Chapter 11 #2
her sewing kit. She’d do this another way.
At seven that evening, she and Watch made their way to the patio. She brought the leash along in case she needed it, but he
minded his manners until he spotted Clint and bolted toward the counter. Clint was standing with Roth, both men drinking beers.
Clint took the yak from Watch’s mouth and pitched it across the patio for him to fetch.
Dancy placed the vintage white-and-gold wheat-patterned Pyrex bowl holding the tossed salad she’d made next to a bag of chips.
Bisa sat on the couch looking at her phone, the messy bun gone and her long hair tumbling in a curly cloud past her shoulders.
Her white crocheted see-through dress revealed her bump and exposed the black bra and bikini panties beneath.
The whole thing gave off a wanton pregnant virgin vibe.
Her dress was expensive, and too fancy for Clint’s backyard cookout, but she looked amazing. She and her bump.
The pain caught Dancy unaware, cutting off her oxygen and reminding her of what she’d lost. She couldn’t think about that
tonight, not with the prospect of a job being dangled in front of her.
Clint came to his feet. Dancy curled her toes into her slides to steady herself and leaned up to kiss the side of his mouth.
His sandpaper stubble made her lips tingle. He smelled pleasantly of beer, clean T-shirt, and new notebook paper. She could
have picked out his scent blindfolded from a crowd of men. She could never have done that with Roth, who changed brands of
luxury cologne with his mood. Even in bed, Roth wore cologne. He was sensitive to criticism, so she’d never mentioned it,
but the artificiality had dulled her sex drive.
Roth went to Bisa’s side without showing even a trace of jealousy toward Dancy’s supposed relationship with Clint. Unlike
her, he’d actually moved on with his life. “I don’t believe you two have formally met,” he said.
As Bisa looked up from her phone, Dancy heard herself respond with an impromptu southern accent. “And aren’t you the cutest
little thang.”
Clint slipped his arm around her, his fingers digging into her shoulder as a warning to draw in her claws. Bisa wasn’t the one who deserved her animosity, and she was ashamed of herself. “I love your dress,” she said to make up for her bitchiness.
“Thanks.” Bisa had a husky voice for such a petite person. She returned her attention to her phone, but not before making
a visual judgment against Dancy’s makeshift outfit.
Dancy had altered Clint’s gray athletic shorts to semi-fit her hips, chopped off the sleeves of his T-shirt, drastically cropped
it just below the bust, and taken in the side seams so that her breasts served as a billboard showcasing the Stars logo—three
interlocking gold stars inside a blue circle. It was youthful, a little trashy, and a direct insult to Roth’s fashion standards
for women. Clint, however, gazed at his team’s logo as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“Bisa wears clothes beautifully,” Roth said. Belatedly, he pointed his beer bottle at Dancy and smiled politely. “As do you.”
“I’m enjoying altering a few things.”
“Dancy made a lot of her own clothes when she was a teenager,” Clint said.
She wanted to kiss him for pointing out the time in her life Roth had no part of. A long, deep kiss. She shivered.
“What can I get you to drink?” Clint asked.
“I’ll get it.” She moved around the counter and gazed longingly at the bottle of white burgundy sitting on the counter, beads
of condensation sliding down the glass. Surely she could have one drink without wanting more. But wasn’t that what every alcoholic
believed, even if they weren’t exactly an alcoholic?
She opened the refrigerator under the counter.
Cans of disgusting sparkling water sat in rows along with an assortment of beer and various soft drinks, none of which appealed to her.
She didn’t like beer, but she did like the tough girl swagger that went with carrying a bottle around.
Still, she made herself reach for a Sprite and tilted her head toward Bisa, making conversation. “Have you swum in the lake?”
“The water’s too cold. I’m mainly working on my collection.”
Stamps? Paperweights? Taxidermy mice?
Clint asked the question Dancy wouldn’t. “What kind of a collection?”
“Headbands. I design, like, these really sick ones. They can totally elevate any outfit.”
“Bisa is a great designer,” Roth said proudly. “She’s very talented.”
“And speaking of talented . . .” Dancy sat on one of the barstools, her hand curled around the Sprite, trying to look chill.
“I finished the script. It’s amazing.”
Roth offered up his boyish smile. “You’ve already read it?”
“I couldn’t put it down.”
“Great. We can talk about it tomorrow. Clint has been kind enough to extend his hospitality for another night.”
She wanted to talk about the script now, not tomorrow, but Roth had already turned back to Clint. “Any chance I can use your
gym in the morning?”
“Sure. Glad to have you.”
“Great.” Roth kissed Bisa’s cheek and rose from the couch.
Dinner took a thousand years. The burgers were delicious, the baked beans had a nice smoky tang, and her salad was acceptable, but Dancy didn’t eat much.
She was too distracted by the script, by having to sit at the table with Roth and Bisa, and by the way Clint kept looking at her, as if he wanted something from her that she couldn’t figure out.
The only easy conversation took place between Roth and Clint. The men traded stories about football, movie stunts, job injuries,
and childhood ambitions to play major league baseball. Clint quizzed Roth about his expansive motorcycle collection, from
the antiques to his $10 million Neiman Marcus Limited Edition fighter.
“I’d love to ride that,” Clint said.
Roth toasted him with his beer bottle. “The next time you’re in LA.”
In fairness, Clint attempted to draw Dancy and Bisa into the conversation, but Bisa had nothing to say, and Dancy couldn’t
summon the will to make small talk with Roth.
When Bisa wasn’t on her phone, she was shredding her napkin, making patterns on the table with spilled salt, and picking at
her cuticles. She poked at a sliver of cheesecake as Roth tried to talk Clint into a cameo in the next Cole Legend film.
“I don’t see myself as an actor,” Clint said.
“You’d be great,” Roth replied. “You have presence.”
Bisa abruptly planted her hands on the edge of the table and stood. “I’m going in the hot tub.”
It had been so long since she’d spoken that Dancy had forgotten how husky her voice was. Bisa moved from under the covered
patio toward the hot tub. It was almost dark, and the tall, basket-like metal LED fixtures set into the stone pavers had come
on, sending out golden spokes of light. Bisa’s crocheted dress caught on her belly as she pulled it over her head. She wiggled
free and tossed it aside. The black bra and bikini she wore underneath were more lingerie than swimsuit.
Clint busied himself carrying dishes to the counter, and Bisa turned on the jets. Roth stopped talking to watch her.
Bisa had said she was six months pregnant, and Dancy grew uneasy watching her sink into the bubbling water. She rose from
the table, picking up her plate. “I’m not sure pregnant women are supposed to go into hot tubs.”
Roth dismissed Dancy’s concern. “She’s fine.”
Dancy carried her plate and the remaining cheesecake to the counter. While Clint loaded the outdoor dishwasher, Roth stayed
where he was, his gaze alternating between his fiancée and the lake, letting the All Pro handle the messy cleanup.
As Dancy continued to help clear the table, she darted uneasy glances at Bisa, now resting the back of her head against the
ledge of the hot tub, eyes closed, a froth of steamy water bubbling around her. “Really, Roth. I don’t think she should be
in there.”
Roth brushed her concern aside as he’d done so many times about so many other things. “Bisa knows what she’s doing.”
Dancy wished her phone was charged so she could Google “hot tub” and “pregnancy.” She thought of Bisa’s phone stuck in Roth’s
pocket.
“Thanks. I’ve got it.” Clint took the last of the dishes from her.
Dancy’s stomach cramped, a reminder of the first signs of her miscarriage. “I need your phone,” she told Clint.
He regarded her quizzically, but something in her expression must have indicated this was about more than paint samples because
he opened it and passed it over.
Her hand shook ever so slightly as she Googled “hot tubs and pregnancy.” She skimmed the information. Not in the first trimester . . .
Warm bath is better . . . No longer than ten minutes . . . How long had she been in there? As Dancy kept scanning, perspiration broke out between her breasts. Below one hundred and two degrees. “How hot is that water?” she asked Clint.
“It’s set for one hundred four.”
The gruesome image of a boiled baby made her lightheaded. She shoved the phone back at him and rushed over to Bisa. “You can’t
stay in there!”
Startled, Bisa looked up at her but didn’t move.
“You have to get out!” Panic made her words shrill. The cramping. The blood. Another lost baby.
Roth shot up from his seat. “Dancy, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Get out!” Dancy plunged into the bubbling water.
Bisa sprang to her feet as if Dancy were a shark coming to attack. “I’ve only been in here a few minutes. I wasn’t going to
stay.”
Roth charged forward. “Get away from her!”
“The water’s too hot!” Dancy exclaimed. “You’re not supposed to be in water that hot.”
Bisa backed away, ribbons of steam curling around her legs.
Roth reached the side of the hot tub. “Since when did you get to be an expert on pregnancy?”
He might as well have punched her.
Clint appeared at the edge of the tub and extended his arm to help Dancy out of the water. Wet legs trembling, she took his
hand. His grip was strong and firm. “Dancy has a point,” he said easily. “I’ll have to remember to reset the temperature when
people visit.”
He knew why she’d come undone. He understood.
Bisa stepped onto the deck, picked up the crocheted dress she’d discarded, and slipped it over her wet body, darting confused looks at Dancy. Roth glared at Dancy, then cradled Bisa’s face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re fine. She’s acting crazy.”
Clint looped his arm around Dancy and pulled her close. “Isn’t it time we take Watch on his evening walk, lover?”