Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(40)
“Richard Gere was in the navy. I’m army,” Dax said, but Ida didn’t seem to be bothered by the difference, as though the two were interchangeable. “And I hoped you would have consulted me about tonight before taking out an ad in the Sentinel.”
“It wasn’t an ad, it was an editorial piece about safety in our society.”
“And me shirtless on the cover addresses civilian safety how?” he asked.
“One look at those guns and any underage woman will think twice before coming in and poaching our men. But just in case, I got one of those blue light things the TSA uses to detect fake IDs.”
“How many minors snuck in last week?” Because the thing about small towns was one couldn’t fart without people smelling it. Dax couldn’t imagine how kids could lie about their age in a place where half the patrons had, at one time or another, changed their diapers.
“Not minors, men poachers,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him through the side door into the bar. “Those fresh-out-of-their-third-marriage twits who all live in that fifty-five and older community down the road. They come in here with their menopause glow and pregrandma boobs, attracting the guys with real hip joints and acting for all the world to see like they’ll never need a hip replacement.”
Ida paused in the entry to point to just such a woman in line. She wore sailor pants with six buttons on the front, a starched white shirt—tucked in—and gold-rimmed glasses.
“So you want me to bounce Ms. Wheeler?” Dax asked. “She was my kindergarten teacher.”
“Personal histories with the patrons mean nothing. Understand?”
Dax understood. More than he cared to admit.
“Good.” Ida stepped close, then right up onto her toes and poked his abs with her meaty finger. “If she ain’t over sixty-five, she ain’t getting in. Real hips get the di—”
He held up a hand, not wanting to hear the rest. “Look, we have a problem.”
But Ida wasn’t listening, she was already gone, waddling her way behind the bar like a woman with a plan.
Dax blew out a breath and sank onto a stool. No point in chasing her down, she’d be back, then he’d tell her that he wanted no part of her plan. He’d repay the marker some other way. Maybe with some creative defense lessons so she could handle her own security.
It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the mood lighting, but when they did, he knew he was screwed. The entire place had been turned into an Anchors Aweigh set. Life preservers lined the walls, blue-and-white-striped tablecloths adorned the cocktail tables, and a big gold anchor hung behind the bar. The place was already hopping with old timers in wartime attire lining the bar, sipping sidecars and smelling like Bengay, waiting for the dance hall ladies to come swarming in.
But what had him pausing, had him rethinking his evening plans, was the dance hall honey standing at the far side of the room.
Emerson wasn’t dressed like a cork tonight. Oh no, she was wearing enough body-hugging fabric to cause someone to blow theirs.
She looked soft and sexy in a vintage dress that hugged her body and went from collarbone to below the knee, only to cinch high in the waist with a tiny strip of leather. The dress was navy and white, the belt red, and the heels a blatant invitation. Her hair was down, silky auburn curls shining under the lights and flirting around her shoulders, while one side was secured with a big white flower.
She was a walking, talking, World War II dream girl.
Her eyes locked on his and instead of looking away, like any other woman would have done, she sent him an amused smile that had a bit of challenge thrown in. Challenge that when paired with those shoes was a request for trouble without consequences.
Dax loved a little trouble. Trouble without the drama was even better. But nothing about this woman said no strings.
It wasn’t the dress or the bombshell body—or even the shoes. Those were giving him a green light all the way. It was that flash of vulnerability he’d seen when she was talking about her mom. About her sister.
Emerson put up a good tough-girl front, but he knew that she wasn’t as bulletproof as she pretended to be.
And that slayed him. Because Dax knew all too well what a bullet to the chest felt like. So he’d take that night-of-fun challenge and raise her a partner in the short term. She could use someone on her side, and he was already more invested than just fun. So when Ida came back over with a big box of door swag and a blue light, he said, “Where do you want me?”
And that was how Dax found himself, two hours later, standing in the cold, vetting real IDs from fake ones, and passing out ladies’ night swag bags that had been donated by the lingerie shop next door.
“What kind is this?” Mrs. Moberly, the town’s long-standing librarian asked, pulling the red vibrator from the bag. “Oh my, it’s a Go Big or Go Home.”
Dax rolled his neck from side to side and mumbled, “I believe so.”
Mrs. Moberly held up the device to inspect it. He could have told her that, according to the shop’s owner, Clovis, the Go Big or Go Home was the preferred personal pleasure device for two out of every three women in St. Helena—three years running. He could have, but he didn’t.
First, because that would be acknowledging that most of his female relatives had one or wanted one. Second, because what the hell? And third, because after repeating the scripted spiel to the head of the Daughters of the Prohibition board, who asked him why the overwhelming support for the device, she’d proceeded to turn it on. And watching that thing light up in the presence of someone who used to read him James and the Giant Peach wasn’t something he wanted to experience.