On the Rocks

He's seen her before, but he can't quite place where. What is it about her that's familiar? The hair, that's it. It's an amazing shade of fox-red, and frames her striking face with thick waves, reaching well below her shoulders. He likes that she wears it long.

She's behind the counter, speaking to the older clerk about some pieces of jewelry that have come into the pawnshop. "These can go on display now." Her voice is velvet. "They're eye-catching. Put them front and center."

The clerk nods and follows directions, freeing the redhead to take notice of him. "Oh, hello. May I help you?"

"Are you the manager?" It's a stupid question, but she looks too young to be in charge of the store. He guesses he's older than she, in fact, and he just turned twenty-five.

"In a manner of speaking. I own the place. Now what can I do for you?" Her piercing eyes size him up. "You don't need a loan."

"Why do you say that?"

She shrugs. "I can just tell. So are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Drums. I was hoping to find a set in good condition, but I don't see one here."

"We have five other stores. Let me make some calls."

One slender hand reaches for the phone. The other lifts her hair, twisting it into a loose knot. The gesture sparks his memory, and suddenly he knows why she's familiar. It must have been almost four years ago. He was pre-med school then, and at a bachelor party at the Jellybean Club. She was the youngest dancer there, and he couldn't keep his eyes off her, though the other girls were much bolder in their bids for tips. From stripper to owner of a half-dozen pawnshops in so little time? Either she won the lottery, or she married well.

"You're in luck," she says, hanging up the phone. "We've got a Yamaha set, in excellent condition, at our North Las Vegas location."

"That's great." He watches her set her hair free and is seized by a fist of lust. "Should I tell them you sent me, uh . . ."

"Tara. Of course. Here, take my card."

When she extends her hand-her right hand-he can't help but notice the very large diamond engagement ring she wears. Her left ring finger is bare, however. Curious. He studies the business card. Tara Medina, owner. Raul Medina, owner. "Forgive me for asking, but Raul? Is that your brother?"

She laughs, but it's thin, and when she speaks, her voice is sad. "No. My husband. He passed away three months ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me, too. He was a good man."

She doesn't tear up, doesn't even seem all that upset, considering she's so recently widowed. But she wears the perfume of vulnerability. A mad need to touch her-no, to possess her-rises up, almost overpowering all sense of decency. He contains it, but still he looks for excuses to stay: he needs a new watch; he collects vinyl; he could use a microwave.

By the time he's exhausted them all, he's discovered she shares his passion for grunge music and beat poetry. He's also learned she has a sharp wit and steep intellect that completely deny her nights working at the Jellybean Club. He leaves the store $128.50 in the hole and smitten.

It's ridiculous, he knows. He recently started dating another girl-a redhead, too, though her hair is more penny than fox. She's twenty-one, a liberal arts major at UNLV, working part time for the local newspaper, and living with three roommates to keep afloat. Between her schedule and his own, they have to steal time together, so the connection has been slow to build. Anyway, as mean as it seems, he'd gladly toss her aside for a chance at Tara Medina.