Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  "How'd you get a name like that?"

  The boy checked his hole card like an old hand. Maybe that was hereditary, too. "What? Charlie?"

  "No." Tobie gave him a long-suffering look. "Kick."

  Charlie started to answer, then caught himself. He wasn't sure just how much information Molly had provided on this topic. "I was an active child."

  "When you were in your mom's tummy, you mean?"

  "Yeah." That cleared that up. This parenting bit was going to take some getting used to.

  "You're high card, Dad. You bet."

  The kid was smooth. Slid that in real subtle-like. But it was the first time he'd called him "Dad" and Charlie noticed. He was afraid he'd go all teary, like some old lady. As a result he bet too much on a garbage hand.

  When Molly strolled in a little while later, Charlie was about cleaned out. "You're not doing too well," she said.

  "Beginner's luck."

  She rolled her eyes. "He didn't lead you to believe he's never played before, did he?"

  Charlie's startled gaze met hers. She laughed her throaty laugh. "I've got some beachfront property in Kansas you might be interested in."

  At Charlie's disgruntled look, Tobie shrugged, unfazed. "You didn't ask."

  Molly laughed again. "Like father, like son."

  For Molly and Charlie the following days both dragged and flew by. The time spent with Tobie was easy, comfortable between them. They were united in their concern for his well-being.

  Together they strove to keep him amused and cheerful when his strength and spirit waned. They coaxed him to take the medications that would prepare him for the transplant and did their best to support him through the side effects.

  In an effort to remain free of colds or other infections, they both sharply curtailed their contacts with other people. Charlie, in particular, was careful to avoid anything that might jeopardize the transplant. And with the administration of drugs to completely eradicate his own bone marrow, Tobie's strength continued to ebb.

  As a result, Molly and Charlie found they were spending more and more time alone together. That time was not so easy, not so comfortable. They had taken to retiring early to their separate rooms, separate thoughts.

  Lying on her back, staring into the darkness, Molly heard Charlie leave his room and prowl the apartment again. The groan of the hallway floor, the thunk of the refrigerator door, the clink of a bottle being uncapped seeped through the thin walls. He would be up for a while. Again. He hadn't repeated his suggestion that they resume their sexual relationship. But he wanted to, she could tell. And so did she.

  Molly couldn't explain, even to herself, exactly why she was reluctant to sleep with Charlie before the wedding. Certainly, she loved him. Knowing what she did now, she loved him more than she ever had. Maybe, in some perverse way, that was part of it. She knew if he had ever loved her, he didn't now.

  She turned on her side and wrapped the pillow over her ears as strains from his guitar softly beckoned. Always, she had been unsure of her ability to hold him. She'd never considered herself pretty enough, vivacious enough, fun enough to keep his interest. Uncertain of her own attractiveness, she'd been excruciatingly aware of his. She remembered those early days, watching him perform in the clubs and bars. Sitting on the sidelines with her painted-on smile. In his line of work, there were always women. The women were bold, and he was gracious. She buried her face in the bedclothes, recalling with shame her accusations and his denials. Until, finally, the denials had ceased, and she feared she was becoming what she dreaded most, a pathetic creature like her mother, withering in the shadow of a charismatic man.

  But now there was Tobie to consider. She loosened her grip on the pillow. Tobie was every bit as captivated by his father, in his own way, as the women were. And Charlie could provide for him in a manner beyond her imaginings. Money, glamour, his very body met Tobie's needs in ways she couldn't. In any tug-of-war for Tobie's affections, she feared she would come up short.

  To his credit, Charlie didn't seem interested in a tug-of-war. Despite the questions she knew must plague him, the resentment he must harbor, he was going out of his way to be agreeable. She rolled to her back, arms spread, listening to the evocative notes drifting on the still night. They lured her, beguiled her, summoned her.

  She shoved back the covers and slid her legs over the edge of the mattress, sitting up. The simple cotton sleep-shirt she wore was not the stuff of seduction, she decided ruefully. Then, Charlie had never been too particular about such things. He preferred to sleep skin-to-skin. She felt a flush warm her at the memory. Before her courage could desert her, she pushed from the bed and stepped into the hall.

  Deep in concentration, he didn't even notice her presence. Barefoot, bare-chested, he appeared to have pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else. She hadn't seen him like this in eight years, and he stole her breath. Nothing of the boy remained. His shoulders gleamed, a smooth burnished gold, in the lamplight. Muscles rippled and swelled with the movement of his hands on the guitar he cradled over his spread thighs. What she could see of his chest was shadowed with dark hair. And his hands—--oh, his hands—touched the guitar strings as they had once caressed her. She remembered them on her, brown, long-fingered, calloused from his playing, gentle and caring. Would he ever touch her like that again?

  His face drew her gaze and she was struck by the single-mindedness of his concentration. As he strummed, he crooned soft words into a little cassette player on the table next to him. Something displeased him. With a grimace, he punched the stop button on the player and plowed a hand through his hair, disgustedly. Reaching for the beer at his foot, he looked up and saw her.

  She was a vision out of the past. In the dim light, eight years disappeared. Coltish, he'd thought her then, and he saw her so now. Still with the slender, long arms and legs she would wrap around him, and he'd ride her to a mindless heaven. Chestier than any colt he'd ever seen, though. God help him, he liked a chesty woman and he wasn't going to apologize for it. He wondered if she had any idea how little that faded old shirt concealed.

  Her hair was loose. He'd begun to think she slept with it in that damn braid. The tangled mop hung halfway down her back, longer than it looked when she had it all bound up. He ached to bury his face in the riotous curls, to inhale the fragrance that had tantalized him anew over the past week. The one he would associate with her till the day he died.

  Jasmine.

  Long ago he'd given up trying to determine what shampoo, what soap might be responsible for it. He'd decided it was some combination of whatever she wore and whatever her body chemistry did to it that made it uniquely her own.

  He took a long pull on his beer, buying time. What did she want? There was a wariness, a vulnerability in her eyes. What had made her venture from her refuge?

  "Did I wake you, Molly? I'm sorry."

  She shook her head, her hair shimmering like new pennies. "I wasn't asleep." She crossed the short space between them hesitantly, giving him flashes of long thigh.

  He watched her approach, scarcely able to breathe. He hoped she wasn't depending on his nobler instincts to make him behave. Living cheek by jowl with her for the past week had pretty well depleted them. God had only given him so much in the way of gallantry, and he was about out.

  She parked herself on the footstool near his knee, hunched forward with her elbows on her thighs. Did a good job of hiding her chest, but he had a lovely view of her bottom. Unless he was mistaken, that was a panty line he spied, and it just about undid him.

  She'd always been a modest young woman. Wore panties to bed every night. By the time he'd coaxed her out of them, he'd be as hot as a firecracker. He'd loved it. He had a sneaking suspicion she knew it, too. It was her ladylike way of being a tease. Was she teasing him now?

  Nope. He didn't think so. That was skittishness in her eyes, and eagerness to please. Not desire. Hell, right now he'd settle for plain old lust, but he didn't see that, either. So why was she
here?

  "That was pretty." She nodded in the general direction of his guitar and tape player.

  What was this all about? He loved music, but he didn't feel like discussing the finer points of composition at the moment. "That was crap, Moll." The light went out of her eyes as if he'd flicked a switch, and he felt like crud. He tried to soften his words. "I miss your piano."

  That was true. He'd done some of his best work with her. Even when they were still kids, back when she'd discovered his writing. He'd get hung up on something with just the guitar. She'd tinkle out a two-fingered melody and the words would flow as though they were meant to be.

  That was the real secret of his success. He'd always considered his voice only passable, but he could write. He didn't have to wait for decent material to come along. She'd had a lot to do with that. Her presence—and then her absence—had been his inspiration. She'd been the ache, the yearning in his songs.

  She answered him with a nod and a tremulous smile, but he could tell his crude comment had pretty much destroyed whatever mood she'd been trying to set. "Was there something in particular you wanted?" he asked.

  She didn't answer, just placed her open hand upon his thigh.

  Ahhhh. This was coming clear now. He had to hand it to her. She could still surprise him.

  "What is this, Molly? A reward? The man's proved himself useful, give him a tumble?"

  "Charlie, don't."

  "No. You don't. I don't know what I ever did to you that was so wrong. But I don't deserve—and I don't want—your charity."

  With a stricken look she withdrew her hand and knotted it in her shirt.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, weary breath. "I'm in an ugly mood, Molly. Go to bed."

  When he looked again, she was gone. But the jasmine lingered....

  She was watching him again. She thought he couldn't see, but when you looked through that screen at just the right angle, it turned clear as window glass. She'd put her book aside on the glider seat awhile ago and sat with her chin resting in her hand, staring.

  He resisted the temptation to strut. This was Molly, for crying out loud. But he knew he was looking good. He'd always be on the lean side, that ran in his family. Working out with the weights, though, had muscled his shoulders up real well.

  He'd made the starting lineup for the Ironmen this coming year, his last at the high school. Well, he made it as kicker. He'd never have the weight to be a lineman. But he'd found his niche all the same. He was accurate, and he was fearless. He didn't care about getting sacked. The opposing team could unleash the whole OhioValley on him and he wouldn't rattle.

  This would be his year with the ladies. They loved the football players. He unhitched the grass catcher and carried the load to the compost pile, feeling Molly's eyes burning right between his shoulder blades the whole time. That was one little lady he'd be happy to get out of his system.

  He set the grass catcher on the ground, removed his hat, and stole a glance. Yep, she was looking all right. He pulled his T-shirt from his hip pocket and wiped down his face and chest. He shouldn't be having the kind of thoughts he was having about her. Hell, he liked her. She had a goofy sense of humor, and she'd turned out real sweet, considering the crap she put up with at home. She'd kept his secret about the composing, too. Didn't ride him about it like Lucy did.

  He'd even showed her some of the stuff. She was good with words and he trusted her opinion. She'd looked at him like he was some kind of hero, some damn pagan god. Nobody else in the world ever looked at him like that. And him looking back like, when did her legs get that long? Where'd she get that chest?

  He tamped his hat back on, disgustedly, and picked up the catcher. She's too young, Kick. She's not for you. Folks are right. Stick to your own kind. Don't go sniffin' around where you're nothing but the hired hand.

  He walked back to the mower, ran it a few more swipes over the lawn, and pulled up again. Hell, it was hot. He squinted toward the house. Still watching. She'd gotten up from the glider and pressed her nose against the screen. He laughed to himself. Did she think he couldn't see? Her with that red head glinting like fire behind the screen where the sun caught it.

  He'd heard she'd started dating. That jackass Jimmy Jordan, of all people. Well, her momma would be pleased. His family traveled in her circle. He was one person who'd never have to do a lick of work in his life. Classy guy, sitting back, taking everything that came his way, like he'd actually done something to earn it.

  He had a real nasty mouth, though, discussing the girls in the locker room. Charlie had never heard Molly's name come up, or he might have felt obliged to bust his pretty nose, knock out a couple of those straight, white teeth his daddy had paid so much for. Although exactly what skin off his nose it might be, he couldn't say.

  He needed something to drink. He looked for Molly again, to ask her, but she'd disappeared. No sense knocking on the door. Her old lady would only glare at him as if he'd stepped in something smelly and was trailing it through her house. He'd use the outdoor tap in that protected corner by the back porch, where the jasmine grew.

  He strode over, turned on the faucet, and bent to take long gulps. The whap of a screen door sounded and bare feet with pink-painted nails appeared on the bottom porch step next to him. He followed the shapely line of slender legs up to find

  Molly holding a droplet-covered glass of lemonade out to him.

  "You looked hot," she said. He licked his cold lips. "The water's fine, Molly." "It's poured, Charlie." She extended her arm further toward him, insisting. "You drink it."

  She rolled her eyes. "We'll share." She took a sip and offered the glass to him again.

  He accepted it from her, drinking his fill, draining it. His eyes drank their fill of her, too, over the edge of the glass. When he'd finished, he wiped his mouth on his forearm and pushed his hat back.

  "Your momma know you cut your jeans off that short?"

  "Char-lieee."

  "You're gonna give guys ideas."

  She gave a desolate little sigh. "I don't think so."

  "Like that ja...Jimmy Jordan."

  "I'm not seeing him anymore."

  "He'll get ideas real— What?"

  "I'm not going out with him."

  Had the creep tried something already? "Why not?"

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug and he set the glass on the step to give his eyes somewhere else to look besides where they wanted to look. "He says I don't know how to kiss."

  What a jerk. Probably never occurred to him that some things were worth a little effort. He watched her run her pink-tipped toes through the long grass near his boot. The sweet scent of jasmine hung heavy in the sultry air surrounding them.

  "Would you teach me, Charlie?" she whispered. "Huh?" He couldn't be hearing right. "I don't know who else to ask," she rushed on. "I figured you've done it a time or two...." "A time or two, yeah, but..." "Lucy says..."

  "You didn't discuss this with Lu—"

  "No, but she says the girls talk about how you kiss." She stopped and bit her bottom lip. It looked puffy and real kiss-able when she went on. "I know I'm not pretty like them. I'm too tall and my hair's a mess. But you could pretend...."

  She really thought she wasn't pretty. The dreams he was having about her at night had him flopping in his bed like a beached marlin. and she thought she wasn't pretty. What kind of a hellhole was she growing up in to have ideas like that about herself?

  "Molly..."

  "It's okay, Charlie." She touched his hand and he saw her fingernails, bitten down to the quick. "You don't have to. We'll still be friends."

  His goose was cooked. "Just this one time, Moll."

  Her big brown eyes widened with new hope. "I promise I won't ask again."

  He had a feeling he would be doing the asking. Begging, probably. He stole a quick glance at the windows on the back of the house and steered her to lean against the brick wall. He braced his hands on either side of her head. Maybe if he kept a goo
d twelve, fifteen inches between their bodies this would turn out all right.

  She shot him an eager look, licked her lips and then wiped them with her palm.

  Charlie gave a low chuckle. "It's okay if your lips are a little wet. The guys won't mind."

  She ran her tongue over her lips again and closed her eyes, hands at her sides, patiently waiting.

  Charlie lowered his own eyelids and pressed his mouth to hers.

  He tried to keep it sweet, light, innocent. He did try. He kept his lips firmly closed against the warm cushion of her mouth. But when he lifted his head, her eyes fluttered open, and he read disappointment in them.

  "That was nice, Charlie," she said with a polite smile.

  Nice. A-w-w-w, he was a goner.

  He sucked in a long, slow breath, never taking his gaze from her face. "Open your mouth for me, Molly," he whispered. Whether out of obedience or surprise he couldn't say, she did as she was told, her guileless eyes locked with his. "Trust me, honey. This is how it's done."

  With one finger under her chin, he tilted her face to him and covered her open mouth with his. He tasted her sweet breath, lemon and sugar. His must be the same, he thought, while he could still think. He didn't know where his taste ended and hers began. He only knew he wanted more of the sweetness.

  He moved his mouth on hers, increasing the pressure, gently nudging her lips apart. The first tentative probes of his tongue were teasing, tickling the corners of her mouth. He prodded playfully at her left front tooth—the one that had been capped ever since they'd taken that spill off his bike years ago—until he felt her smile. Then he pressed his advantage, sliding his tongue past the wall of her teeth.

  He could feel the soft little whimper she gave under the hand that cradled her chin. Vaguely, in a dim corner of his mind, some rational voice cautioned him to stop, to hold up before this barreled out of control. He paid it no mind. His mouth wide and seeking, he thrust his tongue in and out, in and out of her clinging warmth. He felt her sag against the wall as if her legs would no longer hold her, and her hands crept up his chest to encircle his neck, seeming to need the support. Her fingers clutched in his hair, knocking his hat off. He felt it bump his shoulder as it tumbled.