Shine

by R. L. Jameson

  Still, I’ll always love her, come what may.

  Gabe nods. “Sorry.”

  “Did you have time for your paperwork?” I tease. I have to do something to steer clear of the house that I’m embarrassed of. It is too big for just me. Too opulent. I shouldn’t have moved in. God, but I love this house.

  He gives me that smile of his. “I’ll do it later.”

  I can’t help but giggle. “And I know nothing about you.”

  “You know I’m a cop who pulls over blondes who drive recklessly.”

  “I know that.”

  His minute smile vanishes. “You know my fiancé died almost seven years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He glances away and at my kitchen. “Jesus, you have a Viking Tuscany range.”

  I look at my stove. “Is that what that is?”

  “‘Is that what that is?’” He glares at me with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s a range I have wet dreams about.”

  I laugh. “You must cook.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not well.” I swallow, liking this part of our conversation too much. We should be running. I should be trying to run faster than him, out run him. But I’m not. I’m here talking. “Want to teach me how to cook?”

  He sighs. “I think it would be sacrilegious not to cook on that. So, yeah, it’s my duty to teach you.”

  He shows me how to make scrambled eggs, which I thought I knew how to make, but I didn’t. Not properly. And not until he showed me did I understand how important fluffing the eggs were, adding the milk and salt and butter. Oh god, the butter he added to the eggs was more sinful than anything I’ve ever eaten.

  We eat standing over the island center of my kitchen, smiling at each other. While he had been showing me how to cook, he’d occasionally hold my elbow, then my waist, after that my hip. He touched me gently, soothingly, and it still sizzles in my body as I’m eating his eggs.

  “Your mom never taught you how to cook?”

  This is a casual question, and I know I should treat it as such. But I’m scared. I hide my fear as best I can. My older cousin Gloria and I were in charge of baking bread for our community. I know how to make sixty loaves before the sun peeks through the horizon. I know how much flour is needed, the yeast, the small amount of sugar to make the bread leaven. I know what it’s like to knead the dough until I want to cry. Sometimes I did.

  I’ve never stepped into a bakery since. I worry I might retch if I smell the yeast. Or worse, cry. Reveal myself. I’ve never eaten bread since then. It isn’t that hard, actually, thanks to the no/or few carb diets that are the craze now.

  I shake my head at Gabe.

  He grunts. He does it too, that wholly male noise of acknowledgement. I love the sound that he’s made. But I really should be thinking of Chris. Or Paul. I should kick Gabe out.

  “We’re eating instead of working out.”

  I nod.

  “You’re a bad influence on me.”

  I smile. I like being teased this way. I wish I were a bad girl influencing him to do something naughty.

  Oh for heaven’s sake, I’m ridiculous.

  “However,” he says, chewing and swallowing, the movement in his throat more delicious than his eggs, “you could stand to eat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He glances down my body and I sizzle all over again. “You’re skinny.”

  I scoff. “No, I’m not.”

  “Why do skinny women always say that?”

  “I’m not skinny.”

  “I bet you can see your hip bones.”

  “I’d bet you can see your hip bones.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I guess. But you’re not supposed to see your hip bones.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too skinny.”

  “Too skinny for what?”

  He shakes his head. “I always get in trouble with women. But hear me out. Women aren’t supposed to see their hip bones, so they can—so men can—so—Jesus, I’m an asshole.”

  I laugh. “Are you trying to say that I’m not supposed to see my hipbones so men can bang into me better?” I’m shocked I said this, but I don’t want to take it back. And I love how shocked he is too.

  “Miss Jane, you have a mouth on you.”

  “You noticed.” I can’t help it. Maybe I should blame Paul for riling me up the way he did. Or I should blame Gabe for being so adorably gentlemanlike in my house, for showing up, for flirting with me. But I know why I’m acting like this with Gabe. I like him. I adore the way he looks—he’s big. Really big. I like the way he moves—as if he has just the right amount of confidence to make him gutsy, but not enough to really be the asshole he proclaims himself to be. He’s perfect.

  He stares at my lips, a faint pink rising from his neck to the hollow of his cheeks. While gazing at my lips he asks, “So you can see your hip bones, then?”

  I giggle and before I catch what he’s doing, he sweeps in and pulls at my elastic waist, looking down my pants. After thanking god I’m actually wearing my pretty periwinkle lace panties, which I’d had to put on thanks to Paul shredding my last pair, I wrestle with the now-not-so-gentlemanlike Gabe.

  He laughs. “I can see your hipbones. I knew it.”

  Then I lunge for his pants and pull, gazing down at black boxer briefs and a large bulge down the center and over to his left thigh. Yummy.

  Honestly, I’m too distracted with that bulge to think of looking for his hipbones, and the only other part of him I look at is a vein twisting its way from the waistline of his briefs. How I want to hold my cheek against that vein and feel his blood pumping through his body.

  “Hey.” He pulls away, laughing. The noise is sexier than anything I’d ever imagine, and I just saw his cock. Well, his dick under black fabric. But still, I love the way his chuckle is more playful than I thought it would be, more full of life.

  “Got a good look, did you?”

  “Did you?” I try to temper my smile, but I can’t help it, I’m beaming.

  He’s breathing hard and looking at my lips again. Just as I think he’s about to lean forward, he shakes his head and takes a step away from me.

  He swallows. “You know what you’re doing here, Jane?” His voice is sharper than I’d like it to be.

  I blink, not sure what he’s talking about.

  He points between his chest and mine. “I’m a cop. I make shit for a living. I can’t afford a house like this, let alone your fucking gorgeous range. You’re a professor who married a plastic surgeon. You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  At first, I’m hurt he’s said this. He popped some sort of bubble and I feel like I’m standing in front of him naked and he’s judging me. Too skinny, huh? Then I get mad, something I always, always repress. But for whatever reason, I don’t catch myself and my temper comes out.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing, Gabe? I’m just a woman. That’s it. I don’t have to explain myself to you. But I will tell you, I’m just a woman. And you’re just a man. That’s all there is to this. That’s all there is to life. We can give each other labels and try to figure out how much money we make. And, you’re right, as an anthropologist, not even tenured, I don’t earn much money. In fact, I’d bet you make more than I do.

  “This house was given to me by my mother-in-law because, snob that she is, didn’t want people to think my husband didn’t leave me with much. And you know what? He didn’t. He was siphoning off our money to one of his mistresses who, after we found out he had cancer, ran off with all the money. My mother-in-law is still trying to track her down, but she’s somewhere in Germany. Or god knows where. And maybe I shouldn’t have accepted this house. I didn’t earn it, did I? I—”

  He reaches in and kisses me. It’s soft and apologetic.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice is so velvety yet so masculine my knees almost buckle.

  He shakes his head, only a few inches from my face. “I—I do shit to try to
keep people at an arm’s distance, my shrink tells me. And, yeah, I see a shrink. I shot a guy a year ago. He had a gun, was shooting at me. It was a clear case. I was in the right, but I still feel like shit about it. It’s the first guy I killed, and I don’t know why, but something about me is not okay with that, even though I know it’s part of my job. So I see a shrink, and I say things to keep people from getting too close because I’m scared of getting hurt. And I—”

  I kiss him this time. Soft, reassuringly, I hope. Yet I can’t help but want more. So I test the waters by touching the seam of his lips with my tongue. He growls and wraps me in his arms, pushing me backward while he thrusts his tongue in my mouth. My hair’s still so short, only a chin-length bob, but he clutches at my tresses, slightly pulling so I open all the more for him while we bang into the cabinets behind me.

  Then he steps away, panting. “I—we shouldn’t rush.”

  “We shouldn’t?”

  He gives me that smile once more. “I want to do things right by you.”

  My heart pulls in my chest. He’s sweet. I never thought he’d be sweet, but he is.

  “I should go.”

  I shake my head, reaching out for him and snagging him by his shirt. “I don’t want you to.”

  He laughs. “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “Jane, if I don’t go soon, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Tell me.”

  His dark brows draw together.

  “Tell me, because I know you will go. I know you want to do the right thing. But tell me what you want to do, so when you leave I have something to think about.”

  He shakes his head and looks down at my hand on him. “I can’t even tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll get in trouble.”

  I laugh, loving that he’s said this. “I doubt it.”

  “Oh yes, I will. I’ll start to think more about it while I’m telling you, then I’ll want to do it even more, then—”

  I moan. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

  He clasps his big hand around mine and easily pulls free, but he holds my hand, turning it so my palm faces him. He kisses the soft skin there, then kisses again at the inside of my wrist.

  “I’m not going to tell you, Jane.”

  I whine like a little girl. He smiles.

  “How do you know that I’m not the one who’ll get into trouble?” I keep flirting, hoping he’ll change his mind and decide to do the wrong thing. With me. “You did say I’m a bad influence on you.”

  He actually gives me a real, wide smile. It’s shocking how beautiful he is like that, grinning in such a carefree way. He’s such a serious-looking guy, almost wears a scowl. But right now, he takes my breath away. My nipples bead, and I’m fairly certain I’m wet.

  “Maybe you are the troublemaker.” He nods. “But I will tell you this, even if you are trouble to me, one day I will do what’s on my mind. And we’ll both love it.” He kisses me quickly on the lips then starts to walk away. “We’re going to have dinner tomorrow. A real date. I’m going to do this right. I’m coming over here and cooking for you. At six. That good for you?”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  That breath-taking grin is on his face once more, and I’m so giddy to see it I feel like I’ve won something.

  He nods. “Maybe you’re just as much trouble as I’ve ever been. But we’re still going to do this right, Jane.”

  “All right.” I pout, which makes him laugh. And he races back to me, kisses me until I lick his lips, to which he growls, then walks away from me all over again.

  I see him to the door where we kiss a tiny bit more, but he’s a man of his word, which makes me like him even more. He leaves. He’s going to do right by me. Although, I have no idea what that means.

  And it’s then I remember Paul and how we’re to meet tomorrow night.

  I could juggle the two men.

  Who am I kidding? I’m me. I can’t juggle two men.

  Wait, did Chris say something about tomorrow too? I can’t remember.

  Oh dear.

  And…who have I turned into worrying about juggling three men?

  6

  Maybe I should let go of all of them. Three men is too much.”

  Bethany glares at me. “Don’t you dare.”

  We’re at her follow-up doctor’s appointment, where we’ve been waiting an hour for her doctor to show his face. It’s Friday and I canceled my last class to be here for Bethany. She’s a secretary for the English department, and I can’t quite remember how we met, but we soon found ourselves meeting every Wednesday night for our weekly ritual. It’s been a little over four years since that first Wednesday night, and we’ve become the very best of friends. Best friends. Maybe that term should seem juvenile to me, but I love it. I love Bethany.

  She shakes her head, retying the flimsy ties of the wacko check-up garb that all doctors insist upon. “Your life just got sizzling hot, and there’s no way I’m going to let you drop all those men.”

  “But I’m not the kind of woman who juggles three men.”

  “Why not?”

  I swallow. “I—I’m not that kind of woman.”

  “And what kind of woman would that be?”

  I’m the anthropologist here. These are the questions I ask about society, speculating what something means about us, we humans. But Bethany is better at it. At least when it comes to asking me the hard questions about myself.

  I look down at the floor. “I feel slutty.” I’ve told her everything, how I kissed three men. I didn’t tell her every sordid detail about what happened between Paul and me.

  Bethany gasps. “I can’t believe you said that. You’re not a slut.”

  I purse my lips. “Well, I can’t help what I feel.”

  “Is it what you feel? Or what society tells you that you should feel?”

  I growl at her, which makes her laugh.

  After clearing her throat, she says, “Seriously though, if you want to give them up, then give them up for the right reasons. Like if you’ve fallen in love with one of them, then tell the others. But if you’re just kissing them, having a good time, I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  “But what am I going to do about tonight? Chris sent me a text where he said something cryptic about meeting tonight. Paul definitely asked to see me tonight, but he hasn’t called to finalize any plans. Then there’s Gabe—”

  “Gabriel, the angel.”

  Bethany knows I like Gabe. A lot. Still, I roll my eyes. “Gabe who told me he’s making me dinner tonight at six.”

  “God, that sounds divine. You have to call me and tell me what he’s made, how good it was, and how much you kissed.”

  I giggle.

  “What if they all showed up at your house?”

  I’m scared of exactly that.

  Then Doctor Tardy walks in. That’s not his name but should be. Seriously, we’ve been waiting for more than an hour.

  He asks how Bethany’s doing, acts like he’s not really listening when she tells him about her emergency room visit. He nods and makes uh-huh noises again and again. Then he asks to see down her throat, uses a lozenge and an otoscope to check what the emergency room doctor did just the night before.

  He takes a sip of a breath. “Huh.” Spinning away from Bethany on his wheeling doctor stool, he asks, “Have you been having any trouble swallowing lately?”

  “No.” Bethany shakes her head.

  “Have you been needing to clear your throat more than normal?”

  Bethany doesn’t answer and I don’t either. I know she’s been having troubles with exactly that. She’s been taking cough medicine to clear up the tickle she says she has. My heart starts to beat ferociously in my chest, scared to find out what the doctor’s question means.

  Bethany’s doctor nods and starts scribbling things down. While he’s feverishly writing, he says, “I see a lump by your oropharynx.”


  “But the doctor who saw her in the emergency department didn’t say anything,” I say, hoping I’m panicking for no reason, hoping my panic doesn’t show.

  “Well, they’re in a rush down there.”

  Like he isn’t? Dr. Shows Up Late spends less than five minutes in here and says Bethany’s got a lump.

  “Anyway, I do see some kind of swollen tissue there. Now granted, it could be from your choking episode. But I’m wondering if it’s what caused you to choke in the first place.”

  “What is it?” Bethany asks.

  “I can’t tell. Do you mind if I take another look?” This time he seems more thorough, and Bethany’s mouth is open while seconds pass. He shoots his scope in different directions, making his little perplexed noise of “huh” all over again. “Yeah, I do think we should run some tests and figure out what that is.”

  “Tests?” Bethany’s usually loud voice is soft, and I take her hand and squeeze it.

  He nods. “I’m recommending an upper GI and biopsy—”

  There’s the word I hate as much as cancer. Biopsy. It’s such a good tool for doctors, I know. But I hate it. It means something’s serious. It means someone’s life will be on hold until the results are in, and then there’s a mad rush to figure out how to spend the last few days while here on earth. My heart—god, I can’t lose Bethany. I can’t lose her. I can’t.

  I squeeze her hand more, hoping I look like I’ve got my shit together. That she can lean on me, that I’ll be here for her no matter what. I hope she doesn’t see the fear, the anguish, the need to cry.

  The doctor turns back to us after he’s told us more about the tests. “Remember, this could be nothing. But I like to err on the cautious side. So I’m going to recommend a different doctor for a second opinion. If she concurs, then we’ll schedule a GI or biopsy. I’ll talk to my nurse, Becky, to make you an appointment with Dr. Gallagher. She’s one of the best at the oncology department.”