Natural Born Charmer, Page 2

  Dean couldn’t take any more, and he ambled forward. Over the years, he’d seen enough film of himself to know the impression he made when he ambled—the way his long physique displayed itself to full advantage. He also suspected the afternoon sun might be setting off some fairly inspirational pyrotechnics in his dark blond hair. Up until he was twenty-eight, he’d sported a honkin’ pair of diamond ear studs, but that had been youthful overkill, and now he wore only a watch.

  Even with broken glasses, Monty saw him coming and blanched. “You’re a witness,” poetry boy whimpered. “You saw what she did.”

  “All I saw…,” Dean drawled, “…was one more reason we’re not inviting you to our wedding.” He made his way to the Beav’s side, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and gazed fondly into her startled lollipop eyes. “I apologize, sweetheart. I should have believed you when you said William Shakespeare here didn’t deserve closure to your relationship. But I had to go and encourage you to come talk to the poor son of a bitch. Next time, remind me to trust your judgment. But you have to admit that you should have changed out of your costume first like I told you. Our sex life isn’t anybody else’s business.”

  The Beav didn’t look like the kind of woman who could easily be caught by surprise, but it seemed like he’d done it, and for a man who made his living with words, Monty’s verbal well had run dry. Poor Sally could barely manage a croak. “You’re marrying Blue?”

  “I couldn’t be more surprised myself.” Dean gave a modest shrug. “Who figured she’d have me?”

  And, really, what more could they say after that?

  When Monty finally got his breath back, he started whining again about Blue doing something with “it,” which Dean finally figured out was an apparently valuable bootleg CD of the original press of Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks that Monty had accidentally left behind at the rooming house.

  “There are only a thousand in existence!” he cried.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-nine,” the Beav retorted. “Your copy went out with the trash the minute I finished reading your letter.”

  Monty was pretty much a broken man after that, but Dean couldn’t resist twisting the knife. As Poetry Man and Sally began climbing in their car, he turned back to the Beav and spoke just loudly enough for his words to drift in their direction. “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s head for the city so we can get a start on buying that two-carat diamond you’ve got your heart set on.”

  He swore he heard Monty whimper.

  The Beav’s triumph was short-lived. The Focus had barely made it out of the driveway before the front door of the ranch house flew open and a heavyset woman with dyed black hair, painted eyebrows, and a doughy face lumbered onto the porch. “What’s going on out here?”

  The Beav stared at the dust cloud on the road, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Domestic altercation.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I knew the minute I seen you that you was trouble. I never should have let you stay here.” She started lambasting the Beav, which gave Dean enough information to piece a few facts together. It seemed that Monty had been living in the rooming house up until ten days ago, when he’d taken off with Sally. The Beav had arrived a day later, found his kiss-off letter, and decided to stay put until she figured out what to do next.

  Sweat beads broke out on the landlady’s forehead. “I don’t want you in my house.”

  The Beav couldn’t seem to regain her fighting spirit. “I’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow.”

  “You’d better have the eighty-two dollars you owe me.”

  “Of course I have—” The Beav’s head shot up. With a muttered oath, she pushed past her landlady and rushed inside.

  The woman turned her attention to Dean and then to his car. Generally, the entire population of North America lined up to kiss his butt, but she didn’t seem to watch a lot of football. “You a drug dealer? If you got drugs in that car, I’m calling the sheriff.”

  “Some Extra Strength Tylenol.” Plus a few bottles of prescription pain relievers he decided not to mention.

  “You’re a real wise guy.” The landlady shot him a dark look and turned back into the house. Dean regarded her disappearance with regret. Apparently the fun was over.

  He didn’t look forward to getting back on the road, despite the fact that he’d taken this trip so he could sort out a few things. Mainly the end of an unbroken string of good luck. He’d suffered his share of bumps and bruises playing football, but nothing major. Eight years in the NFL and he’d never broken an ankle, torn an ACL, or shredded an Achilles tendon. Not so much as a broken finger.

  But that had ended three months ago with a fourth-quarter sack in the AFC Divisional playoffs against the Steelers. He’d dislocated his shoulder and suffered a SLAP lesion. The surgery was successful. His shoulder would serve him for another few seasons, but it would never be as good as new, and that was the problem. He’d gotten used to thinking of himself as invincible. Injuries happened to other players, not to him, not until now.

  His charmed life had come to an end in other ways. He’d started spending too much time in the clubs. Before long, guys he barely knew were moving into his guest rooms, and naked women were passed out in his bathtub. He’d finally decided to take off on a solo road trip, but fifty miles outside the Vegas city limits, he’d concluded that Sin City wasn’t the best place to straighten out his head, which was how he happened to be heading east across the state of Colorado.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t do solitude well. Instead of getting some perspective, he’d only ended up more depressed. The Beav’s adventures had been a great distraction that had, sadly, come to an end.

  As he began to get back into his car, the shrill sounds of a female argument broke out. The next thing he knew, the screen door flew open, and a suitcase came sailing out. It landed in the yard, where it split open, spewing its contents: jeans and tops, a purple bra, and some orange panties. Next came a navy duffel. And then the Beav.

  “Deadbeat!” the landlady shouted just before she slammed the door.

  The Beaver had to grab an iron post to keep from falling off the porch. Once she got her balance back, she didn’t seem to know what to do, so she sank down on the top step and dropped her head in her paws.

  She’d said her car wasn’t running, which gave him a good excuse to postpone enduring more of his own lousy companionship. “Need a lift?” he called out.

  As she raised her head, she looked surprised to see he was still around. The fact that a woman had forgotten his existence was unusual right there, which further caught his interest. She hesitated, then came awkwardly to her feet. “All right.”

  He helped her gather up her things, mainly handling the delicate objects that required manual dexterity. Like panties. As something of a connoisseur, he judged hers to be more Wal-Mart than Agent Provocateur, but she still had a nice assortment of bikinis in bright colors and bold prints. No thongs, though. And, most disconcerting, no lace. Since the Beav’s delicate, pointed face—minus the sweat and the accompanying fur—belonged in a Mother Goose book, there should have been lace.

  “Judging by your former landlady’s attitude,” he said as he loaded her suitcase and duffel into the Vanguard’s trunk, “I’m guessing you’re missing eighty-two dollars’ rent money.”

  “More than that. I had two hundred dollars tucked away in that room.”

  “You’ve got a string of bad luck going for yourself.”

  “I’m used to it. Not that it’s all just bad luck. Some of it is plain old stupidity.” She gazed at the house. “I knew Monty would come back here as soon as I found that Dylan CD under the bed. But instead of hiding my money in the car, I tucked it inside the new issue of People. Monty hates People. He says only cretins read it, so I was sure the money’d be safe.”

  Dean wasn’t a regular People reader, but he had a certain loyalty. During his photo shoot, the staff couldn’t have been nicer.

  “I�
��m assuming you want to go to Ben’s Big Beaver Lumberyard,” he said after he’d helped her inside. “Unless you’re trying to set a fashion trend.”

  “Will you let it go?” The Beav had taken a powerful dislike to him, which was more than a little disconcerting, since she was female and he was…well…Dean Robillard. She spotted the map he’d tossed down. “Tennessee?”

  “I have a vacation place not too far from Nashville.” Last week he’d liked the sound of those words. Now he wasn’t so sure. He might live in Chicago, but he was a California boy through and through, so why had he bought a Tennessee farm?

  “You’re a country western singer?”

  He thought it over. “Nope. You were nearly right the first time. I’m a movie star.”

  “I never heard of you.”

  “Did you see the new Reese Witherspoon film?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was in the one right before that.”

  “Sure you were.” She gave a long sigh and rested her head against the back of the seat. “You have an incredible car. Expensive clothes. My life gets suckier and suckier. I’ve fallen in with a drug dealer.”

  “I’m not a drug dealer!” he retorted hotly.

  “You’re not a movie star.”

  “Don’t rub it in. The truth is, I’m a semifamous male model with ambitions of being a movie star.”

  “You’re gay.” She made it a statement, not a question, which would have upset a lot of jocks, but he had a big gay fan base, and he didn’t believe in disrespecting the people who supported him.

  “Yeah, but I’m totally in the closet.”

  Being gay might have some advantages, he decided. Not the reality of it—he couldn’t even think about that—but hanging out with interesting women without worrying about leading them on. Over the past fifteen years, he’d expended too much energy convincing some very nice females they weren’t going to be the mother of his children, but gay men never had that problem. They could relax and just be pals. He glanced over at her. “Word gets out about my sexual preference, it’ll ruin my career, so I’d appreciate you keeping the information to yourself.”

  She lifted one damp eyebrow. “Like it’s some big secret. I knew you were gay five seconds after I met you.”

  She had to be putting him on.

  She started working away at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Do you mind if I tag along with you for a while today?”

  “You’re leaving your car behind?”

  “It’s not worth repairing. Ben can have it towed. With the missing beaver head and all, it’s a good bet I won’t get paid, so he owes me.”

  Dean thought about it. Sally had called it right. The Beav was a ballbuster, his least favorite kind of female. But she was also entertaining. “We’ll try it for a couple of hours,” he said, “but I’m not promising more than that.”

  They pulled up in front of a corrugated metal building painted an unfortunate shade of turquoise. It was Sunday afternoon, and the gravel parking lot at Ben’s Big Beaver Lumberyard held only two vehicles, a rusted-out blue Camaro and a late-model pickup. A CLOSED sign swung from a pair of suction cups on the door, which was still wedged open to catch the breeze. Ever the gentleman, he got out to help her. “Watch your tail there.”

  She gave him a withering glare, managed a slightly more graceful exit, and shuffled to the lumberyard door. As she opened it, he glimpsed a barrel-chested man stacking a display. She disappeared inside.

  He’d just finished surveying the unimpressive scenery—a collection of Dumpsters and some power lines—when she stomped back out, a bundle of clothes in her arms. “Ben’s wife cut her hand, and he had to take her to the emergency room. That’s why she didn’t pick me up. Unfortunately, I can’t get out of this thing by myself.” She shot a disgruntled look toward the guy in the store. “And I refuse to let a professional sex deviant unzip me.”

  Dean smiled. Who knew there were so many advantages to an alternative lifestyle? “I’ll be glad to help.”

  He followed her around the side of the building where a peeling metal door held the faded silhouette of a beaver wearing a hair bow. The bathroom was a one-seater, not exactly clean, but marginally acceptable, with white, cinder block walls, and a fly-specked mirror bolted above the sink. As she looked around for a clean place to set her bundle of clothes, he lowered the toilet seat lid and—out of respect for his gay brethren—covered it with a couple of paper towels.

  She put her clothes down and turned her back to him. “There’s a zipper.”

  In unventilated quarters the beaver suit stank more than a gym locker, but as a veteran of more two-a-day practices than he could count, he’d smelled worse. A lot worse. Some of her damp, baby-fine dark hair had escaped from that sad excuse for a ponytail, and he pushed it away from the nape of her neck, which was milk white except for the faintest trace of a pale blue vein. He poked around in the mangy fur until he found the zipper. He was damn good at undressing women, but he’d barely lowered the tab an inch before it caught in the fur. He worked it free, but after another few inches, it caught again.

  It went on that way, stop and start, the parting fur revealing an ever expanding wedge of milky skin, and the longer it took to unzip her, the less gay he felt. He tried to distract himself with conversation. “So what gave me away? How did you know I wasn’t straight?”

  “Are you sure you won’t be offended?” she asked with phony solicitude.

  “The truth shall set me free.”

  “Well, you’re totally buff, but those are designer muscles. You didn’t get a chest like that roofing houses.”

  “Lots of men go to the gym.” He resisted the urge to blow on her damp skin.

  “Yes, but what straight guy doesn’t have a chin scar someplace, or a nose bump? Your profile is more chiseled than Mount Rushmore.”

  It was true. Dean’s face had remained remarkably unscathed. His shoulder, however, was another story.

  “Then there’s your hair. Thick, shiny, blond. How many products did you use on it this morning? Never mind. It’ll just make me feel inferior.”

  The only thing he’d used on his hair that morning was shampoo. Good shampoo, it was true, but, still, shampoo. “It’s all in the cut,” he said, his cut having been administered by Oprah’s hairstylist.

  “Those jeans didn’t come from the Gap.”

  Correct.

  “And you’re wearing gay boots.”

  “These are not gay boots! I paid twelve hundred dollars for them.”

  “Exactly,” she said triumphantly. “What straight man would pay twelve hundred dollars for boots?”

  Not even her asinine assessment of his footwear could cool him off because he’d reached her waist, and, as he’d imagined, she wasn’t wearing a bra. The frail bumps of her spine disappeared into the furry V of her costume like a delicate pearl necklace being swallowed by Bigfoot. It took all his considerable willpower not to slip his hands inside, slide them around, and explore exactly what the Beav had going on for herself.

  “What’s taking you so long?” she asked.

  “The zipper keeps getting stuck, that’s what.” He sounded grouchy, but his jeans hadn’t been designed to accommodate what they now needed to accommodate. “If you think you can do this faster, you’re welcome to try.”

  “It’s hot in here.”

  “Tell me about it.” With one last tug, he reached the end of the zipper, which was a good six inches below her waist. He took in the curve of her hip along with a narrow band of bright red elastic.

  She pulled away, and as she turned to him, she crossed her paws over her chest to hold the suit in place. “I can take it from here.”

  “Oh, please. Like you have anything I’d be interested in seeing.”

  The corner of her mouth ticked, but whether from amusement or annoyance, he couldn’t tell. “Out.”

  Oh, well…He’d tried.

  Before he left, she passed over her keys and asked him, none too politely, to g
et her stuff from her car. Inside the dented trunk he found a couple of plastic milk crates stuffed with art supplies, some paint-splattered toolboxes, and a big canvas tote. He’d just loaded them in his car when the guy who’d been working inside came out to inspect his Vanquish. He had oily hair and a beer gut. Something told Dean this was the alleged sex deviant who’d earned the wrath of the Beav.

  “Man, that is a sweet machine. I saw one of them in that James Bond movie.” And then, as he got a good look at Dean, “Holy shit! You’re Dean Robillard. What’re you doin’ around here?”

  “Just passing through.”

  The guy started sputtering. “Gawdamn. Ben should have made Sheryl drive her own big ass to the hospital. Wait’ll I tell him The Boo was here.”

  Dean’s college teammates had stuck him with the moniker because of the amount of time he’d spent at Malibu Beach, which was nicknamed “The Boo” by the locals.

  “I saw that sack you took in the Steelers game. How’s your shoulder doing?”

  “Coming along,” Dean replied. It’d be coming along a lot better if he stopped driving around the country feeling sorry for himself and started doing his physical therapy.

  The guy introduced himself as Glenn, then launched into a review of the Stars’ entire season. Dean nodded automatically, all the while wishing the Beav would hurry up. But a good ten minutes passed before she emerged. He took in her wardrobe.

  This was just wrong.

  Bo Peep had been kidnapped by a Hells Angels gang. Instead of a ruffly gown, pink bonnet, and shepherd’s crook, she’d decked herself out in a faded black muscle shirt, baggy jeans, and the big old work boots he’d seen in the bathroom but mercifully forgotten. Defurred and delicate, she was maybe five four, and as thin as he’d imagined, right down to her chest, which was definitely female, but hardly memorable. Apparently, she’d spent most of her bathroom time washing up, because as she came closer, he smelled soap instead of musty fur. Her wet, dark hair lay flat against her head like spilled ink. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not that she needed much with that creamy skin. Still, a little lipstick and a dab of mascara wouldn’t have hurt her.