The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

“Where is he really from?” she asked. “More specifically than east.”

“I believe it was Missouri,” he answered, waiting to see how she reacted. Gaynor was from Missouri, and if she was family, she might be surprised he knew that.

“Missouri?” She nodded and then let go of him to crouch down.

Lane almost groaned aloud at having to watch her do her shimmying all over again. He could look away, but there would be no fun in that, and despite all, he was having fun.

More than he should be having.

When her display ended and they were close together again, she said, “Lots of Old West outlaws came from Missouri.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, truly wanting to know. Then, his mind clicked. Liberty, Missouri. The town where the James-Younger gang was from, and others. She really could be a relative of Gaynor’s. Some claim there was a connection between Gaynor and the James-Younger gang of yesteryear.

“I read,” she said. “A lot.”

The dance ended. Lane let her go and took a step back. This time he truly needed to catch his breath. He wasn’t given much time to do so. Within a cat’s heartbeat, the next song started.

The tango. Which meant full-body contact.

Lane drew in a deep breath, hooked her around the waist, grasped her other hand, and they were off, chest to chest, gliding across the floor with large, lavish steps. At the edge of the dance floor, he dipped her, then simultaneously, they spun and started back in the other direction.

“Your turn,” he said. “What else do you know about Gaynor?”

“That he stashed the cash he’d stolen, and is now looking for it.”

“Where?”

She laughed.

It was time to dip her again, so he did, and while holding her a mere few inches off the floor asked, “Do you know?”

“Do you?” she countered.

She was as good at questioning as she was dancing, and in all honesty, he admired her for that. “No,” he answered truthfully, lifted her up and started back across the floor in the other direction. He truly didn’t care about the cash. He just wanted Gaynor behind bars again. Where he belonged.

“Me, neither,” she said, to his surprise. “But I intend to find out.”

“Why?”

The music stopped. She took a step back and shook her head while planting her hands on her thighs and bending over, as if to completely catch her breath. “Hear that?” she asked, looking up at him under the brim of her floppy hat. “They are still shouting number twelve.”

He gulped in air. Thoroughly needing it. He hadn’t danced three dances in a row in a very long time, but had to admit that keeping up a conversation with her while dancing chest to chest was taxing his reserves more than the fast steps.

The piano player struck a chord and she snapped upright. “The Lindy Hop! I love the Lindy Hop!”

“I think you love dancing, no matter what the dance is,” he said, holding out his hands for her to grasp.

She grabbed his hands and, despite gasping for air a moment ago, she was instantly kicking up her heels. The swift twists, turns and numerous pirouettes made talking through this dance rather impossible.

Lane was certain he’d never seen someone enjoy dancing so much. The fast tempo proved to be too much for several couples. They bowed out, stumbling to the sidelines, or danced right off the floor and onto chairs. One couple collapsed right in the middle of the other dancers.

Right beside them.

Seeing the couple go down, he spun Libby in the other direction just in time. Two other couples weren’t as lucky and tripped over the couple sprawled on the floor. Bystanders acted quickly, coming to the rescue of the fallen dancers, helping them off the floor before anyone else tripped.

The competition was down to six couples when the Lindy Hop dance ended, and no one had even a moment to catch their breath before the next song started.

“They saved the best for last!” she shouted. “The Charleston!”

She was already kicking up her heels and crisscrossing her feet at the ankles. He joined in and soon the final six couples were in two lines, facing their partners and attempting to outdance one another to the fast tempo of the music by every means possible.

The crowd was cheering and shouting out numbers.

He was competitive by nature, but the excitement in her eyes increased his competitive streak tenfold. Suddenly, he wanted them to win this dance-off.

She followed his every move like she knew exactly what he’d do next, from arms swinging to knees knocking, up and down the floor, around and back. The crowd was roaring, shouting their number, when suddenly, the woman on Libby’s left lost her balance and stumbled into Libby.

Lane leaped forward, catching her before she fell, but the man beside him had the same idea with his partner, and the four of them ended up on the floor, arms and legs tangled amid each other.

His heart locked in his chest at the feel of Libby’s supple body lying atop his, granting him full-body awareness like he may never have known.

The crowd erupted, and bystanders were instantly there, separating them. He shoved aside the hands attempting to help him, leaped to his feet and pushed the men away who had hoisted Libby off him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, guiding her away from the others.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Her blue eyes were still shining as bright as when they’d been dancing. So was her smile. “Are you?”

“I’m fine.” He guided her into a vacated chair. Amazed at her stamina and cheerfulness. Kneeling down in front of her. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she eyed him closely. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He was fine, but disappointed. More for her than for him. He wanted them to win for her. “I’m afraid we lost,” he said somberly.

“Oh, Oliver.” She giggled and patted his cheek with one hand. “It wasn’t about winning, it was about dancing, and neither of us lost at that!”

Something warm and unusual flooded his chest. She had to be the most remarkable woman alive. He didn’t even mind the way she called him Oliver again. “I suspect you’re right.” Another unusual sensation filled him and he shot upright. He hadn’t wanted to kiss someone in years. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t want that now. Couldn’t. It was just the atmosphere. The dancing. The fun. He hadn’t done anything like this for a long time. Stepping back, he said, “I’ll get us something to drink.”

She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go now. The dance is almost over. We have to see who wins.” She stood and wrapped both hands around his forearm. “I do hope it’s number three.”

He had no idea which couple was number three, and couldn’t look. His eyes wouldn’t leave her face. The enthusiasm still glowing on her face held him captive.

The music ended while he was still staring at her, and he was still hypnotized when she flung her arms around his neck.

“They won! Number three won!”

The sweet floral scent of her perfume, the same that he’d been smelling the entire time they’d danced, filled his nostrils as she hugged him. Everything about her seemed to be a weapon. A dangerous one.

“They won!” she squealed again and released him to clap her hands. “Cherries! Cherries!”

“You sure are happy for them.” People had rushed onto the dance floor to congratulate the winners, but she hadn’t. Just stood there beside him clapping.

“Of course I am,” she said. “They won. I’m sure they would have been just as happy for us had we won.”

She did have a downfall. Innocence. That wouldn’t last long. Never did. Someday she would discover just how selfish the world was. Everyone wanted to know what was in it for them. A hint of guilt struck him because that described him, too. What’s in it for him was the very reason he’d danced with her. “How about that drink now?” he asked.

With a nod, she hooked her arm through his. “I am parched after all that dancing. It sure was fun, though, wasn’t it?”

He couldn’t admit that, not even to himself. Fun wasn’t in his life, hadn’t been for a long time. Work was all he’d known. All he’d lived for, and it was time to get back to it. “Let’s sit over here.” He gestured toward a table somewhat separated from the others.

A cigarette girl arrived as soon as they sat down. They each selected a drink off her tray. He paid her and downed his drink in nearly one gulp. The cheap whiskey burned all the way down, which was exactly what he needed. It cleared his sinuses and gave his body something else to react to. He needed the respectable distance the table put between them, too.

Setting his glass down, he asked Libby, “How do you know that Gaynor hid the money he’d stolen off the train?”

She’d selected a sugary cocktail that didn’t contain any alcohol. He’d made a note of that when she’d made her selection. She took another sip from her glass before setting it down.

“Someone told me,” she said.

“Who?”

The smile she flashed him was as coy as the one the cigarette girl had given him while noticing the tip he’d included in his payment.

Shaking her head, she leaned across the table. “A good reporter never reveals her sources.”

“Reporter?” He knew every reporter in the city, and many of the want-to-be ones who sent in articles on a daily basis, hoping to get them printed and their name in the byline. He swore there was as many want-to-be reporters as there were want-to-be actors in Hollywood right now. Some of the articles he received showed promise, but not many. Even those showing promise would need work, and that took time that he didn’t have. Writing a good article took more than just facts and perfect spelling. There was an art to making facts compelling enough that people read it all the way to the end. “You aren’t a reporter.”

“How do you know?”

A shiver of recognition struck him. She was still smiling, but he’d seen the look in her eyes before. From nearly every person who had personally handed him an article they wanted printed in his paper. It was a form of being starstruck. He completed a quick search in his mind, trying to recall if she’d ever been in at the newspaper office, trying to sell an article she’d written. He’d had a slew of articles written for women about sewing curtains and cleaning ovens, things that just wouldn’t sell newspapers.

He couldn’t find a hint of memory, and she was too unique to forget. Running a finger around the rim of his empty glass, he said, “I know every reporter in this city.”

She lifted her glass to her lips, and tipping her chin down, looked at him from under her lashes. “Not every single one.” She took a drink and set the glass down. “I know that for a fact.”

No, she didn’t, but that wasn’t a point he was going to argue right now. “What facts do you know about Gaynor?”

Her gaze left him. He glanced behind him, to where her eyes had briefly gone. The crowd had dispersed off the dance floor and the piano player was taking a break. He scanned farther around the room, wondering what had stolen her attention. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No one looking at them.

He turned back to her.

She’d lifted her glass again, and emptied it. As she set it down, she stood. “Thanks for the dancing, and the drink, but I have to mooch.”

He stood. “Leave? Why? It’s not that late.”

Walking away from the table, she flashed him a grin over one shoulder. “Don’t take any wooden nickels, Oliver.”

He rounded the table. “Wait!”

Weaving through the people and tables, she grinned again, right before she slipped around the corner that led to the front door.

His shout had drawn attention, but he truly didn’t care. Making his way across the room, he shot out the door, ran up the stairs and out onto the street, which was empty.

Completely.

In all directions.

Chapter Three

Patsy held her breath, watching Lane spin about, scanning the street in all directions. Her heart was thudding almost as fast as it had been while dancing. She felt as if she was playing a game of hide-and-seek. It was as exciting as dancing with him had been. Almost. She’d never enjoyed dancing with someone as much as she had with him tonight. Ever.

“Who is that?” Jane whispered in her ear from behind.

Patsy bit her lip to keep from speaking. Voices carried in the dark. There were other noises, cars driving on the streets and horns honking, but she couldn’t take the chance he might hear because she was only a short distance up the street from the laundromat. It was where they always met up. Betty had been the first to leave, then Jane, who had given Patsy the signal right before she’d slipped around the corner leading to the outside door.

Patsy was never excited about leaving, and tonight was no different. However, if they hadn’t had to catch the streetcar that would be coming along any moment, she might have considered staying just a bit longer inside, talking with Lane.

He started walking.

Toward them.

Betty grabbed her arm, and Jane’s, to lead them down the narrow space between the buildings.

Patsy shot a final look around the corner of the building, at Lane, who was looking into the breezeway of the building, as if he expected her to be hiding, before she spun around and hurried along with her sisters.

“This leads into the alley,” Betty whispered. “We’ll catch the streetcar at the corner on the next block.”

It was very dark between the buildings, but once they were in the alley, the moon lit their way and they ran toward the street. This, escaping, was more fun than it should be, too, and Patsy couldn’t help but feel alive with the thrill of it all.

“That was the man you were dancing with,” Jane whispered. “He was looking for you.”

Patsy attempted to quell the smile that grew on her lips.

“Why?” Jane asked.

“Because we weren’t done talking, but you signaled it was time to leave,” Patsy explained.

“Talking about what?” Jane asked.

“The escaped convict,” Patsy answered. She hadn’t found out nearly as much as she was hoping to about Rex Gaynor, but that didn’t deter her enthusiasm. In fact, it made it grow. Sleuthing, gaining bits and pieces of information here and there, was even more fun than she’d imagined. She was going to love being a reporter. A real reporter. The fact she’d danced with Lane Cox, the best reporter ever, was thrilling in itself.

The bells of the streetcar jingled in the night air.

“Hurry,” Betty said.

“We’ll have to jump on at the end of the alley,” Patsy said. The constant clang and bang of the car on its rail indicated it had rolled past the corner since no one had been standing there waiting, and would roll right past them, too. They’d jumped on while it had been rolling past before. The trolley didn’t move fast, so it was a relatively easy feat. People did it all the time. Getting to the end of the alley was their first issue. “Run!”

“We are already running,” Jane said. “And these shoes aren’t made for running. I’m going to have blisters.”

“It won’t be the first time,” Patsy said. They’d all had blisters from their nighttime excursions, and had never complained about something so minor. “Dancing in them is no different than running!”

They shot out from the alley just as the streetcar rolled near, and still running, Patsy grabbed a hold of the rail near the front step. Jane grabbed a hold right next to her, and Betty caught the rail by the steps on the back of the car.

Patsy hurried between the rows of seats to peer out the back of the car. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Lane standing on the corner of the street that led to the Rooster’s Nest. He may not have seen her leap aboard, but she had a keen sense that he had.

She plopped down on the seat and drew in a deep breath, hoping that would slow her racing heart. What a night! What an amazing night!

As usual, she and her sisters didn’t speak to each other, or anyone else, until they were off the trolley and walking through the abandoned house’s yard. Her heart rate had returned to normal, somewhat, but the thrill of the night was still living inside her.

“Where are you going to hide that?” Jane asked Betty as they walked through grass of the abandoned property so tall it tickled their ankles.

“I’m not going to hide it,” Betty said, looking at the glass beer mug she’d won.

“I was so excited when you won!” Patsy said. “I swear, tonight was the most fun we’ve ever had! It was beyond bee’s knees!”

“It was,” Jane said before turning to Betty. “If Mother or Father sees that mug—”

“I’ll say I bought it to hold my hairpins.” Betty wrapped both hands around the mug and held it to her chest.

Patsy frowned. The mug was too large for a hairpin holder, but that wasn’t the confusing part. Betty was their alarm clock—their chaperone—the first one to say they could never keep anything from their nights on the town. If she or Jane had won, the mug would have been left at the Rooster’s Nest, or already tossed into a bush along the way home. They all sewed pockets in their dresses, and never carried anything that couldn’t fit in a pocket, due to climbing up and down the trellis. “That could still get you in trouble,” she said.

“Serious trouble,” Jane agreed.

Betty shrugged. “It’s mine, and I’m keeping it.”

Patsy caught Jane’s eye, which held as much disbelief as she felt. That certainly didn’t sound like the Betty they knew. “Who was the man you danced with?” Patsy asked.

Betty let out a long sigh. “Just a man.”

Just like the look in Jane’s eye, Patsy felt the longing in Betty’s sigh. That’s how she felt about dancing with Lane. She wasn’t sure why. She’d danced with plenty of men the past few months, but dancing with any of them hadn’t been nearly as thrilling as dancing with Lane. She wasn’t sure why he’d told her his name was Lathan, either, but figured it had to be because he didn’t want her to know who he was, which was silly because everyone knew who he was.

Well, maybe not. She had known that Lane Cox owned the Gazette, but she had never seen him before. She had tried to call him Lathan, but it just didn’t fit, and knowing she couldn’t call him Lane, she’d stuck to Oliver. That fit him better because he really was a good dancer. She’d felt as if she was floating during some of their dances, when he was sashaying her around, and twirling her about beneath his arm. Right now, just thinking about it, made her feet become lighter.

“Who was that guy that you danced with?” Jane asked.

Patsy grinned. “Lane Cox.”

Jane’s mouth fell open. “The owner of the Gazette?”

Betty made a hissing sound. “Patsy! What if he recognizes us?” Betty clutched the mug to her chest tighter. “We can’t get caught. Not now!”

Patsy shook her head. “We won’t get caught and Lane won’t recognize us.” Still too happy and lighthearted to let her sister’s worry bother her, she added, “No one knows us. Besides, I told him my name was Liberty. No last name. Just Liberty.”

“But he’s a reporter. The best reporter,” Betty said. “It’s said he leaves no stone unturned while researching a story.”

“We aren’t a story he’s researching,” Patsy said. “He’s far more interested in finding out where Rex Gaynor hid the money he’d stolen off the train he’d robbed seven years ago.”

“Who’s Rex Gaynor?” Jane asked.

“The escaped convict.” Patsy huffed out a breath, exasperated. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

They were now walking up the road that led to their backyard, and Jane flipped around to walk backward, looking at her sisters. “You aren’t repeating yourself. You never told us the convict’s name.” Jane frowned. “Isn’t Lane Cox one of the editors you sent articles to, and he rejected them?”

A nerve snapped in Patsy’s spine. It had been more than one article that Lane Cox had refused to publish. She had several rejection notes from him. Notes, not letters. He just mailed the articles back to her with a note scrawled, in red ink, across the top of her typewritten article that said Not suitable for the Gazette at this time. Followed by his initials: L.C.

Those little notes had hurt at first, then they’d started to irritate her, and made her try harder. She’d sent him articles about everything from sewing curtains to ruts in the roads caused by a bad thunderstorm, only to get the same note every time.

Not suitable for the Gazette at this time.

Finally she’d figured out that the articles she’d written weren’t suitable because the Gazette printed real news. Which was where her troubles lay, as she wasn’t able to get out and investigate any real news. Not until she’d read about Rex Gaynor.

That was the story Lane would print of hers. It would be so good that it would be a headline story. It would be so good he’d probably give her a full-time job rather than just buy that one story.

And that would be the beginning of the rest of her life.

Both of her sisters were looking at her, Jane still walking backward and Betty walking beside her.

“That was him, wasn’t it?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” Patsy answered. “That was him, and that’s why I danced with him, to get as much information about Rex Gaynor as I could.” The fact she’d enjoyed dancing with him didn’t change anything. Unlike that first Charlie who’d made her skin crawl. More information about Gaynor had been the reason she’d asked Lane to dance. It was the reason they’d gone to the Rooster’s Nest.

“Patsy.” Betty had one hand on her chest. “Lane Cox knows Father.”

Something in her stomach dropped. Just the other day Father was complaining about how expensive it was to put advertisements in the Gazette. Really complaining. Still, she couldn’t let that stop her. This truly could be her only chance to write a story that had a chance to get printed. “That doesn’t mean he knows us. No one knows us.” Reading the look her sisters shared and not wanting to hear anything they might have to say, she changed the subject. “Why didn’t you dance in the dance-off, Jane?”

Jane shrugged. “Because I didn’t want to.”

“Or because you couldn’t find a partner?” Patsy teased, not wanting the subject to switch back to Lane. She truly was only teasing, because just like Betty was the oldest, and the smartest, Jane was the prettiest and the most personable. She didn’t even have to pretend to be a flapper. She was naturally outgoing—when able.

Jane spun around as they left the road and entered their backyard. “There wasn’t anyone I wanted to dance with. I enjoyed just listening to the music. That new piano player is the real McCoy.”

Patsy hadn’t paid that much attention to the music, and was sure that Lane was what had made dancing fun, but it was only fair to admit that the dancing wouldn’t have happened if not for the piano player. “He sure did a fine job of playing the songs for the dance-off. It was the best one ever.” She looked at Betty. “You have to agree. You won.”

“I agree,” Betty said, then she put a finger to her lips as they entered the tree line.

The fun for the night was over. Now they had to be extra quiet and careful while crossing their backyard and climbing up the trellis into the bathroom.

Half an hour later, they were all three in their bedrooms, and Patsy was pretty sure that just like her, Jane and Betty were probably still holding their breath. She did until she had her blue fringed dress, hat and shoes tucked in the trunk in her closet, had her nightgown on and was lying between the sheets she’d washed, dried and ironed earlier today.

The sigh she let out was a mixture of relief and enjoyment of the absolutely most wonderful night. All of their night-out excursions were fun, but tonight, the enjoyment was greater than any other night.

She closed her eyes, remembering how delightful it felt being led around the dance floor by Lane. The smile that formed was so big, she had to lick her lips at how hard it pulled on them. The only thing that would have made it better was if she’d learned more about Rex Gaynor. Other than he might be from Missouri. That wasn’t much help at all.