The Green Lace Corset Page 6

  The guy caught her staring at him, touched the brim of his hat, and continued to dance.

  “Isn’t he a hottie?” Anne leaned over and asked Howard.

  “He’s not my type.”

  When “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” came on, Howard jumped up and hollered, “They’re playing my song!” and ran onto the dance floor.

  The hottie sauntered over to her, straightening his hat, and said something to her.

  “What?” She couldn’t hear him.

  He raised his voice. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.” Anne leaned forward and moved to the music, showing a little cleavage, her flirt-o-matic machine on. “I’m drinking beer on tap.”

  Hottie sat in Howard’s seat and tried to wave over a waitress, but the place was so packed, it seemed impossible. “Shall I go up to the bar?” he asked.

  “No, that’ll be even worse. Sorry I bumped into you during the Electric Slide.”

  “No problem. It just takes a little practice.” His eyes grazed her body, and he put his warm hand on her shoulder. “You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

  Little did he know, she’d been trying to learn that dance for years now. “Do you understand what the . . .” She stopped herself just in time.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” It would be too embarrassing to ask if he knew about the lyrics.

  “Do you mean about the words?” He laughed.

  She felt herself turn red.

  “You naughty thing, you.” He leaned toward her and rubbed his hand on her thigh over the fishnet stocking.

  Her insides tingled. She liked the look of him. Tall, smoothly shaven, big grin. His eyes under his hat didn’t reveal their color. She sure wished he’d take it off so she could see his face more clearly.

  A waitress finally came by, and he ordered their beer.

  “You from around here?” he asked Anne.

  She held up her left hand. “This is Michigan, shaped like a mitten. I’m from Oscoda, a little town on Lake Huron.” She indicated the place on the outer edge of her pointer finger.

  “No, I mean where do you live in San Francisco?”

  Anne giggled. “California and Polk. What about you?”

  “I live just up the hill.” He peered at her suggestively, and she began to feel juicy. Was he already inviting her over? Maybe he had a view home besides his ranch. She wanted to know everything about him.

  “Excuse me. Let me get my drink.” Howard reached his hand between Anne and Hottie and gulped down the dregs of his beer.

  Hottie stood up. “Hello, Howard.”

  Howard ignored him, ran his fingers through his blond locks, and returned to the dance floor.

  That was weird. “Do you know him?” Anne asked.

  “Kinda.”

  “How?”

  “It’s a long story.” Hottie shrugged, grabbed a handful of pretzels from the bowl, and stuffed them into his mouth.

  The waitress delivered their beers and a fresh bowl of pretzels.

  “I’m sure thirsty.” Hottie gulped down his beer.

  Anne took a sip of hers too.

  “Tell me.”

  “Another time.” He turned his gaze to the dance floor.

  What was that all about? She felt like there might be bad blood between Hottie and Howard, but he would have mentioned earlier if there was anything she needed to worry about.

  Howard was two-stepping with a muscular man in a tummy shirt and Daisy Dukes. Yes, that one was more his type.

  She wanted to keep the conversation going. “What do you do for work?”

  “I’m in hospitality.”

  “You are? I used to be too. I parked cars at the St. Francis.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “What do you do now?” he asked.

  “I’m an artist.”

  Hottie put his hand on her leg again. “Really? I’ve never met a real one before.”

  “Yes, I make collages and mosaics using found objects.”

  He didn’t say anything else; he just moved his hand up her thigh.

  Clint Black’s “A Good Run of Bad Luck” began to play. “Let’s dance.” Hottie pulled her up.

  “I’m not good at the slow stuff.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s a two-step anyway. I can lead any klutz.” He escorted her onto the dance floor, put her left hand on his shoulder, and held her right hand in his left.

  At first she felt awkward and had a hard time following. She stepped hard on his foot, and he counted, “Quick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow.”

  She concentrated, and soon they were in a rhythmic flow. For the first time in her life, she was getting it. As the disco ball circled overhead, she savored the power of being so close to a man like this, guiding and gliding her around the floor.

  The song ended, and she started back to the table, but he grasped her hand. “Come on. I’m going to teach you how to line dance if it kills me.”

  He danced in front of her so she could copy him. Every time the group changed directions, he jumped in front of her so she could still follow his feet. After a while, she actually had the hang of it.

  She continued to rotate between dancing with him and drinking beer all evening. After last call, they danced the last dance and sang the refrain to each other. She liked the idea that riding a cowboy could save a horse.

  Back at their table after all those beers and adrenaline, she couldn’t focus. His voice was muffled, his face a blur. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She liked the salty taste of him and kissed him back.

  “I’m Barn, by the way. As in Barnaby.” He put out his hand.

  She shook it. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Anne.”

  “Let’s go to my place,” he whispered in her ear.

  She knew her head should shake no, except it nodded yes.

  12

  Anne and Barn staggered out of the bar into the dense fog. The streetlights glowed in the mist. She snuggled into her coat. Linden Street was usually busy, but this time of night—or should she say morning?—it was deserted.

  He took her hand and walked a block, and she stopped to look in the window of a new shop. “Dark Garden. What a fantastic name.” Her words slurred. She shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

  She stared at the multitude of rainbow-colored lingerie. Leave it to San Francisco to have a corset shop. “Which one do you like best?”

  “I don’t know. Come on.” He grabbed her hand.

  She let it go. “Wait a minute.” She kept looking in the window.

  Sergio would have wanted to choose a favorite. He loved lingerie. She made a note to go back and visit when they were open. Maybe next time he came to town. No. Drop that thought. She was getting over him now.

  “Okay.” She took Barn’s hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m ready.”

  They walked ten blocks. Getting to his place seemed to take forever. Heated, she removed her coat and put it over her arm. Her feet had begun to ache. “How much farther?”

  “Not far,” Barn said.

  They walked another two blocks, down three more, and around a block. They climbed down a few dark steps into Barn’s apartment, which reeked of skunk weed. The stench reminded her of her old best friend, Dottie’s, New York loft. Dottie claimed getting high helped her do her art. In college, Anne had smoked marijuana a few times to fit in, but it had always put her right to sleep. She already had a difficult enough time staying focused when she was sober.

  Barn threw her coat on the floor as she stepped inside. He didn’t turn on the lights. He pulled her toward a couch, pushed her onto it, and kissed her.

  She sat up. “May I have some water, please?”

  “Sure.” He got up and went into the kitchen.

  Her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness. Still dizzy and tanked from all those drinks, she managed to make out mirrored beer logos: Budweiser, Coors, Schlitz Malt Liquor. A big-screen TV filled an entire wall. A plan
t resembling corn stalks sat in a corner.

  When he returned with her water, she took a sip and put it on the coffee table. “Thanks.”

  “You’re so gorgeous.” He kissed her again.

  Leather couch beneath her, he cupped his hands over the corset’s satin and lace on top of her boobs, the sensations driving her crazy. He ran his fingers down her fishnet-stockinged thighs and moved his hand upward. She grasped his biceps. She needed him to slow down. He got the message and put his arms around her.

  Finally, they drew apart. “Let’s go in the bedroom,” he said.

  “May I use the bathroom?” she asked.

  He pointed down the hall.

  She studied herself in the mirror. Her makeup smeared, she took down her updo and shook her head upside down. Sexy. What a lush. How could she even consider jumping into bed with someone she’d just met? But it had been months and months since she’d been with Sergio. This guy was hot, and it would help her get over Sergio. Wouldn’t it?

  She should probably take a shower, but she didn’t want Barn to fall asleep, so she rinsed her underarms in the sink. She squished toothpaste on her finger and ran it over her teeth. Shimmying, she braced herself for a fulfilling time.

  She found him in a bedroom. By the light of a lamp with a kerchief over it, Anne saw him pull back the blankets on his single bed. She climbed in beside him. He tried unsuccessfully to unlatch the hooks on the front of the corset, and, without much foreplay, it was over as fast as it had begun.

  In the morning, she woke with a splitting headache. Her new lover was bald and smelled of stale beer. His roommate snored in a bed across the room.

  Naked, she gathered up her clothes, ran into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. About to step in, she noticed a hospital gown–green fungus growing between broken tiles. Gross. She’d wait until she got home. Why hadn’t she noticed it the night before? She wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but at least her place was sanitary.

  She dressed and wanted to get out of there before the unhottie awoke. She passed by the kitchen and noted the counters, covered in filthy pots and pans, and dirty dishes piled in the sink. No way would this guy ever offer to cook her a breakfast frittata like Sergio always did.

  Carrying her coat, she escaped up to the sidewalk. A truck drove by and honked. In broad daylight, she felt ridiculous in her saloon outfit. She put on her coat and booked a Lyft.

  Howard had left a text on her phone: What happened to you last night?

  Anne: Nothing. She’d be too embarrassed to tell him what happened. In fact, she’d never tell anyone.

  Howard: I wanted to get you home safely, but you’d already gone.

  Anne: Your friend dropped me off.

  Howard: Not Barnaby. He’s no friend of mine. He’s the kind to use a counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bill to buy Girl Scout cookies.

  At home, she looked in the full-length mirror, outfit askew, hair a frizzy mess. She said to herself, “Getting drunk and having a one-night stand is no way to find your soul mate.”

  How could she have done something so disgusting? She’d been so wasted, she couldn’t even recall if they’d used protection. She could only hope Barn hadn’t given her some kind of disease.

  She stepped out of the skirt, unhooked the corset, and left them on the floor. Her head pounded so much that all she wanted to do was go to sleep, but she couldn’t stand her stench. Climbing into the shower, she washed her hair and scrubbed her body with a loofah. She still felt dirty, so she filled the tub, tossed in a honey bath bomb, and settled in for a soak.

  God, this was the worst hangover she’d ever had. Perhaps she should text Fay and see if she’d meet her for a Bloody Mary. Fay would take one look at her, though, and start asking bawdy questions. Anne couldn’t tell her the details of the disastrous night.

  Wrapped in a towel, Anne checked the cupboard to see if she had any Snap E Tom, tomato juice, and vodka. She didn’t. She swallowed two Advil, crawled onto her daybed, and fell asleep.

  A little while later, her phone pinged with a text. Not him, not now.

  Sergio: Hi Bigfoot.

  Anne smiled at his nickname for her, his way of teasing about her size 9 shoes.

  Anne: Hi.

  Sergio: I’m flying in tomorrow. Want to hang out?

  What? Just yesterday she’d agreed to see him the next time he came to town.

  She wrote: That was fast.

  Sergio: I was so happy you said you’d see me that I couldn’t wait.

  Her heart tingled. She’d thought being with someone else might take care of her feelings for Sergio, but after last night’s disaster, she wanted him back in her life more than ever. She needed to resist that urge, though.

  She lied: I have to work.

  Sergio: How about happy hour?

  After her behavior last night, she imagined she’d be able to see Sergio without being tempted to jump back into bed with him. Even though they were broken up, would she feel guilty when she saw him?

  Anne: Okay.

  Sergio: I’ll come by.

  Anne: No, no. I’ll meet you somewhere.

  Sergio: How about Top of the Mark?

  That romantic. He knew the Mark. It had the best sunset views in town. They’d tried to eat there when they were still together, but the line had been too long, and, as usual, Sergio had been hungry and didn’t want to wait. The restaurant didn’t take reservations for dinner, but since tomorrow was a weeknight, it should be easy to get a table.

  Anne: Perfecto.

  She set her alarm for two hours, turned off her phone, and fell asleep again.

  At noon, her alarm woke her. She still felt groggy from her headache and continued to loll in bed. The sky painting on the easel called to her, but she had no energy to create any art. What a waste of a day.

  She made coffee, ate a few saltines, took more Advil, and climbed back into bed. Her phone had no messages. All was quiet on the western front.

  Scrolling through her photos, she ran across a selfie of her and Barn that she didn’t remember taking. Fortunately, the bar had been dark, and no one could tell who she was, so it wasn’t really evidence of last night’s fiasco. But she deleted it anyway.

  She checked out the wanted poster from Ruby’s. The bandit’s name was Clifford Clifton, alias Cliff Clabourn. Was it a print of an authentic poster, or had someone created it just for decor? Was this Clifford a real outlaw?

  She pulled up the picture on her laptop and zoomed in on the small print at the bottom of the poster. She typed “Kansas City” and “1885” into Google, and several interesting historical snippets appeared on a website called Missouri Outlaw History.

  Southwest City, Missouri

  On May 20, 1895, the Bill Doolin Gang attempt to rob the bank but are thwarted. State auditor J. C. Seaborn is killed, and Bill Doolin receives a head wound.

  La Grange, Missouri

  February 27, 1887: Bank is robbed of $21,000. Melvin E. Baughn, 1836–68, b. Virginia, moved to Missouri

  He was a pony express rider, guerrilla raider, jayhawker, horse thief, robber, and killer. Before he was hanged in Kansas, he requested to be buried in Doniphan, Missouri.

  A really great guy.

  Clay Wilson and Conrad W. Caddigan, July 1, 1884, were caught with gambling implements and bunco material in their possession. They are well known to western detectives as smart confidence men and thieves.

  Anne googled “confidence man.”

  noun: confidence man; plural noun: confidence men

  1. old-fashioned term for con man.

  That’s hysterical. The opposite of what you’d think it would mean. Howard would have called Barnaby that. Anne kept scrolling through the outlaw information, and a chill traveled up her spine as she read the next entry:

  Kansas City, Missouri, September 8, 1885:

  BANK ROBBED!

  The spirit of Jesse James is still rampant in Missouri. The National Bank was robbed in the old Missouri way today. Sho
rtly after one o’clock, two men wearing slouch hats and kerchiefs over their faces entered the bank, drew revolvers, and pointed them at the two customers, cashier, and guard. The prisoners were told that if they made an outcry, they would be shot dead. Cashier Hunt was marched behind the counter with a pistol at his head and forced to open the safe.

  Anne held her breath and kept reading.

  One of the thieves tossed $10,000 in a bag and demanded more. The cashier said that was all the cash in the bank. He was then marched back to the other prisoners. The guard pulled out his gun and shot one of the robbers, and the other robber shot the guard, grabbed a female customer, pointed a gun to her chest, and warned the prisoners to stay back or he’d kill her. He then told them to remain in the bank for ten minutes, on pain of death. He let the woman go and ran out the door with the money. The cashier did not wait for the limit of time to expire but gave the alarm as soon as the robber was out of the building. The authorities were too late, as the robber had mounted and left town. A posse was sent out, but so far, the thief has not been captured. The directors of the bank offer a $1,000 reward for him. This is the second robbery that has taken place in the vicinity in the past month.

  Oh my God. Could this Clifford be the real robber? She typed in his names and “Kansas City,” but nothing came up. Maybe he got on a train, rode it west, and ended up in an Arizona saloon with a girl in a green corset. Anne laughed at herself as her wild imagination exploded again.

  13

  The next morning, headache gone, Anne rolled over, trying to remember her strange dream about standing in a meadow, wearing the green corset. The sky reminded her of the beautiful ones she’d seen in the Southwest.

  A scratching sound came from the other side of her door. Anne got up and opened it. “Good morning, Thai.”

  Purring, the cat ran in. Anne gave him a cracker and made coffee.

  Images of her dream still floated in her mind. She’d read that if you wrote dreams down soon after waking up, you remembered them more clearly. And if you got in the habit of doing so, you’d remember more in the future.