Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (15 page)

Jake thought he heard Tony groan, but he might be mistaken. It could be the motor.

“When was the last time you went to confession?”

This time Tony’s groan was loud and clear. “You want to take over the wheel?” he yelled to Jake.

“Not a chance!” Jake yelled back, even when Tony’s eyes pleaded with him. Jake pretended not to notice.
Better him than me.

“You got a hope chest?” Tante Lulu asked Tony then.

Jake couldn’t help but let out a hoot of laughter at the old bat’s good-hearted lunacy.

Now they were approaching
Sweet Jinx,
which was anchored up ahead. As they got closer, he saw everyone lined up along the rail. His heart hammered against his chest as he tried to pick out Ronnie. Nothing unusual there. Even after more than a decade, it was his standard reaction. That, and a hard-on.

There were two guys in diving suits, Famosa and LeDeux. Frank and Flossie were waving wildly at him. At least someone was glad to see him. Then there was Brenda, who was talking to Steve.

And—son of a bitch!—was that Ronnie in a gold bathing suit, with her hair piled atop her head in a pigtail, like one of those Pixie dolls, and with all that bare skin sporting a nice, healthy tan? He started to smile, then stopped. Peachey stood next to her, an arm on her shoulder—all six-foot-four of him with his twelve-pack abs and Popeye muscular arms.
Show-off!

Frank had been right. Ronnie was about to make a big mistake. Well, he was here now. He would set her on the right course.

He hoped.

That funny voice in his head was laughing.

Or maybe it was Tante Lulu, standing next to him. She shoved something into his hand. “Here, honey. I think yer gonna need this.”

It was another one of those plastic St. Jude’s statues. He was about to tell her that she’d already given him one when she was here last, but then he decided a double dose of St. Jude might be a good idea, in case hopelessness entered the picture.

Once the boat was secured, he and Tony climbed up the rope ladder after Tante Lulu, who almost fell trying to carry her purse, which was so big she could hide a pig in there; knowing her, maybe she had.

After vaulting over the rail, Jake shook hands with Frank.

“Ahoy, matey,” he joked.

“Welcome aboard, you scurvy dog,” Frank joked back.

“Hey, all this pirate lingo makes me think we should be belting out some sea chanties,” LeDeux said. “Like, ‘Hey, ho, blow the man.’”

“You, idiot!” Famosa shook his head at LeDeux. “It’s supposed to be, ‘Hey, ho, blow the man
down.
’”

LeDeux tapped his chin thoughtfully, then grinned. “I like my version better.”

Enough of this nonsense!
Jake headed for Ronnie, who was glaring at him. Not a good sign. “Hey, baby,” he greeted her. “Nice bathing suit.”

“Shut up,” she said.

Whoa! That’s a little extreme, dontcha think?
What he said was, “Aye, aye, cap’n.”

She looked like she might like to see him walk the plank or swab decks indefinitely. For sure, he didn’t think she would be hoisting any tankards with him anytime soon.

“Am I sensing a little hostility here?” he asked.

“If I had a gun, I’d probably shoot you.”

Steve said, “Uh, I can—”

“Don’t even think it,” Ronnie said quickly, shooting daggers at Steve. Then she turned and was about to stomp away from Jake. That’s when he got a view of the back of her suit. First of all, the whole one-piece suit was made of some shiny gold material with black squiggles along the edges—not Ronnie’s style at all. The front was fairly conservative, except for being cut high on the hips, making her long legs seem even longer. It was the back that made him almost swallow his tongue. It was cut so low that the top of her buttocks were almost exposed. He raised his sunglasses on his head to get a better look.

What is going on here?
Unfortunately, he made the mistake of speaking his thoughts aloud. “What’s going on here?”

She spun on her heels and caught him ogling her butt.

It had been his experience that women did not like men to stare at their butts, and Ronnie was no exception. Not that women didn’t wear clothes to accentuate said butts, but he was no fool. He wasn’t about to mention that female illogic, not in her present mood.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Hello to you, too, darling.
“Come to work on the Pink Project.”

“You’re a little bit late, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.

“Does Frank have something to do with this?”

“No,” he lied.

“You liar!”

“Just a little bit.”

She put her hands on her hips, waiting. Which called attention to her bathing suit. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Call me crazy, but are those sperm?”

“What?”

“Those black squiggles on your suit look like sperm. Yep, sperm chasing each other’s tails.”

She glanced down at her chest to check out the decoration on the neckline. Then her nicely tanned face turned beet red. “You moron! Only you would think something like that.”

“I thought it, too,” her grandfather piped in, then had the good sense to let Flossie lead him away.

“What does Frank have to do with your being here?”

He shifted from foot to foot. This was not turning out like he’d expected. Yeah, he’d anticipated that she’d be a little miffed. But after that, a hug at least would have been nice. “He might have mentioned that you were about to make a big mistake, but that’s not why I came. Not really.”

“A big mistake?” She frowned with confusion.

Jake’s eyes shot to Peachey, who was standing there, way too interested in their conversation. Jake glowered at the jerk, but did he get the hint and take a hike? Nope.

“You are a real piece of work,” she said, coming up to him and wagging a finger in his face. The wagging finger was a sure sign she was about to go on a tear. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me.”

“No, no, no! That is so not true.” Jake noticed everyone standing around listening to them. So, he took her by the hand. “Let’s talk in private.” He proceeded to pull her toward the other end of the boat, but she balked.

Peachey stepped forward and said, “The lady doesn’t appear willing.”

Mr. Amish SEAL is challenging me?
“Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

Okay, the guy is probably a little more physically fit than I am. Okay, a lot more. Okay, he could probably beat me to a pulp, or crush me by sitting on my chest with that walnut-cracker ass. Navy SEALs know secret ways to kill people, don’t they? But I can’t just stand here. I have to stand up for my woman.
He thought about saying, “You want a piece of me?” but settled for, “I. Don’t. Think. So,” through gritted teeth.

“Stop it! Stop it, both of you!” Ronnie shouted. To Peachey, she added, “I’ll talk to you later.” To Jake, she said, “Come with me.”

Jake gave Peachey a gloating look, but Ronnie spoiled the effect by kicking him in the shin with her sandals, which hurt . . . a little.

When they were somewhat out of sight, Ronnie turned and confronted him. “Why are you here? I thought you were off somewhere gambling.”

Jake winced at the sneer that accompanied
gambling,
but then that was nothing new. “I reached a point where I had to ask myself, Do I want to slit my wrists or jump off a cliff?” When that didn’t bring even a crack in her evil glower, he went on. “Life is like a poker game . . . ,” he began.

She put her face in her hand for a moment. Ronnie never did appreciate his poker metaphors.

“Life is like a poker game,” he barreled on nonetheless. “As long as the river card is still in the deck, there is always hope.”

“Oh, Jake! I gave up hoping a long time ago.”

“Listen, Frank told me how great you’ve been doing out here on the water. No seasickness. No fear of drowning. If you can change, so can I.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

He couldn’t let her go without a fight. He just couldn’t. “I’ve been miserable.” He stepped forward, reaching for her. “I want to kiss you so bad, my lips ache.”

She jumped back, putting some distance between them. He knew without a doubt that if he kissed her, the game would be over. He and Ronnie had a chemistry that defied logic and description. By stepping back, she was making sure they couldn’t touch.

“I’m always miserable when I’m not with you, but this time it’s worse than it’s ever been.”

“Couldn’t have been too bad. You managed to have sex with, live with, and get engaged to another woman during that time.”

She has a point there.
“I was kidding myself. I think it was my lame effort to get over you once and for all. It didn’t work.”

“And Trish?”

“I broke it off with Trish—for good. None of this ring-on-the-right-finger bullshit, either.”

Not even a hint of a smile.

“I told her yesterday. There’s no turning back. Please, honey, I am so fucking lonely without you.”

“I’ve heard that song before,” she said.

“So have I,” he reminded her gently. He couldn’t resist then; he reached up to tweak her cute top-of-the-head ponytail.

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare give me that look.”

“What look?”

“You know exactly what look. You have it down pat. The I-love-you-so-much-baby-I-can’t-live-without-you-let’s-go-have-makeup-sex look.”

Which made her glare even more.

“I love you,” he said, as if that said it all, which it did, but it wasn’t cracking any . . . walnuts . . . with Ronnie.

“What’s different now than the other four times?”

I shoulda had a plan. I shoulda thought this out more. Ronnie always wants to have details. Think, buddy, think. And make it good.
He stuck a hand in his shorts’ right pocket and fingered his worry beads.

Her eyes shot to his pocket. She knew exactly what he was doing. The witch.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he started, gulping a few times. “I’m staying this time. No running when you jerk my chain. No running when I feel the walls crowding me in. No running when it seems like our marriage doesn’t have a shot in hell. No running when your grandmother bitch-slaps me, figuratively speaking. No running when you tell me you hate poker. No running when you roll your eyes at my Sting CD collection. Tante Lulu told me that people today give up too quickly, and I’m thinkin’—”

“You’re taking advice from that woman?”

“She’s not so bad.”
I can’t believe I am defending her. God would be proud of me; no, St. Jude would be proud of me.
“She’s gonna get me a hope chest.”

That made her jaw drop practically to her sperm-chasing chest.

“And we could study tantric sex together.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, trying to lighten the mood.

“Dream on,” she said.

“That’s an Aerosmith song,” he continued to joke. She wasn’t buying his humor. “Listen, Ronnie, I’m going to do anything I can to make it work this time. Anything. It may have taken me forever, but I surrender. I can’t live without you.”

“Anything?”

“Yep.”
Practically.

“Would you give up gambling?”

“Yes.”
Probably.

“And get a real job?”

“Absolutely.”
Eventually.

“And buy a house with a white picket fence?”

“I’ll even throw in a dog.”
But no picket fence.

“And babies?”

That stopped him. Ronnie had never yearned for children—at least she hadn’t in the past. But she knew how much
he
did not want kids, considering the zoo he’d grown up in—a single child raised on a farm by ex-hippie parents who resembled the Osbournes more than the Cleavers. Vicious arguments had been the norm in their household. They’d been so loud he had sometimes hidden under the bed when a child; then they would be all lovey-dovey afterward. No wonder he always left before Ronnie’s arguments with him reached that level. Still, as he had in the past, he told her, “If you want.” But then he made the mistake of going too far. “In fact, I think we should have five kids.”

“You are weirding me out.” She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. “You are so full of it. Honest to God, you almost had me there.”

“I was telling the truth,” he protested.

“Stay away from me, Jake. I don’t want you within ten feet of me on this boat, and then I want you out of my life when we get off this boat.”

That hurt. Bad. “Sorry, honey, but there’s no going back for me now. You are my mission.”

He heard her mutter something as she walked away. It was either “mission impossible” or “miserable idiot.”

Hah! She didn’t know about his secret weapon. He fingered the item in his other pocket.

St. Jude.

Chapter
16

THE TEQUILA WEDDING

Blame it on the tequila, baby . . .

Three years had passed since their second ill-fated marriage, which had lasted only two years, and it would soon be the seventh anniversary of their Sappy Wedding. He was in Tijuana for a poker tournament, drowning himself in tequila. Tequila margaritas to be precise. Lots of them.

It was either fate or God playing a practical joke, but, unbeknownst to him, Ronnie was registered at the same hotel for a lawyer’s conference. Who knew stiff-necked attorney types did their boring legal stuff in Tijuana, of all places! You’d think they’d go somewhere like Boise or Akron.

Anyhow, he was sitting there, minding his own business, getting pleasantly crocked, when in walked Ronnie with a group of her colleagues. They were all dressed like librarians, even the men, with business suits, no-nonsense shoes, and expressions that pretty much amounted to sucking lemons as they viewed the other lowly occupants of the hotel bar.

Two things happened to Jake at once: his heart squeezed with the pain of their separation, and another part of his body squeezed, then burst into life again.

She took one look at him, then did a double take. She probably groaned then, but he was too poleaxed to notice. All he knew was that, within minutes, she was sitting at his table and, by her third tequila margarita, no longer looking librarianish. In fact, her hair was half in and half out of its bun. She ditched the suit jacket and unbuttoned a few buttons on her silk blouse. The heat, dontcha know. Ha, ha, ha!

He was no better. Somehow, he’d found a sombrero. Better that than a lamp shade, he supposed.

Then, after her fourth tequila margarita—they were having a contest—she got up on the dance floor, by herself, much to the amusement of the small band and the customers, and did her own version of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca.” A mighty fine version, he had to admit. When he told her so, she admitted, “I’ve been taking belly-dancing lessons. That’s why I’m so limber.”

He choked on his drink, then developed an overwhelming desire to see just how limber she was—up close and personal. Like, naked.

“Why belly dancing?” he asked with a surprisingly casual voice, even though his dick was doing its own belly dance. “I mean, it’s not your usual style.”

Her head shot up, and her honey-brown eyes glared at him with affront. “My usual style? Do you mean boring?”

He made the mistake of laughing.

“If you must know, I heard that belly dancers have better orgasms.” She licked the salt off her lips with the tip of her tongue. She might as well have been licking his cock for all the effect it had on him. He had to restrain himself from leaping over the table to help her out with the licking. Luckily, or not so luckily, he controlled himself. Otherwise, he would have missed her follow-up. “I’m planning on having lots of those—orgasms, I mean—with other men.” She topped that off by bursting into tears.

The weeping blindsided him. Ronnie was usually so in control of her emotions. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Even at their divorce hearings, one and two, she’d sat there stone-faced while he’d felt like broken glass inside.

He slid his chair around the table and put an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. She proceeded to wet his skin with her tears. “Ah, Ronnie, don’t do that. Please, honey, don’t cry.”

“I . . . I . . . can’t . . . help . . . it,” she sputtered. “You make me so mad. It’s all your fault.”

Isn’t that just like a woman? Blame it on the man.
“Why?”

“I miss you so much.”

He shared her emotion. And, dammit, he felt like crying himself.

He knew how this woman looked when she climaxed. He knew how she sometimes snored softly when she slept. He knew she had a mole on her left breast. He knew where her G-spot was and her eight other most erotic spots. He knew she got sick from red wine and drunk on just three glasses of wine. He knew her, period.

And she knew him equally well.

Taking a napkin off the table, he used it to wipe away her tears, all the time murmuring, “Shhh, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”

Finally, she settled down and apologized for her outburst. He slid his chair back to his position, opposite her. His heart was thudding madly, just waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. Both of them stared down at the table, too overwhelmed with emotions they had tamped down for one long year.

Finally, Jake raised his head and looked at Ronnie. She looked back at him. Their gazes held for several heart-pounding moments. And they knew in that instant that they were going to kick the marriage bucket a third time.

Two hours later, married again, they could barely keep their hands off each other. In fact, he had dry sex with her against the wall at the back of the wedding chapel, a knee-trembler, for sure. Then, wet sex on the floor of the hotel bathroom. Even wetter sex in the shower. And then—God bless his amazing dick, they ought to have a special spot for it in Ripley’s—they had hotter-than-hot wet sex on the bed in the middle of the night.

The best part was when Ronnie moaned and said, “I love you, dammit.”

The second best part was when she’d shown him some of her belly-dance moves. Naked.

The third best part . . . Okay, there were so many best parts, he could hardly name them all.

The next morning, sober again, they blamed it on the tequila. But, personally, Jake thought they just used that as an excuse. They loved each other too fucking much to stay apart forever.