James Winthrop Frayne II was hot, dusty and exasperated. He and that ditzy blonde had been walking along this country road for what seemed like forever. There was a rock in his Italian loafer, sweat stains under his arms, and he was damn sick of carrying his jacket. He lost his very expensive silk tie quite some time ago.
She was walking a few feet ahead, her blonde curls bouncing and not affected by the heat at all. Now wasn't that a pisser? He cast his mind back to the events that brought him so low.
All because he was the son (well, adopted son really, if you wanted to split hairs) of a rich man. He foiled the kidnap attempt by escaping, but it cost him his wallet and identification. He was skulking around the bus depot in this crappy little city God only knows where. He didn't want to call home; at least not yet. Not until he could get a bead on where the kidnappers were and the motive.
He didn't want to put his family or himself in any more danger than they may be already.
He also didn't want to hear the 'I told you sos'. Nobody liked his latest flame, Laura. She was a beauty all right. Tall, blonde slender. With a heart as black as the night. He was sure she was behind this. And to think he almost married her!
He glanced around the bus station and was disgusted. What was the United States coming to? It felt as if he was a refugee, a prince among the great unwashed. His eyes flit from person to person – that large man with the beer belly, sweating up a storm; the harried-looking young mom trying to quiet a tantrumming toddler; that sexy blonde over in the corner; that…
Wait a minute. His brain finally caught up with his eyes.
His green eyes snapped back to that corner, but she wasn't there. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his crisp red hair. What, now he was hallucinating blondes?
Jim was still trying to figure out how to pay for a bus ticket back to New York City. He turned his jacket and pants pockets out again; no use, not even a copper penny graced them. Closing his eyes, he was startled to feel a hand tug at his arm.
For a moment, everything in him froze before he decided the kidnappers would not risk a confrontation in the terminal. He opened his eyes to stare into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They were looking at him with a strange mixture of laughter, sardonic amusement, and not a little calculation.
It was the gorgeous blonde from the corner of the room.
"Hello James Winthrop Frayne II. You are very far from home. I wonder why?" The blonde smiled at him; a wide, white smile that showcased the pretty dimples on either side of her mouth. For a moment, he could do nothing but drink the sight of her in.
The blonde wasn't tall like Laura; in fact, she could only be termed petite. She had wide blue eyes, a pert little nose sprinkled with light golden freckles and a very charming smile, and oh, that mop of real gold curls that cascaded halfway down her back in wild disarray. As a connoisseur of blondes, Jim could certainly tell when the color came out of a bottle at the stylist's, or when it was really real.
This, this glorious explosion of curls that he just wanted to bury his fingers in, was really real.
She was wearing a flirty, pretty little shirtwaist dress with strappy sandals on her small feet. It was obvious by the tightly cinched belt around her narrow waist that she had killer curves, even if she was mostly covered up.
His green eyes widened as he looked pointedly at her small hand on his arm. He wondered briefly if she was associated with the kidnappers, but then decided any group of well organized criminals wouldn't send out a pint of peanuts like her to take him down.
Instead he settled for a sarcastic remark. "Well, Blondie, you know me. Who are you?" He pulled his arm out of her grasp.
"Why, Mr. Frayne. So unfriendly. That's not what I heard about you. I heard you are prett-y friendly towards most blondes." She winked and ran her slender fingers through those tumbling curls. His green eyes iced over and she relented. "My name is Trixie Belden. I'm an investigative reporter for the crime division in the New York Times. I was in the general area covering the trial of Scott Boyle. You know, the man who was accused of murdering his pregnant wife on New Year's Eve when she found out he had a mistress."
Jim did recall reading about the sensational trial. Boyle maintained his innocence throughout, and the two families, once very close, had become mortal enemies. It was one of those stories that had everything: a handsome, young married couple on the verge of being parents; a seductive, sloe–eyed mistress, the antithesis of the pretty wife; and a husband who didn't appear to care that he was revealed as a liar, a cheat, and a probable murderer of not only his wife but his unborn child.
"Yes I remember. Is the trial over? I've been sort of… incommunicado for the past several days."
Trixie studied at him, speculation shining out of those amazing eyes of hers. This wasn't the Jim Frayne she had been used to seeing in the gossip columns in The Post. He was rumpled, slightly sweaty and she could detect a hint of panic in those lovely green eyes of his.
"He sure was. Now, I've answered your question. What about mine? What's a hot urban guy like you doing in the hinterlands?" Bus terminals weren't quite his style. Limos and jets and the beautiful people were more his milieu.
His eyes shifted from one end of the terminal to another, and he made a snap decision. He pulled her over to a quiet corner and leaned wearily against the wall. "I was kidnapped a few days ago. My ex-girlfriend Laura and I were going to Tiffany's to pick out a ring, and the next thing I remember is waking up in a basement. I'm sure it's been all over the news." He was positive it was; after all, the kidnappers were probably trying to extort an enormous ransom from his wealthy family.
She wrinkled her nose at him and raised her eyebrows. "Not a word. There's been nothing, Mr. Frayne. Absolutely nothing in the news." Trixie worried at her lower lip with her teeth. The Wheelers were obviously keeping this under wraps for now. Now, how could she use her newfound knowledge to her advantage? Hell, this was a scoop of a lifetime!
Jim's brows knit together as he stared at her. Nothing? Nothing at all? "How come a big shot New York Times reporter is taking a bus home?" he shot at her.
"You're out of touch with the little people," she sneered. "Most newspapers are struggling nowadays trying to make the transition from print to digital. If that means I have to take the bus to a trial and a bus back in order to keep my job, well, hell, at least I have a job. You meet some pretty interesting people on the road."
A sudden announcement on the PA system that the bus for New York City would be leaving in fifteen minutes interrupted their conversation. "That's my bus," she informed him, waiting to see his reaction.
He grabbed her arms again, rather desperately. "Look, Ms. Belden. Like I said before, I don't have my wallet; I don't have any form of identification. I don't want to call home because I'm afraid I'll put my family into danger or maybe tip the kidnappers as to my location. Do you, ummm, think you can advance me the money to buy a ticket back to the City?" His voice was a deep rumble and color stained his cheeks. He, Jim Frayne, having to ask a total stranger for money!
Trixie looked at him speculatively. "I can do that. But I want something in exchange."
He ran an agitated hand through his red hair. "What, money? I can give you that when we get back home. My word."
"No, that's too easy. I want something better. I want an exclusive on this story. Total access to you, your lifestyle and your family's lifestyle, as well as the kidnappers. Take it or leave it." She tapped her foot on the ground, arms crossed in front of her, waiting for his response.
What choice did he have? It was either that, or try to beg a ticket from someone else. God, he hated the media. Swallowing his pride, he stuck out his hand and solemnly said, "Deal."
Trixie put her small hand in his much larger one, and as soon as their palms touched, felt a jolt of something right to her very soul. Her eyes widened and stared into his, and she knew he was feeling the same thing. She coughed a bit to clear the sudden lump in her throat, and said to him, "Let's go get you a ticket home."
She dropped off to sleep, almost immediately after getting seated on the bus. Jim, however, was a bit too uncomfortable, a bit too agitated to get right to sleep. After all, he didn't know if the kidnappers were still after him; if they followed him and saw him get on the bus. His red hair and height were quite distinctive. He just thanked God that he was able to get out of that damp cellar. He figured his captors figured that he would be out for several more hours and it was safe to leave him unattended.
He turned to stare at his companion. She was a pretty little thing. Her face was beautifully dreamy in repose, those lips that looked so soft and inviting slightly curled up at the corners. Even though she was rather abrasive, he found himself liking her feisty spirit.
She murmured in her sleep, and moved closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. He reached up with his other hand and did what he wanted to do ever since he saw that mass of soft, gold curls back in the bus terminal. He tugged on one, and watched how it sprang back to its original state. There was something mysteriously satisfying about touching it.
Trixie – and wasn't that a name for a hooker or stripper instead of an investigative reporter – cuddled closer to him and sighed happily in her sleep. And for some reason, he felt at peace. He closed his eyes and followed her into dreamland.
The next thing he knew, he was being awakened by a loud, crackling announcement over the bus' PA system. "…ladies and screech…rest stop…squawk…meal!"
His mouth felt like glue as he blinked his eyes open. Trixie was not in her seat, and for a moment he began to panic. He stood and glanced around, feeling silly because the bus was still moving, and sighed in relief when he saw her come out of the tiny restroom, grimacing.
She slid in beside him. "Good thing we're stopping for breakfast. I wouldn't send a goat to pee in that restroom." She shifted a bit in her seat. She really had to go!
"Oh, is that what the announcement was? It just sounded like a bunch of feedback to me." He was becoming aware of the need to go himself, and tried manfully not to breathe in her direction.
"You need to ride the bus more," she snorted. "You'll soon learn to decipher the language."
Five minutes later they were pulling into a truck and bus stop, slightly run-down, but then again, weren't they all? The passengers eagerly exited, excited to grab a quick bite to eat and stretch their legs. "Remember folks," the bus driver shouted in a stentorian tone. "Number 217 waits for no-one. You got a half hour to eat and then back on."
They poured into the building and Trixie turned to Jim. "I'll meet you in the restaurant. I need to use the facilities."
He nodded his head in agreement, and they parted. Trixie was the first one out, and she browsed the little souvenir shop. She picked up a travel toothbrush set for Jim, a few odds and ends, and a candy bar or two. She wandered over to a cracked plastic booth and sat down gingerly.
It really was lovely how they tried to get duct tape in the same color as the faded plastic. The Formica table was chipped and cracked, a grayish-white background sprinkled with little gold stars.
Jim slipped in across from her, rather horrified at the primitive conditions he found himself in. He picked up the plastic menu as the waitress (in a cotton candy pink uniform that said Jo embroidered over the left breast) pulled a pad from her apron.
"Take yer order?" she huffed as she poured what passed for coffee into the large mugs.
"I'll have the fresh fruit cup and scrambled eggs," Trixie promptly said. "The gentleman will have the hash brown platter."
"Comin' right up."
Jim put down the plastic, stained menu. "How do you know I want the hash brown platter?" he complained. "Maybe I want pancakes." He knew he sounded like a spoiled child, but he couldn't help himself. He had been spirited out of New York, held in a damp, dank cellar, figured the girl that he was supposed to ask to marry him was a part of this kidnapping scheme, and now was stuck with some blackmailing investigative reporter for the Times.
Life just didn't get better than this.
"Trust me. You don't want the pancake platter." She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a speaking glance. "Oh! Here." She handed over a small package. "I bought you a travel toothbrush kit and some deodorant."
What? Did he have bad breath and stink? And how did she look all perky and lively and fresh like a daisy in the morning? He muttered a sarcastic thank you and pouted until the food came.
As Jo placed the steaming platters of food before them, Jim realized he was starving. The smell of the Western-style omelet, the homemade hash brown potatoes, and a generous rasher of bacon with thick slices of toast made his mouth water.
Trixie looked at the fruit cup and shrugged her shoulders. She shouldn't have expected more than pale, tinned fruit cocktail dumped haphazardly in a sundae glass. The scrambled eggs looked good, and they both dug in.
Every so often, Jim would glance up at the pretty woman sitting across from him. She certainly was beautiful, with all those tumbling curls that made his fingers itch to touch. Her incredible blue eyes were shuttered, long lashes sweeping down on her cheeks as she gazed at her plate.
She ate like a freakin' horse, too. He was used to women like Laura; ones who ordered a salad, ate two pieces of lettuce and declared themselves stuffed. Laura wouldn't be caught dead spooning up that insipid fruit imitation that Trixie appeared to be enjoying.
As his stomach filled, his nerves quieted and he began to think of this whole experience as a wild adventure he could regale his friends with once they were back home. He could tell them of the little spitfire he conned into helping him, and the odd characters on the bus.
And he wouldn't have to see Trixie, the reporter with a hooker's name, any more.
Now, why did that cause a little ache, somewhere inside of him?
She broke into his musings with her raspy-sexy voice. "Last chance to use the restroom, Ace." She threw some money down on the table and slid out of the booth. "If you saw the state of the facility on the bus, you'd make use of the one in here again."
He strode to the men's room, uncomfortable and sweaty and feeling like something nasty had taken up residence in his mouth for several days. He washed up at the sink as best as he could, using the paper towels that were practically see through, as a washcloth and applied the deodorant that Trixie bought for him.
He could have sworn they stopped making Hai Karate deodorant in the seventies.
He was brushing his teeth when he heard her impatient knock on the door. "Ace? Hurry up. The bus is about to leave."
"Beright twere," he mumbled through a mouth full of foam. He rinsed his mouth out by cupping his hands under the faucet, and prayed the water didn't harbor any weird bacteria.
"Ace. C'mon!"
Jim ran his fingers through his hair, tucked his shirt back in and generally straightened himself out, all to the tune of Trixie's not-so-quiet urging to get the hell out of there. The way he figured it, they were paying customers of the bus line. It wouldn't be good business sense to leave them behind. He was sure the bus would wait.
But when they returned to the parking lot, all they saw was the exhaust of the dusty bus as it trundled down the road.
Jim was affronted. "They didn't wait for us!" He would have a word with the CEO of the bus line about that!
"Nice going, Ace. There goes the bus with all my luggage on it." The woman had the temerity to shout at him. He gaped at her. God, she was beautiful, with those blue eyes shooting sparks, a slight flush on her high cheekbones and those blonde curls quivering indignantly. "Wait here," she commanded. "I'm going back into the restaurant to see when the next bus comes." Jim was then treated to the sight of her round, juicy ass swaying its way back into the grease pit that masqueraded as an eatery.
A few minutes later she returned, her face looking even more thunderous than before. "Well, we're screwed. The next bus to New York City isn't for a few days."
Jim's green eyes widened and he stared at her, horrorstruck. "What do you mean, the next bus isn't for a few days?" That was impossible. Everyone knew that public transportation was pretty much available day or night. There was always a next bus.
Trixie's head was beginning to pound, and she rubbed at her temples. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get involved with Jim Frayne. "This isn't New York City. This is some nasty old truck stop in the middle of nowhere. People aren't getting on a bus to New York to go to work and back to Jersey, you know."
Jim kicked the toe of his loafer on the ground, much as a scolded little boy would do, and Trixie couldn't help the amusement that lit her expressive eyes. He really was so endearing and handsome, even when sulking.
"Now what do we do?"
Trixie's lips curved in a slightly spiteful smile. It was rather…empowering to see the normally dapper and well-groomed Jim Frayne looking like something the cat dragged through the bushes. Bet those Italian loafers won't be so comfortable after a while.
She licked her lips and replied matter-of-factly. "We begin walking and hope that some kind soul will give us a ride into the next big city." She anchored her shoulder bag firmly on her slender shoulder and began walk towards the road, leaving an astounded Jim gazing at her in consternation.
Walk?
And that was how he, James Winthrop Frayne II, found himself walking for miles on a hot, dusty, deserted country road.
He was limping along when she turned to see the mulish, miserable expression on his face.
"What'cha thinking about, Ace?
"It's funny you should ask. I was thinking about you."
"Me? Why would you be thinking about me?" She couldn't help the little thrill that ran down her spine.
"Yeah. I was just thinking about what you said we are supposed to be doing. What was it again?" he snarked.
"Hitchhiking." What was he up to now?
"Well, we've been hiking for miles. When does the hitching come in?"
Oh yes. Ace was definitely uncomfortable. "It's early yet. Not too many cars out at this time of day," she responded, tossing the words over her shoulder as she resumed the pace.
Jim followed until he spied an outcropping of large rocks on the side of the road, and promptly hobbled over to it and parked his weary ass. "Hey, Blondie," he called to her. "I'm waiting right here until a car passes by." He took off his loafer and tried to shake out the offending rock, which, as the miles passed, seemed more like a boulder.
She sashayed back, still looking fresh and clean and he just wanted to…what? Shake her? Smack her? Kiss her?
Kiss her? Whoa. Wasn't he just supposed to be in love with Laura?
She opened her satchel and pulled out a Hershey bar, unwrapping it gingerly, and bent off a piece, popping it in her mouth.
"What's that you're eating?" His stomach let out a loud rumble. It had been eons since breakfast!
"A Hershey bar. Milk chocolate. Want some?" She held out the familiar silver wrapping that contained the half-melted bar.
"Ugh. No. Never touch domestic chocolate. That stuff is bad for you." Jim frowned. If only it was Amedei. Now that was chocolate!
Trixie took another square, popping it in her mouth and smacking her lips with exaggerated delight. "It's so good. Luckily I bought some back at the restaurant."
"It's disgusting," Jim began, when a car roared by them. They both leaped back to the road, but it was too late.
"Now we missed that car because you had to rest," Trixie complained.
Jim sat back on the boulder, looking so completely despondent, Trixie's heart turned over.
"What if no-one stops for us?" That was a lowering thought. They might be hiking back to New York for months.
"Well, I think someone will. We just have to know how to hail them," Trixie responded with her usual optimism and energy.
Jim snorted. "How hard is sticking out your thumb?"
"Oh, and you're an expert, I suppose," Trixie snapped back. "There's just so many times the son of Matthew Wheeler had to hitch a ride."
"Listen, Blondie, I can write a book about it. In fact, maybe I will. I'll call it The Hitchhiking Trail."
"Wow. Is there no end to your *cough* many talents?"
"It's all in the thumb action. I've been told I have very talented thumbs," he leered at her.
"Oh really?" She arched her brow and rolled her eyes.
"Oh yeah. It's all in how you move them. Some people use their whole hand, waving like they're calling a taxi or the Queen of England greeting her loyal subjects." He proceeded to demonstrate the royal wave, and Trixie felt laughter bubbling up.
"But," he continued, his voice warming to the subject, "There are several different motions you can use. This short, jerky one tells the driver that hey, I'm an independent guy and if you don't stop, that's your loss."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Now in this one, we use a bigger movement and couple it with a knowing smile." He proceeded to demonstrate, unleashing his famed lopsided grin. "That lets the driver know you have a couple a great stories about girls gone wild at Harvard."
"I didn't realize…" she began.
"Hold up. Then there's number three. You've been out and realized you left your wallet back at home and everyone left after the blow-out on the beach, figuring you brought your Porsche. So you have to look studious, yet woebegone; pathetic. Just a poor little college-boy who was caught in circumstances beyond his control. You have to have a long face to go with it." Jim screwed up his face into an expression of utter woe. "You move your arm slowly, like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."
Trying to stifle her laughter, Trixie murmured, "Amazing. Absolutely Amazing." Her eyes on the road, she exclaimed, "Here comes a car!"
Jim ran over to the side of the road. "Watch this, babe. Guaranteed a ride." He did a Number One, only to watch as the car sped by him, spewing a cloud of dust in his face that made him choke.
Trixie grinned. "That went well. I'm still watching your talented thumb."
Jim was still looking after the car, wondering what went wrong. "Ah. He's a jerk. I'll try Number 2."
Trixie yawned widely and went back to the boulder. "Wake me when you get to a hundred."
One car passed, then another and another. No matter what method Jim chose, they all passed them by. By the time Trixie took pity on him, he was twitching and gyrating like he had a case of the twerks.
Almost as if in slow-motion, he stopped his rather interesting dance and slumped over to Trixie, flopping down on the boulder, his green eyes alight with misery. "I guess I won't be writing that book."
"No shit, Sherlock .But you did have some fun, didn't you?" He glared at her, and she simpered, "Mind if I try now?"
"Knock yourself out, Blondie. But don't count on getting a ride. I thought country people were supposed to be friendly."
"Oh, they are, Ace. Very friendly, but maybe not to red-headed wise guys with an attitude problem."
She sauntered out to the road. "I'm gonna stop a car, and I won't even use my thumb."
Jim snorted again. "Really? What are you going to do?"
"Just mind your business, Mr. Frayne," she giggled.
She stood on the side of the road and lifted the side of her skirt, almost to her hip, looking at her shoe. Jim may have been hot. He may have been sweaty, dirty and tired. But his green eyes deepened as they followed the long line of her very shapely leg right up to…well. Damn. Now he was freaking horny, too.
He was abruptly brought out of his hormonal stupor by the sound of screeching brakes as a car practically skidded to the side of the road.
A few minutes later, safely seated in the back seat of the old beater, Trixie turned to Jim.
"You might give me some credit," she laughed, her blue eyes sparkling.
"What for?" he grumbled, still visualizing that pretty leg, and realizing how much he wanted to see it again.
"Proving that the limb is mightier than the thumb!"
This was written in response to a challenge at Jix. See if you can guess the movie this scene is based on!