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“Might have something to do with your using the word ‘queer.’ You don’t look a thing like that fat turban-headed woman selling her maple syrup.”
Chere cracked her up. “Queer is politically correct,” Jen explained. “I meant no disrespect. It’s like the way colored evolved to Negro, then became black, and now African-American.”
Her assistant snorted and began snapping her gum; at least Jen hoped that was what she was snapping. She refused to get bent out of shape. Controversy was her middle name.
“I’ll turn on my radio and see what the fuss is about.” Jen sighed. “All of that free advertising’s bound to snag me more readers.”
Snap. Snap. Snap. “And you’ll take me on one ah dem ‘Fun Ship’ cruises?”
Jen’s laughter rippled out. Chere supposedly had been the publisher, Ian Pendergrass’s housekeeper. He’d had a one-night stand with her and to shut her up he’d given her a job.
“Here’s the deal,” Jen said, still laughing. “You read the mail when it comes in and keep me up to date, then we’ll talk.”
There wasn’t a prayer in hell of Chere catching her up. She wasn’t one to work harder than she needed to.
“Done. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for one ah them skimpy little bikinis that shows off my curves.”
Jen wisely let that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.
“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”
The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”
Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.
The discord caused Jen to second-guess herself. Maybe as some had suggested she really should have told the old lady to get a life. Perhaps she could have presented other options, but she’d gone with her gut. And her gut seldom let her down.
D’Dawg’s urban drawl snapped Jen back to the present.
“Any of you see Dear Jenna up close and personal? There’s a photo in the newspaper with girlfriend wearing this little business suit, pearls and glasses. Looks to me like she stepped right outta the fifties. Uptight I say, lady needs a good loving to loosen her up.”
The DJ’s raucous laughter caused Jen to quickly shut off the radio. Even though only a chauvinist would have made that outrageous remark, he’d hit a nerve. Jen hadn’t allowed a man to get next to her since Anderson dumped her. She was still recovering from his betrayal and it would be a cold day in hell before she trusted another man. She would play the same game men did. No connection and no commitment. Live in the present and enjoy each day as it came.
Jen had dated Anderson for two years. Even so, he’d walked away without an explanation and a short time later gotten engaged to another woman. Adding insult to injury, he’d purchased a home in the same Ashton suburb as Jen.
She would be late if she didn’t hurry. Chere, the bottomless pit, would be waiting at the Pink Flamingo’s bar checking out the prospects. After hurriedly zipping up the apricot sundress scooped low in the back, Jen stepped into matching wedge sandals. She finger-combed her shoulder-length hair and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. Convinced she no longer even faintly resembled Dear Jenna, she headed off.
Ten minutes later, Jen strolled into the packed Pink Flamingo. The place was filled with patrons winding down from a stressful work week. At the bar, groups of men nursed beers while female companions sipped on Cosmos and Appletinis. How could anyone possibly hear themselves? Jen wondered.
An olive-skinned hostess in a Flamingo Pink mini-dress chatted with a man Jen guessed to be the restaurant manager. He wore the exact color shirt. She tore herself away to point out a vacant seat at the outdoor bar.
Jen’s first impressions were of Flamingo heaven or maybe it was hell. Fluttering from the thatched ceiling of the Tikki Hut were the pink birds in abundance. Jen eased onto the vacant bar stool, noting there was no sign of Chere. Her administrative assistant wasn’t amongst the chattering twosomes and single hopefuls. Nor was she holding court with the two men at the end of the bar looking for action. The lighter one in a turquoise linen shirt, winked at Jen. Forcing herself, she winked back. She’d promised herself a new life.
Just then Chere entered in a ridiculously short skirt she had no business being in. Her cropped top exposed a layer of jiggling mahogany flesh. Two hundred pounds of confidence tottered across the floor in acrylic platform-soled sandals; a red hibiscus wobbled from the big toe.
“Sorry. Something came up,” she said wedging herself between Jen and the man to her right.
Better not ask Chere what that might be, lest Chere told her.
Chere began flirting outrageously with the buff bartender.
“I’ll have a glass of Chablis,” Jen quickly interjected before things got out of hand.
“Make mine Sex on the Beach, Dwayne,” Chere added coyly.
“Sure you don’t want a Slow Comfortable Screw?”
While Jen sipped her wine, Chere stirred her drink with one finger and filled the bartender in on her issues with Leon. The two probably had history.
A bunch of nubile women were being checked out by the man who’d winked at Jen. On the rattan chairs, hopeful couples, many of the same gender, played footsie while sipping their drinks. Those more enterprising gyrated to the lively reggae band on the beach.
The decor was tropical, cheesy and in an odd way attractive. In the world Jen had left behind, people would be huddled in their winter coats dreaming about taking a trip to Florida.
A tall, well-built man in his late thirties climbed onto a vacated bar stool and ordered a gin and tonic. Although he eyed Jen, Chere slid her stool closer.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
Chere sighed. “I’ll introduce you, Quentin.” She leaned suggestively against his arm as she made the introduction. “This here’s Jen.”
“I’m Quen Abrahams. The health club manager.” He captured Jen’s hand.
No wonder he was in such good shape. He got paid to work out.
“Nice to meet you.”
New to the area?” I’ve been here going on two months.”
A loud female voice shouted, “Quen,” and the man turned his attention to the new arrival.
The volume in the bar had risen. Chere left to make the rounds and Jen gave up on a sit-down meal and settled for a lobster sandwich.
When the band took a break someone turned up the stereo.
“If you’re listening, dearie, I’m challenging you to hook up with me on the show.”
There was that obnoxious DJ, again. “
Defend your position. Keep that radio tuned to WARP and find out if the lady can take the heat. I’m turning in for the night. Drive safely y’all, and remember WARP is the place to be.”
Reminding herself no one in the place knew who she was, Jen checked the crowd’s reaction. The few who were listening seemed mildly amused. It would be a cold day in hell before she accepted that Dog’s challenge.
Chere was too busy chatting up a guy—who looked as if he might fall over if she bumped into him—to have heard the commentator. The man wore a thick gold chain around his neck and waved a fistful of bills at the bartender.
A smart woman would make her exit right now. “
Compliments of that gentleman,” the bartender said, plopping a glass of wine in front of Jen, and rolling his eyes in the direction of a man with a Fu-Manchu rimming his lips.
Jen, about to protest, thought better of it. Her benefactor wasn’t physically her type, but accepting a drink was not a lifetime commitment.
“Thank him for me,” she said.
No sooner had she said that than the dark-skinned man with the mustache descended.
“Hi, hon, I’m Vince. I live in the villas across the street.”
“Thanks again for the drink.” She took a sip of wine to show her appreciation. “Sorry, I have to go. I’m working tomorrow.” She slid off the stool, paid her bill and pocketed the business card Vince tucked into her hand.
Jen waved at him from the door. Chere was in a corner with the reed-thin guy. He had his arm around her. Maybe she’d better not leave her alone.
Reminding herself this wasn’t Ashton, Ohio, where the sidewalk rolled up at midnight, Jen retraced her steps and headed back to rescue Chere.
Chapter 3
What seemed hours later, Jen entered the deserted lobby of Flamingo Place. A sleepy-eyed guard barely looked up as she hopped on the elevator. She got off at five and made her way down the hallway, almost running into a woman who looked to be no more than a teenager. She was exiting 5B. The child-woman clutched a collection of CDs. Her eyes brimmed over with tears.
Jen was tempted to offer a comforting shoulder but thought better of it. It wasn’t her business. She continued on her way. But Tre’s raucous music taunted her, following her to her apartment door. Was she the only person who objected to the assault on her ears? Her neighbors didn’t seem to mind or didn’t care to do anything about it. Maybe once she closed her door the commotion would cease.
But the tunes followed her into her apartment and continued even after she was ready for bed. Bleary-eyed, and knowing that she had to get up at six, she decided enough was enough.
Jen stomped to the phone. It was a waste of time calling Trestin whatever-his-name-was, even if she did know his last name. Time to go over his head. She punched in the numbers.
“Security?”
“Yes, ma’am”.
“I’m calling from the fifth floor. 5B is keeping everyone up with his music.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I’d appreciate that.” Jen disconnected the call.
Punching her pillow as if it were Trestin’s handsome ebony face, she flopped back on the bed and tried closing her eyes. Maybe visualizing a day at the spa would help. But the image filling her vision was one of a dark-skinned broad-shouldered male well over six feet, with sculptured features and seductive bedroom eyes.
Ba dam, ba dam, ba dam. The music continued for another half hour and showed no signs of stopping. Calling security had been a waste of time.
Tomorrow she would go to the leasing office and lodge a formal complaint against Trestin Noisemaker. He’d pushed every hot button. Now it was war.
“Dammit!” Tre muttered, pounding the steering wheel of his silver Porsche. He spat out another graphic expletive and threw the vehicle into Park, the motor still running. Hopping out of the car, the roaring in his ears signaled his blood pressure was dangerously high. He circled.
The navy-blue Mazda Miata had no business in his reserved parking spot. He paid a premium amount every month for a location close to the building. Tre counted to ten. Years ago he would have put a dent in the Miata’s hood and maybe a dent in the driver. All those anger management classes had helped mellow him out. He now knew how to redirect his pent-up outrage.
After getting back into the Porsche, Tre angled the vehicle in such a manner it blocked in the Miata, then sat back to wait. Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed a demo CD and slipped it into the player. The music, amateurish as he expected it to be, would help pass the time until the driver showed up.
Tre sipped from the bottle of water in the center console. The singer’s sultry voice reminded him of Sade. She was the best thing he’d heard in a long time. Curiosity prompted him to pick up the disk’s cover and stare into a heart-shaped face with smoky eyes. She would be promotable and worth playing on the station tonight.
Five minutes grew into ten. Tre’s blood pressure shot even higher. His entire body felt as if it was on fire. The air conditioner was functional and on full blast. What was taking the irresponsible tenant so long to get back to their car? He or she must know that this wasn’t their parking space.
Spotting one of the khaki-clad security guards, he flagged him down.
“Tre,” the guard gushed, openly awestruck he’d been singled out. “Great show last night.”
“Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know whose Miata that is?”
“No. But I can call a tow truck and get it hauled out of there.”
“Let’s give it ten minutes, then you can do what you need to do.”
An SUV pulled up alongside them. Camille Lewis hung out the window. “Tre,” she said in her heavily accented voice, “what’s with the Miata?” She peered at him over owl-like sunglasses.
Tre stretched his lips into a grimace of a smile. Camille was probably taking notes so that she could fill the building in. Now she stuck her entire head out of the window.
Tre tried to keep his voice even. “I guess someone decided my spot was more convenient than theirs.”
“You know that someone,” Camille said sweetly. “
I’m going up. Want me to knock on 5C’s door?”
“Please.”
He was starting to lose it. Just this morning he’d gotten a call from the leasing office telling him they’d received a complaint about his loud music. It hadn’t taken a rocket scientist to figure out who’d complained about him. He’d lived in the building over two years and not once had a neighbor ever called the leasing office on him. He’d planned on visiting the witch next door later and straightening her out. Now it looked like later was here.
“Should I call the tow truck?” the guard, whose head ping-ponged back and forth taking in the conversation, asked.
“No, hold off for a moment.” Tre tossed the man a couple of CDs from his stash.
After thanking Tre profusely, the guard loped off. He yelled over his shoulder, “You’re the man. Call the office if you need me, and I’ll be here on the double.”
Meanwhile Camille had parked her truck in the underground garage. She was undulating toward the building. Tre propped his feet on the console and prepared for a fight.
Ten minutes later, his attractive neighbor waltzed out. She had the grace to look embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you’d come back so soon,” she said, the moment he depressed the button and the window slid down. “I expected to be gone just a short time but then my phone rang.”
He wanted to say, “You are so full of it.” Angry as she’d made him, Tre couldn’t help noticing the way the pencil-thin skirt with the slit cut high on the thigh hugged her hips, and those marvelous honey-colored thighs.
Sliding out of his vehicle, he rested his butt against the driver’s door, crossed his arms, and gave Jen a steely-eyed look.
“You are probably one of the nerviest people I know. You called the leasing company on me, yet you have the gall to pull into a spot that costs money and isn’t your own.”
“It was close,” Jen said disarmingly. “Was that your music keeping me up all night or was that my imagination?”
Tre glared at her, ignoring the delicious smell of her perfume wafting his way. “What did you hope to accomplish by calling the leasing office?”
“I needed leverage to get through to you. I’d already tried appealing to your sense of decency.”
He wanted to shake her. The truth was that he was actually enjoying the banter. His adrenaline flowed when a woman could keep up with him. And she wasn’t starstruck. Maybe she didn’t know who he was or simply didn’t care. And even if she did, he had the feeling that his near celebrity status would not have made a difference.
