The Kiss Test (15 page)

“Yeah, I can just see myself, clinging to the face of a cliff by my fingertips. Like I need to add any more bruises to my body.” I shoved a handful of hair out of my face and thumbed through the Elvis trivia book I’d purchased before we left Nashville. “Did you know Elvis was only the second white person to have a number one single on
Billboard
’s rhythm-and-blues chart?”

“Really. Wow.”

I grinned at Chris’s lack of enthusiasm, but even he couldn’t ruin my day. I’d had a nap yesterday and a good night’s sleep, thanks to keeping a tight rein on Chris at dinner. No roaming allowed. No scoping allowed. No Kiss Test allowed. Although he managed to cheat on that last rule more than a few times. After dragging him off and giving him a piece of my mind, I reminded him that the damn Kiss Test was what had gotten us (read: him) into trouble the night before. He pouted, but I prevailed by repeatedly showing him the scrubbed-clean bruise in the center of my forehead and making him feel guilty.

“Elvis also holds the records for Most Charted Singles, Most Top-Ten Singles and Most Weeks at Number One.”

“Did you know Jeeps are built in Toledo, Ohio and Ontario, Canada?” Chris tossed back, lifting a hand to wave at another topless Jeep traveling in the opposite direction.

“Yeah but, see, we’re not playing
Jeep
trivia.” I went back to my book.

Chris muttered something under his breath.

“Hey, Kurt Russell made his film debut in one of Elvis’s movies.
It Happened At The World’s Fair.
He was ten years old.”

“Are we going to do this all the way to Memphis?”

“Probably.”

“Then you’re off at the next rest stop.”

I just smiled. No way Chris could wreck my good mood. The rest of the photo shoot yesterday had gone off without a hitch, and then Chris humored me—probably out of guilt—and we visited the Country Music Hall of Fame after my nap. I practically bounced through the building, in between bouts of dizziness that had me clinging to Chris to keep from kissing the ground. I felt so comfortable and at home among the faces and voices that had been part of my daily routine for so long. Until I remembered they were no longer a part of my life. I had to believe there would be another station, another studio, another job to fill that hole in my life. There had to be.

I lied to the photographer, yes, but I wasn’t going to apologize. For the first time in weeks, I’d taken a step in the direction of correcting my life’s problems. I lost a job, a boyfriend, a place to live…I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity for my future. No matter what Chris said, I lied for a good reason, and there was nothing to apologize for.

Now, I was on to bigger and better things.

Chris frowned and dropped his duffle bag near the bureau. “I’m not sleeping with Elvis staring at me.”

“Don’t have much choice, do you now?” I was grinning like a fool, but I didn’t care. Suddenly things seemed much brighter. The next couple of days were all about basking in Elvis, doing things I’d never done, immersing myself in my hobby and forgetting the troubles that had been crowding in lately. It was all a distraction, and distraction was good.

“You realize there’s only one bed, don’t you?”

Chris stared down at me, one dark eyebrow raised. Climbing off the bed, I walked over and pressed a hand to his cheek, patting gently. “I was planning on coming on this vacation alone. But, having only one bed, I guess I won’t have to worry about you bringing home any more strays.”

I trotted off to the bathroom, leaving him glaring after me.

“Do you have enough sports equipment?” I asked brightly, unwilling to be brought down, even by the premier Elvis basher. “Do you have enough rock climbing doo-dads? Or do you still need the latest and greatest?”

“That’s not the same.”

Finally spent, for the moment, I agreed to make a brief stop at the hotel to dump our goods off.

I gave Chris exactly ten minutes of downtime.

“Okay, time to go.”

He lay on the bed, covering his eyes with his arm, blocking out images of Elvis burned into his eyeballs, he said. His only response was to groan.

“I’ll buy you alcohol,” I said. “We’re doing Beale Street.”

“No more Elvis?”

“Not tonight anyway.”

We discovered Beale Street is sometimes known as the Bourbon Street of Memphis. The road was cordoned off at night, allowing the tourists and native partiers freedom to roam without fear of being run down by drivers with no regard for the drunk. Open containers of alcohol were allowed, giving free movement from one bar to the next, one club to another, without becoming parched on the way. At night, Beale Street was alive with neon and the blues, packed into three short wild and crazy blocks. My dizziness was nearly nonexistent, so I ventured into the world of alcohol again with a daiquiri to top all daiquiris.

“Sissy booze?” Chris gave me a playful shove with his shoulder. His mood had improved greatly now that Elvis wasn’t the main attraction. I hoped he wasn’t getting too comfortable in his Elvis-less world, because tomorrow would be the
pièce de résistance.
Graceland.

“Not sissy booze.” I dodged out of the way of some woman careening down the sidewalk with two drinks in her hand, and probably several already in her belly. “I needed to get some fruit in. You know, strawberries, bananas…”

“Yeah, like that’s on the food pyramid.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if it is or not. I’m just…happy to be alive.” I sounded like a New Age ditz and didn’t give two hoots. New York was behind me, troubles in the past, Kevin forgotten. Okay, well, Kevin had been forgotten until I remembered I forgot him, but really, what difference did it make? He chose to move on, and I chose to let him. Somehow, I think I got the better end of the deal.

“Let’s check out the dancing in here,” Chris suggested, veering off into a brick and glass-fronted building on a corner.

The rock-and-roll music perked us right up, and soon we were on the dance floor. We danced together. We danced separately. I tried to ignore Chris giving the Kiss Test to every dance partner. Well, except me, of course.

Three hours later, my head throbbed, either from the alcohol, the loud music or the dancing, I’m not sure which. But I was happy.

“Hey, let’s find Becker,” Chris suggested. “I looked up his address earlier. It’s just down the street.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot he was here.” I stepped over someone’s spent beer bottle and gripped Chris’s arm to keep from falling.

He smiled at me and winked. “Still wanna get laid?”

Sighing, I shook my head. My head said no, but my body said, “Yes. But, I won’t. Even if he’s still hotter than four-alarm chili.”

“Why not?” Chris gave me a few pokes in the side with his elbow. “You haven’t had sex in a while. Don’t you think you deserve it?”

“I thought that thinking of me having sex grossed you out.”

“It does, but maybe I won’t feel guilty any more for that goose egg on your forehead.”

“Gee, thanks.” I absently rubbed at my bruise and swayed a little at some sultry blues coming out of one of the bars. After all the exercise of the last three hours, I was surprisingly mellow. Maybe because my body hadn’t had such a workout in weeks. It wore out more quickly.

“There it is.”

Just outside the protective barriers blocking off Beale Street from the rest of Memphis, sat a hole-in-the-wall storefront.

Case the Joint, it said.

“Great name!” I brightened at the thought of seeing Case Becker after all these years. I’d once been head over heels for him. He, however, had about as much interest in me as Chris did. We were pals, buddies, drinking mates. It never crossed his mind to do anything else with me. Nor would it have crossed his mind that I’d be interested in him.

Chris and I crossed the street and made our way through the milling tourists to the door of Case the Joint. The little bar held a big crowd, even this late at night. Signed photos—not of famous people, that I could tell, but of normal people—papered the walls, Polaroids signed with permanent markers. From the high, open ceiling hung cast-off bras, a few panties and the occasional thong, those nearest the windows faded from years of sunlight.

“Interesting place.” Chris followed me in, stepping aside to allow another couple to pass.

Music throbbed from an unseen jukebox, hidden somewhere within the standing-room-only crowd.

“If Becker is the owner,” I hollered to Chris, as we made our way toward the bar, “what are the chances of him actually being here?”

“From what I heard, he lives for this place. Night and day.” Chris looked over the top of my head and a few seconds later broke into his high-wattage smile. “Beck!”

He raised his hand in greeting and I followed his gaze toward the glossy wooden bar along the rear of the room. Behind the bar, Case Becker stood in all his glory. Years hadn’t diminished anything about Becker, except his hairline. What had been fading in college—in a very attractive manner, of course—had receded into oblivion. His bald head gleamed in the muted bar lights as he turned at the sound of his name.

“Treem! You bastard!” Becker broke into a huge grin and tossed a white cloth to the other bartender behind the counter before heading our way. He wove through his customers, a full head and a half taller than any of them, and made his way toward us. “Damn, man. Where’ve you been all my life?”

He threw his arms around Chris and they did the back-slapping, man-patting, bear hug that would have killed any woman they tried it on.

“We’re in town for a few days.” Chris gestured in my direction. “Thought we’d stop by and give you hell.”

Becker saw me, and I wiggled my fingers and smiled. “Surprise!”

“Margo? Long Haul Margo?”

I laughed at the nickname I hadn’t heard for years. Becker dubbed me that when I broke some college records for cross country. Back then, he always said I was “in it for the long haul.” Well, back then, I’d have been into
him
for the long haul anyway. “That’s me.”

Becker swooped in and lifted me straight off my feet. We whirled around until I kicked some woman in the butt with my feet, then he put me down and apologized by ordering her a free drink. She must not have been too upset, judging by the amount of eyelid fluttering going on. Becker obviously still had the same charm that had worked to his and Chris’s advantage in college.

“Hey, come on back to my lair, where it’s quiet.” Becker snapped his fingers at someone behind the bar. “Beer for three in the back.”

Chris and I followed Becker toward the back of the bar. I felt like a midget sandwich, squeezed between such tall men. Chris was six-two, not a giant, but to my five-four, it was still pretty tall. Becker, on the other hand, towered over us both, somewhere in the neighborhood of six-seven or eight. I squared my shoulders and tried not to feel intimidated about their imposing height by concentrating on Becker’s great butt. That sure hadn’t changed since I’d last seen him.

Becker led us through a narrow, dim hallway into a smallish room in the rear of the bar. A door marked Emergency Exit stood catty-corner and probably led out into a back alleyway. The “lair” was square and softly lit, smelled like the soft brown leather sofa against the wall, and held a round table set off to the side, topped with a bunch of magazines—called things like
Skin Art
and
Nasty Tattoo
—and some loose change. A few moments later, a red-headed waitress showed up with a tray full of mugs and a pitcher of dark beer. She dropped them off and accepted a kiss from Becker.

“This is my wife, Angel.” Becker introduced us all around. Then, Angel told us to have fun and went back out to the bar.

“Married, huh?” Chris settled into a chair and reached for the beer. “Damn, that’s too bad, isn’t it, Margo?” He gave me a pointed look that silently communicated,
Oops, looks like you’re not getting laid tonight either.

I kicked him under the table.

Becker was oblivious. “Four years now. Even got a kid.”

Chris and I made the appropriate oohs and aahs at the picture Becker withdrew from his wallet, while I inwardly cringed. I couldn’t imagine being thirty years old, saddled with a kid already. I had too much life to live, too much to do.

Funny, years ago, when I’d had the hots for Becker, I might have even accepted a marriage proposal from him. Oh, not because I was in love or anything. It was definitely a physical thing. Beck had basketball-player hands. The kind of hands that suction-cupped a basketball, as if it was nothing. His arms were thick with muscles, not to mention every other part of his body. His butt was like premium beef steak, packed into button-fly Levis and ripe for grilling. He was so physical all the time, touching, hugging, carrying me around. Well, not
only
me. Ladies’ man Beck paid no more attention to me than he would his kid sister. I got all the physical attention, except the kind I wanted. If he’d asked me to marry him, I probably would have, because I’d convinced myself sex with Becker would be a cosmic experience I’d never recover from. I wanted him in my bed so much I’d have done just about anything.

Actually, I
did
just about everything.

It hadn’t worked.

Looking at Becker now, regardless of the fact he was married, I didn’t feel all that much. Sure, he was a prime specimen, and if I’d been a different girl, I might’ve felt like examining him closer. But the old spark wasn’t there. He’d settled into being just an old friend.

“So, how ’bout you two?” Becker asked, drawing my attention back to the conversation.

“How long’ve you been married?”

I spit my beer in a streaming fountain onto the table and gasped for air while Chris pounded me on the back, laughing.

“Margo’s allergic to the M-word. Probably shouldn’t mention it again or she might toss a lung.”

“So, what? You guys just shacking up then?”

“Geez, Becker.” I stared at him like he’d admitted to wearing women’s underpants.

“Chris is my best friend. You know that. Best friends don’t sleep together.”

“Well, we’re gonna sleep together tonight,” Chris reminded me with an intimate pat on the thigh, meant to egg me on.

I slapped his paw away. “That’s not the same.”

We explained to Beck about our vacation and my accident, which forced me to bring Chris along—much to my utter disappointment. “He’s such an Elvis hater.”

Becker stared around the room in mock horror, as if waiting for the Elvis police to burst through the door and bust us. “Don’t ever speak of such things outside this room.”

“I don’t hate Elv…uh,
him,
” Chris corrected with an eye roll. “I could just live without him.”

“Not if you live in Memphis, man.”

Becker refilled our beers and told us about his business. “The bar’s downstairs and upstairs is my studio.”

“Studio?” I asked, as I began my second beer, wondering if he’d taken up painting or something. Or maybe he meant
dance
studio, my slightly tipsy subconscious thought, and I snickered under my breath at my own wit.

“
Tattoo
studio.” He indicated the magazines spread out on the table. I’d stopped looking at them a short time ago. The images started swimming in front of my eyes like bad drug trip, so I’d been avoiding eye contact. Besides, the cover photo of a woman with a dragon curling up her side, resting its huge head on the upper part of her breast made my skin hurt just looking at it. Did people take entire bottles of Valium before subjecting themselves to a tattoo artist’s needle?

Chris and Becker discussed the trials and tribulations of business ownership, until I felt a bit left out. Crap, I didn’t even have a
job
I could discuss. I felt about ten years old.

Pretty soon, though, the conversation turned to our college years. Becker’s wife, Angel, joined us while on her break, bringing another couple of pitchers. We had a good time, talking about our lives now and our lives in college. We reminded Becker of the camping trip we’d all taken, sharing stories with his wife, who’d never heard them before. We laughed until our sides hurt, probably due as much to the excess of alcohol as to the laughter itself. When one pitcher was gone, another miraculously appeared.

After a while, the alcohol, having nowhere else to go, began replacing brain cells, and I don’t remember what happened the rest of the night. But, I’m sure we had a good time.