by Elle Aycart
“I have a big yard,” he said. “I guess he’d be fine there.”
“Oh no. My baby would freeze in a backyard. He’s a city dog, used to his comforts.”
“Is Arnie housebroken?” Logan asked, not looking convinced.
“Of course! He’s a sweetie. You’ll love him.”
“Okay,” he accepted grudgingly. “But you start the lessons right away.”
“You don’t know if I’m a good teacher, by the way.”
“You’re all I got. You’re good enough.”
She laughed. “So flattering. I’ll have you know I’m a kickass teacher. In the making, I mean.”
“I rest my case, Butterfly.”
“By the time I leave your place, your guys will speak English and color coordinate. So will you.”
God bless him, he seemed genuinely puzzled. “What’s wrong with the way I coordinate colors?”
She looked at the shaggy hair and the crazy beard and the jeans and the ratty T-shirt. Then she cast her eyes up in despair. “In this crowd, nothing. I might start a new theme on my blog: how to survive a fashion fiasco.”
“I’m exhausted,” Sky said, dropping onto the sofa in the living room after the pasta party. “My feet are killing me.”
Logan followed suit. “High heels and NoName don’t go well together.”
“No shit. And after the third beer, it got very difficult to say no to that persistent bunch.”
“They don’t take no for an answer.”
She kicked off her heels and started massaging her instep. “As if I hadn’t noticed.”
She might have been dead on her feet, but her makeup was still perfectly applied and her hair immaculate. He wasn’t sure how she’d managed it, but her outfit was still white too. Mostly.
“Let me,” he said, reaching for her. “I’ve got experience with sore feet.”
“Really? You wear high heels often? I’d love to see that.”
He shook his head. Sky Gonzalez was cheeky. And funny. He pressed on her instep and she moaned.
“You’re good.”
“Told you.”
“You dance, you massage feet.” She studied him, her gaze inquisitive. “How come you don’t have a Mrs. Logan Nolting around?”
“Are you forgetting I collect soiled diapers, Butterfly? There is a Mrs. Nolting, in fact. She’s back in the big city. Couldn’t take the countryside.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not.” Vivienne had been fine as long as he’d held that impressive seven-figure position in Seattle. After that, not so much. “What about you? How come there’s no prince in shining armor charging in to rescue you from rural Minnesota?”
“I’m between boyfriends. Have been for a while. I got tired of kids pretending to be men. They don’t need a woman. They need a mother, someone to cater to them and do their laundry so they can concentrate on… being kids, basically. Trying to get away with shit and dodging responsibility. Always testing where the limits are. Empty apologies, even emptier promises. No, thank you. They need to grow the fuck up, and not at my emotional expense. I’m seriously considering changing teams.”
Yeah, well, she did seem like the type of woman to be very focused on what she wanted.
He glanced at her. Man, she looked gorgeous. Extra curvy too. He must have overdone it with the booze, because his mouth opened without his brain’s permission. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but your ass is noticeably bigger now than it was this morning. I know Pam’s food is packed with calories, but—”
“This is my Brazilian ass. I got it on the internet.” She might have overdone it with the booze too, because she didn’t even blink at her revelation.
“What?”
“Panties with padding,” she whispered.
His jaw went slack. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. I never go out socially without my Brazilian ass. Those celebrities with those perfect, juicy behinds? Not from the gym, I assure you. It’s fat transfer or implants. I don’t have the money for either, so voilá—Brazilian ass.”
He shook with laughter. “You women don’t fucking get it. Whatever the ass, it doesn’t matter.”
“No, of course it doesn’t. It’s the personality attached to it, right?” she asked, her tone sarcastic.
“Oh, no. It’s the ass. Definitely the ass. But what I mean is that regardless of the shape, it gets us hard. Big, small, round, scrunchy, it doesn’t matter. Asses work for us. Can’t speak for women, but when it comes to asses, men don’t discriminate.”
She pondered for a second. “That’s the most reasonable thing I’ve heard the whole night.”
He’d bet. The attendees at the pasta party were prepping for the end of the world. “All shit considered, it’s a damn good idea to carry a pillow on your ass, because in those high heels, you need to be able to sit anywhere at a moment’s notice.”
“True,” she giggled. “Extremely impractical shoes, but they look awesome.”
“You do look very nice in them. In all your gear.”
She was turning out to be so not what he’d expected. Vivienne had been as much about looking her best as Sky was, but Vivienne would never have admitted to wearing a fake ass.
“Thank you. I smell even better. It’s a pity you’re olfactorily impaired.”
“What do you mean?”
She pointed at his upper lip. “That cream you put under your nostrils every day has its drawbacks. To you, everything smells like roses. It’s a shame you can’t smell me.”
Oh, but he could. By now, all he could smell was her. He was going to start using the nose cream to block her scent, because it shot straight to his cock—the same cock whose predilections had landed him in hot water the last time. His hands on her silky skin as he massaged her amplified the effect. And on that note, he’d better put distance between him and the gorgeous woman sitting by his side, before her sweet smiles and snarky comebacks made him forget how badly he’d crash and burn if he got close to her.
“The company is fantastic, but I’m going to call it a night.” He got up. “For what it’s worth, you don’t need padding. Your ass is fine the way it is.”
“Thanks. Yours isn’t bad either,” she said as he walked away.
He turned back, brow arched. “You checking me out? Again?”
“Blame it on Pam and the home brew. Wait, what do you mean again?”
“You ogled me when you were sick.”
She blushed. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“‘Boy, you’re ripped’ were your exact words, Butterfly.”
“I was delirious,” she concluded.
“And that was before you mentioned scrotal constriction, I might add. I told you I was a perfect gentleman. Unlike another person I know.” There he’d been, trying to help her out of the tub, when she’d pointed at his junk and almost given him a heart attack.
“What?”
“You informed me that even though women prefer men in boxers and I was a prime example why, lack of support down under is linked to hernia. You recommended that if I wanted comfort without sacrificing scrotal support, the answer was boxer briefs.”
Her eyes were almost bugging out of her face. “Really?”
He nodded. “Less dangling but no strangulation, you said. And they sell boxer briefs in all textures and patterns, Superman and SpongeBob included. Don’t you remember?”
She cringed and shook her head, red as a frigging tomato. As red as he’d probably been then. “I don’t recall much of that conversation. In my defense, I was sick as a dog. Totally delirious. And the last fashion show I worked was for men’s underwear.”
“Yeah, yeah, another cheap excuse.”
Unable to restrain his chuckle, Logan left the living room.
Chapter 6
Sky loved thrift stores, but this place was so not it. Staring at the options at Barnie’s, the only grocery slash clothing store in town, wasn’t making them better. Dark green rubber boots, commando st
yle, or bright red vinyl boots in disco style. Both vintage, and not the good kind. Too bad her Manolos couldn’t hack it anymore. She had to get something more suitable. Logan was driving her to Paris this evening to get Arnie, but the drop-off was so late, she was afraid the shops would be closed by then. And Logan was so busy, she didn’t dare ask him to take her there earlier.
Time for some “eenie meenie miney moe.” Whatever the result, it would be a fashion fiasco.
Commando rubber boots it was. Yay. They would go so perfectly with her wardrobe.
“Not exactly Barneys New York, huh?” she heard as she grabbed the offensive items. Shayna was standing near her.
No shit. She’d even snapped a picture of the sign to share on her social media as exhibit A of her misfortune. If she weren’t in NoName, Minnesota, stuck with a bunch of survivalists, she would have thought the store name was a clever pun.
“I’ll make do,” Sky said with a sigh. She had to. Getting out of the house for a morning stroll and a coffee was like taking part in an Iron Man triathlon, for Christ’s sake. Which reminded her. “Are you okay?”
Shayna frowned. “Sure. Why?”
Why? Because just three days ago, Shayna had run a 10K while toting a humongous backpack in a bit over half an hour. It had been snowing, but that hadn’t seemed to matter to anyone. “If I’d taken part in the 10K, I’d still be in a coma.”
Shayna waved it off. “Nah. It’s a question of will power. Your legs go as far as your head takes them.”
Sky’s head would have taken her to the bench closest to the starting line. Then again, Shayna had been in the Marines. Every part of her body probably obeyed her head to the millimeter.
“Hey, Barnie, have your fake eyelashes back,” Shayna called, setting a package on the counter. “No way am I putting these on. I’m still trying to scrape the glue from my fingers, and it’s been a couple of days. That’ll teach me to get beauty stuff from you.”
Sky inspected them. Shayna had made a good call. She would have lost her real eyelashes trying to get these off.
“Can’t give you your money back,” Barnie said, approaching. “The package is open.”
“Don’t want my money back. I want you to get better products.”
The old man shrugged. “Eyelashes ain’t a priority around here.”
If those stacks in the back were anything to go by, toilet paper was priority number one.
“Of course they aren’t,” Shayna grumbled and then turned to Sky. “I don’t suppose you have some nifty trick for faking fake eyelashes, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You just need some patience, baby powder, and a spoon.”
“What’s your shoe size?” Shayna asked. “You an eight?”
“Seven.”
“Close enough. Come on,” Shayna said, pulling her toward the exit. “Leave these here. I got boots you can borrow at my place, and I want to hear more about baby powder.”
The “close enough” worried Sky, but what the heck. Couldn’t be worse than Barnie’s boots. Or Logan’s gigantic Wellingtons.
“You in a hurry?” Shayna asked as they hit the street.
“Not particularly.” She’d already checked on her car and contacted the rental company. They’d offered her a replacement, but seeing as she was staying in town for the time being, she’d declined. They agreed to send her a car when she was ready. “I have an English lesson for Logan’s interns in a couple of hours, though.”
“Plenty of time. How are the classes going?”
“Very well.” Logan had been right. The guys’ knowledge of grammar was on point, so it was a matter of getting them to loosen up enough to make vocabulary mistakes. Logan might have tried his best, but he was intimidating, to say the least. Not to mention they depended on him for grades. Of course they had been closed-lipped. With her it had been easier. Now that the landline was repaired, she’d been showing them YouTube videos about Minnesota and recording videos of them talking about their lives.
“So you’re staying?”
Sky nodded. “I’ll move to Paris when the semester starts. Is there another store around here with a better selection than this one?”
“Nope. Barnie’s has the monopoly.”
“He needs a personal buyer, for Christ’s sake,” Sky muttered. “Why the heck does he have so much toilet paper?”
“It’s the prepper’s number-one necessity.”
“Seriously?” She would have thought that to be guns. Or food.
“Totally. The last thing you want during an apocalypse is an itchy ass. Folks will be aggravated enough as it is. No need to make matters worse.”
Man, these people were nuts. The logic was sound, though.
They arrived at the Hacker Shack in a couple of minutes. Shayna gave some instructions to the girl running it and then led the way into the house. It was colorful and mismatched and hippie-ish. With psychedelic posters and lava lamps too.
“Invasion! Invasion! Get your guns. I’m playing dead!” the voice of an old man yelled as they entered, startling Sky.
Shayna didn’t even blink. She took her jacket off and hung it by the entryway. “Don’t mind Bob. First things first. Rubber boots.”
“No need,” Sky hurried to say, hanging her coat beside Shayna’s. “When I get to Paris, I’ll find something there.” Maybe her Manolos would make it until then.
“Forget it. Paris has a shitty selection too. And a bigger price tag. Let me see,” Shayna said, bringing several pairs of boots out of a closet. “Mine are size eight. Nothing that can’t be solved with two pairs of wool socks, which you should be wearing anyway if you don’t want to lose your toes to frostbite.”
“How very feminine.”
Shayna snorted. “Being feminine around here is a total impossibility.”
No shit. They all wore ski gear over their regular pants or flannel-lined jeans, and double socks and huge jackets. It took a big exercise of self-discipline to get out of bed in the morning and pretty yourself up when you knew the wind and snow were going to ruin your look the second you stepped out the door. No wonder most of them looked the way they did.
“Here, which ones do you prefer?” Shayna asked. There was a pair of shiny black boots with red hearts, and another pair in a pattern of faux camouflage, pink and brown and gray.
“I can’t take your shoes.”
Shayna lifted her feet. She was wearing transparent boots with crazy-colored socks underneath. The boots were rubber, but they had laces and looked military. “I can spare a pair.”
“I’m not much of a camo girl,” Sky said.
“Black with red hearts it is then,” Shayna decided, handing them to her. “Keep them.”
Sky faltered.
“If you go back to Barnie’s and get those ugly boots, I’ll be offended.”
“Okay,” Sky conceded, taking them. “They’re a loan, though. As soon as I get some appropriate footwear, I’ll give them back.”
“Paris isn’t a big city, but they have sidewalks there. And they shovel them. You’ll manage in your fancy shoes. At least until your toes fall off from the cold. You didn’t come ready for this weather.”
“No, I didn’t. There was a bit of a miscommunication with my school. I should have ended up in a more hospitable place.”
“You and me, girl. My delivery stork got lost and dumped me in the wrong damn town.” Shayna paused and gave her a scrutinizing look. “How’s it going? Living with Logan, I mean.”
“Okay, I guess.” She barely saw him during the day. In the evening he brought pizza, complained about his interns’ shyness, and tortured her with TV shows she hated.
“He’s been in town for almost two years, and I haven’t seen him with anyone.”
“I’m not with him. I’m squatting at his place.” Although Sky didn’t understand why his house wasn’t crawling with groupies. He wasn’t only fun to be around, he was also incredibly hot. Even with shitty clothes on. Too bad she’d been delirious and
didn’t remember seeing him naked. Life was so unfair. Then again, she didn’t recall lecturing him on his scrotal health either, so all in all maybe it was for the best.
Before Shayna could ask anything further, Sky changed the subject. “Now your eyelashes: we need mascara, a cotton swab, baby powder, and a spoon.”
“We are making fake eyelashes, not some kind of drug, right?”
Sky laughed. “Not cooking drugs. We need the spoon to lift the eyelid a bit and apply the mascara from the root of the eyelash without messing up the eyelid. I have a credit card, so we can make do without the spoon if we have to. Oh, and we need a blow-dryer and an eyelash curler.”
“Won’t that mess up your credit card?” Shayna asked, kicking off her boots and directing Sky into the living room.
Now it was Sky’s turn to snort. “My credit cards are as good as toasted already. I might as well use them for something.” She noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye and stopped dead in her tracks. There was a big, black bird on the back of a chair in the middle of Shayna’s living room.
“Sky, meet Bob. Bob, this is Patient Zero.”
Bob was a raven? Did ravens talk?
He whistled. “Hello, gorgeous, nice to meet you.”
That answered her question. They not only talked; they whistled too.
Sky must have looked flabbergasted, because Shayna laughed. “Ravens can imitate human speech even better than parrots, and they mimic sounds and noises to perfection too. My dad taught Bob. The idea was to use him as a way to deliver messages, but that was a fail. Learned all the tricks and more, but the ass says whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”
She’d heard about failed service dogs who mastered the tasks but did them whenever they pleased. Service ravens, though? First frigging time. Failed or otherwise.
“It was a brilliant plan, in theory, at least, because ravens are one of the smartest animals, ranking way up, alongside chimpanzees and dolphins. And they live as long as forty years in captivity, so if you trained one bird, you were set for life. In practice, though, it means we’re stuck with Bob for freaking ever.”
