“Just swallow them. They’ll relax you.”
“I don’t know…”
“Trust me. They’ll take the edge off.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to take strange medication.”
“Yeah, yeah. Do you want a kid or not?”
Misery swelled inside her. “You know I do.”
“Then swallow the fucking pills!”
Jane swallowed them, using the beer to wash them down, then shuddering because she hated beer. She protested again as Jodie dragged her out of the rest room and the cool fingers of air trickling under her skirt reminded her she wasn’t wearing panties. “I can’t do this.”
“Look, it’s no big deal. The guys are getting Cal drunk. They’ll clear out as soon as you arrive, and all you have to do is keep your mouth shut and jump on him. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“It’s not going to be quite that easy.”
“Sure it is.”
Jane noticed some of the men staring at her. For a moment she thought something was wrong-that she had a streamer of toilet paper dragging from her shoe or something-and then she realized they weren’t looking at her critically, but sexually, and her panic mounted.
Jodie pulled her toward a dark-haired, no-neck monster standing at the bar wearing an olive green trench coat. He had heavy black eyebrows that had grown together until they looked like one giant caterpillar crawling over his brow.
“Here she is, Junior. Don’t let anybody say Jodie Pulanski can’t deliver.”
The monster ran his eyes over Jane and grinned. “You done all right, Jodie. She’s real classy. Hey, what’s your name, sweetheart?”
Jane was so rattled she couldn’t think. Why hadn’t she planned for this? Her eyes fell on one of the neon signs that she could read without her glasses. “Bud.”
“Your name’s Bud?”
“Yes.”She coughed, stalling. Her adult life had been dedicated to the search for truth, and lying didn’t come easily. “Rose. Rose Bud.”
Jodie rolled her eyes.
“Sounds like a effin’ stripper,” Junior said.
Jane regarded him nervously. “It’s a family name. There were Buds who came over on the Mayflower.”
“Is that right.”
She began to elaborate in an attempt to be more convincing, but she was so anxious she could hardly think. “Buds fought in all the major wars. They were at Lexington, Gettysburg, the Battle of the Bulge. One of my female Bud ancestors helped establish the Underground Railway.”
“No kidding. My uncle used to work for the Santa Fe.” He tilted his head and regarded her suspiciously. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-six,”Jodie interjected.
Jane shot her a startled glance.
“She looks a little older than that,” Junior said.
“She’s not.”
“I got to hand it to you, Jodie. This one ain’t nothin’ like Kelly. Maybe she’ll be just what the Bomber needs. I sure hope he doesn’t get turned off by the fact that she’s so old.”
Old! What kind of twisted value system did this man have that he regarded a woman in her late twenties as old? If he knew she was thirty-four, he’d dismiss her as ancient.
Junior cinched the belt on his trench coat. “Come on, Rose; let’s get you out of here. Follow me in your car.”
He started toward the door only to stop so suddenly she nearly bumped into him.“Damn, I almost forgot. Willie said to put this on you.”
He reached into his pocket. She stiffened as she saw what he withdrew. “Oh, no. I don’t think-”
“Got to, babe. It’s part of the job.”
He encircled her neck with a fat pink bow. She lifted her hand to her throat, and her stomach pitched as she touched the loops of satin ribbon.
“I’d rather not wear this.”
“Too bad.” He finished tying it. “You’re a gift, Rose Bud. A birthday present from the guys.”
Melvin Thompson, Willie Jarrell, and Chris Plummer-three members of the Stars offensive line-watched Cal Bonner line up his last putt. They’d set a course across the carpet of the Bomber’s spacious, but sparsely furnished, living room, where he and Willie were playing for a hundred bucks a hole. The Bomber was up four hundred.
“So who’d you rather bonk?” Willie asked Chris as Cal tapped his putt straight into the oversize Dunkin’ Donuts commuter mug that marked the fifth hole. “Mrs. Brady or Mrs. Partridge?”
“That’s easy.” Chris was also a big fan of Nick at Night. “I’d do Mrs. Brady.”
“Yeah, me, too. Man, was she hot.”
It was Willie’s turn to putt, and, as Cal moved out of the way, his right guard lined up for the same mug. “Somebody said her and Greg got it on in real life.”Willie’s putt rolled past on the right.
“No shit. Did you know that, Cal?”
Cal took a sip of scotch and watched Willie miss his second putt. “I don’t even know what the hell you boys are talking about.”
“Mrs. Brady on The Brady Bunch,” Melvin explained, “and Mrs. Partridge on The Partridge Family. If you had the chance to fu-” He stopped himself just in time. “If you got to bonk one of them, which one would it be?”
The linemen had a side bet going on who could last the longest before uttering their favorite obscenity. Cal wasn’t part of that bet because he’d refused to give up his freedom of expression, which was just fine with the rest of them since they knew he’d probably win. Although Cal could turn the field blue during a game, once he was out of uniform, he seemed to lose interest.
“I guess I’d have to give it some thought.” Cal drained his glass and took the putter back after Willie finally tapped it in for a three. He eyed his next putt, a sharp dogleg left into a KFC bucket. He didn’t play any game, not even a living-room putting contest, without the intention of winning. The urge to compete had taken him from Salvation, North Carolina, to the University of Michigan, where he’d led the Wolverines to two consecutive Big Ten Championships before he’d gone on to the National Football League and become one of its best quarterbacks.
Chris finished off his beer. “Here’s one for you. Would you rather bonk that Beauty and the Beast chick or Pocahontas?”
“Pocahontas,”Melvin replied.
“Yeah, Poc, for sure,” Willie concurred.
“You know who I’d like to f-uh, bonk,” Chris said. “Brenda Starr. Damn, she’s hot.”
Cal couldn’t hold back a grin at that one. God, he loved these jerks. Week after week they put their asses on the line to protect him. He’d been riding them hard lately, and he knew they didn’t like it, but the Stars had a chance of going all the way to the Super Bowl this year, and he wanted it bad.
It had been the worst year of his life. His brother Gabriel had lost his wife Cherry and only child Jamie, two people Cal had deeply loved, in a car accident. Since then, he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do anything except play ball.
He banked his next putt off the TV cabinet, combining his touch on the golf greens with his skill at the pool table, and put the ball within inches of the KFC bucket.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Willie protested. “You didn’t say we could bank the shots.”
“I didn’t say we couldn’t.”
Melvin checked his watch and refilled Cal’s glass from a bottle of very old, very expensive scotch. Unlike his teammates, Cal seldom got drunk, but this was his birthday, he had the blues, and he was trying to make an exception. Unfortunately, he had a cast-iron stomach, and it wasn’t all that easy.
He smiled as he remembered his last birthday. Kelly, his former girlfriend, had planned a big surprise party for him, but she wasn’t good with details, and he’d shown up before any of the guests. He thought maybe he should miss Kelly more, but what he mostly felt when he thought about her was embarrassment that she’d dumped him for a twenty-three-year-old guitarist who’d offered her a wedding ring. Still, he hoped she was happy. She’d been a sweet girl, even though she used to irritate the hell out of him.