I held my wineglass in front of me and carried forth the decision I’d made after talking to Deanna that day.
“I moved here not long ago. I did because I have some friends who live here and love it. They’ve been here about five years. They’re a couple, Deanna and Charlie. Deanna’s actually my best friend. She’s the one who came out to look after my animals.”
“Okay,” he said when I stopped talking.
“Well, I told her I was with you and she told me you own Gamble Garages.”
He seemed to relax and leaned forward to grab another chip and load it with dip, saying, “I do.”
“She said there are a lot of them,” I told him.
He popped the chip in his mouth, chewed it, and sat back to look at me.
He swallowed and replied, “Depends on what you consider a lot. We got eight shops. Circle K has over three thousand.”
His response wasn’t defensive, just informative.
It was still odd.
“No, what I mean is, that’s impressive.”
“Granddad had a wife and three kids to feed, a boy and two girls,” Johnny shared. “Then, it was just the garage, the one here, in Matlock. He saw the writing on the wall and knew he’d never make it, have something to give to his son, if he didn’t grow. You sell more gas, you can buy it cheaper. You change enough filters, you buy in bulk, you get better prices on supplies. You diversify, adding Big Grabs of chips and fridges filled with pop, you got additional sources of revenue. He opened shops two and three. Dad took it up to seven and I added the eighth.”
I nodded.
“But I’m a mechanic,” he announced. “I got a GM who deals with all that shit because I can’t be bothered with it. It bores me sick. I look over his reports. I meet with him once a week so I can okay his decisions. And I’m the only one who can sign checks because I’m not a moron. The rest of the time, I repair transmissions and replace brakes.”
“I . . . are you upset?” I asked, because I couldn’t tell with the utter emotionless and matter of fact way he was imparting this information if he was or wasn’t.
“I’m not upset. I’m wondering why you’d think talking about my garages is awkward.”
“That’s not the awkward part,” I shared carefully.
“Then how ’bout we get to that part,” he prompted.
I decided it best to do it quickly and get it over with.
“My friend also told me about Shandra,” I said quietly.
I also watched him closely.
But nothing changed in the utter emotionlessness of his face, except perhaps the skin around his mouth tightened a bit, but I couldn’t really tell considering it was covered in beard.
“Matlock, pretty much anyone in it who was around when I was with Shandra, decided what that was when not a one of them, but Shandra, knew dick. So don’t listen to that shit.”
“I just wanted to say that if she’s the reason that—”
“I lost my dad three years to the day before I met you, Eliza. That’s where I was at yesterday. Don’t listen to that shit.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “But can I just say that . . . well, I thought you should know. You should know that someone told me. You should know I know. I didn’t want to . . . I mean, you don’t live in a bubble and you know I don’t either, so I can imagine you’d guess I’d talk to my girlfriends about meeting you. But I also think it’s uncool to talk about you, learn things about you, know things about you that you haven’t shared without letting you know I know.”
He said nothing to that.
So I finished, “So that’s it. That’s the awkward.” I flipped out a hand in a way that was just as uncomfortable as I felt and concluded, “That’s done.”
“I loved her,” he stated.
It was me who said nothing to that.
“Thought I’d make babies with her and spend the rest of my life with her. That didn’t happen. We’ve been over for a while. She’s nowhere near Matlock and she’s not coming back. Did that fuck with my head? Yes. A man decides to spend the rest of his life with a woman, make a family with her and it ends, that’s gonna happen. But it happened. She happened. And now it’s done.”
“I’m sorry that happened,” I said gently.
“You weren’t a virgin before I had you so I reckon I’m not the only one sitting here with history like that.”
“I’ve never been in love,” I shared quietly.
“Avoid it,” he advised resolutely. “It sucks.”
And again . . .
There we were.
“I hate you feel that way,” I told him, still quiet. “My dad was a hard act to follow. Not the same way I’m guessing, but still, he was. Mom never recovered. She tried though, a lot, and she did it hard. So even though I’ve never felt anything like that, I get it in little ways, what you’re saying, watching her search for something that wasn’t to be had. Because sometimes I wished she’d avoid it so she could find another way to be happy.”
“You’ve changed,” he declared.
I felt my head give a slight twitch in surprise to his comment.
But I suspected he said it in order to change the subject.
“Yes, I ran up when you were in the stables and got out of my work stuff,” I confirmed.
“No,” he said firmly. “Yesterday, you were nervous and unsure of yourself, unless I had you in bed. Sweet, when you weren’t letting your nerves run away with you, which made you do stupid shit, but shy as fuck. Now, you’re not.”
“I’m in my space now,” I explained.
“It’s not that,” he returned.
“I’ve also already been a total idiot in a pretty bad way, so I broke the seal on that so you won’t be as surprised, or angry, if I do it again. Which I might, just saying. I can be confident when I’m serving up my famous guacamole because as you can tell,” I waved my wineglass at the bowl, “it’s confidence worthy. The rest of the evening, fair warning, anything could happen.”
He said nothing again.
“And camping, which I assume will be Saturday to Sunday, just be aware, with that much time, I could cause a mini-Johnny-Izzy Armageddon.”
His mouth twitched.
“But you’re good through the enchiladas because those also rock,” I assured.
“You got plans Wednesday?” he asked.
My heart jumped. “No.”
“My turn to dazzle you with my cooking.”
A slow smile spread on my face. “You’re on.”
He leaned toward the guac again and did it speaking. “Just to say, babe.” He loaded up a chip, sat back and looked me right in the eyes. “It’s appreciated, you being honest with me. You’re right. It’d be totally uncool you knew shit about me you didn’t share. So thanks for that.”
He then popped the chip in his mouth.
“You’re welcome, Johnny.”
He jerked his head to the bowl. “Am I gonna eat that all by myself?”
I grinned at him and shook my head, leaned toward the bowl and took my own chip, saying, “Nope.”
I sat back and shoved it in my mouth.
It was when I was washing it back with my first sip of wine when his hand settled on the side of my knee that was pressed to his thigh.
I felt the tingle and swallowed the cool wine.
“Now,” he murmured, and I looked at him. “You honestly gonna make me ask for a freaking kiss?”
He wanted a kiss.
“Nope,” I whispered, bent toward him, put my own hand on his thigh and my face close to his.
He slid his fingers into my hair as he wrapped his hand around the back of my head and pulled me closer.
I kissed him but he kissed me too.
Then he let me go, I sat back and we ate up all the guac and chips.
Later, after enchiladas, after Johnny declared my apple pie à la mode was better than my guac, after Johnny helped me clean up, after I let Johnny give the treats to the dogs, I led him upstairs and moved forward into my r
oom where I’d guided him.
I stopped because I sensed he stopped.
Enchiladas went great, though Johnny agreed, as great as they were, the guac was better (this was before he had my pie).
And the half a plate of salad he served himself didn’t make his body slide into shock.
Also, things were relaxed, they were easy. We were getting to know each other, perhaps not sharing deeply, but I now had the info Deanna gave me confirmed that he had a brother, but I also knew he used to have a dog named Ranger. I further knew he was thirty-four years old and didn’t go to college. He went to mechanics school but knew most everything they taught him since he’d been working beside his dad (and before he died, his granddad too) at the garage since he could see over the fender of a car. And he was totally okay with Swirl and Dempsey going camping with us.
Through all that I didn’t make an idiot of myself.
But that time was nigh. I could feel it.
Because Johnny had made no bones about what we were doing after cleanup and dog treats, and he’d done this by looking at me and saying, “Now, Iz, where’s your bedroom?”
So now we were about to have sex.
So now I was nervous as a cat.
I looked back at him to see him staring up at the old-fashioned, droopy crystal chandelier I’d found at a garage sale and bought for a song because it was messed up. But I cleaned it up and now it was fabulous.
“Johnny?”
His chin tipped down and his eyes sought mine. “You have a chandelier in your bedroom?”
I grinned, the nerves beginning to glide away.
I also shrugged.
“Am I gonna walk outta your house tomorrow morning coated in glitter dust?” he asked.
My heart sang and the nerves took flight.
He was spending the night.
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“Best get to fucking you before I turn into a unicorn or something,” he muttered.
I burst out laughing.
I stopped doing this when Johnny charged me with a purpose, this purpose ending in us both bouncing on my bed, him on top.
And then he got to fucking me.
I’d find he’d brought a string of five condoms.
But before I passed out naked in his arms in my bed, we’d used only three.
Still, it was good he came prepared.
“Iz.”
I turned from the sink and looked to Johnny.
He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair a mess, his jeans on, done up, belt not done up, shirt on, not buttoned up, feet bare, boots in his hand.
His eyes were drowsy and they were on my shoulder.
“You’re awake,” I said.
“Babe,” he replied.
“What?” I asked.
“What the fuck is on your shoulder?”
I looked down at the orange canary perched on my shoulder.
That canary sang.
I looked back at Johnny. “That’s Wesley.”
He stared at me.
I gestured to the yellow canary hopping on the countertop. “That’s Buttercup.”
“Jesus,” Johnny muttered.
“They keep me company while I make breakfast,” I told him, moving to the coffeemaker. “You want coffee?”
“Babe,” he said.
“What?” I asked, looking to him again to see his eyes aimed to the floor.
“What’s on your feet?”
I turned my attention to my feet then back to him.
“Wellies.”
“Why?” he queried.
“Why?” I repeated after him.
“Why do you got boots on with your pajama bottoms?”
“I had to go feed the horses and then let them out.”
His gaze slid down my fitted T-shirt to my pajama bottoms, which I had rolled at the waist, to my wellies and back up.
“I’m here, you get my ass up to go turn out the horses.”
My belly flip-flopped.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I don’t know what time it is but I know I don’t want to know what time it is. You get up this early every day?”
“I have a lot to do in the mornings and a long commute.”
He dropped his boots on the floor, strolled into the room and came right to me.
He didn’t kiss me or touch me.
What he did do was lift a finger.
Wesley hopped on it.
Johnny turned his hand to his shoulder and Wesley hopped there.
My whole world trembled, because although it was arguable, that might be better than a morning kiss.
I felt it, as I would.
I also ignored it.
Then Johnny grabbed the pot out of the coffeemaker at the same time he took one of the cups hanging on hooks under the cupboards.
“Go do what you do to morph into working girl. I’ll make breakfast.”
“Working woman,” I corrected.
His still sleepy, beautiful eyes cut to me.
“Don’t bust my chops at three o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s five thirty, Johnny.”
His attractive and sometimes ominous thick brows shot up.
“What’d I say about not busting my chops?”
I grinned up at him.
“Go,” he rumbled.
I kept grinning, turned on a Wellington-clad foot and headed to the back door.
I took the boots off, tossed them on the back porch and headed out of the kitchen but stopped at the door and turned back.
Johnny, with Wesley still perched on his shoulder, was peering into the open fridge, one hand on the handle, the other hand held up to his side with his long, strong fingers wrapped around one of my heavy cream coffee cups.
“Johnny?” I called.
He twisted to me but didn’t close the refrigerator door.
“You didn’t turn into a unicorn,” I pointed out.
“I still got the equipment to drill you so if you don’t wanna be late to work, you best stop being cute at the same time you’re being a smartass and get on with morphing into working woman.”
“Message received,” I returned, smiling hugely at him.
“Izzy, no human on earth who’s normal smiles that big at three o’clock in the morning,” he growled.
“It’s five thirty,” I repeated.
“Baby?” he called.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Get the fuck upstairs.”
I kept smiling at him.
After I did that for as long as I thought he could take it, I turned and dashed up my stairs.
Ghostrider
Johnny
HE TOOK THE call even though he didn’t know who was behind the number that showed on his screen.
He shouldn’t have.
After answering, she spoke in his ear.
“Johnny?”
He closed his eyes.
Three years.
That voice was back after three years.
Christ, would this never be done?
“Johnny,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he whispered.
“Johnny,” she whispered back.
“Don’t,” he ordered.
“I’m coming to town.”
“Don’t,” he repeated.
“I need to see you.”
“Three years,” he stated.
She had nothing to say to that.
“And you call and say you’re coming to town and you wanna see me?” he demanded.
“We need to talk.”
“You made your decision.”
“There are things I need to say to you.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“It was out of my control.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You didn’t understand.”
“I understood. I understood you walked out my fuckin’ door a week after my father died.
”
“You know why. I had no choice.”
“I told you your choices, you just chose the wrong one.”
“You couldn’t ask me to do that.”
“You’re not remembering it right. I could. I did. And you gave me your answer by walking out my door.”
“He’s my brother. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not go on the lam with him.”
“You know how it was with us,” she said quietly.
“I knew. So . . . what? Now you’re calling and wanna talk, tell me he did the right thing, turned himself in, he’s serving his time and you’re free of his shit?”
“He . . . I don’t know where he is.”
Johnny closed his eyes again, muttering, “Right.”
“I’ve . . . it’s over.”
Johnny opened his eyes and repeated, “Right.”
“I’m done with him. He’s had his last chance.”
“You need money?” Johnny asked.
“No.” She sounded struck. “Of course not.”
“So why are you calling, Shandra?”
She was back to whispering. “Johnny.”
“You destroyed me.”
She didn’t whisper.
She said nothing at all.
“Dad died. Toby was being his usual Toby. Your asshole of a brother was pulling his usual felonious shit. He needed you. I needed you. And you chose him.”
“I asked you to come with us,” she reminded him.
“On the lam with an asshole who’d robbed a bank?” he asked incredulously.
“You could have talked some sense into him. He listened to you.”
“He didn’t listen to anyone, Shandra, except the voice in his head that drove him to do stupid, selfish acts of assholery.”
“He was all I had.”
Christ.
Christ.
Why did that still burn?
“Yeah, in the end he was, because you made it that way.”
She sounded wounded. “Johnny, you know what I mean.”
Oh, he knew what she meant.
“So you can’t forgive me,” she said, sounding sad now.
“I forgave you five weeks later, the day I had to put Lace down, which also happened to be the day I finished that fucking bathroom you designed that you loved so much and couldn’t wait to use so bad, you put that jar in it to start decorating it before I got the damned thing done. It was then it became clear to me your dad was a dick, your mom was a piece of shit, and growing up, all you had was your brother. Until you met me. But when it came down to it, your loyalty was to blood. I get that. I still put up with Toby’s shit, so I get that. That doesn’t negate the fact the choice you made communicated where I stood. And from your choice, where I stand hasn’t changed.”
The Hookup Page 8
