Beyond Daring

The picket signs were out, men in blue-collar clothes fighting for fair wages, and naturally, the giant blow-up rat that looked as if it came out of a Tim Burton movie. No strike was complete without the rat.

He and Mercedes stood outside the ESPN Sports-Zone restaurant, waiting for Sheldon.

And waiting.

And waiting.

She was late.

Jeff checked his watch and was considering calling her on his cell when he spied the blond hair blowing in the summer wind. Heads turned as she walked by, they always did, wondering who she was. Some people knew and whispered. Those were the ones who followed the tabloids.

Yeah, Sheldon drew eyes. She always drew Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t understand her, but he liked to look at her, that was for sure.

There was an energy about Sheldon, an electricity, and no matter how empty and unthinking she appeared, she couldn’t hide the energy. Sometimes, like now, she let it shine, and when she did, even Times Square looked dim.

She saw him and waved, and half of the picket line waved back.

“That’s her, right?” asked Mercedes, poking him in the ribs.

“Yeah.”

“Why’s she wearing a suit?”

Hallelujah, Sheldon was wearing a demure blue blazer and matching skirt. Yeah, the skirt was kinda short, but he’d take his victories where he could.

“Because she’s finally starting to listen to me,” answered Jeff.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sheldon said, coming up through the crowd, flushed and out of breath. She looked at Mercedes. “I know you, don’t I? I really suck at names. I’m Sheldon.”

“Mercedes Brooks.”

“Ahh…” she said, and she looked at Jeff, wheels spinning behind expressionless blue eyes. “This is your sister? The Red Choo Diaries?”

“You know?” said Mercedes.

“Hell, yes. I never miss it.”

And that was a disaster waiting to strike. Jeff took Sheldon by the arm, away from Mercedes’s sly maneuverings before his sister could damage Sheldon’s reputation even more. “Right. Sheldon, let’s go over to the picket line. I’ve talked to the union boss, and there’s some press lined up, too. I wrote a few lines for you. You don’t have to say much. Pick up the picket sign, walk with the workers, maybe do some chanting. Smile and wave. Look pretty. That’s pretty much it. Can you handle this?” Jeff handed her the piece of paper with his notes.

She looked over the paper, looked back up at him, blinking fair, soft-looking lashes. “Smile, wave, look pretty? Sure. Not a problem.”

There was something different about her today. Too eager, too cooperative, too peppy. Sheldon was never peppy. Jeff tried to ignore the pit in his stomach that said something was wrong with this picture. He watched her walk toward the line, brisk, businesslike and completely confident.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

Cameras started to flash, and she raised a hand and waved to everyone. Tourists stopped in the middle of Times Square, trying to figure out which movie star she was.

Mercedes walked over to where Jeff was standing. “You know, I didn’t give her enough credit. She’s definitely working this, isn’t she?”

Sure enough, Sheldon was shaking hands with the workers, talking to one reporter, and in general, dazzling them all.

The pit in his stomach grew two sizes, and Jeff made his way through the strikers. Just as he arrived at the front lines, Sheldon held up a hand and the buzz of the crowd quieted.

“When I read about the electricians’ union going on strike, I got mad. This city depends on the electricians to keep Times Square lit up, to keep businesses and hospitals going, in fact, electricians keep people alive. The city depends on electricians to handle the millions of dollars that flow in and out of Wall Street every day.”

That was all good, that was all scripted. Jeff began to relax. Then Sheldon turned to the union chief, a grizzled fifty-something with tattooed arms and a blue union cap on his head. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Al.” he answered, blushing.

She put an arm around the man, drawing him into her world. “We’re behind you, Al. The city won’t forget about you.” She pulled a man who was dressed in a suit from the crowd.

“And what’s your name, sir?”

The guy shut off his cell and smiled for the photographers. “Tom.”

“Tom, do you support Al here?”

Tom blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Sheldon smiled. “So do I. In fact…”

She tugged off her jacket, revealing a lacy black bra beneath. Instantly, the men went wild and a million cameras flashed.

“Oh, this is great stuff for the blog!” Mercedes dove into her purse and produced a digital camera.

Sheldon reached around her back and Jeff closed his eyes.

He knew. He just knew.

A huge cheer went up and Jeff opened his eyes.

There was Sheldon, surrounded by two thousand members of New York City’s electricians union, holding the bra triumphantly above her head. Jeff knew their thoughts exactly as they goggled at the golden skin that would never need airbrushing, and the two perfect breasts. Breasts that made his mouth water.

And because of the press he had supplied, invited actually, it was a picture that most of the world would see in tomorrow’s papers.

Sheldon grinned, threw her bra in the direction of the photographers and posed. Then, with a satisfied smile, she put back on the demure blue jacket and walked over to Jeff, confident, brisk. Once again, all business.

She grinned at him. “You know, I gotta say, this was a super-great idea. Score one for the ‘little man,’ right?”

4

SHELDON WALKED TWO BLOCKS before Jeff spoke to her. Even then he didn’t say anything to her, just pointed toward a coffee shop, like an owner disciplining a pet.

Oh, he was furious. Steaming. She could see the heat rolling off him. She should laugh, but that would be petty, so she stayed with the ever-popular vacant and guileless expressions.

Once they were inside the café, he sat her down abruptly. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

Obediently, she sat, her face resting on one hand, watching as he went to the counter. The T-shirt was wonderfully fitted. Knowing Jeff, he had planned it that way, and the jeans—oh, mama. Sheldon didn’t usually find herself leering at a man’s body, she’d always considered herself a face girl, but Jeff’s body was so pleasing to the eye, she could study him for days—and nights. She wasn’t nearly done ogling him when he returned with two lattes.