Flirtinis with Flappers (4 page)

So, basically I had to go find a lazy, arrogant jerk who still had the ability to make my toes curl and was looking to change the world.

Oh yeah. Piece of cake.

Chicago, February 11, 1929

"Hiya, doll, wanna dance?"

My eyes fluttered open at the sudden sound of a male voice addressing me.

Was I here?

I looked around the room. No more titanium walls. No more Men in Black. Instead, I stood in a swanky, old-fashioned-club-looking place with dark mahogany furniture and ornate chandeliers. And the people! The men were dressed to the nines in smart tuxes, and the women wore loose-fitting fringed dresses with long, dangly pearls and beaded headbands. Flapper gear.

I swallowed hard. It worked. It actually worked. I'd had my doubts, believe me, as they strapped me down to the chair and put that ugly cap of weird blue gel over my head. I mean, even up to the last second, the moment of truth, when they'd pricked me with a sedative and I'd blacked out into oblivion, I'd still figured it all had to be some big game or trick. Some weird form of hypnosis or something. The concept of going back in time was way too far-fetched to be believable.

But now, as I glanced around the room with my own eyes (or technically the eyes of the girl I'd body snatched), I realized they must have been telling the truth. This looked too real to be in my head. To be a trick. There were sights, sounds, smells—I grabbed a canapé off a waiter's tray and popped it into my mouth. Yup, even tastes.

They'd actually done it. Actually sent me to the 1920s.

Holy time travel, Batman.

"What? You think you're too good for me or somethin'?"

I whirled back around, realizing that in my shock and awe of being transported through time eighty-some-odd years in what felt like no time at all, I hadn't answered the man's request for a dance. I drew in a breath.

Act normal, Dora. Stop shaking. They think you belong here. They think you're Louise Rolfe, that mobster's girlfriend. Stay in character. Just think, what would Louise do?

What
would
Louise do? How should I know what Louise would do? I didn't know anything about the chick except her name and that she dated a mobster named Machine Gun. Was she flirtatious? Shy? Silly? Serious? Would she dance with a stranger?
Was
this guy a stranger? Maybe he was her best friend.

Ohmigod. I was so in over my head.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. I was smart and savvy. Not like one of those stupid back-in-time heroines you always see in the movies or read about in books. The ones who can't adjust. Who can't play along. Who stupidly spout off pop culture references and twenty-first century-isms to anyone who will listen. Who get accused of being witches and sentenced to burn at the stake. (Of course, those heroines always ended up getting rescued by some shiny highland hero before they burned. I'd probably be stuck with someone like Nick in the hero's role, who wouldn't show up till I was nice and crispy.)

"Sure, I'll dance," I agreed cautiously.

The guy grinned, and I noticed he was in bad need of dentistry. Attractive. Very Steve Buscemi chic. However, I realized, this was not the time to be picky. After all, he could prove useful. I had three days to find out all I could about this place. To discover Nick the Prick's 1920s identity and save the world. And that would require mucho mingling to learn all I could. And Stevie here had just inadvertently volunteered to be my first victim.

Before I could start my interrogation, the guy grabbed my hand and led me toward the dance floor. I took a moment as we walked by an ornate gold mirror to take stock of myself. Or of Louise Rolfe, technically speaking.

I nearly fainted at my reflection. Oh. My. God. I was a blonde. A beautiful, bobbed blonde. I'd always wanted to be blonde, and now here I had finally gotten my wish. I wondered if I'd start having more fun immediately or if there was a break-in period. I fingered my hair, rejoicing in the silky strands. If only there was a way I could keep these locks when I went back to the future…

In addition to my blondness, I had wide blue eyes, pencil-thin eyebrows, and a red pouty mouth. I was slim and wore a black fringed dress and knee-high stockings (held up by garters—no spandex cling here!). And best of all, no ugly facial scar! I was a porcelain doll of perfection. Sweet.

I flexed my arm for a moment, fascinated by the idea of controlling someone else's body. Was Louise inside here at all, trapped in the very recesses of the brain I was borrowing? I tried to search my mind for a foreign presence but felt nothing. Nobody home. Which was probably for the best.

"Gonna check out your reflection all day, sweetheart?" the man beside me asked, looking impatient. I guess I would be too if I wanted to dance and my partner suddenly developed a fascination with his own reflection. But still! I could stare for hours. This was just too weird. Too surreal.

"Um, sorry," I muttered, feeling my/Louise's face heat. "Let's go dance."

The five-piece band at the end of the room picked that moment to strike up a slow waltz, and my partner took me in his arms. Luckily, I'd watched My Fair Lady about a hundred times too many in my musicals-obsessed youth, so I could keep up with the steps.

I swiveled my head to glance around the room in awe. So this was what 1929 looked like. Besides having watched a few movies and shows like
Boardwalk Empire
and the Baz Luhrmann version of
The Great Gatsby,
I really didn't have a good background on the decade. Was this what you called a speakeasy? It looked classier than I had imagined it would. The floors were shiny, and there were chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, and ornate gold mirrors adorned almost every wall. I guess I had thought these places would be more like dark and dirty underground dive bars.

"So, um, come here often?" I asked my dance partner, a lame attempt to start up conversation. It was a dumb line, to be sure, but I figured perhaps eighty or so years back it hadn't been made cliché yet.

"Every night," he replied, flashing his gap-toothed grin. Now that I was up close and personal, I could smell the booze and cigarettes on his breath and the sweat under his arms. Lovely. But at least I could cross him off as a possible Nick. There was no way my metrosexual ex would walk around with nasty BO. "But you should already know that, Louisey Peasey."

Ugh. I'd almost forgotten. I wasn't some stranger here. I was the gangster boss's girlfriend. Even though I didn't have a clue as to who they were, everyone here knew me.

I laughed nervously. "Oh, yeah. Right. Of course."

"Yer lookin' very pretty tonight," the man added.

"Thanks," I replied, hoping he didn't expect any compliments in return, as I'd be hard pressed to come up with one.
Lovely tobacco stainage on your remaining three and a half teeth? I was always a sucker for pockmarks? Let me run my fingers through your greasy hair?

He staggered backward for a second before righting himself, and I realized he not only smelled like booze, he was lit up like a Christmas tree. Hopefully, his inebriation didn't preclude him from acting like a gentleman, or, assignment or not, I'd
so
have to kick his butt.

Hmm.
How to start questioning him? Since I had no idea which body Nick had jumped into, I couldn't exactly describe the guy and ask my drunken dance partner if he'd seen him hanging around. So, how was I supposed to proceed? Ask if they'd noticed anyone acting weird? Like they'd been—oh, let's just say for kicks—body snatched?

Um, right.

"Yer lookin' very, very pretty, Louisey," the man slurred for a second time. I felt his fingers travel oh-so-lightly down my back. I sighed. This loser obviously wasn't going to be a wealth of information no matter what questions I came up with—at least not without me getting felt up in the process, which I was not about to submit to, even if it was for a good cause. Oh well, I couldn't really expect to waltz up to the first guy I met in the 1920s and expect him to spill the beans.

"Thanks. I think we've established that," I replied, gently pushing him away. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, of course." After all, I had to take my compliments where they came. God knew I didn't get very many these days when I was in my own skin.

The man stared at me a moment, and I could see the unmasked, drunken lust darkening his eyes. Yipes. Luckily, I managed to turn my head just as he leaned in for the kill. Or for the kiss, in this case. He ended up connecting with my ear instead, which would have been fine, except I wasn't entirely convinced he realized he'd missed his mark. Yup. Out came a slimy tongue, lapping away.

"Ew!" I cried, attempting to leap back in disgust. But the man had a kung fu grip on me, latching on to fistfuls of dress, not ready to relinquish his hold. Excellent. Now I'd have to give him the Dora Duncan special. Two seconds in the 1920s and I was already going to cause a stir. But it couldn't be helped. No man groped me. My three times a week at tae kwon do would see to that. I readied my knee for some intimate groin contact.

"Is this man bothering you?" a deep, baritone voice cut through the ear-slobbering. I lowered my knee. Maybe I wouldn't have to go all
Hunger Games
on him after all.

Sure enough, the ear-licking coward let go immediately, backing away in the most apologetic manner.

"Sorry mister, sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean nuthin' by it. Honest. I's just…drunk. Don't tell Machine Gun, please." Still mumbling his apologies, along with other less intelligible ramblings about semiautomatic weapons, he fled and disappeared into the crowd. Phew.

I turned to face my hero and offer my sincerest thanks. My eyes widened as they fell upon his face.

Wow. Talk about being saved by the hotness.

The guy who'd interrupted my dance partner's advances had to be the most delish guy I'd ever laid eyes on. About six foot, with a lanky build and dirty blond hair that he had slicked back with gel. He had a solid face with a square jaw and cheekbones that looked as if they had been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. Top that with a strong Roman nose and the most amazing, piercing blue eyes known to mankind. Think Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling rolled into one and you had your man. Yummy.

He was dressed in a sexy, well-fitted tux that accented his lean body and prompted me to fight a nearly overwhelming urge to run my fingers down his chest to see if he had the six-pack abs my sex-starved brain imagined on him. But I restrained myself. After all, he'd just saved me from a groper. Hardly appropriate to start pawing him in return.

"Thanks," I said, suddenly realizing I'd been staring and not appropriately conveying my deepest gratitude for his just-in-time rescue. Still, with a face like his he must be used to women drooling over him, unable to form complete sentences.

"Not a problem," he replied lazily. He dragged his piercing gaze down my body, and I resisted the urge to shiver at his unabashed examination of my-slash-Louise's frame. "Always got to look out for the boss's girl."

My heart sank. I'd forgotten about that tiny little detail. I couldn't be checking out hot guys while I was hanging out in Louise's body. She already had a boyfriend—and he happened to be the big mob boss. No guy in his right mind would dare touch me. There would be no flapper action in this story. I was as doomed to celibacy here as I was in the next millennium.

Um, not that I had planned on hooking up, mind you. After all, I had a mission. A job. I didn't have time to be hitting on Ryan Reynolds look-alikes anyway. Nope. No time at all.

"What's your name again?" I asked, hoping Louise wasn't bosom buddies with this guy.

"Sam," he answered, disappointment washing over his handsome face. "You don't remember me? From the other night? Wow." He shook his head. "Guess I don't make much of an impression."

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to avoid hurting his feelings. To tell him I had a terrible memory or that I was just kidding. Something. But at that moment, loud sirens started wailing, drowning out the opportunity to apologize. Sam glanced at the club's front doors and cursed under his breath.

"What's going on?" I asked, my gaze darting around the room. Utter chaos. People were running in every direction, screaming. Knocking over tables. Drinks flew. Glass shattered.

"Come on," Sam said, grabbing me by the hand. "We've got to get you out of here."

"Everyone stay where you are! Do not attempt to leave the building," a loud voice commanded from outside. Of course, no one paid any attention. Instead they ran around like kids at a busted keg party. And like those kids, it appeared many were too intoxicated to correctly determine the nearest exit.

Sam and I, hand in hand, ducked into a room at the back of the club that turned out to be the kitchen. The chefs had apparently exited stage left—no going down with the proverbial ship for them—leaving pots boiling over and thick slices of meat burning on the skillets. We ran down the center aisle (I was so wishing for my Reeboks instead of these ribbon-tied heels), out the end door, and into a long nondescript hallway.

"This way," my rescuer instructed, after looking left and right down the hall and seeing that the coast was clear. Thank goodness he knew where he was going, which also reassured me that my rescuer wasn't really Nick in disguise. This guy knew his way around. Nick would have been just as clueless as me in this foreign time period. Of course, he could have got there earlier, learned the lay of the land. But no, this guy was too smooth—too with-it—to simply be a tourist.

We ran down the hallway, our steps echoing loudly in the empty space. I sure hoped no one was too close behind us. The last thing I needed my first day of saving the 1920s world was to be locked up.

A few moments later, the hallway ended at a massive iron door with a large lock. Sam stared at the door for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and started trying various ones. None seemed to fit.