Red (16 page)

“M
orning, Red.”

Jack. Again.
Becky Lynn's fingers froze on the coffee scoop, then they began to shake. Her first two months at The Shop, he had never come in, the last two months he had stopped in almost every day. And every time he did, he made a point of seeking her out. Of flirting with her.

Of calling her that name.
Red.

She'd been called that before; with her hair, she had been born to the name. But the way he said the word, it didn't seem like a slur. It seemed almost…affectionate. Or as if he was paying her a compliment.

She frowned, feeling foolish at the thought. No male had ever flirted with her or paid her compliments. No male had ever shown any kind of interest in her.

Except Ricky and Tommy.

She shuddered and put the thought of them out of her mind. No doubt Jack Gallagher thought it funny to flirt with her, thought it a big joke. She had no idea what he hoped to gain from making her feel ugly and uncomfortable, but she had vowed she would never let him see her squirm.

Taking a deep breath, she looked over her shoulder. He stood alone in the doorway to the break room, head cocked, his amused gaze on her.

“Hello,” she said curtly, then turned back to her work.

“Coffee ready yet?” She heard him move into the room, heard the sound of something being tossed on the table.

“I'm just making it now.”

He came up beside her, leaned against the counter and yawned. “Make it strong, I need a jump start this morning.”

Her pulse began to pound. Since the day he had cornered her in the storage closet, she had made a point of never being alone with him. Not that he had made any threatening moves toward her or tried to maneuver her into a position of vulnerability. She didn't think he meant her any physical harm, but she was still afraid of him.

He could overpower her so easily.
She set the filter cup on top of the pot, then slid it into the machine. “Sorry. I make it the way Sallie asks me to.”

For a moment he said nothing. She dared a glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He looked angry.

“Then make it hot,” he said, his words measured, “because it's damn cold in here. I think I just got frostbite.”

“Becky Lynn, my God. Is that you?”

Relieved to hear the sound of Brianna's voice, Becky Lynn swung around. Brianna stood just inside the room, staring at her in surprise. Becky looked down at herself, at her new outfit, then back up at the other woman. “Yes.”

“You look much better.” The hairdresser swept the rest of the way into the room. “I approve.”

Becky Lynn ran her hand over the hip of the brightly patterned, midi-length skirt. “Oh…thanks.”

“I guess,” added Jack, rolling his eyes.

“Don't give me a hard time, Jack Gallagher.” Brianna tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Come, I want you to see my new publicity photos.”

The two sat at the table, and Becky Lynn turned back to
the coffeepot. She watched the dark liquid drip from the filter to the pot, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Bob had them done for me. Aren't they wonderful?”

“Very nice, Brianna. Who was the photographer?”

“Clark Kent.” When Jack laughed, Brianna made a sound of indignation. “That's his professional name. I think it's a good idea, it's catchy, memorable. Do you know his work?”

“Can't say that I do.”

Becky Lynn transferred the fresh-brewed coffee into the sterling pot for out front. She poured herself half a cup, then filled the cup the rest of the way with milk and added two hefty teaspoons of sugar.

“Would you mind getting me a cup?” Jack asked. She looked at him, and he smiled. “If it's no trouble. I take it black.”

“Of course it's no trouble for her. Bring me a cup, too, Becky Lynn. Light and sweet.” Brianna didn't take her gaze from the images of herself. “You don't mind, do you?”

She did mind, especially considering that she was the only one of the three who was actually performing Shop duties, but she poured the coffee, anyway, and carried it to them.

“Would you like to see, Becky Lynn?” Brianna asked, taking the cup from her hand.

“See what?” she asked, sliding her gaze to Jack. As her eyes met his, he arched an eyebrow as if in challenge. She stiffened her spine, and jerked her attention back to Brianna.

“These.” The hairdresser motioned to the photographs
spread across the table in front of her. “Big Bob had them done for me.”

Brianna had taken to calling her sugar daddy Big Bob. It had gotten to be a joke around The Shop because Bob was only five foot four—in his boots. In fact, the artists speculated the only big thing about Bob was his bank account.

Becky Lynn leaned forward, studying the photos. “You want to know what I think?”

“Sure.” Brianna tilted her head back and smiled indulgently. “Why not?”

Becky Lynn cocked her head. The photographs were all of Brianna in different poses and outfits. “What are they for?”

“They're publicity photos,” Brianna said importantly. “Head shots. For when I go to auditions and casting calls.”

“Oh.” Becky Lynn gazed at the photos, searching for something to say. Something complimentary. “They're real pretty, Brianna.”

“Real pretty,”
the other woman repeated, frowning. “Is that all you have to say about them?”

Becky Lynn flushed, aware of Jack's gaze intently upon her. She shifted her weight from her right foot to her left. “They're really…nice.”

“Nice?”
Brianna huffed. “You're acting like you don't like them.”

Becky Lynn folded her arms across her chest. “Why do you care what I think?”

“I don't.” The woman drew a deep breath. “Of course I don't. It's just that, well…I can't imagine why you wouldn't like them. They're fantastic.”

“Look at them, Becky Lynn.” Jack smiled, and again
she had the sense that he was challenging her. “What do you really think? Be honest.”

She glared at him, suddenly angry. He knew what she thought. He was baiting her. She stiffened her spine, and returned her gaze to the photographs. “Okay, I think…I think they look a little, I don't know…muddy.”

“Muddy?” Brianna squeaked. “I don't think so.”

“It's only my opinion. Sorry.” Becky Lynn took a step back from the table. “I'd better get back to work.”

Jack stopped her. “Which shot do you think is the best?”

She didn't hesitate. “This one. Because of the contrast between light and dark, and because she looks so…alive.”

“Like I look dead in the others?” Brianna let her breath out in a huff and began to gather together the pictures. “Really, I—”

Jack covered the hairdresser's hand, stopping her movement and tirade. His eyes never left Becky Lynn's. “Which one is the worst?”

She studied them for a moment. “That's hard.” She cocked her head. “This one, I guess. It's exceptionally flat.”

“Don't encourage her, Jack!” Her cheeks scarlet, Brianna scooped up the photos. “Honestly, she's just a little hick from Mississippi. What does she know? I never should have—”

“She's right.”

Brianna swung to face him, her expression stunned. “What?”

“She's right. These shots suck.” He plucked the photographs from her hand and tossed them one by one onto the table. “No contrast, no life, uninteresting, flat. Where's the texture? How about an interesting angle or expression, for
Pete's sake? You look like a pretty girl in these, but there are a million pretty girls out there. Nothing about any of these tells me why Brianna James is special.”

“But you said… A moment ago you—”

“A moment ago, I lied. I figured it wasn't any of my business, and if you were going to let some photographer who calls himself Clark Kent super-shooter take your photos, well, you deserved whatever you got. But since Becky Lynn here's been so honest, I might as well be, too.”

“But…but—” Brianna looked near tears, and Becky Lynn experienced a stab of pity for the other woman. She didn't think Jack had needed to be so specific about the photographs' flaws. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to her. He could have made his point without hurting Brianna.

Jack covered Brianna's hand and leaned toward her. “They don't do you justice, Brianna.” He lowered his voice to a silky-soft murmur. “You're too beautiful a woman to settle for these.”

Becky Lynn watched in amazement as Brianna's tears evaporated and she turned to Jack, the expression in her eyes adoring. “But what am I going to do? Big Bob arranged to have these taken. If I—”

“Has he seen these yet?” Jack asked. She shook her head. “Hold off. I'll retake them.”

“You, Jack?” Brianna curved her hands around his. “You'd do that for me? Really?”

He flashed the hairdresser a breath-stealing smile. Becky Lynn stared, dumbfounded as Brianna practically melted.

“Sure I would.” He brought her hands to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Then he stood, stretched and tossed his disposable coffee cup in the trash. “My studio, say, Sunday morning at eleven.”

Brianna rushed to her feet and planted a quick kiss on his mouth. “I'll be there. And…thanks.”

Jack started for the door, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Becky Lynn. His gaze was so intense, she took an involuntary step backward. “You come, too, Red. I think you'd enjoy it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out. Becky Lynn watched him go, feeling as if he had reached inside her and rearranged several of her vital organs.

That sensation stayed with her for the rest of the day. She couldn't shake it, no matter how hard she tried. Nor could she stop wondering why Jack had asked her to the shoot. The invitation had been both unexpected and unwanted. It had left her feeling at once enervated and on edge. And it had left her feeling torn between curiosity and fear.

As the days passed, bringing her closer to Sunday, her feeling of being torn grew. She vacillated between wanting to go and knowing that she wouldn't. She had tried to broach the subject with Marty, thinking the other, more experienced woman might have an idea why Jack had issued her the invitation, but Marty refused to talk about Jack. She had called him a son of a bitch and walked away. Which had left her even more confused—only a few weeks ago, Marty hadn't had enough words of praise to describe Jack.

Saturday, right before closing, Brianna had asked casually if Becky Lynn intended to come to the shoot. She had replied that she didn't know. Brianna had shrugged and given her Jack's address, just in case.

Sunday morning dawned bright and California blue. Becky Lynn climbed out of bed, thinking of the photo
shoot. She wasn't going, of course. She ate her breakfast, then showered, wondering how far Jack's studio was from the motel. Even though she assured herself that she was only curious, she dragged out the phone book's map and checked it out.

Jack's studio was in Van Nuys, fairly close, especially by California standards. She shut the phone book. Not that it mattered, of course. She wasn't going.

At eleven-fifteen, Becky Lynn reached Jack's studio. She had purposely arrived fifteen minutes late to ensure that Brianna would have already arrived. Surely there wasn't any risk involved in coming here? What could happen with Brianna present?

She rang the bell and waited. Several minutes later, she heard a door slam, somewhere in the house. She frowned and checked her watch, her heart beginning to thrum. Something wasn't right.

Jack came to the door, a towel slung around his neck, his hair wet from a shower. His chest and feet were bare, his jeans were unsnapped and rode low on his hips.

He grinned and pushed open the screen door. “Hey, Becky Lynn.”

A squeak of surprise and dismay slipped past her lips, and she took a step back from the door. “I…I'm sorry. I thought you said…eleven.”

“I did. Brianna called early. She's running late, so I took my time.” He moved his gaze over her. “She said you weren't coming.”

Becky Lynn crossed her arms over her chest. “I changed my mind.”

“I see that.” He smiled again. “Come on in. I'll throw on a shirt.”

She hung in the doorway.
Why had she done this? What in the world had she been thinking of?

“Becky Lynn?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. I'll just…wait out here.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I'll be inside setting up.”

He turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open. She watched him go, her heart beating so heavily, she thought he must be able to hear it.

She let out a long breath and rubbed her arms to warm them, to dissipate the chill of fear. He hadn't tried to lure her in, he hadn't taunted her or made fun of her timidity. In fact, nothing about his manner had threatened. But still…

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and peeked through the doorway. Immediately inside was a small foyer, and beyond that what looked to be his studio. To the right was a bedroom—she could see that his bed was unmade, to the left a kitchen and eating area. An open box of Frosted Flakes stood in the center of the small, round table, a coffee mug beside it. The
Los Angeles Times
was stacked on the floor by the table.

She shifted her attention once more to the studio. She heard him moving around, whistling aimlessly as he did. She saw equipment set up—stands of lights, a tripod, a roll-around cart covered with all manner of things she couldn't make out.

He crossed her line of vision, and she saw with great relief that he'd put on a shirt and a pair of loafers. He turned toward her, and she ducked out of his view, her heart in her throat. She folded her arms across her chest, fighting the curiosity that tugged at her, fighting the urge to throw caution to the winds and go inside.