Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(42)
When Shannon and Show got into the parlor, Marie, Rose, and Beth were strewn over one of the sofas and one of the chairs, looking decidedly drunk and pleased with themselves.
Beth called out, “Shannon! Boss lady! And Show, you big, manly beast! Where you been, out in that mess? You two been being naughty?” All three women—all of them near or past sixty, all of them of…
substantial frame—giggled like schoolgirls.
Show chuckled behind her. Shannon stepped in toward the women and took off her wet coat. “What’s going on here, ladies? I think you’re the ones being naughty.”
Beth shook her head. “No, ma’am. My Ernie doesn’t get naughty since the heart attack. But he used to.
Whoo-whee!” Again with the giggles. So, yes. Assuming any of these three remembered the evening, Shannon and Show were more grist for the gossip mill. Hopefully, though, this would be a better story.
But it was half-past eight, and they had a nightcap to put on. “I’m glad you ladies are letting your hairnets down”—they all thought that was hilarious—“but we have to get hors d’oeuvres out for our guests.
We’re doing a light meal tonight, remember?”
Beth shook her head dramatically. “Nope. Not tonight.”
Shit. Okay. Shit. Okay. She could handle this. Shannon wasn’t a hopeless cause in the kitchen. She just wasn’t very inspired. But Beth had made quite a bit of it before the drunken kaffeeklatsch, so Shannon could probably pick up the slack, assuming Connie was still in the kitchen to help.
That didn’t seem very likely, though. “Is Connie still around?”
“Nope. Sent her home before the roads got too bad.”
Shit! “Beth, we’ve got guests to serve.” Stating the obvious to a woman too drunk to give a shit wasn’t Shannon’s most efficient course of action, but she didn’t actually have an efficient course of action.
Not to mention that Showdown was still standing near the front door, bringing with him all sorts of intense feelings.
But then Marie sat up straight from the chair in which she’d been sprawled. “Naw, you don’t. They called—right, Beth?”
Beth nodded somberly and picked up the slurred story, “All three of the little pussies wanted a ride, but there wasn’t nobody to go haul their precious asses. They’re stuck now. Spending the night at the clubhouse. They’re in for a treat, I expect.” More hilarity from the Three Drunken Fates. “So there’s nobody to eat those damn deviled potatoes and apple squash things. Those people must be regular as all get-out, all the vegetables they eat.”
Rose piped up. “Nah, they don’t shit. It probably gets all bound up in there until they shoot out little Oscar statues or something.” Past the giggles now, into guffaws.
Okay. Nothing she could do about the guests, except hope that their night in the clubhouse would not be excessively exciting. She turned back to Show, who was grinning hugely and dialing his phone.
“I’ll see who’s around, what’s going on with Hollywood.”
She smiled back, relieved. “Thanks.” Now, to deal with the women. “Okay, ladies. I guess you know you’re not leaving tonight. How about you take rooms upstairs and get comfy?”
Rose declared, “I’m comfy right here!”
But Beth sat up. “No—we should go up. Shannon’s room is right through there, and I bet she’s a screamer.”
Oh, tiny baby Jesus in a handcart. Really? Seriously? Shannon felt her face go hot as she blushed furiously, but she kept her composure. “You need help upstairs?”
Marie stood, wobbled a bit, and then straightened her sweater proudly. “I do not.”
Shannon got them set up with keys, then followed them upstairs and made sure they hit the correct doors. When she got back downstairs, Show was leaning on the front desk, his coat and kutte, still wet from the frozen rain, folded next to him.
“Bart and Len are at the clubhouse. They got it handled. Gettin’ everybody drunk, but they’re watching out.” He nodded toward the stairs. “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a damn long time.”
“Yeah. At my expense.”
He took her hand and pulled her close. “Aw, no, hon. They were just drunk fools. Probably won’t even remember.” He bent down and kissed her, and she forgot about all of it—that humiliating scene, her stranded guests, Show’s heavy story and the way it had stirred her up, the way he’d said he wanted her— and just felt him. His huge, strong body, his rough hands, the scratch of his beard on her cheeks, his tongue hot and slick in her mouth. Feeling the electric tremor run through her blood and jolt between her legs, she moaned and grabbed fistfuls of his flannel shirt.
He pulled back a fraction, the hairs of his beard tickling her lips. “If you’re still up for it, though, I aim to prove them right.”
She led him back to her apartment and straight through to the bedroom, turning lights on as they went.
She wanted to be able to see him.
When they were in the bedroom, he pulled her back to him, so hard that she lost her balance. But he caught her and set her back on her feet. And then he was on her, hard. It shocked her at first, when his hands grabbed her hips and his head came down, his mouth rough and grating against her lips. It wasn’t what she’d come to expect from Show, who’d been aloof with her when they first met, and then reserved, and then desperate. This was power. And desire. For her. Her muscles went to liquid, and she put her hands on his upper arms to steady herself. His biceps were—God, they were practically the size of a normal man’s thighs.