Bombed Page 10

  They started with vinyl, from her parents, of course. But Wes insisted you couldn’t just sit and listen to that stuff. You had to get up and dance, and the room really wasn’t made for that, because her grandmother had crammed it with furniture and Annie hadn’t wanted to remove anything that had been a part of Michael’s life ever since he was a kid.

  So they were dancing in the one small open space, in front of the non-functional fireplace and the stereo. First the needle just skipped a couple of times. Then Wes, who was doing wild versions of the Fly, the Monkey, and the Freddie, his arms and legs going every which way like some elastic man, hit the stereo cabinet so hard the needle skidded across two cuts. He tried to restrain himself after that, but Annie switched to CD’s.

  After a while even Michael danced. Maybe because this was the music from when he was a kid, before he got sick. Maybe that was why Wes had chosen it. And he kept saying to Michael, “You did the swing. Everybody did the swing back then. Do it with Annie. Show us how.”

  Michael would just sit there looking down, and Annie began to wish Wes would leave the poor guy alone. She imagined Michael was mortified by the thought of dancing in front of them, but then, surprisingly, he stood up and sort of moved his feet.

  It still wasn’t the swing. How could it be when he would hardly ever touch anyone, or let anyone touch him? She never got a hug out of him. But with Little Richard squealing “Lucille,” his feet picked up the beat, and when Jerry Lee Lewis started banging on his piano and warbling about shaking going on, Michael actually took her hands.

  He was still pretty hesitant, but the energy of the music was so strong in her maybe it ran right through her hands into his. It wasn’t long before he was twirling her around, pulling her in and pushing her out, just the way you see it done in old movies.

  He was laughing, giddy, as if transported back to when he was fourteen. According to her mom, his first symptoms had appeared when he was fifteen.

  With more prodding from Wes, he gave them lessons in the Stroll and the Hand Jive too, and Annie loved the Stroll even though a couple of those swaying swoops always ran her into some piece of furniture. But the Hand Jive, it escaped her. She got her hands all twisted up. Then she was laughing, they all were, and falling over furniture.

  Once in a while one of them would collapse onto the couch, or into one of her grandmother’s huge overstuffed chairs, and the rest of them would follow. They would all catch their breaths. But they never stayed down for long. Wes was always the first back up, and Annie found it next to impossible to watch his outlandish gyrations and not join in. Uncle Michael must have felt that way too.

  But then, when one of those Fifties compilations, which seemed to have about forty tracks, finally came to an end, and Wes was picking another one, Michael said he was going to bed.

  “We’ll quit playing this stuff,” Annie said. “So you can sleep.”

  And she would finally ask Wes to leave?

  “No, you don’t have to stop,” Michael said. “I’ll enjoy listening from my bedroom. I’ll still fall asleep.”

  Wes, who hadn’t been paying any attention to this, had started up another CD. The first cut was Ivan’s “Real Wild Child,” hardly a lullaby. But it was an hypnotically captivating one-hit wonder, also done by Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, even Iggy Pop, although never again as hypnotically. She couldn’t ask him to turn it off. And Michael was smiling as he shuffled away to his bedroom. He even nodded a good-night to Wes, which was significant. Those little social gestures didn’t come easily to him.

  But after that everything changed.

  Of course, it did, now that she and Wes were alone. The way he did the Fly, the Monkey, and the Freddie subtly changed, becoming both more fluid and more deliberate. Charged with a sensual energy that he must have kept in check before. He looked at her differently, his eyes scanning down her body. She found herself moving differently too.

  His legs seemed to be reaching for her, and she was spinning and twisting away coquettishly, yes, that was the word. She was flirting, showing him her hips, her ass. She was holding her breasts high, shimmying her shoulders, and moving her legs as provocatively as his, pleased with how short her shorts were and the way he looked at her.

  The breeze through the window was cooling down, but the room was definitely heating up. She wasn’t drunk. She’d had only the two beers. She couldn’t blame this flush of warmth and lightheadedness on that. He sang along with “A Rocket in my Pocket,” and she knew her fuse was lit. When “Sea Cruise” came on, she had to agree with the parents who had protested that rock and roll was too overtly sexual. He moved in closer, his hands reaching for her waist and then slipping downward, his hips and hers swaying to the beat.

  “Won’t you let me take you on a sea cruise?” he sang.

  So he’d changed his mind about her ultimatum?

  Ultimatum, shmultimatum . . .

  Then, as if the makers of this Fifties CD were conspiring with him—or with her?—instead of another foot-stomping rocker coming on next, it was the sweet and slow harmonies of the Four Preps. Her body and his came together as if charged with a magnetic force. She could feel that force thrilling along her skin as the length of him pressed against her, both of them still swaying. His arms tightened around her, and his hands cupped her bottom, lifting her even closer. “The island of romance, romance,” he whispered against her neck, the soft spot just below her ear, sending a quiver of pleasure all the way to her toes. Then their lips found each other, and for a while there was nothing else but the heat of their mouths, exploring, seeking more.

  She took him by the hand and led him up to her bedroom. From there she could still hear the music. If it had stopped, maybe she would have too. But it didn’t stop, and she didn’t stop, and she wasn’t surprised that he was prepared. The way his eyes pressed her into the mattress and his hands slid softly down her belly and into her shorts, into her, making her tremble and arch with wanting him, he probably had to carry condoms everywhere he went.

  But she no longer cared how many women he’d had like this. Or what would happen afterwards when he turned out to be another jerk. She just danced with him. Smoothly, gracefully at first, and then with the intensity of her music, the passion that beat deep inside her whenever she let it free.

  Chapter 13

  Wes woke with a jolt. One second he was drifting in a dream, the next he knew it was daylight and he’d been sleeping where he shouldn’t be. He opened his eyes to Annie’s bedroom and her soft body curled against his. He guardedly slid away from her—which wasn’t at all what he wanted to do—grabbed his clothes from the floor, and, careful not to jostle any of the guitars that were leaning against every upright surface—the intel on Michael’s guitar-making obsession was accurate for sure—he crept down the stairs.

  It didn’t feel right sneaking out like this, but it wasn’t right to stay either. None of this was right. Against regulations, but worse than that.

  And how had it happened? When had it happened? When had he quit playing a part and fallen for her, wanted her, even though he’d known it was wrong.

  He couldn’t exactly say, and it didn’t matter. He’d heard women sometimes felt like shit the morning after.

  It was a new feeling for him.

  At least Michael seemed to be still asleep too. Wes dressed in the kitchen. Then he sat down in one of the kitchen chairs to put on his boots. His hand slipped under the rim of the table. He felt something there. He bent down to look, and the sinking in his gut—of guilt or regret or whatever—sank even lower. It was a microphone.

  Were there cameras too? He checked the walls and cabinets of the kitchen and didn’t find one. That didn’t mean there weren’t any. If not in the kitchen, somewhere else.

  There could be mics or cameras in Annie’s bedroom, easily hidden behind a guitar.

  Shit. She was coming down the stairs.

  He backed up against the table and cupped a hand over the mic.

  “You
’re an early riser,” she said, and she gave him a wide happy smile. A rumpled and satisfied smile, little kid freckles, red hair curling every which way. She started pouring coffee beans into a grinder, turning her back to him, and the pale blue wraparound thing she was wearing was so short it left every inch of her legs bare for his eyes to travel down. And all the way back up.

  Why couldn’t she have slept a little longer? The grinder started, a perfect time for him to say something. With that racket going on, he might still be able to slip out of here without whoever was listening to this mic knowing he didn’t leave last night.

  Of course, his superiors might not care. Regulations or not.

  He was the one who cared.

  “I’ve got to run. Sorry,” he said, but he was still standing there, feeling bad, caring, and unable to take his eyes off her legs, when the grinder stopped.

  “You don’t even have time for coffee?” she said, giving him another big smile, although this one was more of a mischievous grin. “I was hoping you’d fix us breakfast, since you’re a better cook than me.”

  “No, I don’t cook. Just a few Mexican things.”

  She cocked her head. “You don’t look Mexican.”

  “My partner. He’s Tejano.” It just slipped out.

  Another cute smile. “I didn’t take you for gay either.”

  “My partner at the booking agency. He’s back in Seattle so I can be here.” At least he was beginning to get up to speed, covering his slips as well as he could. But now the coffee was dripping and smelled wonderful.

  “That reminds me,” she said. “I’ve decided, I really don’t want a booker. I can’t go on longer tours. Because of Uncle Michael. You can see that now.” Then her smile changed again—she seemed to have a whole arsenal of the things, and this one was teasing and flirty, definitely hot. “Besides, you remember my rule? We can mess around or you can be my booker?” She turned one hand over, then the other. “The two don’t mix,” and she did one of her fumbled attempts at the Hand Jive. “My decision.” She spread her hands wide in something like surrender. “I’d rather mess around with you.”

  Luckily, right after that she turned her back to him again to pour the coffee, because he not only had no idea what to say, he had no idea what was showing on his face. Probably dumbfounded, puppy-dog devotion. The Hand Jive thing had floored him, revving up parts of him that he’d been trying to keep securely locked down ever since he woke up here, and disabling all sorts of other parts, including any skills he usually had with speech.

  Maybe because he hadn’t managed to say anything by the time she’d given him a steaming cup, she added, “Don’t worry. I know last night was just for fun. No big deal. But it was fun.”

  “Yeah, it was a lot of fun,” and he gave up on trying to keep the microphone smothered. He took the cup with both hands and sank back into a chair. Michael’s calico cat—the Lisa the old guy had been so anxious to get home to—was now weaving around his legs and mewing hopefully. He reached down to scratch her head, and try to get his mind and body back under control.

  Then after a couple of gulps of coffee, he thought he’d successfully put some kind of perspective on what had happened here. The most important thing: Annie wasn’t the enemy. She not only looked too wholesome, she was. In fact, she was very different from what he’d thought when she’d been flipping him off, throwing that bike around, and sparring with him in the record store. She could do all those things. From what he’d read, she’d pretty much raised herself. But now he’d seen another side of her too, the way she cared about her uncle, all the love that was there, and her playfulness, mixed with something else that he’d heard in her music, a sadness, maybe from the loss of her parents, or a deep loneliness that had made her open up to him last night when clearly she’d been against the idea just as much as he had.

  Some old friends of her parents had taken advantage of her and convinced her to work for them, but once the lab was down, she wouldn’t be doing that anymore.

  He just needed to keep her from getting caught up in the bust.

  Still, he had to get out of here, at least for a while. He finished that cup of coffee and said, “I really have to go.”

  She followed him to the door, looking a little miffed, or maybe resigned.

  “I just have a few things to do,” he assured her, but when he put his arms around her, she wasn’t soft anymore. She was holding back, protecting herself again. He tried to kiss her deeply so she wouldn’t think what had happened between them meant nothing to him.

  Although he wished it hadn’t happened, of course.

  No, he didn’t, not at all!

  It was just so damned inconvenient.

  In fact wrong, no matter what revisionist spin he tried to put on it.

  Clearly, all this was distracting him. Their lips kind of slid apart, and he felt like a total shit.

  He called Hector as soon as he could.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me we bugged the house!”

  “Hey, pardner, you’re yelling at me. That seems rude. What house?”

  “Annie’s house. I should’ve been told.”

  “No one told me either. You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Want me to check with the boss?”

  “I’d rather talk to the bastard myself.”

  Wes was fuming and deliberately dripping greasy bits of Egg McMuffin onto the leather upholstery of this ostentatious car, still seeing the disappointment in Annie’s eyes when he’d left her after that lame kiss—and thinking how much better a home-cooked breakfast at her place would have been—when his boss finally deigned to return his call.

  And then the asshole lied. “We haven’t bugged her house.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Why would we? You’re there. Annie’s not going to talk to her loony uncle about the lab.”

  “He’s not so loony.”

  “We didn’t bug the house. What makes you think we did?”

  “A microphone under the kitchen table. Next time I’m there, I’ll do a full sweep, give you the complete inventory of what you’ve got in there.”

  “She invited you into her house. That’s good. So she’s beginning to trust you?”

  That stopped him for a moment, but not because he didn’t know the answer—in spite of the way he’d blown his good-bye kiss. “She’s beginning to trust me.”

  “Excellent. I’ll put you in for a bonus for your booker idea.”

  “It’s not the booker idea. She still doesn’t want a booker.”

  “But she trusts you.”

  Wes could feel himself and this conversation sliding way off track. “That’s not the point.”

  “That’s precisely the point. So let’s go for a buy. I’ll put in for a buy.”

  The asshole was from somewhere like Boston, making everything he said sound much more intelligent than it was, and this was pure stupidity. “We’ve tried buys. She’s never gone for one. Besides, that would make me a doper!” You imbecile, but he didn’t say that. “Then she wouldn’t trust me anymore!”

  At least going off on his boss was better than thinking about his own duplicity. “There’s audio surveillance in that house,” he said as authoritatively as he could considering his Midwest upbringing. “I didn’t find video, but it may be there too. I think I should’ve been informed if I was on candid camera.”

  “They’re not ours,” came the crisp east coast response.

  “They’re not . . .” Wes put the rest of his Egg McMuffin smack in the middle of the passenger seat where it would be sure to leave a terrific stain. The suits who had ordered this car deserved it. And this particular suit . . . he reminded Wes of a colonel in Iraq who had shown up in his pressed uniform, a journalist and photographer in tow, to pose in front of the filthy, exhausted, and hungry troops, who had just lost several of their buddies, and claim everything was going great. “Why do you keep lying to me?”

  Silence. One of those silences th
at is so complete you wonder if you lost the connection.

  Then, “I’m not saying I wouldn’t lie to you, but in this case, I’m not. Maybe the bug is their own security, put there by her organization.”

  “What organization? I thought she was working with a couple of old hippies, a mom and pop shop.”

  “She’s been delivering to a network of buyers coast to coast. We’re talking RICO Act. That’s why we’re here. We don’t do mom and pop.”

  And the heaviness that had been weighing in Wes’s gut ever since he woke up this morning in Annie’s bed turned to cold lead. How could he keep her out of this mess if it fell under the extended rules of a racketeering case?

  “So we can assume the surveillance is theirs,” continued his boss. “We’re interested in the vehicles though. You said you put a tracker on the Subaru. How about the bike?”

  The McMuffin didn’t even look like food anymore, and there was a putrid smell in the car that seemed to fit all this perfectly. “Yesterday I put a tracker on the bike.”

  Chapter 14

  There was no doubt that Annie would never see Wes again. His good-bye kiss hadn’t fooled her a bit. It had had none of the passion or wacky spontaneity of the night before. The guy could do the Freddie! No, this kiss had been, I’ll keep her from screaming and throwing anything at me while I slip out of here as quickly as I can. He was apparently one of those guys who went for the conquest, and now he’d conquested.

  Been there, done that.

  There’s a tickin’ in my head. Time flies like an arrow and it leaves you dead.

  She spent the day in her room writing depressing lyrics like that. And sending booking emails for her next tour, which was never good for her mood. All that “I can give you only a second hold, no promises,” or “Did I tell you the 12th? I meant the 21st.” Plus now she would have to start playing more shows and getting larger guarantees. So maybe she did need a booker.