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.
He waits three days to call. "Hello? Tara? This is Graham Schumacher. The guy looking for a drum set? Yes, I picked it up, and it's just what I had in mind, thanks. But that's not why I'm calling. I hope this isn't too forward, but I noticed you seem to like the same music I do, and I happen to have snagged a couple of tickets to a great concert. Frozen Desire? It's an LA grunge band. Have you heard of them?"
That she has doesn't surprise him. That she agrees to go with him does.
It's a long four days.
He's distracted from his studies.
His bedside manner suffers.
He avoids personal calls, especially from his copper-haired girlfriend.
His drums languish.
All he can think about is Tara.
He feels like he's sixteen again, and the most popular girl in school has agreed to go to prom with him. Why did she say yes? Why is he even worried about why?
He decides to ask her, come date night. Graham has always prided himself on forthrightness. And if he doesn't, it will bother him forever.
He chooses an upscale steakhouse for their pre-concert dinner. The maître d smiles when they walk through the door. Graham knows it's Tara who's drawn Lorenzo's attention, and that's fine. The service will be excellent.
"Could we please have a booth in back?" requests Tara.
"Of course," agrees Lorenzo.
As he ushers them to their table, Tara snakes an arm around Graham's elbow and leans her head toward his, rewarding him with a caress of gardenia-scented hair. She says into his ear, "Everyone wants the Fremont Street windows, but the noise can get irritating. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all. I take it you've been here before?"
"Oh, yes. It was one of Raul's favorites."
Raul. Graham hopes the name doesn't surface too many times tonight. The last thing he needs is to compete with a ghost. But of course Raul comes haunting right away, and at Graham's invitation.
"What would you like to drink?" he asks as they look at their menus. It's an innocent enough question. Everyone starts a dinner out with drinks, don't they?
"Oh, water for me, thanks."
"Just water? I was thinking wine."
She shakes her head. "I'm really not much of a drinker. Raul never touched it, so I never picked up the habit."
He wants to ask how she avoided it, considering her time dancing. How else would girls make it through an experience like that? Instead, he inquires, "How old were you when you married Raul? If you don't mind my asking."
"Twenty. He was forty-seven."
Ah. That explains a lot. "How long were you married?"
"Three years."
Twenty-three, then. So young to be a widow. "How did he die? Sorry. You don't have to answer that."
She shrugs. "It's not a secret. We were skiing and he hit a tree."
"Wow. That must have been quite a shock."
"It was. Luckily, Raul was an astute businessman. He left everything in perfect order. All I had to do was cry."
The waiter arrives, interrupting the exchange and giving Graham a chance to consider his next move. They order Chateaubriand for two, plus Caesar salad, both to be prepared tableside. "You sure you won't have something stronger than water?" says Graham when the waiter asks about drinks. "Maybe something a little sweet?"
She studies him as if seeking an ulterior motive. He's got a few, but either she doesn't discern them or she's decided she doesn't care. "Oh, why not? But not too sweet, and not too strong."
Graham orders a bottle of Chardonnay, though he'd prefer stout ale. He'll leave the burning question until after she's had a glass or two. For now, he says, "Running six pawnshops sounds difficult. You must be detail oriented."
Tara laughs. "I am. And everything has to be done my way. I've always been like that. What about you?"
"I think anyone who wants to be a doctor had better pay attention to the minutiae. No way to get through med school without it, and I plan on private practice, where it's essential."
"Are you going to specialize?"
"Pediatrics."
"I take it you like kids?"
"Not really. But I figure they won't argue as much. Besides . . ." He winks. "They'll have moms."
The expected laughter isn't forthcoming. Luckily the wine arrives, followed closely by the salad cart, alleviating the awkward silence. Tara takes a tentative sip of Chardonnay and Graham wonders if it's really her first taste of vino. "Oh, that's nice," she comments. "Like white grape juice on steroids."
Conversation turns to what defines the perfect Caesar-thin or thick dressing, to anchovy or not. Graham is gratified to see Tara enjoying her drink. As he watches, the tension in her shoulders visibly relaxes. So he dares, "I . . . uh . . . wasn't sure whether to call you."
She lifts her eyes from her plate, gazes at him intently. "I know. Why did you?"
While he admires directness in himself, he's not so sure he likes it in a woman. If she can dish it, can she take it? "Because . . . I want to . . ."
Don't say touch.
Don't say fuck.
Definitely don't say own.
"To know you," he finishes, and then he asks, "Why did you say yes?"
"How could I say no to Frozen Desire?" Her smile is genuine. "Look, Graham. People have tiptoed around me since the day Raul died. I'm sad he's gone, but I'm finished mourning. I'm sure he'd want me to keep trudging forward, and I'm certain it's what I must do. Anyway, propriety has never been my best attribute. Raul managed to temper my indecorum but couldn't harness it completely."
He finds her mastery of the English language intriguing. She doesn't talk like other girls, even those he knows from med school. "But how did you know I wasn't a serial killer or something?"
"As a rule, I'm a very good judge of people. But just in case, I ran a quick background check. No wants. No warrants. No late payments."
"Wait. You ran the background check before I even asked you out?"
She smiles. "Like I said, I'm a good judge of people. I kind of thought you might call."
Their steak arrives bloody rare, exactly the way both of them like it. Tara accepts a second glass of wine and they finish dinner without another mention of Raul. Neither does his specter materialize for the rest of the evening. The band is brilliant, and Tara is one of those girls who can't listen to music without dancing.
In motion, she is breathtaking. Lean. Lithe. Sensuous as a cobra fallen under the snake charmer's spell. There might be prettier girls in the crowd. He wouldn't know because he can't take his eyes off this one, and even stands a step behind her so he doesn't have to. He watches the weave of her hips and the tide of her hair with equal fascination, lust billowing until he's thirsty with it.
After the concert he drives her home, unsure of the evening's ultimate amen.
For someone as direct as she seems to be, she is hard to read. More than anything, he wants to take a long draught of her nectar-to satisfy the dizzying thirst. But he doesn't want to chance losing the game if patience is the better-played hand.
She lives in a very nice Summerlin neighborhood. Her house, modest by Red Rock standards, is flanked on either side by huge luxury homes. "Pull into the driveway," she instructs. "People here tend to notice strange cars parked on the street."
"Hey, now. My car isn't that strange."
She laughs, and that's a good sign, and rather than sit in uncomfortable limbo, he comes around to open the passenger door. When he offers a gentlemanly hand, she accepts, sliding her small, cool palm into his and knotting their fingers together. Confidence building, he walks her to the front door, but when he leans in for a kiss, she stops him.
"Not here. Come in."
"Worried someone will see?"
"I don't make out in public view. Personal policy. You do want to come inside, don't you?"
"Absolutely."
Tara unlocks the door, resets the alarm, and leads him straight up the stairs. "The guest bathroom is there if you need to use it. My bedroom's at the end of the hall."
Graham should feel satisfied. But he kind of feels mystified as he watches her slink away. He didn't have to coerce her. He didn't have to convince her. He didn't even have to get her drunk.
The bathroom gleams, and he experiences an odd wave of guilt at pissing into the sparkling bowl and dripping soap into the spotless sink. He rinses his mouth, smiles at the mirror, and for one wayward moment his mind strays to Melody-the copper-haired girl who was no doubt waiting for him to call this weekend. He reminds himself to somehow make it up to her, pushes her image away.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, Tara has lit a dozen candles. They sit on small shelves, hung in a geometric pattern on the wall opposite the bed. Together, they cast a pale platinum glow and emit a potpourri of scents, the strongest of which is cinnamon.
He sits in a big easy chair to take off his shoes and is barefoot when the door to the master bath opens. Tara stops in the doorway, red hair haloed gold by the light behind her. The robe she wears is emerald satin, and shows all but the highest inch or two of her impressive legs. Oh, yes, she's a dancer, and her posture betrays great confidence for a girl her age. Still, when he stands to go to her, she flinches.
"Turn off the bathroom light?"
She is an enigma. An equation without an obvious solution. Yet, he's seen enough to think he should ask for permission, a totally foreign concept. "Is it okay if I get undressed?"
"If you don't I'll look pretty foolish."
He flips the switch on the bathroom wall, and the bedroom mutes to candlelight. When he turns around, he finds her already in bed. She watches silently as he sheds his clothes, then peels back the covers in invitation. He's glad it isn't totally dark because her nakedness is something to view and memorize for later.
He is hard before he reaches the bed and she stops him while he's still on his feet. "Wait." She sits on the edge of the mattress, coaxes him to her, dances her tongue down the length of his shaft, sucks him into her mouth.
Her lips are baby skin soft.
And so are her hands.
And so is the cleft between her ample breasts.
And that incredible hair is gardenia-scented silk against his thighs.
Tara gives brilliant head, brings him so close to coming, and just as she stops, denying that reward, it crosses his mind that he's yet to kiss her.
"My turn," she says, lying back across the bed and parting her thoroughbred legs.
He licks their length, but not in between. Not yet. First he wants to kiss her, long and deep. She tastes of wintergreen.
He kisses her neck, and the pulse beneath her ear quickens.
He kisses lower and the pink puffs of her nipples grow taut in his mouth.
He kisses down the flat plane of her belly and when his fingers explore the V of her thighs, they find her anxious.
He kisses until his lips meet his fingers and when he plunges his tongue inside her, she bucks and cries out her pleasure.
Finally, he withdraws, face soaked.
They fuck for hours, until there's nothing left to fuck away-no loneliness, no frustration, no pain, no thirst. Afterward, he lies holding her, a sea of red hair splayed across his chest. "That was special," he says, hating the clumsy what-do-I-say-when-it's-over period. "Really special."
"Yes."
"Do you want me to go?"
"Eventually," she sighs.
He takes that to mean it's okay to sleep, and that's a good thing. He's down-through-the-bones weary.
When he wakes in the unfamiliar bed, it takes a few seconds to reconnoiter. The gardenia perfume on the pillow is his first hint, and then he sees the candles, now unlit, on the wall. Wet footprints across the carpet tell him Tara's already showered.
He finds her downstairs in the bright, airy kitchen, drinking coffee and reading Newsweek. "Morning," he says, ignoring the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He knows it must be Melody, wondering how he spent his Saturday night.
Tara looks up from her magazine. "Morning. There's coffee in the pot if you'd like a cup before you leave."
Was that a dismissal? "No, thanks. I'm going to the gym. Don't like to work out caffeinated. I had a great time last night."
"Me, too."
"Can I call you?"
"You may."
But the first girl he calls is Melody. Better to hedge his bets. He apologizes for his inattention of late with a low-pressure invitation to lunch. She hesitates, but then agrees, and he picks her up at noon.
"Out of sight, out of mind" his granny used to say. Perhaps there's an element of truth to it, because when he sees Melody for the first time in more than a week, the initial spark rekindles, despite the previous night. She is softer than Tara, with none of the sharp angles, inside or out. He would call her brand of beauty understated, while Tara's is obvious. In bed, Melody's no tigress, but she will give him whatever he asks for.
She greets him with a tender kiss. "I'm glad you called. I was afraid you were avoiding me."
"Not at all. I'm sorry. I should've called sooner. I've been . . . distracted."
It's a short drive to El Caballero, a neighborhood Mexican restaurant Melody likes. They order tacos and beer and enjoy easy conversation about school and roommates and work. Graham mentions he's taken up the drums again, as stress relief. Melody says she'd love to hear him play them.
"How about this afternoon?" he asks, wanting to extend their time together.
"I'd like to, but I can't. My sister and I had planned to go shopping. In fact, I pushed it back so I could have lunch with you. She's picking me up here. I hope you don't mind. I want her to meet you."
"Your sister? I forgot you even had one. You never talk about her."
"I know. She lives here in Vegas, but I don't see her that often. We're both just too busy with other things. That's why I didn't want to cancel our shopping date." She glances up over his shoulder, gives a small wave. "Oh, here she comes now."
Graham pushes back from the table, stands. Turns to greet Melody's sister, who has almost reached the table. When she sees him, she skids to a stop and his mouth falls open. He's glad his back is to Melody.
The redhead's eyes turn stone cold. "Oh. You must be my sister's boyfriend." She extends her hand. "I'm Tara. So happy to meet you, uh . . ."
"This is Graham," chimes Melody. "Join us? You should get to know each other."
Tara's wry smile does little to soften the anger, concrete in the set of her jaw. "Yes, Graham. Let's get to know each other."
He pulls out a chair, and she sits. Side by side, the sisters share a slight resemblance, nothing more. "May I buy you lunch?" he asks. "Or at least a beer?"
"I think the occasion calls for something stronger." Tara signals the nearby waiter. "Margarita," she tells him. "On the rocks."