Unlawfully Wedded

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She went directly to the kitchen, hoping the hostility she sensed from “Mr. Theater Tickets” wasn’t going to set the tone for the evening.

“My dinners?” she called to the chef.

He looked up from his grill and said, “Almost ready.”

Snagging a halved cherry tomato and popping it in her mouth, she got up on her toes and looked out into the dining room. “Theater Tickets” looked restless.

“C’mon, Mickey,” she yelled. “Customer’s waiting.”

Clutching her tray, Tory felt an odd tingling at the base of her spine. She turned slowly and saw him lingering in the doorway.

His dark head was tilted to one side, shrouding his eyes with a disturbing shadow.

“Miss Conway,” he drawled as he pushed himself away from the doorjamb.

“Mr. Porter,” she returned with false friendliness. She surveyed his clothing and added, “I didn’t know they made silk paisley ties in clip-on.”

His laughter was deep and the sound circled her like a caress. “Mind that sharp tongue, doll. You might cut yourself.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said sweetly, “but I’ve got more important fish to serve.”

“I think you mean fry.”

For once in her life, her timing was perfect. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Mickey placed the plates of grilled fish up on the serving counter. Placing them on the tray, Tory escaped the heat of the kitchen, trying not to notice the smoldering gray eyes that bore into her back.

Over the next several hours, Tory didn’t have time to think, let alone to wonder where J.D. was hiding. The pockets of her apron began to fill to a comfortable level of tips at about the same time her feet gave out. She was bone-tired and filled with relief when the crowd thinned to just a single couple and Grif, who sat nursing his fourth drink as he watched out the window.

“Need another?” she asked cheerfully as she leaned against his table.

“Not tonight,” he said in that raspy voice that spoke of too many cigarettes. “I’m going hunting in the morning. Ever hunt with a hangover?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Tory answered with a laugh. She patted the back of his callused hand, her fingers brushing the gaudy gold band on his pudgy pinkie. “I’ll ring you out.” She often wondered why he wore that awful ring when his clothing fairly screamed aging yachtsman.

Susan was perched on one of the bar stools, counting her tips. Tory smiled as she watched the methodical way her mystical friend placed all the bills in the same direction, matching the edges on all four sides. Susan’s reverence for all things metaphysical was surpassed only by her reverence for all things monetary.

“Have a good night?” Tory queried as she ran a check through the register.

“I had a walk-out,” Susan complained. “They stuck me with two rounds of shooters with beer chasers. I hate frat boys. No class.”

“No argument,” Tory said with feeling.

She gave Grif and the couple at her other table their checks and waited to collect their money.

Rolling her head around her stiff shoulders, Tory stood on one foot and cleared her throat. The bartender managed to drag himself away from a swaying redhead to strut to her end of the bar. “Could you ring these two before you play your nightly game of roulette?”

“I’m careful, Tory.”

“The CDC would probably beg to differ,” she countered, some of the teasing gone from her voice. “They would classify you as engaging in dangerous behavior.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” he retorted. “I’ll be happy to keep tomorrow night open for you.”

“She’s busy tomorrow night.”

Tory stifled her groan when she recognized that deep voice. She was too tired to spar with J.D.

She turned in a sleek, slow movement, tilting her chin so that she met his gaze straight on. “You’re right, J.D.,” she purred.

She knew the surprise wouldn’t register anywhere other than his eyes, so that’s where she kept her attention. She waited until the gray turned dark, almost smoky. “I’m working tomorrow night.”

She brushed past him, holding crisp bills in her fist. The bartender tried to hide his laugh behind his hand. Tory felt triumphant as she placed the change in front of Grif.

“What d’ya say to him?” Grif asked, nodding in the direction of J.D.

“I told him no,” she replied honestly.

“Good for you,” Grif grumbled, peeling off some of the bills before pocketing the rest. “But he don’t look too inclined to take no for an answer.”

That wasn’t her concern, she told herself as she lingered, clearing off the tables. She even checked Susan’s tables, delaying her return to the bar until she could find no other alternative.

She noted J.D. quietly watched her from his seat near the jukebox, taking the occasional pull on a long-neck bottle of beer. His scrutiny was wreaking havoc with her nerves. I’m just tired, she insisted to herself as she re-counted one stack of crumpled bills for the third time. She soon gave up and settled for an estimate of her earnings, then divided out the appropriate percentage for the bartender.

“Thanks,” she called down to him, waving the bills and tucking them beneath an ashtray.

“Are you finished?” J.D. asked.

“Time to go home,” she answered without looking at him.