Stand Your Ground: A Novel (18 page)

Though I didn’t like the shorts, and could do without the top, there was a part of my uniform that I really hated. The Hair and The Makeup.

I was a ponytail, smidgen-of-makeup kind of girl. But not at Twin Peaks. Here it was hair down—all the time. Makeup—natural, but applied to accentuate my features, whatever that meant.

But it didn’t matter what I liked or didn’t like. I was a Twin Peaks girl on a mission to make enough money so that I could move out of the one-bedroom apartment I shared with my mother. At twenty-two, it was time.

So I added one more coat of mascara, covered my lips with another layer of Glorious Red shiny gloss, and then fluffed my hair.

Turning sideways, I asked, “How do I look?”

“
Fabulous,” my new friend, Keisha, said. She’d been with Twin Peaks for over seven months, so she was the expert-in-residence. All last week, anything that I needed to know, Keisha told me.

She said, “Let’s go out there and make some money.”

We walked out of the locker room together, checked in with the manager, then got to work.

As I took one last glance in the mirror between the dining room and the kitchen, I was still amazed at just how ordinary my life had turned out.

Four years out of high school and I hadn’t set the world on fire. Even though I’d always been told I had the looks, a modeling gig that a friend of a friend of a friend had set up for me in New York had turned out to involve no clothes and a camera. So less than a week after I’d made the trek from Philly to New York, I was back home, once again living with my mother.

I’d tried a few corporate temp jobs, but since I knew nothing about technology beyond my cell phone, I couldn’t find a place to fit in the corporate world.

But there was one thing I knew how to do—wait on tables. It was in my DNA since that was the only job I’d ever known my mother to have.

Since high school, I’d worked at five different restaurants, nothing too upscale. I was still trying to put together a plan, though, because God knows this was not the way I wanted to spend my life. But what was a high school graduate with average grades and below-average scores on the college entrance exams supposed to do?

“You ready to hit it?” Keisha asked, bringing me back to my reality.

“Yeah.” At least I’d gotten this gig at Twin Peaks, where the tips were way better than at other places. After my first week, I’d tripled what I’d been making in tips anywhere else.

I walked into the front of the restaurant at exactly the same time as a group of five guys barged in.

“Hi! Welcome to Twin Peaks,” I said as if I were glad to see these
dudes. I could tell these five forty-something-year-old men with their boisterous talk and laughter were going to be rowdy.

As the suited men sat at their round table, I glanced down at their shoes—a quick assessment that my mother had taught me when I was just eleven.

They had on the usual black business shoes shined to a high gloss, except for one; this guy wore suede ankle boots. Not at all flashy like the other guys.

I liked him already—until I looked up. I guess you could say that he was kind of cute—if you liked walruses. Because he looked like a walrus. With hair. Lots of hair. Like a mop of hair. A walrus with a mop of hair.

I didn’t get much time to study him, though. They hadn’t even sat all the way down when they were all over me. Not in a physical way.

It was with their eyes. They leered at me as if I were dancing naked. But I smiled like I enjoyed being ogled and took their drink orders, wondering how bad it would be once they were drunk.

Their order was simple: beers for all, except for the walrus guy, who ordered a scotch, straight, no chaser.

“And put it all on one tab,” the one who was sitting closest to me said.

Ah . . . the leader. I now knew where to direct my attention.

When I returned with their drinks, I asked, “So what are you having today?”

The leader leaned forward. “What about you?” he said. “Can we all have you?” He made a circular motion with his hands, letting me know that he meant the whole group.

Four of the five laughed. The walrus guy was the only one who looked away and down into his scotch.

I kept my smile as I said, “Nope, I’m no groupie.”

“Ah . . . that’s
pretty funny. Group, groupie, get it?” the leader interpreted for the rest as if he were the smartest.

Then he scooted to the edge of his seat and lowered his voice, as if he and I were about to have a private conversation. “So what if it’s not a group? What if it’s just you and me?”

Inside I sighed and wondered, Why did I have to go through this just to get a paycheck? But I remembered that I was an entertainer. And the tips. I had to remember my tip.

So I laughed (although there wasn’t anything funny) and I said, “I don’t do married men either.”

For some reason, that was even more hilarious to all of them . . . well, except for the walrus, who was still studying his drink.

The leader actually pouted as if he’d meant what he’d said about us getting together and he was upset that I wouldn’t consider it. “Well, all of us here are married.” He glanced around the table and paused on Mr. Walrus. “Except for Wyatt over there.” He pointed him out. “Hey, Wyatt, she’s looking for a guy who’s not married.”

More laughter and then the walrus guy looked up. Wyatt. I was glad to have something to call him in my head besides a funny-looking mammal.

“So, would you marry him?” the leader asked, daring me to tell the truth.

When I said nothing, they cracked up so hard I thought some of them were going to start rolling on the floor. But Wyatt didn’t laugh. He returned his glance to his glass and I felt sorry for him. These guys were the male version of the mean girls in school. And I hated all of them.

But—the tip. And since it was probably the intellectual leader who would be paying, I laughed, took their food order, and bantered with them for the next hour while they devoured curly fries and wings and a couple of pounds of crab legs.

The whole time, I watched Wyatt the Walrus. Though he chatted
and laughed a little with them, he wasn’t of their nature. Really, he seemed to be the only one who had any sense. For sure, he had respectability; at least he had my respect, because never did he join in when they talked about the way my tank top fit my “twin peaks,” or the things they imagined I could do with my legs.

What was Wyatt doing hanging out with these guys?

That table worked me, making me go back for a couple more rounds of beer and more orders of fries. But I kept up with them, glad that they were pushing up the bill.

When I brought the almost-two-hundred-dollar check to the table, I left it near the leader, but Wyatt leaned across and grabbed the folder.

That made me smile. These guys might have had the big mouths, but it seemed Wyatt had the big wallet.

And . . . the big tip! When he signed the credit-card receipt, he’d scribbled “100” in the gratuity line.

My eyes widened, and when I looked at him, he winked. And he smiled. Really smiled for the first time.

I said good-bye to the other four, but I gave Wyatt a personal farewell. “Thank you,” I told him when he lingered behind.

“You’re welcome,” he said. Then he added, “I hope you’re okay with the way they talked to you the whole time.”

I laughed. “That’s just what happens at Twin Peaks.”

His eyes roamed over me, but when he did that, it didn’t feel as disgusting as when other guys did it. “And the way you’re dressed.”

I shrugged. “It’s just the uniform I have to wear.”

He nodded as if he understood, but then he said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be working here.”

That made me laugh harder than before. As if I had options. “I don’t have anywhere else to work.”

“
Maybe I’ll have to do something about that.” He gave me another
quick scan while he said, “You deserve better than walking around half naked.” Then he kinda swiveled in his suede boots and walked out of there, leaving me wondering all kinds of things about him.

Wyatt had gained my respect that day back in 2003. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, but I would always remember how kind he’d been. And how he cared about how women were exploited.

But then we were married and Wyatt became the Exploiter-in-Chief. He’d drag me to all kinds of business meetings, using me to close a deal with financiers, or to negotiate better prices with suppliers, or even to hire a top employee away from a competitor.

But today with Detective Ferguson—this was the lowest of Wyatt’s lows. Did he really believe that he could influence someone who was investigating the killing of a young man by distracting him with his nearly naked wife?

No, this time, I wasn’t going to do it. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t wear that dress. I was already saving Wyatt’s life by not saying anything about what I knew. That would have to be enough.

Tossing the sheath onto the bed, I dashed into the bathroom. I had two hopes: one was that whoever was being sent on that errand wouldn’t find the dress, and the other was that if I was already dressed before the errand runner returned, Wyatt wouldn’t send me back to change in front of Newt. It would look too ridiculous, and that’s one impression Wyatt never wanted to give—that he was ridiculous. Or stupid. Or anything that negated all of his country-boy-done-good accomplishments.

So I jumped into the shower. And then I prayed. I prayed as I bathed and I prayed as I dried off. Prayed through my routine; prayed for the whole hour that it took me to get dressed.

As I looked in the mirror, I knew Wyatt would approve. My
hair was blown out—full and a little bit frizzy, the way he liked it. My face was plastered with makeup that was way too heavy for daytime, especially the bright red lipstick that made my collagen-filled lips the first thing everyone saw when I entered a room.

But Wyatt liked that, too. He’d like this whole look. Once I stepped into the living room, Wyatt would realize that with my hair and my makeup, and my dress and my pearls, this was far more appropriate for a meeting with a man who could take or make his life.

I stepped into the sheath, then glanced at my reflection in the mirror. As I zipped up the back, I checked the clock—just a minute before nine.

I’d won.

That was when the bedroom door opened. Wyatt walked in, a garment bag folded over his arm. His disapproval was in his glare.

“I . . . I put this on because . . .” I pointed to the clock. “Won’t Detective Ferguson be here at nine?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “He’ll be here at nine thirty.”

“Oh, I thought you said nine.”

“I said nine thirty.” He spoke to me in the tone he used when correcting Billy.

My shoulders slumped. “Wyatt, please,” I whispered.

He handed me the garment bag and then did what he always did. He kissed my cheek, then patted my head. “You’ll look beautiful, sweetheart. Just like you always do.” He turned and was almost at the door when he added, “Please hurry. I want you to be the one to greet the good cop at the door.”

I shook my head.

He said, “All you have to do is say hello.” He paused then added, “That’s all. You won’t
be saying anything else.” He gave me another very long look.

Then he left.

And I shook.

Why couldn’t I just say no? Why didn’t I ever just say no?

I picked up the garment bag, slid out of the dress, and did what I always did: I acquiesced to Wyatt’s wishes.

I
hadn’t even bothered to look in the mirror. Why? Because I knew what I looked like. There was no need to be embarrassed sooner than I needed to be.

But now I was officially embarrassed.

It was the way all conversation stopped when I stepped out of the bedroom. The way Newt looked at me. And the way Wally actually licked his bottom lip.

And then there was Wyatt. Who beamed like I was a trophy.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, getting up and greeting me. I tilted my head the way he liked so that he could give me an air kiss. He wouldn’t want to ruin my makeup; he never wanted to ruin my makeup.

I pressed my legs together, hoping that would bring down the hem of my dress, and then I waited for Wyatt to direct me.

“I was just sending Wally to his room with Billy so you, Newt, and I can review what we’re going to do with Ferguson.”

“Okay, let me get Billy dressed,” I said, thinking this might be the perfect out. If I were taking care of my son when Detective Ferguson arrived, I wouldn’t have to see the officer. And he wouldn’t have to see me.

But Wyatt took my hand and led me to the large table in the dining area. “That’s okay. He’s just going next door. You can get him dressed afterward.” Then, to our son, Wyatt said, “Say bye to Mommy.”

Billy turned to me and reached up his arms. I normally knelt down to talk to my son at his eye level. And hug him and kiss him. And tell him I loved him.

But in this dress, I couldn’t bend an inch. So I just wiggled my fingers. “I’ll see you in a little while, angel. Okay?”

Billy folded, then unfolded his fingers, his language for me to lift him up. But I just slid into the chair and waved as Wally took his hand, leading him from the room.

Wyatt sat next to me, then Newt followed, wiggling into the chair across from us.

“Well, now we can get started.”

Was Newt panting?

Newt “ahemmed” as if there was something in his throat. He slid a few pages from his folder, and when he looked up, his eyes zoomed right in on my cleavage. “Uh,” he muttered before he forced his eyes away. “Let’s go over your statement one more time, Wyatt.”