When Lightning Strikes Twice (35 page)

“Is that so?”

“Definitely. I rode with you before, honey, remember? Even on the way to a fire, you slow down and stop for yellow lights.”

“And in the midst of a monsoon, you speed up and zoom right through them.” But Rachel handed him her car keys and climbed in the passenger side while Quint took the wheel.

“Since you’re so hungry, maybe we should stop at a supermarket along the way and buy you some raw meat to tide you over,” she drawled as they sped toward Philadelphia, taking every yellow light.

“Think that’s what it takes to satisfy my inner caveman’s atavistic urges?”

“So you admit there is an inner caveman that dwells beneath that civilized exterior of yours?” Rachel grinned. “I figured as much.”

“There is one that lurks within every male,” Quint assured her. “Well, the Tildens might be the exception. Especially that insufferable little creep Tilly.”

They crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge over the Delaware River into Pennsylvania and made it to Wainwright’s, not quite ten minutes late for their reservation.

The atmosphere was that of an exclusive men’s club, with dark red leather-upholstered booths, wainscotted walnut-paneled walls, and a coffered ceiling. The moldings were eight inches wide and three inches deep.

Rachel assessed her surroundings. “This reminds me of the Union League, the sort of place where robber barons congregated at the turn of the century and ran the country.”

“An old-fashioned gentlemen’s club where high-stakes
deals were made with a handshake,” agreed Quint.

“Gentlemen’s clubs do run the gamut,” observed Rachel. “Compare this to a certain other kind of gentlemen’s club called Fantasy’s. Of course, the deals struck there probably aren’t much like the ones made in places like this. And Fantasy’s could never be called exclusive.”

“Except in the worst possible interpretation of the word.” Quint filled Rachel’s glass with champagne from a bottle on ice in a bucket beside their table. “We passed Fantasy’s on Admiral Wilson Boulevard on our way here.”

“I noticed. Who could miss all those capital X’s on the marquee—plus the promise of nude lap dancers. Do you suppose Misty serves as an inspiration to the girls currently working there? I wonder how many other aspiring millionaire widows are lap dancing at Fantasy’s? If they all strike it rich like Misty, and she kindly recommends your legal services to them, you can be a—”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Rachel. Town Senior, Misty, and I beat you and the others, fair and square.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.” Rachel drained her glass, feeling a blaze of warmth spread through her muscles. A hazy mist began to slowly blanket her mind. “I should’ve eaten something first. This is going straight to my head.”

She gave it a shake, as if to clear it but only succeeded in making the colors of the painting hanging on the wall in front of her—a detailed scene of a fox hunt—blur and whirl.

“Good.” Quint smiled and refilled her glass. “That’s my intention, of course. To get you drunk and have my wicked way with you.”

Feeling daring, she kicked off her shoe and caressed his ankle with her toes. “You don’t have to get me drunk to do that.” She glided her foot under the hem of his trousers and teased his calf with her toes, delighting in the hot flare that darkened his eyes. “You didn’t even have to spring for the expensive dinner.”

“I could’ve had you for the price of a burrito at Taco Bell, huh?”

“You can have me anytime, anywhere.” Her foot moved higher. “But you already know that.”

It was the kind of remark her old self—the repressed and prim Rachel—never would have made. Or even thought of making. But falling in love with Quint, making love with him, had changed her in so many ways.

Quint took a long swallow from his own champagne glass. “Did I mention that I booked a room in the hotel tonight?” His hand was on her knee, sliding slowly under her skirt. “Brady is safely ensconced at home with Sarah, so all we have to do is take the elevator to the third floor after dinner.”

Rachel shivered as a powerful surge of desire rocked her. She felt hot spirals of pleasure uncoil deep within her. If Quint hadn’t made such a point of announcing his near-starvation status, she would’ve hauled him out of Wainwright’s and into that elevator right then.

But the waiter arrived to recite the specials of the day, and Quint respectfully withdrew his hand from under her skirt to listen attentively.

Rachel smiled a secret smile. She would summon her patience and wait for dinner to be over. She and Quint had the whole night ahead of them.

W
ade sat on the sofa in front of the TV set with Bob and Mary Jean Sheely, but he wasn’t watching the hair-raising video footage of shark attacks on swimmers, The Discovery Channel’s special presentation to kick off Sea Predators Week.

It was past ten o’clock and he didn’t know where Dana was. Neither did her parents, who seemed spectacularly unconcerned whenever he brought up the subject. Which could only be during commercials because, unlike himself, Bob and Mary Jean were deeply engrossed in the shark program. When Wade interrupted with queries about Dana, they shushed him—as if he were Emily’s age!—so he waited impatiently for the appropriate breaks.

“You said she always gets in early when she goes out with Vick Richer.” Wade tried to make a joke of it. To seem casual and merry.

“Usually does,” Bob affirmed. “Maybe they went somewhere else after dinner. To a movie or something.”

“Shouldn’t she have called to tell you?” Wade was no longer pretending to smile.

“Dana is twenty-six years old,” Mary Jean reminded him. “And it’s not even eleven o’clock.”

The sharks came back on the screen, reclaiming the Sheelys’ attention. Wade wandered out to the kitchen where Emily was fixing herself a snack, the phone attached to her ear. Surprisingly, she put it aside when she saw Wade.

“Shawn cut in on me a couple minutes ago.” Emily was clearly irked by the intrusion. “He said to tell Mom and Dad that he’s staying over at his friend Chad’s house. He’ll be by tomorrow. Would you tell Mom and Dad? I’m in the middle of an important call.” She turned her back to Wade and resumed her phone conversation.

“Chad, huh?” Wade was fairly certain that Shawn was not staying with his friend Chad—if such a person actually existed. He envisioned Shawn at the cavernous Tilden mansion with Misty and stopped himself from imagining any further.

“I’m not passing along Shawn’s alibi to your parents, Emily. Tell them yourself, if you want.”

Emily made a shushing sound at him, just the way her parents had earlier. As far as Wade was concerned, it was the proverbial last straw. The one that broke the camel’s back.

“I’m outta here,” he announced to no one in particular, since Emily was whispering and giggling into the phone receiver, and Bob and Mary Jean sat, mesmerized by a California shark with a predilection for surfers in wet suits. Nobody else was around.

Wade got into his car—the one he loved and was so proud of—and wished it were something else entirely. Something less respectable, less establishment. He wanted something wild and dangerous to ride. Something rebellious. Like a vintage silver-and-black Harley-Davidson, the choice of tortured rebels in every film he’d ever seen that featured a tortured rebel.

He pictured himself tearing out onto the open highway—without a helmet so he could feel the wind against his head. Maybe it would blow away the torment festering in there.

He was furious, he wanted to rebel against everything, especially this intolerable, unbearable, completely miserable day. And who was to blame? Not Quint Cormack, even though the attorney seemed bent on single-handedly wrecking Saxon Associates. Not the Tildens, neither the supercilious
Towns nor the dumb-like-a-fox Misty, not even snotty Sloane.

No, it was Dana Sheely, recently revealed to be the love of his life, who was responsible for casting him into this bleak hell. That was the worst part of all.

Wade reviewed the anguish he had suffered since the day began. Dana, avoiding his calls, as if he were a pest she was determined to avoid. Dana, choosing to spend the evening—all of it!—with that boring stiff Rich Vicker instead of with him.

How could she treat him this way, especially after last night? She had to know how he felt about her, that he was in love with her.

He drew in a sharp breath. Suppose that was the problem … Dana knew that he loved her but didn’t reciprocate his feelings? Maybe she’d just wanted sex, not true love. But he wanted both. With her. He wanted to share his whole life with her, to marry her and have kids.

He’d officially belong with the Sheelys then. The image warmed him. It all seemed destined, from the moment he’d struck up his friendship with Tim all those years ago, to lead up to him loving Dana. To marrying her and joining the Sheely tribe.

A ghastly thought shattered his blissful vision. Suppose Dana didn’t want that? She knew him well—maybe
too
well. He’d been bluntly, totally himself with her; she knew his faults better than anyone. Could he really blame her if she’d thought it over and decided,
“Wade Saxon? No thanks!”

Wade felt a sudden visceral pain, as if his insides had been gripped in a vise and were now being twisted. He’d never experienced anything like it, emotional pain so sharp it was actually tangible.

Suddenly, those soggy romantic terms—heartache, heartbreak—made sense because his chest was actually hurting. Like his heart was aching or breaking inside. God, it was like living one of those country-western songs he’d always
mocked because he just couldn’t identify with the heartfelt lyrics. He felt them now.

Worse, he’d known the Sheelys long enough to realize that Dana’s quandary would be a family affair, at least among the siblings. He pictured her, appalled by his love and his neediness, wondering what she should do, lamenting the loss of their friendship which they’d ruined by having sex. He could easily imagine the conversations as the Sheelys burned the telephone wires with this latest crisis.

Forget Shawn and Misty Tilden, that was yesterday’s news. Today’s story was Dana’s dilemma and how to gently, kindly explain to that chump Wade Saxon that she didn’t want him. That going to bed with him had been a huge mistake which she deeply regretted.

Wade could almost hear the individual Sheely responses. Tim would be ticked off that his friend had slept with his sister and have little sympathy for Wade’s plight. Empathetic Mary Jo would suggest dealing kindly with poor Wade; the less merciful Tricia would advise taking the brutally frank “get lost, jerk” approach.

The more detailed his thoughts became, the worse he felt. Wade knew he couldn’t go home to his apartment where loneliness and pain, combined with those bittersweet memories of making love to Dana last night, would constitute sheer torture.

Since he was feeling bad, he decided to do something bad. Something wild and stupid and out of character. He kept driving, while trying to think of something suitable—or unsuitable, as the case may be. And found himself on the portion of 70 that cut through Oak Shade.

This wasn’t his usual route, and that alone seemed like the good—bad?—omen he needed. A number of dilapidated bars lined both sides of the highway but they all looked like shot-and-a-beer-type places where a television was perpetually tuned to some sports event, pinball machines were always in use, and threats, profanity, and fights were regular occurrences.

None of the places captured Wade’s interest. None was bad enough, wild enough … and then he saw it. A place called the Doll House. Which billed itself as a gentlemen’s club, although no gentleman of taste and class would ever set foot in that place, except maybe on a dare or bet.

The Doll House boasted live entertainment. Dancing girls. It looked as sleazy as any of those places along Admiral Wilson Boulevard but its Oak Shade location spared patrons the longer trip into Camden. A humongous black Range Rover—an expensive import, didn’t Pedersen sell those?—was in the litter-strewn parking lot along with a few rusting pickup trucks and other assorted crumbling vehicles. Everything about the place screamed seedy and downtrodden.

Wade decided it was perfect.

He looped around and pulled into the parking lot, next to the Range Rover, which looked brand-new. The sight of the two expensive vehicles almost brought a smile to his face. They both looked ridiculously out of place here.

Pushing open the door to the Doll House, he was greeted by a blast of music, the eighties tune “Centerfold.” An obvious choice, perhaps, but Wade wasn’t looking for subtlety.

He squinted his eyes, trying to adjust to the smoky darkness. Three girls, nude except for their truly string-width, flesh-colored G-strings, were dancing on top of the U-shaped bar in eye-poppingly high heels. Two of the girls swung around poles strategically arranged on either side of the U. They straddled the poles, rubbing up and down, their gyrations too crude to be erotic.

Instead of being aroused—supposedly the point of such a place?—Wade felt abruptly, utterly depressed. His earlier anger was gone, and he tried to summon it back because fury was better than this awful seeping depression that made him want to crawl out to his car and—

“Hey, Wade!” The sound of his name stunned him. Never in a million years would he have expected to run into someone he knew
here!

“Yo, Saxon! Over here!”

At first Wade, stupefied by the sight of Shawn Sheely waving at him from one of the tables beyond the bar, was unable to make any response at all. He simply stood stock still, his arms at his sides, his jaw agape.

And then he noticed that Shawn wasn’t alone at the table. Misty Tilden, wearing a strapless sundress that more than showcased her ultra-enlarged breasts, sat beside Shawn. Her platinum hair seemed as incandescently bright as a lightbulb.

At the same table sat a tubby, greasy man who might as well have been wearing a badge proclaiming “I am a sleazebag.” Because he was clearly that and probably worse.

Wade gradually began to recover from the shock of seeing his surrogate kid brother in such squalid surroundings—with the town’s most notorious widow. Years of loyalty to the Sheelys produced a sense of obligation and propelled him forward when Shawn waved at him again.

Wade stumbled through the noisy darkness, his eyes burning from the thick acrid clouds of smoke.

He debated on what course of action he should take. Sarah had mentioned that Shawn seemed obsessed with the Widow Tilden. Could an obsession be treated like a brainwashing? If so, perhaps he could lure Shawn into his car and kidnap him while the Sheelys hired a deprogrammer.

He’d already discarded that plan by the time he reached the table. Where would the Sheelys find a deprogrammer at this time of night? Or at any other time. It wasn’t as if they were listed in the Yellow Pages. And how could he drive and kidnap Shawn at the same time? He did not make it a practice to keep restraining gear in his car.

“Eddie Aiken.” The sleazoid leaped to his feet and offered Wade a sweaty hand to shake. “Any friend of Misty and Shawn is welcome here. Name your poison and Tiffany will bring it to you.”

Wade was tempted to request strychnine. It was turning into that kind of a night. “A beer, whatever’s on tap,” he said instead.

“We’re not exactly friends,” Misty corrected as Wade took the fourth chair at the table. “You probably hate me like the other Saxons do.”

“Wade doesn’t hate you, sweetness. And he’s not like the other Saxons, and not like the Tildens, either. Wade is cool!” Shawn proclaimed.

Wade was torn between laughing and gagging. But he kept his face poker-straight, not wanting to alienate Shawn. He knew a thing or two about psychological strategy despite his aversion to psychobabble.

“Thank you.” Wade attempted what he hoped was a friendly smile. “But what I think is really cool is that Range Rover out in the parking lot. I understand those things can cover any terrain, too bad so much of South Jersey is paved. Is it yours, Mrs. Tilden?”

Misty nodded. “I bought it today from Mr. Pedersen. What a nice man!” she cooed. “Such a gentleman!”

“Misty wanted something to drive herself,” Shawn explained. “She gets tired of always being chauffeured around in the limo.”

“Perfectly understandable. By the way, congratulations on winning the War of the Will today,” Wade said to Misty. “I’m sure Quint Cormack told you how the Tildens and their lawyers folded. Of course, we’re their ex-lawyers now.”

“Bummer for you, Sax,” Shawn sympathized. Then he turned to Misty and smiled boyishly. “But it was great news for Misty. Now she won’t have to go through any court-hassle stuff.”

“Quint said we won it all.” Misty beamed. “Shawnie and I are celebrating.”

“Why here?” Wade asked. He couldn’t help himself. “I mean, all that money and that great big house and everything else and you come
here?
”

“We went to Planet Hollywood in Atlantic City last night,” said Misty, as if that explained it all.

“Who wouldn’t want to celebrate here?” demanded Eddie Aiken. “This is a first class lounge. I got a great
bartender, and just look at those girls!” With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the bored-looking young women gyrating on top of the bar, as if on autopilot.

“I think it’ll be more interesting when we replace the girls with men.” Misty sipped the frozen pastel concoction in front of her. “That’s my plan, to open a place for women to go where they can ogle dancing guys.”

“Misty knows all kinds of stuff about what makes a dance club hot. A place of hers could be as big as Club Koncrete!” Shawn exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm.

“Club Koncrete,” echoed Wade. “An unparalleled experience.”

“All you have to do is meet my asking price, and the Doll House is yours, lovely lady.” Aiken tried to sound suave.

Wade stared from one to the other, his eyes finally fixing on Misty. “You want to buy this place from him and open a strip club featuring men?”

Misty nodded. “I’ve always wanted to run my own business, and I like the idea of a club for women. There are sure enough clubs for
gentlemen
, right? I got lots of ideas, too, like dressing the waitresses real classy and serving all kinds of fancy drinks while the boy toys slither around those poles in tiny little G-strings. It’ll be a real Grrrls Night Out kind of place.”

“I’ll bet.” Wade was beginning to enjoy himself, for the first time all day. “In fact, I like that name better than the Doll House. Grrrls Night Out. It has attitude, it says it all.”

“I’m going to have my own business, too.” Shawn’s Sheely-blue eyes glowed. “Misty is going to loan me the money to set up my own greenhouse and lawn and landscaping business. The banks didn’t want to give me a loan,” he added banefully.