While I stroke myself, I picture Phoebe buck-ass naked. My mind’s eye puts a nice sheen of sweat on her for good measure, so I can imagine licking it off. I want my hands and mouth on her body. I want to taste her and kiss her and get her so wet, she pleads with me.
The thought of it gets me even harder. My balls tighten at the idea of caressing her collarbone with the tips of my fingers, of what her tongue would taste like in my mouth, how she would squirm and writhe in my hands as I eat her out. I wonder if she has those freckles all over her body as heavily as they are on her cheeks.
Imagining her bending over and flexing her tight ass while my cock slides into her drives me over the edge and I explode into my hands, panting and covered in sweat. God, I would fuck her into the ground, ram inside her and hammer her and keep going without stopping between climaxes so I could pump her full.
Panting, I climb into the shower and turn it on, hot and then ice cold. I lean my hands on the tiles and grit my teeth as the water flows over my back. Standing, I aim the spray straight at my crotch and suppress a cry from the chill.
After I stumble out and dry off, I look out the bedroom window across the yard at Phoebe’s house. She has her blinds drawn, but I can see her moving inside.
No, this is wrong.
The curtains are pretty sheer and I can see her walking around. She turns her back to the window and rubs at her neck, and I realize she’s topless. If she turns around--
I shove my curtains closed. No, I’m not shitty enough to spy on her. Even if she is prancing around gloriously naked, and she just took a shower and her hair is all wet and soft and would smell wonderful if I could bury my face in it and rake my hands up her body and give her breasts a squeeze.
Stop it, Alex.
Oh, well. I can probably avoid her. I have plenty to do on my own.
I have to coach peewee football tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Phoebe
Damn it.
I run over and close my curtains properly after I realize what I was doing. All he’d have to do is glance over from his house to see me prancing around naked in my bedroom after my shower.
God, I needed a shower. I also need one of those detachable shower heads.
What on earth is wrong with me? I despise this guy, but I can’t stop thinking about him, or keep my hands off myself when I do. As soon as I got in the shower, I started drifting off thinking of him bending me over the kitchen counter.
Maybe I was a little harsh with him earlier, but he’s so damned forward, making sex jokes and passes at me where my kid could hear. Carrie is oblivious, though. I found her lying on her bed passed out from all that food she ate, her (thankfully completed) homework still sitting on her little desk.
Okay, so, I’m going to stop thinking about him.
Until I lie in bed.
I have a big bed. A queen. I don’t take up very much room. When I lie in the middle and wrap myself in the sheets, I feel like I’m lying in the middle a snowy field, alone. I grab one of my pillows and hug it hard.
Stop thinking about Alexander Wright, Phoebe. Put him out of your head.
It’s a fool’s errand, trying not to think of him specifically, so I try not to think at all, and get some sleep. I have work tomorrow, then I have to pick Carrie up from practice.
Thinking about that makes me toss and turn. He doesn’t seem like the peewee coaching type, and I’m sure he’ll blow his stack when he sees they let girls on the team.
I couldn’t believe she was allowed to play myself, but when I took Carrie to register, I found three other girls already signed up. They’re only six or seven years old, after all, and football is in the blood around here. I was ready to argue with them to let her join, but they signed her right up.
She loves it, absolutely loves it. It’s so silly watching them run around in their goofy oversized helmets and pads. I never miss a game, but I can’t do every practice. A bus picks her up from the elementary school and drives her to the high school with the other kids to use their field.
After I finally get a fitful six or seven hours of sleep and drag myself out of bed, I push a groggy Carrie through the motions of preparing for school, energize her with Pop Tarts, and drop her off.
Then it’s back to traffic patrol. I make my stop at the station, gas up the Tahoe, and set up in a different spot a bit further down the road. This time no news vans crowd me. I get a few more tickets than usual, and the look on my face keeps their mouths shut.
Better day than most, worse than some. Just marking time.
I change at home before I drive over to pick up Carrie. I hate walking up in uniform with all the gear and my piece on my belt. It makes me nervous having it around the kids.
When I arrive at the field, he’s there.
Wright towers over the usual coach, Eddie McGinty, who stands with a clipboard and whistle, visibly annoyed at sharing his responsibility over the team.
A few other parents mill around, waiting for the practice session to end.
“Phoebe,” Eddie says, scowling at me.
“Hey, Ed. How’s it going?”
“They’re slow,” Alex grunts.
“They’re kids,” Eddie sighs.
I join him in glaring at Wright. “What are they doing?” I ask.
The kids are lined up, running from one end of the field to the other.
Well, from one line to the other. They don’t run the whole field; it’s too long.
“Wind sprints,” Wright says.
“Wind sprints,” I say.
“They’re six.”
“They’re football players.”
“Six-year-old football players.”
Eddie blows his whistle. “We’re done for the day,” he says.
The look on Wright’s face says he’s not done.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What?” he growls.
“Oh my God, you’re actually into this.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
I fold my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “Oh, really.”
“Really. I could show you. I can think of a few things worth doing with you.”
My heart tries to skip a beat, and fire burns its way up my neck and cheeks. I turn away and try to say something smart, but I’m running out of retorts.
“I’m sure” is all I can manage, hoping I sound droll.
“So you changed your mind, then? Friday? I’ll pick you up.”
“No. Besides, you have a game on Saturday. Remember?”
“Yeah, you can cook me breakfast first. You owe me a meal.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook dinner. I don’t owe you anything.”
He smirks. “Fine then, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
I roll my eyes, dismissing him and his banter as Carrie runs up to me, carrying her helmet by the face shield. She’s flushed and sweaty and looks so excited, she could just burst.
Sparing Alexander a glance, I can’t help but think as I take my daughter’s hand. I haven’t had breakfast in bed in a long, long time. David did that for me the very first time we spent the night together.
Thinking of him in the same context as Alexander Wright forms a cold pit in my stomach, and I stumble a step in the grass.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right, Mom?” Carrie asks, oblivious.
“Of course, honey, I’d never miss it.”
I walk her back to the Tahoe and put her in the front seat. She likes to wear her pads and uniform all the way home. I don’t even get why the need for pads considering they can’t actually tackle each other. Maybe it’s just for the sake of authenticity.
Carrie loves it.
When we get home, I send her upstairs to change and do her homework. I pre-heat the oven and drop onto the couch. I could use a beer. I haven’t been much of a drinker since David, but now and then, I feel like I could use a touch. Just something to take the edge off.
There’s a knock at my
door
Resignation and panic clash in my head like waves meeting rocks. It’s either a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness or it’s a reporter. I have very little tolerance for either. I go to the window and peel back the drapes to spy onto the porch before I open the door.
Standing on my porch are a pair of boys in uniform from Albie’s, the grocery store.
When the door opens, they hand me a list.
“Got your delivery, ma’am.”
“What?”
“Your delivery. Your husband called it in.”
“What husband?”
“Groceries. We’ll bring them inside, no trouble.”
I step back and gape at them as they haul load after load of bags into my kitchen. It takes them almost five minutes, and when they return to the door, they stand there. Expectantly. The taller one all but puts out his hand and coughs.
“I’ve got it,” Wright announces loudly, stepping onto my porch.
He pulls out a sheaf of bills and slaps one in both boys’ hands. They blink a few times, and the one almost opens his mouth before they realize that no, they are not dreaming and Broadside Wright just tipped them a hundred dollars, each. His look sends them scurrying.
He steps into my house.
“What are you doing?”
“It’d be rude to drop all this on your lap and not help you put it away.”
My mouth works, but I don’t manage to say anything before he walks right into my kitchen and starts organizing my groceries.
“Hey!” I yell as he takes a couple frozen dinners and pitches them in the garbage can. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t need this crap.”
“What? Yes, I do. What are we supposed to eat?” I pull open one of the bags of groceries he bought for me. “Artichokes?” I blurt out, holding one up.
“Yes,” he says, then snatches it from me and sticks it in the fruit drawer. “Time you and the kid ate some healthy food.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He shrugs and keeps unpacking. “Are you going to stand there and rake me with your eyes or are you going to help?”
I grit my teeth and start sticking groceries into the fridge. He starts rearranging them.
“Milk goes on the left.”
“In my house, milk goes on the right.”
He stands to his full height and looks down at me. “Heathen,” he whispers, then reaches in and shoves the milk to the left hand side of the shelf.
“These are all raw ingredients. What do you expect me to do with this, spend hours every night cooking a--”
Just then, Carrie appears in the kitchen. “I’m done with my homework.” She stops in her tracks and cranes up to look at Wright.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
“Hey, kid.”
“Are you going to make dinner again?”
“No, he’s not. We’re having mac and cheese and Salisbury steak.”
“Awww.”
“Don’t aww me, young lady.”
“Salisbury steak sucks.”
“This does,” Wright says, shaking the box. “I’ll make you the real thing, kid. I got all the stuff here. Do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Okay, get me the big frying pan, and…”
“Excuse me,” I cut in. “This is my kitchen.” I put my hands on my hips, stare up at him and glare.
“You are so cute when you’re angry,” he tells me.
“Carrie, get the pan out like he said and work on putting this stuff away. I need to talk to Mr. Wright on the back porch. Follow me.”
I storm outside onto my back deck and wait for him. He steps out, ducking a little as he passes under the door frame and stands next to me with his hands in his pockets.
“So--”
“Don’t you ever pull that ‘cute when you’re angry’ shit on me, you prick. Ever, do you understand?”
“What?”
“Look at me. Look. At. Me.”
He looks me in the eye and I flinch. Why is my vision blurring?
“I have to deal with that all day from the rest of the department and the whole goddamn town. Do you think you were clever with the stripper joke? I’ve heard that one a dozen times. Half the people I pull over try to flirt with me and the other half laugh at me. I’m a big joke all around, do you understand?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I don’t care what you meant. I want somebody to take me seriously. Give me a little respect. Just a little. I have to claw my way through every day just to get back here and have some time with my little girl. I don’t want you ruining it.”
“Hey,” he says. His big hands shoot out and his fingers close around my upper arms. Jesus, his hands are so enormous, he can close them around my biceps. I suck in air and it turns into a snort.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying!”
“Yeah, you’re not. I’m saying don’t start.”
I push his hands down my arms and off me. When they brush my skin, it’s like an electric current running through my flesh. His hands are rough, his palms calloused and coarse from lifting weights. Mine are the same, toughed by scrubbing dishes and gripping the knurling on my chin-up bar.
I used to have soft hands. I used to have a soft me.
“You, okay?”
Even though I despise myself for it, I rub my eyes with my hand. The back of my wrist comes away a little wet with tears.
“What are you doing this for? What do you want?”
He shrugs. “I told you. I want to make up for what I did.”
“You are. You’re coaching the games. You don’t have to be my butler.”
“I’m trying to take a burden off you. Like you said, I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to make it up to me. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
I fold my arms over my chest and give him an arched eyebrow. Carrie calls it my Mommy Eyebrow.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about the ticket. Or the car, they can keep it.”
“Oh, please, this isn’t the time to make a pass at me.”
“I want to make it right with you. I gotta go cook.”
He turns before I can say anything and strides back into my house like he owns the place. I run after him, back through the mud room and into the kitchen.
“You ready?” he asks Carrie.
“Ready for what?”
“I’ll handle dinner, you go sit on the couch or whatever. Draw a bath and light candles, whatever girls do to calm down.”
I give him a sharp look, but stride past him and into the living room. There, I sink into my couch and let out a blissful sigh. I have a great couch, one of my favorite possessions. It’s comfy as hell.
This time I’m not treated to the sight of my own house on CNN. The media has moved on, probably. No one cares about anything for more than a day or two, anyway. I specifically avoid ESPN. No need to see myself on Sports Center or whatever.
At some point, I fall asleep and wake up to Carrie shaking me by the shoulder.
“Dinner, Mom.”
With a yawn, I rise and walk into the dining room. Wright made good on his promise, and there’s a casserole dish full of steaming beef patties in onion gravy in the middle of the table, along with a big bowl of vegetables and rice. Carrie hungrily serves herself. She glances at Wright and puts a big pile of veggies on her plate.
He stands and serves me when I reach for the big serving spoon. I glare at him but say nothing as he loads up my plate, then sits to fill his own.
God, he must have cooked twenty burger patties. Yet, somehow, they disappear. I keep my mouth shut and watch Carrie animatedly talk about football things with him.
To tell the truth, I don’t much care for football. At all. I don’t even really know how it’s played beyond the basics. I don’t know how Ca
rrie became so fascinated with it. I don’t know why I didn’t try to discourage her, but it just feels wrong for me, being who I am and doing what I do.
The only thing that bothers me is that she’ll have to stop. She’s not going to play in high school, period. I worry she’ll get made fun of, but no one seems to care. They give her more shit for me being a cop than anything else.
Wright is telling her some story about a game. She listens to him like he’s a time traveler or an alien, hanging on every word, absolutely rapt. He still shovels food in his mouth, but he answers all of her animated questions and patiently listens to her talk.
I blink a few times. He’s really good with her. Why am I thinking about that?
“So, you have a game tomorrow,” I say, cutting in.
Carrie turns to me. “Yeah! We’re playing the Hawks.”
There’s two teams in Sylvester. I shudder when I hear she’s playing the other one tomorrow, and not one of the out of town teams. The other team is different. There are no girls. The coach is…
Well, for one thing, he’s my brother-in-law. I suppress a shudder. “I’m sure you’ll win, honey.”
Wright nods sagely.
I can’t believe how much he eats. I barely finish my first helping, and he has more, and piles it up on Carrie’s plate too. I think she eats more than I do.
When we finish, he nods to her and Carrie helps him clear the table. He comes back in as the sink fills.
“Look,” I tell him, quietly “I do appreciate this, but it can’t be an everyday thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because… it can’t. We’re not doing this. I’m not dating you.”
“It’s not a date, it’s dinner. Date is Friday night. Have you gotten a sitter yet?”
I sigh. Hard. Purposely. In an exaggerated and angry fashion. “No, because I’m not going out with you.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Mister Wright,” I start.
“Whoa, let’s not move that fast.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands up.
“Why don’t you call me Alex and I’ll call you Phoebe.”
“Fine, Alex. Go home, Alex.” I feel like I’m scolding a horny teenager.
“Fine, until tomorrow. Carrie can handle the dishes, you go lie down.”
Man of the House Page 25
