When the Storm Ends

by Jillian Anselmi

  Why am I so attracted to him? He’s so full of himself and cocky. I hate that in a guy, but he’s managed to grow on me. Maybe it’s the witty banter and the way he makes me forget about everything, even if only for a moment. Just watching him stirs emotions in me I’ve never felt.

  Brody brings the horses back up and ties them to a large branch. Once they’re secure, he sits down next to me on the blanket. Pulling out forks and napkins, he hands me a sandwich and one of the salads.

  As he starts to inhale his turkey and Swiss, I turn and say, “Spill it.”

  “Spill what?” he asks between bites, his tone deadpan.

  “Stop being so obtuse. You know what.”

  “My life is borin’.”

  “I’m sure it’s not boring,” I insist. “C’mon, I want to know.”

  “Okay,” he says, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “I was born and raised in Texas, a little town called Palmer, just south of Dallas. I have four older sisters.”

  “Aw, you’re the baby?” I envision him as a cute little toddler running around the house.

  “Yeah. I was tormented as a child. They liked to dress me up in girly clothes. It was horrible,” he says, shaking his head. He tried to frown, but I see right through his façade and burst out laughing. “What?” he asks, affronted.

  “Oh my God. I would pay money to see you in a dress!” I say, hysterical.

  Standing, he says, “I looked good. I mean, look at these legs.” He turns away from me and poses, his arm on his hip with his waist twisted so he’s looking back. Although I can’t see through his jeans, they’re tight enough to give me a good idea of what he looks like underneath them. It’s enough for me to stop laughing.

  Clearing my throat, I tease, “Did they put you in a bonnet too?”

  “No,” he says, sitting back down. “But as I got older, every girl I ever brought home was given the third degree. By my junior year of high school, I stopped bringin’ girls ‘round.”

  “How much older are they?”

  “Well, all of my sisters were born two years apart. I was the oops born five years after the youngest.” Brody strokes his chin for a moment. “I’m twenty-six, so Cassidy, who’s the youngest, is thirty-one, Harper is thirty-three, Shelby is thirty-five, and Piper is thirty-seven.”

  “Wow,” I murmur.

  “Piper’s the quiet one, keeps to herself. Guess that’s from bein’ the oldest. Shelby could start an argument in an empty house. She’s a feisty one. Cassidy and Harper are both girly girls. Always dressin’ up and goin’ out with different guys every night. Once I got older, they got scared bringin’ guys ‘round.” As he finishes the last sentence, he smiles.

  “I could see how that may be a conflict in their interests. Do you still see them a lot?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.

  “Not as much as I’d like to. Piper and Harper moved out of state, Cassidy and Shelby still live in Texas. Cassidy’s in Austin and Shelby’s close to Houston.” Brody shifts so he’s sitting directly in front of me. “They were a pain in the ass, but they’re my sisters and I miss them.”

  “What about your parents?” I ask as he tops off my glass.

  “My dad’s a cop. My mom stayed home to deal with us crazies.”

  “I could only imagine the chaos in your house with four girls.”

  Laughing, he said, “The bathroom was never free. It was easier to go outside and take a leak on a bush than wait for any of them.”

  “You didn’t!” I exclaim, my mouth wide open.

  Smiling, he nods. “It was either that or burst in on them doin’ whatever it is girls do in there.”

  “Ha! That wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

  “No. I threatened to, and they would open the door and throw things at me like brushes. Once, I banged on the door so long, Cassidy came flyin’ out and chased me ‘round the house with a curling iron that was still sizzlin’.”

  “Oh no,” I say, laughing.

  “Yeah, she was madder than a wet hen,” he chuckles. “I learned how to be wily and quick. I could fit under things most people wouldn’t think of goin’ under. I had to always be one step ahead.” Brody finishes his glass and pours another. “Honestly, it was great trainin’. It helps me think where perps might be hidin’ when I’m lookin’ for them.”

  “Makes total sense,” I say, giggling.

  The corners of his mouth quirk upward. “Seriously,” he insists.

  His honest but amused expression makes me laugh even harder. “Sure,” I say, dragging out the R.

  “Are you makin’ fun of me?”

  “No, not at all,” I deadpan, sipping on my wine.

  Shaking his head, he shifts so he’s leaning on his side with his elbow on the blanket. “Anyway, while I was in high school, I made the decision to become a cop like my pops.”

  “You could’ve taken up a career as a stalker,” I tease. “You’re pretty good at that too.”

  “Now, now,” he says with a smirk.

  “How long have you known Travis?”

  “Travis? Well, let me see.” His brow furrows as his mouth twists to the side. “I’ve been here three years and Travis was transferred in from Baytown a couple months after I got here.”

  “Seems like you two are pretty close.”

  “Yeah . . . well, we had a close call together,” he murmurs, running his hand through his hair.

  “Close call?” I ask, my interest piqued.

  “About a month after he started in Dayton, we got a domestic dispute call. There was a full moon and it was hotter than normal. We were sweatin’ like whores in church.” Brody leans and picks up his glass, taking a large sip. “As we pulled up to the house, there were two people standin’ on the front lawn hollerin’ at each other. Wasn’t nothin’ between her and the Lord but a smile.”

  “Wait, what does that mean?”

  “Sorry,” he chuckles. “Means she was buck ass naked.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, amused.

  “Yes, ma’am. Somethin’ bout him cheatin’ on her was what I gathered. So we got out of the car and the crazy bastard started screamin’ at us. Travis approached him while I went to the trunk to pull out a blanket to cover the batshit crazy lady. As I came ‘round the back of the car, I saw the guy go at Travis with a huntin’ knife. I hauled ass to help him, and the naked lady started screamin’ at me and jumped on my back.”

  “Holy shit,” I murmur. Sitting with my legs crisscrossed and my elbows on my knees, I lean my chin on my intertwined fingers, totally entranced in his story.

  “Holy shit is right. She was ridin’ my back like a buckin’ bronco and Travis was dodgin’ knife thrusts. I flipped her off and she went flyin’ through the air, landin’ on her ass. Turning to help Travis, I watched as he pulled some maneuver I’d only ever seen in trainin’ videos. He grabbed Bubba’s arms and twisted them behind his back. The big guy fell on his face, and before I could blink, Travis had him cuffed. The whole thing happened faster than a knife fight in a phone booth.”

  “That’s crazy!” I shout, placing my hands flat on the blanket.

  “So, I cuff the lady before she has a chance to jump on me again. She’s still screamin’ and hollerin’, but not makin’ any sense. Turns out, they were both high as kites.”

  “No one got hurt, right?” I gasp.

  “Nah, we were both just fine,” he says with a chuckle

  “So, can I just say, I love these crazy terms. Tell me some more.”

  “Crazy terms?” he repeats, tilting his head.

  “Yeah, you know. Southern sayings,” I reply with a smile. Between the sayings and the accent, I’m loving the stories.

  “You want to hear another story?”

  “Um, yeah!” I say, nodding my head with a smile before shoveling potato salad into my mouth while focusing on Brody.

  “Okay. Let me think of a good one,” he says as he tops off my glass, finishing the bottle. “I was out on patrol and saw a truck drivin’ erraticall
y. I flipped on my lights to pull him over, but he didn’t stop. So, I came ‘round the side of the vehicle, motionin’ him to pull off the road. It looked like he was havin’ a seizure,” he says, laughing.

  “What’s so funny about someone having a seizure while they’re driving!” I challenge, not seeing the humor.

  Brody turns bright red, his grin stretching across his face. “I finally get him pulled over. As I sprinted over to the driver’s side to make sure he was okay, I realized it wasn’t a seizure.” Laughing, he shakes his head.

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” I plead.

  “A blonde head popped up out of his lap. He was gettin’ . . . she was . . .” He makes a gesture using his tongue and his right hand.

  “You’re kidding!” I blurt out, laughing.

  Lifting his brows, his head cocks as he gives me a sideways smile. “I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. He looked up at me, not knowin’ whether to check his ass or scratch his watch.”

  I can’t breathe I’m laughing so hard. Looking over at Brody through my tears, I see he’s laughing right along with me.

  “You must have a ton of these stories!” I say, still laughing. The more Brody talks shop and relaxes, the thicker his accent becomes and his words become filled with southern colloquialisms. I’ve never seen him so content. It’s as if he’s been hiding his true self from me, and I think this version is adorable.

  “Nah, but some of the old timers have a slew of good tales,” he says, still chuckling. “You ready to continue our ride?”

  “Ready, Freddy.”

  Brody rides beside me the entire time, making sure I’m all right. The way he’s watching me makes me feel safe, even though I know there’s nothing he can do if I fall. Behind his tough guy attitude lies a sensitive, caring man, and as hard as he tries to hide it, I’m learning to see through him.

  BY THE TIME we get back to the barn, it’s time for dinner. “You hungry?” he asks as he hands Lucifer to the barn hand.

  “Starving,” I admit.

  “Do you like Mexican food?”

  “Love it.”

  “There’s this tiny little place near Houston that’s famous for its fajitas,” he says as we walk to the car.

  “I was more interested in the tequila,” I murmur.

  Brody stops in his tracks, turning to me. “Really? You’re a tequila drinker?”

  “I’ve been known,” I tease.

  “Well, this day keeps gettin’ better and better. I’m the king of tequila,” he boasts.

  “Is that a fact?” I challenge. Looking him up and down, I say, “I can totally drink you under the table.”

  “Careful, darlin’. You’re at least half my size. And I’m a guy.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, walking toward the car. “Like that has anything to do with it.”

  “Is that a challenge?” he asks as he gets in the truck.

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  AN HOUR AND two Ninfarita margarita’s later, our waitress serves us our dinner. As we eat in a comfortable silence, the server brings over two shot glasses with limes. Narrowing my eyes, I glance over at Brody. “So, this is how it’s going down?”

  “You’re the one who said you could out drink me.” He finishes his fajitas and pushes his plate away, setting a shot glass in front of him. Staring directly at me, he places the back of his left hand against his lips. With a devilish grin, he licks the back of his palm, slow and concise. His eyes only leaving mine to find the salt, his intense gaze returns as he shakes the crystals onto his dampened hand.

  Without flinching, he picks up the shot glass and places it against his bottom lip. He tips his head back slightly, his eyes still locked on mine, then tilts the shot glass back and the clear liquid disappears down his throat. Just as fast as the shot’s finished, Brody reaches for a lime and sucks. Damn, he makes that look hot, but I’m not letting him distract me. “Your turn,” he says, smiling.

  “If you insist.” I signal the waiter, asking him to bring another shot. I push my plate away and give Brody a wink as the waiter places the second glass in front of me. Without any of the traditional crap you need for tequila, I grab the shot, throw it back, slam the glass down on the table, and pick up the second, repeating my actions. Tilting my head slightly, I say with a cocky grin, “Training wheels are for pussies.”

  Mid-sip of his now watered down margarita, Brody comes close to shooting the liquid through his nose. Slamming the glass down, he chokes and laughs at the same time, causing some of his drink to drip down his chin. He wipes his face with the back of his arm. With an exaggerated cough, he says, “Damn, girl, maybe I’m not givin’ you enough credit.”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I answer, “I’ve been drinking tequila since I was eighteen.”

  Brody’s smile widens as he shakes his head. “Okay, I know when I’ve been beat,” he says, his hands straight out in front of him in an exaggerated bow.

  Giggling, I say, “That’s right, bow to the master.”

  “Now, darlin’, let’s not get carried away. I’ll give you this one.” Straightening, he motions to the waiter for the check. “I think I’ve had enough tequila, how about you?”

  “Maybe,” I tease.

  Lifting a brow, he says, “We can always move to the bar.”

  I’ve been known to do crazy, stupid things with too much tequila, and it’s probably for the best I don’t drink anymore. There is truth to the saying, “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” But, I’m not in the mood to go back to my apartment yet, so the bar it is. “Yeah, let’s go to the bar.”

  Chuckling to himself, Brody pays the bill and we take a seat at the multi-color tiled bar. I order another margarita and Brody opts for a water. “You really done?”

  “Someone has to drive,” he sighs.

  I’m starting to feel the effects of the two quick shots I just had. The first stage of my tequila intoxication is non-stop talking about nothing. Brody seems amused at my ramblings and answers my ridiculous questions about life in the sticks.

  The second stage shifts into gear as I finish my margarita. I become euphoric and laugh at just about anything. I’m lightheaded and feeling fantastic. Brody mumbles something about me being done and leads me to the car.

  It’s on the drive home that stage three takes hold of me. “You’re hot,” I slur, the words coming out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Why, thank you,” he teases.

  “No. I mean, you’re smokin’ hot.”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “Yesssir.”

  “You’re not gonna puke in my truck, are ya?” he asks, his tone pensive.

  “Nope,” I say with an exaggerated shake of my head. My hand, on its own accord, roams across the truck and lands on his knee. He gives me a quick side glance before turning his attention back to the road, choosing to ignore my drunken advances.

  As my fingers start moving up his leg, he pulls up to my apartment. “We’re here,” he says, sliding out of the driver’s seat, away from my wandering fingers.

  Ten seconds later, he opens my door, unbuckles me, and lifts me into his arms. “I can walk, ya know,” I mumble.

  “I know you can, but it’s dark and I don’t want you to trip,” he patronizes.

  “Mmmmkay.”

  “Where are your keys?”

  “I dunnno.” My focus weaves in and out, my vision going blurry, and I close one eye, trying to see straighter.

  “Good lord,” he mutters under his breath. Putting me down, he leans me against the door as he searches through my purse. “This is why I need my own set of keys.”

  “Keys,” I hum. While he’s looking though my bottomless bag, I drape myself across him. “Hurry, I wanna get inside you.”

  “You mean, get you inside.”

  “Surrre,” I murmur.

  “Here they are,” he says, chuckling as he opens the door. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes,” I snap as I tr
ip over my own feet.

  Brody catches my off-balance body, hooking his arm around my waist. “Hold on to me,” he commands, his tone a combination of concern and annoyance.

  “I’m fine,” I say, stumbling into the apartment.

  “Yeah, sure,” he mutters. “Your switch-flipped real fast.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Sit down here,” he says, pushing me toward the bed.

  I flop down on my back and splay across the bed like a starfish. “Why don’t you get naked and join me?” I stutter. My eyes are closed, trying to control the spins, but I hear him chuckle.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he says.

  I feel a tugging at my foot and realize he’s taking my boots off. Then my socks. “Do you wanna see me naked?” I ask, tripping over my words in a dizzy haze.

  Unbuttoning my jeans, he tugs them down from my ankles. Too tired to help him, I lay there like a slug. “I do, just not under these circumstances.”

  “I wanna see yoooou naked.” I try to open my eyes, but when I do, the entire room spins. Squeezing them tight, I will the nausea away. Once my jeans are off, I curl up into the fetal position and it’s the last thing I remember.

  BLINKING MY EYES open, I turn my head to glance at the clock on my nightstand. Seven-thirteen. Ugh. My head throbs and I grit my teeth as I move to stand. I wince, the pain in my head becoming intolerable, and lose my balance, collapsing to my butt on the bed. I press my fingers to my temples, hoping it will help.

  Counting to ten, I inhale through my nose. Once the pain lessens enough to stand again, I balance myself with the nightstand. I need ibuprofen, and fast. I see my purse lying on the floor next to my bed, find the pain killers, and pick up a bottle of water from the nightstand. Popping four into my mouth, I open the bottle and swallow down the pills with a water chaser.

  Whose bright idea was it to drink all that fucking tequila anyway? Everything about last night is a foggy haze and I’m really not sure how I even got here. Crap. Brody. What did I say—or worse, do to him?