by Maxene Novak
Get ahold of yourself, she ordered. Two crushes in one day was two too many.
“Hey there, I’m Ruger,” he told her, extending his hand.
She took it, gingerly, and shook. His hand was warm and smooth, and the contact made her shiver.
“Let’s get you out of the cold,” he said briskly.
He walked down the path in the same fashion. She wondered if he did everything briskly, or if it was just a response to the biting cold February wind. She toddled after him, wishing that she hadn’t defiantly left her cane at home. Her own defiance had been her undoing more often than not. She’d barely made it halfway up the path when he flung the door open and turned around expectantly. She huffed out an exasperated breath, and tried to toddle faster, to no avail. He scurried back down the path toward her, taking her arm.
“Hit by a truck?” he asked.
“No, a stage,” she said bitterly.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“Like with a team of horses, or…?”
Belle surprised herself by laughing.
“No,” she said, clearing her throat. “Like with a team of dancers. Flying stunt gone wrong.”
“Belle… Belle… Oh my gosh!” His eyes lit up, and he turned to her with a look of awe. “You’re Belle Kelly!”
“Lovely to meet a fan,” she said wryly, nearly tipping over.
He caught her around her waist and held her tight.
“Don’t fall now,” he said gently, gazing into her eyes.
Her cheeks flushed hot.
“We should get inside,” she said quickly, giving her mouth something to do so it didn’t press itself to his of its own volition.
He guided her inside and set her gently on the long, wide sofa that took up most of the main room. She sighed, stretching her legs out across the sofa.
“Mind if I just sit here for a minute?” she asked with a pained wince.
“No! No, not at all. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Liquor?”
“Thanks, but…” She was about to turn him down, and then pain shot through her leg, and she reconsidered. “Actually, I could really go for a brandy right now if there is any.”
“Brandy! You got it.”
Ruger shut the door quickly, and the room immediately warmed up. She looked around. The couch she was on was a deep forest green with stripes of cream, dotted here and there with pink roses in various stages of bloom. The old, solid coffee table beside her was ornately carved and topped with some kind of black stone tile. Glittering silver ran through the black, like liquid mercury through tar. A large, functional chandelier hung over her head, aided in its mission by mismatched floor lamps in three corners of the room. Across from her, a big flat-screen TV sat askew, looking diagonally toward the couch, while a fireplace… cold now… took center stage. Bookcases and comfortable-looking arm chairs were scattered strategically around the room, and the wallpaper was cluttered with various different birds flitting through weeping willows and pear trees. It looked like a medieval tapestry, but it glistened like a discount deal at a home improvement store.
She approved of the room, she decided. She’d love to get a look at the rest of the house; old and eclectic were two of her favorite adjectives when it came to houses. She was instantly comfortable here. She only hoped she would feel the same way about her roommate, when she met her.
“Sorry that took so long, I almost never get the liquor when I’m here,” Ruger said with an excited grin.
He pushed the glass into her hand and sat on the coffee table, gazing at her. She’d seen that look before, hundreds of thousands of times. Signing autographs, entering and departing from a venue; this boy was an honest to god fan. She sighed, resigning herself to the reality. She never would be able to escape it, not completely.
“Why are you here?” he blurted out. “I mean… shouldn’t you be in a hospital or something? I wasn’t there… god, I tried to be. Almost sold this place for tickets before I came to my senses. But I saw the video. That was less than two months ago, wasn’t it?”
“Christmas,” she said shortly.
“Oh god, it was! You can’t be better yet, I mean, look at you, you’re obviously not better. Do you have family around here?”
Belle took a long drink of brandy.
“No,” she said finally. “I don’t have any family here, or anywhere. My mother died a couple years ago, and she was an only child. Never knew my dad. I came here because I couldn’t stay there.”
“That must have been so hard,” he said, eyes shining sympathetically. “Your whole career, your whole life… in one second, like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Yeah, that just about sums it up,” she said, taking another drink.
The alcohol was beginning to warm her from the inside out, and her muscles began to relax. Something popped in her hip, and she gasped.
“What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly. “God, you’re pale. Let me get you some more brandy.”
She handed him the glass gratefully. I’m so stupid, she thought. I should have stayed. Should have finished the six months of physical therapy like they told me too.
But she knew herself better than that. She never would have made it six months, not in Des Moines. Not with her colleagues rotating in and out of physical therapy for minor overextensions and dislocations. Not with their pitying eyes. She couldn’t sit there and watch as the girls who had tormented her for years out of envy sped up the ladder, surpassed her in every way. She just couldn’t do it. She would have killed herself.
No, she corrected. You would have run away, just like you did. Killing yourself has never, and will never, be an option.
Ruger was back, pushing a fresh glass at her. She didn’t feel the slightest bit silly; the pain in her leg was absorbing the alcohol. She wasn’t drinking, she was medicating. She felt a bit better about downing a second glass before five when she looked at it that way.
“I understand running away,” Ruger told her. “I did myself, back in the day. I was twenty-one with new-to-me wheels and a whole wide world to explore… told myself I could never find meaning in a town this size, with people I’d known my whole life. I took off for a few years. Came back for the funeral when my uncle shot himself.”
“Suicide?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Nah.” Ruger shrugged. “Alcohol. Little too much cider, little too invested in the football game. Went to shoot the TV and tripped over his own feet.”
Belle winced.
“Does that happen a lot around here?” she asked, second-guessing her choice to land wherever she ran out of gas.
“Get an injury or two every fourth from falling bullets, but nobody’s died yet. Once in a while during the Super Bowl someone will shoot themselves in the foot or something. Accidental deaths are few and far between. Don’t worry.” He laughed as her brow crinkled. “We aren’t a bunch of ammosexuals. Just a few old-timers with anger issues and a hard on for the second amendment.”
“Well I guess you’d find those everywhere,” she admitted.
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
“So you came back and what, just decided to stay?”
He shrugged. “Basically. My uncle left me this house, and it was way too big for just me. So I decided to go into the landlord business.”
Belle shifted uncomfortably.
“He, ah… he killed himself in here?” she whispered.
“No, no, no. He was at my dad’s place, don’t worry. No ghosts around here.”
He shot her that puppy dog grin again, and she just about melted.
“Oh good,” she sighed.
She sipped on her alcohol, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was beginning to affect her, though her leg still throbbed. Which reminded her…
“Are there any physical therapists in this town?” she asked.
“Sort of,” he answered. “Friend of mine does personal training, physical therapy, and massage therapy. He works out of the gym, but he does house calls too.”
“That’s a lot of different disciplines for one person. Is he any good?”
Ruger nodded emphatically. “He’s the best. He got into it really early, started training when he was like sixteen. By the time he was old enough to get certified, he had most of the book work done already. He’s been super interested in anatomy and stuff since sixth grade. Our science teacher got these big creepy mannequins… one of them had organs and like, vessels and arteries you could take out and put back in. The other one moved, like, all the joints worked. Every single one, so you could really get a feel for range of motion and stuff. I swear he would stay after class every day, just playing with those things. Kept it up all through high school.”
“High school? I thought you said this was sixth grade?”
“Same building,” he explained. “Town’s only big enough for one school. It’s a big school, three stories. Elementary on the bottom, middle in the… well, middle, and high school on the top floor. Then there was the playground and the track, and the vocation garage.”
“I haven’t ever heard of a vocation garage,” she said with interest.
“Oh yeah, it was really cool. Juniors and seniors could learn a trade, got all their hours and everything by the time they graduated. Certified right outta high school.”
“What were you certified in?”
“Auto mechanics,” he told her.
She looked over his thin frame doubtfully, and he grinned.
“I know, right? String bean like me, crawling around under cars? I’m stronger than I look, honest. I just don’t bulk up real easily.”
“Your hands are really soft for a mechanic,” she said, still doubtful.
Ruger laughed.
“Not by accident,” he told her. “I’m very careful to wear my gloves at work, and I moisturize every night at bedtime. Plus… and I would say don’t tell anybody, but it’s a small ass town and everybody knows anyway… I get a manicure every couple weeks. I like my hands. I like to keep them sensitive.”
“Oh yeah?” she smiled suggestively.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warned her. “I’m already fan-girling over you being in my house. Any flirting and I might think I’m dreaming and do something silly.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like kiss you,” he said boldly.
She gasped, heart fluttering, then laughed. “I like you,” she told him.
“I like you more,” he teased.
She blushed and sipped her drink.
Just then, the door burst open in a blur of cold wind and color.
“Witch’s tits on Christ’s cracker, it’s fucking cold out there!”
Chapter Three
“Belle,” Ruger said with a grin. “I’d like you to meet your roommate, Anastasia.”
“Tassie,” the woman corrected him, pushing the door shut against the wind. She came around the couch, gloved hand extended. “Groovy to meet you, Belle,” she said happily.
“It’s, ah… very nice to meet you, too,” Belle giggled.
She took the other woman in. She was shorter than Belle, standing about five foot five. She was also bulkier; as she peeled off her outerwear, Belle noticed her full, thick curves. Tassie ripped off her knitted cap, shaking out her glorious raven curls. Her brown eyes sparkled, contrasting gently with the golden tone of her skin. She wore a patchwork dress that clung to her curves over brick-red tights and thick, sturdy black boots, scuffed and scarred from daily use.
“Ooh, are we drinking already?” Tassie asked.
“I, um… my leg’s kinda FUBAR, so Ruger very kindly medicated me,” Belle explained, feeling slightly wicked.
“Well I’m froze to the bone, I think that calls for medication,” Tassie grinned.
“I’ll get it for you,” Ruger offered. “You sit down and get to know her. Don’t hold back, either. If she’s going to be living here, she deserves to know about your wild house parties.”
Ruger winked at Belle and stuck his tongue out at Tassie as she tossed a box of kleenex at him.
“I do not have wild house parties,” she told Belle emphatically. “At most, I have a few people over for dinner a couple times a month.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Belle said.
The alcohol was going to her head, and the room took on a sort of otherworldly sheen. Halos ringed the windows. For the first time since her accident, Belle felt really and truly relaxed.
“It’s not, it’s a lot of fun. I think you’ll like it here. What kind of work do you do?”
The natural question snapped Belle out of her languid haze, hackles raised.
“You first,” she snapped, unnecessarily. She immediately felt guilty about it, but she hung onto the indignation like a life preserver.
Tassie raised her eyebrows and crossed her legs. “I’m an author,” she said coolly. “I write an advice column and romance novels. If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine, but if you’re gonna be bringing any johns home let me know so I can take off.”
Chastised and chagrined, Belle looked down into her nearly-empty glass.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “It’s a touchy subject for me. I’m not a hooker, hand to god. I’m on disability right now. Hopefully temporary, but who knows. Got injured at work. My job was… kind of my life. Not kind of, it was my life. Two, then six, then eight, then sixteen hours a day, for twenty-two years. It’s who I was, and I’ll never do it again, and… people keep asking me about it.”
Tears slid from her eyes, and she cursed herself. She didn’t want to cry anymore, certainly not in front of strangers. She jumped when she felt a hand on her shin.
“That seems awful,” Tassie said gently, patting her leg. “Twenty-two years? I wouldn’t have pegged you older than twenty-one.”
Belle laughed.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “I’m twenty-four. I started training when I was two.”
Tassie whistled.
“Gymnast?” she asked.
“That was part of it,” Belle said, emptying her glass. “Ballet was the base, but we added all sorts of things over the years.”
“Ballet,” Tassie sighed. “I dreamt of being a ballerina when I was a kid. Took classes for four years, from the time I was seven until I was eleven. Then puberty hit.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Couldn’t keep dancing after that, not ballet anyway. Fourteen inch hips, double Ds, and tree trunk thighs. Couldn’t even do the splits after my first growth spurt, never mind getting up on my damn toes.”
“That’s one helluva growth spurt!” Belle said in awe.
“It really was,” Tassie laughed. “Didn’t grow up, just grew out in all directions like a damn starfish.”
Belle laughed with her, and it felt wonderful. Talking to Tassie was easy and natural, comfortable as the house. Yes, Belle decided. This was definitely home.
“So do you have an office or something, or do you just write from here?” Belle asked.
“Yes,” Tassie grinned. “There’s a tiny little office room just over there, beside the breakfast nook. I work in there. My bedroom’s upstairs, but I never can seem to work where I sleep. The bed is just too damn inviting.”
“I bet,” Belle said with a smile.
She recalled all of the days when she was supposed to be up at four to practice, but crawled back into bed instead. She finally had her mom move the barre to the living room so it wouldn’t be a temptation anymore. Remembering how passionate she’d been stung her.
“Refills all around!” Ruger sang as he came in from the kitchen carrying a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “You look so much better, Belle! Good work, Tassie.”
“Oh I didn’t do anything,” Tassie said dismissively, but she was grinning. “I like this one, Ruger, don’t run her off.”
“Me?” Ruger gasped in mock offense. “When have I ever run off anybody worthwhile?”
“Well there was that one girl…”
“Worthwhile,” Ruger repeated slowly.<
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Tassie laughed, tossing her curls back.
“Oh, here, honey, I got you the number for that physical therapist,” Ruger said as he handed her a business card. She looked at it and raised an eyebrow.
“Colt Wesson?” she said in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“I know, right? With a last name like Wesson they should have named him Fawn or Sky or Iwillnotshootyou,” Tassie laughed.
“Um… how many Colts live in this town?” Belle asked.
“Just the one, as far as I know. Why, did you meet him?” Ruger asked.
“Yeah, on my way in. I just about toppled over and he helped me get gas. Oh… I was kind of a bitch. I hope he’ll still take me,” she said worriedly.
“He will,” Tassie said, nodding knowingly. “He likes bitchy women.”
Belle giggled. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“Don’t question it, just enjoy it,” Tassie told her with a wink.
Ruger’s face took on an unreadable expression. Belle decided it was time for damage control.
“Well shit, with a gorgeous landlord and a hunky health provider, you guys might be stuck with me indefinitely,” she said, grinning.
Ruger blushed, which was definitely the desired response.
“Down to business then, before I’m completely hammered,” Ruger said. “There are five bedrooms total, three upstairs and two downstairs. The two downstairs share a bathroom.”
“But there are no stairs, and no current downstairs roommates,” Belle pointed out. “I’ll definitely take one of the downstairs rooms, if that’s alright.”
Ruger shot the question to Tassie, who nodded.
“That’s alright with me,” she said.
“Fabulous. Okay, so there’s the front bedroom and the back bedroom and a bathroom in between. They’re both fully furnished, equal closet space. The front room looks over the rose garden, the back looks over the duck pond.”
“There’s a duck pond?” Belle asked.
“There sure is,” Ruger smiled.
“The backyard is like a fairy tale,” Tassie sighed. “All weeping willows and ponds and secret little thickets hidden by mossy boulders and tall grasses. It’s a quarter acre of pure magic.”
