Tomcat

Chapter Five-3

That night, Tommy filled up at a gas station outside of Richmond and got a few hours sleep at a Holiday Inn, but the need to distance herself from her thoughts, and the City, drove her to the asphalt before sunup. The air was decidedly warmer and Tommy allowed herself the time to pull the convertible top down before setting off.

She saw the first palms at the Georgia border and by late afternoon, the turn-off for Savannah. She followed the signs downtown and rumbled the low slung automobile along cobbled streets. A whiff of restaurant food had her tummy growling; Tommy had been living on black coffee for going on three days. There was a Best Western downtown, a block from the River, and she bailed her bags through the door before heading along the broken sidewalk, following her nose to an old seafood joint. She parked her butt on a stool.

The bartender was attentive and the raw oysters, salty and succulent. Tommy munched through a dozen, stopping often to sip freezer-burned, Russian vodka from a frosted glass and take a bite of dry cracker. The weight of her physical injuries were slowly lifting and she knew she would be able to take care of the emotional ones, given time. But being blackmailed had added a new wrinkle. And, of course, Jilly was right, bless her tight little butt. Somehow, by distancing herself from the problem, it didn’t seem to weigh so heavily and Tommy started to think things through. They had provided her with an address: a postal box. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

“More oysters?” His voice was hopeful. A bartender in a tourist town, Tommy smiled to herself. He can smell a lone woman.

“Sure. Thanks. They’re delicious.”

“You just arrive in town? Haven’t seen you...” He arranged the shells on a platter and slid it across. “On the house. My name is Cox.”

Poor sap. You don’t have a chance in hell, she thought. “Mmm. Thanks.” Tommy placed a shell to her lips and enjoyed the tangy burst. “Yeah. Just got in from New York. Tomasina, but call me Tommy, it's easier.”

“Vacation?” he queried.

“Sort of... a little stress relief. Had to get away from my husband for awhile.” She threw the hopeful puppy a bone. “Cox is unusual.”

“Short for Collin,” he admitted, topping off her glass. He shot Tommy a shy, well rehearsed smile and turned to serve another customer. He was a good looking guy, early thirties, dirty blonde, slim build. Tourist towns were full of 'em. Hopeful losers tending bar, serving tables, driving cabs; trying to hook up; for a night if she’s half decent looking. Longer if she has cash.

“So what’s wrong with your husband that he can’t keep a woman like you interested?” Cox was back, casting out the well practiced small talk. He reached into a freezer for a fresh whiskey glass and splashed more vodka into it before placing it beside Tommy's plate.

“Humph... the only time he’ll talk to me is when the power's off.”

His brows narrowed. “The power?”

“Mmm,” Tommy went on. “The TV doesn’t work if there's no power.” She slurped down the last of her oysters and slipped bills under the plate.

He chuckled, his eyes dropping to where he was poking stir-sticks into a tray of colorful drinks. Then he went silent for a moment... thinking. Here it comes, Tommy thought.

“Hey. Don’t think me too forward, but how about I show you around town. Take you out to the beach. You’ll love it. There’s a bar out there where we can sit on the deck and watch the ocean roll in.”

Tommy's eyes locked his and she almost bought his sincerity. “Really. Gee that would be great. What time do you get off?” And she slid from her stool, polishing off the last of the drink.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, not believing his luck. “I can leave at midnight. I know that’s late, but...”

“Perfect,” she cut him off. “It will give me time to catch a nap. Room 306. Holiday Inn. Oh, and Cox, honey, when I sleep, I’m like those oysters: in the raw. Just a warning. I wouldn’t want to shock you, honey.” Tommy rummaged in her bag for her room key: Room 306, Best Western!

Tommy watched his jaw work as she side-slipped through standing patrons and made her way to the double saloon doors. The humid night air hit her like a wet towel and she breathed deep. Things weren’t so bad, she was thinking as she headed back to her room.

Tommy spent the next morning exploring the old town. Quaint streets lined with oaks, their boughs heavy with Spanish moss. The parks, galleries and bookshops. But she tired of it quickly. Tommy needed to feel a pulse; a city with its own heartbeat. She needed adrenaline coursing through the streets. Someplace she could let her monkeys loose. Tommy found herself hurrying back to her hotel room to throw her bags into the car. She fired up the Corvette and headed further south, searching for something. But not knowing quite what.

Tommy crossed the Florida State line north of Jacksonville. Beautiful city: clean, modern glass towers and sweeping bridges arched a river, but she kept going. The ocean was beckoning. Tommy made the coast within the hour and took A1A south; the beach and the Atlantic to her left and scrubby wet lands, blurred by speed, on her right. St. Augustine: more stately old buildings. Tommy crossed the bridge and kept moving. Flagler Beach; too small. Then, on the outskirts of Dayton, a black pick-up bounded from a side lane, cutting her off. The spinning tires kicked up clouds of dust and pebbles and Tommy braked hard to avoid him; leaning on the horn. A couple of teenage boys, ball-caps screwed on backwards, laughed as Tommy threw them the finger. In the bed of the truck, a half dozen nubile girls cavorted, multicolored bikinis didn’t cover much skin.

Tommy followed the truck along the beach strip. Harley's, the road machines the bikers covet, lined the sidewalks and black leather and skimpy swimwear seemed de rigueur. Tommy got over fuming about what the truck would have done to the Corvette if they had connected and, instead, took delight at the sight of the girls calling out to the bikers on the sidewalk. God, she thought, they are so comfortable with their sexuality. The cat calls, whistles and goodhearted caterwauling was raw and exciting and Tommy was thrilled when a biker pulled up next to her at a light and looked into the car. “Whoa babe, nice 'vet!” He seemed more interested in her legs, though, which was fine, and she flashed him a smile.

Tommy cruised the back streets and found what she was looking for. A small, three story motel, “The Sand Dollar”...a mom and pop operation in white stucco and coral-colored trim. Very beachy!

An elderly gentleman stood behind the counter, muddled in paperwork. He was tall, maybe six-two and despite being in his seventies, stood straight and handsome. There was a formal air about him and Tommy placed him as ex-military. Tommy noticed a gold band on his ring finger. He eyed the car through the front glass when she inquired about a room. Turning back, he took in her short skirt and noted the fact that she was alone. He glanced up, questioning Tommy's eyes.

She had never thought of herself as being particularly pretty, a little too rough-cut for that, and in line behind Ann, Sharon, Jilly and Taz, she would definitely be the last one asked to dance. She knew that next to her friends, she looked like a damned horse. Her features were coarse. And, untrue to her heritage, her hair was the color of dishwater. Some centurion must have dragged a blonde slave-girl back to Rome and, six hundred years later, she was the result. Her face was broad with eyes set too close. And though she was raised a good Catholic girl, God didn't bestow a cute button nose. But it hadn't hurt her any. Men still had a thing about big bitchin' broads, and, some women did, as well.

Tommy's mouth was her redeeming feature: not wide, but full, with puffy lips. One front tooth crossed the other slightly, giving her a slight overbite. She had noticed men fantasizing while watching her talk. And there was a cleft in her chin. Tommy topped out just shy of six-feet and she was bulky about the shoulders and neck; a result of the weights. Tommy did justice to a 'C' cup, but on her large frame, her breasts look smallish. Tommy carried a lot of her height in her upper legs so, through her thighs were heavy, the muscles were elongated, causing more than one man to comment on her froggy-legs. Still, when she slipped into a short skirt, Tommy grabbed their attention and they stopped fantasizing about her mouth!

Tommy knew what he was thinking. “Look,” she said, “I really need a room. I’ll be in town for about a week. I’m not a prostitute.” Tommy met his steady gaze; attractive, soft gray eyes.

The color flushed his cheeks. “No my dear, of course you’re not.” He glanced down and started rummaging through his papers, looking for a key.

He apologized that the small pool was none too clean. “I've gotten old for it, you understand, but the beach is only three blocks away.” It was a pretty little garden all the same, surrounded by a high board fence painted pink to match the building’s trim. There was a stone patio, partially shaded by a green and white striped awning and several inviting café tables were placed to provide an attractive view of pool and plants. A perfect spot for morning coffee, she thought.

“I think you'll like this,” he said, opening the door to a corner studio on the top floor. It was small but clean and homey. A tiny bar fridge was tucked under the counter and a twin burner gas stove stood brightly polished. With the windows open, the sea breeze bellowed the lacy curtains and Tommy could smell the tang of salty sea. Home!

On her way back to the car for the bags, Tommy caught him considering her legs. It gave her a queer feeling. He had at least a decade on her dad, but she sensed a gentle heart and she had always been the first to give someone the benefit of doubt. Tommy dropped her travel bags on the floor of the lobby and placed her license and charge card on the counter. He filled out a standard form and had her sign it.

Then he looked up, momentarily studying her face, as if trying to place her from another time. “I hope you will enjoy your visit, Tomasina.” He warmed her with his shy smile and made Tommy feel like flirting.

“Thanks, Mr. Randal. But call me Tommy, it's easier.” She watched his jaw work as he struggled with the boy’s name.

“Ton... Tommy,” he formed it at last. “Please. Leave your bags. I’ll have them up to you in five minutes. Just need to lock the front door.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Randal.” Tommy twisted toward the stair, putting a little extra swivel into her hips. Her skirt flounced about her thighs and she showed him a little more leg than she should have.

After he had delivered her bags, Tommy changed into shorts and a blouse and headed for the beach. It was a short walk to the highway and the line of black and chrome road-machines that defined the edge of the curb. She crossed over, short-cutted through the lobby of a hotel and, kicking off her sandals, walked the wide expanse of sand. America’s fun-house, she thought as she eyed the hordes of near-naked teens. Inhibitions had remained unpacked, or left at home. Breasts bounced, tanned hip bones protruded and tight little ass-cheeks taunted her from colorful bikini bottoms.

“Oh look,” someone laughed and Tommy turned to see a gaggle of girls; one was pointing at her beige walking shorts. It was rude and Tommy felt insulted, standing alone, dressed in shorts and top. And worse, she felt old and frumpy. Tommy immediately backtracked, made her way to the main street and didn’t have to look too hard to find a surf shop. The salesgirl mistook her look of curiosity for one of bewilderment. “There's a lady's store a couple of blocks over,” the girl pointed. Tommy looked at her like she had something hanging from a nostril. The girl reconsidered.

“Where's the 'big girl's' department?” Tommy asked. The salesgirl swallowed and reversed direction; pointing towards a rack in the back. Tommy eyed her as she passed. The girl was a beach-bunny, conceived on a surfboard: sun-bleached hair and a flawless saltwater tan. She wore a skinny tube-top and a pair of low-riding, short-shorts. Anywhere else in the country, her skimpy attire would have been cause for instant dismissal. But here in Daytona, Tommy was sure that the girl's absence of clothing was enthusiastically encouraged.