Hell Bound: The Search for Jillian Ingalls

Chapter 4

“I’m sorry if I sound cryptic,” he said, feeling mildly flattered. “My nickname is a sort of family joke, and sometimes I get stupid and defensive about it without meaning to. Gold is an acronym for Goes Like the Dickens, which my rotten uncle invented for me when I was a kid. Actually, my birth certificate says Lonnie John Willis.”

“Apology accepted. What do your friends call you, then?”

“They call me all sorts of things, I’m afraid.” He tried his boyish grin on her. “John, Johnny, LJ—whatever you like.”

“But not Johnny Gold, I gather.” She looked sad. “That’s too bad, really. I like that name. It’s playful, but assertive, rather like its owner, I suspect.”

His smile broadened. “Okay, you can call me Johnny Gold, then. But, nobody else, okay? You have to promise.”

She crossed her heart solemnly with the index finger of her right hand. “I do so solemnly swear,” she said, and then laughed.

It was a very good laugh, Willis decided, and it made her beautiful, although she didn’t seem conscious of it. Her features bordered on angular, the nose longish and narrow, pale brown eyes rather too small. The jaw line was firm, mouth nicely sized, parted to show even white teeth. It was the kind of face you saw on the covers of fashion magazines. She wore one of those lightweight silk, boat-neck tees pulled off one shoulder to show a black bra strap.

“Would you let me buy you a drink, Amy Cavanaugh?”

“I will if you join me,” she replied promptly. “I’m having chilled vodka, straight up, with four olives.”

“Four olives?” He slid into the booth across from her.

“It’s my version of the Mediterranean diet. Olive oil is healthy, haven’t you heard?”

He smiled at that, waved for Roland’s attention and held up two fingers. “What’s a country girl doing in a left coast cowboy bar on a rainy Tuesday night?” he asked.

Roland put their drinks down and took her empty away.

“I’m getting drunk with a famous motorcycle racer, that’s what.” She took a sizeable belt from her glass and eyed him speculatively. “You’re asking me the wrong questions, Not-Johnny.”

“Am I?” Her apparent lack of guile was intriguing. “Help me out here. What’s the right question?”

“You’re joking, right? Honey, I watched you race last week, followed you home, and been hanging out ever since, hoping to run into you.”

“Well, I must admit that kind of bluntness is a refreshing change,” Willis said. “But, I broke a valve spring in that race, and didn’t finish.”

“You were leading when the engine went,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you lost, it just means you didn’t win, and there’s a big difference between the two.” She tipped her head back and drained the glass. Her throat moved as she swallowed and Willis fought down a sudden urge to reach out and touch her. She banged the glass down and said, “Whooee!”

“Would you like…?”

“Yes, I most certainly would,” Amy said. “Maybe several more.”

Her breasts rose and fell enough to distract him. Willis motioned to Roland again and he brought a second drink for the both of them. She sipped that one more carefully and smacked her lips.

“You mind if we go outside?” she said. “I need a cigarette.”

The sibilants in her speech brought her tongue forward and he saw that it was pierced with a tongue spike of some silver metal, surgical steel, possibly. It surprised him. She didn’t seem the type. When she rose, he got to his feet as well.

Her tee-shirt was knotted over one hip and she wore black stretch pants and thong sandals with very thin heels. She was about five nine, one of the lanky ones, angular and graceful, carrying some weight in her backside and upper thighs, but not too much, just enough to be well-rounded, rather than the flat sided boyish butts that California was so famous for. It was a relief to see such an unabashedly feminine shape. Willis figured her for one of those panting aerobics honeys sweating to the oldies and staving off nature with relentless determination, and then trolling for cowboys in Roland’s Bar Grill to see if it was working. And in Amy’s case, it certainly appeared to be.

“I’ll bring the drinks,” he said.

“No, no, that’s woman’s work. I’ll do it.” She put her cigarettes in a jacket pocket and took one drink in each hand, lifted her chin toward the side door. “You go ahead, I’ll follow.”

He motioned for her to lead and she shook her head, smiling almost bashfully. They did a little Alphonse and Garcôn routine, until she finally acquiesced and let him follow her. Roland’s Pub boasted a small, cluttered porch that ran around one front corner of the building. Willis admired the forthright swing of that fine ass. They went outside and around the corner, out of the wind, where it was quiet, and private. The rain had splattered most of the furniture. She set the drinks down and lit a cigarette.

Amy Cavanaugh was no kid, he realized, guessing her to be in her late thirties. Willis was twenty-nine, which was old enough to recognize that he didn’t know s**t about women’s ages. It didn’t really matter to him. When she turned to shield her lighter from the aberrant swirls of air, he saw the near flatness of her belly under the stretch fabric, and knew that he had guessed right about her working out, anyway. Willis was a hard-core gym rat himself, and he recognized a kindred spirit.

“Boy, oh boy, those are some pretty peepers you got there, Not-Johnny. I’m an absolute sucker for handsome, green eyed brunettes.” She looked him up and down with frank approval and produced a crooked, self-deprecating little grin that he liked right away. “You’re kind of a big one, aren’t you?” she said. “I thought all you race guys were little bitty.”

“We’ve got big hearts,” Willis said. “Wait just a minute and I’ll get a towel to dry these chairs with.”

“Oh, no, I’ll…”

“No, wait right here,” he said, cutting her off. “I know where Roland keeps everything.”

“Maybe you could bring another drink, too, you being such a gentleman and all.” She waggled her half empty glass.

Willis went back to the bar.

“Two double chilled vodkas, four olives each,” he said. “Club soda for me.”

Roland said nothing, loudly.

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” Willis said, grinning in spite of himself.

“The hell I won’t,” Roland replied, setting the drinks up. “That’s just another in a long line of hairdressers and strippers, John, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

“Everybody’s got to be somebody,” Willis said with a shrug. “And you have to admit, Roland, this one is good looking as hell.”

“Well, to each his own,” Roland replied. “I like my girls with some meat on their bones, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather put the meat to the bones,” Willis said with a grin, and went back outside.

“Here, let me do that,” Amy said, and bent to dry the chairs. She held the cigarette out of the way, wiping briskly, and then stood back as if to admire her work. “There, nice and clean.”

She motioned him to sit first, which seemed odd, but he sat while she got his drink. Only then did she take her own off the table and sit down, crossing her legs. She had small ankles and pretty feet, the slender toes well tended, nails unpolished. When she leaned forward to tap ash from her cigarette, the straight, waist-cut shirt rode up enough to show an ornate tattoo low on her back, below the waist, gothic looking red whorls edged sharply in black, disappearing excitingly into her tights. Her spine was deeply indented, with solid looking muscle to either side.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like your autograph,” she said.

“Um…?”

She grinned with sudden mischief and handed him a felt tip pen, tugged her shirt further down onto her arm, showing the upper slope of her left breast all the way to her bra, where the upper crescent of one pinkish brown n****e peeped over the edge like shy sunrise. She did it so matter-of-factly that she might have been undressing in a doctor’s office, and it was a very nice breast, Willis decided.

“Sign right here next to my heart, gorgeous.”

“Are you sure? This is indelible ink. It’ll have to wear off.”

She gave him a look that carried some heat. Willis shrugged and leaned forward and wrote “Not-Johnny Gold” in a scrawl over the silky flesh.

Amy grinned. “Now that’s sexy,”

“I’ve never signed a girl before.”

“Like hell you haven’t,” she said with a knowing grin, and looked at him sharply. “How come you’re alone? I figured you for the girl-on-each-arm type.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m with the best looking woman in the joint.”

She smiled, accepting it. “You know what I mean, pretty man. The way you ride those motorcycles makes the girls wish they had handlebars.” Her eyes glittered in the faint lights. “And come to think of it, you make me wish I had handlebars, and I’m no girl.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Willis said, trying not to squirm.

He was very aware that she was throwing herself hard in his direction. It was flattering, and he felt himself responding to her in a deeply visceral way, perhaps in counterpoint to the emotional roller coaster he had been on for nearly a week. She fiddled with her hair and then put the hand on his thigh, giving it a squeeze. Her look was contrite.

“Shit, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong is a bad habit of mine. It’s a waitress thing, you know. I’m mouthy and pushy.”

Willis realized that she had misconstrued his expression. “Don’t apologize.” He found himself wondering how one hand could feel so heavy. “You’re a waitress?”

“More often than not.” She smiled ruefully, and sipped her drink. “I do whatever needs doing for rent and groceries, bartending, waiting tables. I even danced topless for awhile, and once upon a time I was a chemistry technician in a nuclear plant, but the bullshit got to me, and I quit. Lately, I’ve been trying to move up and do something different, maybe work as a receptionist or secretary or something.”

Willis tried not to laugh, remembering Roland’s complaining. He looked down at the hand on his leg, her left, noting the wedding band and engagement ring on the third finger.

“You’re married?”

“Widowed.” A shadow seemed to pass over her pretty, open face, the tone discouraging further inquiry. “Look, let’s just have another drink, okay? I’ll buy.”

“My treat,” he said. “But I’m past my limit already, Amy.”

“Just one more.” She gave his thigh another squeeze. “Pretty please, with sugar on top?”

Willis went back into the bar. It was getting to be a habit. Inside, the juke box was playing Hall Oates love songs, one after another. The same couple was still out on the dance floor, practicing for the horizontal mambo from the look of things. Willis figured they’d drop dead from sheer s****l tension if they didn’t find a bedroom pretty soon.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Amy said when he got back to the porch. “I shouldn’t run my damned mouth so much, I really shouldn’t.”

“Stop apologizing.” He set her glass down on the table near her hand and gave her the slow, meaningful look. “Would you like to dance, Amy Cavanaugh, or should we just go back to my place and hit the sack?”

She blinked. “Dance?”

“Or hit the sack, you’re choice.”

“Well, it’s nice to have choices,” she said wryly. “But, I’m not sure that I’m drunk enough for dancing if I have to do it like that.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the dance floor to indicate the couple who were grinding against each other. “They’re f*****g with their clothes on, those two.”

“We won’t,” he said, trying not to sound shocked at her casual use of the word.

Amy smiled slightly.

He hadn’t planned on kissing her, or doing anything else with her, come to that. But, the smoky invitation in her eyes, and the way her mouth looked, seemed to make the decision for him. She gave a little start of surprise, but held still for it. After a moment, her lips parted slightly under his. There was no heat to speak of. It was more an exploratory kind of thing, but very nice for all of that. Willis pushed any thoughts of Jillian Ingalls firmly out of his mind.

“My, you really are a gentleman,” she said when they came up for air.

“When I have to be,” he said. “Why do you have your tongue pierced?”

She blinked again, apparently surprised by his veering curiosity. “Well, I don’t really know anymore, if the truth were told. Habit, I guess. I’ve had the thing since I was fifteen years old. Why? Don’t you like it?”

“I do, oddly enough.”

“Not so odd then, is it?” She grinned at him.

Willis chuckled. “I suppose not.”

He straightened and held out his hand. When she took it, he helped her up. She didn’t say anything, just stepped into his arms. The tempo was right for a waltz, so he led out in a simple box step to start with, adding turns and lengthening his stride as she gained confidence. The porch had plenty of floor space.