Small Town Girl (9 page)

Nope, he couldn't do music either. No fingers to play chords.

All right, then, he'd be a homeless bum. That took the stiffness right out of his groin and put it in his spine where it belonged.

Grabbing a push broom from the closet with his good right hand, Flint joined Joella behind the counter. "This comes out of your pay," he warned, not because he meant it but because he had to say something in front of a shopful of staring customers.

"Fine, I won't pay the rent," she agreed with false cheer.

He didn't know what one had to do with the other, but he started sweeping anyway. "There's no telling how much money you just threw away. I ought to hire an appraiser."

"It's not as if you knew they were worth anything until I told you anyway. So call those the price of my commission when you sell the rest."

He squelched the urge to throw one of the damned plates. He'd been rolling in dough not two years ago, and now he was reduced to sweeping up after a temperamental waitress in a two-bit…

Work with it
. Flint's fingers itched for his guitar to translate the anger into music as he'd always done. Like he didn't dare do anymore. Instead, he swept the broom rhythmically, getting into the swing of it.
I'm cleaning up the pieces after the Queen of Mean
…

"Thank you for taking the pig," Sally murmured, startling him from his reverie.

He'd forgotten all about her. She was a foot too short but a cute little thing, just the kind of mother the boys needed. He glanced up from his grim contemplation of the floor with a polite smile. He'd need a wife just to support him after Jo got through with him. Life being what it was, maybe he ought to look for a rich woman instead of a maternal one. "No problem, ma'am, now that I know what it's for. Do I need to pick it up?"

She brightened. "Could you? That would be wonderful. It's out at the school. It's the last day of classes so it will be a little hectic out there, but the kids will be thrilled! They'll all be by to check on Myrtle."

"Myrtle?" he asked, fearful he would be saddled with more than a purple pig.

"That's what they call her. They had a turtle named Myrtle but it died this winter, so they named their artwork after her."

A turtle named Myrtle. That was kind of cute. He could get something… Been there, done that, not going down the music road again. He didn't know why the hell the muse that had deserted him this past year had suddenly decided to show her shriveled ass today. Guess it was just one of those days.

"Things slow down here about ten. I'll be out then," he assured her, and was rewarded with a sweet smile. A powder puff like Sally was far better than dealing with a blond temptress who threw hissy fits and broke crockery. He'd had enough of that for five lifetimes.

He wasn't in the least surprised a few minutes later when Joella's sister appeared bearing a tray full of muffins—iced and decorated with pig snouts. His life had now officially fallen from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Jo waited until Flint had backed his pickup onto the sidewalk, partially obstructing highway traffic, before deciding to talk to him again.

She tried to block out the memory of the night she'd almost ended up in that pickup with him, but it was hard to forget while watching her employer's muscled arms wrestling the heavy purple pig out of the truck bed. Those arms had snuggled her close as if she were no more than a little bitty baby. This morning he'd held her for comfort, not sex—until she'd wiggled once too often anyway. When was the last time a man had done that for her?

She was
so
not going there, especially with a man who could rip counters right out of the floor. She hadn't been appropriately appreciative of that act until she'd tried to shove the counter later. It hadn't budged. Flynn Clinton was one scary man—and he held a painful piece of her hopes. She clutched her fingers into her palms in a form of prayer.

She was still so furious she couldn't think straight, but she'd recovered enough sense to understand that maybe Flint wasn't to blame except as the messenger. Had he really meant that he'd written music for
her
words? Real music, with melodies and not just hot guitar riffs like the band played?

"Dot said she could use the plate pieces in birdbaths and mosaic tables and give you a percentage on every one sold," she called when he was close enough. She hoped it sounded like a peace offering.

Holding the hefty pig with its red-ribboned tail curling near his ear, Flint scanned the sidewalk for the best location. "Do I have to put the birdbaths with the pig?" he asked in a note of disgust.

Catching his arm, Jo led him to the dwarf juniper she'd planted at the corner of the alley. The pavement was broken there, and she'd dug it up to make a little in-ground planter. "If you don't want her blocking the door, Myrtle should be fine with her tail tucked around the corner of the alley. Maybe we could put a red bow on top of the tree for her to admire. We could dress her up so she'll bring a higher price."

He willingly lowered the painted statue to the spot indicated. "Myrtle is even uglier than George Bob's flying hog. Nobody's going to buy her."

They both stepped back to study the pig, who did seem to be tilting her polka-dotted snout upward to admire the tree. The purple paint had been inexpertly applied by childish hands and had already cracked over the pig's ample hips. Its eyes had been painted a particularly virulent pink to match the polka-dots. Some wit had given Myrtle's fat jowls grassy green whiskers. Bright yellow flowers adorned her porcine back like a pig saddle.

"The flowers are kind of pretty." She defended the kids' creation.

"Cracked ham hocks," he asserted. "Anyone who buys this can use it to frighten coyotes."

"I think she needs a hat. Pigs sunburn."

Jo could feel him glaring at her inanity, but she didn't try to interpret the emotion behind it. She just wished she were wearing heels instead of Nikes. Flynn Clinton was a big man, in more ways than height. She'd slapped him, and he'd just turned the other cheek. She didn't know how to take that, but it made her sick inside that she'd done it, and warm to know that he hadn't taken it too personally.

"I apologize," she said bravely, for the second time in their rocky acquaintance.

"Yeah. You're still fired. And I'm still docking your wages. Did you fix the bank deposit yet? It's Friday and I have to pay the bills." He headed back to the truck.

"The deposit is ready, and I talked Dave into fixing a shelf in the window. Did you see it?" Jo chose to ignore the
fired
part. She didn't have another job lined up, and if he docked her wages, she couldn't pay his rent. It evened out.

"You really thought my songs were good?" she asked while she was being brave. That had been the only momentum keeping her going all morning. She knew people laughed at her ditties. She liked making people happy. But if a professional Nashville musician like Flint had thought they were worth composing real music for… She was afraid to let the possibility go to her head. She'd been cut down before when she'd dared to believe she was more than a hick waitress—as her mother could attest.

"The lyrics had flair," Flint asserted noncommittally, peering under the torn blue awning to check the window with
Stardust Cafe
written across it in hot pink. "People will come in here to buy that stuff?" he asked incredulously at the display of purple, orange, and green. "It's even uglier than Myrtle."

So much for discussing her music. "Maybe we have a theme going. We could change the name to Ugly Cafe." She wanted him to tell her about her words having
flair
. Irritated that he wouldn't talk about her poems, equally annoyed that her brilliant Fiestaware idea was so easily dismissed, she resisted slugging him. If she hadn't knocked any sense into his head earlier, she might loosen what few brains he possessed if she did it again.

"Ugly Pig Cafe," he countered, sauntering back to the truck with a lean-hipped swing. "The kids could paint pigs on all the plates."

Jo tried not to laugh as he drove the truck away. If she looked beneath his cynical attitude, her boss just might have a sense of humor.

He'd need it if he meant to date Sally. Sally thought a good time was taking the church school class down to the park and feeding them homemade ice cream until they turned into hyperactive monsters. Jo shuddered at the memory.

She vowed to pry more out of him about the songs. All she needed was a little hope to cling to, and she'd dare mountains. She tried to check the excitement fizzing inside her like bottle rockets at the possibility of
her
words being heard by millions of people.

She had the dishwasher emptied and hamburgers frying for the early lunch crowd when Flint returned. She handed him the bank bag. He took it and walked out without comment. If she was fired, he hadn't thrown her out on her ear yet, at least.

She couldn't get fired. This was Friday. The Buzzards had a gig here tonight. Her rent was due, and she needed her paycheck.

Lunch was too busy for asking questions. Jo flipped burgers and poured coffee and iced tea while Flint took orders and stacked them on the spindle. She was more than a little surprised that in a few days the big-time guitar player—and composer, she had to remember—had learned the names of his regulars. He chatted like a native, which she supposed he was. She'd done the math. If she'd guessed his age correctly, he'd left Northfork before her mama had moved back up here. He might not know everyone, but they knew him.

Around two, after the lunch crowd trickled out, Flint returned to his office while Jo unloaded the dishwasher. She was just wishing she'd thrown the ugly restaurant mugs instead of the pretty dishes when he returned and shoved a piece of paper under her nose.

"Here. I can't figure out Charlie's bookkeeping, but this looks right."

She stared in wonder at the amount on the paycheck before accepting it. "I take my tips in cash out of the register. You only owe me hours."

"I've watched them tip here. You deserve more." He looked around with a puzzled frown. "Where did all the muffins go? I didn't get one."

He'd noticed how the customers tipped
? A man who noticed something beyond the needs of his own…
Bad, Joella
. Play nice.

"Word got around and they sold out before noon. I'll snag you one next time." If there was a next time. She'd like to do cartwheels over the size of the check, and the fact that Flint had actually given her one. Once upon a time she would have been seriously impressed and overwhelmed that he'd noticed she wasn't getting paid what she was worth, but she was learning to do suspicion well. She folded the paper and stuck it in her apron. "You can't buy me off," she warned.

"Wasn't planning to." He looked uncomfortable. He stuck his fingers in his back pockets and rocked on his heels. "We have to talk sometime."

"Maybe we'd better do it with a lawyer present." Not that she'd trust Fritz and Freddy from down the street. All they were good for was filing documents at the courthouse. But talking with Flint alone involved sizzling in her own juices. She got all hungry just watching him lean his hips on the counter and remembering how he swung them when he danced. She was a basket case without his telling her he'd
sold her songs
.

She had so many hopes and questions whirling around inside her that she could hardly stand still. Her hands had been shaking all morning. Randy had been paid a lot of money for that album. If she could have some small fraction of it…

"I have a lawyer." Flint crossed his arms defensively.

Joella figured a man that sexy was better behind a guitar than a counter, but she was determined to listen and not talk right now.

"My lawyer drew up the publishing contract for the songs on RJ's album. If we tell him RJ stole the lyrics, he'll have to call the record label, and the album will get yanked."

Jo imitated his stance, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the stove to hide her shakes. "And this is a problem, how?"

Flint turned a gray glare on her. "Because you can get a whole lot more money suing a rich man than a poor one. RJ will have spent his cash advance by now. The record label is a better target."

Jo narrowed her eyes. "I'm no CPA, but if RJ got an advance, then I figure you got one, too. Sounds to me like you're protecting your own hide."

"Of course I am," he said impatiently. "But I'm small potatoes. My stake is big to me, but pretty small next to RJ's since he's the performer. It won't do you any good raising a ruckus before you've documented your case. The record company has a raft of lawyers that will keep you at sea until they drown you in legal mumbo jumbo. You want to win this, you have to sink the raft before they see you coming, then mow them down with AK-47s."

"That's just crazy enough to make sense," she admitted. "I don't care about lawyers and record companies or even you. I just want RJ taken down." Which was another lie, but she'd rather get mad than sound needy.

She studied the tall cowboy grabbing a dish towel now that he'd said his piece. He was sexy even when he was domestic. She'd love to trust him enough to confide in him, but she'd done that before and look where it had got her. "Although why you told me any of this is a mystery. What did RJ do to you?"

"Besides leaving me liable for a lawsuit that can ruin me?" He dried a mug and slammed it into a cabinet as if it were Randy's head.

"If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have known," she pointed out.

"You would as soon as you heard the songs on the radio. I didn't have to doctor the words much to make them fit my music. You have a naturally comedic rhythm."

She'd like to preen at that grudging compliment, except she wasn't believing a word he said yet. "But I wouldn't have known it was you that composed the music. I would have gone after RJ with a butcher knife and got myself arrested. What did he do to you, run off with your wife?" She knew she'd hit the bull's-eye when Flint flinched.

"Melinda died in a senseless car crash." He slammed another mug on the shelf hard enough to crack it, but he didn't walk away for a change.