After Hours: Midnight Oil / Midnight Madness / Midnight Touch

8

THE NEXT DAY Troy stood in the baking afternoon heat and listened to Joe Vargas give him the rundown on Pop Warner football. The man’s wedding ring gleamed in the sun, accentuating his wholesomeness and making Troy feel like even more of a drinkin’, fornicatin’ bottom-feeder.

He had been up all night having sex with a woman he needed to betray for his own ends. He was a complete shit-heel. What business did he have trying to be a role model for a group of kids?

Worse, he wanted to see Peggy again in the worst way. And he couldn’t do that. He really, really couldn’t.

“So the secret is,” declared Joe, “you’ve got to find the fine line between tough and supportive. You can’t push them too hard—they’re only eleven years old. It’s a lot more important at this stage that they learn good sportsmanship than that they win the game.”

Troy nodded as if he were absorbing pearls of wisdom. Surely this was just common sense?

The kids on the field were scrimmaging in an enervated formation, wilting in an early burst of summer.

The air was hot, stagnant vapor without a single breeze. It hung over them like a vast, wet cloth, smothering anyone who tried to suck oxygen from it.

Vargas had gone into the politics of the team, specifically what the parents were like and how that affected their children’s attitudes and behavior. Troy tried to focus and retain what he said.

“Bobby Pitkin, now, his dad’s a real problem. Wants his kid to be the star no matter what, even if another kid gets hurt. You gotta watch him and step carefully. On the other hand, Aaron Tate’s parents don’t want him playing football at all—it’s his grandpa who signed him up. The father is a musician and worries about Aaron’s hands….”

By the time the boys were through with their warm-up, Troy had the goods on everyone. He and Vargas took them through some simple running plays together, and then had them play a nine-on-nine game: shirts against skins.

In the middle of it, Bobby Pitkin’s dad showed up, veering erratically in his red SUV, and climbed out to entertain himself by causing trouble. He started yelling instructions and other things from the sidelines, annoying the group of moms who sat in the bleachers.

Joe growled under his breath, “Guy’s a prize jerk. Owns his own construction company and shows up here a lot after having a few Jack Daniels for lunch.”

Troy listened to him for a while, his disgust growing. “I’m not putting up with that guy.”

“Watch it. He’s connected around town and he could cause trouble.”

“I don’t care.” Troy strolled over to the man. “Hi, I hear you’re Bobby’s father.”

The man was clean shaven, dressed in pressed clothes, but sure enough, he stank of whiskey. “Who’re you?”

“Troy Barrington. Used to coach the Jaguars. Now I’ll be coaching this peewee team.”

Pitkin ignored him for a moment, shouting onto the field, “Bobby, you pussy! Knock him down. Which part of the word tackle do you not get?” Then he turned back to Troy. “That’s quite a demotion, buddy. Then again, the way the Jaguars been playin’ for the past two seasons, any peewee team could beat ’em.”

Troy made himself count to ten slowly so he wouldn’t pound the guy’s face into the ground. In the meantime Pitkin exercised some more of his natural charm.

“Run, you little prick!” he roared at Bobby. “Run! By God, you better get your hands on that ball, or I’ll get my hands on you.”

Troy decided that he’d had enough. He began politely, suggesting to Pitkin that it might be counterproductive to call Bobby a “pussy” and that this term was also offending the ladies present.

Frank Pitkin declined the advice, so as the new coach Troy slung an arm around his shoulders and walked him off the field without anyone else knowing for sure that it was by force.

He didn’t harm him in any way, just removed him. Like a true gentleman, he walked Frank to the door of his Toyota 4Runner and helped him into it, ignoring the man’s insults and threats to have him fired before he’d even started.

“You want little Bobby to play on this team?” Troy asked. “Then you don’t verbally abuse him from the sidelines or make the atmosphere uncomfortable for the other parents. If that isn’t clear enough, or you feel you need to challenge me on this, you can take it up in front of the school board.”

Frank Pitkin suggested that Troy screw himself with a two-by-four, and instead of pounding the man’s face into his steering wheel, Troy just nodded and said he’d take it under advisement.

Dadzilla sped away in a cloud of rage and dust.

Troy felt that perhaps he’d done something to redeem himself. He went to ask Joe Vargas who Bobby could get a ride home with.

The skins won the game, and after discussing with the shirts how they could have done things differently, Troy and Vargas talked to the boys about sportsmanship.

“The world of sports is competitive,” Troy told them. “But you’ve got to make sure you don’t let the competition turn you into a jerk. Winning is great, but it’s attitude and playing the game that’s most important. You don’t call each other names, you don’t cheat or injure other players to gain the upper hand. You don’t walk around like a grouch. Got it? I don’t care how many points you score, if you behave like that, you are a loser.”

He bought sodas for everyone and said he’d see them next time.

His mood stayed up until after he’d driven Derek back to Samantha’s house and he sat at the scarred kitchen table in the Coral Gables shack, staring with distaste at a greasy fast-food burger.

He ate it because it was there and better than the alternative: three-day-old garlic beef and a leftover pork egg roll that had been fried in rancid peanut oil to begin with.

Troy rinsed off the chipped plate he’d put the burger on, and watched a parade of tiny sugar ants emerge from a corner of the kitchen window. If he hosed them down with bug spray, he’d just have to inhale the nasty stuff, and a new line of them would be back tomorrow.

He looked at the four-inch stack of city regulations governing building codes and permits that sat like an oversize brick on the sagging cushions of the former owner’s olive-green couch. He sighed and hauled them into the room he planned to make his office, dropping the stack onto the computer table with a thud. He might have done a good thing today, but he still felt like an asshole. However, this was business. He needed that retail space. It didn’t make any financial sense to pay rent somewhere else when he owned the building.

He armed himself with a Spaten and a Cohiba and got to work, looking specifically at electrical and plumbing code. He wouldn’t be surprised if the business partners at After Hours had used illegal labor to cut costs on some of the installation. And if they’d cut corners that way, then it stood to reason that they might not have all the correct permits.

PEGGY SURPRISED EVERYONE, especially herself, by singing at work the next day. The singing wasn’t particularly tuneful, and the lyrics weren’t from anything hip, but just the fact that she warbled stanzas of actual song was a shock. “‘I wanna hold your haaaaaand…’”

“What’s wrong with you?” Shirlie asked. “You sound happy, and you’re never happy in the morning.”

“Even Oscar emerges from his trash can occasionally,” said Peggy, breezing by in a clean white lab coat.

“Now you’re putting yourself on par with Muppets?”

Peg just smiled and disappeared into the back.

Marly was the next to comment, when they came nose to nose in the supply closet. “Just one drink, huh? What’s with the circles under the eyes and the bowlegged gait?”

“So maybe it was a couple of drinks.”

“Uh-huh. Are you going to see him again?”

Peggy shrugged and tried to look as unconcerned as possible. Unfortunately the intercom squawked next to her ear, and Shirl’s voice said, “Peg? You have the most massive floral delivery here…. I swear it’s an entire South American jungle. Birds of paradise, orchids, tiger lilies, nasturtium—there’s a good possibility there’s a leopard hiding in here somewhere. Can you come up and get it?”

Marly tagged along, and her eyes widened when she saw it. “God Almighty, if it’s not the rest of the Amazonian rain forest!”

The arrangement was huge. Peggy stepped into the reception area just in time to see Shirlie holding the sealed card up to the light, trying to read the message and identify the sender.

“I’ll take that, thanks.”

“Who? Who? Who?” Shirl was almost jumping up and down.

Peg twitched the card out of her hand and unsealed it. The sender had written, “You are unforgettable. Looking forward to seeing you again.”

She tried to sidestep the receptionist, but Shirlie must have leaped over the reception desk like Daisy Duke over the door of the General Lee. “Who are they from?”

A wide smile had taken over Peggy’s face completely without her permission. That’s for me to know and you to find out?

Shirlie, despite being a babbling bubblehead, caught on fast and let out a jealous shriek. “It’s Troy Barrington, isn’t it!”

So much for keeping a secret.

“Oh…my…God! He’s such a dream! He sure must like your massages!”

Among other things. Peg’s fair skin betrayed her: she felt herself blushing at some of the things she’d done last night. Maybe she was walking a little bowlegged. But at least she had panties on today.

Since Shirlie was looking at her with high suspicion, Peggy pulled the arrangement into her arms, staggering under its weight. She buried her face in it to avoid looking at her coworkers and inhaled the green, leafy scents.

The lilies and nasturtium had no smell, nor did the birds of paradise, but the orchids filled her nose with sweet heaven and mingled with the earthy, damp scent of moss and the dried grasses used to weave the basket container.

How long had it been since a guy had sent her flowers? She couldn’t even remember the last time. A vague memory surfaced: on their first Valentine’s Day together, Eddie had brought her a dozen roses wrapped in clear plastic and secured by a rubber band. They’d still had the grocery-store price sticker on them.

It wasn’t that the roses weren’t pretty. They were. But Eddie had just walked in with them, plunked them on the table of the apartment they shared and then said, “Hang on. I gotta fill this out first.”

From inside his jacket he’d produced a dog-eared card which he filled out in front of her, scrawling “Happy V-Day, Love Eddie.” Then he’d dug his pinky into his ear to scratch an itch before handing both card and flowers to her and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Peggy had never received an elaborate, expensive floral arrangement like this one, and in spite of her cynicism, she was charmed. A warm, mushy feeling spread through her stomach and stayed there until, unable to see over the plant life in her arms, she almost ran over Alejandro.

“Since when do I need a machete to hack my way through the hallway?” he asked. “Did someone die?”

“No,” Peg said, craning her neck around a patch of orchids. “Someone likes me.”

“Miracles will never cease,” he declared. “Who has the poor judgment to do that?”

“Ha, ha.” She made it into the kitchenette and set the flowers in the middle of the small table, leaving only about four inches around the edges for anyone’s plate or cup.

“The salad course is served,” said Alejandro.

I am unforgettable? Really? Peggy mooned over the flowers in a disgustingly girly way, feeling the goofy grin spreading across her face.

She did her best to wipe it off, but by the time she got down to work, she was floating on a silly pink cloud, humming as she gave Pugsy Malloy his weekly rubdown.

She watched her hands all but disappear into his squishy white flesh and for the first time it didn’t really bother her. She kneaded him as if he were dough, worked him on the table until he gasped like a dying fish, wiped away the perspiration that rolled off him without a blink.

Pugsy disappeared into the showers a happy man, while Peggy fantasized every time the phone rang that it was Troy Barrington. When she caught herself doing it, she felt pathetic. Why didn’t she take the initiative? After all, he’d sent her flowers. She should call him and say thank you.

She’d whipped out her cell phone to dial his number when she realized that she didn’t know it. She’d have to get it out of the appointment book at the reception desk. Ugh.

“So has he asked you out?” Shirlie pried, before Peg could even ask her for the book.

No use pretending she didn’t understand. “Um. We went for a couple of drinks last night.”

“And?”

“Shirl, how are we stocked for highlighting foil?”

“Aha. You’re avoiding the subject, which means Something Happened. So is he a good kisser?”

“Because I’m trying to get that order together. The rep will be by tomorrow—”

“We’re fine. So about the kissing? Lots of tongue action? Little nibbles? Does he go for the ears?”

There simply was no explaining to Shirlie that she was Peg’s friend but not her confessor—especially not of intimate personal details!

“Can I see the appointment book, please?”

“Why? I gave you the day’s schedule. And you’re holding out on me!”

“Shirlie, there’s really nothing to tell,” Peggy said firmly, and rounded the reception desk to grab the book. “I hate to disappoint you, but it was just a couple of drinks.”

Shirlie pouted and chewed her Cupid’s bow lip. “Well, what does he drink? I’m guessing bourbon. And what did you talk about? His glory days in pro ball, right?”

Peg silently counted to three and refrained from clobbering her with the appointment book. “He drank Tanqueray and tonic last night, but he usually sticks with beer. And we talked about the Marlins, actually, and his sister,” Peggy fibbed as she flipped back a couple of pages in the book, found Troy’s number and silently memorized it.

Once she’d gotten away from Shirlie, she closed the door of the wet room behind her and dialed. He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Troy? It’s Peggy.”

He paused. “Hi, Peggy.” Was it her imagination, or did his tone sound a little cool?

“I just wanted to thank you for the flowers—they’re stunning.”

“What flowers?”

Her mouth went dry. Then her entire body broke out in a sweat. And her heart dropped into her stomach. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He chuckled, but it sounded forced, not genuine. “So you’ve got a secret admirer.”

She finally forced her voice past her utter humiliation. “I guess so. Uh, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, but after last night I just assumed they were from you.”

“I wish they were. I feel like a jerk now. I probably should have sent you some flowers.”

“No, no….”

“But then you’d have a surplus, wouldn’t you?”

She produced a half laugh.

A painful, awkward silence fell between them. Where was the camaraderie of last night? Peggy wanted to hang up and take a bath with her toaster oven. Her miserable life would be over then, and she could go right to hell.

Troy cleared his throat. He started to speak, caught himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he said in a rush, “But if you’re not tied up with your secret admirer, would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Uh, sure!”

“Great. That’s great,” he emphasized, as if it wasn’t at all but he was making the best of it.

Oh, God, she thought. He didn’t mean it. He had no intention of asking me out, but he felt obligated to since I called him. He was being polite. I should have said no.

Her face started throbbing with heat. The bath with the toaster was looking better and better…maybe she’d throw in the hairdryer, too, just for a little added excitement.

She heard his voice rumbling through the phone but didn’t register what he’d said. “Um, could you repeat that, please?”

“I asked what time I can pick you up.”

“Right. Of course you did.” How about never?

“Will you be at After Hours? Is nine too early?”

“Nine is fine.” The words came out of her mouth before she could concentrate on a good lie, like she was booked until midnight for the next three years.

“Okay. We can just walk over to Benito’s. I’ll make a reservation.”

Peggy wrapped her natural sarcasm around her like a protective blanket. Fabulous. Don’t take me anywhere out of the strip mall or anything. I might get jet lag. “See you then.”

IN CORAL GABLES, Barrington stared at his own phone, which was attached to the same line he’d just used to fax three possible code violations through to his attorney. He felt a little sick. Flowers?

I am such a bastard.

Had he really just asked her to go to dinner with him? And at Benito’s? The words had popped out of his mouth without him really thinking about it. Benito knew he was the new landlord. Troy would just have to pray he wouldn’t out him.

But that was really the least of his concerns. Was it fair of Troy to eat with her, joke with her, laugh with her, sleep with her—when the whole time he was essentially plotting against her?

When he found a way to break the lease, she was going to hate him. There was no doubt about that.

The problem was that he really wanted to see her again, no matter how he tried to talk himself out of it.

Troy told himself that none of his actions had been premeditated. That he hadn’t meant to take things with Peggy so far. He wouldn’t have let it happen with any other woman, but there was just something about her. She was half tough and half vulnerable. Half glamour and half pragmatism. And she’d fought her way onto a college football team, which impressed the hell out of him.

All of that and the gorgeous red hair, the unbelievably curvy body and the mind-blowing sex…. Could he really blame himself for weakening and asking her out again?

Troy told himself that really, the damage was done. After all, he couldn’t unsleep with her now. So did sleeping with her again make things all that much worse?

He tried to snap his focus back to his own future and his agenda of owning a sporting goods store. He wasn’t a rich, big cheese anymore. He had to make a living. It’s just business, nothing personal.

But somehow he’d gone and made it very personal, hadn’t he? And at some point, there’d be hell to pay.

He tried to refocus on the mounds of paper in front of him, but his concentration was shot. Not only was he a jerk, but…possessive instincts that he had no right to have about Peggy kicked in. Who the hell had sent her flowers? And was it reasonable for Troy to beat the shit out of him?

9

PEGGY NOW EYED the mysterious flower arrangement as if it were a grove of Venus flytraps. She really didn’t care who it was from if it wasn’t from Troy. In fact, it began to give her the creeps.