Under the Autumn Sky

“I don’t need rescuing.” She nodded at the bartender and lifted the glass he’d set in front of her to her lips. He’d been generous with the spicy rum and it burned a hot trail down her throat. “I’ve been seeing after myself for quite a while. I certainly don’t need a man doing it for me.”

“Oh, you’re one of those women.” His eyes laughed at her and she saw he liked to tease.

“What women? Just because I don’t need a man—”

“I didn’t realize you were a feminist, but I’ll buy your drink anyway.”

She laughed. “I’m not a feminist. Much. And you’re a tease.”

At this he smiled again. She felt his smile. Like really felt his smile. “I’m not a tease. I like to deliver the goods, lady.”

She sobered. “I’m not taking deliveries.”

But even as she uttered the words, an idea formed in her mind. What if. What if.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Okay, no deliveries, but will you dance?”

She looked out at the dance floor, at the couples joining hands, wrapping arms around waists, swaying to the slower rhythm of a misty-eyed country song and a long-buried urge slammed her. “Sure.”

Lou downed the last of her drink, telling herself she needed liquid courage. She hadn’t been held in a man’s arms on the dance floor since her senior prom, and Ben Braud hadn’t qualified as a man at seventeen. She set the empty glass down and took Abram’s hand.

Ten steps later, he gathered her in his arms, leading her with a smooth glide around the worn boards. For a moment, Lou forgot to breathe. It was that wonderful.

“I don’t remember the last time I danced,” Abram murmured, meeting her gaze with a shadowed one of his own.

“I do,” she said. “April 16, 2003.”

He stiffened. “Seriously? You haven’t danced in almost ten years?”

“Well, I’ve danced around my kitchen. Does that count?”

He shook his head. “I’m feeling the pressure. We’ve got to make this count.”

He spun her away from him then reeled her back in, tugging her closer to his body, before sliding left then right. Her hair fanned out behind her as they whirled around the floor. She felt his hardness against the soft parts of her body, and all her good intentions for getting home early enough to watch the Iron Chef episode she’d DVR’d earlier in the week flew right out the front door of Rendezvous.

Then and there whirling around the dance floor in the arms of a mysterious stranger, Louise Kay Boyd thought about getting a little bit of what she’d not gotten the chance to do after her daddy crashed his plane into the Ouachita National Forest, leaving her and her siblings without parents. Her days of irresponsible, selfish, wanton behavior had disappeared before she’d had the chance to use even one of them. Gone was her freshman year at Ole Miss—cramming for tests, trying pot, drinking too much and going all the way with a Kappa Sig she’d met at a kegger. Gone were the days of little responsibility and lots of spare time. They’d vanished in a whirl of funeral preparation, a looming mortgage payment, and the tear-streaked faces of her six- and seven-year-old brother and sister.

So would it be wrong to grab a little bit back?

The drinks and this sexy stranger had unwittingly unleashed pinings no one could possibly know anything about.

She didn’t know him.

He didn’t know her.

So what would it hurt to pretend to be someone other than who she was?

She was already halfway there, looking like some honky-tonk angel. No, he’d called her Cinderella. A honky-tonk Cinderella. What would it hurt to pretend herself into a fantasy for a few hours? Maybe this was her time to cut loose. Maybe this was her time to lose the monkey riding on her back.

The song ended and the band launched into a rendition of an old Kenny Chesney song mixed with something that sounded like reggae. Abram stopped and looked down at her. “You wanna go again?”

She shook her head. “Let’s get another drink.”

He nodded and curved an arm around her waist, making her feel gooey inside. Like melting caramel. She sank a little bit into him And he tightened his hand on her hip, an almost caress. Her mind said Don’t. Do. This.

But her bratty, whiny, life’s-not-fair voice said, Get jiggy with it, sister. You’ve missed out on too much. You need this.

Abram slid a hand under her elbow as she dropped onto the scarred wooden stool. Definitely a caress. Definitely revving something in her blood she’d locked away ever since her last boyfriend had unhooked her bra and slid one hand down her panties the night before he told her he was seeing someone else. She decided to give whiny, not-fair inner voice some headway.

She smiled at him and felt his reaction. He didn’t flare his nostrils or anything like some of the heroes did in those novels she kept stacked by the bed, but he got the message in her smile.

Abram beckoned the bartender again. And again the man flew to do his bidding. A rum and Coke sat before her not two minutes later joined by an ice water for Abram. “He’s bustin’ his hump for you.”

“I’m tipping him more than twenty percent. I learned long ago to treat bartenders well.” He watched her as she raised the glass to her lips. She returned his measure. He really was too good-looking. Sweet temptation swirled around her and she wondered about what it would be like to taste him. Was he good at kissing? She stared at his lips as he lifted the glass of water and drank. Was drinking supposed to be sexy?

“Hey, how’s the date going?” Mary Belle poked at her back.

“Huh?”

“The date with my cousin here,” Mary Belle said, a devilish twinkle in her eye. Lou swung around. Brenda and Brit stood behind her.

“He’s not your cousin,” Lou said, sipping the cool drink, keeping one eye on her pretend date. “And our date is going fine.”

“Yeah, we saw you dancin’,” Mary Belle said, taking the drink from Lou’s hand and taking a sip. “Brenda thinks she has food poisoning or something, so she needs to go home.”

Lou looked at Brenda who bit her lip. She did look a little pale and sweaty. “Oh, no. Sure. Let’s go.”

Mary Belle pressed her back onto the stool. “No, you stay. I’ll come back for you in an hour or so.”

“You can’t. You’ve been drinking. A lot. So I’m going with Brit.”

“I’m good, I tell ya,” Mary Belle slurred.

“Uh, no. I don’t have a death wish.” Lou slid from the stool.

“I’ll be glad to give her a ride home. I’m fine to drive,” Abram said, winking at her friends. “I am, after all, her date.”

“Perfect!” Mary Belle said, glowing in a liquor-haze.

“That’s not necessary,” Lou said, giving Brenda a concerned look. “You think it was the fajita meat, Brenda? We all had that.”

Brenda made a face. “I don’t know, but I can’t stay. I’m so sorry, baby, ruining your birthday like this. I was going to teach you that new line dance.”

“We’ll live,” Brit said, giving Brenda a smile before looking hard at Abram. “How do we know we can trust you with our friend? You could be a serial killer for all we know.”

“I’m not a serial killer.”

“Like a serial killer would admit to being one.” Brit crossed her arms and studied him. “You’re good-looking, but one of those guys was good-looking, too. Which one? Um, Gacy?”