Small Town Girl (27 page)

She took one last glance in the mirror to make certain she hadn't smeared her mascara or forgotten her earrings.

She wore what would have been a prim, long-sleeved, white blouse except the first button didn't fasten until the silk exposed her cleavage. She'd debated linen slacks so she could look at least moderately sophisticated, but she'd given in to the urge to wear a white leather miniskirt. She was hoping she wouldn't be wearing it very long.

So much for her decision to keep things professional. She might be immune to most men these days, but Flynn Clinton had crept under her defenses in so many ways that there was no point pretending any longer. Besides, if the cafe closed, they weren't working together.

Hearing her apartment door open, she squirted a dash of cologne between her breasts and emerged from her tiny bathroom into the main living area, heart pounding in anticipation.

"Hey, Joey!" the man picking up sheet music from one of the racks called. "How are folks supposed to get in down there with the front all boarded up?"

"Slim!" Jo sighed in disgust at the sight of the Buzzard's lead singer dressed in what passed for his stage clothes—jeans and a clean shirt. He'd apparently had his hair trimmed, and for the moment it looked reasonably neat. "The cafe is closed. We have no electricity. Didn't you hear? I thought the whole world saw us on TV."

"The back room's on a different switch box, like this place up here. You got lights, right? Didn't you hear us warming up? Folks are wandering around out there, not sure they can get in. Open it up for them, honey."

Jo blinked and looked around. Sure enough, she had lights. And she'd used her blow-dryer and microwave. Duh moment. Her head had really been in the clouds.

So much for her long evening with Flint, not that he'd showed up yet anyway. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe he was making calls, looking for a new job, or already heading out to Nashville. If she'd learned nothing else from experience, she'd learned she couldn't rely on a man's choices to make her own.

Faced with choosing between her selfish needs, and her loyalty to her friends and the town, Jo caved. Just as her mother had said, friends and family came first.

"We'll have to direct them down the alley," she told Slim. "The front might not be safe. Maybe we could give Myrtle a flashlight."

"Got one in the truck. You stand out there on the porch in that white thing you got on, and they'll see you fine."

Musicians had a one-track mind, Jo reminded herself. That was not a compliment from Slim. It was his way of saying white stood out in the dark, and she was better than a flashlight.

She obediently stood on the porch leading into the back room and waved at people as they came down the alley. Everyone greeted her with a relief that proved she was doing the right thing. People needed a little normality in their lives after a day like this one. Maybe they needed a little music to help forget their troubles, too.

The band had struck up their first tune, and she was just about to go inside, when Flint strode down the alley in the dying beam of Myrtle's flashlight. The white pearl buttons of his black shirt reflected the light of the room behind her as he climbed the steps, and her heart did a wicked two-step of excitement.

He looked her up and down with those smoldering silver eyes until her toes curled.

"We have electricity?" was all he asked.

Hoo, boy, did they have electricity
. Jo thought the hair on both their heads ought to be standing on end. Flint's mouth tilted slightly at one corner, so she figured he was reading her mind as well. But she could play it as cool as he did.

"Apparently the back room was a new addition on a separate circuit box. Maybe we can move the kitchen."

"Maybe," he answered noncommittally, eyeing the back room with its pounding rhythms as if making some decision. "Why the hell not," he concluded, catching her elbow and drawing her inside.

Jo had a feeling his decision had nothing to do with the kitchen and everything to do with the smoky light in his eyes as he steered her toward the dance floor left by the lack of tables.

"Did Amy feed you okay?" Jo asked, trying to be sensible even after Flint transferred his hand to the small of her back. The vibrations of the amplifiers and the sensation of his hand combined like a caffeine jolt to her weary nervous system.

"Just fine." He leaned down to talk over the crash of drums, and his breath tingled her ear. "Amy and my mother were talking kitchen appliances when I left."

Unable to bear Flint's hand at her back and his chest just inches from her own without acting on her urges, Jo swayed in time to the music. "Amy kills appliances. She shouldn't be allowed near a kitchen when she's upset."

"Well, she's mightily upset tonight. The stove caught fire."

Jo glanced at him in alarm, but Flint suddenly clasped her waist with both hands and moved with her, his eyes sparkling. The dour Flint was gone, replaced by the laughing cowboy she remembered from their first night. She didn't know how catastrophe had caused the change, but she gladly swung with him. "Before or after dinner?" she asked, moving in close.

"After. She was scooping ice cream when the stove started sparking. I think we were talking about the mill, so maybe she was a little more than upset. Interesting trait, killing appliances." He swung her in a circle, their hips brushing, setting off sparks of their own. His rough hand clasping hers was strong and sure.

"Appliances, lightbulbs, computers, anything electrical or electronic." Jo lifted her arms over her head and clapped in time to the music. Flint ran his hands up and down her sides, and she thought she could fry a few lightbulbs of her own.

His thumbs brushed beneath her breasts, and she got his message loud and clear. Heart pounding, she knew they were right back where they'd started. Only this time, the stakes were higher. This time, her heart was in serious danger. Wordlessly, she placed her hands on his shoulders and moved in closer.

"You should be up there. Your voice was made for that stage," he murmured as the band hit the last note of the song.

Jo assumed that was a genuine compliment and not a come-on, but she needed to quench any notion he might be entertaining of taking her down that road with him. "There are church choirs all over the country filled with fine singers," she replied without resentment. "It takes more than I've got to make the audience sit up and take notice."

"You have the pluck and presence and more. You'd knock them out," he argued with a determined set to his square chin.

Jo shook her head. "Nope. I've got all the attention I want. I sure the heck don't need more."

He shook his head in disagreement, but the band struck another tune, and he didn't argue more. His fingers kept time on her waist. Jo tapped her toe. The beat changed, and she swung her hips. His hand helped her sway. She wanted to sing. She figured he wanted to play. They couldn't do either, and frustration built.

The band took a break, and the lights went up. Flint signaled Peggy for drinks.

"I'm so glad you stayed open," Peggy shouted over the noise of the crowd. "We're gonna need this money extra bad if the mill closes."

Flint handed Peggy the few bills he had left in his wallet. Discovering he had just enough to cover drinks and a tip jolted him back from fantasyland. There hadn't been a bank deposit today.

He didn't know what the Man Upstairs was trying to tell him, but apparently settling down to the staid life of a responsible businessman wasn't part of His plan. He was more in a hole now than he'd been when he was a party animal. If he couldn't provide a home for his kids either way, he'd just as soon party.

Except now he had new responsibilities. He hadn't paid Jo today.

She was worth way beyond what he could afford, but she didn't seem to know that, not any more than she realized she had more stage presence than any other singer he knew. He wanted to take her upstairs and accept the promises shining in her eyes, but acting on urges was the specialty of the old badass Flint. The new one had to think things through.

"I'll write out your check in the morning," he told her.

She shrugged, apparently not concerned with the mundane. "Mama's insurance isn't due until next week." She suddenly looked stricken. "If Amy gets a divorce, she won't be able to help pay Mama's bills."

"Don't go borrowing trouble. Evan will see reason." Flint tried to relax while the out-of-town singer set up onstage. He itched to take Jo upstairs, just as he itched for his guitar. He had to learn that scratching his itches often had results other than pleasure.

She looked at him in disbelief. "Northfork isn't Wonderland. We're no different here than in the city. Amy's worth five Lurid Lindas, but did you see Evan today? He's not looking at anything but that Mercedes and plastic boobs."

Flint coughed on his drink, sputtered, and couldn't formulate a sensible reply.

"Evan's a prick, and I'd say she was better off without him, except for the kids and the money," she continued.

"If it comes to divorce, he'll have to pay support and alimony," he reminded her. Been there, done that. At least the huge payoff Melinda had demanded had gone to his kids when she'd died, so they had their education funds. He was a mean bastard to think that way though. Melinda hadn't deserved to die that young.

His sons hadn't deserved to lose their mama so soon. He was beginning to see a pattern here, once he got past his own problems. The kids weren't just rejecting him, they were grieving for their mother. Just because he'd adjusted to Melinda's loss long before she'd died didn't mean they'd had time to accept it.

"Amy can't afford that house even with alimony," Jo continued. "She'll have to move back home to Mama. Maybe we can all find jobs in Asheville."

That was an ugly thought, shocking him into realizing he'd had enough change. He wanted to put down roots. Jo and her family were part of those roots. And he'd better quit thinking like that. Jo belonged in Nashville. "How's your mama doing?"

"She's keeping her food down, but she won't take her medication like she should, says it's too expensive. Let's not talk about it. Let's take tonight for fun."

Flint agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment. If he didn't find an outlet for his frustration soon, his brain would explode like an overripe melon from thinking too much.

The lights dimmed, and the out-of-town singer stepped onstage with his high-crowned Stetson and big guitar. The crowd hooted and whistled, and the performer tipped his hat before belting into his first song.

The unexpectedly harmonious composition jolted Flint like an electric shock.

Standing here in anonymity, arm wrapped around Jo's swaying hips, he could acknowledge that he didn't need to be up there on that stage. He'd never craved adulation. He simply lived for music. He wanted to work again. His head was full of tunes reflecting the flood of feelings he'd been dealing with since moving back here. Jo had turned him on in more ways than he cared to admit.

He hadn't earned enough to have his hand operated on. He couldn't play again.

This evening, Adam and Johnnie had sounded more excited than he'd heard them in years. They'd actually talked to him. Adolescents were weird. Seeing him on national television must have given them ideas of some sort. He sure the hell hoped they didn't want him to go back to the Barn Boys so they could bask in his reflected fame. He'd have to be closer to them to understand how their minds worked.

If he didn't have an income, he couldn't be closer to them.

"Let's get out of here." Not even considering how Jo would take his demand, just knowing he had to escape, Flint tugged her toward the exit.

She glanced from him to the singer, and he suffered a moment of despair, until she shrugged and followed. With impatience, he led her through the crowd. He didn't know if it was the music, sex, or his own thoughts fermenting and exploding inside him.

Outside, people milled in the alley, smoking, drinking from flasks, and laughing. Flint came to an abrupt standstill. He hadn't counted on an audience when he took Jo upstairs.

"Hey, Flint, we're holding an emergency Chamber meeting Monday. You be there?" someone called out of the darkness.

"If I can get away." Hell, he didn't want to embarrass Jo. She'd suffered enough of that in her life. He was practically foaming at the bit and couldn't move.

"Aren't you staying tonight, Joella?" a female voice called.

"I'm wiped. You comin' in for our dirt-and-doughnut sale in the morning?"

"Dirt-and-doughnut?" several voices inquired.

"Yeah, for every cup of dirt you clean off the floor, you get a doughnut."

Jo's laughter threaded with that of the others. Without a second look back, she took Flint's hand and tugged him up the stairs.

"People will get the wrong idea," he protested as she opened her door. Despite her lead, he still felt responsible for protecting her from herself.

"Most likely they'll get the right idea." She entered the wide-open space of her apartment and started pulling pins from her hair.

Pure gold silk tumbled around her shoulders, and Flint had to clench his fingers into fists to prevent them from sliding through all that temptation. "You don't mind what all those jokers down there are thinking?" he asked, letting the door slam behind him. The band's bass vibrated her floor.

"I'm a waitress. I'm built like a two-bit whore. I sang in a
strip
club." She looked at him as if he'd just stepped from a Victorian painting. "Every man jack of them has hit on me at one time or another."

"Why the hell do you dress like that if you don't want men hitting on you?"

She ran her hands through her hair to shake it free, apparently unconscious of the sexiness of her gesture. "Why should I change the way I dress because men are idiots? I wear what's comfortable and makes me feel good. I don't have much except looks, so why should I hide them?"

Flint wanted to pound a little sense into that warped mind of hers, but he wanted her in bed even more, so he tried not to be too blunt. "You have a damned sight more going for you than looks. You could wear gunny-sacks to your ankles and people would listen."