Read Wife Is A 4-Letter Word Online

Authors: Stephanie Bond

Wife Is A 4-Letter Word (3 page)

BOOK: Wife Is A 4-Letter Word
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Pam nodded. “Tequila will make you say and do strange things.” She caught his gaze and studied his eyes, wondering if he was having as many misgivings about his hasty invitation as she was about her impulsive acceptance.
But his ice-blue eyes gave away nothing. “Better buckle up,” he said, pointing, then smiled shyly. “Need a hand?”
Inhaling sharply, she shook her head. She could handle the guys who thought they were macho, the self-assured lady-killers—they were safely shallow. What she couldn't handle was Alan's Mr. Nice Guy persona...it threw her off balance.
It was six-thirty when they emerged from the airport, and dusk appeared to be converging. With only a few wrong turns, they found the car rental where Alan's reservations had been made.
“I'm sorry, sir,” the clerk said, smiling sympathetically. “We're all out of full-size luxury cars. We'll have to step you down—with a sizable discount, of course.”
Alan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I'll take a midsize.”
The man tapped on the keyboard, then made a clicking noise with his cheek. “No, sorry.”
“Utility vehicle?”
More clicking. “Nada.”
Alan pursed his lips. “What do you have available?”
The man smiled and pointed out the window to a row of tiny white compacts.
Alan shook his head firmly. “No way.”
Pam frowned. He was exhibiting typical Parish behavior. “Alan,” she whispered loudly. “What do you mean ‘no way'? It's a lousy rental car—what do you expect?”
He looked at her and mirrored her frown. “The best.”
She crossed her arms impatiently and tapped her foot. “I'm tired, sick and cranky—get the stupid car and let's go.”
His mouth thightened in displeasure, but he nodded curtly to the clerk.
“
I'll
drive,” Alan announced firmly a few minutes later as they approached the little car.
“Fine,” Pamela said, not missing the dig. “I hope this resort is close by—I'm beat.”
With a lot of cursing from Alan, and frustrated mutterings from Pam, they finally managed to wedge themselves into the car. Alan unfolded the map he'd purchased, taking up the entire interior of the car. “Looks like about a twenty-minute drive.” Then he spent fourteen minutes rattling the map, trying to refold it.
Pam leaned her head back, forcing thoughts of the coming week from her mind. She'd just roll with the punches, as always. Why was she letting a few days with Alan rattle her? She was safe—the man wasn't the least bit attracted to her. But it was his uptight idiosyncrasies that were going to drive her crazy. He was still rattling that damned map-She reached over and tore it from his hands, wadded it into a ball and tossed it in the back seat. “Let's go.”
 
ALAN SQUINTED at a sign as they drove by. “Did that sign say Penwrote or Pinron?”
“We're lost, aren't we?”
He scoffed and pushed up his glasses. “Of course not.”
She sighed dramatically. “Oh, yeah, we're lost, all right.”
“‘Lost' is a relative term.”
“And I guess you're one of those guys who'd rather run out of gas than stop and ask for directions.”
“Well, if you hadn't destroyed the map—”
“Forget the map—pull off at the next exit.”
Suddenly the car wobbled. At a thumping sound on the back right side of the car, he slowed. “Dam it,” he mumbled as he steered the lame car to the shoulder of the road. “We've got a flat.”
“Beautiful,” Pam said, throwing her hands up in the air. “We're lost
and
we have a flat.”
“Well, it's not my fault.” He shoved the gearshift into park. “You're the one who insisted we take this, this...matchbox car to begin with!”
“So call them to bring us another car.”
“My cell phone is in my suitcase in Savannah.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out her own mobile phone, but frowned. “The battery's dead.”
“Great. This is just great!”
She pointed down the highway. “There's probably a phone off that exit.”
Exasperated, Alan said, “I'm sure there is, but by the time I've walked that far, I could have the tire changed.”
She sighed mightily once more, then opened the passenger-side door and stepped out. Alan did the same and walked back to the tiny trunk, swaying as vehicles passed them at terrific speeds.
“Are you sure you know how to do this?” Pam asked suspiciously.
“Sure,” he said with false confidence. He'd once read a roadside manual, and he was sure the information would come back to him. Men just knew these things, didn't they?
Thirty minutes later, he was on his back, still trying to position the jack, when he looked over to see Pamela standing with her skirt hiked up to her thighs, and her thumb jerked to the side.
“What the heck are you doing?” he shouted.
“Getting us a ride,” she yelled matter-of-factly.
“Would you please cover yourself? You'll attract every serial killer in the vicinity.”
“I don't care, as long as he'll give us a ride to the resort.”
“I've almost got it,” he lied.
“Sure,” she said, unconvinced, then smiled wide into oncoming traffic.
He heard the sound of a large vehicle slowing down and glanced over to see a big rig edging onto the shoulder in front of their cracker-box car.
“It worked!” she squealed, trotting toward the truck.
Alan heaved himself to his feet and took off after her, grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to a halt “Are you crazy? Didn't your mother ever tell you not to accept rides from strangers?”
Pam angled her head at him. “Alan, there's no one stranger than you.” Then she yanked her arm out of his grasp.
He frowned at the tire iron in his hand, then tested its weight and hurried after her. At least he could break the serial killer's knees if he tried anything funny.
The burly, bearded murderer was already climbing down from his rig, doffing his cap to his vivacious victim. The man hadn't yet noticed him, Alan observed.
“Howdy, little lady, having car trouble?”
He couldn't hear Pam's response, but from the tilt of her head, he assumed it was something pathetically feminine and appropriate. She did at least gesture back to Alan, and the man looked up at him, frowning at the tire iron in his hand. Alan swung it casually as he stepped up beside Pain, slapping the metal bar against his left palm as if he wielded the weapon often—and well.
“Name's Jack,” the man said cautiously as he extended his grubby hand to Alan.
Alan sized him up.
Jack the Ripper, Jack the Jackal, Jugular Jack.
Shifting the bar to his left hand, Alan firmly shook the paw the man offered, then spit on the ground in what he hoped was a universal he-man gesture.
“I'm Pamela and this is Alan,” Pam said cloyingly, her eyes shining.
Jack looked them over. “You two just get married?”
“No,” Alan said.
“Yes,” Pam declared.
The trucker looked between them, and took a tentative step backward.
Pam shot Alan a desperate look. “I mean, yes,” Alan said, conjuring up a laugh. He shrugged and winked at the man. “Still can't get used to the idea.”
“We just need a ride,” Pam said quickly. “To the...” She looked to Alan for help.
“The Pleasure Palisades,” Alan said, somewhat self-consciously. Pam raised an eyebrow and he felt his neck grow warm.
Turning back to the man, she asked, “Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, tugging at his chin. “Y'all ever been there?”
“No,” Alan said. “My secretary moonlights as a travel agent—she made all the arrangements. I hear it's a very nice place.”
The trucker pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. “Yep.”
“Can we get a ride?” Pam pressed. “We'll be glad to pay you for your trouble.” She dug her elbow deep into Alan's rib. He gasped, then nodded.
“No bother,” Jack said, turning to walk toward his truck. He swept his arm ahead of him. “Climb on in.”
“What're you hauling?” Pam's new drawl and buoyant step were evidence she'd already bought into the little adventure.
“Hogs,” the man said proudly as he climbed up to open the passenger-side door.
“Hogs?” Alan parroted as Pamela clambered inside. She was barefoot again, carrying her shoes in one hand.
“Yep.” The man grinned as he waited for Alan to get in beside her. Still gripping the tire iron solidly, Alan glanced over his shoulder uneasily.
“You'll need to put down that tire iron, son,” the man said bluntly.
Alan straightened and puffed out his chest. “And why is that?”
Another grin. “So you can hold Barbecue,” the man said, pointing inside.
“Oh, it's a baby!” Pam cooed.
Letting down his guard slightly, Alan slid one eye toward the cab. Pamela was sprawled in the seat, leaning over to fondle a tiny pig on the floorboard.
“That's Barbecue,” the man said, laughing. “Born a few days ago. The rest of the litter died, so I figured I'd keep him up here till the end of the run.”
“He's adorable,” Pam said, squealing as loudly as the nervous, quivering pig.
“Get in, son,” Jack said, giving him a slight shove.
Alan spilled into the deep seat. The door banged closed behind him. “We're goners,” he said to Pam.
Her forehead creased. “What?”
“The man's probably got all kinds of butcher tools on him, and a meat hook for each one of us.”
“You're paranoid,” she scoffed. “We're lucky he stopped.”
Jack opened his door and climbed up behind the huge steering wheel, effectively halting their conversation. He pulled down the bill of his cap, then started the truck. It rumbled and coughed, then lurched into gear. “To the Pleasure Palisades,” he crowed, slapping his knee. “You folks will have a dandy wedding night there.”
Alan's heart pounded and he didn't dare look at Pam. He glanced at his watch and almost laughed out loud. Less than eight hours ago, he was ready to walk down the aisle to marry Jo Montgomery, hoping the act of commitment would put a new spin on their lackluster sex life. Instead he was sitting in the cab of a big pig rig with a woman who smelled almost as bad as the cargo, with only the promise of a lumpy sofa bed to sleep on—if they ever made it to the resort.
Pamela chatted with Jack, while Alan sank deeper into the seat. He felt moisture on his foot and looked down in time to see Barbecue squatting over his shoe. Alan didn't have the energy to pull away, so he simply lay his head back on the cracked vinyl. He'd officially sunk to the level of piglet pee post. What a poetic way to sum up the day.
3
“A
RE YOU SURE this is it?” Pamela peered out the window at the four-story structure. Half of the sign's neon letters were unlit.
“Yep,” Jack said.
“Linda said it was an older resort, but with a lot of atmosphere.” Alan said, frowning slightly. “It's beach-front, though—I think I can see the water from here.”
“Well, it's hard to tell much in the dark,” Pam said agreeably, allowing Alan to help her down from the truck. His hands were strong around her waist, and he set her only a few inches in front of him. Surprised at her body's reaction, she quickly stepped back.
They looked up and waved to thank the trucker. Jack leaned out of his window and yelled, “Wish I were you tonight, son. She's a looker!”
Pleased, Pam grinned, then glanced at Alan. He'd turned beet red and his smile was tight as he nodded at the man, speechless. Pam felt sorry for Alan being put on the spot, so she scrambled for something to smooth over the moment. “Well, let's get checked in. I can't wait to get out of these clothes.”
Too late, she realized she'd only added fuel to the fire. Alan cleared his throat, then turned toward the entrance. Without the lights of the truck, the parking lot was plunged into darkness. She took a step, then stumbled and grabbed the back of his jacket on the way down, very nearly taking him with her. He straightened and reached for her, his hands moving over her in search of a handhold. She felt him latch on to her shoulder and heard the rip of fabric as he came up with a handful of chiffon ruffles. He cursed and pulled her to her feet with an impatient sigh. “Do you think we can manage the last hundred yards without another catastrophe?”
She nodded, shocked at the sensations his hands were causing. It was the alcohol, the hunger, the exhaustion, the darkness—all of it combined to play games with her mind. What she needed was rest and daylight to remind her he was only uptight, dweeby Alan.
He grasped her elbow and steered her in the direction of the hotel. Pam suddenly had a premonition about the place and the week to come, but she kept her mouth shut and tucked her torn ruffles inside her bodice.
Flanked on either side by two gigantic plastic palm trees, the front entrance was less than spectacular. A dank, musty smell rose to greet them when they stepped onto the faded orange carpet of the gloomy reception area. To their right, stiff vinyl furniture so old it was back in style and more plastic plants encircled a portable TV set with an impressive rabbit-ear antenna. A home shopping channel was on, and two polyester-clad, middle-aged couples sat riveted to the screen. To their left, the gift shop was having a clearance on all Elvis items. Pam pursed her lips—maybe she could expand her collection.
She glanced at Alan to gauge his reaction. He was frowning behind his glasses, clearly ready to bolt. “This isn't exactly what I expected,” he mumbled. She bit down on her tongue, suddenly annoyed. She doubted if he'd ever spent a night in less than four-star accommodations.
The reception desk stood high and long in front of them, dwarfing the skinny frizzy-haired clerk behind the half glass. She was snapping a mouthful of chewing gum. “Can I help you?” she asked disinterestedly, not looking up. She was surrounded by cheap paneling and sickly colors. In a word, the decor was garish. Alan's ex-fiancée, an interior designer, would have fainted on the spot. Yet for Pam, the place had a certain...retro charm.
“Hello,” Alan said tightly. “I'm not sure this is the right place. Are there any other hotels named Pleasure Palisades in the area?”
Twiggy glanced up, her eyes widening in appreciation as she scanned Alan. She completely ignored Pam. “Nope,” she said, sounding infinitely more interested. “This is it.”
Alan gave Pam a worried glance, then looked back to the clerk. “Do you have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs.—” He coughed, then continued. “For Parish?”
“Parish?” She flicked a permed hank of dark hair over her shoulder, turned to a dusty computer terminal and clicked her fingers over the keyboard. “Parish... Parish...yep, Mr. and Mrs. Alan P. Parish, the deluxe honeymoon suite through next Friday night.” She glanced up and added, “With complimentary VCR and movie library since it's almost Valentine's Day.”
Alan's eyes widened in alarm. “We're in the right place?” Twiggy didn't answer, only blew a huge pink bubble with the gum, sucked the whole wad back into her mouth, then smiled.
“I'm sure the room is nice,” Pam whispered, trying to sound optimistic. As long as it had running water, she couldn't care less.
He held up his finger to the girl. “Just one moment.” He curled his hand around Pam's upper arm and pulled her aside. “There must be some mistake. I'll call Linda and get this straightened out
immediately.
I saw a Hilton a couple miles down the road—we'll get a room there tonight.”
Pam was shaking her head before he finished. “I don't have ‘a couple miles' left in me or in these shoes.” She stamped her foot for emphasis.
“We'll call a cab,” he said, frowning.
She stabbed him in the chest with her index finger.
“You
call a cab, and
you
go down the road to the Hilton. I'm tired and I'm hungover. As long as this place is clean, I'm staying!”
He took a step back and poked at his glasses. “You don't have to get nasty about it.”
She swept an arm down the front of her dress. “That's the point, Alan. I
am
nasty.”
Holding up his hands, he relented. “Okay, okay—we'll stay one night.”
Two minutes later, the clerk swiped his credit card, then handed them two large tarnished keys. “Room 410 in the corner, great view, cool balcony. But the elevator is out of order, so you'll need to take the stairs.” She smiled tightly at Pam this time, and snapped her gum. “Have a pleasant stay.”
Alan moved in the direction she indicated, but Pam grabbed his arm. “I'll need to purchase a few things to change into,” she reminded him, nodding toward the gift shop.
“You need something in the gift shop?” the girl asked. She didn't wait for an answer, just reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of cardboard that read, “Back in a few,” and propped it against a can of cola. “I'm the cashier, too.” She snapped her gum and emerged from behind the wooden monstrosity.
Pam followed the girl into the gift cubbyhole, rubbing her tired eyes. “Alan, what does the ‘P' stand for?” She quickly surveyed the dusty merchandise on the cramped shelves, searching for items to help her get through the week.
Alan moved to the other side of the store, intent on his own shopping. “What ‘P'?”
She stacked toiletries in her arms, then moved to a wall rack of miscellaneous clothing. “Your middle initial, what does it stand for?”
He was silent for several seconds, then said, “Never mind.”
She turned around and grinned, her curiosity piqued. “Come on, what's your middle name?”
The frown on his face deepened. “Forget it, okay?”
“Well, it has to be something odd or you wouldn't be so touchy.”
He looked away.
“Parnell?”
“No.”
“Purcell?”
“No.”
“Prudell?”
“Pam.” His gaze swung back to her, his voice low and menacing. “Don't.”
She made a face at him, then turned her attention back to the shelves. She'd need shorts and a T-shirt, not to mention underwear. Pam spied a single package of men's cotton boxer shorts and picked it up, then stopped when she realized Alan also had a hand on them. They played a game of mini-tug-of-war, with each tug a little stronger than the last.
She yanked the package. “I didn't figure you for a boxer man, Alan.”
He pulled harder. “And I didn't figure you for a boxer woman, Pam.”
She jerked the package. “You don't know me very well.”
“I
have
to have underwear,” he protested, then nearly stumbled back when she abruptly released the package.
Pam acquiesced, palms up. “Since underwear has always been optional for me, they're all yours.”
His Adam's apple bobbed and he looked contrite. “M-maybe we can share.”
Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or his boyish, disheveled appearance, or Elvis's “Blue Christmas” playing softly in the background, but Pamela suddenly felt a pull toward Alan, and it scared her. “I don't think so,” she said more haughtily than she meant to.
Alan shrugged. “Suit yourself. Do you have everything you need?”
Nodding, Pam yanked an Elvis T-shirt and a pair of pink cotton shorts off the rack, then heaved her bounty onto the counter.
Alan piled his items on top. “I'll get these things,” he said, opening his wallet. She started to protest, but he held up his hand. “It's the least I can do,” he said, then raised an eyebrow when the clerk lifted a package of rub-on tattoos from Pam's things.
Pam grinned. “I always wanted a tattoo.”
Five minutes later she lifted her skirt, shifted her packages and tilted her head back to look up the stairwell that seemed to go on and on. She was exhausted and again her decision to share a room with Alan for a week seemed ludicrous. On the way up they had to stop several times to rest, then walked down a dimly lit outdoor walkway, past several doors to reach the last room, 410.
Pam could hear the ocean breaking on the beach below them, and she leaned over the railing to get a better look. Suddenly Alan's arm snaked around her waist and dragged her back against his chest. The length of his body molded to hers, and Pam gasped as her senses leaped. After a few seconds, he released her gently, then admonished in a low voice, “I don't trust that railing, and I don't want to make a trip to the hospital tonight
Her heart still pounding in her chest, Pam laughed nervously and listened while he fidgeted with the key in the dark. “You'd think they could put up a few lights,” Alan muttered. He pushed open the door, reached around the corner and flipped on a switch.
They stood and stared inside the room in astonishment.
“They obviously saved all the lights for the
interior,”
he added flatly.
Pam nodded, speechless. The room's chandelier was a dazzling display of multicolored lights, multiplied dozens of times by the room's remarkable collection of mirrors.
“It's a disco,” he mumbled.
And the bed was center stage. Huge and circular, it was raised two levels. A large spotlight over the padded headboard shone onto the satiny gold-colored comforter, and Pam doubted the light was meant for reading.
“At least the carpet is new,” she said, stepping inside.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I'm sure they paid top dollar—brown shag is really hard to find.”
She glanced around the room, at the avocado-green kitchenette, the makeshift living room consisting of a battered sofa—presumably the pullout bed—and two chaise-size beanbag chairs. The sitting area was “separated” from the sleeping area by two short Oriental floor screens. The wide-screen TV was situated to be visible from the bed or from the sofa.
“It's spacious,” she observed. “And functional.”
“Yeah—for orgies.”
She scoffed and set down her bags, crossing the room to inspect the bed. She poked at the comforter and watched the bed ripple. “It's a water bed,” she said, grinning. “And look.” She held up a small bottle lying on the pillow. “Complimentary body liqueur—cinnamon.” She twisted off the lid, then dipped her index finger in and tasted it. “Mmm, I'm starved.”
Alan rolled his eyes, then looked around the room as if plotting how to get through the night without touching anything. “It's a dump,” he pronounced.
Pam replaced the liqueur. It was a repeat of the car rental—nothing but the best was good enough for Alan Parish. “Lighten up, Alan, this is fun.”
“Speak for yourself,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Straightening, she put her hands on her hips and threw back her shoulders. “Why don't you come down from your high horse and see how the other half lives?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means life isn't always first-class, and you have to learn to roll with the punches.”
He squared his jaw. “I can roll with the best of them.”
“Hah! You can't even
bend,
Alan, much less roll. You're just a spoiled little rich boy.”
“I resent that,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Go ahead—it's still the truth.” She jerked up the bag that contained her new toiletries and headed in the direction of what appeared to be the bathroom. She opened the door, then breathed, “Wow.”
BOOK: Wife Is A 4-Letter Word
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