Angels Fall

to bring me flowers when he comes home."
    "That's nice."
    "And I want him to be a damn conquistador in bed, and make me deaf, dumb and blind on a fairly regular basis."
    "Excellent goals, every one. Lo's up for that?"
    "The sex part, I'm pretty sure of, though I've only had the previews and not the whole show." She grinned, a little fiercely, as she popped another pretzel. "The rest? He's got the potential. But it he wants to waste it, I can't stop him. Want another beer?"
    "No, I'm fine."
    Linda-gail signaled for one as the two women from back East took over the stage with an energetic version of "I Feel Like a Woman." "What about you? What are your excellent goals?"
    "They used to be to run the best kitchen in the best restaurant in Boston. To be listed as one of the top ten—better, in the top five—chefs in the country. I had the idea for marriage and children somewhere in the back of my mind. I thought there would be plenty of time for that. Eventually. Then after I was hurt. I just wanted to get through the moment. Then the next hour, then the next day."
    "Nobody knows what that's like unless they've been there," Linda-gail said after a moment. "But I think it's the smartest thing to do. You have to get through to go on."
    "Now I want my place. To do a good day's work, and be able to have a drink with a friend."
    "And Brody?"
    "I can't imagine not wanting him. He came back into the kitchen tonight, dragged me out the back."
    "What? What?" Linda-gail set down her fresh beer so quickly, foam sloshed over the nm to dribble down the sides. "How did I miss this? What happened?"
    "He wanted me to go back home with him."

    "And you're here nursing a beer and listening to bad—and I do mean bad right at this particular moment—karaoke because?"
    Reece's jaw set. "I'm not going back until I know he wants me. Not that he wants to protect me. I'm going to get a dog," she said with a scowl.
    "I'm lost."
    "If I only want protection, I'll get a damn dog. I want a lover on equal terms. And it I'm going to be in that cabin with him, I don't want to feel like a guest. He's never even offered to give me a drawer in his dresser.
    Pouting now, Linda-gail propped her chin back on her hand. "Men suck."
    "They do, entirely. I'm so pissed off that I'm in love with him." With a mournful look, Linda-gail tapped her glass to Reece's. "Right there with you." Then she glanced toward the bar and noted that Lo was telling his troubles to one of the waitresses. One of the women she knew  bed bounced on at one time or another.
    "Let's dance."
    Reece blinked. "What?"
    "Let's go over, see if a couple of those fly-fishing types want to take a turn on the dance floor." The dance floor consisted of a stingy strip of wood in front of the stage. And the fly-fishing types were rowdy and half-lit. "I don't think so."
    "Well, I'm going over and pick me one out of the pack." She shoved back. She dug in her purse first, pulled out a tube of lipstick. She painted her lips perfectly—a bold, kick-ass red—without the benefit of a mirror. "How do I look."
    "A little dangerous just now. You ought to—"
    "That's perfect." Shaking her hair back, Linda-gail glided over, making sure she moved into Lo's line of sight. Then she braced her palms on the table where the three men sat, leaned over. Reece couldn't hear what was being said. She didn't have to. The men were grinning; Lo looked murderous.
    Just a bad idea, Reece thought. Those kind of games were always a bad idea. But Linda-gail was sauntering hand in hand with one of the men while his companions whistled and cheered. She led him to the strip of floor, put her hands on his shoulders. And led with her hips. At the table, the two left behind whooped. One of them shouted: "Go for it. Chuck!" And Chuck planted his hands on Linda-gail's ass.

    Even with the distance, even through the blue haze of smoke, Reece saw Lo's knuckles go white on the long neck of his beer.
    Seriously bad idea, Reece decided. Her conclusion was confirmed when Lo slapped the bottle back on the bar and strode onto the dance floor.
    She could hear bits. "It's my ass, you jerk," from Linda-ga.il. "Mind your own business, buddy," from Chuck.
    The two women who'd moved from Shania Twain to a slurred version of "Stand by Your Man" stopped singing and watched in bleary fascination.
    Chuck shoved Lo; Lo shoved Chuck. Linda-gail put her full hundred and twenty pounds into it and shoved them both.
    Any hopes that would be the end of it