She Drives Me Crazy Page 2

  “Better think about it now,” she mused as she saw more and more that looked familiar to her.

  Her foot lifted slightly off the gas pedal as she spotted the old lumber mill on the outskirts of town. Just west of here, near the highway leading down to Atlanta, would be the old pecan orchard her grandmother had owned, the orchard that was now Emma’s. Her heart clenched. She wasn’t quite up to visiting the orchard yet.

  She’d soon come to the Chat-n-Chew. The combination gas station and restaurant—where Emma and her high school friends used to try to buy beer—sat right on the main road. She decided to stop, needing to fuel up and grab a cold drink. She also needed to deal with the memories hitting her from every direction, some eliciting a gentle smile but most bringing a hint of sadness for their association with Emmajean.

  The blaze of sunlight sent a shimmer of heat reflecting above the blacktop road, and Emma’s eyes grew a little hazy. The tears lurking behind her lids began to spill onto her cheeks.

  She was home. In Joyful. But the one person who epitomized the meaning of the word “home” wasn’t here to welcome her.

  She blinked rapidly. Fatigue from being behind the wheel for so long was making her overly emotional. Shrugging her shoulders, she ran a quick hand through the tangled mass of short curls surrounding her face and took a deep breath. The air was warm and thick, redolent with the smells she’d always acquaint with the South—earth, pine and a faint wisp of fruit from some nearby orchard. Her tears dried almost immediately.

  Before reaching the Chat-n-Chew, Emma suddenly remembered the little park, down a gravel road that cut back to the local grange building. Almost holding her breath, she slowed as she drove by, peeking down the road, unable to see much, other than a tangle of woods and the roof of the grange rising above it.

  But she knew what was hidden behind those woods. The park. The gazebo. Emma’s breath came faster as a different memory overcame her, and a new face intruded on the images of the past.

  “Johnny,” she said, his name tasting unfamiliar on her tongue.

  She hadn’t thought of him in ages. Well, at least not in weeks. His wide, heartbreaking grin and the spark of devilment in his eyes had never been too far from her thoughts, even though the rest of Joyful had been.

  Johnny Walker had been her savior and her downfall, all in the very same night. He’d given Emma her first lesson in raw, hot passion. A lesson she’d never forgotten—and had never come close to repeating.

  Then he’d given her a lesson in betrayal.

  “The bastard.”

  Could he still be here?

  No. He’d hated this town. He’d wanted nothing more than to shake its dust off his boots and get out even then. Johnny would be long gone from Joyful. No question about it.

  And Emma Jean Frasier wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “THE PORN STAR’S pulling up outside!”

  Johnny paused, his fingers resting lightly on the can of spaghetti sauce he’d picked up off the grocery store shelf. Porn star? Now, there was something you didn’t hear mentioned often in Joyful, Georgia. Livestock auctions, yes. Dances at the VFW hall, storm warnings, gossip about whose husband was spotted with a female impersonator down in Atlanta…yes.

  But porn stars in Joyful? Nossir, he didn’t think he’d heard that one before. Though, given the controversy of a proposed new twenty-four-hour strip club on the outskirts of town, he couldn’t claim too much shock.

  Wouldn’t that give the biddies something to chew on? As if they all weren’t already in the middle of a frenzy over the billboard advertising Joyful Interludes, the new club, which had shown up this morning. Now they were likely planning pickets, boycotts, religious protests. Soon they’d be talking legal action. Then they’d be knocking on his door.

  Add a porn star to the mix and Joyful might just erupt of sheer titillation.

  “Didja hear me?” the voice continued. “Joe Crocker down at the Chat-n-Chew says the porn star who’s opening up that new strip club is heading into town, right here to this very store!”

  The words hung in the sunny, late-afternoon air of the Joyful Grocery Store. Johnny thought even the dust motes stopped swirling at the announcement made by the teen who’d burst in off the street, his face red, eyes wide with excitement. The kids buying penny—now dime—candy, dropped their loot and froze. The cashiers at the two front checkout lanes, who’d been exchanging man-tales and smacking bubblegum as they rang up the purchases of the handful of customers in the store, also paused.

  Then, as if they were all puppets on the same string, they turned and gawked out the huge front window of the store. Eighty-year-old Tom Terry, who used to own the town’s only barbershop, hitched his pants up and tucked his shirttail in.

  The expectant silence, as charged as the air in the bingo parlor before each ball was drawn, was suddenly interrupted by a demanding voice. As demanding as only the voice of a three-or or four-year-old little girl could be. “I spilled my juice, Mama!”

  Johnny cast a quick glance at the child, whose lower lip was stuck out in a belligerent pout. She tugged on her mother’s dress. The mother—Claire Deveaux, former newspaper reporter turned chubby housewife—ignored the kid. Claire was just as focused on the front door as everyone else in the place.

  “Mama…”

  “Not now, Eve,” Claire whispered with a shushing motion. “Somebody important’s coming, baby.”

  Somebody important. Miss Fanny Tail? Miss Venus Triple-D’Milo? He almost snickered. Why in God’s name would a porn star be opening up a club here in Nowhereville, Georgia? And why was he the only one who seemed surprised by this news?

  Johnny shook his head. Apparently he’d once again been completely oblivious to some juicy bit of fodder on the town from Joyful’s infamous grapevine. That’s the way he preferred it. Growing up in a family that was usually the target of such gossip had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he generally shut down his ears when people were whispering nearby.

  This time he’d apparently missed some very serious gossip, which had probably started thirty seconds after the billboard had gone up this morning. He almost wished he’d detoured past it to read it for himself.

  Porn stars and strip clubs. Joyful was becoming downright wicked.

  Not that he believed Joe Crocker knew a porn star from an opera singer—the man thought any female blessed with an abundance of northern curves liked to be leered at and drooled over. So did ninety percent of the rest of Joyful’s male population. Almost made him feel sorry for the mystery woman. She could be anybody from a college professor to a congresswoman. And sure as hell, some man here in this very store would likely ask her to autograph his butt with a red felt-tip marker as soon as she arrived.

  He grinned, picturing her response if she was simply a wayward traveler or a harried housewife doing some shopping. It was almost worth sticking around to see if anybody got slapped in the face. Or kicked in the…

  “I had me a porn star once,” Tom Terry muttered to no one in particular.

  Johnny couldn’t resist glancing at the old-timer, who stared into the air wearing a look of reminiscence.

  “Kep’ her in a box under my bed. ’Bout broke my heart when Buddy, my best hunting dog, found her and bit right into her. Great big holes, right in her leg.”

  Johnny could only shake his head. It wouldn’t do any good to try to change the subject. Old Tom was as predictable about his dirty stories as he was about spitting on the sidewalk whenever his archenemy Joe-Bob Melton was approaching.

  “Tried to use some packing tape t’fix her up,” the old man continued, not even looking around to see if anyone was listening to his tale of woe. “But it didn’t work. Dern near took m’head clean off when she popped and started flyin’ around the room.” And then, as if he hadn’t painted a good enough picture, he added, “Just imagine one’a them Thanksgiving parade balloons hittin’ a light pole and flyin’ all over the city folk, flashin’ her glory-be-ta-Jesus parts in front
a’ the kiddies waitin’ fer Sandy Claus. That’s what she looked like all right.”

  Johnny closed his eyes and thought about work, his car. Anything except the image Mr. Terry had put into his head.

  “She scared poor Buddy right outta the house and under the porch,” old Tom continued, apparently not noticing that everyone within earshot had edged away. “Whizzed ’round the livin’ room like a balloon pricked with a pin.” He gave a wheezy, dirty-old-man snicker. “Pricked.” Then he puffed his scrawny chest out. “Now, I’m not pin-sized, mindya.”

  “Mr. Terry, please,” a nearby woman hissed as she tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the ears of her wide-eyed little boy.

  Yeah. This was how rumors got started in Joyful. Pretty soon, the story of Tom’s relations with a plastic sex doll would turn into one of the greatest love stories in the state of Georgia. Tom Terry and Plastic Polly would rank right up there with Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter. Or Newt Gingrich and himself.

  As much as he disliked admitting it, Joyful’s gossips might not always have the whole story, but there was often at least a kernel of truth in the rumors, way down there amidst the dirt. So, it wasn’t entirely impossible that he was about to see some buxom goddess of stag films and late-night cable movies.

  “Which porn star?”

  No one answered Johnny’s question. Now that Tom had shut up, they’d resumed their wait. They stared, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, as a sporty red convertible whipped too fast around old Tom’s pickup and zipped into a spot directly out front.

  “Mama, my top,” the little girl voice of sugarcoated iron wailed. This time, the pitch was high enough to irritate the ears. All except the child’s mother’s ears—Claire didn’t even seem to hear. She was too busy watching the action unfolding on the movie screen created by the flat surface of the front windows.

  Even Johnny watched, interested in spite of himself, more by the reaction of the townspeople in the store than anything else. At least, until he spotted the blonde at the wheel.

  Then he heard a low wolf whistle. It took a moment before he realized it had come out of his own mouth.

  He couldn’t see her features yet, just the bright blond mass of curls, short, framing her face which was shadowed by an outrageous pair of tortoiseshell, cat’s-eye sunglasses. While he—well, everyone—watched, she reached to the passenger side of her car, bending out of sight. She came back up with a filmy, pink scarf, which she wound tight. Running one hand through her hair, she tied the scarf around her curls like a headband.

  The anticipation rose in the store as the blonde leaned close to her rearview mirror to apply some lipstick. Johnny could tell even from here that it was pink—to match the scarf. Her car was parked so close that he could see her purse her lips to check her makeup.

  The rush of heat descending from his brain to his gut astounded him. Johnny knew plenty of attractive women—there were a dozen he could call right now if he was in need of female companionship that merely seeing a woman put on lipstick did such interesting things to his lower half. This one, though…well, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Somewhere in the near distance he heard, “Gotta clean my top, Mama. It’s my fave-o-rite!” He recognized the increasingly desperate sounding Deveaux kid. But he couldn’t truly focus on anything except the stranger.

  She wore a flouncy-looking white blouse that hung just at the edge of her shoulders. Noting the expanse of bare skin on her neck and chest, he swallowed another wolf whistle. She had to be a northerner. Women from around here wouldn’t dream of exposing so much pale flesh to the hot afternoon sun, particularly while riding around in a convertible.

  Plus, of course, not one woman in Joyful had that outrageous platinum-blond hairdo or those cat’s-eye sunglasses.

  When she stepped out of the car, he nearly echoed old Tom’s groan of appreciation. “She’s got some legs,” the old man said.

  A favorite old ZZ Top song started playing in his mind. Because he’d bet the blonde knew how to use them.

  She paused beside the car, and somehow managed to avoid tipping over in the strappy high-heeled sandals that barely covered her feet. A sudden flash of gold told him she was wearing a flirty ankle bracelet. Johnny took a deep breath. He’d had a thing for ankle bracelets ever since he’d first seen one on his brother’s teenage girlfriend, years ago.

  The woman’s legs went from the ground clear up to heaven, and were shown off not only by the heels but also by the short, flimsy pink miniskirt she wore. It wisped around her thighs. With a strong gust of wind, it might well have flown even higher.

  “Wind’s died down. Too bad,” old Tom muttered with a wheezy, heartfelt sigh, audible from several feet away. Johnny, who’d been thinking much the same thing, couldn’t say a word.

  When she turned and bent over the closed door, reaching through the open convertible roof for her purse, Johnny held his breath, along with everyone else in the place. She apparently wasn’t a complete exhibitionist, though. She kept the flat of her hand against the skirt, just below the curve of her backside, to keep from showing the world whether or not her favorite color extended to her underclothes.

  Having retrieved her bag, she turned and walked toward the sidewalk. Johnny noticed her wobbling a bit on her heels and wondered if she was going to trip on the curb. No one else appeared to notice the moment of unsteadiness. But he knew he was right when he saw her cast a quick guilty look side to side, as if to see if anyone had observed her narrowly avoided fall. For some reason a smile crossed his lips at that one tiny chink in her filmy pink armor.

  “Don’t stand here gawkin,” one of the cashiers said as the blonde reached the store entrance.

  With a flurry of motion, a dozen pair of hands found something meaningless to do. Shaken out of his daze by the moment of uncertainty displayed by the bombshell…er, porn star…or whatever she was, Johnny walked toward the checkout counter, still carrying his spaghetti sauce. He swallowed a laugh as he watched Tom nervously grab for something, and then blanch when he realized he held a box of tampons. The man dropped the box to the floor, kicking it under the nearest shelf where it would probably remain until next Christmas when the aisles were rearranged for the holiday goods. Some lucky lady would find a dusty box of feminine products in the half-off basket come New Year’s.

  He’d just stepped past Claire, who didn’t even notice him to nod hello, when he heard the young mother shriek. “Oh, no, Evie, what did you do? I have to wash it in the washing machine!” The woman swooped the child up and carried her toward the back of the store, beelining for the bathroom.

  Johnny didn’t even have time to wonder what had happened before the stranger from the convertible entered the Joyful Grocery Store. She almost barreled right into him.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice startled him. He’d expected breathy, sultry or honey-sweet tones. Hers sounded controlled, clipped, evenly modulated, with maybe even a hint of a British accent.

  “No harm no foul,” Johnny replied with a shrug.

  For some reason, the woman sucked in a sudden gasp of air and jerked away from him. Though she still hadn’t removed her ridiculous glasses, Johnny peered at her, trying to see why she seemed so startled. He couldn’t see her eyes, but did notice that the nose on which her glasses rested was lightly dusted with freckles. Aside from the bright pink lipstick, her face was bare of makeup, and a few more freckles dotted the high cheekbones. Not exactly how he’d picture a porn star. Then again, he’d never met one up close. So maybe freckles weren’t so unusual, even if they were damn near adorable.

  “You…you…” she said.

  Johnny had to wonder about that. A freckled porn star who stuttered?

  She wobbled again on her heels, and Johnny instinctively reached out to steady her. He grabbed for her arm but connected with her shoulder instead. The loose cottony fabric of her blouse slid beneath his hand until his palm touched her bare skin. She was soft, pale against his dark fingers.

  This
time he was the one who pulled back, or, rather, he thought he did. His brain reacted, sent the message, but he had to wonder if his hand had become disconnected somehow, because his fingers were still there. On her. Sliding across the soft flesh of her nape to brush across her collarbone.

  Hearing a bark of laughter, Johnny realized every set of eyes in the store was fixed on them. His hand finally remembered who was boss and obeyed his brain’s command to let her go. He took a step back, seeing the faint pink outline his touch had left on her skin, then let his gaze travel down the rest of her.

  The first thing he noticed was that she was not built like a brick…well, she wasn’t stacked. He hadn’t seen many porn flicks in his life—never needed to, if truth be told—but one thing he remembered: the females starring in them appeared to be a plastic surgeon’s best friend. Not this one.

  While average height, her ridiculously high heels put her at just a few inches shorter than he was. Not hippy. She was nicely curved—had some particularly fine northern curves—but was certainly nowhere near as well-endowed as he’d expect from an X-rated movie queen. So she definitely wasn’t the downright bovine creature pictured on the billboard.

  But the legs. Oh, boy, the legs and that thin little strip of gold dangling above her left ankle nearly had him gasping for breath. This woman could probably have any man she wanted at her high-heel clad feet.

  “Have a foot fetish?”

  A rueful grin spread across his lips as he raised his eyes to meet hers, which were still hidden behind the glasses. Her enigmatic, close-lipped smile told him he’d been caught staring.

  “Something like that.” When she made no move to remove her sunglasses, he leaned closer. “What about you? Doing the Jack Nicholson thing?”

  She looked confused.

  “Traveling incognito?” he asked, gesturing toward her sunglasses.

  She shrugged. “Is it working? Am I blending right in?”