“There’s nothing wrong with a little side dish,” the third woman states, leaning in as though she’s offering a secret but still speaking loud enough for the entire block to hear her. “Since Junior’s death, I’ve had to get it where I could get. I didn’t always want to follow Vilma’s rules for self-stimulation.”
Okay, TMI. I should not be hearing this. I’m not a good judge of age, but these women are like forty-something. Shouldn’t they be talking about knitting, cats, or some shit like that?
“Well, I’m not dancing on poles or any other phallic symbol,” the first clarifies, stiffening her shoulders, and I can’t help but wonder if a good pole ride is what she needs. She continues, “And I’m assuming neither is Rebecca Sue. Did you see the brows on her? She needs a good esthetician. Her lip could use a wax as well, but once you start that, there’s no going back.”
Jesus. Some women just do not have the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
“Well, at least she was giving it her best effort,” the third woman states, attempting to soften the endless insults.
“Mabel, you are too kind, but just because J-Lo and Shakira pulled off pole dancing during the Super Bowl a few years back doesn’t mean every forty- to fifty-year-old woman should run out and try it,” Fine-Ass chides. “Some women are best keeping their clothes on and their feet planted on the good earth.”
Aren’t these women roughly the age Fine-Ass is harping on?
Jee-zus. She definitely needs to be stripped down and have her toes curled. A good pole-ing might do wonders for her. Suddenly, the door to the MMA studio opens, and the boys rush out like scattering ants. I press off the side of the van, bumping into Fine-Ass. She flinches, steps aside, and swipes at her arm as though she’s flicking dirt off her skin. Whatever.
The other two women shift only minimally as I open the side door for the boys. Keeping my back to the biddies, I shield the boys from their venom with my big body.
“Uncle Chet, did you see us?”
“I took down Hugh.”
“Campbell almost broke my nose.”
“I broke my glasses again.” I look down at Dewey. He’s going through eyeglasses like changes of underwear.
“We need to get you some sports eyewear, kid,” I say, watching the boys scramble in. For some reason, I glance over again at the women ripping apart other women to find the ringleader observing me. She’s focused solely on me. Her eyes scan my body, sizing up my height, taking in my broad shoulders, and noting my too-thick beard. Her nose wrinkles as though she smells something bad.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m all man, and that means I sweat. God, her attitude reminds me so much of someone I don’t like to think about—looking down her nose at others and being catty toward other women. ‘Course, I didn’t recognize these things in that woman until after. After I fell in love with her. After I built a house for her. After I wanted to marry her.
As the boys finish filing into the van, I really look at Fine-Ass, and something about her strikes me as familiar. Seeing her face full on, I notice a white stripe of hair pulled back in her ponytail, visible as my eyes squint.
Scotia?
Despite all the other things that distinguish Scotia Simmons in my memory, there’s a unique physical characteristic that marks her as different—her hair. Amid the fading blackness is a white strip along the right side of her face.
“It’s called poliosis,” she said when I couldn’t take my eyes off the bright contrast.
“You had polio?” I questioned, concerned she’d once been sick.
“No, poliosis. It’s a lack of pigment in the hair. It’s like a birthmark. It makes me special.”
That comment made her special all right.
“Ah,” I said like a dumbass. Since I’d known an overconfident woman or two in the past, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from asking, “Does the carpet match the curtains?”
“Of course, my carpets match my curtains. I’ll have you know my home was professionally decorated by Sonya Stevens.”
I had no idea who that was, nor did I care. She hadn’t understood my taunt.
“I meant . . .” I let my wandering eyes explain myself, giving her body an obvious perusal from her curtain top to the covered rug at the top of her thighs.
“I beg your pardon,” she snapped.
“You don’t have to beg.”
Our eyes connected then. My meaning clear. Hers cautious. I instantly felt bad for taking my surly attitude out on her. My presence at the conference was at fault, not her. I’d gone too far and apologized for being crass. Then I’d offered to buy her a drink.
After she finished the first gin and tonic a little too quickly, a gentle hand came to rest on my arm.
“Did you mean it?” she questioned, lowering her voice while her tone screamed of vulnerability. “I wouldn’t have to beg.” Her eyes closed like she couldn’t believe she’d asked me for clarification. I didn’t question her hesitation. Her hand began to retract, and I reached for her fingers before she pulled completely away.
“Whatever you want, darlin’.”
There is no denying the woman presently before me is Scotia Simmons. There just isn’t enough coincidence in life to place two different women with the same white streak in my presence.
Does she live here in Green Valley? When I met her in Nashville, I hadn’t considered where she lived. I can’t remember the fine details about her from the event. I don’t recall what business she owned. It wasn’t what we discussed when she approached me at the bar. It wasn’t my concern when she was under me and I entered her repeatedly. We didn’t really talk past her request that I sleep with her.
You. Me. A bed.
She wanted my dick. It was that simple and just as complicated.
I gave in to her because she was beautiful and sweet.
And now I hear all this.
She is all salt and vinegar. I hate women like this and realize I’ve been holding on to the wrong impression of who Scotia is. That tends to happen to me—thinking a woman is one way and finding out later that she’s completely different than I thought.
Watching Scotia’s nose wrinkle as though something on the sidewalk stinks, I don’t feel the need to identify myself. Her narrowed eyes and disgusted face remind me again of someone I don’t like to remember.
I turn away from her and slam the door behind the last boy after he enters the van. After circling the front of the vehicle instead of the back—I don’t want to step anywhere near the shit these women are slinging—I enter the large, eight-seater van.
If we add any more boys to the home, we won’t all fit in this thing.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, I catch another glance of the women on the walk. Scotia is still staring at the vehicle, but it doesn’t matter. She isn’t the same woman I had under me. The one who whispered how good I felt, how she’d never been so complete, and how she couldn’t get enough. That woman was full of sweet praise and sugary compliments while all that fills the woman behind me is vitriol and vinegar.
I don’t need that kind of woman in my life.
“All buckled?” I call out to the boys. When I get the all clear, I shift my eyes forward and decide not to look back.
Later that night, I return to The Fugitive, my bar and motel off The Tail of the Dragon, located just over the Tennessee border inside North Carolina. The place is one of a variety of businesses I own. The popular spot marks the southern end of the famous and dangerous strip of road motorcycle enthusiasts love. In the heat of the summer months, my bike gets me here best, and I need the ride today.
My head requires putting on right after this afternoon. I was so disappointed in what I’d seen and heard on the street in Green Valley, but I don’t know why it bothered me. Maybe because I’d been holding on to fantasies of Scotia in my head, while in reality, she was quite different. She was exactly like Hennessy Miller, and I should have known better. A woman like Henny didn’t look past the nose on her face. She didn’t
read into a person.
Then again, that’s the kicker. I thought Scotia had a good read on me that morning.
She had no recollection of me on the sidewalk today, though.
Eventually, I saunter into The Fugitive. The place is a typical biker hotspot with dark wood paneling, a broad bar with a scattering of tables in the main area, and a separate pool room off to the right. The detached motel stands to the side of the bar in a classic two-story, L-shaped layout. Some might consider the place seedy, but we keep clean rooms which offer updated furniture, a flat-screen television, and a handy lovers’ kit including protection, lubrication, and a couple of mints. That last bit was not on the list of improvements this motel needed when I bought it a while back.
“We ain’t Vegas,” I snarked when one of my former housekeepers came up with the suggestion, but somehow, the sex care packages stuck. The production of them eventually became another one of the businesses I own.
And of course, there’s a Stop-and-Pump gas station located here. I own that, too.
“What’s up?” Todd Ryder calls out to me from behind the bar. He’s been my best friend for years. Whatever I need, he’s the man. At The Fugitive, he’s the bartender, manager, and bouncer.
“Whiskey,” I call out, and Todd pours one for each of us. I slam back the drink as Todd watches me.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” We don’t usually share our shit. We don’t need to discuss feelings or the things we do behind closed doors, but Todd and I know a bit of each other’s history. I should mention the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head. The woman who looked at me like I could be her hero back in March. The woman whose body responded to mine in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Her hunger. Her willingness. It was all she wanted that morning, but I don’t mention any of this to Todd.
Admittedly, I don’t spend much time in Green Valley. Mainly keeping to myself, I don’t make anyone else’s business my own, so I had no idea Scotia lived in the area. I recall her eyes from earlier, assessing me and finding me unworthy in my sweat-laden T-shirt with an unruly beard and hair bushy from the humidity.
She didn’t like what she saw.
I didn’t like what I heard.
She was not the same woman I shared a night with last spring.
And I can’t explain why I’m upset by the interaction.
“Got a new kid,” I mutter, dismissing my real thoughts. Todd knows about Harper House, but I don’t need the rest of the place knowing my affiliation with it. “We can’t seem to identify him. Is he a runaway, or was he kidnapped and then ran away? He’s locked up tighter than a Bible-thumping virgin.”
On my most recent visit, prior to today, one of the boys mentioned someone named Malik while we were hanging out in the giant playroom.
“Who’s Malik?” I turned my head to Maura, who lowered hers.
“We were playing with paint guns in the woods, and he got hit by accident,” Hugh explained.
“What have I told you about those paint guns?” I admonished, turning on my nephew. More importantly, who is this other boy?
“The boys found him in the woods,” Maura answered, and I stared back at her. “We don’t know where he’s from.”
“Maura,” I moaned. Could we even take on another mouth to feed? Not to mention, does the kid have parents who miss him? She knew the drill and surmised the questions running through my head.
“I called the authorities and our caseworker. They agreed to let him stay here while we figure it out.”
“Why doesn’t the kid just tell you where he’s from?” I asked her. Maura explained he isn’t speaking.
“We’re lucky we got a name,” Maura told me, and my tipped brow questioned how she got that information.
“Mrs. Pickle,” she answered.
Mrs. Pickle. Who the hell is this woman?
Maura occasionally uses volunteers to give herself a break during the week and offer additional support to the boys, so I don’t question her. Variety in the village, she calls it. With her bevy of experiences, especially with older kids who come with baggage, she knows how to vet people before letting them enter the house. She’s a natural caregiver, protector, and provider of love. I wish I’d had a foster mother like her.
I don’t recall a thing about my mother. She’d disappeared so deep into alcohol she’d forgotten she had a son. I was placed in the foster system at eight. After years of bad luck and moving from one house to another, I finally met Davis. We’d been thick as thieves and more bonded than blood, despite what anyone said about family. I wanted the same ties and stability for our crew. No boy gets left behind—ever. It’s another reason we need to learn more about Malik
“Where’s the boy?” I asked, and Hugh jutted his chin toward the staircase leading upstairs.
“You okay with this?” I asked Maura. Could she handle one more child?
This ups the count to six.
Although we accept some donations, Harper House is mainly privately funded. We also receive a small stipend from the state for any kids we keep before other foster placement is secured for them. Additional children among our five has been rare. I don’t worry about those things as Maura’s in charge and knows the foster care system better than I do. She follows all the state and federal regulations, but she’s also one of the system’s favorites because she has an excellent track record with kids.
“You know I’d never turn someone away,” she whispered, and the beauty within her radiated outward. Her heart is too large.
“Okay, but the proper channels,” I reminded her, but she didn’t need reminding. Somehow, these occasional stray boys end up with us, but I want them to be legitimate strays and not some angry pissant kid looking for a place to hang out at for a while. We have enough mouths to feed, and bodies to clothe, and brains to inspire. We don’t need trouble with the local sheriff’s department.
“We’re all good so far,” she assured me.
Only, we are still no closer to learning where Malik came from or what he was doing in the woods. Maura could homeschool—in addition to being a foster parent, she’s also a former teacher—but it’s a lot to teach all the boys given their various ages, so they attend the local school. She’s been able to discern that Malik can read, write, and do arithmetic through our mystery volunteer, Mrs. Pickle. He just won’t speak to anyone. He’s stolen a few things in the house but nothing of consequence. It’s all been survival things like snack food, water bottles, and blankets. The fear is he’ll run from us before we find out who he is.
“That sucks,” Todd says, interjecting on my thoughts. Todd’s always been good about supporting the boys where he can. He remembers when his brother nearly landed in trouble with the wrong crowd, and just like me, he doesn’t want that to happen to any of these impressionable kids. For the most part, I don’t involve the guys who roll through my place in my mission. I have enough businesses financially supporting Harper House directly, and that works for me. The bar and motel are my nest egg. My retirement lies in these investments, although I’m not certain I’ll ever retire from riding my bike, hanging out in my bar, and occasionally sleeping with a woman.
Life is easiest lived in this manner.
“And not a word from the kid?” Todd questions. We’ve done our best to guess his age and figure he’s around eight or nine. He hasn’t ever answered direct questions other than once giving his name to Mrs. Pickle, written on a piece of paper.
Mrs. Fucking Pickle. I’m getting tired of hearing about this woman. I had to ask Maura to remind me again what was so special about her.
“Clothes. Books. School supplies. And that’s just a start.” Maura berated me when I questioned not only a volunteer but also her contributions. Apparently, she’s some rich old woman with nothing else to do with her money. “And Dewey’s convinced she’s the best book reader on the planet next to Miss Naomi at the library. Louie is smitten with her, and Malik lights up when she’s around.”
“You sure someth
ing else isn’t on your mind?” Todd asks. I hold out my glass for another hit, and he gives me a second healthy pour. My mind immediately travels back to the scene on the sidewalk earlier. I don’t know why I can’t let it go.
Perhaps the insulting words have tarnished my memory.
I want someone to belong to me.
Then again, I need to remind myself Scotia was a one-night-only opportunity. Or rather one morning. She wasn’t meant to be anything more to me. I once knew a woman like her, wanting a ride on the Chesterfield Express. That woman wanted money and status.
The problem is this feeling I had that Scotia was different. Deep down, I’d thought . . . It doesn’t matter what I thought. I didn’t need nor want a snooty woman. I’d had one once. I wouldn’t go there again.
“Yeah. Just been stupid, that’s all. Used my dick to make a decision instead of my head.”
Unfortunately, I haven’t been with anyone else since that encounter months ago, and I don’t know why I’ve been holding out.
Todd chuckles and taps his glass to mine. “Been there, done that, my friend,” he mutters before lifting his shot glass to his lips.
I could have looked Scotia up after the event last spring. I could have gone through the conference brochure, contacted someone on the board, and found her phone number. But even though I’d wondered what happened to her after that morning, I didn’t.
I don’t know why I didn’t.
Seeing her on the sidewalk paints a different picture of her than I remembered—one of a woman with succulent breasts, a firm ass, and a sweet mouth.
That mouth was not so sweet after all. All salt. All vinegar.
Lord knows, I’m not perfect myself, but I try not to be a dick to my fellow man. I’m doing what I can for my friends. I run several legitimate businesses. I don’t fuck women over, and something tells me, my little tryst with Scotia did her no harm.
Still, I’ve never been a good judge of character when it comes to women. Case in point—the last woman I gave in to was not who I thought she was.
Why don’t I ever learn?
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 3
