Sex Symbol (3 page)

“Mrs. Morrison is a nosy old bitch, now what did she say?”

I opened my mouth a couple of times, like a fish trying to get air after flopping up onto a river bank. But nothing came out. When I finally found my voice I said, “I’m going back to the Fig. Can you handle things here?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Do what you need to and call if you need me.”

I cried the whole way home. You’d have thought that after a while a heart couldn’t break any more, but that’s not true. I didn’t bother pulling into the garage because I was only there to change.

For the first time in three weeks I didn’t bother looking next door before going in my house. Whatever my neighbor was doing didn’t matter right now. Normally when someone is in shock, they don’t feel pain. Maybe that was only true for the physical kind. Because I was definitely still in shock from what Mrs. Morrison had said and I was most certainly in pain.

My bedroom had recently been redecorated along with the rest of the house and it usually made me smile. But I was oblivious to the luscious red and gold bedcovers and the fresh new honey-colored paint. I was also oblivious to the fact that the curtains on my french doors were wide open. By the time I noticed I was already in my underwear. Fuck it. If my neighbor was out there, let him look. After all, I’d been ogling him for weeks. Maybe I could return the favor.

I pulled on a pair of my favorite jeans. They’ve got slashes all down the legs and one that falls just short of indecent exposure under the left butt cheek. I considered wearing a skirt. But I planned to get stinking, falling down drunk tonight. I wanted something that covered my crotch. My breasts are too large to go without a bra, so I picked one that I felt enhanced what I had without making them look like they were jacked up underneath my chin. Lifting and separating is all well and good, but when you’re a D cup you don’t want them lifted too high. It just looks unnatural. The black thong I was wearing already matched so I didn’t bother changing panties. Yes, I think my bra and panties needs to match. Even the skuzzy ones I wear when I don’t feel well.

The black shirt I picked out had just a little bit of sleeve and slashes across the midriff to match my jeans. It was made that way. I feel the need to explain since so many people in the South can’t seem to figure out that it’s okay to wear clothes with holes in them sometimes. In fact, some even come with them on purpose. My grandma has been offering suggestions for years on how to patch up my favorite jeans. I’ve given up trying to explain fashion to her.

Since the jeans were cut low, the shirt just barely met them. This showed off my new tattoo quite nicely through the decorative slashes. I’d gotten the long-stemmed red rose along my hipbone about a month ago and hadn’t properly shown it off yet. I’d always wanted a tattoo, but never could decide on a design. Finally, I just walked into a tattoo parlor and let the artist pick one for me. James would have disapproved. Fuck him. I like roses.

A pair of low heeled black boots completed the outfit and I was good to go. I had no intention of redoing my makeup or doing anything different with my hair. I’d let my hair dry naturally the night before, which meant I had curls galore. I did spare a quick glance in the mirror though and realized that my eyes looked more red than brown. I took a minute to use some drops and then reapply a little bit of eyeliner before grabbing my jacket and heading out.

When I walked back into The Flaming Fig Chase seemed surprised to see me. He checked his wrist, then realizing it was bare, looked up at the clock on the wall.

“It’s six o’clock. What happened?”

I sat down at the bar and threw my jacket onto the seat beside me. The place wasn’t that busy yet, but it would be. This was one of the few locations you could buy beer on Sunday. I’d always thought that was a stupid rule. “No beer sold on Sunday”, so many signs read. Why the hell not? It just drove up sales for Saturday night. Then again, this was coming from the same people who banned many beloved children’s books that contained “magical elements” and said they were evil or “devil worship books”. Some days I’d love to bibbidi-bobbidi-boo their stupid asses into dog shit. Man, I was in a bad mood.

“Are you going to answer me or just sit there with that frown on your face?” Chase asked.

I leaned forward and propped on the bar. “I’m just keeping my promise.”

“It’s early. Someone must have pissed you off.”

“Oh, so it’s too early to keep my word?” There was definitely more venom in my tone than Chase deserved.

His voice was kind when he replied, kinder than my rude remark deserved. “You had no intention of keeping your word. You said you’d be back so as not to hurt my feelings. Now, how about I fix you that drink and you can tell me who pissed you off?”

Halfway into a pitcher of key lime margaritas I had nearly concluded my rant about Mrs. Morrison.

“That stupid fucking cunt. Oh, hi Charlie.”

The policeman sat down beside me and slapped his badge onto the counter.

“You must be talking about my aunt Jackie.”

“Look, don’t take it personal.”

He waved off my comment. “No, she’s retarded. I can’t believe what she said to you today.”

“Oh, so you were there,” Chase said, moving closer. “Was your aunt dropped on the head as a child?”

Charlie laughed. “She needs to be dropped on her head as an adult if you ask me. Can I buy you a beer, Lucy?”

I toasted him with my margarita. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Well, give me one then, Chase. I’m officially off duty.”

Charles was just a few years older than me. He didn’t think I noticed, but I’d always known he had a thing for me. For some reason tonight, that didn’t bother me at all and neither did the thought of being close to him. Normally, I kept my distance just a little bit so as not to give a false impression. Damn, those margaritas were strong.

“You’re not planning to drive home now are you, Lucy?”

Before I could answer Chase said, “No sir. She turned in her keys to me almost an hour ago.”

“Where’s Sam?” I asked out of nowhere.

Sam is the other cop that works with Charlie. Actually, he’s the sheriff. We’ve only got a few cops and they are the only two who work regularly. Sam is around six feet tall with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair he keeps tucked neatly underneath his hat. But I’ve seen him around town riding his motorcycle and I know what his hair looks like down or in a short ponytail. I also knew what he looked like in leather pants and the thought made me so wet that for a minute I thought I’d peed in my pants.

I’d had a thing for Sam since I hit puberty, but no one knew that except me.

“He’s probably back at the station listening to the radio. Why?”

That really made me want to place an obscene phone call. But what I said was, “No reason,” and smiled.

As I poured myself another drink from the pitcher, Charlie turned toward me and seemed to take a good look for the first time that night.

“I’m not saying that there aren’t good things about James. But he ain’t the kind of man worth getting drunk over.”

“This has nothing to do with James,” I lied.

Chase fanned with the towel he was holding like the heat of my lies would burn him right up.

“Oh, it doesn’t? You planned on getting stinking drunk before Jackie opened her mouth?”

I raised my arm and took a sniff. “I don’t stink.”

Charlie laughed. “It’s an expression, honey. Are you all right?”

“Fine. Chase, could you help me move to that booth over there?” I placed my hand on Charlie’s arm and said with a smile, “Nothing against you, Charlie. I just want to be closer to the jukebox. You’re welcome to join me.”

I didn’t really want company, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings either. Hell, I’d known him since I was six years old. No sense making enemies now.

“That’s sweet of you. But I’m gonna finish my beer and head on out. I should be able to catch the last of the game on TV.”

“Suit yourself.”

I picked up my coat and glass while Chase took the pitcher and brought it to the corner booth. The bar had started to fill up by now and I wanted to get to the jukebox before it already had three days’ worth of country songs selected. I hated country music, aside from a few slow classics. It was all too damn sad for my taste and especially too sad for my mood. “My wife shot my dog so I had to shoot my wife before she ran off with the mobile home” was not my idea of entertainment. Actually, it hit a little too close to home sometimes.

Chase took a wad of quarters out of his apron and slapped them onto the table in front of me. “Knock yourself out. Dance, drink and have fun.” He turned to leave, and then looked back over his shoulder. “And babe, put a little umph in it.”

With a smile I took his quarters and started selecting every R&B song on the list.

Alcohol had never made me so horny before. Ever. It just did not have that effect on me. Normally I just got relaxed and if I drank enough I’d pass out. Although that had only happened twice in my life. I wasn’t a heavy drinker. At least, not on a regular basis. Every now and then, like tonight, I’d get good and liquored up. Rarely was this done in public either. I should have stopped after one pitcher, I really should. But I didn’t.

Chase had just delivered a second pitcher of key lime margaritas to my booth as I started a particularly nasty little dance routine. I loved to dance, but I saved the really raunchy, crotch grabbing, breast cupping stuff for when I was alone. Except for tonight. I had no qualms about running my hands up and down my legs as I bent over and rested my ass against the jukebox. I flipped my hair back with a violent sort of motion, running my hands down my breasts and over my slowly rotating hips.

I stroked the seam of my pants and could feel the lusty grin spreading across my face. My makeup was probably running, but I didn’t give a damn. Up until then I had tuned out the crowd, but when I looked up I saw Ozzy coming my way. He was not quite six feet tall. His short red hair was darker than mine, so dark that it almost looked brown. Ozzy is short for Oswald. All I really knew about his past was that his family used to be rich, but they weren’t anymore. Despite that fact he’d come to town six years ago with lots of money. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer to tell. He did say that paying for my shop to get started might help to change his karma.

Ozzy always looked like he’d escaped from a dinner party somewhere and just started to loosen up. No matter where he went he wore black slacks and a white dress shirt. In six years I had never seen him in jeans and now I found the thought of seeing him in nothing at all very appealing. I had a weakness for redheaded men. Not the kind with freckles all over, but the kind who had a normal complexion and just happened to have red hair. It did something for me.

Aside from the hair I liked so much, Ozzy had deep brown eyes and a nice body. Oh, and let’s not forget his lips. They weren’t particularly large or full or anything you hear about in romance novels. They were just sexy and right now they looked fun to touch.

He approached me slowly and his smile matched mine. When he was close enough to touch I pressed my body against his and reached down to cup his balls in my hand. To my surprise his expression didn’t change. A low, anguished whistle could be heard somewhere in the crowd as I said, “Hello, Ozzy.”

I squeezed gently and his expression still remained the same. Damn it felt good to touch him like this. His pants were soft and to my delight, his cock was growing hard.

“Have I ever told you how much I like your lips?”

I leaned forward as if to kiss him and Oz pulled back, but not enough to remove my hand.

“You really have been drinking a lot tonight.”

He put his arm around me and with his hand against the small of my back, led me to my booth.

“How did you know where I was sitting?”

He smiled. “Because your coat is here.”

I refreshed my drink and took a sip. “Have one with me?”

He dangled my keys over the table. “I’m your designated driver, but I’ll watch you drink all you like and if I have to, I’ll carry you out of here over my shoulder.”

Oz could have said that to me any other time and I’d have thought nothing of it. But tonight it sounded more sexual somehow…and I liked it. He reached across the table and took my hand. Where I normally found comfort I now found an almost painful state of arousal. Why had his touch never done this to me before?

“What’s gotten you so worked up?” he asked softly.

“The touch of your hand for one thing.”

“You know what I mean. You don’t usually drink like this.”

“Chase called you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

We sat there in silence for almost a full minute, Ozzy quietly waiting for my answer while I continued to drink. I couldn’t tell Chase or Justina what had happened, but I could tell Oz. He had joked with me before that he must look like a priest because I had no trouble confessing my sins to him. I’m not sure why, but I could tell him things sometimes that I couldn’t tell anybody else. Like how I felt right now.

“I saw James a few days ago and he didn’t even acknowledge me.” I blurted it out before I had time to really think. Here I was thinking that what Jackie Morrison had said was the worst of it, but apparently that wasn’t so.

“I smiled at him and everything, Oz, and he just turned away like I wasn’t there at all.”

I could feel the tears burning my eyes and knew that the instant they fell my mascara would run if it wasn’t already. Ozzy put his hand back over mine and I looked down as big droplets of tears hit the table.

“Mrs. Morrison said that he was thinking of starting a family.”

“Fuck Jackie Morrison.”

I snapped my head back up and couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t that Oz never used bad language, he just didn’t normally use the f-word when talking about old women.

“I’d rather not,” I said with a laugh.

“No one would, and that’s part of her problem. She never thinks before she opens her mouth. I bet that old bat hasn’t had anything nice to say in thirty years.”