by Karen Cimms
When he graduated and got a job and a place of his own, he’d said he would take her twice a month but that didn’t last long. We were down to once a month now, and those visits, according to Izzy, featured a bunch of guys hanging around Jeff’s living room, watching sports, both Saturday and Sunday.
When Jeff knocked a short time later, Izzy dragged herself off the sofa and trudged toward the door like she was heading for a firing squad. She pulled it open and Jeff’s lean, lanky frame filled the doorway.
“Hey, kiddo, you ready to roll?” The hint of impatience in his voice had me wanting to kick him right in the nuts.
She looked at me, her eyes pleading. My daughter would rather sit on the floor in my mother’s office and color, instead of spend a weekend with her father.
“Iz, go pick out a bottle of nail polish so that Daddy can paint your nails this weekend.”
Her little mouth dropped. “Really?”
“Rain—”
“Go on. Make sure you find something good.”
When she scampered from the room I addressed the sperm donor.
“Listen to me. You need to spend time with her. Not park her in front of the TV in your room to watch cartoons while you and your buddies—”
Jeff pushed off the door frame and strolled into my living room. “Don’t lecture me—”
He was lucky I wasn’t doing far worse. “I’m not lecturing. I’m advocating. That’s my kid, and she doesn’t exactly look forward to weekends with her father. Jesus, Jeff. You see her for what? Thirty hours a month? And half of that time she’s probably asleep.”
He brushed his hair from his forehead as his eyes drifted from my mouth, down the column of my throat, and landed on my breasts.
“Eyes up here!” I snapped.
He did as I asked, but I still wanted to smack the smirk off his face.
“Tell your buddies to stay home this week and do something with her. She deserves it. I’m not asking for me.” I lowered my voice so that there was no chance she would hear me, and took a step closer. “She’s your daughter. Make the next few hours about her. Could you do that, please?”
He huffed and rolled his eyes, and if Izzy hadn’t appeared behind me, chances were good he’d be lying on my deck, clutching his nut sack. God, he brought out the worst in me. How the hell half of his DNA had helped create this exquisite little person was a mystery to me. I took a deep cleansing breath to steady myself.
Izzy excitedly held up five bottles of nail polish—one for each finger on each hand of course—from light pink to deep red, including my favorite Victoria’s Secret pink. “I’m ready,” she announced. At least now she sounded like she meant it.
I squatted beside her, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. “Hugs and kisses, punkin. Now you be good for Daddy, okay? You’re going to have so much fun this weekend.” I cocked my head up toward her father. “Right, Daddy?”
He gave me a sour look as he chewed on the side of his mouth, but when he smiled at Izzy, at least it was genuine.
He snatched up her suitcase. “You bet. But I don’t know how to put on nail polish.”
She tucked her little hand in his and heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Daddy. I guess I’ll just have to teach you.”
Chapter Three
It was busier than usual for a Saturday night. Most of the stools along the bar were filled, as were most of the tables in the back room. A cute older couple had been in earlier, nursing their one drink each and pouring quarters into the ancient jukebox, but they’d left. Now, instead of Lady Antebellum and Miranda Lambert, I was serenaded by the crack of pool balls coming from the back room, and assorted screams and cackles from the other side of the bar.
I stifled a yawn. I should’ve taken a nap this afternoon when I’d had the chance. I’d tried. I even set Izzy up in front of the television and lay down on the sofa beside her, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy who’d come into the luncheonette and what happened when he’d touched my hand.
The sensation had faded, but the experience remained vivid. The only person who might’ve understood what had happened or could explain it, was my dad. But he’d been gone for almost six years.
Like him, I’ve always been a bit psychic. Nothing like Miss Cleo or that chick from Long Island. Simple things. Guessing middle names, figuring out what card someone’s hiding behind their back or what number they might be thinking of. Useless stuff, really.
My dad? He had a real gift. He knew when to schedule a picnic or a trip to the shore and when to stay home. If the phone rang, he knew who was calling before any of us answered it. (Although that was an easy one. It was almost always Diane, my best friend since kindergarten.)
He knew when the Giants or the Nets were going to win, and he often dreamed the winning lottery numbers. But he never played. He wouldn’t use his gift to help himself. He said it wouldn’t be right.
The only time he ever pursued one of his visions, or whatever you want to call them, was when he met my mother. He swore from the moment they met that she was the one. He just had to win her over. And he did. I’d never seen two people so in love. They used to embarrass the hell out of me, but at least I grew up knowing what love was supposed to look like.
But there was more, and that’s probably what had me feeling so unsettled.
I was pretty young, maybe eight or nine, when I remember hearing my parents talking about Dad’s new boss. He said the guy was going around the warehouse introducing himself to everyone, and he shook my father’s hand. That night, I overhead my dad telling my mother that the moment their hands touched, he knew the guy would be dead within six months, and he was.
I had been so freaked out, I was afraid to let my father hold my hand for weeks after that.
I put down the rag that I’d been using to wipe down the bar and stared at the spot on my hand. Was that it? The guy hadn’t looked sick. Far from it. But you never know, right? A chill settled over me, and I tried to shake it off. I was giving myself far too much credit.
What I could do was nothing more than a party trick. I couldn’t predict anyone’s illness or death.
And I damn sure wouldn’t want to either.
“Something wrong with your hand?”
My head snapped up, and my hand flew to my chest. “Preston. You scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing here?”
“Scared you? I walked in the door and said ‘hello’ three times. You’ve been staring at your hand for the past minute at least. You got a splinter or something?”
I wiped my palm against my thigh like I had something to hide. “No. Just thinking. Tired.” I lifted up on my toes and leaned across the scarred mahogany bar, meeting Preston’s lips and inhaling his warm, woodsy scent.
Preston Jamison was the most pulled-together man I had ever seen: close-cropped, sandy hair, a handsome face, and a mouth full of perfect teeth to go with his perfect smile. He was wearing some expensive-looking shirt and a pair of khakis, and though he wasn’t wearing one of those expensive suits of his, he still stood out among the bulk of our clientele in their grease-covered Carhartts and smelly T-shirts.
We’d been seeing each other for several weeks. Nothing serious, but I did like him. Besides, I didn’t have time for anything serious anyway.
“How’s my girl?”
“Busy.” I nodded toward the peals of laughter coming from the dining area. “It’s women’s league night.”
“Sounds like they won.”
I hoisted a tray of drinks for the bawdy bowlers. “That, or they’re really good losers.”
When I’d finished passing out drinks and collecting empties, I returned to my spot behind the bar, just as my best friend’s fiancé and his racing crew burst through the door arguing about chains or belts or some other nonsense that must’ve gone wrong on their modified stock car that night. They planted themselves around Preston, drawing him into their little world, while I grabbed a handful of Buds from the cooler.
“So has Rain figu
red out your middle name yet?” Wally asked Preston.
“Wally.” I gave him the stink eye. I didn’t want Preston thinking I was some nutcase, which was how most people responded when they found out I considered myself to be a somewhat psychic.
“What’s this?” Preston looked amused, a look he often wore around Wally and the guys, as if they’re there for his entertainment.
“Rain’s psychic. She knows things.”
I strolled over to the end of the bar where a thin, bearded man sat wearing a worn and faded Caterpillar cap pulled low over his eyes, and grabbed his empty mug. I slipped it under the spout and pulled the tap handle.
“Yep. I had to channel all my psychic ability to know Fish needed a refill.”
“That and the empty glass,” Preston pointed out.
I winked at him. “Exactly.”
“C’mon, Rain,” Wally said. “Tell him his middle name.”
“I can’t always do it.” I scanned the perimeter of the rectangular bar. Everyone’s glasses were full and no one seemed to be in need of anything.
“She’s got a record going,” Wally’s brother, Bobby, said, adding his two cents. “Twenty-seven in a row. No misses.”
Preston set down his bottle. “Oh, this I’ve got to see. Get over here, sweet cheeks.”
I glared at him, but given the wild way he was grinning at me, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Okay, but I’ll warn you. I’m not feeling it tonight, so no promises. Give me something that’s yours. Your keys, wallet, something you’ve touched or held.”
He dipped into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out the keys to his Corvette.
“Now give me the first initial of your middle name.”
“That doesn’t seem fair, to give you hints.”
“Stop whining and give her the initial,” Wally demanded.
“Fine,” Preston said. “It’s F.”
Palming the keys, I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. Narrowing my focus, I paired vowels with his name: Fa, Fe, Fi, Fo, Fu. I giggled. I did it again. Fi stood out. This was a tough one. I wasn’t feeling a typical boy’s name.
I opened my eyes, and I immediately wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.
“It’s not Frederick or Francis. It’s a family name.”
I squeezed the keys and closed my eyes again. Jamison was Scottish or Irish in origin. There was a buzzing—no, a fizzing. Fizz. Fitz. Fitzpatrick. I squeezed harder.
Got it!
Opening my eyes, I smiled and handed Preston his keys.
“Well?” He returned his keys to his pocket.
“Well, you tell me, Mr. Preston Fitzgerald Jamison.”
His jaw dropped. Bingo!
“How’d you do that?” he asked.
“Because she’s psychic!” Wally crowed, slapping Preston on the back so hard I thought his head would roll off.
I left Wally and the boys to regale Preston with tales of my supernatural accomplishments while I filled mugs, mixed drinks, and made my rounds.
By the time I’d rung up the last of the lady bowlers, it was closing time.
“Zamykamy!” Irena clapped her hands and shouted, as if the few remaining customers had already wasted enough of her time. “Czas się zbierać!”
“C’mon, boys. You heard the lady. Time to go,” I hollered, translating Irena’s Polish into something they’d understand.
Preston nursed the last of his drink while I settled up with Fish.
“You comin’ home with me tonight, sweetheart?” Fish asked, slurring his words and steadying himself on the back of his stool.
“Not tonight,” I said, like I told him every time he asked. “I don’t think your wife would like that.”
“Screw ’er!”
“That’s your job, babe.”
Wally and the crew rose from their stools and shuffled toward the door.
“You guys okay to drive?” I knew damn well Fish wasn’t, which meant he’d leave his car like always, and Wally, Bobby, or Dennis would drop him off at home.
“Zamykamy! Zamykamy” Irena called from the kitchen door.
After a few more minutes, I herded everyone out the door except for Preston. I clicked the lock behind them.
“Have a drink with me,” he said.
“I’m drinking club soda.”
“C’mon. I’m buying.”
I laughed, but still, I gave in. “Tequila?”
He gave me a slow, sexy smile. “How about a body shot?”
“How about a glass?” I suggested with a frown, in spite of the crazy little thrill that ran through me.
“Okay, but just this once.” He winked.
I poured us each a shot of tequila and set out the salt shaker and two wedges of lime. He grabbed a wedge, put it between his teeth, and waggled his eyebrows.
Okay, rich boy.
I picked up his hand and licked along the inside of his wrist, then sprinkled it with salt. I licked the salt, took my shot, then stood on my toes while he leaned forward. I bit down and sucked on the lime in his mouth, shivering as my lips brushed his before I pulled back. I tucked a wedge between my teeth, and waited.
He took my arm in both hands and ran his tongue from my wrist to the inside of my elbow, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he sprinkled it with salt and licked it again, much slower this time, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He tossed back the tequila, and after he bit his lime, he tugged it from my mouth, spit it out onto the bar, and with his hand against the back of my head, pulled me forward and kissed me.
It was just the right amount of tequila, citrus, and tongue.
When he let go, I actually swayed.
“You have to be anywhere right away?” he asked, his voice low and throaty. “I wouldn’t mind spending a little time with you.”
My voice deserted me after that kiss, and that was with two feet of mahogany between us.
I swallowed hard. “I think that can be arranged.”
Chapter Four
The minute we stepped into my apartment and the door closed, Preston had me up against the wall. He cupped the back of my head with his hand as his mouth crushed mine. My lips parted and his tongue found mine, teasing, circling. He dragged his lips over my jaw and down my neck, where he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone and over the swell of my breasts. He seemed hell bent on working out the week’s frustration on me.
“Bedroom,” he murmured against my skin as he walked me through the living room to the bedroom, where we tumbled onto my unmade bed, our lips still touching. He covered my body with his, and my arms circled his back, my hands finding their way under his shirt.
He moved his thigh between mine, and I felt his hardness pressing against my hip. His hand crept under my shirt, pushing it up. His mouth closed hot and wet over my nipple, his teeth capturing it through the thin lace of my bra.
I tugged at his belt buckle, but we were too close for me to get it undone. He rolled away, jerked it open, and tugged off his pants. His eyes held me in place, scorching me as he undid each button. The shirt hit the floor next. He hooked his fingers into my leggings, and slid them off in one smooth motion, taking my panties with them. A condom wrapper crinkled and tore. Seconds later, he was sinking into me.
Foreplay consisted of the heat we’d exchanged at Blondie’s, and the two minutes it had taken us to get from my front door into my bedroom. And considering the size of my apartment, two minutes was a generous estimate.
It was fast and frenzied, and over just about the time I was getting started.
Preston rolled off me, climbed out of bed and crossed the hall to the bathroom. Then he lay back down, looped an arm around me, and tucked me into his side.
“Rough week?” I asked, unused to the uncharacteristic swiftness.
His sigh grazed my forehead. “You have no idea.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” He pressed his lips to my hair and held them there. “I just want to lie here and
enjoy you.”
Maybe it hadn’t been the most amazing night of lovemaking we’d ever had, but it was nice cuddling up against him.
He nodded toward Izzy’s single bed tucked under the eaves. “It still freaks me out to no end to see your daughter’s bed there. All those stuffed animals watching us.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Izzy and I shared a bedroom, but it was more her room than mine. Her artwork covered the walls, and most of her books and toys were tucked onto a shelf in the corner. And of course there were the voyeuristic stuffed animals gawking at us whenever Preston and I had sex.
“I can’t afford anything bigger, rich boy. You know that. I couldn’t even afford this place if my mother didn’t own the building. We don’t all have massive townhouses and Manhattan apartments with more bedrooms than people.”
“I’m going to bring you to my penthouse one of these days. We’ll spend the whole weekend in New York. Go to the theater. Eat at my favorite restaurant.”
I’d heard this before. A few times, actually. But so far it hadn’t happened. The idea both excited and scared me. I was a low-budget girl. I wasn’t too sure I’d fit in with the life Preston lived. I drove a twelve-year-old Ford Escort wagon with a wonky trunk latch, four mismatched tires, and only three hubcaps.
“You promise?” I said, but only because I assumed he expected a response.
He turned off the light on the nightstand and pulled the covers up over my shoulder, then dropped a sweet kiss on my forehead. “I promise. Now go to sleep.”
I woke to an empty bed and a note on my pillow. Preston, as usual, was gone. I could count on one finger how many times he’d stayed the whole night. I didn’t know if he had a dog he’d never mentioned, or an early morning racquetball session, or if he was going to church since it was Sunday.
Didn’t want to wake you. You’re so beautiful when you sleep. Even when you snore.
He’d signed the note with a neat, bold “P.”
