Hurts So Good (5 page)

He groaned. And sucked them deeper, thrusting his tongue between the grooves, oblivious to the sparse company at other tables who didn't give a damn about them anyway.

He
gave a damn. For the first time since he'd mistaken lust for love, he gave a damn. And with each lick he gave her a reason to give a damn, too, and court catastrophe with him.

"Do you kiss nearly as well?" she asked unevenly when he finally had the sugar lapped clean. At least four times. He had a thing about fours. Four was his lucky number, and he'd rather forget for now that lucky wasn't always what it seemed.

"You tell me once I get you home." When she pushed back her chair, he beat her to it. Mama might have left him, but her teachings still ran true.

Gone were the blurry eyes and trembling chin. Andrea had some kind of glow inside that was turning his insides to mush. Then she smiled as if they shared a secret about him, and that secret was safe with her.

It infuriated him, excited him. There she was, the girl next door sitting in for Vanna White, challenging him to go for broke with a single letter. A... was for
adultery
. B... for
betrayal
. C... was for
commanding
himself to switch the channel to Let's Make a Deal and choose the mystery door. He knew he had less to lose than she did by taking the chance.

Unfortunately for her, he'd always had a weakness for science fiction and
Father Knows Best.
Anything that promised an escape from what he knew to be real.

She couldn't be for real. Which was fine, considering he didn't feel too real himself at present. Andrea was more potent than a whole flask of brandy.

By the time he'd insisted on paying the small bill and agreed to let her pick up the next tab with "the tips she was sure to earn," Neil was real worried about keeping the Vow.

* * *

They held hands that they swung between them. Leaning against each other, they ran fingers down the iron gates of the St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral in the United States. It had such history, something they didn't, but it didn't seem that way to Andrea. She knew they were still strangers, so why did she feel they were long-lost friends?

After tossing coins into a shoe-shine box without stopping for a shine, they ran like two thieves until they stopped, exhilarated and out of breath, in front of the crumbling building she called home.

The first place she'd ever called home.

It was hers for now, at a ridiculous price, and as they held on to the wobbly banister up three flights of stairs, past graffiti-covered walls, Andrea felt her anticipation grow. It wasn't just the promised kiss from this enigma who was nothing and everything like the man behind the music she'd expected to find. Humble though her apartment was, she was eager to show it to Neil.

They shared some kind of kinship she didn't understand. He did scare her at times, something she'd anticipated and steeled herself for, but there was a tragic and honest edge about him that she gravitated to. She instinctively trusted it. Enough to invite him into the place she made her own without fear he would renege on his promise of
just
a kiss.

"We're here," she said excitedly, fitting the key into her front door.

"I noticed the other doors have peeling paint. Mind if I ask why yours is missing the same distinction?"

"Because I painted it. And the landlord agreed to knock off a week's rent in exchange for me painting and cleaning the inside." She opened the door, enormously pleased with her accomplishment as she inhaled the scent of potpourri. "Isn't it cozy?" she asked, wanting his approval and not sure she was getting it as he looked around the one-room efficiency.

"It's... cozy, all right. Maybe a little too?"

"Not for me. And since I'm the one who lives here, what anyone else thinks really doesn't matter."

But it did. At least, what Neil thought mattered, even though she knew it shouldn't. She anxiously watched as he ran a finger along the fringe of a vintage shawl she'd draped over the French doors leading to the balcony. He spread a palm against a pane of glass, then clenched his fist tight, as if wanting to pound his way out. Instead, he pressed his forehead against the glass, then stepped away fast.

"I would have fixed it up anyway, but the landlord didn't know that. I've learned to wheel and deal and make a dollar stretch. And that's fine, because I'm fond of my things, and making do doesn't bother me. It can even be fun, depending more on your imagination than what's in the wallet."

She couldn't seem to make herself quit talking, telling him what he might not even want to know. But even as he paced, he seemed to be listening, and it had been so long since she'd had someone she could talk to. When he traced a broken stained-glass window before moving to the shelf of knickknacks, she fought panic. He'd picked up a vintage picture frame and was studying it closely.

"It's like a game for me," she rushed on. "I have a thing for flea markets and—"

"Where'd you get this old publicity shot of me?" he demanded. "It's been out of circulation for a good ten years. Did you find it at a local flea market for, say, a dime?"

Andrea claimed it from him and held it to her possessively. Had she imagined the slight tremor in his hands?

"No, Neil, it's one of the few links to my past that I'm attached to. When I was thirteen, I joined your fan club. It cost me four dollars to join, and I spent an afternoon polishing floors to earn the money. I couldn't get off the school bus fast enough every day for a month to ask Sister if I'd gotten any mail."

"You must've been scraping, looking for junk mail."

"It wasn't junk mail to me," she said defensively. "When my packet finally came, with a forty-five record, a newsletter, and a personally autographed glossy, I was floating on air for days. Until one of my roommates scratched the record because she said she was sick of hearing it. I couldn't help but rub it in that her favorite movie had a Neil Grey sound track."

"Sorry about what I said." He cleared his throat. "I shouldn't have called your mail 'junk.' Even if that was and still is my opinion."

She accepted his gruff apology and decided to risk something of herself in hopes that he would do the same.

"I grew up in an orphanage, Neil. In Connecticut."

"Was it bad?"

"Not really. The sisters were good to us. They made do a lot too. I'm sure I missed a lot not growing up in a regular family, but I'm not sorry I learned to fend for myself. What I have, I earned. No one gave it to me. I take pride in that."

"You should. I respect survivors. Seems we've got some common ground in a quality I greatly prize."

She wondered if he would still respect her if he knew she'd moved to New Orleans for the express purpose of gaining access to him. Her grand plan to do an expose on a legend in his own time, who remained a mystery to jazz scholars and enthusiasts, was unfolding better than she'd dared dream.

Only it was unfolding in unexpected curves and sharp angles and pulling her in with him when objectivity was essential in a fiercely competitive, self-taught profession. She wanted to be the best, the absolute best. Prove to herself and everyone else she wasn't a funny-toothed girl in secondhand clothes, a girl even her parents hadn't wanted.

Her resolve firm, Andrea repositioned the picture, then took his hand and led him to the faded maroon pullout sofa. She liked the way his fingers felt laced with hers. It sparked excitement, but she also felt comfort.

"I take it that you're a survivor too, Neil?"

"Guess you could say that. I'm frayed around the edges, something of a rough cut. But I'm doing what I always loved to do best. Creating. Performing on a honky-tonk stage."

"Shades of Grey isn't exactly a honky-tonk. It's a very classy place. Mahogany and brass and crystal. At least in the club itself. Your office is—"

"It isn't too fancy, but it's mine, the way I like it. Well lived in and a little scruffy. Like me."

Andrea held her breath, praying she'd sound casual while she spoke her next words.

"Tell me more about Neil Grey. Does he ever think about trading his office in for another shot at a career he quit while he was at the peak and his legion of listeners begged for more?" She felt his thigh stiffen against hers. And then she felt her own stiffen as his jaw worked back and forth.

"No," he said abruptly. "Gotta ashtray round here? I like using my floor, but nobody else's. One's crude, the other's rude. I like to think I know the difference between bad habits and bad manners. It's a fine line, like most else in the world, but Lou and Liza did their best to pick up where Mama left off. That in mind, could you get me one?"

"You mean your mother left, and Lou and Liza—?"

"Not that it's anybody's business, but Lou's my adoptive father. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. I've had enough of this nonsense. Either get me an ashtray or lose your security deposit. Another flick and this rug's toast."

"One ashtray on the way." Heart palpitating, Andrea commanded herself to be calm as she went to the cupboard and found the dainty crystal ashtray she'd bought for a song.

A roach ran over her hand as she reached for it.

"Ohmigod!" Jerking her hand back, she threw open the cabinet under the sink and rummaged around for the insecticide. As she grabbed it, she saw another roach skitter out and almost land on her feet.

Frantically, she began spraying. "Oh, these horrible creatures. I can't stand them. Get away, you nasty things! Take that! And that! And—"

Suddenly, she was staring at Neil's shoe. With a quick stomp he smashed two more roaches that were scrambling around.

He snatched the can away, threw it to the floor, and wrenched her from her knees. He held her arms so tight and the face she looked up to held such a fierceness, she wondered for a wild, horrible moment if he meant to start shaking her.

"I've got two things to say to you. First, you explain that snoopy question about my recording career. Why do you want to know?"

"Be-because—" Damn, dammitall to hell. Her teeth were chattering, and she couldn't make them stop. "Because I'm an old fan, that's why. A girl who grew up on your music and never forgave you for stopping. No one ever knew exactly what your background was, since your stories were always conflicting, but—but I told myself you made things up because maybe you were an orphan like me who wanted to reinvent your past. You made it big, and whenever I looked at your picture, I believed I could do it, too, that nothing could stop me."

"I didn't even sign the friggin' picture. You hear me? Some jerk I never met did all the signing, sent all that promo crap to poor little orphan girls who polished floors and sent their money to the greedy recording machine that almost ate me up before it spit me out."

Andrea commanded herself not to cower or run as he cursed vilely between harsh, ragged breaths.

But then she felt his hand, his large, warm hand, stroke softly through her hair while his other swept to her back.

He drew her against him, and it was such a desperate, needy embrace, she felt her fear change to an unknown emotion that pierced her chest. She felt quick kisses pressed to her forehead, her temple, heard his hoarse murmurs of apology for not signing the damn picture he'd always hated. Until he stilled and gently cupped her face.

"Andrea,
chere,
go home," he pleaded. His eyes refuted his words. "You're courtin' trouble if you stay here. I'm the trouble, and you won't be safe in the same city as me. I feel something for you, and that's risky—for us both." He released her and pulled out a folded stack of bills that he slapped into her palm, then flattened her fingers over. "Take this and buy a ticket on the next plane out to wherever you want to call home. Find a decent place to live. And don't come back. Keep your distance from me, and keep it good."

Chapter 4

Andrea stared at the most money she'd ever seen in her life and felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her back still tingled where he'd touched and where his lips had brushed—she felt as if she'd been kissed by an angel. He claimed to be the Devil's own, and yet he'd sought to protect her from himself.