Page 144 of Fury

“I’ve been out of town for a few weeks. My mom had cataract surgery. She lives in Texas.”

“Oh. She okay?”

“She’s fine.” Alicia swished her long, straight, blonde hair as she moved by the table littered with colorful wisps of panties, the stands with bras dangling from them like overgrown blossoms. “Cassandra called me last night and told me how special your store is. I had to come see for myself.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular? If you’d like to try anything on, please do.”

She fingered a bustier, checked the label. “You made this?”

“I did. My design.”

Her blue eyes lit up. “I want to try them all on.”

She did.

Two hours and two cups of mint tea later, Alicia bought a bralette, a bustier, and a slip nightie. She paid in cash. “I’ll be bringing my girlfriends here.”

“Thank you.”

“I like your tattoos, by the way. Did you get them done around here?”

“A couple of them, yes. I went to Ronny’s in Deadwood. Do you know him?”

“Oh, did you?” She grinned, a well groomed eyebrow lifting. The Cheshire cat would have been proud. “Ronny is the best. He did mine. He does all of ours.”

“Your family?”

“Yeah, the club.”

“Ah.”

Was Alicia a One-Eyed Jacks old lady? Meager was their home base. I’d seen them around town on occasion, of course, but I hadn’t met any. They weren’t a huge multinational institution like the Smoking Guns or the Flames of Hell. Only three chapters from what I’d heard, and not as over the edge outlaw either, although that was relative, of course. They were definitely less ostentatious, more low-key.

Their clubhouse was on the outskirts of town, tucked behind a small patch of woods and a rise of the Black Hills. I didn’t feel antsy about being in the same area as a bike club anymore. Med was dead and gone. I’d read about it in a newspaper article a while back. His throat had been slit, his body found in a motel dumpster. Whoever had done it had wanted his corpse to be found and for the good news to be known far and wide. Had it been Finger? Had he been the Reaper, or had Med just pissed off the wrong person at long last, a person who would lash back? Whoever it was, the knowledge had me sleeping better at night.

Alicia snapped her oversized leather handbag shut. “I’m the president’s old lady.”

President’s old lady.I gritted my teeth at the sound of that phrase. Alicia loved her position, her title. “Well, it was great to meet you, Alicia.”

“You too, hon. I’ll be back with the rest of the girls to show them what you’ve got.”

I handed her the purple shopping bag with her purchases which I’d wrapped in lilac colored tissue paper. “Look forward to it.”

Alicia was true to her word. She came back two days later with Mary Lynn, Dee, and Suzy, all One-Eyed Jack old ladies. They oohed and ahed, tried on plenty of items and purchased a number of them.

“I need these velvet cuffs in my life,” Dee said, adding them to her bra and panty set by my cash register. “I love surprising Judge whenever possible.”

“That’s the way. Good for you,” I said, ringing up her purchases.

Alicia and her friends became frequent visitors. They often came by the store for tea and a laugh. We went out frequently for ladies only get togethers at the local bar, Pete’s Tavern, and for terrific meals and wine at the restaurant of the newly opened vineyard in nearby Hill City, which I always enjoyed.

Potential customers began to come into the store more regularly. At first they treated the shop like a museum, then I’d invite them to sit on my lemon yellow sofa and share a cup of tea with me and a chat. Soon enough, I noticed the change come over the ladies when they’d spot pieces they liked. The initial moments of denial would fade, and then there was—“Maybe I can be this.” Then they’d try a piece on and that look of “oh wow, I feel good in this. I could rock this. Yes, yes, dammit, yes.”

I enjoyed those moments myself, and I loved providing that speedy joy for others. Like beautiful frosting on a cupcake that you want to admire yet lick into at the very same time. A secret, often sinful treat that gave you a lift, that changed your perception of you. That beauty and joy all started on the inside, as far as I was concerned.

I wanted women to feel beautiful in their skin when they saw and felt their bodies being adorned by these webs of color and texture. Sleek or flowing, graceful or edgy, every piece came from my imagination. Like what the tattoos on my body did for me, I wanted to provide women with possibilities for their unique beauty and sensuality, and for them to revel in that glory. A glory they usually weren’t in touch with, had little or no awareness of, or simply denied. The bulk of my inventory quickly became lingerie. “Lenore’s Lace” had come into its own.

Cassandra encouraged me to advertise, and I came up with a marketing idea—another step in my liberation and transformation. I hired a photographer, who Ronny suggested, and had him take sexy shots of me wearing my pieces. We shot one day in my store, and another out in the woods with the autumn leaves as an amazing backdrop. It was freezing cold, but so worth it.

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