Now That You're Here. Lynnette Kent
with the male drive for control to the back of her mind.
“Yeah, well, my Brad pretty much says what goes.” The bartender put up a hand to massage her shoulder, wincing a little. “He’s six-four and two-fifty, so most people don’t argue.”
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
Tiffany dropped her hand. “Brad and me were fooling around last night—play fighting, you know. I hit a chair leg and got a bruise. That’s all.” She stepped through the doorway into the club. “See you later.”
Could she really be that clumsy? Or…Emma followed her into the dark. This was meddling—again—but she had to ask. “Tiffany, does Brad hit you?”
Wiping down the bar, the other woman shrugged. “He gets mad sometimes. And he forgets how strong he is. Nothing major.”
“How long have you two been together?”
“About three years.”
“But you aren’t married?”
Tiffany laughed. “I was already married once. To a real loser. I don’t plan to be trapped like that again.”
That should have been reassuring. Wanting to be convinced, Emma started back to the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more. “You probably have lots of friends and family already. But if you ever need help, please feel free to call me.”
“Thanks.” Intent on polishing a spotted glass, Tiffany didn’t look over again.
Alone in the kitchen, Emma tried to put the matter out of her mind, without success. Tiffany probably didn’t weigh much more than nine stone—one hundred twenty pounds or so—and she was half a foot shorter than Emma’s five-ten. Why would such a big man even think about wrestling—“play fighting”—with someone so much smaller?
Sighing, she focused her attention on the food yet again—sweet, ripe tomatoes and crisp lettuce, fragrant onions. Block cheese didn’t cost much more than fabricated cheese sauce for the nachos, especially when grated by hand, and tasted better. There was such peace in preparing food, a sort of rhythm…
Outside in the alley, glass hit concrete with an unmistakable shatter. Someone cursed, loudly and fluently.
Emma went to the screen door and peered out.
A boy stood just across the narrow lane, with a pile of rubbish at his feet, evidently fallen through the ripped bottom of the white plastic sack he held.
Harlow, the homeless boy she’d given money to her first night in Denver. The one Jimmy had rescued in the fight.
As Emma stepped outside, he looked over and grinned. “I guess I got greedy. Tried to carry too much.”
Emma crossed her arms. “What in the world were you trying to do?”
“Just looking for some lunch.” He started backing away. “Sorry if I bothered you.”
“Lunch? In the rubbish bins?” She spared a glance for the mess at his feet. “You were going to eat that?”
His shoulders lifted in a shrug, and his face flushed. Emma watched him a moment, then ducked back into the kitchen for another sack and a dustpan. “Clean that up and put it back where you got it. Then come inside.”
“That’s nice ’n all, lady, but…”
“But?”
“Well, this part of town is where I hang out most of the time, and I’ve tangled with Mr. Falcon before. He’s not big on handouts.”
Jimmy had warned her about this boy and his friends. They were drug addicts, he’d said. Best left alone.
But Jimmy wouldn’t expect her to ignore a hungry boy. “I’ll pay for the sandwich, if that will make you—and Mr. Falcon—feel better. You’ve got five minutes.”
Just as she set a full plate on the table, he tapped at the door. “Are you sure, lady? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”
For an answer, Emma opened the screen and waved him inside. “Wash your hands and then sit down. And my name is Emma. Emma Garrett.”
He grinned again, and she blinked against the shine of it. “Pleased to meet you, Emma Garrett. I really appreciate the lunch.”
And he did—he ate every crumb in silent pleasure and asked for a refill on the glass of milk. Draining the last drop, he sat back with a sigh. “I won’t be hungry again anytime soon. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d worked while he ate to give him privacy, but now she leaned back against the counter, watching him as she dried her hands. “Isn’t there somewhere you call home where you can get a meal?”
“Not this side of Amarillo. I’ve been on my own for a couple of years now.” He stood and picked up his paper plate and cup. “All right if I put these in the can over there?”
“Yes.” She waited until he closed the lid. “You don’t have a job?”
“Not steady work, no.” He glanced at the table. “I got a drop of mustard on your table. Let me wipe it up.”
Emma handed him the sponge. “Do you go to school?”
“Not since Amarillo.” A sheaf of dark blond hair fell over his eyes as he bent to his task. He was too thin and not very clean. Except for his hands now. Beautiful hands.
With a glance at the door into the club, he placed the sponge in the sink and stepped back. “I’d better get lost. Mr. Falcon’s car is out front. He wouldn’t like finding me in here.” At the screen door he paused. “Thanks again, Emma.”
“You’re welcome, Harlow.” She thought of urging him to come back. But he seemed convinced that Jimmy would disapprove. Until she had that situation figured out, she wouldn’t press. “Take care.”
With a quick nod, he slipped out the door. Emma looked outside an instant later to see which way he went. But the alley was empty. Harlow had disappeared into thin air.
WHEN EMMA CAME OUT of the kitchen at about six o’clock, Tiffany was in the storeroom, Jimmy had disappeared behind the closed door of his office, and Darren was sweeping the main room, with a book propped between his hands on the broom handle.
Smiling, Emma sat on a bar stool. “I hope you’re getting a lot of reading done, because you’re missing quite a bit of the stuff under the tables.”
Jerked out of his concentration, he looked at the floor around him. “I should know better.” He sighed, slapping the book onto a tabletop. “I guess I’ll just pull another allnighter after work.” He ran a hand through his curly brown hair, then gripped the broom handle with grim determination.
The next question came automatically, after twenty years in academic life. “What’s the assignment?”
Darren bent to brush napkins and potato chips out from under a chair. “I’ve got a paper to write for my history class. I have to get this primary-source reading done before I can even start thinking about what I want to say.”
“When is the paper due?”
“Tomorrow by three.”
“Darren! And you’re just starting this afternoon?”
“Well, I had a music-theory final this morning. I’ve been studying for that all week.” Darren’s passion for music—his dedication to the band he’d organized and played with—was the reason he worked at The Indigo. More than once he’d confided to Emma his dreams of performing and composing jazz.
“Are you a fast writer?”
“No. I hate it. But I have to take this history course to meet graduation requirements.”
“How much do you have left to read?”
“Four