by Mia Kerick
Too bad they all rush back when he slows down to pull into my driveway.
Bodie stops the massive bike and drops his boots to the crushed shells. When he freezes like an ice sculpture, I take it as my cue to let him go. I lower my hands to my thighs.
“Go ahead and hop off.” His voice is gruff.
At first, I struggle to swing my leg over the machine without using his body to steady me. Realizing the futility, I place a palm on his shoulder and slide sideways. He doesn’t shrink away but waits with patience as I use his body for stability. “Thanks for the lift home.”
“You liked it?” Bodie glances sideways, studying me from the corners of his eyes.
I take time to formulate a truthful response, somehow certain he’d recognize a lie. “It was. I mean, it made me feel so…so out there.”
My reply makes no sense, but Bodie nods. “Out there,” he repeats.
I drag my fingers through my long hair, pulling out the tangles created by the wind. “The darkness and the wind, and the road so close beneath my feet.”
Bodie slides his leg over the bike and secures the kick stand. He’s focused on what he’s doing, but I can tell he’s also listening by the way he cocks his head.
“It didn’t scare me, really. It just reminded me that human beings are kind of fragile.”
For a few seconds, Bodie stands as still as a stone, gaze fixed on his bike. “I wouldn’t ever let you fall, Ollie.” His shoulders are rigid. Defensive.
“I never said that.”
Bodie opens the saddle bag and pulls out his Stetson. Once it’s settled on his head, pushed down low enough in front to shadow his eyes, he seems to relax. “Got my key. Come on, I’ll let you in.”
It’s odd indeed to follow him up the walkway to my own home. And it’s surreal to wait at the bottom of the front steps as a relative stranger unlocks my front door and holds open the door to allow me entrance. To the cottage I’ve scrimped and saved and sacrificed to pay for.
“After you.” He speaks gallantly and steps aside as I walk through the door.
Inside the cottage, Bodie turns and locks up. Once face to face, we gawk at each other until I collect myself enough to ask, “How about a beer?”
“Could use one,” he replies and takes the few steps to the couch. But he doesn’t sit.
I find Hugo, my nonwatchdog, fast asleep in the kitchen, curled on the mat by the back door. “Out you go, boy,” I urge and open the door to the deck. He drags himself up and, after a quick nuzzle in my palms, heads outside to answer nature’s call.
I grab a couple of beers from the fridge, pop off the caps, and meet Bodie in the living room. “Here you go. I’ll be right back.”
He stands beside the couch, shoulders rigid. Not even slightly relaxed.
I return to the kitchen to let Hugo back inside. He trots after me to the living room where I plop into Dad’s old chair. Hugo greets Bodie with a frantically wagging tail. Bodie bends to hug him around the neck and deposit a kiss to his wet nose. After giving out so much love, though, Bodie continues to hover awkwardly in front of the couch.
“Take a load off your feet,” I say, which seems to break the spell.
He turns to look at me, golden eyes wide, and at long last drops onto the couch. He pats the place beside him in invitation to Hugo, who gladly obliges.
“You don’t have to wait for me to ask you to sit down, you know.” Bodie dips his chin to receive a few more kisses from Hugo. “This is your home too. Until Labor Day.”
“’Kay,” he replies softly. I don’t think he believes me.
It’s well past two in the morning, but I’m not ready for bed. I want to keep talking to Bodie. So strange for me, the guy who thrives on solitude. “How did your first night at Surf’s Up go?”
“Good, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Gotta get folks used to following some rules.” His hands are large and strong, moving restlessly through Hugo’s fur. “They’re a rowdy bunch.”
“It’s been a free-for-all for at Surf’s Up for a few weeks now. Since we lost our last doorman.”
“Won’t be a free for all much longer,” he assures me, his eyes feasting on Hugo. Who I’ll admit to feeling rather envious of, at the moment. “I promise you that.”
“It was a luxury to worry only about serving drinks, instead of having to show the troublemakers the door.” He may not want to look at me, but the feeling isn’t mutual. I struggle not to stare. I’m not sure whether it’s attraction that draws my attention. Maybe it’s the novelty of having a rugged, but reticent, cowboy stretched out on my hand-me-down couch. “So anyway, thanks.”
Bodie lifts the hat from his head and places it carefully on the coffee table. His hair is damp, curling into dark red ringlets around his face; it must be nervousness that’s making him perspire. And I wonder why. “It’s my job to keep things calm.”
“I know.” I drain my beer, not from thirst as much as from the need to do something with my mouth, other than spurt stupid remarks.
My housemate does the same. Then he stands and snatches the bottle from my hand. “You recycle, man?”
I must remember to fill Bodie in on the practical aspects of living here. “Uh, there’s a blue bin under the kitchen sink. Empties go in there.”
“Cool.” After one last long stroke to Hugo’s back he glances at me. “It’s nice to have a place to come home to.”
He strides across the room to the kitchen. Bottles clink and a cabinet bangs shut, and then Bodie appears in the hallway.
“Hey, Bodie.” I jump to my feet and head after him in the direction of the bedrooms. “You’re gonna need some sheets and a blanket. And a pillow.”
He’s standing just inside the doorway of the second bedroom, staring at the bed in the exact same way he gawked at the couch a few minutes ago. “Nah. I’m all set.”
“You can’t sleep on a bare mattress.”
Bodie turns to face me. “I been sleeping on the ground beside my bike for a week. That bare mattress looks damn good.”
I shake my head and go to the linen closet. “My house, my rules. Here, you’ll sleep with a pillow and bed covers.”
“You make me feel like more than a stranger.” He grins his crooked grin.
Instead of melting into the floor from the heat that has already started to burn in my belly, I brush past him into his room. His still full bags rest neatly in the corner and the pink towel he borrowed before work hangs from a drawer knob on the bureau. Rather than ask one of a million questions about why he had nowhere to sleep last week but on the ground, I busy myself with making his bed.
“Hey.” He tries to pull the sheet from my hand. “I can do it.”
I yank the sheet back. “There’s a pillow on the top shelf of the closet. Put the pillowcase on it.”
Bodie’s shoulders stiffen at my command, and I suspect he’s winding up to tell me to get the hell out of his bedroom. But he goes to the closet, grabs the pillow, and shoves it into the pillowcase I left on the bureau.
After his bed is made, we stand shoulder to shoulder looking at it. “You’ll be more comfortable now,” I say.
“That I will…and thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I guess I’ll…uh, go to bed, then.” I linger senselessly, as if waiting for him to ask me to stay.
“Hang on a sec. I got something for you.” He reaches into the black leather duffel and slides out an envelope from the side compartment. “Here.”
I take the envelope from his hand and peek inside. Five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“It’s the rent,” I state.
“Ya know, the reason you’re putting up with my ass all summer,” he reminds me.
A short spurt of breath escapes my lips. Have I made my irritation with having a temporary roommate so obvious? “Well, you should’ve used this money for hotel rooms on your trip to Gillamour Island,” I snap, slapping the envelope against my palm. It sucks to think of Bodie sleeping on the
hard ground.
“A deal’s a deal, right? Five hundred bucks a month.” The sideways smile is more satisfied than smug. “Up front too.”
“Whatever.” He’s right. Bodie isn’t doing me any favors. He’s just forking over what he owes. I turn and head for the door.
“Night, Ollie.”
The distinct sound of a sizable body flopping heavily onto a creaky mattress assaults my ears before I’m out the door. And then a contented sigh of comfort. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me profoundly in a certain spot between my hips and thighs.
Chapter 4
I’m not sure what to expect when I wake up in the morning. I open my eyes and listen for sounds that will prepare me for this new presence in my life. Is Bodie is in his bedroom, fast asleep within the crisp new sheets I put on his bed last night? Is he leaning on the kitchen counter, nibbling on the snacks he promised to share? Or is he in the bathroom between our bedrooms, naked and waiting for the old clawfoot tub to fill so he can bathe?
No audible clue provides me with a hint. All I know for certain is that a virtual stranger shared my sacred space last night. Not even Jack slept here—the cottage is my sanctuary. And now, this. But despite having a stranger in my home, I slept soundly.
Clad only in my plaid cotton boxers, I creep out of bed. What is acceptable protocol for breakfast attire in this novel situation? Am I required to wear a T-shirt and shorts—in my very own house—to be presentable when I turn up in my very own kitchen to make coffee? Or can I just be me? The same Oliver who has slid out of bed practically naked, stumbled to the coffeepot on the kitchen counter, and brewed a pot before his eyes are fully open. As I have for the past two years, since I purchased this cottage.
I decide I’ll be halfway presentable, if that’s even a thing. I pull on a retro Madonna concert T-shirt but skip the shorts. I sneak from my bedroom and make a quick stop in the bathroom and then head to the kitchen for coffee. Strangely, Hugo isn’t straggling along beside me, a visual reminder that it’s time for his morning pee and bowl of kibble.
As I approach the kitchen, the smell informs me that coffee has already been brewed; a mug and spoon wait beside the coffeepot on a torn paper towel. For me? I’m not sure of Bodie’s intent, but I fill the mug and take the few steps to the screen door that leads to the side deck. Gripping the metal door handle, I peer outside. Bodie is sitting, slumped on the back steps, clad in a wrinkled black T-shirt and the same faded Levi’s as last night, simultaneously sipping from a mug of coffee and patting Bodie. His face is lifted toward the morning sun, eyes closed, absorbing the rays. And he wears a smaller version of that sexy, crooked smile, the left side of his mouth tugged up almost provocatively. A more honest version of the smile than the one he presents to me. And it’s an I’m-happy-to-be-alone sort of smile.
I stop myself before opening the door because I don’t want to destroy his quiet moment. Somehow, I sense that he needs time on his own to prepare for the day. Something I fully relate to, as I have a similar need. Unfortunately, Hugo picks up on the sound of my footsteps and races to the screen door to bid me good morning. Bodie immediately recognizes that he’s no longer alone. He doesn’t turn to look at me but tilts his head to the side, listening for my voice.
I push open the flimsy door and let Hugo in. “Ready for breakfast, buddy?” I greet him.
Bodie rockets around to study me with his pale brown eyes. He thinks I was inviting him to break bread with me.
“And I can scramble some eggs for us too, Bodie,” I offer, in a casual tone. The last thing I want is to embarrass him.
“No need to go to trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I assure him. I let the screen door slam and head to the cabinet for Hugo’s bag of kibble.
By the time I’ve poured Hugo’s breakfast, Bodie is beside me in front of the fridge. “Hope it’s cool I made coffee.”
“It’s fine.” I load my arms with eggs, milk, butter, and fresh Romano cheese. All I need now is my special onion and garlic chili powder blend from the spice rack. “There’s OJ too, if you want to grab it.”
“’Kay.”
“You can make toast. Bread’s in the breadbox.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now you’re calling me sir?” I quip.
“Do you like it as much as I do?” His gaze slides from my face down my back to my boxers where it remains. “Gotta admit, I kinda enjoyed it.”
My face heats as I focus my attention on scrambling the eggs in an old crockery bowl that came with the cottage.
“You sure can cook, sir.” Bodie smiles crookedly at me across the kitchen table.
“It’s just scrambled eggs, not a cheese soufflé,” I reply sourly. Then I stand and reach for his empty plate.
Before I can grab his dish, though, his massive hand lands on my wrist. Just for a second, but the fullness of its effect is not lost on me. Goose bumps rise on my chest at the firm touch, and heat climbs my neck. “I’m on dish duty.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” I turn toward Hugo, who is waiting less than patiently at the front door. “Give me a second, boy. Gotta make myself presentable for public viewing.”
“Presentable,” he repeats. “I think you’re presentable…just the way you are.” He chuckles faintly as I scramble to my bedroom where I throw on some shorts.
I need to run. To work the kinks out of my muscles and the stress from my brain. So I trot right past Bodie, who is hard at work scrubbing the frying pan, hook Hugo up to his leash, and slip from the front door. I make my way across the street to run on the beach. The smell of salt and a humid breeze in my hair and sweat on my skin. My only solace. Until I’m cruising along the coast in my convertible.
When I get back to the cottage, Bodie’s bike is gone. I’m glad I thought to stick my keys in my pocket. Hugo and I climb the steps to the back deck and enter through the kitchen door. The breakfast dishes are neatly stacked in the strainer beside the sink. The simple sight brings a lump to my throat. I’m not used to anyone doing my chores for me. I fill a bowl of water for Hugo and a metal travel bottle for myself and then retreat to my bedroom where I hide.
I stretch out on my unmade bed and pull the covers over my head. This dimming of daylight is exactly what I need. Savoring the solitary grayness, I close my eyes to enhance this subtle distance from the world. I don’t know why being alone and certain that my privacy can’t be violated is so critical to me. My best guess is that, while I was growing up, there were no boundaries that allowed me to be a separate entity from my mother.
When it came to her only child, Mom felt at liberty to do as she pleased, which is an extravagant understatement. As I came of age, she violated every line I drew in the sand to protect my fledgling sense of individuality. In her mind, the rules did not apply to her, and still don’t.
When I became a teenager, my mother would enter my bedroom when I was asleep to rifle through my drawers and my backpack and even my waste basket in search of information she believed I’d withheld from her. She stormed into the bathroom when I was bathing to examine and evaluate my body. She searched my computer history to discover my passions, and she perused my cell phone to learn my connections.
“My son will have no secrets from his mother,” Mom had declared time and again.
Dad wasn’t obsessed by my grooming habits or my social media presence, but he was nonetheless complicit in Mom’s transgressions. Wanting to remain in her good graces, he looked the other way as she violated my privacy. Which I sympathized with…but, to this day, I resent his inaction. Since their divorce, he has often expressed his regret. Things are better between us now, but far from perfect.
Mom’s constant encroachment on my personal life—her unquenchable need for absolute awareness of my mind and body—coupled with Dad’s lack of will to protect me, shaped me into the man I am today. In the ways that paralyze me.
I lie in bed for hours, savoring my solitude. Sharing my home with a stran
ger was a very bad idea—I’m not sure I will survive it. No vehicle, despite the diversion it offers, is worth this.
I’m provided sufficient warning of my housemate’s return. The rumble of the Harley precedes the clinking of a key in the front door. Once inside, Bodie isn’t noisy, nor does he seem to be in any way intrusive. But since I’m not one to offer much trust without concrete proof that it has been earned, I listen for clues as to his actions. The ruffle of grocery bags is followed by measured steps in the kitchen and the second bedroom. And low murmuring to Hugo.
“We’ll go outside when my work is done, boy. I promise.”
There’s a stacked washer and dryer in the corner of the kitchen that I neglected to point out to Bodie, but he appears to have found. I’m curious as to what he’s washing and realize that the only way to find out is to leave the blissful security of my bedroom. My curiosity proves to be a stronger draw than my need to avoid my housemate. I haul myself from the safety of my bed, pull my tangled hair into a low ponytail, and stride to the kitchen.
“Ollie,” is all he says when I make my appearance.
Groceries line the granite countertop. Not an excessive amount, but a few carefully chosen items. “You went shopping.” Talk about stating the obvious.
He nods once. And smiles. Mostly on the left side of his face. “That I did.”
I saunter into the kitchen and study his purchases. “You didn’t have to food shop. I’ve got plenty.” We never discussed whether we’d share the cost of food or go our own separate ways. I’m truly not certain if these purchases are an expression of his desire to work with me or strike out on his own.
“Gotta pitch in, right?”
“I guess. And, uh, you’re doing laundry.” More senseless commentary.
“Yep.”
I place a hand on my hip and wait for an explanation, uncertain as to whether I’m entitled to one.
“Got some sheets and towels. I stripped my bed—and I’m washing the shit you lent me.”
I make a huffing sound that surprises me. “I told you that you didn’t need to waste your money on sheets and towels.”
