Summer Salsa for Winter Blahs
By Shaddyr
(with copious amounts of help from Liz Shelbourne)First – beg, borrow, or steal a copy of Robert Michaels CD, “Paradiso” if at all humanly possible - the three songs referred to, in order, are “Just Touch”, “Sunset Samba” and “Rain in Spain”; the song playing as she walks into the cantina is “Cupid’s Dance”.
Or go to his website to hear snatches of it - www.robertmichaels.com
Disclaimer: Not my universe (I wish) I promise to put ‘em back when I’m done – they’re just so darn much fun to PLAY with! Don’t sue me – all you’ll get is a half-bag of stale Cheetos and some belly button lint.
Set in the beginning of season 4 – immediately after the bombing episode and before Survival.
The little cantina was one of those ramshackle affairs so popular on the beaches of the Islands - it was made of bamboo and twigs, with local flowers and vines strewn throughout to give it an exotic appearance. The deep and driving beat of sensual Latino music filled the air, alive and intoxicating, pulling feet to move and hips to sway. The doors to the front patio were open wide, and a refreshing sea breeze found its way to where Miss Parker sat. She was at the bar working on her third Margarita, and she thought she could feel the first faint beginnings of relaxation.
She felt guilty about being here - guilty about taking a break when there was so much she wanted to do - needed to do. But she had to. So here she was, getting away from it all, yet unable to leave it behind.
The last few months had been hell. She had discovered more new things to hate about the Centre and everything it stood for. There was still a part of her that sat mutely horrified by what she and Broots had discovered at Pakor.
Physically, she had to admit, if only to herself, she was not doing as well as she wanted everyone to believe. She knew it would have been better to stay in the hospital after being shot, but the idea of being on suicide watch - she still wanted to kill Lyle for that. And, of course, that brought to mind the whole nasty bomb fiasco. The only reason she hadn’t laid Lyle flat out when she’d realized he sent her into that building expecting that she’d never walk out was the fact she probably would have ended up on the ground right beside him after decking the bastard.
Add to that her father’s deranged ravings-- she was worried sick about her him and feeling betrayed by him all at the same time-- How DARE he leave her to face the Centre and all its machinations and run away with that troll… it boggled the mind.
Then there was this bizarre change in Mr. Raines; she knew it couldn’t be real, but there had to be something truly insidious going on for him to be acting in this manner. Love, my cute little ass she thought darkly. She was going to get to the bottom of this, and then Raines would become fish food, she’d see to that.
Mostly, though, there was still a raw, open, Tommy shaped wound in her heart. She had played her part well, everything had been business as usual for awhile. But the insanity of all that had happened on top of his loss had just been too much. She had realized the night Jarod called and commented about how alone the both were she needed to get away. She just needed to run far away, somewhere no one could find her, not Sydney, not her father, not the Centre - and just forget about the nightmare for a little while.
To add insult to injury, even the weather had seemed to be conspiring against her – slushy rain and snow and a dismal forecast was what she had left behind in Blue Cove.
Unfortunately, in the famous words of Buckaroo Banzi, no matter where you go, there you are.
“Ahhh, senorita, you come back today!” the owner of the cantina proclaimed. Parker studied the man as he came out of the storeroom and walked up to her from behind the bar. He looked to be in his late 70’s, thick shock of black hair graying at the temples, the dark, weathered skin of his face creased with lines. “Jose keep his promise. I make special for you.” With a flourish, he placed a plate covered with a sampling of local fruits in front of her.
The previous evening when she arrived, she had come into the cantina looking to drink herself as close to oblivion as was humanly possible. The kindly older man had served her several drinks, then leaned forward on the bar as she’d requested another and looked her in the eye.
“Senorita, please think what you do. Jose is happy to serve you and take your money... ” he’d paused a moment, and sighed dramatically before continuing, “...but I am an old man, and frail. If you drink so many my wonderful drinks, I must carry you home.” He had shaken his head. “My weak old arms could not. And lady, what would people think of old Jose, trying to take such a beautiful woman back to her cabana? I beg you, do not put Old Jose’s life so difficult.” The sparkle in his eyes had belied the apparent self-absorption of his words.
Parker had been touched at that. Such care for her from a stranger; not just that she not get drunk, and honestly, had he told her to stop drinking, she would have sliced him open with her razor tongue. No, he had expressed his concern by couching it in reasoning that guarded her feelings and with no judgement of what she was doing. The indomitable Ice Queen had been thrown off balance by a kind old man, and she had changed her order to a virgin Chi-Chi. She’d spent the rest of the evening being entertained and pampered by Old Jose, and had been unable to leave without promising the friendly bartender she would return on the morrow for a special treat.
Upon the presentation of Jose’s gift she started to protest, but seeing the happy gleam in his eye squelched her. It was such a simple thing, and it pleased him – and she decided that pleased her. After taking another long drink of the Margarita, she set it down, smiled at him and selected a slice of starfruit. The tangy sour sweet taste of the tropical fruit filled her mouth, and in a strange sort of way, she felt like she had finally arrived.
While she sampled the papaya, Jose took a hibiscus blossom from a vase full of fresh flowers and trimmed the end. She watched him as he worked with the flower, then as he rifled around under the counter apparently looking for something. His expression turned to one of triumph when he produced two large hairpins. She took a bite of mango next, the juice dripping down her chin. Wiping it away, she wondered what he was up to. A moment later, he stood beside her, flower and hairpins in hand.
“Such beautiful lady needs no decoration, but these flowers carry beautiful fragrance, lovely as you,” he said quite seriously as he began to pin them into her hair behind one ear. “They will grace noses of all who smell them, as you grace eyes. Is most perfect pairing,” he concluded, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Parker sat there bemused at the actions of this frail old bartender. Any other time, any other place and she would never had accepted such attentions, or allowed a strange old man to touch her, but here - this was a place outside of her reality. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Jose,” was all she said.
Pushing aside the now empty plate, her fingers traced a slow path around the edge of the glass while her mind wandered aimlessly through the music, following the chords of the guitar as they wound their way through the air. It felt good not to think for a little while, just to “be.” She sighed, her shoulders rising with the action, and she could feel the delicate tightness of the akin across her back where she had gotten just a little too much sun today. That felt good too, a rare indulgence – a day of beach walking and sand sitting that had left her a bit more brown than she had been when she had arrived.
She wrapped her hands around the icy glass, feeling the condensation on her palms. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe an effect of the sun, but all her senses seemed so alive at the moment. The sensual guitar, the smooth coolness of the rounded glass, the aftertaste of the rum, the sweet aroma of the flower in her hair; all she was missing was a vision of someone… She smiled wryly at the thought and took another sip of the drink.
She sensed rather than heard him come up behind her, and once again she had to smile. Her drink was almost empty, but not quite, and Jose was ready to bring her another. She waited for him to set down the next fruity concoction, but kept her left hand wrapped around this one, not yet ready to relinquish it to the bartender. A hand appeared out from behind her right side, reaching around her to gently pull her fingers from around the drink.
And held them.
Her mind whirled, but she did not look up. This must be a dream, she thought, I’ve passed out and I’m hallucinating. She stared at his warm, gentle hand, tanned, but not nut brown like Jose’s, at the white linen sleeve that disappeared behind her. She dared not look up – this was all a dream, wasn’t it? Her vision. If she looked up, it would evaporate like the early morning fog. Watching in wide-eyed fascination, she saw her own left hand move up as he silently drew it across her body, up to her right shoulder, forcing her finally to turn, to stand, to look.
She would not. It was a dream, it was the sun, the drinks. This was not real.
He grasped her long delicate fingers more tightly, to guide her, to lead her, as his left hand wrapped around behind her and rested dangerously low on her back. A commanding pressure there pulled her in to him tightly. She could feel his breath against her cheek, the heat of his body, smell the sunshine in his hair; she could hear the rising strum of the guitar. Closing her eyes for a moment, she breathed in deeply to steel her resolve. What if it was not a dream, what if it was him?
Leaning back, she raised her eyes to look at him. Jarod smiled back at her. The bottom of her reality fell out, and if he had not been holding her so close, she would have fallen. Before she could process it, before she could think, he was leading her onto the dance floor of the little cantina, and suddenly they were dancing.
The slow steady pulse of the song felt like a caress, the liquid, golden, honeyed notes dripping languor on all who listened. Sensuality enveloped them like a thick blanket, and they moved as one, hip to hip, cheek to cheek, hearts beating in unison as the drama of the music played itself out in their movements.
When at last the song came to a close, still she stood in his arms, gazing up at him as she continued to sway, not yet free of the music. Moments passed, and with each second, clarity set in more and more. C’mon, she thought, languor being replaced by the beginnings of panic, start playing again already! It was one thing to be in Jarod’s arms when intoxicated by the music, but quite another to be standing there naked of any such insulation. The knowing look on his face left her aware that she was concealing nothing from him.
Mercifully, the band plunged into a hot and spicy Samba, and her awareness shrank to encompass nothing more the touch of his body against hers, the heady fragrance of the hibiscus, and the pulsing rhythm as the music swept them away. Their eyes were locked as she followed him through a wickedly complicated series of twists and turns, matching him step for step, in perfect balance and time.
His hands guided her, pushing, turning, expertly gliding through the evocative flamenco-styled dance steps. Then he was behind her, hands resting ever so lightly on her waist, hips gyrating to the Latin beat, his warm breath on her ear as she slid her own arm up behind him and around his neck, the two of them in perfect synch. Another wild progression of complex steps followed, then suddenly he was spinning her around in his arms, and dipping her back – so very far back her hair touched the floor behind her. And there she stayed, supported only by his hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled her up, inch by inch, then, taking her by the hand, with an abrupt flick, skillfully snapped her into another spin that ended with her crushed up against him, off kilter, still standing only because she was fully supported by his strong secure arms. The song ended, and she was breathless, sweat beaded on her brow. Then the Samba was replaced by a slower but no less sensuous Meringue and they were off again.
The velvety riffs of the guitar and the satin slide of the maracas combined with the fluid grace of Jarod’s movements to leave her feeling lost in an Epicurean dream. She was caught in a world where the colors seemed brighter, edges sharper, sounds more intense as if she’d been transported into a Van Goh painting so surrealistic it had become.
The slow heady tune was imbued with a provocative edge, and she found the feelings that ensnared her had become overwhelming. Like too much wine, the intoxication of the atmosphere, the dancing and Jarod’s presence was causing her world to spin like a carousel gone mad. With great difficulty she broke free of his grasp, and unsteadily made her way back to the counter where her drink sat, and clambered back onto the stool. She lifted the cold glass to her forehead, the icy condensation on it a blissful coolness on her fevered skin, grounding her from the lofty heights in which she’d been lost.
I’ve just spent the last... God only knows how long... dancing with Jarod. *JAROD!* The rational part of her mind frantically informed her that now would be a good time to find a gun, a piece of twine, something to restrain him. She ignored it. At the moment she barely capable of rational thought, much less taking a grown and cunning man prisoner. Besides a defiant voice in her mind reasoned I’m here to take a break from being the Centre’s Hound Dog. I’m off duty, damn it!
After a moment she recovered he equilibrium enough to turn and face him again. To her dismay but not to her surprise, he was nowhere to be seen. A deep sigh issued forth from her, eliciting a sly smile on the face of old Jose who had watched the entire episode.
“Ahh, Senorita, it was wonderful thing to watch,” he commented appreciatively as he dried glasses and put them away. “You and that young hombre make good couple.”
She favored him with a cocked eyebrow, the denial dying unspoken on her lips when he said nothing more. She had to admit, if only to herself, that they probably had made a spectacular duet – Jarod had been truly amazing. Chalk up yet another talent for their elusive pretender.
Shaking her head at the absurdity of the situation, she took another drink. If nothing else, her heart rate was up and she had just had it proven to her that she hadn’t lost her edge. It had been quite some time since she’d danced like that, and as much as it irked her to admit it, she had thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks Jarod, she raised a glass to the pretender where ever he’d gone. A little summer salsa was the perfect prescription for the winter blahs.
February 2000