didn’t want him to be a cop, he wanted him to be a lawyer, but Hank had never wanted to be anything else but an officer of the law so there you go (I was learning, quickly, that Hank kind of did whatever the hell he wanted).

  I could tell he was close with his family and he told me he’d known Indy his whole life. Her parents were best friends with his and when Indy’s Mom died young, Hank’s Mom promised to take care of Indy and make sure she was raised right. Indy and Lee had been in love as long as anyone could remember but had only gotten together recently. Eddie had been Lee’s best friend since third grade and was like a member of the family too.

  Hank skied in the winter and played softball in the summer. He listened to Springsteen and had seen him in concert three times but couldn’t say his favorite song or even favorite album; he just liked all that was Springsteen.

  This, in itself, said a lot about him.

  He was a Rockies fan, a Broncos fan and it was clear he loved his family, Denver and his job.

  I told Hank that I lived in Chicago and owned a work at home web designing business but I’d been born and raised in Brownsburg, a town fifteen miles west of Indianapolis. I told him my parents still lived there, my brother was a Park Ranger for Indiana State Parks and my sister worked in hospital administration at a medical center in Louisville. I told him I’d never been to the Indianapolis 500 but I’d been to the time trials, like, a million times. I told him I was a Cubs fan, as were all the family, but we switched staunchly to the Pacers and the Ice for our basketball and hockey needs. I explained I’d rebelled against my family’s devotion to the Colts and cheered for the Bears.

  I also told him, as was a prerequisite for anyone who lived in the Midwest, I loved REO Speedwagon (though, not the power ballads, just songs like “Roll with the Changes” and “Ridin’ the Storm Out”). I also told him I liked Springsteen but had never seen him in concert.

  Then, I’m afraid I got kind of lost in the discussion and admitted to him I loved Springsteen and thought he was a storyteller poet of biblical proportions (but I didn’t tell him I thought Springsteen had a beautiful lower lip designed by the gods because I thought that might be sharing too much). I also waxed lyrical about Mellencamp, maybe a shade too long but I’d been born in a small town and Mellencamp sang about small towns. I’d also watched a lot of my minutes turn to memories, life sweeping away the dreams that I had planned and Mellencamp sang about that too. A girl from Indiana understood those things like no one else. Springsteen might be able to tear through my heart but Mellencamp shot straight through my soul.

  When I was done talking, Hank was staring again, but this time, his eyes were soft and lazy and I felt a shiver drift across my skin.

  I didn’t tell him about Billy.

  When we were done, I declined dessert because the button of my jeans was digging into my belly. Hank paid and I began to feel relief that the date was soon to be over. If it lasted much longer, I knew I’d lose myself, I even knew I wanted to.

  In the end, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was nice. I could almost pretend I was on an actual date, a great date, instead of on the run from a criminal boyfriend who was way too possessive and not afraid of wielding a sledgehammer.

  Hank led me out the door and I began to relax thinking he’d take me home, likely kiss me (which would be a lovely addition to a lovely memory) and then we’d be done. It would suck, I’d hate it and I’d regret our timing for the rest of my life, but I was trying not to think about that.

  Instead of going to the parking lot, he guided me to the light rail platform.

  I stared at him as he bought tickets from a machine.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Takin’ you downtown.”

  I blinked.

  “I thought the date was over.”

  He grabbed my hand and moved me toward the tracks. “The date is definitely not over.”

  Shit.

  I pulled my hand out of his.

  “I’m tired. I’m full and I’m tired. It was a delicious meal and thank you but all that wine and food, I need to go to sleep.”

  What I needed to do was get out of my jeans and get away from Hank, not in that order.

  He was staring down the tracks, partially ignoring me.

  “You’ll wake up,” he said.

  “I’m cold. I didn’t bring a coat,” I tried.

  He took off his coat and settled it on my shoulders. He did the closing the edges with his hands thing again and bent his head to look down at me, standing smack in my space.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Better” was not the word for it. “The fucking best” were the words for it.

  Cripes, there was no shaking this guy.

  “You’re in my space,” I said.

  He got closer. “Yeah.”

  “Whisky, back off,” I warned.

  He grinned.

  “Roxie, relax. We’re goin’ downtown and walkin’ off the food stupor. That’s it.”

  I sighed, or more like, harrumphed.

  I supposed I could go downtown, see a bit of Denver, walk off the food stupor.

  “Oh, all right,” I gave in.

  He got even closer. Then, I kid you not, he rubbed his nose against mine and then he looked me in the eyes and my breath caught. “It’s after that you need to worry about.”

  Shit.

  I was in trouble.

  * * * * *

  We rode the light rail downtown and Hank walked me through Denver. I wore his jacket and at first, he held my hand. Then, he dropped my hand and pulled me into his side with his arm around my shoulders.

  I allowed this because I decided that to get through the night, I was going to pretend to be someone else. I was going to pretend to be the Roxanne Giselle Logan before Billy Flynn, who hadn’t yet made a stupid decision that fucked up her life. The Roxanne Giselle Logan who deserved to be out on a date with a tall, handsome guy named Hank Nightingale.

  I was going to give myself this one night of pretend.

  “You can walk in those shoes?” Hank asked.

  “I can play basketball in these shoes,” I told him, and I wasn’t lying. I’d been wearing high heels since my Mom bought me those little, pink, plastic kiddie go-aheads when I was five.

  “Your feet hurt, let me know.”

  Shit.

  He was a good guy, through and through.

  We walked down 16th Street Mall and the streets were packed with people even though it was Monday night. Bars were hopping, restaurants were jammed, lights were shining, it was gorgeous and alive. He walked me through Writer Square and down to Wazee Supper Club where he bought me a drink and we talked some more.

  We were heading back up 16th Street Mall and I knew the date was about to come to a close. It was getting late and Hank had to go and do good deeds tomorrow. As for me, I had to sort out my life.

  Then, I saw the horse drawn carriages.

  I loved horses.

  Okay, it was safe to say I loved anything with fur.

  “Just a sec,” I said to Hank and pulled away from his arm around my shoulders and walked to the driver.

  “Can I pet your horse?” I asked him with a smile.

  “Sure,” the driver replied.

  I walked up to the horse and ran my hand down his satin nose. “Hey, big fella,” I whispered to him. He lifted his head with a jerk then settled and nuzzled my neck. I couldn’t help but let out a low giggle, mainly because it tickled.

  “Likes you,” the driver said.

  “I smell like food,” I told him.

  “Likes food too.”

  I kept stroking and Hank allowed it
for a little while and then pulled me away. The horse turned his head to watch me go (so I gave him a little wave) and I started up the sidewalk but Hank guided me toward the carriage.

  “What are you…?” I started to ask.

  “Get in, we’re gonna ride,” Hank said.

  I stared at him, then I stared at the driver.

  “No,” I whispered.

  I couldn’t take it. An evening with delicious food at a romantic restaurant, wine, good conversation, a walk through the streets of Denver wearing Hank’s jacket, now a carriage ride. It was too much. I couldn’t withstand it. I’d never been in a horse drawn carriage. I’d begun to believe I’d never have anything romantic happen to me, except in a scary Bonnie and Clyde type way where I’d end up riddled with bullets if Billy’s stink settled on me.

  Billy had never taken me on a horse drawn carriage ride. Billy had promised a million romantic promises but he’d never even bought me flowers. Hell, none of my boyfriends ever bought me flowers.

  “What’s the matter?” Hank asked when my body locked and refused to move.

  I felt it happening. I hated it when it happened without warning. My nose was stinging and I was trying to fight it but I just knew I was going to cry.

  Hank turned me to him and looked down at me.

  My nostrils were quivering.

  Shit!

  There was nothing worse than the nostril quiver.

  I dropped my head.

  His hand came to my neck. He cocked his head and bent low to look at me. “Jesus, Roxie, what’s the matter?”

  “Let’s just go,” I whispered.

  “She okay?” the driver asked.

  “Sunshine…” Hank said softly, his hand at my neck sliding around my shoulders and his other hand going around my waist, pulling me to him.

  “Let’s just go,” I repeated but it was kind of muffled against his chest because my head was still tilted down and my face was pressed against him.

  “You want my hankie?” the driver asked.

  One of Hank’s hands went away then came back to my chin and he tilted my head up. This was unfortunate considering the fact that I was now out-and-out crying.

  I slid my eyes to the side so I couldn’t see Hank because everyone knew, in an embarrassing situation, if you couldn’t see the person you were trying to hide from, they weren’t actually there.