The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

Gonzo fake titters, and we all laugh. “Ohh, it’s Tiffany.”

Across the room, Cab and the brown-haired girl are talking. He points toward the parking lot.

“Tiffany, I’m thinking that they don’t serve good enough liquor here for a treasure like you. There’s another establishment not too far from here that has top shelf booze,” Bride says.

“Is that right? Hee hee,” Gonzo replies. In his normal voice, he says, “Watch as the female preens by brushing her hair from her shoulder. Watch as she draws a hand across her chest. This is the classic sign from the Homo sapiens female in a small group setting that she is ready to be separated from the pack.”

Bride takes over. “Homo erectus is now engaged. The male stalks forward and lightly beats his chest to acknowledge being chosen. He deftly severs the connection with the other creatures and secures his prey.”

Gonzo glances at his watch. “Shit, that took less than five minutes.”

Bride puts his hand palm up. “I’ll take cash. Small bills only. I’m going to the dollar store later.”

“Dollar store?” I whisper to Nate, still watching as Cabby places an arm around the brown-haired girl, lifts her over the cement fence running around the patio, and then vaults over it with one hand.

“Strip club,” he murmurs under his breath.

The guys at the table hoot and raise their beer in salute to Cab’s success. He gives a lazy wave and then picks up the girl and jogs toward the parking lot, disappearing into the dimly lit night.

After draining his beer, Nate rises and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s dance,” he says. Inside the bar there’s a tiny postage stamp of a dance floor made out of parquet tiles. The house band is rocking blues covers, and the floor is nearly empty.

“Since when do you like dancing?” I tease because the Nate I knew never enjoyed being the center of attention. At parties, he sat down away from the crowds, but people gravitated toward him anyway.

“I don’t like dancing, but I want to hold you.”

A hand on my lower back presses me closer until there’s no room for even a wisp of air to pass between us. I curl my arms around his neck and bury my face in the soft cotton of his T-shirt. His one hand is splayed across my back, and the other cups my head. We sway together, moving as one unit as the guitar twangs a rockabilly melody.

“Are you sure you want to leave all this?” I ask, wondering what exactly he’s giving up for me.

“Can’t stay in forever,” he answers. I’m not sure that’s a complete response, but I push it aside because I don’t want to mar the night.

My heart’s so full of joy that I could stand here forever—which may be a possibility given that the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol. I release a nervous laugh which causes Nate’s arms to tighten and his low voice to rumble in my ear, “What’s funny?”

“I was thinking how I want to dance with you forever and that we might have to because the floor’s stickier than a flytrap.”

He chuckles, and the vibrations of his laughter climb into my body and swirl around, filling me up. The vibrations turn to shivers, and I stare at his eyes, wide-eyed as my joy morphs into excitement and my happiness into desire. His grip on me is almost painful.

“You ready to go?” he asks hoarsely. His eyes are begging me to say yes.

When have I ever turned him down?

39

Charlotte

“Let me run to the ladies room,” I answer.

He lets me go reluctantly. As I move toward the short hall marked with the universal female/male bathroom cartoons, his attention is hailed by a friend.

Inside the bathroom, I quickly do my business and then wash my hands. I’m about to leave when two ladies walk in, one locking the door while the other approaches me. I recognize them as women from the table on the patio—wives of Nate’s teammates.

“So you’re the infamous letter writer,” murmurs the blonde. Her name is Patricia, if I recall it correctly. The other woman is blonde too, but her hair is a few shades darker. They look similar, like friends often do, wearing thin-strapped tank tops, wedge heels, and miniskirts.

I smiled self-consciously. “Yes, I am.”

Patricia reaches into her small purse and pulls out a tube of rosy lipstick. She stares at her perfect complexion in the mirror. “Your man’s refusal to welcome any advances has been the subject of a lot of gossip.”

“Is that right?” Where she’s going with these questions isn’t clear, but it’s obvious she’s got something to say, and I’m not leaving the bathroom until she gets it off her chest.

“Childhood friends, huh?” she says it as if she doesn’t believe it.

I grind my teeth together to keep in the retort that it’s none of her goddamned business. It’s not, of course, but I want to make friends, not enemies. There’s a queen in every female group. If you slight the wrong football wife, you are dead to the entire group. The stakes are higher here because these are friends of Nate who belong to a part of his life that he’s excluded me from until now. So I’m going to make nice with this Patricia woman, no matter how much I’d like to lay into her.