Just My Type (18 page)
Apparently Scandalous Somethings did not promise their patrons that they would be discreet in shipping. Not only was their name written in large, bright pink script across the front, their logo was a cartoon phallic shape thrust through a pink heart. Really understated. Whether Sara had missed checking the box that said “plain wrapper requested” or not, she’d apparently found the Rush Delivery box. The words were also bright and big across the front.
There was no way he was leaving that box unopened.
Inside he’d found the flavored body powder she’d mentioned to him. In two flavors.
He happened to like both cotton candy and banana splits. A lot.
Then there were the pasties. Three different designs. That would look incredibly hot on Sara.
Of course, anything would look incredibly hot on Sara. Just as nothing at all looked incredibly…
Hell. He should have never opened the box.
Now that bright pink tissue paper was spread across her sofa cushions, he couldn’t stop. The box was too big to not promise more than pasties and powder.
So he found the wedge. The pink, fur-covered wedge. In case he didn’t know what it was for, there was a picture on the label. Of a naked couple quite pleased with the positions afforded by the wedge. All four of the positions depicted. Then there were the words “and many more” under the pictures.
Many more. Three more came to mind right away.
Damn.
He almost dreaded digging further into the box. He did it anyway. Because he was a masochist.
There were four silk ties. One for each wrist and ankle. In—big surprise—pink. Along with two mini-vibrators “for tongue, fingers or anywhere else your imagination can think of”. Finally, he found the big vibrator. Full-sized. At least. It was also pink.
He turned the end, which switched it on. It came with batteries. They worked great.
100
Just My Type
He was going home. To Oscar. Right now.
“I’ll be back in time to start the shift,” he told Kevin.
Kevin pushed his now-empty plate away and took a slug of coffee. “You sure?”
“Of course. I’m just going to check on Sara.”
“Has she called?”
“No.” Which was making him nervous. When she’d realized she was alone, with no car, poor cell reception, no Internet, he’d expected her to be on the kitchen phone to him.
What was she doing?
There wasn’t much she could get into on the farm. One of the reasons it was a good place to keep her.
Still, he was going to check on her. And deliver her package.
“I can come back and pick you up in about an hour. I have to go over and pick up my dad’s order at the lumberyard. I’ll take it home and then I’ll come back for you.” Sean was her neighbor, as it turned out. He was seventeen and lived with his mom and dad on the farm just down the road from Mac. He was also the one who had driven past in his red pickup when she’d been standing on the front step in only a bedsheet.
Sara had sat on the front steps of the house, leafing through an old newspaper, the Oscar Reporter, for about fifteen minutes before Sean drove by again. She’d waved to him as he’d, predictably, slowed by her driveway. Being a friendly, small-town boy, he’d waved back and then turned into the driveway when she motioned him in.
After explaining her dilemma, he’d been more than happy to help. He was going in to town anyway, it was no bother.
“That would be great.”
What she was going to do for an hour in downtown Oscar, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t impose on him any further. His dad had sent him to town on an errand and she didn’t want him to get into trouble.
He explained that school started for the year on Monday and he was hurrying to help his dad finish some projects before he was in class all day. He was a senior at Riverside Community Schools, the consolidated school the kids from Oscar and two neighboring towns attended.
So far she knew there was a grocery store, where Sean dropped her off, a city hall and a bakery. Oh, and the lumberyard, of course. She needed the grocery store, but wasn’t going to carry perishables around for an hour. Other than that, she wasn’t sure Oscar had anything she needed.
Until she came to Style With A Smile. Quite obviously a beauty salon. Suddenly Sara felt right at home.
This
was universal, this was where she could feel right at home, this was…
Nothing like Omaha.
101
Erin Nicholas
When the bell above the door tinkled as she walked in, every eye in the place turned toward her.
There were three stylist chairs, all full. Three stylists, all at least twenty years older than Sara. Five chairs in the waiting area, also full. And Elvis singing from the stereo speakers.
Every eye not only took notice of her, but traveled from the top of her high- and low-lighted blond hair, over the turquoise sundress that dipped low in back and rode high on her thighs, to the three-inch turquoise open-toed shoes, to the tips of her French manicured toes with the carefully applied turquoise swirls.
“Honey, you lost?” asked the woman nearest the door, scissors still poised over the head of the woman who sat in the chair before her.
“N-no.” Sara put on her best smile. She wasn’t used to being eyed so critically. Goodness, most of the time people commented positively on her clothes, hair and makeup.
The teens she worked with were not well off at all, yet instead of wanting her to dress down to fit in, they loved living vicariously through her fashions and styles. She’d learned early that they wanted to see her in the newest trends, wearing and buying the things they couldn’t have. Of course, her hand-me-downs made it to the center long before they were truly ready to be taken from her closet. And once a month the students at the local cosmetology academy came by to give free manicures and pedicures to the girls. She loved helping the girls find new hairstyles or earrings—also handed down from her own collection or from her sister, sister-in-law or even Danika’s sisters—that made the girls feel pretty and more confident.
She knew the focus on pampering and beauty tips reinforced Mac and the gang’s idea of her as a princess, but she knew the truth: everyone, even at-risk teens—maybe
especially
at-risk teens—deserved to feel special and frivolous as times. Those kids didn’t have enough frivolous in their lives.
Jessica and Ben gave free medical care, Sam and Mac and the rest, including Danika, taught the kids practical things like car care, cooking, plumbing and wiring. How to dress up a pair of jeans and how to make homemade lip gloss were Sara’s contributions. They were important too. The girls loved the things she taught them.
On the contrary, these women made her feel like she’d just told a raunchy joke in the middle of a tea party.
Giving people money was always a good way to get on their good side. “I’m hoping to get a manicure.” She held her hands up and wiggled her fingers. She didn’t
need
one but she wouldn’t mind a color change and it would kill some time. It would also allow her to meet some locals.
Some locals who acted as though she’d just spoken Swahili to them.
The not-answering-just-staring-at-her went on for several seconds.
Finally, the redhead rolling the white hair of the woman in the middle chair said, “We don’t do manicures on Tuesdays.”
Sara blinked at her. “Today is Wednesday.”
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Just My Type
“Or Wednesdays,” the woman washing hair in the farthest chair said.
Uh-huh. Right. Okay.
She was perky and sweet, not slow.
“Then I’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Sara said, with fake brightness. The five women sitting in the waiting area were still staring at her. She just gave them a big smile of their own. “You’re obviously very busy.”
The only woman in the chairs to even attempt a smile said, “Oh, only Helen’s waiting.” She gestured at the frail-looking woman with stark-white hair. “The rest of us are just chatting.” Upon closer observation, the rest of the group all had coffee cups in various states of full in hand. “I see,” Sara said politely. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, it’s great you came in.”
Sara was surprised and almost replied to the friendly comment. Then the woman continued.
“You’ve just given us something new to talk about for the next week. At least.” Sara wasn’t sure what to say to that, but conversation seemed expected. “I don’t suppose any of you ladies would know someone who cleans houses?”
Again there were several seconds of silence following her words. Did they need an interpreter? Or subtitles? Sign language?
Finally, one of the women in the chairs looked around at the others. “Someone who cleans houses?”
“Yes.” Sara smiled a smile even these strangers would know was phony. “The house is in need of a floor-to-ceiling spruce up.” She looked around at the faces that were either frowning or looking confused.
“
The
house?” one woman asked.
“M-my house.” She did not stutter.
“We know a few women who clean houses,” another said.
“Oh. Well…” What she was about to say seemed like the wrong thing to say even before she said it out loud. “That’s…exactly what I need.” Sara wondered why she felt like she had just waded into a shark tank.
“Yeah. All of us clean.” A few snickers met the woman’s comment. “
Our own
houses.” That was why.
“The cleaning supplies are in aisle four at the store. You might want to start there.” Sara took a breath in and then let it out, trying once more for a smile. She
never
had trouble smiling, and she was getting ticked about the difficulty presented here. She wasn’t asking anyone for a kidney, nor had she announced that these women all had ugly children. Yet, they were still treating her…like this.
“I’m sorry I bothered you.” It was time for a gracious exit.
“Which house is your house?” someone asked before she could escape.
103
Erin Nicholas
Could she get away with just leaving without answering? She looked around at the twenty-two eyes intent upon her.
Probably not.
“It’s…um…” There was that damned
um
again. “Mac Gordon’s house,” she said.
“I thought you said
your
house.”
“Yes. My house. Mine and Mac’s.”
“Mac?”
She was a patient person. She hung out with teenagers most of the time. And her siblings. And Dooley and Kevin. And, well, Mac. She had to be patient to maintain a healthy blood pressure.
“Yes. Mac.”
“Do you mean
Jason
?”
She was either going to stop speaking, or carry cue cards so she didn’t have to worry about if she was being understood.
“No. Mac. Mac Gordon. Very tall, broad shoulders, shaves his head.”
“Right.
Jason
.”
She’d never heard anyone call him Jason. The minister in St. Croix hadn’t called him Jason. She hadn’t looked closely at his signature on the marriage license but surely she would have noticed him signing Jason. Wouldn’t she? Okay, she hadn’t really been paying attention to those details.
How, in all the years she’d known him, had she missed that his real name was Jason, though? She thought she knew a lot about him. She thought she knew
him
. And all this time she hadn’t even know his name. That felt weird and the obvious next question was, what else didn’t she know about her husband?
The women were all looking at her waiting for a response. “I’ve never heard him tell anyone his name is Jason,” she said truthfully.
“I heard they called him Mac in college,” one of the coffee drinkers commented, addressing the other women instead of Sara.
“His middle name is MacDonald,” the woman having her hair set supplied.
“His mother was a MacDonald,” someone else said.
“My sister married a MacDonald. The first time,” another commented.
Sara started to inch toward the door.
“You’re
living
with Jason Gordon?”
Once again the spotlight shone brightly.
“Um.” She had the feeling the sharks were circling for more. “Yes. Just got here last night.”
“Really.” The woman trimming hair nearest the door paused and put her scissors down. “Where’s Jason?”
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Just My Type
“In Omaha,” Sara said, knowing
she
would have been thinking what the hell is he doing in Omaha while she’s here? “Working.”
“Did you get kicked out of your apartment?”
Sara blinked at the woman who had asked. The question was so ridiculous she wasn’t sure how to answer. “No. Of course not.”
“Did your house burn down?”
She frowned. “No. Nothing like that.”
“So you’re just here for…”
Sara raised an eyebrow at the impertinent question. “For good,” she said. Then she went for the shock value. “After all, this is where my husband lives. Where else would I live?” The long silence was much more satisfying this time.
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Jason?”
“Yes.”
“You’re married to Jason?”
“Yes.”
There wasn’t even a creak of a chair spring.
“Since when?” someone finally asked.
“Since Tuesday.”
“We haven’t heard a thing about it.”
“I’m sorry.” Though she wasn’t. At all.
“Was it one of those drunken Vegas weddings?”
Now she was getting irritated. “No. We were completely sober. It was on a beautiful beach on St.
Croix.”
“Is that Mexico?”
“The Virgin Islands,” she replied easily.
“Are you pregnant?”
She was expecting that one. “No, I’m not.” She smoothed her dress over her flat stomach. It was catty and she thoroughly enjoyed it. She’d probably feel bad about it later, but for now she was able to give an actual smile.
“So you just…eloped?”
“Yes.” She wished she didn’t feel the need, but she said, “Mac and I have known each other for thirteen years. We’re very close and have an amazing chemistry. It may come as a surprise to you all, but it was quite inevitable to us.”
