American Outlaw - Jesse James [56]
“Hey.” I turned my head to look back at her. She shrugged, kind of shyly. “I really do want you to call me,” she said, finally.
I grinned. “I will.”
——
Karla stayed firmly in the forefront of my mind, and as soon as I returned home from my tour, I asked her out on another date. She accepted. That evening, over drinks, she regaled me with the latest tales from the bikini bar.
“A guy this weekend tried to get kind of wise,” Karla said. “I had to do your job, Jesse.”
“How’s that?” I asked, laughing.
“I had to beat the shit out of him!” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” she said, cheerily. “Look, this jackass was trying to feel up on my friend Paulina, just being real rude and stupid. When she pushed his hand off, she spilled his drink all over his suit.”
“Criminal,” I said, taking a long pull on my beer.
“Isn’t it? So anyway, he got all pissed, and backhanded her!”
“Ooh,” I said. “Unwise.”
“Unforgivable. I punched him right in the head. And man, I about broke my hand! This idiot had a really hard head.”
“Try not to use your knuckles on somebody’s skull,” I advised, as I motioned for another round for both of us. “Recipe for pain.”
“So I’m a rookie,” Karla’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “Want to hear what happened next?”
“There’s more?”
“Yes! This jerk freaking punched me in the face. Broke my fucking nose,” Karla said, proudly. “That was the end of my night! I had to go to the hospital and get my nose set, so I can stay pretty. There was blood all over my bathing suit. Pretty sick!”
I was speechless for a second. “Yes,” I said, finally. “That’s frightening.”
She was an outlaw; that much was clear. And it became clearer, the more time we spent with each other. Karla had grown up an orphan in Pennsylvania. Her adoptive mother, whom she’d loved, had died when she was just seven years old, and from there, she had bounced around to a bevy of foster homes. Unsurprisingly, she had failed to make deep connections there. At eighteen, she’d come to California. When the opportunity came up to start dancing, making real money, she had taken it.
“How, um . . .” I didn’t quite know how to phrase this. “How . . . um . . . ?”
“How old am I?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved. “How old are you?”
“Thirty,” she answered. “And how old are you, Jesse James?”
“Well . . . twenty.”
“Does the age difference bother you?” she asked. “Do you envision it to be a problem?”
“No,” I said honestly. She was a woman, in every sense of the word. Self-sufficient, strong, experienced, and totally gorgeous. I had no problems.
“Great,” Karla said, shortly. “Got any more questions?”
I began daydreaming about Karla when I couldn’t be with her. On tour, I often found myself smiling, thinking about the odd stories and adventures that she’d gotten herself into. And when I was at home in Long Beach, there was just no one else I wanted to be with.
“How about taking me out in that cool-ass Mustang of yours?” I asked her one day. “I’m in the mood to joyride.”
We drove out into the traffic, letting the warm Southern California air hit our faces. Normally, I hated to be in the passenger seat. But next to this exciting new girlfriend of mine, it felt perfect.
“Hey, let’s pull in here and get a Coke,” Karla said, hooking a quick right into a parking lot.
She spied an unoccupied space in the otherwise packed lot, and made for it. But as Karla swung into the spot, an older guy in the space next to her opened his car door.
“Karla!” I yelled. But she didn’t stop. Instead, she increased her speed, drove directly into his door, and smashed it hard enough to nearly rip it off the hinges.
“What the fuck!” I yelled.
“Crap,” Karla said. “Let’s get out of here, quick!” With a glance behind her, she threw the car into reverse, peeled hellacious rubber, and took off screeching out of the parking lot.
“What the fuck did you just do?” I yelled.
“Hit that guy’s door,” she admitted, adding, “that was probably my fault.”
“You think?” My heart was pounding.
“Don’t have a heart attack.” Karla