Pineapple Lies

by Amy Vansant

  “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” she asked.

  “I can’t. I mean, I’m all wet.”

  “Like you’re going to ruin my expensive furniture?”

  Declan snickered. “I guess I’m safe there. Though, I might warp your fine wooden folding chair.”

  “Ha ha. I have things you could wear. I have a whole shed full of clothing for stitching out back. I could grab some sweat shorts and a tee.”

  “For stitching? That’s right; you were going to tell me about that.”

  Charlotte motioned for Declan to follow and she led him through a gate into her fenced back yard. The moment they entered, they came face to face with the grave.

  “Oh—” said Charlotte, stopping so quickly Declan bumped into the back of her. “I didn’t think—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Declan, touching her shoulder and speaking softly. “I’ve already seen it. It’s okay.”

  At the feel of his touch a shiver ran down her spine. She hadn’t been ready. It felt good. She wanted his hands on her.

  Run your hand from my shoulder down my arm. Touch my neck.

  “This your shed?” he asked, walking towards the building in the corner of her lot.

  Charlotte mourned the loss of his touch, before snapping to and realizing she was standing in front of his mother’s previous resting place.

  Oh my god. I just got hot to trot in front of his mother’s grave. What is wrong with me?

  She followed Declan toward the shed.

  “Yep, that’s the sweatshop!” she said, a little too perkily. She cleared her throat and tried to find a more appropriate pitch.

  She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run up and tackle him. Why do I want to touch him? She could barely fight the urge.

  “I have a fair amount of odds and ends stock. I’m sure I can find you something,” she said.

  Charlotte spun open the Masterlock. The ridges of the knob felt good against her fingertips. She opened the doors to the spacious shed. She flicked on the light.

  “Electricity and everything.”

  “Look at that thing! It’s huge!” said Declan, admiring the embroidery machine. Resting on its metal stand, it stood over five feet tall.

  “It only has one head, but it’s all I can handle, really,” said Charlotte as she slid out a large cardboard box of clothes. She paused.

  I did not just say that.

  “Who needs more than one head, really,” said Declan.

  Charlotte glanced at him to find him lightly touching the various knobs of the machine. She felt giggly.

  Should I point out he’s fingering my knobs?

  She snorted a laugh.

  “What?” asked Declan.

  “Nothing. Sneeze. Dusty. Here.”

  She stood, holding a pair of men’s sweat shorts. The fabric felt softer than usual. This was a really good pair. She squeezed the cotton between her fingers, stroking it with her thumbs.

  “I knew I had a pair. Black, extra-large. Will that work?”

  “That’s perfect, thank you. I’ll pay you for them.”

  Declan reached out to take the shorts. They tugged back and forth for a moment.

  I can’t let go of these shorts. They are so soft.

  “Can I have them?” he asked.

  She reluctantly released them, her fingers still rubbing against each other as her hands dropped to her sides.

  “The tees are inside. Red okay?”

  “Perfect. Then I’ll match your golf cart.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Declan nodded towards the machine. “So you sew things on that?”

  “Embroider,” she said, holding up a golf head cover with the face of a Golden Retriever stitched on the side. “I don’t sew.”

  This golf head cover is so fuzzy. I never noticed before…

  “And you sell them here?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Here and online. I’m a satellite office for friends of mine up north. Mariska’s son has an online store, Doodlesport.com.”

  “Doodlesport? Is that an embroidery term?”

  “No, it’s a dog. They named it after their Labradoodle.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  She brushed past Declan and felt a shiver again. With a furtive glance towards the open grave, she broke into a trot and opened the backdoor.

  “Hold on,” said Declan.

  Charlotte turned to find him pulling his shirt over his head. His hands stretched above his head and she could see the muscles dance across his ribs, the grooves above his hips leading down to where his wet shorts clung to—

  Oh holy hell.

  Charlotte turned back towards the house, standing rigid, as if someone held a gun to her back.

  Well, in a manner of speaking…

  “Maybe I can keep from getting everything wet if I leave this outside?” said Declan.

  She closed her eyes.

  I think you’re a little late, buddy.

  She turned, slowly, because she couldn’t decide on the appropriate expression and was afraid she’d look like a cartoon wolf.

  She decided on “passively disinterested,” but as she froze her expression into place, she felt more as if she radiated “maniacal mannequin.”

  Declan held his shirt in his hand. He had the chest of a Greek god.

  No—an Irish god. Are there Irish gods? There must be. Celtic, right? I’ll have to look that up. I want to touch it. No. Shut up, Charlotte. What is wrong with you?

  Charlotte admired the ‘V’ shape of Declan’s torso. His shoulders were broad and muscular, but his waist thin, though not disproportionately so. It was a classic swimmer’s body. He had a smattering of dark hair on his broad chest, but it looked as though he trimmed it.

  “Do you swim?” she heard herself ask.

  “Do I swim?”

  Are you blushing? How adorable is that?

  He shifted the shirt he’d been holding out to his side in front of him, blocking her view of his midsection.

  Dammit.

  “I do.”

  “At the beach? Do you surf?”

  “No, it’s too far to go every day. I have a current pool in the backyard. The kind with the jets that let you swim in place? It was my big splurge. I hate jogging.”

  “We certainly have that in common! You…uh…you just have that ‘V’ thing, you know, that surfers and swimmers get.”

  Declan shrugged. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Your chest looks shaved. I thought maybe that was for speed?”

  Why can’t I stop talking?

  Declan looked down at his chest. “I don’t compete. It’s just a little man-scaping, I guess. My last girlfriend said when it started to curl it was ‘gross’ and I got in the habit.”

  “Gross? What, is she afraid of actual men?”

  “I caught her with another man, so I don’t think fear of men was the problem.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Wait. Did he say last girlfriend?

  “You said last girlfriend. You mean the girlfriend before your current one?”

  “There is no current one.”

  “But I thought you said you were good? At the shop?”

  “What? Oh—I meant good with being set up with other people’s grandkids. Not good, I have a girlfriend. Hey, can we stop taking about my grooming habits and love life and go in now? These shorts are starting to chafe.”

  “Sorry. There’s an outdoor shower right here if you want to slip into the sweat shorts before you come in. We can leave your clothes out here to dry or I can throw them in the dryer.”

  “I’ll just drape them over the shower. That works.”

  Declan threw his shirt over the wooden-slat wall of the shower and stepped inside.

  Charlotte felt the urge. She fought it, valiantly, for a microsecond, and then spun and burst into the house.

  One of the kitchen windows overlooked the shower. She ran to it and leaned over the counter. Slowly, she raised her head until her eyes were high
enough to peek down. He had his back to her. The window was high enough that there was no reason Declan would look up and notice her, but it gave her a bird’s eye view of him.

  Declan’s shorts fell to the ground with a heavy wet slap she could hear from inside.

  Boxer briefs. Nice.

  He fumbled with the new sweat shorts a moment, removing the tag. He paused. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to leave on his underwear. His thumbs hung in the waistband, toying with sliding them down.

  Tease.

  Declan nodded his head side to side and made his decision. He stepped out of his boxer briefs. Charlotte could see the flash of his white tush, glowing against the slightly darker skin of his sinewy back.

  Mesmerized by the moon, she nearly didn’t see him start to turn toward her. She ducked as if under fire, slamming her elbow into the edge of her stove, sending pain vibrating through her funny bone. She howled and slid to the floor, gripping her arm with her right hand.

  A moment later, Declan burst through the back door.

  “Are you okay?” he said, reaching her with one long stride.

  Charlotte looked up at him, wincing in pain, waiting for the tingling sensation to subside. He wore the sweat shorts and nothing else.

  “Hit my funny bone,” she muttered as he pulled her to her feet by her good arm.

  “How the heck did you do that?” he asked. As he did, he looked out the window. With his height, Charlotte knew he could see the view into the outdoor shower.

  Whoops.

  He squinted at her.

  “I was over there,” she said, pointing to the other side of the room. “And swung it back into the handle of the refrigerator.”

  “How did you end up on the floor over here?”

  “I ran. You know, when you hurt yourself and you bolt? I ran and slid to the floor in pain when I’d run as far as I could. Which was here. In front of the stove.”

  “You could have just turned and kept running.”

  “That would have been weird.”

  She touched his leg. The hair felt brilliant beneath her fingertips.

  He must have the best leg hair ever.

  Declan grabbed the hand not stroking his leg and helped her to her feet.

  Awww. She stared as his legs. She wanted to sit on the floor and touch them again.

  Would that be weird? That would be weird.

  She patted him twice in rapid succession on his right pec.

  Bouncy.

  “All better now, thanks,” she said, and moved away from the window toward the island counter to separate herself from the urge to play his pecs like bongos. She opened the refrigerator and stared inside, suddenly struck by how empty it was. It looked like her apartment. She grimaced and shut the door before Declan could see.

  “I have a frozen pizza?” she said, opening the freezer side.

  Declan walked over and stood behind her. She tried to box him out and prevent him from seeing. There was nothing inside except a pizza, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, a bottle of vodka and a bag of peas.

  She reached in and pulled the lid from the ice cream. She grabbed a rugged chunk of it with her fingers and slipped it into her mouth.

  Heaven.

  She knew why she ate it. It wasn’t for the taste. She couldn’t believe she was about to act on the scenario running through her head, but she was going to do it.

  I have to.

  She replaced the lid and felt his fingers touch her hip as he leaned to peer inside.

  You came to me.

  Fool. You’re mine now.

  “That bag of peas looks outnumbered by junk food,” he said.

  He has no idea what’s about to hit him.

  Charlotte shut the door and turned. She looked into Declan’s eyes and he stared back, silent.

  “I have to do this,” she said.

  Charlotte placed her hands on Declan’s chest and paused, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, steady, but picking up pace. Emboldened by his acceptance, she slid her hands to his shoulders and lifted her chin, willing him to make his lips available to her.

  He slipped his arms around her waist and leaned forward into her kiss. For a moment, she couldn’t decide what felt better; the kiss, or his willingness to follow her lead. He pulled his mouth from hers and kissed her neck, his teeth touching her skin with every other nibble.

  She made her decision. The kissing was better. Hands down.

  She tilted back her head and groaned quietly, the electricity of anticipation filling her chest and taking the fast train downward. He felt amazing. He leaned back against her kitchen island and pulled her closer.

  Declan’s lips returned to hers. Mouths opening, their tongues touched, and the corner of her busy mouth found the chance to curl into a smile. Her world tasted like mint chocolate chip ice cream. She hoped he appreciated her makeshift breath mint.

  Someone’s knocking on my front door.

  She wanted the idea clamoring through her brain to be a metaphor, but as the banging began a second time, she recognized her thought to be literal. She really did hear someone at the door.

  “No. No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled, barely removing her lips from Declan’s. “Ignore it.”

  “Charlotte! I know you’re in there!” called a voice, accompanied by a third string of knocks.

  I know that voice. Only one person in the neighborhood said “know” with two syllables.

  “It’s Darla,” she said, resting her head on Declan’s chest. She rubbed her cheek back and forth across his chest hair.

  “You said to ignore her,” he said, cupping the back of her head, his lips now resting on her hair.

  “She has a key.”

  Declan sighed. “You better get it. She sounds determined.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Running her palms across Declan’s muscular back, she forgot what they’d been talking about. She kissed his chest before the sound of her door opening threw her back into the present. She spun and saw Darla freeze as she looked up from Abby’s bouncy greeting and spotted them in the kitchen.

  “Oh—oh—I’m so sorry. You never—you—I was worried…”

  Charlotte’s back was to Declan, but her right hand moved to pet the soft cotton of his shorts along his outer thigh. It was soothing.

  “It’s okay Darla, what do you need?” It was hard to find the breath to make the words. Her heart was racing.

  She moved to take a step forward, but felt a tug on her shorts. Declan had hooked his finger into an unused belt loop and pulled her back into position. The tug of the fabric against her hips made her long for missed opportunities.

  “You have to stand in front of me,” he whispered, his tone, urgent.

  “Why—” Charlotte took a step back and felt something against her butt. Something hard.

  “Soft shorts,” she whispered over her shoulder. “No restraint.”

  “I hope you mean the fabric.”

  “I don’t,” she said, reaching behind her back to feel for him. Declan made a little “aagh” noise of horror and spun away from behind her. He walked around the island and stood behind it, his elbows leaning on the tiles.

  “Hi Darla,” he said, waving. “My clothes were wet, we’re waiting for them to dry.”

  “I can see that. Really. I’m at a loss for words.”

  “Darla!” said Charlotte. “Since when are you such a prude?”

  “Oh Char, I don’t mean you two and what you’d call hanky-panky….”

  “I really don’t think we would call it that. We’re not a hundred and four.”

  “You might,” said Declan in her ear.

  Charlotte shot him a glare and they smirked at each other.

  “You two are adorable,” said Darla. “I don’t care what you’re up to. I invented that stuff. I’ve been hotter and heavier than that in an air-conditioned Kentucky laundromat at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Pleas
e don’t go there.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is y’all can do whatever you like. Hell, if I were your age I’d—” Darla threw a hand out towards Declan. “Well I don’t want to give you any advanced ideas you might not be ready for. It’s the fact that it is Declan here that has me flustered.”

  “She expect someone else?” he mumbled. Charlotte slapped the island behind her without turning. The sensation in her hand was like a pleasure firecracker.

  What the hell?

  “What do you mean?” she asked Darla.

  “I came with news. Frank just got back. The test was positive on that gun you gave him, Declan. He needs to know where it came from.”

  Charlotte turned as Declan rose from his elbows and stood straight. Charlotte didn’t worry about what Darla could see now. If finding out your uncle killed your mother wasn’t a boner-killer, she didn’t know what was.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Seamus!”

  Declan burst through the door of his home. Seamus wasn’t at the pool and Charlotte had confirmed that he wasn’t at Jackie’s. When he arrived home and saw his uncle’s car in the driveway, the mixture of dread and relief left him frozen in his seat for a full minute.

  “Out here!” called Seamus’ voice.

  Declan spotted him standing next to the lap pool, still wearing his trunks. He strode across the living room and slid open the door to join him in the backyard.

  “What are you doing?” asked Declan.

  “Well, I’m already damp and I’m lookin’ at this contraption of yours. You’re in good shape. I’m wondering if I could master it.”

  “Seamus, we need to talk.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, boyo. I forgive you. I told you that.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It matched.”

  “What matched?”

  “Your gun and the bullet they found. Ballistics was a match.”

  Declan had never seen his uncle loose his cool. The man’s face went pale as death.

  “You’re joking with me?”

  “I wouldn’t joke about this.”

  Seamus’ legs buckled under him and Declan reached to keep him from tumbling into the shallow pool. His uncle squatted on his heel, steadying himself with his fingertips on the ground.

  “Tell me…” said Declan, trying to keep his voice as steady as the situation would allow.