Dusk was swallowed by darkness by the time Connor finally mellowed from his sugar high. Lana sat on the couch watching Randall assemble a Lego toy Connor received for his birthday. The scene seemed so ordinary to the naked eye, but it was far from conventional.
It was remarkable to witness, actually, which explained why her Cosmo magazine lay open and neglected on her lap. The scene was reminiscent of years past when Jimmy was still alive. He’d been a phenomenal father and when he died Lana struggled to fill the void he left behind. She tried to be everything she was and everything good that Jimmy had been and had somehow managed to lose her way. She’d been drifting—simply existing—until Randall came back last October. He’d stepped in and rescued her.
Randall had become her rock, lending his strength to her battered soul—never asking for anything in return. She’d even noticed a positive change in Connor. His bad language had improved, she no longer worried about ill-timed four-letter obscenities, and she couldn’t remember the last time Connor’s teacher had phoned indicating he was sick.
The colossal wake created after Jimmy’s death was finally beginning to settle. Their lives would never be the same, but slowly they’d established a new “normal.” A new family dynamic.
Of course, she’d seen the looks—overheard the whispers—from some of the folks in town. There were several overly judgmental people that believed her family dynamic was a bit unorthodox; that Randall’s regular presence was odd. Strange. Peculiar, even. She tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself that the feelings she harbored for Randall Burns were purely platonic.
But with each sunrise and sunset, she was becoming less sure…
“I almost forgot”, Randall said as he rose from the floor, “You have one more present to open.”
“From who?” Connor inquired excitedly.
“From me. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.” Randall disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a flat box, clumsily wrapped in Spiderman paper. He placed the gift on Connor’s lap, and within a nanosecond Connor tore into the paper like a piranha during a feeding frenzy.
“Cool!” Connor removed the last remnants of paper, then rotated the box in his little hands. “What is it?”
“Twister… You’ve never heard of Twister before?” Connor shook his head from side-to-side.
“Damn, I feel old”, Randall mumbled to Lana, wryly. “Okay”, he said, turning his attention back to Connor, “It’s real simple. One person spins while the others play. When the spinner calls out, ‘left foot on red’, everyone puts their left foot on red, but you have to keep it there until you’re told to move your left foot somewhere else. Understand?”
Connor’s head bobbed up and down. “Can we play?”
“Sure”, Lana answered, snatching the box from Connor’s grip. She opened the game and spread the polka-dotted mat on the floor in front of the coffee table, then tossed the spinner board at Randall. “Think you can spin and call out the combination at the same time, Mr. Multi-tasker?” She asked, smiling.
Randall chuckled under his breath. “I think I can manage.”
It didn’t take long for Connor to become distracted by the allure of the spinner, leaving Lana behind in a rather compromising position: bent over with her ass in the air.
“Can we trade places?” he asked Randall. “I wanna spin now.”
Maybe he should’ve purchased Monopoly instead, he thought to himself as he approached the tangled woman on the mat. There was nothing sexual about nudging a thimble around a board. “Let see what we have here”, he mumbled as he deciphered what color each of his extremities were to be placed. Hovering above her, Randall stretched his limbs until his hands and feet mirrored Lana’s.
Connor began shouting combinations, laughing as the two struggled to move, while Lana and Randall bantered back and forth.
Who knew a simple game of Twister could incite so much trash talk?
Randall had never seen this competitive side to her before. Her taunts were sort of weak and unoriginal, but that made the whole experience that much more enjoyable. Her walls were down. She was being silly, having fun. And Randall thought she’d never looked more beautiful than she did at that very moment.
Concentration severed, Randall’s foot slipped and his sturdy frame suddenly warped. His knee came down to cushion the fall causing his hip to nudge into the back of Lana’s leg, and like a house of cards, they both collapsed. Howling with laughter they remained on the mat until their cackles quieted, suddenly aware they were lying next to one another, limbs still tangled.
Their eyes met and held for several moments before Randall cleared his throat, unwinding their coiled extremities. He then stood and offered his hands.
Lana stared at his calloused palms for a few long beats before placing her trembling hands in his. In one swift motion, she found herself on her feet staring into two hungry gray eyes. His stone-like expression may have been neutral, but the intensity of his heated gaze spread warmth across her skin like a sweltering summer’s day.
“I’d better go before this kid gets me injured”, Randall uttered, tilting his head slightly toward the sofa behind him.
Holy cow, she’d been so wrapped up in Randall—the way his perceptive eyes bored into hers, the sensation of his powerful body blanketing her small frame—she’d all but forgotten her six-year-old son was still in the room. “Um, yeah…that would probably be smart…”
His thumbs lightly scaled over her knuckles, almost as if instinct had overpowered reason. Such an insignificant touch, yet overwhelmingly endearing. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d meant something by it, if his modest caress had been a way to communicate the unfeigned pleasure he experienced by merely touching her.
Because she was reveling in the simple brush of his fingertips.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Randall released her hands and turned to Connor. “See ya tomorrow, kiddo”, he declared, rustling the boy’s blond hair before snatching his shoes from the floor.
“Can we play this game again next time?” Connor questioned excitedly. “It makes me laugh when grown-ups’ fall!”
Randall finished sliding his feet into his shoes and straightened his large six-foot frame. “Guess we’ll see what happens.”
His eyes skittered to Lana one last time before he turned to go, leaving him to decipher the irony of Connor’s parting words. Because falling wasn’t funny—not when he feared he was beginning to fall for his best friend’s widow…
Chapter 14
“Man, what’s gotten in to you tonight, huh?” Grant asked as he leaned his hip against the edge of the pool table.
Randall straightened his upper body and reached for his mug of Miller Lite after missing another clear shot. It couldn’t have been a more perfect set up: the solid number three was perfectly aligned with the center pocket, but he’d managed to miss it.
Why? Well, it may have been a mystery to everyone else, but not him. Nope, the person responsible for his uncanny performance stood roughly seven inches shorter than his six-foot frame, with long light brown locks and lethal curves, wearing a white cotton dress and those damn fuck-me cowgirl boots…
“Maybe I’m feeling guilty about takin’ your hard earned cash every weekend”, Randall shouted over the music. “Until tonight, I can’t remember the last time I actually bought myself a beer here…Thought maybe I’d give you a break.”
Grant laughed with such intensity, he had to grab hold of the billiard table to keep his balance. “C’mon, man, are you shittin’ me?” he finally asked once his cackles quieted. “You’re one of the most competitive people I know. You can’t stand to lose! What’s going on with you? Really.”
Grant followed Randall’s gaze, which just so happened to be on Lana, swaying with newly-single Tommy Carson on the dance floor.
Tommy worked with the guys at the station. He was younger than Randall; graduated with Lana back in ’03, and had joined the fire department about five years ago. He’d be
en married to Jenny for nearly three years now, but rumors of Jenny’s infidelity had surfaced just days into the new year. He didn’t seem too torn up about their separation at the moment, Randall acknowledged—considering how he held Lana’s body close on the dance floor.
“Lana’s a big girl—a good girl”, Grant emphasized. “No way would she let Tommy—”
“That’s not what I was thinking”, Randall retorted as he stepped around Grant to align his next shot.
“Really?—‘cause you looked nearly rabid a minute ago. In fact, you still kind of do! Listen, at some point she’s gonna move on, you know? You can’t stand guard just because you think Jimmy would ‘ve been—”
“That’s not what I was doin’. Just drop it, already, okay?” Randall hovered over the table, stretching his body over the green felt to gain better access. He ran the cue stick over his left thumb several times to get the feel of it, then forced the chalked-tip against the white cue ball. The white cue accelerated, striking the orange number five ball, the clank of the collision rising above the blaring melody of music.
Number five barreled down the table at near lightning speed, charging toward the right corner pocket. He watched as the orange sphere vanished from view, followed by the white cue as it, too, disappeared into the pocket.
“Fuck!” Scratching was a beginner mistake—something he hadn’t done in years—at least, not on purpose.
Randall straightened, then glanced over his shoulder at the dance floor, feeling helplessly enraged by the image of Tommy’s hands on his sweet Lana.
His?
Since when had he laid claim on Lana Phillips?
Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, he fished a crisp twenty dollar bill from the hidden groove. He laid it on the table and shoved the wallet back into his rear pocket, then swallowed the remainder of his Miller Lite in one massive gulp. “Beer’s on me tonight. I’ve gotta go.” He started to walk away, but Grant’s baffled tone stopped him in his tracks.
“Wait!—where are you going? It’s not even ten o’clock yet!”
Randall turned back to Grant, speaking through clenched teeth. “As far away from the temptation of beating that sorry bastard—” he gestured toward Tommy “—as I can get.” Pivoting, he weaved through the growing crowd, his vision almost tunnel-like as he focused on the heavy wood doors that led to the boardwalk.
He barely remembered climbing into his truck, let alone the short five-minute drive home. When he finally emerged from his deranged daze, he was still sitting behind the wheel in his driveway, the radio quiet, his engine idling.
Fuck, he was so screwed… The familiarity of the situation couldn’t be overlooked. He was on the verge of falling for an unavailable woman. Again.
Randall climbed out of his truck and shoved the front door open. The house was dark. Silent. Empty. Kind of like his life.
Kicking off his leather flips flops he reached behind his head and grabbed a fistful of his white polo, then tugged it off, tossing it onto the tan sofa on his way to the kitchen. Flipping the light switch, his eyes immediately darted to the bottle of whiskey perched on the counter next to the fridge.
He needed the comfort the amber liquor provided. Needed to feel the instant gratification of fiery warmth as it trickled down his throat, burrowing deep until the heat cauterized his open wounds. Trekking across the kitchen he reached for a tumbler in the cupboard, poured three fingers of eighty-proof whiskey, then drew the glass to his lips.
Almost immediately his mouth and throat were ignited in feverish bliss. The feeling was so soothing—so fucking incredible—he swallowed another mouthful, certain he’d be too drunk to feel anything at all if he kept this up.
And that’s precisely what he wanted: to stop feeling.
Randall wasn’t exactly sure when it’d happened, but somewhere along the way he started viewing Lana Phillips as the seductively beautiful woman she so obviously was, instead of his best friend’s grieving widow. Somewhere along the way the platonic nature of their friendship had shifted on its axis.
Somewhere along the way he began wanting more.
And the scariest part: the pain of chasing Kendall for two long years, only to lose her to Ty Everitt, didn’t begin to touch on the intensity of how he felt about Lana—which was completely crazy considering he and Lana had only shared one brief, incredible kiss roughly three months ago.
Eyeing his glass, Randall swallowed the remains. He feared there wasn’t enough whiskey left to mask the overwhelming need mounting in his gut tonight. Maybe there’d never be…
Reaching for the bottle, he poured another round, then returned to the couch. Light from the kitchen spilled into living room, just enough to allow angular shadows to distort the silhouettes of the sparsely-placed furniture.
Seeing Lana on the dance floor tonight, her body swaying in time with the music while Tommy Carson held her close had infuriated Randall beyond reason—which was rather surprising, since he‘d never considered himself the jealous type. Sure he’d been upset by Kendall’s fascination with Ty Everitt last spring, but he’d never pictured beating the life out of his lieutenant. Much.
He couldn’t say the same about Tommy Carson at the moment.
Tommy was a good friend of his—that was one of the things that made this entire situation odd. Hell, Randall was a groomsman in Tommy’s wedding three years ago, for crying out loud! Yet just thinking about how his hands had settled on the small of Lana’s back on the dance floor had Randall fantasizing about all the ways he could murder the guy.
Randall caught the edge of the tumbler between his lips, ready to drain the remnants of poison he’d poured minutes earlier in hopes of numbing the ache that resided in his chest, when the sound of the doorbell halted him. He sat motionless for several moments, praying the person on the other side would get the hint and simply go away. But when the sound came again he slammed his tumbler on the coffee table, brown liquid sloshing over the edge of the glass as he stumbled to his feet.
He hurried to the door, ready to scare the britches off the little shit on the other side. He expected to find one of the teenage boys that lived in the neighborhood, hustling to find a good hiding spot. This was Butler Island, after all. And a group of teens mischievously roaming the neighborhood on a Saturday night, ringing doorbells on a dare, then sneaking away, wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.
Damn pussies. When he was their age, he and Olivia had caused quite a ruckus with the stunts they’d pulled. In fact, he was partly responsible for her Jet Ski fiasco now chronicled as the crime of the century. Yes, Olivia’s three-hour joyride had caused quite a stir. In fact, that’s how she’d earned the nickname DD in the first place: Daredevil. He probably should’ve known better than to dare her into driving off on Mr. Baker’s Jet Ski that summer—he knew she’d never back down from a dare.
And he’d been right.
The doorbell rang again, jolting him from his adolescent reverie. Randall was ready to bolt through the door and run the little shit down, but standing on his front porch he didn’t find a pimple-face teen.
Nope. It was her.
“Lana… What’re you doing here?—is everything all right?”
“I-I don’t know. Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” Randall stepped aside, allowing her access to his sparsely furnished living room, then gently nudged the door closed behind him. “What’s going on? Is it Connor?—did something happen?”
Lana shook her head, swallowing hard as her eyes dipped to his bare chest, then lower to his rippled abs. “No, Connor’s with my parents. As far as I know he’s fine.”
Randall stepped closer, his hands nestled low on his hips. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know”, she uttered as her focus skittered back to his analytical gaze. The room was poorly lit, light from the kitchen casting shadows along his angular face. But even in the dim light she recognized genuine concern in his somber gray eyes. “I saw you storm out of The Saloon ear
lier. And when I asked Grant where you went—what happened—he just said you got angry and left.”
Shifting his weight onto his left foot, he answered, “I sucked at pool tonight. It…” Randall shrugged his broad shoulders. What could he say? He could practically play eight ball with his eyes clamped shut and tonight he’d managed to lose four games in a row. “It just pissed me off, that’s all.”
“Is this a multi-tasking thing?” She asked smiling, trying to make light of the bleak air surrounded them.
Randall scrubbed his right hand down his face while he half-groaned, half-laughed at her playful dig. “Yeah, guess you could say that.” Because what man in his right mind could witness what he’d seen on the dance floor and still be expected to be competent at another task? Hell, even something as simple as breathing had proven to be difficult while he’d stood by and watched.
“So that’s it? You left because you lost a game of pool?”
“It wasn’t just one loss—it was more like four—and the other reasons…well, they’re complicated.”
“Okay, so…explain it to me, then.”
Randall shook his head. “It’s not important.”
“Well, it sure didn’t look that way from my vantage point. Don’t shut me out, Randall. You’ve been there for me; let me be here for you, too.”
The worry in her eyes tore him to shreds. He didn’t want her to waste one second fussing over him. Her midnight orbs glistened in the dim light as the uneasiness lingered. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her, reassure her, but he didn’t trust himself. He was losing grip on his self-control, slipping, sliding. Fearing his restraint would fail him, he interweaved his hands behind his neck and stared skyward at the ceiling. And when the silence stretched on, Lana made the next move, taking a step forward; launching inquiries in rapid succession.
Rescue Me (Butler Island) Page 11
