by Liz Crowe
Kat was as eager as he was to get down to business. He located his usual room and pressed her up against the wall, kissing her, groping her ass, her killer tits, all the while getting angrier. When she bit his lower lip and said, “Hey, hot stuff, look over there,” he let go of her and turned to find Gayle sitting in a lounge chair, holding a beer and smiling at them.
“You know what, fuck you. Fuck both of you.” He sighed. “Sorry, Kat. This isn’t your fault.” He kept his gaze on the woman dressed all in black, including those heels he loved for her to wear when he’d fuck her standing up, something he’d likely done in this very room. She sipped and kept her gaze neutral as he fumed and willed his cock to soften so he didn’t look like such a dork in front of her. “I am done playing games,” he said. “Done. You can take your dominatrix, bossy, rich-bitch bullshit and shove it up your ass. Excuse me,” he muttered under his breath as he shouldered his way past Kat. He’d made it all the way to the door between the private and the public parts of the nightclub when Gayle yelled his name. He ignored her and kept going. He was done with this. He might be nuts, but being this sort of kept sex toy was not what he wanted from her.
“Noah, hang on a second, please.” The tone of her voice—less pleading and disappointed in his refusal to perform and more honest frustration—made him freeze. But only for a few seconds. There was one way to put an end to this. He had to do it, as much as he didn’t want to.
He’d made it all the way home before true regret set in. What have I done? He’d spent so many days and weeks trying to finagle himself into the very position he had right now. God, I’m an idiot.
He unbuttoned his shirt, shed his shoes and grabbed two beers from his fridge before settling onto the couch with a late-season baseball game on the TV. “Screw this,” he said, downing the first beer fast and opening the second. “And screw her.” And he would, too, if she showed up at his door.
He woke with his face stuck to the arm rest and his neck bent at a painful angle. Wiping the dried spit off his cheek, he sat and tried to figure out where he was and what in the hell time it was. The TV was still on, blaring a mindless infomercial. All his lights were off, which made the room glow silvery blue from the screen. He reached for his phone on reflex and saw Gayle had sent one text, about an hour ago.
I’m sorry. Can we please talk? I’ll be at the Brew Corner tomorrow. Our usual table.
He groaned, got up and limped to the bedroom, deciding that to answer her would only make the inevitable worse.
* * * *
The next morning, he went to work, then hit the gym hard after. The solid two-hour cardio and weight regimen kept him focused away from the fact that Gayle hadn’t said another word to him via text—her preferred method of communication. The next day was Friday and he spent the bulk of it on the road with distributor sales reps, selling, glad-handing, the usual. He felt like an automaton. But it turned out to be a pretty fruitful day.
He went to the gym again, realizing he’d been looking forward to their usual Friday night spent at a fancy restaurant, drinking expensive cocktails, sharing a steak and conversation. To be followed by quality time at her place—something that always made him feel weird. But he never let it quell his need for her, which only got more intense every time they made love.
When he accepted she wasn’t going to ask him again, he sent her a text.
I need ice cream. Meet you at the usual place?
She didn’t reply. Figuring that the wanting ice cream part was true enough, he took a shower and headed out, hair still damp, brain spinning with his own stupidity. He missed her. And not just her body. He was, without a doubt, the weakest asshole on the planet.
Their usual place was a Dairy Queen near downtown. It was full old-school, with food and booths in addition to the usual air-bubble-riddled ice-cream-like products. He parked and got out, smiling at the gaggle of college student girls who eyeballed him, while checking for Gayle’s car. With a sigh, he headed inside, ordered his favorite—a cookie-dough Blizzard—and took a seat by the window. Some guy with a bald head and broad shoulders was one table over, working away at a banana split while he read something on his computer tablet. Noah nodded when the guy met his eyes, then looked out of the window, wondering how in the world he might salvage this thing with Gayle while somehow retaining his manhood at the same time. About halfway through the overly sweet garbage in his cup, he realized he might be willing to forgo the manhood part, just for a shot at talking to her again.
“You Stokes?” The bald dude was now standing at his table.
Noah glanced up at him, irritated at the interruption. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Baldie held out his massive paw of a hand. “Name’s Hettinger. Trent Hettinger.”
Noah shook his hand but tried to give off a ‘get the fuck away from me, I’m pining for my Cougar Mama’ vibe. It didn’t work. “Mind if I join you a second?”
Noah nodded and the guy slid into the booth across from him. “Are you the Stokes of Stokes Landscaping?”
“Yeah. Not that it matters anymore.” He took another bite, grimacing at the ersatz sweetness.
“Okay, so…” The guy punched something up on his tablet then turned the screen around so Noah could see it. He squinted at it, trying to figure out why this guy was showing him photos of his grandfather’s once-successful business.
“If you have this, you know why I’m sitting here, not running this business.” He shoved the tablet back across the table. “What’s your point?”
“I’m interested in buying it.”
Noah sipped from a cup of water, almost choking on it at the sound of that little news flash. “Buying it? It’s not for sale. I mean…the government owns it now—for the taxes and crap.”
Trent grinned at him and closed the tablet. He leaned on the table, his dark gaze intent. “I own several retail blocks here in GR, and one in Kalamazoo. I also have a couple of liquor stores and a coffee shop. But I’ve always wanted to get into landscaping. Those guys make a goddamned fortune, at least the ones I’ve been paying to handle my properties do.”
“Good for you. What does it have to do with me?” He got up and threw away the half-eaten Blizzard, stopping to refill his water and ponder this odd encounter. Standing, he hoped to relay the message he was done talking and had no desire to dredge up all the reasons Stokes Landscaping no longer existed.
Trent turned to face him, obviously not getting the message. “I want to get it out of hock and put you back in charge of it.”
Noah frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for fairy tales. “You can’t do that. I mean, it’ll take at least three quarters of a mil to pay off all the tax liens. And the damn place is a wreck. It’ll take another…oh…two-fifty at least to clean it up and get the equipment running again.”
“No problem,” Trent Hettinger claimed, sticking his hand out again. “I’m so happy to have you on board.”
“Whoa, dude, I never said…what? You can pay all that?”
“I can. And I’ve already started the process.”
Noah slid into his seat again, his knees suddenly weak. “How…how did you know where to find me?”
“We have a mutual friend.”
Noah groaned and dropped his head onto his hands.
“She must really like you a lot. And she knows I was looking to expand into landscaping, so she sent me the info and told me…” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “She told me you’d be here.”
“Great.” Noah rose, anger filling his chest and threatening to spill out of his mouth. “Good luck with it, Mr. Hettinger. You’ll need it.”
“Wait, Noah,” the guy said, as he was turning away. “I’m serious. This isn’t bullshit. I want to buy it and put you in charge.”
“Well, if you’ll pardon my French, fuck you,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat to the man. “And you can give Gayle the same message for me.”
Chapter Nineteen
“You are certifiable.”
Gayle nodded and stared into her coffee, her chest tight with anxiety. “I know. But…I thought he’d want it, you know?”
“What else have you bought him?” Evelyn sipped her lemon-choked water while the two women sat in the Brew Corner coffee shop the Monday after her abortive attempt to convince Noah she only had his best interests at heart. In the stupidest possible way, she now realized.
“Well…” She traced a line of spilled salt on the table.
“Jesus, Gayle.”
“I know, I know. It was stupid. But I…he…shit.”
“Well, is it over now?”
“Probably.” She sighed and looked around, recalling their many hours spent here, laughing and talking in between bouts of energetic sex. “Crap.”
“Do you love him?”
She blinked, then stared at her friend. “I can’t… I mean…”
Evelyn grabbed her hand and held on tight. “I know you think you can’t. But I haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been for the past few weeks in so long.”
“I don’t deserve to be happy.”
“Will you just stop?”
Gayle glared across the table. “You have no right to tell me anything about this.”
“You know what? I think I do.” She put down her glass with a thunk and leaned forward on her elbows, her blue eyes blazing with something Gayle thought might be anger. It wasn’t as if her friend didn’t have it in her. In fact, Evelyn Fitzgerald’s temper was legendary in some circles. The woman suffered few fools and even fewer whiners.
But…aren’t I entitled to a little whining? Have I not earned the right to feel confusion, even frustration regarding my emotions when it comes to men? Jesus. Cut me some slack.
Evelyn grabbed her hand, surprising her out of her self-righteous reverie. “Listen to me, Gayle Connolly.” Her grip tightened when Gayle tried to wriggle out of it, unwilling to hear a lecture, even if it might very well be deserved. “You’ve been through hell. The sort of hell no wife or mother should have to experience. But you’re in a different place now. I can tell you are. I’ve known you almost my whole damn life. I supported your whole move-to-California thing and celebrated all the amazing things that happened to you once you did.” She paused. Gayle was shocked to see tears in her friend’s eyes, which of course triggered her own. “And I mourned with you when you lost everything. I love you. I’m here for you.” She let go of Gayle’s slightly numb hands and sat back in her chair, her lips set in a firm line. “Which is why I’m fully justified in saying this now—it’s time to get your head out of your ass.”
The self-righteousness rose in her again as she flexed her fingers. “My head is not—”
Evelyn lunged forward again. “Yes. It is. I think you think you’re doing the right thing. You mean well taking Noah on like…like some kind of a project. But he’s a man. A grown man with a heart to go with…the rest of him.” She raised an eyebrow. Gayle could barely stop the giggle before it burst out of her. “And from what I can tell—and you know I know all, over there at the brewery with my family’s name on it—he is miserable right now.”
“I told you. I tried to fix it.” Gayle’s voice sounded weak even to her, which was something she hated. She and Evelyn had grown up dirt poor but had both managed to right themselves, to find happiness, love, success in spite of their crappy start in life. Weakness was something neither of them could tolerate, especially in themselves. Gayle had been reminded more than once this was both a strength and a liability. Ethan used to get so furious with her when she’d go off on a tear about some employee, or brewery rep, or store manager or another for what she deemed ‘sheer fucking incompetence’.
“You can be an intolerant bitch sometimes,” he liked to say. And he’d say it mildly, while doing something else, as if it weren’t a giant insult. “Lighten the fuck up, darlin’. Your life isn’t so damn bad. And remember, not everybody is as lucky as you.” He’d follow it up with a hug, a kiss, a fondle, which almost always led to sex.
Gayle closed her eyes against the next thing that would happen when she put the words ‘Ethan’ and ‘sex’ together in her head. But instead of his lips, hands and body, she got Noah’s. Something new, wonderful, recent and, she realized, something she missed very much right now.
“God damn it,” Evelyn muttered, rising, hand over her lips. “I’ll be right back.” Her friend made her wobbly way to the bathroom and Gayle fought back the urge to scream, something that wouldn’t go over well in this crowded hipster coffee bar her friend Trent owned. Instead, she focused on all the kids in the place. Babies filled strollers or got nursed at various tables. Toddlers babbled, fussed, laughed and ran around the place willy-nilly. Moms and dads and more than a few grandparents bought them yogurt or donuts or whatever they wanted, followed them around, tried to have conversations around it all.
When the sight of it didn’t make her want to cry more, she realized something. She sighed and stared out of the window, pondering the odd moment for a few seconds. A hand touched her shoulder, but she didn’t move. Lips grazed her ear, but she didn’t flinch. A voice—an oh-so-beloved, familiar deep voice filled her consciousness. “Go, Gayle. Be happy for a change. It’s what we want for you.”
She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and dropped her hands into her lap, twining her fingers together, determined to ignore it. But the voice, Ethan’s voice, kept saying to her, “Go. Be happy.”
“I will never be happy,” she whispered through her clenched jaw. “I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.” But her heart wasn’t pounding. Her pulse didn’t race. No tears threatened. She felt somehow light, or lighter than usual while this bizarre thing happened to her in the middle of a crowded coffee joint in her hometown.
She sensed Ethan’s hand on her back. It made her feel safe. She wanted to lean into him, to make him hold her one more time. To tell him she was sorry for being such a silly, temperamental bitch about the private plane thing. What had happened to her husband and son on that plane had been a total fluke of the air, the weather, of fate. It had nothing to do with the soundness of the plane.
“I love you,” Ethan’s voice said. “I love you, Gayle, but if you don’t stop being such a crazy cow right now, you’re going to lose something you deserve—another shot at life.”
“I don’t want a life without you and Liam,” she insisted, loudly in her head and whispered from her lips.
“But you have one and you’d better get the fuck up off your ass and live it.”
Gayle glanced at the ceiling, smiling at her dead husband’s plain-spoken manner. She missed it, along with everything else, even his mule-headedness. Noah wasn’t exactly as forthright—okay, brusque was a better word for it. Noah was even-tempered, calm, yet firm —so different from Ethan, from what she’d lost. But it was soothing in a way Ethan had never been. Life with Ethan had contained plenty of sharp edges. They were almost too much alike sometimes. Noah…he was more of a complement, a completion, filling in her personality holes while she did the same for him.
But he was so damn young. Wouldn’t people talk about them? Snigger behind their hands at her, the cougar-y widow with her hot stud by her side.
Who the fuck cares? The man is my equal. And I…I might just love him.
Sighing, she leaned slightly to one side, imagining Ethan there, his strong arms around her, his lips pressed to her hair. “Go, Gayle. Be happy. I mean it.”
“How’s Liam?” she whispered, glad Noah had spent some time forcing her to talk about him so she could mourn him properly.
“Go,” Ethan repeated instead of answering her. “We love you, honey. But we need for you to move on.”
And just like that, the strange, ghostly moment was over. Evelyn had shown up at some point and sat, sipping and watching her. “You all right?”
Gayle nodded, glancing at her over-priced, untouched coffee, now gone stone cold in front of her. “I…I need to go.” She got up slowly.
Evelyn smiled at her and held out he
r hand. Gayle took it, never more grateful for her friend’s steady presence.
“Good luck,” Evelyn said. “But go easy on him. Don’t be so…bossy.”
Gayle flushed hot, recalling how much he bossed her, at least behind closed doors. A sudden surge of panic filled her chest, blooming up into her throat. “I…I gotta fix this.”
Evelyn dropped her hand and picked up her glass. “Keep me posted. Our Labor Day picnic is coming up. I’ll need to know if you’re bringing your plus one.” She winked. Gayle rolled her eyes and headed for the door, intent, yet worried she might well be too late.
Chapter Twenty
When Gayle’s text message hit his phone, Noah wanted to ignore it. He fully intended to ignore it. He was busy anyway, calf-deep in mud and chaos. He and Trent were walking the property that had once showcased acres of flowering and decorative trees alongside the massive greenhouses of his family’s landscaping business. He’d agreed to do this, more out of a sense of obligation than anything. But when he’d arrived here, the years of memories he’d been suppressing flew to the surface, nearly smothering him in nostalgia and no small amount of anger at his useless old man.
“This is great,” Trent was gushing at every turn, as Noah explained to him the various profit centers the company had boasted. His great-grandmother had been the one to figure out sustaining a large family on a seasonal business wasn’t tenable, so she’d concocted the service side—the mower, tractor and other implement tune-ups, the mower blade sharpening, which in this climate had also doubled for skate blades. She’d started and run it. After five years, it had become a cash cow, almost surpassing their other lucrative services.
“Yeah, great,” he said, noting the way the service garage was leaning to one side, like a sad cartoon building. Trent eyed him a few seconds. A second message hit his phone and his thigh, bringing on the Pavlovian physical response he was starting to despise. “So, that’s everything, I guess. You still think you can make a go of it, given how much competition there is for all this?” He raised his arms, indicating the twelve acres that had once contained the family business he’d so wanted to own himself someday. “Good luck to you.”
