Flamingo Place. Marcia King-Gamble
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of hand.
“Make mine Sex on the Beach, Dwayne,” Chere added coyly.
“Sure you don’t want a Slow Comfortable Screw?”
While Jen sipped her wine, Chere stirred her drink with one finger and filled the bartender in on her issues with Leon. The two probably had history.
A bunch of nubile women were being checked out by the man who’d winked at Jen. On the rattan chairs, hopeful couples, many of the same gender, played footsie while sipping their drinks. Those more enterprising gyrated to the lively reggae band on the beach.
The decor was tropical, cheesy and in an odd way attractive. In the world Jen had left behind, people would be huddled in their winter coats dreaming about taking a trip to Florida.
A tall, well-built man in his late thirties climbed onto a vacated bar stool and ordered a gin and tonic. Although he eyed Jen, Chere slid her stool closer.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
Chere sighed. “I’ll introduce you, Quentin.” She leaned suggestively against his arm as she made the introduction. “This here’s Jen.”
“I’m Quen Abrahams. The health club manager.” He captured Jen’s hand.
No wonder he was in such good shape. He got paid to work out.
“Nice to meet you.”
New to the area?” I’ve been here going on two months.”
A loud female voice shouted, “Quen,” and the man turned his attention to the new arrival.
The volume in the bar had risen. Chere left to make the rounds and Jen gave up on a sit-down meal and settled for a lobster sandwich.
When the band took a break someone turned up the stereo.
“If you’re listening, dearie, I’m challenging you to hook up with me on the show.”
There was that obnoxious DJ, again. “
Defend your position. Keep that radio tuned to WARP and find out if the lady can take the heat. I’m turning in for the night. Drive safely y’all, and remember WARP is the place to be.”
Reminding herself no one in the place knew who she was, Jen checked the crowd’s reaction. The few who were listening seemed mildly amused. It would be a cold day in hell before she accepted that Dog’s challenge.
Chere was too busy chatting up a guy—who looked as if he might fall over if she bumped into him—to have heard the commentator. The man wore a thick gold chain around his neck and waved a fistful of bills at the bartender.
A smart woman would make her exit right now. “
Compliments of that gentleman,” the bartender said, plopping a glass of wine in front of Jen, and rolling his eyes in the direction of a man with a Fu-Manchu rimming his lips.
Jen, about to protest, thought better of it. Her benefactor wasn’t physically her type, but accepting a drink was not a lifetime commitment.
“Thank him for me,” she said.
No sooner had she said that than the dark-skinned man with the mustache descended.
“Hi, hon, I’m Vince. I live in the villas across the street.”
“Thanks again for the drink.” She took a sip of wine to show her appreciation. “Sorry, I have to go. I’m working tomorrow.” She slid off the stool, paid her bill and pocketed the business card Vince tucked into her hand.
Jen waved at him from the door. Chere was in a corner with the reed-thin guy. He had his arm around her. Maybe she’d better not leave her alone.
Reminding herself this wasn’t Ashton, Ohio, where the sidewalk rolled up at midnight, Jen retraced her steps and headed back to rescue Chere.
Chapter 3
What seemed hours later, Jen entered the deserted lobby of Flamingo Place. A sleepy-eyed guard barely looked up as she hopped on the elevator. She got off at five and made her way down the hallway, almost running into a woman who looked to be no more than a teenager. She was exiting 5B. The child-woman clutched a collection of CDs. Her eyes brimmed over with tears.
Jen was tempted to offer a comforting shoulder but thought better of it. It wasn’t her business. She continued on her way. But Tre’s raucous music taunted her, following her to her apartment door. Was she the only person who objected to the assault on her ears? Her neighbors didn’t seem to mind or didn’t care to do anything about it. Maybe once she closed her door the commotion would cease.
But the tunes followed her into her apartment and continued even after she was ready for bed. Bleary-eyed, and knowing that she had to get up at six, she decided enough was enough.
Jen stomped to the phone. It was a waste of time calling Trestin whatever-his-name-was, even if she did know his last name. Time to go over his head. She punched in the numbers.
“Security?”
“Yes, ma’am”.
“I’m calling from the fifth floor. 5B is keeping everyone up with his music.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I’d appreciate that.” Jen disconnected the call.
Punching her pillow as if it were Trestin’s handsome ebony face, she flopped back on the bed and tried closing her eyes. Maybe visualizing a day at the spa would help. But the image filling her vision was one of a dark-skinned broad-shouldered male well over six feet, with sculptured features and seductive bedroom eyes.
Ba dam, ba dam, ba dam. The music continued for another half hour and showed no signs of stopping. Calling security had been a waste of time.
Tomorrow she would go to the leasing office and lodge a formal complaint against Trestin Noisemaker. He’d pushed every hot button. Now it was war.
“Dammit!” Tre muttered, pounding the steering wheel of his silver Porsche. He spat out another graphic expletive and threw the vehicle into Park, the motor still running. Hopping out of the car, the roaring in his ears signaled his blood pressure was dangerously high. He circled.
The navy-blue Mazda Miata had no business in his reserved parking spot. He paid a premium amount every month for a location close to the building. Tre counted to ten. Years ago he would have put a dent in the Miata’s hood and maybe a dent in the driver. All those anger management classes had helped mellow him out. He now knew how to redirect his pent-up outrage.
After getting back into the Porsche, Tre angled the vehicle in such a manner it blocked in the Miata, then sat back to wait. Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed a demo CD and slipped it into the player. The music, amateurish as he expected it to be, would help pass the time until the driver showed up.
Tre sipped from the bottle of water in the center console. The singer’s sultry voice reminded him of Sade. She was the best thing he’d heard in a long time. Curiosity prompted him to pick up the disk’s cover and stare into a heart-shaped face with smoky eyes. She would be promotable and worth playing on the station tonight.
Five minutes grew into ten. Tre’s blood pressure shot even higher. His entire body felt as if it was on fire. The air conditioner was functional and on full blast. What was taking the irresponsible tenant so long to get back to their car? He or she must know that this wasn’t their parking space.
Spotting one of the khaki-clad security guards, he flagged him down.
“Tre,” the guard gushed, openly awestruck he’d been singled out. “Great show last night.”
“Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know whose Miata that is?”
“No. But I can call a tow truck and get it hauled out of there.”
“Let’s