The Kiss Test (14 page)

For a moment, Chris stared at me like he wanted to say something.

“What?” I prompted, because frankly I wanted to hear his excuses. I wanted to know what had been going through his head last night, because it obviously hadn’t involved me. “I didn’t think—”

My jaw dropped as I stared at Chris’s profile. “Oh, you were thinking, all right. You were thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” His admission stunned me into silence.

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I figured
you
weren’t up to scratching that particular itch for me. Am I right?” Something in his eyes told me he was actually asking the question with some seriousness.

I stared at my clenched fists. “You are so not hitting on me right now.” The only thing keeping me from punching him was the fact that a car accident would make me late for my appointment.

After a beat, Chris turned his attention back to the road, his cocky grin fading. “Bad idea, huh?” round.

Whatever
.
Let him think he won.
I had more important things to worry about. I needed to get back to the motel, change my clothes, do something with my hair and then get a cab to the offices of
Today’s Country Magazine
by one o’clock, an hour and a half from now. I’d just make it.

Or not.

A half hour later, we still sat in traffic, a semi overturned on the interstate, blocking all lanes. The longer we sat in silence, the more tense I got, and the more I scratched at the bites on my legs and arms that nearly drove me out of my mind. I sucked in air between my teeth, as a particularly nasty bite on my face begged to be scratched. No way could I lay a single finger on my face and disturb the carefully applied mask that would, with any luck, keep me from being pegged an abused woman once more today.

“Would you hold still, for God’s sake?” Chris finally snapped. “You’re making me itch just watching you.”

“So sorry, Your Highness,” I snapped right back. “I think I can safely blame you for all the scratching. As well as my headache, my dizziness and the fact that I had to listen to an hour-long lecture on how not to be a battered woman this morning.” I flipped Bebe the cosmetic consultant’s business card, with the number for the women’s shelter scribbled on the back, in Chris’s direction. “I just want to get to this appointment and get my life back on track, and now—” I waved my hand in the general direction of the wall of cars blocking our way, “—now, I’m not even going to get to do that.”

Chris stared at the number on the card for a minute before looking at me, his face serious. “She thought
I
hit you?”

I watched him another few seconds, wondering why I felt like I’d lost this particular round.

“Yes. But worse than that, she thought
I
was the kind of person who would take it.” I huffed out a frustrated breath and stared straight ahead.

“You wouldn’t.”

I glanced over at Chris, who looked very solemn. “No, I wouldn’t.”
I
wouldn’t, but I couldn’t help remembering who had.

I was nine. My dad had been gone on a long business trip, about two weeks. His return had been hailed with much fanfare in our home. My brother and I, prompted by my mother, painted a banner, welcoming Dad home. My mother prepared his favorite meal—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, homemade biscuits and that green-bean casserole with the crispy onions on the top that most people only serve on Thanksgiving. She’d been nervously fretting all day. Every detail had to be perfect. The placement of the good china on the dining room table (usually reserved for company), the consistency of the mashed potatoes (not too runny, not too lumpy), the way Rob’s and my hair was combed. We were glad Dad was coming home, too, but we whispered conspiratorially in my bedroom that she seemed to be getting a little carried away with the whole homecoming thing.

Dad arrived home in a bad mood. Our carefully designed banner met with very little notice. He gave us kids distracted hugs, but pointedly turned away from my mother when she presented herself for a kiss.

We all sat at the table to eat, Rob and I chattering about what we’d done the past two weeks, taking advantage of the free-flowing sparkling cider my mother bought for this occasion, asking for refill after refill. Dad offered no response to our prattling and finally Mom told us to be quiet and eat. The rest of Mom’s perfect meal was eaten in silence, the tension thicker than the meatloaf. Mom stared at her plate in between brightly offered comments meant to draw my dad into conversation. It didn’t work. Rob and I were sent to bed early, with the excuse that Dad was tired and needed some peace.

A few hours later I woke to loud voices coming from the living room…mainly my father’s voice. For a few minutes, I thought I was dreaming. Dad never raised his voice. Dad never got emotional, but he was emotional now. Angry.

I listened for a while, wondering if I’d done something wrong. Nothing specific came to mind, but that didn’t mean anything. I wracked my brain about possible infractions either Rob or I could have been guilty of—leaving Dad’s tools out in the rain, sneaking all of his secret stash of cookies from the back of the pantry and not leaving him any—but I came up with nothing. In the meantime, all the sparkling cider I drank at dinner needed release, and I crept from my bedroom, hoping to avoid getting into trouble…either for being out of bed when I shouldn’t be, or for whatever I might have done that had Dad so upset.

I couldn’t see the living room from the bathroom but, when I finished my business, my curiosity got the better of me. The voices grew louder, my mother pleading, my father angry. I don’t remember the words. Maybe I never heard them.

As I reached the corner of the hallway, entering the living room, my father struck out. I flinched as the back of his hand made contact with my mother’s surprised face.

I think that was probably the first time it happened. It wasn’t the last.

For nearly a year, the scene repeated itself over and over again. By this time, Rob joined my covert observations of our parents’ fights. Sometimes I’d creep from my own bed to Rob’s room, climbing under the covers with him, where we buried our heads and whispered to each other, attempting to drown out the shouts from the other end of the house. Sometimes, the draw was too much, and we’d both sneak down the hall to watch in horror as the argument escalated into violence. At first strike, though, we flew back to our beds, our hearts racing, never speaking of it to each other in the light of day.

Looking back, I never remember seeing any marks on my mother’s face. She was obviously more skilled with makeup than me. She hid it from us and from our neighbors and friends. No one suspected.

My mother had taken it. She didn’t throw my father out. He left on his own the next year, returning a year after that with his new wife and new religion, looking like a different man. Worse, my mother had “taken it” from more than one man. Her next two husbands—at least—also smacked her around.

It solidified my childish belief that my mother must be a bad person to make people hit her. It had taken adulthood to see the truth. My mother hadn’t done anything wrong…except choose the wrong men.

“What’re you thinking?” Chris finally asked, as we crept forward a few feet, the traffic looking more and more like it wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

“Nothing.” I wouldn’t share that part of my childhood with anyone, not even my best friend. And not just because I was still mad at him. I’d spent so many years ignoring the past, I saw no reason to give voice to it now. The memory of it reaffirmed my thankfulness that I was nothing like my mother. No man would ever strike me, and if he did, it would be the last time he was in my presence. I was not the doormat my mother had been…maybe still was. After those first few attempts at marriage didn’t turn out any better than her first, I stopped paying attention. If I ignored my mother’s shortcomings, her inability to stand up for herself, it couldn’t rub off on me. I prided myself on my ability to pick better men than she did, my ability to know when to walk away from a relationship that threatened my individuality and, most of all, my ability to be very different from my mother.

After all, I’d had four relationships. She’d had eleven. If at first you don’t succeed, try not to make the same mistakes again. Apparently she was still working on that.

“What time are you supposed to be at your appointment?”

I glanced down at my watch and cringed. “Forty-five minutes from now. Damn. Come on!” I shouted out my frustration at the parking lot of cars surrounding us. “Do I have ‘kick me’ written on my forehead?” I asked Chris. “Because I’m getting really tired of being foiled at every turn.”

He laughed, having no clue how much this was stressing me out. He may have understood the award was important, but I had serious doubts how much he realized…“This is my last chance.”

“For what? To get a job?”

“Yes.”

“That’s stupid. You don’t
need
this award.”

“Don’t you get it? If I don’t have this award, then I’m nothing special. I’m just an out-of-work DJ. Without this award, I’m a name on a résumé with no meaning.
With
the award, I at least have half a chance. I’m special. My skills are worthwhile.”

Chris stared at me a minute before finally speaking. “Well, I don’t agree with you,” he began. “But, I believe that
you
believe your entire career depends on this award.”

“It does!”

“It doesn’t,” he insisted. “You’re Margo Gentry. You are not the ‘Best Country DJ’.”

“I don’t follow. Oh, God. I really did win the award, didn’t I? Don’t tell me I dreamed it, because that’s the only thing holding my sanity together at this point.”

“You may have been awarded with that honor, but it’s not your identity.”

“Your point?”

“My point is, when did you find out you got the award?”

“A month ago.”

“And, when did the voting take place?”

I shrugged, curious as to where this discussion was going. “A few weeks before that, I guess.”

“And a week before you knew you’d won the award, how did you do your job?”

“Huh? The way I always did it.”

“Exactly.” Chris put on his blinker and moved into the far right lane when someone slowed to let him through. “You did a good job before anyone gave you an
award
for doing a good job.”

I frowned. His words may have made sense, though I wasn’t positive. Chris was trying to tell me I was putting too much value on the Best Country DJ Award. “So, in other words…?” I prompted, fishing for clarity.

“In other words, you were a good DJ before you were aware of the award. You are not a good DJ
because
of the award.”

“You think I’m an idiot for placing so much emphasis on a title.”

“Yep. ’Fraid so.”

Well, nothing like a little support to put things into perspective. My anger at Chris for last night eased a little. “You’re saying I should blow the photo shoot?”

“Hell no.” He pulled to the right of two cars blocking our way to the nearest exit off the interstate. He drove along the shoulder until the coast was clear and sped up as he reached the open roadway. “I’m saying I’m going to get you there on time, but stop thinking that’s your only merit as a DJ.” We braked at the light at the end of the off-ramp.

Chris turned to face me. “You’re good at your job because you love it, not because anybody pats you on the back for it.”

For a minute we just stared at each other, my mind drifting back to some of Kevin’s last words to me. He hadn’t understood my career choice. He ridiculed it. Had it changed how much I loved my job? No. His approval hadn’t mattered. Chris’s approval mattered. Maybe he understood.

Or maybe he was just a good friend who believed in me enough to cheer me up, even when I was pissed at him.

“I’m just getting my picture taken today. No need to tell anyone anything, is there?”

Chris shrugged. “That depends on whether you believe what I said or not.”

“Look,” I said, opening the door and climbing out. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I believe you. It matters whether or not
Today’s Country
believes
me.
”

Chris sighed and stared at the steering wheel for a minute. Disappointment radiated off him. Well, there was nothing I could do about that right now. I had too much at stake here to count on anyone else understanding my circumstances. I knew he was trying to help, but…

He told me to call his cell when I was done.

I opened my mouth to say something—I’m not sure what, but it felt like something needed to be said. I didn’t want to apologize for being mad, because I still was (at least a little). But, he made the effort to get me here on time, when he could have just driven back to the motel and made me suffer.

“Look,” I began, staring at the seat I’d just vacated.

“No, you look,” Chris replied, with a smile meant to reassure me we were okay. “Get your butt up there, so you’re not late.”

Glad to be off the hook, since I still really didn’t know what I planned to say, I nodded and closed the door.

“Hey,” he called to me through the open window. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

I guess that would depend on your definition of “the right thing.”

The offices of
Today’s Country Magazine
were housed in an older four-story brick building. Directed to the second floor, I arrived with moments to spare. I introduced myself to the receptionist and stated the reason for my visit. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I told her. “It’s a long story.”

“No problem,” she replied around a wad of gum large enough to choke a hippo. She stood up and motioned that I follow her into the depths of the office. “He’s ready for you.”

“He” was Jeff, a cowboy boot-wearing, tobacco-chewing (judging by his bulging lower lip) photographer. He shook my hand and surveyed what he had to work with. I cringed at the close scrutiny, prayed my makeup hadn’t run and wished I’d had time to change out of my typical uniform of jeans and running shoes, and one of the twenty Elvis T-shirts I owned. “We were stuck in traffic,” I started to explain. “I’m afraid I didn’t even have time to go back to the motel to change.”

Jeff gave me one last look then waved off my concerns. “You look fine. We like our covers natural, bein’ themselves.”

“Well,” I laughed, looking down at the black T-shirt I’d thrown on that morning. My favorite one, with “Elvis” in rhinestones. “I’m definitely my very own self today.” I didn’t mention my very own self would not have a hundred dollars worth of Estée Lauder caked on her face. Hopefully it looked natural, since I’d only given it a passing glance in the hand mirror at Dillard’s. No strange looks were forthcoming, so I must have passed muster.

He led me deeper into the building, as I took a few cleansing breaths and tried to relax. Why my stomach was doing somersaults, I had no idea. I was used to having my picture taken, with celebrities even. Pictures that were up on the WKUP website for the world to see. Well, at least they had been before the foreign takeover. Now my American face would probably stick out like a cow amidst a herd of horses.

“Did you have a nice flight to Nashville?” Jeff’s question startled me out of my thoughts of photos and celebrities and cows among horses.

“Uh, actually we drove.” I hurried to catch up with the photographer. “A friend and I. I’m kind of making this into a vacation.”

“Got the time off work, huh? Now that you’ve won the big award?” Jeff chuckled, and I smiled what I’m sure was a weak-ass smile, thankful his back was to me.

“Uh, yeah. I had vacation built up.” Shit. I felt a cold sweat coming on. I wasn’t supposed to have to worry about truth-telling until I met with Nancy.

Jeff directed me into a brightly lit studio. The ceilings were high, the lights bright and a stool sat against a white backdrop. Presumably where I’d plant my behind. And, if he already suspected I was lying, he’d just add some ID numbers on a mini chalk board and make this a mug shot.

“Why don’t you take a seat over there. I’ll set up.”

The small high stool made me feel like a child in the middle of the huge room. For a few minutes, I watched Jeff—turning on lights, adjusting the position of the camera, fiddling with the gigantic lens. He was pretty cute, for a cowboy. His tight black Levis hugged his butt like skin, as did his equally tight black T-shirt. His biceps bulged and his pecs were bigger than mine, giving away that he obviously worked out. His short-trimmed dark blond hair was barely visible beneath his black cowboy hat. Without the hat, he’d have been just my kind of guy. The kind I’d talk to, flirt with, maybe dance the two-step with, make a beer toast with.

My stomach settled down. Maybe that was the key: think about guys. Jeff, in particular, since he happened to be handy.

“So,” I said, as Jeff bent over the camera. “Have you worked long for
Today’s Country?
”

“About two years.” He strode across the room to aim a large light in my direction. “How long have you been with your station?”

“Oh, about six years.” Not a lie. I
had
been with WKUP for six years. “You live in Nashville?” I tried. A safe question.

“All my life. My parents have a horse ranch outside the city, and I went to the University of Memphis.”

See, it worked. Subject safely steered away from Margo and on to Jeff.

Jeff snapped a picture.

“Hey!” I laughed. “Don’t you warn a person?”

Jeff grinned, and I noticed that he had really piercing blue eyes, the color of the Manhattan sky on a really clear day.

“Nope. No warnings. Get some of my best shots that way. They’re more natural. No posing.”

“I’m not much of a poser anyway.” At least not a picture poser. I was pretty good at posing as an employed disk jockey.

Jeff bent over the camera again. “So, what’s your favorite part of your job, Margo?”

Having one.
“Um, the music’s great. I love music.” Lame. People who love music listen to CDs. How the hell was I supposed to get a new job, if I couldn’t even articulate why I wanted it?

I was obviously doomed.

“No frowning.” Jeff’s voice intruded on my thoughts again.

“Oh, sorry.” I plastered on what I felt might look somewhat like a natural smile. Not.

“Lost you there for a minute, did I?”

“Just daydreaming, I guess. Or sleeping. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Ah.” He gave me a knowing look. And a wink. “Drive down here with a guy friend, then?”

“Uh, yeah. But, you have the wrong idea.” I laughed, feeling safer drifting away from career talk into personal talk. And, believe me, if I felt more comfortable with personal talk, that was really saying something.

“So, what kind of idea should I have?” Jeff’s face was ripe with suggestion. Hmm. Too bad I wasn’t more like Chris. If I was, I might have been persuaded to meet this cowboy for drinks tonight and have a little Tennessee fling. But, I was definitely not Chris.

“Not that kind of idea,” I assured him. “Chris is my buddy. My best friend of a very long time. That’s all.”

“But, you’re road trippin’ together?” Jeff snapped off a bunch more shots, miming directions to me about where to put my hands, how to turn my head, when to flick my hair just so. I am not a natural-born hair-flicker, so that step required repeated demonstrations on Jeff’s part.

“Only because I can’t drive right now. A head thing.” I waved my hands vaguely in the direction of my lately misbehaving brain. Jeff gave me an odd look and then went back to snapping pictures. A little late, I realized how stupid I looked, like I was demonstrating the emptiness of my head.

“So, anyway. What’s bein’ a DJ like? I always thought that’d be a neat job.”

Damn. This guy had a one-track mind.

“Great. Busy. Up early. To bed early. You know.”

Again Jeff grinned, dimples showing around the corners of his mouth. “When do you have to go back to work?”

“What?” Odd question.

“When are you going back to work at…WKUP is it?”

“Uh, yeah.” Did this guy
know
something? Had someone called the station and found out I was no longer employed? “Soon. A couple of weeks. I’m off to my mother’s wedding in California. That’s when I meet with Nancy.”

“Yeah, Nancy’s in California for a while. She’s lookin’ real forward to talking to you about your job and what you like about being a jock for WKUP.”

That sick feeling erupted in my stomach again. Jeff the photographer was entirely too concerned with my job.

He took off his hat and made messy motions with his hands, like he wanted me to tousle my hair. I frowned. This wasn’t
Playboy.
I’d never seen any of the
Today’s Country
cover celebrities with just-got-out-of-bed hair. Jeff made the motions in a little more exaggerated manner, so I did what he said, pulling my ponytail out and throwing my shoulders back as I did so. My chest wasn’t large, but it was functional as a distraction device. Momentarily.

“Are you friends with a lot of your coworkers at
WKUP?
” It sounded like he was emphasizing the station call letters. Just in case I’d forgotten where I worked…before. Where I
didn’t
work now.

Was it getting hot in here?

If it was getting hot, I’d start to sweat, and the carefully applied makeup would run. I concentrated on looking photogenic so we could get this over with.

“Sure, lots of friends,” I quipped. “Even a few enemies. Ha. Ha.” Joke. Lighten it up in here.

“You plan to work for WKUP for a long time?”

What the hell?

My conscience knotted like a ball in the center of my chest and Chris’s parting words echoed in my head.
I know you’ll do the right thing.

Sure, if the right thing was saving my own ass. Apparently I’m not as noble as he gives me credit for.

I squared my shoulders and smiled my biggest smile, wishing for just one moment I was the blonde bimbo type who made men forget their names.

“Yep.” I steeled myself for the lightning bolt that was sure to strike me dead any minute.

“I will be working for WKUP forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

Damn.