by Freya Barker
“An old friend,” Roar finishes for her, effectively cutting the woman off. “She was married to my best friend and helps out at the lodge. And Leelo is the new owner of the Whitefish Motel.”
A few random pieces fall into place. Matt had briefly mentioned something about Roar naming the lodge after a friend who passed away. Given her last name, this must be his widow? Yet judging from the way she’s leaning against him while eyeing me, something tells me that may not be all she is to him.
“We were just heading out,” Roar says, grabbing my hand in his and sidestepping Patti, who briefly wavers on her feet. He stops to drop a kiss on Charlie’s cheek and barely gives me a chance to do the same before he drags me out of there.
Not a word is exchanged as he pulls me along to where his truck is parked. Only when he’s safely buckled me in, does he briefly rest his forehead against mine.
“That was fucked up,” he whispers. “Let me get you out of here.”
Dropping a peck on my lips, he backs out, shuts the door, and rounds the truck to get in behind the wheel.
The drive is silent. I open my mouth a few times to say something, but stop myself each time. Better to take a little time to process. Lord knows there’s enough there. Not the least of which the woman with the ridiculously tiny waist and the firm ass.
No tight heart-shaped ass here—more like an oversized beanbag.
I know I let myself get swept away with the unexpected attention he gave me, but tonight showed me just how little I know about him. And maybe even more importantly, how easily my newly found confidence is damaged. I’m clearly not the devil-may-care independent woman I try to be. Not yet anyway.
So when the truck pulls into the motel driveway, I already have my hand on the door and a polite goodbye on my lips. Distance. I need a little distance to regain my perspective.
“Thanks for dinner,” I rattle off, as I launch myself from the truck the moment it rolls to a stop. All I hear is Roar telling me to wait, but I’m not about to. The tears have already started rolling and there’s no way I can hold back the deluge now. A mix of old and new frustration, confusion and hurt come pouring out. Tonight’s experience so close to the one from years ago that I thought I’d long left behind me, that the feelings evoked by either blend together in an indistinguishable wave of emotion.
I struggle to fit the key in the door of the bar, when I sense more than hear him come up behind me. Mostly because I’m sobbing too hard to hear anything. He doesn’t touch me but his hand reaches around, takes the key from mine, and easily slides it home in the lock. Fuck him. Now with unreasonable anger thrown in the mix, I push through the opened door and stomp right through the bar to the sanctuary of my home beyond, determined not to care what happens behind me.
“Go away,” I call out blindly, as I flop on the couch and pull the quilt over my head. I’m tired, I’m worn, and I just want to be left alone. When I don’t hear anything in response, I safely assume I’m alone and finally completely let loose, burying my cries in the couch pillow.
It’s surprising how cathartic it can be from time to time, to fling open the floodgates and hold nothing back. Like a good cleansing, letting the toxins just pour out of your body. Everything, past and present emotions tripping the other like domino stones as the neat rows of tight control slowly disappear. And with each stone falling, a little pocket of tension is relieved.
By the time I’ve purged enough to be able to draw a normal breath, the pillow is soaked, my eyes are burning, and my head is pounding with the beginnings of a doozy of a headache. Lovely. But a weight has lifted and my body is relaxed as I drag the quilt away from my slobbery face.
“Wipe with this.”
The sudden sound of his voice, along with the cold wet cloth he drops on my face, scares the shit out of me.
“Again?” I screech; scrambling up in a sitting position with the quilt clutched to my chest. Roar just manages to catch the washcloth as it falls to the floor and instead of handing it back; he uses it to gently mop up the mess on my face himself. Stripped of any remaining dignity after the night I’ve had, I let him, keeping my eyes closed until he’s done.
“Drink this,” he orders, placing a mug with something warm in my hands.
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I dutifully bring what smells like tea to my lips and take a sip, and then another.
“When I came back from my third tour in Afghanistan, injured and escorting the dead body of my best friend home, Kyle Thompson had finally found his way into my wife’s bed. That day I lost everything.”
My eyes shoot up only to find Roar staring into the distance, lost to his thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wrapping my hands tighter around the warm mug.
“It’s a game to him. Always has been, since we were friends in high school. Everything had to be a competition. I usually just shrugged it off, but Jenny changed that. He used her, and when he got what he wanted, dropped her to deal with the ravages of our marriage. Any other time we might have found our way through, but with what I’d just been through, the stretch just wasn’t there.” He finally turns his head to face me, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and let my fingers run along his cheek and beard. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I have lived here my whole life. There’s a lot of history, and some of it might bubble to the surface before I have a chance to catch you up. Tonight’s a prime example of that.” He unfolds one of my hands, still holding the mug, and brings it up to his lips, kissing the back of my fingers. His eyes never leave mine.
“And Patti?” I can’t stop the question from forming. “Is she an example of that as well?” I hear the deep sigh and instinctively pull my hand from his, tucking it protectively around my waist, but I don’t back down. “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but I got the impression there’s some history there that is not quite as simple as just an old friend. I haven’t always had my eyes open in the past, and the consequences have done damage, which is why clarity on that particular subject is important to me.”
The silence that follows is unsettling, and I almost get up to start pacing when I feel his hand on my knee.
“There was more. We were both stuck in our loss, not looking for anything new, and occasionally turned to each other for—”
“I get it,” I say quickly, cutting him off, not really wanting to hear more. But he twists in his seat and cups my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him.
“I ended it quite a while ago. Could be I sensed it had started meaning more to her than it did to me. Her friendship is more valuable to me.”
“I get it,” I repeat, before softly adding, “I’m just not sure she does.”
Roar
Her face is still red and puffy from her earlier meltdown, but her red-rimmed eyes are steady on mine as I gently stroke my thumbs over her cheeks.
I’m not sure why it felt important to let her work through that emotional collapse on her own, or how I managed to keep from interfering, but forcing myself to stay in the background while listening to her come apart was pretty fucking brutal. But I can feel the calm coming off her now, even after plodding through a few difficult topics.
Christ, how I hate talking, but after tonight, I feel I owe her at least that.
“I know,” I finally say.
Not easy to finally admit something I didn’t want to see. If not for Leelo broaching the topic, I would never have gotten into the whole Patti thing, but now that it’s out there, it’s a bit of a relief.
Her hands come up to cover mine, bracketing her face, as I drop my forehead to hers.
I’m wiped. My body is buzzing with awareness at the smell and feel of her, and I’m sure is game to explore those further, but my mind feels sluggish, like it’s been through the wringer. I’d prefer to pay attention to what I’m doing, instead of letting instinct take over and blindly fucking that soft, warm body on the couch.
“I gotta go,” I say instead, pressing a kiss to her lips. But when I pull
away, her hands shoot out and tangle in my beard, tugging me back. My own fingers slide back, twisting into her hair until her head tilts further back, and I slam my mouth down on hers.
Her lips open immediately and my tongue invades, the hot throb of my blood flaming the surge of hunger. It feels like I’ll burst out of my skin as I devour her mouth. Fucking hell, she tastes good.
Feels good too, as her body twists, and with her fingers still tangled in my beard, drags me down on top of her, without ever taking her mouth off mine. The next second, my hand is tugging down her neckline and bra, to lift one lush tit from its confines. The sharp sting when I pull my beard from her hold barely registers, when I bend my head to run my tongue over the creamy flesh.
I pluck lightly at the tight pink nipple with my teeth, before taking it between my lips.
“Yesss...” she hisses, her body restlessly shifting under mine.
Fuck! Not like this.
I drop my head to her chest and try to regain some control.
“I really should go,” I repeat, feeling her body freeze at my words.
I lift my head and drop a kiss on her nipple, before gently covering her back up. She tries to scramble upright, her face a tight mask, but I shift my body to keep her in place.
“Been quite a while, sweetheart,” I explain, my nose just inches from hers, even though she avoids looking into my eyes. “Combine that with the kind of night we’ve had, I know I wouldn’t be able to do you justice,” I push on, pressing my hard-on against her hip and a thumb under her chin, until her eyes finally meet mine. “I know you feel that.”
When I finally push myself off the couch and let her sit up, her sass returns when she treats me to a dramatic roll of the eyes. I’m grinning as I walk toward the door.
“I’m not blowing you off, Leelo,” I promise, stopping to turn around in the doorway.
She’s pulled the quilt back over her and is holding it bunched in her fists, under her chin. Her eyes sparkle bright blue, her hair is mussed, and her face is deeply flushed. She needs to know she’s much more than a quick grope on the couch. So I tell her.
“I’m saving you for a special occasion.”
TWELVE
Her soft curves contrast as well as complement her strong spirit.
Leelo
Son of a bitch!
I drop the pile of dirty sheets I just collected from the empty units on the ground outside the shed. I normally keep the separate doors to both the storage space and the laundry room locked. Guests are told when they check in that they can come borrow the key if they wish to use the facilities. Not that anyone in their right mind would walk off with the equipment. The two washers and dryer are massive industrial-sized machines, which is why I’m dragging the sheets over here. I can wash them all at once, instead of running the regular washer and dryer at the house all day to get them clean.
But this morning the laundry door is hanging open, and judging by the state of the doorpost and lock, I’d say someone was eager to get in.
Crap. After the debacle Friday night, I’d had such a good weekend.
I may have woken up Saturday morning feeling all kinds of hungover and sorry for myself, without the benefit of getting drunk first, but after my second cup of coffee things started turning around.
Shaking off the drama and shoving Riordan Doyle firmly from my mind, I grabbed my keys and headed to the Valu-Mart in town. My objective was their garden centre. The large planters in front of the motel, I had painstakingly rid of weeds, needed something.
Late afternoon, a sore back, buckets of sweat, and two hundred fifty dollars in annuals and potting soil later, the facade of the motel was sufficiently beautified to put a bright smile on my face.
I just stepped back to admire my work when two cars rolled onto the parking lot. A group of travelers stopping for the night on their way to Thunder Bay. Apparently with the festival in town in full swing, mine was the first ‘Vacancy’ they’d seen.
That night I slept like the dead; my body deliciously sore from a productive day and four of my units rented out.
Yesterday I spent ripping up the carpet from the bar. Disgusting work, and at the end of the day, I had decades of dirt covering my body and my fingertips were bloody stumps from pulling up a truckload of staples. The wooden boards I uncovered were worth every last drop of blood and sweat, though. So Sunday ended much the same way Saturday had, with me rolling sore and satisfied into bed.
My guests left yesterday, but I didn’t want to stop what I was doing and clean the rooms. That had been on the agenda for this morning. I got up early so I could get it done before Roar shows up to get going on the dock.
And now this, putting a damper on my good mood.
I gingerly nudge the door open wider with my foot, and at first glance all I notice is laundry detergent covering the floors, the folding table. But when I shove the door all the way open, the stench hits me. It’s so thick and putrid; I slap my hand over my mouth and back right up before I lose my breakfast. Jesus. Smells like something died in there.
Walking far enough away to get some fresh air, I contemplate my options. There really aren’t any, other than going in there, finding and removing the cause of that godawful stench. I take a few deep breaths, and yank the neck of my T-shirt over my mouth and nose, before stepping back inside.
Good God. Determined not to let the smell get to me, I focus on breathing through my mouth, while I search for the source of that pungent aroma.
Nothing is immediately obvious, but then I see the doors of the two washers, as well as the dryer, are closed. I know I left those slightly open so they wouldn’t start smelling musty. Flicking on the light for a better look, I spot dark smears on the white enamel of the dryer, and something is visible against the inside of the porthole door. A quick glance at the two other machines shows the same dark smears on the top-loading lids. Something tells me this is not going to be pretty, but with one hand pressing my shirt against my mouth and nose, still I reach out to open the dryer door.
The instant the latch releases, it swings open and something unrecognizable falls half out of the opening. A wave of rancid air has tears blur my vision, and I have to blink a few times before I’m able to identify an eye, dangling from the socket of what looks to be a deer head, by a single strand.
The violent surge of my stomach has me running out the door, away from the sick carnage, and straight into a solid mass of muscle.
“What the hell?” Roar’s voice barely penetrates the pounding in my ears as I bend over and deposit my breakfast all over his dusty boots.
-
“A prank?”
I’m well aware that my voice is pitched at a level that could be considered painful to some, but I don’t give a flying fuck.
Some sicko decided to stuff a carved up deer carcass in my washers and dryer, which is disgusting and vile enough by itself—but it also rendered the machines useless, and this damn OPP officer calls it a prank?
“You call that a prank?” I repeat, a little less shrill this time.
Roar’s large hand wraps around the back of my neck. I’m not sure if it’s to calm me down or to prevent me from charging the snot-nosed, uniformed punk who seems to find the whole situation quite amusing.
“Ma’am,” Constable Williams drawls in a condescending tone that has me grind my teeth. “I’m sure it’s not something you’re accustomed to, coming from the city, but it wouldn’t be the first time some kids played around with roadkill for a giggle.”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming my frustration, but apparently Roar has heard enough as well.
“Hardly the same as poking a stick at a dead opossum on the side of the road,” he growls, as he moves me out of the way and takes a step closer to the much smaller officer, who wisely loses the smirk from his face. “A full report better be on your staff sergeant’s desk by tomorrow. Bill said he’d pop in this week anyway, it’s been a while since we’ve been fishing.”
The bl
anching of the young punk’s face is almost comical as he backs away, mumbling an apology of sorts.
It had taken the OPP cruiser forty minutes to get here. Enough time for my nausea to subside and the shivers to stop. I tried apologizing to Roar for puking all over his footwear, but he waved it off. Unperturbed he grabbed the hose and rinsed his boots off, while I gathered up the sheets I dropped and carried them inside the house to wash. The subsequent wait, for the constable to show, had not done the overall mood any good.
“Grab me some garbage bags?” Roar turns to me after watching the police cruiser drive off, his tone still angry.
Not in the best of moods myself, I swing around wordlessly and stomp off inside. Grabbing the box of bags behind the bar, I also pick up the work gloves and bucket I used yesterday, before marching back out, and without looking at Roar, head in the direction of the shed.
“Fuck me.” I hear him mutter behind me as he follows. “I’ll take care of it,” he barks when he catches up with me, trying to snatch the bucket from my hands.
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly so angry. Perhaps it’s the fucked up events of this morning and the realization that no matter how much cleaning we do, my laundry facilities are a write-off, but I don’t think that’s all. It’s Roar I’m pissed with.
All weekend I’ve shoved him to the back of my mind, determined not to obsess about the fact I didn’t hear from him after he left me hot and bothered, not to mention emotionally wrung out, last time I saw him. My initial relief, when I quite literally, ran into him, is fast disappearing at his less than companionable mood. The last thing I need is him ordering me around.
“Shit, woman!” he snaps, letting go after a fruitless tug of war on the stupid bucket. “I said I’d take care of it. Why the fuck are you so stubborn?”
I can almost feel the steam shooting from my ears as I swing around and fling the bucket at him.
“Stubborn?” I start, poking a finger in his chest. “You know what? I’ve had it! You’re just another typical asshole, who can only feel the size of his dick by going caveman on some hapless creature he can order around, yet feels it shrivel in the presence of a self-sufficient woman, who knows what she wants and when she wants it!”
