The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (7 page)

Tight-lipped on the drive to the
restaurant, Butch was the first to speak when they were seated at a table
overlooking the golf course. "Have whatever you want, sweetheart. You know
I can afford it."

Sweetheart?
She ordered a Riesling. He ordered a scotch on the rocks.

"Butch, I have to say this. I'm
sorry, but I don't think we should see each other anymore."

He blinked, giving her what looked
like a long-suffering expression.

His reaction wasn't at all what she
expected. Did he think she was kidding?

Leaning over, he tried to grasp her
hand. "Honey, don't talk like that?"

She noted the heightening anger in
his voice. Sliding her hand away from his, she picked up her wineglass. "It
isn't anything personal."
Yes, it
is.
"You know I want to pursue my career, and I may be leaving town
soon. I've sent demo tapes to several agents. I need to be free to go when I
get the call."

He stiffened, his eyes going blank,
almost as if he was in his own world. His fingers toyed with a dinner knife. He
picked it up, holding it as if stabbing someone. She could see the muscle at
the back of his jaw flexing. He didn't look at her, didn't do anything until
the waiter came to the table with their entrées. Then, as if nothing had been
said, he took his first bite and finally flashed a glare her way.

"You know Phoebe, I could help
you, give you everything you've ever wanted. My family has money. One of these
days I'm going to join my father in business. I'm not going to be on the public
payroll for much longer. I'll be rich. We have land all over town. We belong to
the club. You wouldn't have to sing in second-rate bars to support yourself."

Oh
God.
Talk about making someone uncomfortable. Did he think he could buy
her? "Butch, that's very nice of you, but I'm doing fine right now. And I
want…"

"You're not doing fine! You
live in that crappy little house practically on the edge of town. You've got
transients living on the street."

"I love my house. It's not
crappy, Butch. It's sweet."

He leaned across the table, his
face now not so expressionless. In fact he'd flushed red and sweat popped out
on his forehead and upper lip. "It's not good enough for the woman I plan
to marry."

"What?" Her mouth dropped
open in shock. "What?" She whispered it this time. "You've gone
too far." She picked the napkin off her lap and very precisely placed it
at the side of her dinner plate.

"Do not leave this table,"
he snarled. "Yes, I plan to marry you. Just as soon as you see it's the
right thing to do. And for God's sake, get rid of that streak in your hair."

Shaking, she rose and braced her
hand on the back of the chair. "I won't have you or anyone talk to me that
way. Good night, Butch. I will not marry you. Don't call me again." She
prayed he'd stay seated so she could get out of the dining room with some
dignity. The people at the next tables could hear them, but the whole place
didn't need to know what was going on.

In the lobby she considered what
she should do next. The ladies' room beckoned. At least he couldn't follow her
there. She couldn't get away from the country club fast enough. But how?

She supposed she could walk home.
But if he followed her outside, she'd be alone on the street. Surely he wouldn't
hurt her.
Would he?

Davy. He lived practically across
the street. She could make it that far. Slipping into the ladies' room, she
called to make sure he was home.

"You stay put, Phoebs. I'll
walk over and get you."

"I can walk the half-block to
your place, Davy." She heard a voice in the background before he muffled
the phone. "Davy! Do you have company?"
Oh my God, he might have a date. What a mess. Damn Butch Wilcox.
"Davy."

"We'll be right over. Don't
argue with me, sweetie. Come on, Stu, we're going on a rescue mission."

"Stu?"

"We're coming." He
laughed uproariously and hung up.

Phoebe sank onto a couch, shaking
her head.
Stu?
She had a feeling the
night was going to get crazier. This Stu had better be good to her friend.

Even more important was what had
happened to Butch. Did he leave? Was he waiting in the lobby for her? Did he
even know where she went? Well, she'd just have to brave it and actually leave
the ladies' room. She got a call on her cell when Davy and his friend reached
the entrance to the club and went out to meet them.

"Sweetie, what happened? Why
are you stranded in this den of luxury?"

Before she spoke, she looked around
the parking lot but didn't see Butch's Jeep. Relieved, she then wondered if he'd
be camped in front of her house. He knew she'd get home eventually. "Let's
get out of here. I'll tell you while we walk."

"Phoebs, this is my friend Stu
Pressman. Stu, meet Phoebe Barnes. Have you seen her at Marietty's?" Davy
slid an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "She's the best singer
ever."

"Hi, Stu. Nice to meet you."
He was a pretty good-looking guy—muscular, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail,
very dark eyes. She could see why Davy would be attracted to him.

"I've seen you sing, Phoebe.
You're really good."

"Well, that makes you my
newest favorite friend, Stu." She gave him a grateful smile.

"Where do you want to go,
Phoebs?" Davy asked. "Back to my place for a while? It's only
eight-thirty."

"Can you just walk me home? I've
had a long day." They'd already crossed the bridge over the Falls River
and were headed toward Courthouse Square.

"Are you going to tell me what
happened?"

The two men put her between them as
they walked. "Some other time? I really don't want to get into it now. I'd
like to push it to the back of my mind and think about something else."

She nudged Davy's side and grinned
up at him. "Why don't you tell me where you two met?" She noticed the
two guys shared a glance, then a sweet smile.
Oh boy, Davy looks happy. This guy better not break his heart.

"At the paper. In the
lunchroom."

"Oh, you work together?"

"Stu's a reporter," Davy
replied. "I'm just the boring accountant."

Phoebe looked at Stu for his
reaction.

"Not even a little bit boring."
Stu reached across her and playfully punched Davy's arm. "I couldn't crunch
those numbers at all. I can barely balance my bank account."

"What kind of stories do you
write?"

"Almost anything. I'd like to
focus on crime, but there isn't that much of it here. Mostly speeding tickets,
some teenage pranks. I'm just getting started, but eventually I'd like to be in
a bigger market."

Feeling Davy tense, she gave him a
quick glance. She had the impression this was too new of a relationship to
predict how things would work out.

"Are you all right walking in
those shoes, Phoebs?" asked Davy.

"Oh heck yeah. It's only four
or five blocks." They meandered past the coffeehouse, which was just
closing, then the gas station. Even inside her house, she swore she heard the
dings when someone drove into the station. "Are you working on anything
interesting now, Stu?"

He smiled at her. "Most of the
time I've got little stories going, but I'm looking into something bigger."

"You are? What?"

He winced. "Can't really say
right now. I don't have anything for sure, and it wouldn't be right to speculate
without evidence."

"Oh sure. I can understand
that, but you do have me curious."

They passed the convenience store,
turned the corner, and headed down the street to her house. Butch should never
have made fun of her house. She adored it. But his biggest crime was telling
her to get rid of the fuchsia streak.

Thank God he wasn't waiting in
front of her house. "Would you like to come in?" she asked when they
reached her front door.

It didn't look like Marc was
sitting on his porch either. There were no lights on that she could see.
Probably has a date.
He certainly wouldn't
be in bed by ten, at least not alone.
Ugh.
She didn't want to picture him with another woman. Marc was a guy who sure knew
how to kiss, and her body flamed just thinking about what else he could do.

"Phoebs?" Davy put his
face in front of hers. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah sure."

"Now get inside so we know you're
safe, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Okay. Thanks, guys. It was
nice to meet you, Stu." She kissed Davy good night.

"Call if you need me, Phoebs."
At the shake of her head, he added, "You look dragged out tonight or I'd
press you for why you needed rescue from the club. But you'll talk to me later?"

"Of course, D. Good night,
guys." She shut and locked the door, thanking her lucky stars she had
friends close at hand.

Butch.
She shivered in revulsion. What the hell was going on with him? Talking about
marriage? They'd only been on two dates before tonight. If he didn't appreciate
her house and her hair then why did he want to be with her at all? And what
would he do if he ever found out about her pierced nipple?

Well,
he'll never be that lucky, so that's that.

Phoebe slowly wandered to her
bedroom, removing her dress as she went. After hanging it up, she slipped into
a large t-shirt over her panties. She usually slept in the nude, but after
being with creepy Butch, she shuddered just thinking about being naked. That
disgust, though, didn't stop her thoughts from turning to the man across the
street. It hadn't looked like he was on his porch when Davy and Stu brought her
home, but it wouldn't hurt to check again. She liked knowing he was near.

Why
Marc and not Butch?
Both were good-looking men. Butch had fair hair, almost
white-blond and always neatly combed, his hazel eyes the same shade as hers.
His features were regular, nothing more than pretty really, with soft cheeks, a
straight nose, and a cleft chin.

On the other hand, Marc's dark hair
and his watchful pale-blue eyes gleamed with sensuality. His muscular body made
her feel safe when he held her in his arms. Strange, considering she barely
knew him. Quiet, he exuded mouthwatering manhood just by being there. No
bragging, no puffing out of his chest—not that he needed to. It was broad and
hard as she well knew. Now there was a man she'd sleep in the nude for.

Scoffing at the direction her
thoughts had taken, she peered again toward Marc's porch wondering if he was as
curious about her as she was about him. Maybe he had a date tonight.
Shit.
She certainly didn't have a right
to be jealous, but she didn't like the possibility of his spreading his
delicious kisses around to other women in town.

Well, there was no one in sight
across the street. Might as well go to bed and decide whether she was going to
let him get farther than kissing her tomorrow night. He was so good at it.

Chapter Eight

Marc perched on the railing in the
darkest part of the porch. Leaning back on the scratchy bricks, he scrutinized
Phoebe's house, wondering what had happened on her date. Butch's Jeep had been
down the street, engine and lights off, for half an hour. He hadn't gotten out.
Just sat there.

Marc alternated watching the Jeep
with keeping his eyes on Phoebe's house. He didn't like this scenario one bit.

When she came home with two men,
one of them her friend from Marietty's, he expected Butch to approach her after
they left. Butch stayed put. They'd been buddies in high school but not close
friends. And now, even though Wilcox was in law enforcement, Marc had a bad
feeling about the guy. Tomorrow he'd talk to Mike Banning, see what he knew
about their former classmate. He didn't trust Butch. Could it be because he
didn't like to think he'd slept with Phoebe? Could it be as simple as that? Or
was it something more sinister?

His body flamed with sexual heat.
He intended to have her. His fingers twitched imagining the feel of the little
ring piercing the sensitive tip of her breast. His cock rose inside his jeans,
filling and throbbing in arousal.

His big hands could completely
engulf her face with its delicate features. The power and control he'd have
over her—not to hurt her, never that, but power to take her, to make love with
her in every way possible. Her sweet body tightly encasing his prick. He
growled low and deep.

It was such a cliché that men preferred
their women with long hair. And he was no different. Thrusting his fingers
through the thick strands, he'd revel in its depths. He wanted it sweeping over
his body, especially over his groin when she went down on him. Stifling a
groan, he closed his eyes and shifted on the railing to give his cock a rough
feel, wishing it were her hand.

When he opened them, he saw a
shadow at her front window. She was looking out—maybe toward his house? But he
knew how to camouflage himself in darkness. For a long time she watched, then
disappeared. He still didn't move, wouldn't budge until Butch drove off.

Fifteen minutes later, Butch was
still there. Marc was getting tired of it. How long did the fucker plan to
stalk Phoebe? Inching his way off the railing, he climbed down the outside of
the porch, stayed to the shadows, and slipped down the street. A minute later,
he casually sauntered back down the sidewalk, coming up on Butch from behind,
making no attempt to stay hidden.

"Hey Butch. How's it goin',
pal?" He got great satisfaction in seeing Butch's body jolt in shock, his
head swiveling toward the passenger-side window. Marc could see the whites of
his comically wide eyes. "You on a surveillance?" He faked an
innocent question.

"Uh yeah, but nothing's going
down. I'm heading out." Butch turned the ignition key.