by Dee Tenorio
“Tel me about it,” he said under his breath. Not that there was much point, he couldn’t get more than a foot away from her. She could probably hear his thoughts if she gave it much effort.
“We have another problem first,” she sighed.
“Of course we do.” She didn’t even blame him for the sarcasm.
“Bonnie made us al wear this truss thing, to keep the lines of the dress smooth.”
“Why am I getting scared?”
“Because you can probably imagine what happens to testicles when they’re shoved up where ovaries are supposed to be,” she snapped. Things are getting urgent and he was worried about fear.
“Wel I am now.”
“It’s like a strapless bathing suit underneath.”
Maybe she should just hold it and hope she didn’t survive the urinary rupture. No...then she wouldn’t get to string her sister up by her persnickety shoes.
Revenge. A girl could survive humiliation if she had revenge on her mind.
“Can you shimmy out of it?” That had better not be hopefulness in his voice.
“I have to suck in my gut to get in or out of it. It’s going to take some...” Bonnie, may God have mercy on your soul “...yanking.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. Then he swal owed like there was an anvil in his throat. “You want me...”
She waited for him to continue but he didn’t seem capable. So she shifted and the pain brought him back from wherever his glazed gaze had taken him.
“You want me to rip your underwear off?”
Given the need to clamp her thighs together, she didn’t care how he worded it. She nodded.
“I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven,” he murmured.
“You wil if you don’t watch it, Wichowski.
Just...reach under...”
He bent, careful y keeping his arm extended and started tossing up the layers of skirt. Next thing she knew, she felt his hand searching its way up her thighs. Ruth Anne looked up at the ceiling, biting her lips. Somehow, this was not how she envisioned his first dive under her dress.
Not that she ever envisioned that. On purpose.
His hand found the back of her rear end and slipped under the edge of the fabric. Good lord, Bobby Wichowski had final y made good on his taunts to get in her underpants. Her life was over.
He tugged.
Nothing happened.
She sucked in harder. Another tug.
Stil nothing.
“Hey, Rhubarb, we may need to rethink our approach.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’ve only got one hand here, kiddo. Maybe if I grab the middle-”
“If you grab the middle, it’l be the last thing that hand ever does!”
He pondered that as if it explained something.
“So I’m guessing then you don’t get a lot of company down here.”
“Bobby, so help me, I wil rip your arm off and beat you with it, do you hear me?”
“Okay, geez. Let me just get a look—” He picked her skirt up and pul ed it over his head.
“Bobby!” She was actual y too mortified to even scream so it came out like a squeak from a dying rat.
“Dammit, there’s no light under here, can’t see a thing.”
Thank God for smal blessings. “Get out of there!”
“Tel you what, how about you use your spare hand and I use mine on either side of your hips and we yank together.”
“Sure. Fine. Dandy. Just get the hel out of there.”
The skirt rustled and he peeked out, his face a little red, his hair a lot mussed so that the inky curls were going in every direction and a smile of pure mischief on his face. “On three. One...two...three!”
They yanked and, thankful y, the truss came free. Along with a loud ripping noise and a look of shock on Bobby’s face.
“What just happened?” she asked, trying to ignore the draft she could feel.
“Um, maybe you should do your business.”
While that would be smart, she instead looked down. She could feel the truss at her ankles. And about half her skirt along with it.
“I couldn’t see,” he said in what must have been explanation. But nothing could quite explain this. The waist seam had come apart at his pul until the entire left side now hung past her now bare hip.
Ruth Anne closed her eyes again. She had no plans to open them again. Ever.
Chapter Five
The only thing worse than Bobby Wichowski seeing her half-naked was Bobby Wichowski watching her pee. Not that Ruth Anne was entirely sure he watched. She had her face in her hands.
“Need tissue?” he asked quietly, tempting her to peek through her fingers. Nope, not looking. He was politely turned as far left as his head would al ow.
Ruth Anne put her hands down and sighed. This gave “pooh or get off the pot” a whole new meaning to her. She took the tissue wad—is that how much men used? God, no wonder the rainforests were disappearing!—and rearranged it into a useable fold. There was enough left over to replace Bonnie’s truss. But it was the thought that counted.
A flush later, she gathered her skirt and bunched as much as she could back to where it was supposed to be. Now al that was left was to go and get help. But how were they going to explain themselves?
“I was thinking. Doesn’t the bride’s room have safety pins or something?” He stil wasn’t looking at her.
“Yeah, probably. Probably not enough to put this back together, though.”
“Wel , Father Larkin’s office is across the hal .
Maybe he has a stapler-”
“You want to staple me?” It wasn’t a bad idea, real y. “Could you do it without getting my skin?”
He final y faced her, grinning, excitement starting to churn between them. “They might have some scissors in there, too.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Working together with the most evil mind she’d ever encountered was unusual y thril ing. After she washed her hands, he stuck his head out of the bride’s room and checked for lurkers before pul ing her out with him. The fabric rustled loud in her ears as he led the way in a funny little crab walk to the door across the hal . Thankful y the door opened easily and they shuffled inside, both of them taking a breath of relief once the door was closed behind them.
Father Larkin’s office was nice, Ruth Anne supposed. Dark, though. Deep-toned cherry wood paneling, tables, desks and a big stone fireplace. It was either the middle ages or a hunting lodge, she couldn’t decide.
Bobby started in on the desk while she tried to help by opening another drawer. But the more she bent, the less he could reach. Final y, he insisted she look at him.
“This isn’t going to work, Rhubarb. I’m going to do something here and you’re going to let me or we’re going to be stuck like this for a very long time.”
Logic could be annoying but the idea of them getting caught not only half-dressed and stuck to each other, but rifling through a priest’s personal area wasn’t appealing. She nodded.
Bobby’s free hand pul ed her close so that she was al by laying on his chest. He even tucked her head under his chin and if she wasn’t mistaken, his snagged hand hugged her closer as if he were protecting her. “Okay, now stay stil and let me do the work, okay?”
It was a bad time to develop a dirty mind but Ruth Anne couldn’t help it. He was holding her so close, his warmth was seeping into her despite the armor of her dress as he whispered, sending shivers down her back to where his hand braced her close.
Add to that the idea of Bobby doing the work...
Suddenly being next to a big flat surface like that desk was more tempting than she ever imagined.
“Found some scissors!” he said, breaking her attention from the furniture. She wanted to smack herself. She was in a priest’s rectory! Her mother would have her excommunicated for her thoughts.
She didn’t even want to think about what Bobby might do.
Knowing him, he’d act on them.
<
br /> “Stapler! We’re looking good, Rhubarb!”
Yeah, good. He smel ed good, too, even after al that dancing. She hadn’t noticed so much before but, with her face pressed into his shirt, it was hard to miss. Woodsy, clean.
Bobby, she reminded herself, trying to shake off the unexpected case of the yums. Bobby, who was always finding the most disrespectful ways to address her breasts. Bobby, who took sick glee in rushing home plate when she was the catcher and laying flat on her until she couldn’t breathe. Bobby, who spent way too much time scaring off potential—
or worse, current—dating partners.
Bobby, who was nestling his chin against her hair and ever so slightly rubbing her back.
She froze. What was going on here? They were practical y hugging. Getting along. Working together.
She tilted her head back, careful to look up at him and think not thing a single thing about how good it felt to be exactly where she was. But then she met his hooded blue gaze and being careful fel right out of her head.
“You know why I’ve always liked your mouth, Rhubarb?” he asked in that whispery voice again, but it was twice as intimate as before. He let go of his prizes and reached up his free hand to rub his thumb over the bottom edge of her lip. Those shivers started again. “Even when you’re cal ing me names, it’s the perfect shape for kissing.”
“There’s no shape for kissing.” She wasn’t quite sure how the words came out. Her brain was completely disconnected and so her mouth had to be on auto-pilot. Which explained why it didn’t do anything when his eyes closed and his lips descended to hers.
Wel , that wasn’t quite true.
It moaned.
Then her hands turned traitor too and held onto him tighter. What was left of her consciousness decided to do exactly what he told her to do earlier, stay stil and let him do the work. She’d never realized what an ethic the man had. There wasn’t a mil imeter of her mouth he didn’t taste, tease and tempt. Why, he even managed to change gravity somehow because the world seemed to be tipping.
Down, down, down to the nice flat desk.
Very nice...
He final y left her mouth, kissing down the side of her neck, nibbling and saying wonderful things like, “Oh, God, Rhubarb...” She forgot about the rip in her dress as her body got too warm to care about the draft and especial y not when he reached beneath the layers to pul one of her legs up over his hip. Who knew tuxedo slacks were so nice on the skin? He was just a heartbeat from her corset when there came a draft she couldn’t ignore.
One from the doorway.
Fol owed by the thump of a sixty-seven year old priest hitting the ground in shock.
Chapter Six
“Holy shit, we kil ed a priest!” Bobby said from his position in Ruth Anne’s cleavage. She was too busy closing her eyes and saying a speedy Act Of Contrition to add anything else to the discussion.
“Come on, Rhubarb, get up! We have to help him.”
Yes, checking to see if he was actual y dead or not might be the saner course of action. Bobby levered her up way faster than he levered her down
—she was not going to think about, remember or God help her, repeat that action—and shuffled her as quickly across the room as they could. She bent down just as Father Larkin’s papery eyelids were starting to rustle.
“He’s alive!” she cried, relief about not going directly to Hel nearly bringing her to tears. She grabbed Bobby’s belt buckle—how’d that get undone?—and pul ed him down so they were both kneeling next to the elderly man. “Father, can you hear me?”
“He’s unconscious, not deaf, Rhubarb.”
She ignored him. It was the only thing to do.
Otherwise she’d look at him, then she’d have to admit she was stil shaky inside from what had happened. Wel , no, first she’d have to admit something had happened, die of shame, then admit she was stil shaky. Bobby seemed to understand because he hugged her closer with his attached hand and patted her side.
Father Larkin’s eyes final y flickered open, out of focus, and he sighed. “Oh...oh my!”
“Just lay there a minute, Father, we’l cal someone for help,” Bobby said, offering a smooth touch to the older man’s spotted hand.
“I thought...you two were on my desk....”
“Of course not, Father. We wouldn’t do something like that on your desk. We were looking for office supplies. Did you take your medicine yet?”
Bobby sounded so sure that if Ruth Anne hadn’t been underneath him, she might have believed him herself.
“I...no, I was coming in...are you sure?” Clarity was returning to Father Larkin’s eyes with a quickness. His gaze darted from one of them to the other and Ruth Anne wasn’t having any luck control ing her flaming blush. “I know what I saw, young man,” he said firmly, raising himself up despite their protests. “I have not gotten to this age without fal ing down a few times, I’l have you know.
You’re not pul ing the wool over anyone’s eyes here, Mr. Wichowski.”
“Look at me, Father. Would I lie to you?”
Ruth Anne chewed her lips hard as she could, trying not to laugh at the huge puppy dog eyes and pouty lips that no doubt saved Bobby from any fate his mother dreamed up. Father Larkin, on the other hand, appeared unaffected. “Without a doubt.”
He final y gave Ruth Anne a longer look, probably registering the bedraggled condition of her dress. “Good Lord, child, what has he done to you?”
“Me?” Bobby cried.
“Wel , technical y, it is your fault,” Ruth Anne had to admit.
“I thought we agreed this was your sister’s fault,”
Bobby replied, not so much as missing a beat until Father Larkin tried to push Bobby out of the way so he could get to his feet. Then his eyes bugged and Ruth Anne felt herself being jolted backward as he instinctively tried to undo the clamping on his wrist by lining her back up with him.
“What is going on with the two of you?” Father Larkin demanded, now sitting up and looking more like the stern disciplinarian they both grew up fearing.
“We’d better let Bobby tel you,” Ruth Anne admitted. No one talked his way out of trouble smoother than Bobby.
Except that was when he decided to break with tradition and tel the truth. Ruth Anne covered her eyes with her hands, trying to ignore the continued patting on her back.
“So, what we need is someone to cut us free,”
Bobby said, finishing his tale of woe and ridiculousness.
“And staple me shut,” she added, stil ing in her palms.
“More than that,” Father Larkin said, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees absently.
Ruth Anne parted her fingers and peeked through. Something in his voice sounded a little too...empowered. When they were kids, everyone lived in terror of Father Larkin and his adherence to the letter of the law. He’d mel owed over the years, watching young terrors turn into God fearing adults, marrying and baptizing babies.
At least, she’d thought he’d mel owed.
She stared up from her place stil on her knees, feeling quite a bit like the eight-year-old Ruth Anne who kneeled in confession because she dreamt she’d kissed Bobby Wichowski and was sure she’d been possessed. He looked just as tal , just as righteous and just as ready to mete out a punishment she was going to hate.
“I’d say what you two need before anything else is to get married.”
Chapter Seven
Father Larkin stapled Ruth Anne’s dress to the sound of two people reciting a rosary. He cut away a large rectangle to back of her dress to the sound of a few desperate Our Fathers. He pul ed the hook out of Bobby’s wrist to the sound of Bobby getting the back of his head smacked.
“I’ve had fishing hooks embedded worse than that, boy,” was the only sympathy he got.
“Not over an artery, Father,” Bobby sighed, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and absently draping it over Ruth Anne’s shoulders. He squeezed them, too, once the heavy fabric was in pl
ace.
She stared at the ground, disturbed by how natural it was to have him so close, so supportive.
She grasped at the edges of the coat lapels and pul ed them close across her.
“Truth is, I’d love to marry Rhubarb. She’s a great girl and I’ve been in love with her since she was three-years-old, but she’s got hopes and dreams. Goals. I’d just slow her down.”
He what? Since when?
“Didn’t look like you were slowing her down any when I came in, boy.”
“I was enthusiastic,” Bobby’s voice squeaked.
He looked down at her, slightly worried, somewhat green, but his eyes so warm and deep that she didn’t know what to think. Was he lying, as he so often did?
Or was it possible that he was tel ing the truth?
Her stomach began to swim. Bobby couldn’t be in love with her. He hated her. He made her crazy.
He insinuated his way into her life and made her blood pressure skyrocket. He enjoyed making her scream.
And she liked doing the same thing...
He tilted his head, a frown making his brows knit as he tried to figure out what she was thinking.
But she didn’t know what to tel him, what to say. She wasn’t sure what she was thinking, feeling, either.
She felt his thumb on her cheek, a gentle brush of the pad across her cheekbone.
How many of her memories had him in them?
What good were any of the memories without him?
She curled her palm around his wrist, clutching it for dear life. In a moment, everything was changing.
Then again, maybe not a moment. Maybe for the twenty-five years she’d been headed for this moment. The second when she realized that Robert Wichowski was the reason she lived and breathed.
Always had been...always would be.
“You okay, Rhubarb?”
She basked in his concern. Thril ed for his touch. Ached for his kiss.
“Uh-uh.”
His frown deepened, then he must have put two and two together because his eyes widened and his expression brightened until his smile was like to blind her. “Oh, Rhubarb...” He dipped his head and probably would have kissed her...
