plenty of time. Even so, she wasn't reassured.
She still couldn't believe he had decided to go to Telarosa by way of Memphis when, as she'd pointed out several times, the map in the glove compartment had shown that the most direct route stretched west through St. Louis. But he kept talking about how he couldn't let her live another day of her life without visiting the finest eating establishment east of the Mississippi. Until only moments ago, she had been envisioning something small, expensive, possibly French.
“You can't stay long,” she said firmly. “We need to get several more hours of driving in before we stop for the night.”
“Whatever you sazy, honey.”
The raucous sounds of a country and western song assaulted her ears as he held the door open for her and she stepped into the smoky interior of Whoppers Bar and Grill. Square, wooden tables sat on a grubby orange and brown checkerboard floor. Beer signs, fly-specked calendar girl posters, and deer antlers provided ambience. As her eyes slid over the rough-looking crowd, she touched his arm.
“I know you want to get rid of me, but I'd appreciate it very much if you didn't do it here.”
“You don't have a thing to worry about, sweetheart. As long as you don't irritate me.”
While she was absorbing that worrisome piece of information, a heavily made-up brunette in a turquoise Spandex skirt and tight-fitting white tank top hurled herself into his arms.
“Bobby Tom!”
“Hey there, Trish.”
He bent down to give her a kiss. The moment his lips brushed hers, she opened her mouth and sucked like a vacuum cleaner, drawing in his tongue as if it were a month's worth of carpet lint. He pulled away first and gave her that bone-melting grin he bestowed on every woman who came near him.
“I swear, Trish, you get more beautiful with every divorce; Shag here yet?”
“Over in the corner with AJ. and Wayne. I got hold of Pete, too, just like you asked me to when you called.”
“Good girl. Hey there, guys.”
Three men sitting around a rectangular table in the far corner of the bar shouted out noisy welcomes. Two of them were black, one white, and all three of them were built like Humvees. Gracie trailed after Bobby Tom as he went over to greet them.
The men shook hands and traded friendly insults laced with some incomprehensible sports talk before Bobby Tom remembered she was there.
“This is Gracie. She's my bodyguard.”
All three men regarded her curiously. The one Bobby Tom had addressed as Shag, who seemed to have been a former teammate, pointed at her with his beer bottle.
“What do you need a bodyguard for, B.T.? Did you knock somebody else up?”
“Nothing like that. She's with the CIA.”
“No kidding.”
“I'm not with the CIA,” Gracie protested. “And I'm not really his bodyguard. He just says that to—”
“Bobby Tom, is that you? B.T.'s here, girls!”
“Hey there, Ellie.”
A blond sexpot in gold metallic jeans snaked her arms around his waist. Three more women materialized from the other side of the bar. The man called A.J. pulled another table over, and, without quite knowing how it happened, Gracie found herself occupying a chair between Bobby Tom and Ellie. She could see that Ellie resented the fact that she wasn't the one seated next to Bobby Tom, but when Gracie tried to change positions, she felt a strong hand clamping down on her thigh.
As the conversation swirled around her, Gracie tried to figure out what Bobby Tom was up to. Although every piece of evidence indicated the opposite, she had the sense that he wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much as he pretended to. Why had he driven so far out of his way to come here if he didn't want to be with these people? He must be even more reluctant than she'd imagined to return to his hometown, and he was deliberately prolonging the trip.
Someone thrust a beer bottle at her, and she was so distracted by a depressing picture of herself sitting gray-haired and
She still couldn't believe he had decided to go to Telarosa by way of Memphis when, as she'd pointed out several times, the map in the glove compartment had shown that the most direct route stretched west through St. Louis. But he kept talking about how he couldn't let her live another day of her life without visiting the finest eating establishment east of the Mississippi. Until only moments ago, she had been envisioning something small, expensive, possibly French.
“You can't stay long,” she said firmly. “We need to get several more hours of driving in before we stop for the night.”
“Whatever you sazy, honey.”
The raucous sounds of a country and western song assaulted her ears as he held the door open for her and she stepped into the smoky interior of Whoppers Bar and Grill. Square, wooden tables sat on a grubby orange and brown checkerboard floor. Beer signs, fly-specked calendar girl posters, and deer antlers provided ambience. As her eyes slid over the rough-looking crowd, she touched his arm.
“I know you want to get rid of me, but I'd appreciate it very much if you didn't do it here.”
“You don't have a thing to worry about, sweetheart. As long as you don't irritate me.”
While she was absorbing that worrisome piece of information, a heavily made-up brunette in a turquoise Spandex skirt and tight-fitting white tank top hurled herself into his arms.
“Bobby Tom!”
“Hey there, Trish.”
He bent down to give her a kiss. The moment his lips brushed hers, she opened her mouth and sucked like a vacuum cleaner, drawing in his tongue as if it were a month's worth of carpet lint. He pulled away first and gave her that bone-melting grin he bestowed on every woman who came near him.
“I swear, Trish, you get more beautiful with every divorce; Shag here yet?”
“Over in the corner with AJ. and Wayne. I got hold of Pete, too, just like you asked me to when you called.”
“Good girl. Hey there, guys.”
Three men sitting around a rectangular table in the far corner of the bar shouted out noisy welcomes. Two of them were black, one white, and all three of them were built like Humvees. Gracie trailed after Bobby Tom as he went over to greet them.
The men shook hands and traded friendly insults laced with some incomprehensible sports talk before Bobby Tom remembered she was there.
“This is Gracie. She's my bodyguard.”
All three men regarded her curiously. The one Bobby Tom had addressed as Shag, who seemed to have been a former teammate, pointed at her with his beer bottle.
“What do you need a bodyguard for, B.T.? Did you knock somebody else up?”
“Nothing like that. She's with the CIA.”
“No kidding.”
“I'm not with the CIA,” Gracie protested. “And I'm not really his bodyguard. He just says that to—”
“Bobby Tom, is that you? B.T.'s here, girls!”
“Hey there, Ellie.”
A blond sexpot in gold metallic jeans snaked her arms around his waist. Three more women materialized from the other side of the bar. The man called A.J. pulled another table over, and, without quite knowing how it happened, Gracie found herself occupying a chair between Bobby Tom and Ellie. She could see that Ellie resented the fact that she wasn't the one seated next to Bobby Tom, but when Gracie tried to change positions, she felt a strong hand clamping down on her thigh.
As the conversation swirled around her, Gracie tried to figure out what Bobby Tom was up to. Although every piece of evidence indicated the opposite, she had the sense that he wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much as he pretended to. Why had he driven so far out of his way to come here if he didn't want to be with these people? He must be even more reluctant than she'd imagined to return to his hometown, and he was deliberately prolonging the trip.
Someone thrust a beer bottle at her, and she was so distracted by a depressing picture of herself sitting gray-haired and
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