by Connor, Eden
“Call it.” Eric leaned back on his heels, spinning the screwdriver around his fingers and grinning.
“Nine minutes, forty-eight seconds.”
“Not world record pace, but you’re good to go.”
Eric angled the chair close. Kevin heaved himself into it. “Wow, that was amazing. Thanks.” The young man lifted his legs onto the metal footplate, then grabbed for the ends of the hanging safety belt and jammed them together. “Can I pay you?”
Eric leaned in. “Sure can. Number fifteen? He needs to bleed.”
Kevin grinned and held out a fist for him to bump. His blue eyes were intent. “Been doggin’ that asshole all night. Consider it done.”
Amy’s father blew his whistle. “Away team’s ball, out of bounds!”
A rotund black man had appeared about the time Eric pulled the tire off the rim. He still hovered beside Maze. “My name’s Gene Rolley. I’m the team manager. What’s your name, young man?”
Eric introduced himself, then slapped Maze on the back. “This is Amazin’ Mason Elliot. Back in the day, he was a pretty fair ball player at the high school. He’d like to talk to you about helping coach, if you’re the man in charge.”
“Yeah, I know you. You’re Pug Elliot’s boy, the soldier,” the older man stated, grabbing the hand Maze extended. “Let’s talk.”
Backing away, Eric began packing his tools, but kept his gaze on Kevin. He couldn’t help breaking into a wide smile when the player slammed his chair on number fifteen like a pissed-off bull. Ten minutes well spent.
“Hey, mister, could you lower my seat? It’s about,”—the tow-headed player held his thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart—“that much too high.”
“Sure thing.” Eric grabbed his Allen wrenches and a set of calipers. He was just finishing the simple task when a whistle sounded. Amy’s father yelled, “Time out!” Amy came off the court. Her cheeks were flushed. No trace of her makeup remained. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face. Her uniform was unflattering as hell and he wanted to kiss her.
“I think someone’s about to get their ass handed to ‘em. Thanks to you.” Her grin was infectious. “That was impressive.”
The admiration in her eyes made the job worthwhile. “Not as impressive as the way these guys play. We change flats six days a week.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Dee told me you worked for a NASCAR team once.”
He gave a curt nod. Damn Dee. “A former NASCAR driver and team owner hired me to work in his shop.” Nothing beat the excitement of racing. A grown man could be blown aside like a leaf by a row of racecars going by at nearly two hundred miles an hour. You couldn’t duct tape your way through shit like that. More than winning depended on doing the job right.
“Who? Which team owner?”
“Cotton Gowens.”
Her eyes went wide before she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes again. “What happened?”
His excitement evaporated. Turning away, he kicked the toolbox. “I did somethin’ stupid.”
“Oh, no!” Amy cried. Eric opened his mouth to tell her she was overreacting, but she took off running.
Through the able-bodied people and players rushing onto the court, Eric spied Kevin, writhing on the floor. His face was redder than his hair and he grabbed his elbow with a loud cry.
The lone tire rolled across the half-court line, staggering like Rafe after the old man tied one on.
He knew right away he’d fucked up. He even knew how. He’d been so goddamn busy showing off—overcompensating, you mean?— he hadn’t tightened the axle’s quick-release connector on the tire he’d pulled. That explained the drag. The tire hadn’t seated properly because it wasn’t locked onto the axle. He’d had the twelve seconds it would’ve taken to lock that axle down, too.
He refused to look at the young boy whose seat he’d lowered, but triple-checking these screws wouldn’t fix Kevin’s elbow. Gene Rolley ran onto the floor, pushing a regular wheelchair. Shaking off any assistance, Kevin dragged his body into the seat, but his face twisted with pain.
Embarrassment and shame burned Eric’s cheeks. He got to his feet and stalked toward the tire, feeling like the world’s biggest jackass.
“Man, I don’t know what to say. I’ll fix it,” he vowed when Gene pushed Kevin to the sidelines. Amy’s father carried the damaged chair over.
Eric wasn’t about to look at him. Kneeling by the chair—the two thousand dollar chair—he eyed the quick-connect joint.
Because he’d left the locking mechanism sticking out, rather than flipping it down to lock it in place, when the wheel came off, the pressure from Kevin’s weight caused the hole in the rim to shear off the plastic handle. Griping because the manufacturer had cut corners by using plastic would make him sound like a whiny bitch, but it seemed a half-assed decision on the manufacturer’s part. They had to know how these guys banged.
Metal or plastic, unlocked is unlocked, dumbass. What he’d done was no different than sending a car out without tightening the lug nuts.
“I’ll grab some ice.” Amy dashed toward the concessions table.
“Can you fix it? I’ll need that chair tomorrow.” Kevin winced every time he tried to bend his elbow, but Eric didn’t argue. “We’re gonna have to fight our way out of the loser’s bracket,” the player added.
Eric scanned the faces of Kevin’s teammates. Watching their eyes dim while they agreed to the forfeit was painful. He looked at the scoreboard. The team was up by seven with only two minutes left on the clock.
“You’ll have it.” Eric winced at the sight of Kevin cradling his elbow. If it took all night, he’d fabricate a replacement for the broken part. He only hoped the kid got to use the chair that soon.
While the next two teams took the court to warm up, Amy carried the tire to his truck. He carried his tools and the wheelchair. He slammed the toolbox onto the asphalt and eased the chair over the side. “I’ll grab us a couple of pizzas for later. No mushrooms, right?”
“Right.” She handed him the tire. “I just have one more game to call, so I’ll be done in a couple hours. And green stuff belongs in the yard, not on a pizza.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t check that connection.” He tossed the tire over, then drove his fists down on the bed rail.
If you’re gonna do a half-assed job, don’t bother doin’ anything. He almost looked around for Dan, but those were his father’s words ringing in his ears. Swallowing hard, Eric turned. “You still have that tent stake I saw you with last night?”
Chapter Twelve
When Eric said he’d find her a trunk, Amy pictured a basic Army footlocker. Certainly not a piece of furniture nearly her height, much less a matched pair. These things looked like something the first-class passengers on the Titanic might’ve owned. The tall trunks stood on end, lined up against the wall to the left of the loft stairs. One side of each massive box had a compartment for hanging clothes. Flat, wooden hangers spanned the distance between two metal rods that extended more than a foot. Each would easily hold more dresses than she cared to own.
She couldn’t see into the top drawers on these things, either, dammit, but the trunks gave her a sense of being a tenant rather than a sofa-dweller. She was grateful Eric had kept his word without her having to remind him. Too weary to spend more time examining the trunks, she made her way to the tub. A soak was tempting, or a dash to the hot pool, but she showered instead.
When she came out of the bathroom, she heard Eric stoking the fire, but the chilly air made her hasten to put on her warmest pajamas. The scent of pizza lured her downstairs. Kevin’s wheelchair sat beside the front door. “You fixed it? Already?”
He opened the oven door and wrapped a dishtowel around his hand so he could pull out the rack. “Thank God, the axle and connector were okay. Only the handle broke, so I made new ones for both sides. Just a matter of shaping the metal and adding a pin. Lucky for me, that tent spike of yours was titanium. I’ll buy you a replacement next w
eek.”
“Don’t worry about that. It came from Drew’s tent.” He’d spent their only camping trip bitching. She doubted he’d ever use the thing again.
Eric chuckled, dividing the pizza onto paper plates. “I’m not gonna lose any sleep over a replacement, then. How many slices can you eat?”
All of them. “Uh, two?” Her tummy gave an angry growl.
Scowling, he put four slices on her plate. “Don’t be ridiculous. You must’ve run ten miles tonight.”
On her way to the couch, she bent to inspect his work. The spike wasn’t the thin, round kind, but a strip of metal almost eight inches long and about three-eighths of an inch wide. Half was enough to make a nice handle. One end now curled stylishly back over the length. The repair didn’t look makeshift at all. Fearing the edges would be sharp, she ran a finger over the thin strip, but what she felt made her lean in for a better look. He’d added tiny dots of metal or solder to the edge. The balls would protect Kevin’s fingers. The repair looked better than the original. It was obvious he took pride in his work. She’d never been around a man who was worth a damn at fixing stuff, so while he might shrug this off, she was impressed.
They didn’t talk while they devoured the thick pizza, topped with every kind of meat.
Suddenly, he leaned over, dragging the tip of his tongue across her chin. He explained, straight-faced. “Paid for double cheese. Can’t let that go to waste.”
“Mmm.” She should be embarrassed to be caught eating like a piglet, but she was too hungry to care. Besides, wasn’t she just another broken handle to him?
After polishing off the final slice, she felt too full to make the three steps it would take to throw her paper plate into the stove, much less walk to the kitchen to throw it away. Grateful for the metal table tops, she tossed the grease-stained circle onto the coffee table. She stretched. Wiggling her toes inside the footed pj’s made him laugh.
He lifted a foot onto his thigh. “Winner wants her foot rub, huh?” He dug his fingers into her arch while biting into his last slice.
Amy moaned. “I should let you off the hook after the day you’ve had.”
“You know what? I was havin’ a bad day. Carpenter’s gonna get away with a slap on the wrist. I lost a gun battle to a girl.” His expression seemed playful but her heart twisted at the pain in his eyes. “But then, watching those guys play tonight, I realized something.”
The pressure on her arch became harder as he dug a thumb into her aching tendons.
“What did you realize?”
He finished the pizza before responding. “I realized it doesn’t matter if you’re seven feet tall, or shootin’ from a chair. Sometimes, you have hot hands. Other times, that basket seems to have an invisible lid. Either keep tossin’ up shots, or quit.” He shrugged and his grin was lopsided. “It sounded deeper when it was just a thought in my head. Doesn’t matter what your basket is, life’s not gonna lower it for you.” He sighed. “I dunno. It’s like I spent the day figuring out my dad.” Cocking a brow, he added,” And totally making a bad impression on yours.”
Though pleasure clouded her mind, she managed to talk. “My sister’s twelve years older. When my mom got pregnant with me, she informed my dad that she’d raised her kid. If he wanted her to keep the baby, then I was his to raise. He took her up on that deal, so I grew up following him around. Since he was always on a field somewhere, coaching a team, I learned how to take up for myself. He thought what you did for Kevin was awesome.”
He blew off the praise. “I guess I embarrassed you by overreacting. My dad again. He had some real strict ideas on how to treat a girl.”
Amy knew Jonah’s mother, Sarah, had been a mere six weeks old when Cammie disappeared. Her sister swore Amy had gotten away with murder, by virtue of being the youngest. In many ways, that was true. “I bet that made for a little tyrant.”
Eric nodded. The tears sparkling in his eyes made her heart ache, but he smiled. “You better believe it. Once, when she was just learning to crawl, I sorta bowled her over.”
The word “sorta” made her snort.
His eyes rounded. “Uh huh. I thought that was the funniest thing ever, ‘cause she got right back up, so I kept pushing her down. Didn’t realize Dad was standing behind me.” Eric lifted a hand and spread his fingers wide. “I swear, Amy, the man had hands bigger than mine. He grabbed me by the arm, and his other hand landed on my ass. Lifted my feet right off the ground so many times, I felt like I was on a ride at the fair.”
Through her laughter, she managed to say, “Ouch.”
“I did the same thing to Colton and he never turned a hair.” All the amusement drained from his face. “But I got off light compared to John Carpenter.”
Her urge to laugh abruptly disappeared. Her heart thumped. “John hurt Sarah?”
Eric began kneading her arch fiercely, using both thumbs. “I dunno if you’ve ever been down to the farmhouse where Dan and Cynda live, but the yard behind the house backs up to one of the orchards. One Sunday, after lunch, we were outside. The lower orchards were just about to bloom. John was dropping off the bee hives and Sarah wandered over. She wasn’t quite three. He had on that veil and gloves, long sleeves, the whole outfit. Bees were crawling all over him and they covered his hand. He reached out to Sarah. She didn’t know any better, so she goes closer. Until you’ve seen bees do that, you don’t realize what you’re looking at until you get close.”
A hand covered in crawling bees would be scary to Amy, even now. She imagined a child would be terrified. Or fascinated, but unaware of the risk. Either way, the scene he described was sickening. “What happened?” She rubbed her arms, trying to rid herself of the sudden prickling sensation.
“Dad was standing at the back door. I was waiting for him to call Sarah back. Instead, he stepped out, put a rifle to his shoulder, and jacked a round into a tree. Bark exploded about ten feet from John. Now, everyone knew Dad was a damn good shot, but he didn’t want to alarm the bees, right? His voice was real calm when he said, ‘Scare my daughter again and I’ll put the next one into you’. He just did not fuck around about Sarah. What kind of grown man does that to a little girl?”
A bad man. An evil man. This was the time to tell him what the woman in the mall office said, but he discarded his plate alongside hers and held out his arms. “Come here.”
Unnerved by the story, as well as by what she might know, Amy crawled to his end of the wide couch. He turned onto his side, making room for her. She needed his warmth. She felt as though the fire had gone out, even though it burned brightly. His lips felt like velvet, brushing her cheek. He stroked her back, then slid his fingers under the elastic of her pants.
“Flannel armor tonight, huh?” He made no move to delve deeper inside the waistband, apparently content with trailing his fingers across her skin. The only sound was the occasional pop from the fire. Shifting slightly, she pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat and inhaling his scent.
Perhaps five minutes passed before he broke the silence. “I really enjoyed the game. Can’t believe the way I fucked up, but I’d watch them play again.”
She tilted her head so she could see his eyes. Daring to raise her hand to his face, she cupped his jaw. “Stop being so hard on yourself, Eric. What you did was amazing. Not just the skill it showed, either. You cared enough to try. That means something to me. Too many people won’t go out on a limb. You did. I think that’s special. Giving a damn is rare.”
Watching the muscles in his jaw work, and the shadowed look in his eye, told her someone important hadn’t believed in him. She’d seen that look in others’ eyes. Whether tutoring someone in math, or looking around in class when an exam was handed out, or staring in the mirror while wearing a dress, the face of self-doubt was a familiar one.
“I think I could build those chairs for a hell of a lot less than two grand. Do you know the only titanium on Kevin’s chair is that damn tent spike?”
“Yeah, the titani
um chair was astronomical. He wanted one, but settled for aluminum.”
He turned to press a kiss to her palm. Burying his face between her neck and shoulder, he worked his way to her jaw. The feathery kisses sent shivers skittering down her spine and made her nipples harden. He nudged her legs apart, sliding his thigh in between hers, until the muscle rested against her sex. He pulled her closer to his chest. “You comfortable?” he mumbled
“Mmm hmm.” She could stay right here, in Eric’s arms, forever. Amy knew better than to entertain that thought, but it felt true in the most visceral way. Every fiber of her being hummed with an odd sense of completion. Must be because I can barely keep my eyes open. He rested his chin on top of her head. His breathing deepened.
She watched the flickering light dance over the arm he wrapped around her. For the first time, she realized the colorful tattooed sleeve featured Madonnas, holding their babes. She thought the images were copies of old paintings. This close, she saw some of the inked designs were faded, but the women and infants looked fresh. The choice was eloquent on the arm of a motherless boy. Tears stung her eyes.
She had to go back to the mall to see if that girl had been filling out an application. But why would Malibu Barbie tell Amy anything, even if her hunch was right? Bet she’d tell Eric. She was sure of that, but it still felt wrong to add to his worries.
Should she tell the police and let them ask? What if the girl had no proof to back up her harsh accusation? Opening a “he said, she said” drama wouldn’t be helpful. The problem seemed too complex for her to solve, but thinking about Sarah and those bees, she was grateful John Carpenter was in jail.
Slowly, she let her eyes drift closed, enjoying the way Eric’s arm tightened around her in sleep.
* * * *
Eric came awake slowly. The fire was a mere glow in the base of the stove, so it took him a minute to realize the soft thing he was wrapped around wasn’t his quilt or a pillow, but Amy.
