Blaze, staring into her eyes, put both his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed them gently. “Do you need a place to stay?”
“No. Thanks, though. I have a place. It’s a good hideout, but its sort of far away.”
“You have a place, but no money.”
“Not much.”
“I’ll paint you. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars today. And you needn’t worry about being recognized. I’ll capture your essence and beauty but conceal your identity.”
“Do you think you can do that?”
“Bite your tongue! You’re speaking to Blaze O. Glory, the greatest artist of the age...whether anyone else knows it or not.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
OWEN TRIES AGAIN
Watching through the bars of the fence, Owen had seen Dana come around from behind Beast House with the other guides.
Near the corner of the house, three of them, all females, had walked toward the ticket booth. Dana, followed by the male guide, had headed for the front porch.
She hadn’t slowed down to walk with the guy.
Maybe she doesn’t like him.
Good taste, Owen thought.
Owen hadn’t seen much of him yesterday, but figured he knew the type. Handsome, big and muscular, arrogant, acts like he owns the world. Exactly the kind of jerk who always ended up with all the most beautiful women.
Like Dana.
The sort of women who couldn’t be bothered with guys like Owen.
Maybe Dana’s different, he told himself. She sure seems nice and friendly.
But I bet she wouldn’t go out with me.
Not that I’d have the guts to ask.
He’d watched her climb the porch stairs, her calves smooth and dark, the tan seat of her uniform shorts pulling briefly smooth against one side of her rump, then the other. Her shorts had rear pockets with button-down flaps. The pockets didn’t bulge. They seemed to be empty, the way they showed Dana’s curves.
The male guide had chased her up the stairs, dodged the legs of Gus Goucher, and opened the door for Dana. Then he’d followed her into Beast House.
Earlier, Dana had gone inside with the small, cute guide.
They’d come out about five minutes later. But Owen figured that she’d be staying inside, this time. She and the guy were probably taking their places to get ready for the tours.
Through the front window of the ticket booth, Owen saw a side door open. A guide entered and shut the door. It was the plump, friendly girl who’d taken their tickets yesterday.
Monica had gotten snippy with her.
Monica. Oh, my God.
Owen suddenly felt hot and squirmy.
What’ve I done?
He glanced at his wristwatch. Two minutes till ten. Though Monica was a late sleeper, she would certainly be awake by now.
Awake and wondering where the hell Owen had disappeared to.
How could I do this to her?
She had it coming, he told himself.
But to just abandon her...
She’ll be fine, he thought. Soon as she gets used to me being gone, she can relax and enjoy herself, explore all the wonders of San Francisco without the nuisance of my presence.
The hotel’s on my credit card. I left her airline ticket behind so she can fly home if she gets the urge. She has plenty of money, plus her own credit cards.
She’ll get along just fine.
Never acted like she wanted me around in the first place.
Well, now she’s got what she was asking for. Hope she’s happy.
I did you a favor, bitch.
So why do I feel so guilty about it?
Owen had gone through these matters before.
Many times.
In the cab on his way to the airport, then during the long drive back through San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge and up the coast to Malcasa Point, he’d studied his actions, struggled with guilt, tried to justify what he’d done, and wondered what the consequences might be.
He supposed he must’ve spent the better part of four hours going over it all.
For a while, he’d worried that Monica might call the police. She probably would have called them except for one thing: his luggage had disappeared with him. Which made it fairly clear that he’d gone away on purpose.
No crime in that, as far as he knew.
After all, it wasn’t as if he’d run off and abandoned his spouse.
Owen had decided that he could stop worrying about the police.
But that still left him with plenty of other concerns.
Again and again, he’d concluded that he was definitely a jerk for ditching Monica. No question about that. A gentleman would never do such a thing. He should’ve stuck with her, no matter what.
But he was delighted that he hadn’t.
She had it coming. What did she think, I’d hang around and take her crap forever?
Inside the ticket booth, the plump girl slid open the window.
A big, heavy guy with glasses was first in line. He stepped up to buy his ticket.
He was one of the eight or ten people who’d arrived before Owen. He wore a black cap backwards, its bill sticking out behind his head. Though it looked like a baseball cap, it bore a Beast House logo the same as the guides wore on their uniform shirts.
Earlier, Owen had been tempted to approach him.
Say hi, introduce himself, ask where he got the neat hat.
Why not? The guy seemed to be alone. He was about the same age as Owen, and he looked friendly enough.
But maybe he didn’t want company.
Owen had decided not to bother him.
The guy stepped away from the window, clamped the ticket between his front teeth, and stuffed some bills into his wallet. Then he lifted the drooping tail of his shirt and shoved the wallet into a seat pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts. His calves were round and pale. He wore moccasins and no socks.
Kind of a slob, Owen thought and watched him stroll around the corner of the ticket booth.
The others in line ahead of Owen seemed like ordinary tourist types. Three of them were gals, but they didn’t interest him. They couldn’t compare to Dana.
He pulled out his wallet and slipped a Visa card out of its slot in the leather.
Then he wondered if he should use cash, instead. His wallet was bulging. Here was a chance to slim it down by a hundred and fifteen dollars, especially if he paid with small bills.
But what if I get over to the Welcome Inn and find out they don’t take credit cards?
I’d better hang on to my cash, he thought. Better safe than sorry.
What if they haven’t got a vacancy?
Don’t worry about it, he told himself. Just take things as they come.
He stepped up to the ticket window.
“Good morning,” the girl said. “Welcome to Beast House.”
“Thanks.” He smiled in at her. The name tag on her chest read Rhonda. Though he remembered her from yesterday, he hadn’t been able to recall her name.
Does she remember me?
“I’d like one general admission,” he told her. “And can I also buy a ticket for tomorrow night’s Midnight Tour?”
“The Midnight Tour? Let me check for you.” She turned aside and typed something into a computer. Nodding, she faced Owen. “You’re in luck. It hasn’t sold out yet.”
“It sells out?”
“Oh, sure does. We like to keep it small and intimate, so we only allow thirteen guests.”
“Thirteen?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll just be number nine. Somebody else can be thirteen.”