Free On Thin Ice by Susan Andersen

and dated that old geezer, flirting on the thin edge of feeling like a whore in order to get Lonnie a place with the line skaters when he was released from prison in a couple of weeks.
    She thought she was probably a better friend to him than he was to her. He knew how it would affect her to be petted by some stranger; he knew better than anyone else in the world, and yet he had asked it of her anyway.
    But then again, to be fair . . . he was desperate. Lon wouldn’t have asked it of her if he wasn’t and that was something she understood.
    God, more than anything she would like to be able to talk it over with Connie—why she was doing this stuff she didn’t want to do and how it made her feel—but how could she? Connie wouldn’t understand. Hell, she barely understood it herself. Acting the tease, playing these stupid games, made her feel like a cross between a high-priced hooker and what’s-her-name in that old TV spy spoof—Agent 99. She didn’t know whether to be ashamed of herself or fall over laughing at the absurdity of it all.
    At the moment she didn’t feel much like laughing.
    On the disgraceful side of the scoreboard was her behavior with J. R. Garland, who was the talent agent responsible for most of the performance hiring for the West Coast branch of the Follies. She’d been doing her damnedest to sweet-talk him into promising Lon a job when he was paroled from prison, vamping the old guy to beat the band. It was a balancing act of flirtation and letting it be subtly understood that she didn’t intend to compromise her morals any more than she was currently doing simply to ensure her friend’s employment. There were definite limits here. She might be linked to Lon by a lot of years and even more shared history, but she wasn’t sleeping with any man for his benefit. And Lon knew better than to expect it of her.
    On the comic relief side were the moronic espionage games of Lonnie’s that she’d been playing. Calling him from a pay phone when there was a perfectly good telephone in every hotel room she’d ever stayed in; burning his letters as soon as she’d read them. For heaven’s sake, who did he imagine would possibly care what the two of them talked or corresponded about?
    Well, she’d done her part and she had honestly believed she’d never again have to lie to Connie if queried as to her whereabouts at any given time. When the Follies left San Francisco where J.R. was based, she had thought she’d seen the last of her role as the intelligence-impaired coquette.
    Which is why she’d about died this afternoon when she received the telephone call from a jovial J. R. Garland, telling her he was in town for business and insisting that she join him for a late supper.
    Sasha shuddered, tugged on the microscopic skirt of her black cocktail dress in an attempt to obtain a little more coverage for her thighs, and tossed back a slug of the Baileys Irish Cream the waitress placed before her. She didn’t feel particularly good about herself at the moment, and she swore that this was the end of it. No more. Tonight had been the very last time she was putting herself through this bullshit. If Garland opted not to hire Lon after this, that was too damn bad. Lonnie’d gotten himself into trouble without any help from her; he could darn well . . .
    â€œHi, I thought that was you,” a voice, soft and low, interrupted her thoughts. “Mind if I join you?”
    Sasha’s head jerked up. Standing in front of her booth was Mick Vinicor, looking too damn energetic for words. God above, where did he get all that vitality he perpetually exuded? It made her weary just looking at him. She opened her mouth to tell him yes, she did in fact mind, that she would just as soon be left alone; but he was already sliding in next to her, sitting much closer than was necessary. “Make yourself at home,” Sasha said dryly and took