by Tracy Ellen
Sometimes, I’ll pitch-in and work around his place. Having no prior experience, I’m not exactly DIY construction worker material. Honestly, I suck real bad. My little brother is being surprisingly cool with my tool-challenged ineptitude. He’s an awesome teacher, and so are most of his friends. I never thought in a million years I’d get pumped being taught my latest handyman lesson, but I am really getting into it.
It makes me proud that my baby brother no longer screams like a woman and ducks when I have the nail gun in my hand. It’s true what they say about men; they have no tolerance for a little pain. It was only the one time, and the nail I pulled out of Reggie’s thigh was a short, tiny thing--a finishing nail is what I believe he shrieked when correcting me. Yes, okay, he did bleed. But, sweet Jesus, the way he carried on you would think I punctured his femoral artery instead of the back of his leg. It was totally unfair to blame me for the resulting infection.
I met Luke Drake on the third Saturday back in September. I’d woken up early to an idyllic, late summer Minnesota day. I hadn’t seen my brother for over a week, so I decided to whip up some banana bread to bring over to his house. My plan was to soak up some sunshine for an hour on Reg’s new deck overlooking the water. I had plans later with a man I’d met a couple weeks back in the store. We were going to the Renaissance Festival in Shakopee. He was a very nice guy, but you can’t force the love. I knew after our first date it was friends-only on my part. Still, he was fun and a girl can always stand another friend.
After taking care of some business down in the bookstore, I arrived at the lake house around eleven in the morning. Turning my aging Jeep 4x4 into Reggie’s graveled parking area, I saw a black and white SUV was pulling out. Driving was Jack Banner, Chief of Police in Northfield.
My parents had died together in an airplane crash when I was six. My dad had been a cop in St. Paul. Jack was my dad’s young, rookie partner and good friend. My folks were flying home from Jack’s Canadian border cabin in a small plane when the engine malfunctioned and they crashed. I don’t know if Jack felt some misguided guilt about orphaning my siblings and me, or if he was simply a glutton for punishment, but he’s been a fixture in our lives ever since. I consider him part of the family and torment him accordingly.
He slowed alongside my Jeep. I smiled a greeting through our open windows.
“Morning, She-Devil.” Jack takes great pleasure in calling me defamatory names. Although, She-Devil was pretty mild compared to some doozies he’s thought up over the years.
He calls me these names as a result of my actions from when I was only six. After we’d heard the news of our parent’s death, Jack found me off crying in a corner by my lonesome. He attempted to pull me onto his lap to comfort me. I took a hunk out of his shoulder with my bite and told him to “keep his stinking hands to himself or I’d report him to my school principal”.
I was a second-grader then, and fresh from learning all about sexual harassment—I knew my rights as a woman.
In my teens, and whenever he was around, dear Jack made a habit of trying to embarrass me in front of boys while intimidating them into behaving. He would take my date aside. First, he’d warn them not to even think of messing with me. Then he’d tell the boy I may look like an angel, but inside I was feral with a bite much worse than my bark. He had the scar and rabies shot to prove it.
I don’t think Jack ever quite got this didn’t scare off the boys, but made me more fascinating. Maybe it was fascinatingly scary. My dates were never one hundred percent sure why I bit Jack, a cop and twenty years older, in the first place. Being a laconic man, he never mentioned that part. If they asked me, I’d shrug and smile mysteriously.
At forty-nine, Jack is a fit and handsome man in a tough and craggy way. To be fair, he has always been tough and craggy, so he hasn’t changed much over the years. His white blonde hair is touched with a little silver now, his skin is ruddier and lined from years spent fishing on lakes in the sun and wind, but his deep-set, gray eyes are sharp as ever. They miss little.
Jack is a macho man. He’s the real deal, not a poser like many men who act tough. Jack’s no swaggering dude compensating for insecurities or serious woman-bashing issues. Chief Jack likes women. He’s just clueless understanding anything about us.
Jack’s got that cop stare down. The one that makes most people nervous and want to confess to crimes they hadn’t even thought of committing. Add that to the physique of a powerful bull in his prime, speaking only when he has something to say, and wearing a default facial expression so flat it makes a shark look animated, and you have one very tough hombre. Anyone with half a brain would think twice before crossing him.
Happily, I am immune to all that. I’m not sure if that means I have more or less than half a brain, but Jack’s always been a pussycat in my eyes.
“Well, good morning to you, Chief. Do you have to go and protect the unsuspecting public, or can I tempt you with some yummy banana bread?”
“I’m heading into the office. Paperwork.” His eyes were shaded by the clichéd mirrored aviators all cops seemed to wear. He made a curt motion with his left hand draped over the steering wheel. “Gimme some to go.”
I tilted my head to the side and waited.
“What?” he barked, after the silence dragged on.
“Please Anabel, sweetest of all women and best baker on earth. Isn’t that what you were about to add?”
This earned a fleeting tightening of the lips. For Jack, that was tantamount to a belly laugh. “Damn, are you going to make me lie for food, Junior?”
I tapped my forehead. “Oh, that’s right. You are getting up there in age, aren’t you? I don’t want you lying when you’re so close to meeting your maker.”
Jack gave me “the look”. I chuckled and reached for a foiled wrapped loaf of bread from my wicker basket. I nodded to him, tossing the bread between our trucks. Reflexes lightening fast, Jack snatched it out of the air, cradling the loaf as gingerly as an infant in his ham-sized hand.
He nodded back and took his foot off his break. “You just made an old man very happy.”
I am very conscious of my civic duty. I consider it part of my voluntary contribution to community service hours to give the bachelor Chief Jack a hard time.
“Oh dear, Jack, I’m truly sorry.” Sad lips, I was mournful. “From some of the…er…females I’ve seen you with over time, I suspected it didn’t take too much to make you happy. Seriously though, a little loaf of my bread is all it takes?”
Jack braked abruptly. He stabbed a finger at me. “Listen, Miss Thing, you couldn’t handle what it takes to make a man like me happy. Not after all those pansy-assed boys you’ve had jumping through your hoops over the years.” Seeing my grin, he shook his head and bit off something about smart-mouthed women under his breath. “See you tomorrow night.”
This wasn’t really a question, but I saluted sharply. It was a standing invitation that I hosted a family dinner on Sunday evenings at my place. It was my way of atoning for doing my best to avoid most of them the rest of the week
I caught the quirk of his lips again before he drove off down the bumpy driveway to the main, black top road that circled Lake Roberds.
There were three other vehicles parked at my brother’s that day I met Luke. One was my brother’s red truck with the white “Axelrod Contracting” logo on the door. I made a sour face at the next car; I knew who drove the light blue Honda Civic with the vanity plates. I didn’t have a clue who owned the third vehicle. I let out an appreciative whistle. The owner may be unknown, but I definitely recognized the brand spanking, Mack Daddy of a new truck.
I love my jeep, Lady Liberty, but she’s getting up there. I’d been circling around this identical truck for a couple of weeks now at the Apple Ford dealership. I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to move in for the kill. I was deeply in want, but trying to talk myself out of crippling truck payments. Not to mention the very real possibility of crippling myself trying to get up into the f
ront seat. I would need to carry a stool for entry assistance into a truck this size, especially after a meal and a couple of glasses of wine made me weak.
Picking my way over the graveled area towards the house brought me closer to the truck. I adjusted the heavy basket on my hip that contained the loaves of banana bread, a pink bakery bag of cookies, and bottles of OJ and chocolate milk. A gust of warm wind off the lake swirled my dress around my thighs when I stopped to admire the truck more closely.
I held my sundress down while I toured around the vehicle. It was a 2012 Ford F-150 Harley-Davidson. The color was called Tuxedo Black. I had bonded so completely with this beauty in the last two weeks; I was half-tempted to prostrate myself on its hood to get some sun, instead of on my brother’s deck.
“Very pretty. Are you Little Red Riding Hood coming to visit?”
I started at the voice, unaware I was being watched. Then I chuckled at the comparison. I guess with a stretch I could be said to resemble Ms. Hood. I carried a basketful of food, my long, blonde hair was held off my face with a black headband, and I was wearing a scarlet red dress.
I glanced in the direction of the low voice, but couldn’t see him. “Let me guess--Grandma?”
The shadows were deep on the old-fashioned porch. Two, towering Red Oaks majestically spread their canopy of leafy branches over the front yard and house. I heard a low laugh. I expected to see a friend of my brother’s, but a stranger walked off the porch. He came down the front steps toward me. He was carrying a mug full of steaming something.
I put a hand to my heart and breathed, “Oh no! It’s the big, bad wolf!”
He flashed a grin, bright white against his tanned face. I wasn’t actually kidding; he really did look like a badass wolf.
Even before I got a proper look at him, something about the confident way he carried himself made me perk right up and pay closer attention. I noticed his eyes were slowly, continuously scanning the yard around us as he moved my way. I peered around curiously to see what had him so vigilant.
It looked like Reggie’s front yard to me. Lady Liberty’s engine still ticked as she settled down. The birds were busily chirping. Crisp, autumn leaves were rustling in the trees from the breeze. Otherwise, aside from myself, there were no terrorists or snipers I could see. All was quiet on the Lake Roberd’s front.
The aroma of his coffee wafted my way and had me salivating. At least, I think it was the coffee. Watching him walk, I was experiencing a strange phenomenon. Everything appeared sharper, brighter, and vividly more in focus around me. This all ready perfect day seemed suddenly to have infinite possibilities.
When he was a few steps nearer, our eyes clashed over his coffee cup. I was jarred to my toes at the impact. I held his intense stare for a beat before disengaging and looking away. I found I had to exert willpower to glance away with a semblance of composure. I was blown away by the insane desire to lean against his chest and stare up dreamily up into his eyes. This was so not like me. I don’t lean, much less do dreamy.
Not looking directly at him, I still felt the touch everywhere his eyes skimmed over me. He didn’t linger too long on any obvious points, but I was thoroughly, expertly checked out from the top of my black headband down to my black, seriously cute, wedge-heeled sandals.
When not looking into his eyes, my mind started functioning properly. My memory clicked into place and I mentally snapped my fingers.
‘Holy Hannah!’
I knew why he looked familiar. I had glimpsed this man once before when he came into my store last spring. I think it was in April.
I was working alone that afternoon. I was sitting on a stool at the long check-out counter reading some report or another.
I had been feeling nervous flutters in my stomach for the last half hour. I was idly wondering if it was the caffeine from the espresso shot in my latte, or if I had forgotten something I had to be excited about that day.
The string of bells on the shop’s door jingled and jangled. I had glanced up to see this man walk in. The sex kitten voice in my head stretched awake from her catnap and purred, ‘Ah, here’s the explanation for the butterflies.’
Sounds weird I know, but this happens to me frequently enough that I’ve learned to listen to the different voices talking to me in my head. I end up regretting not paying attention if I don’t. Besides, I look forward to the sex kitten voice. That voice is welcomed with open arms when compared to the mean mommy voice reminding me to be a responsible grown-up and do some grunt work.
The man’s gaze had fixed on me. I was twenty feet away, but immediately reacted to the intensity of his look. I had no clue why, but being the focus of his concentration held me electrified on my stool like a switch had been turned on. It was horrible, bizarre, and uncomfortably exciting.
This tough-looking man staring at me across my store was certainly no male model. I hadn’t heard him speak, and knew nothing about him. I know men, I really like men, and men do not make me lose my cool and get all electrified and turned on for no reason other than a mere glance.
I’ve discovered a few facts about myself over the years. One fact is--I don’t have personal preferences what a man must look like before I will go out with him. I’ve come to accept the truth (by being bored to death) that often fabulous-looking men have more hair than wit. They can make me plot an early escape from a date. Conversely, an average Joe with a clever sense of humor can become irresistibly attractive upon getting to know him better.
Sure, some men are hot and can appeal right away. And some women will do a one-nighter with a man they have just met. A drive-by has never been my thing.
No, it takes a whole lot more than the excruciatingly boring pick-up scenario of a player to get me interested in getting naked. The routine of first staring at me across the room, then ignoring me, then finally talking to me by telling me a corny joke or giving a compliment, is so irritatingly lacking. I think a predator out only to get laid is such a tired cliché. I waste no time telling them not to waste their time on me. The actual sex with the drive-by man has to be described as underwhelming at best. Or so I’ve been repeatedly told in confidence from far too many women.
Nope, I need a dude to have real brains and lots of personality to interest me in even a first date, much less get me aroused to start with the stripping. I know this makes me sound like I think I’m all that. I cannot deny I’ve been told I’m conceited, arrogant, and definitely too picky--by both sexes. I’ve been called cold, cruel, and frigid, although never all three at once.
These kinds of comments make me smile and shake my head.
Here’s the deal; arrogant me simply can’t imagine deserving anything less then what I want. Why it’s considered conceited because I have some self respect and standards is beyond me. The picky part; I can’t help guys with brains and a personality aren’t plentiful. I would love to find men so described under every stone and rock. I’m sure were that the case, women would leave none unturned across the globe. If any man thinks I am frigid or cold; they are one hundred and fifty percent accurate. If speaking up, saying no, and knowing your own mind is perceived as cruel by those on the other end of the stick, I’m okay with being cruel.
Except for one awful aberration in my late teens, I have been unapologetically playing the field, staying single, and loving it. Guys chase as they will, but never catch me for long. I didn’t want to be caught then, and I don’t want to be caught now.
My attitude goes as far back as pre-school days where my first devotee, Bucky Mitchell, would throw a fit and not go to school unless I picked him up on my way. It’s my belief I skipped kindergarten and went directly to first grade just to avoid his possessiveness, and not because I could read and write like NanaBel claims.
So sitting in my store last April while minding my business, you can bet your bottom dollar I was confoundedly stunned to find myself aroused from receiving a mere glance sent in my direction by this man, a total stranger. My female parts didn’t give a rip if the
man could add two plus two, spell the word dog, or even get a basic knock-knock joke.
Was I experiencing my first attack of extreme pheromones I’d read so much about over the years? Whatever it was, it felt revoltingly exhilarating.
Heating up, and then fanning my cheeks in metamorphic agitation, I watched the man reach into his jacket pocket and check his cell. He quickly glanced back up and looked directly at me. He appeared to hesitate, but then turned around abruptly and left the book shop.
I let out a whoosh of a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. I felt like I’d just dodged a bullet. If the chimes hadn’t banged loudly against the glass of the door behind him, I might have believed he had been an apparition of crazy, lustful thinking on a rainy, spring day.
If they had witnessed my girly reaction to this stranger, anybody close to me could not be blamed one bit for serving me up a heaping plate of crow. Somehow, it slipped my mind and I never mentioned it to anyone back then.
Then, there I was in Reggie’s yard a few months later in September. That same man I determinedly forgot was now only two feet away. I was on the fence about seeing him once again because I like my life uncomplicated. I wasn’t sure if I was ecstatic or depressed to be experiencing the same horribly stunned reactions as before.
One thing I do know; turnabout is fair play. It was only natural I’d take a moment to swiftly check out the man of my pheromone-induced, nightmare of a daydream.
From the angle I was standing, I didn’t even have to squint to see the left hand holding his coffee mug. There was no wedding ring or white skin line. Not that an absence of a ring proved he wasn’t married. Men willing to cheat were obviously sneaky by definition and married men were the best at it, or the worst, depending on your opinion of cheaters. Married men are absolutely off limits to me, no exceptions.
I’d guess him at early to mid-thirties. His better-be-single eyes were bottle green under black, slightly arched brows. His wide mouth and full lower lip were surprisingly sensual against the harsh lines of his face. My next thought was his eyes and lips were the only pretty things about him. Everything else shouted hard-bodied, aggressive male. Exactly the kind of man I usually high-tailed it away from, as fast and far as my little legs could run.
