by Freya Barker
I don’t realize I’m waving my arms around like a crazy person until I find myself suddenly restrained, my front plastered to a, by now well-acquainted, chest and my hands pinned behind my back. My attempts to struggle free are easily thwarted by the steel bands of his arms that hold me in place.
“You done?”
Roar
It shouldn’t, but the snarling, spitting, and royally pissed-off woman in my arms turns me on faster than a spark in a haystack.
“You done?” I grind out through clenched teeth and her body stills instantly.
She seems to have wasted all her energy on that spirited rant, because she doesn’t answer, but I let go of her arms anyway. The moment I do, she steps away from me. All I get is a death glare before she turns on her heels.
I let her go, following her with my eyes as she walks off with her hands fisted at her side.
She’s pissed all right.
I have some time to think as I stuff the rotting remains in garbage bags, fighting my gag reflex the entire time. By the time I remove my tools and lumber from the back of the truck, toss the garbage bags in, and drive the putrid load straight to the dump, I’ve come to the conclusion that, although the infuriating presentation left much to be desired, she may have a point.
Coming to the rescue is something I don’t think about, I just do. It comes natural and it makes me feel good. I may grumble when Charlie calls me to fix something, but I’m pretty sure she keeps calling me because she knows I like doing it. And for reasons that are slowly becoming clearer, I like being that person for Leelo as well. Especially when something happens like this morning.
She scared the crap out of me when she came barrelling out of the shed, like the devil was on her heels, and when I saw what she’d been running from, the hairs on my arms stood on end. This wasn’t some innocent prank, more like malicious attempt at scaring Leelo senseless for whatever reason. Something that worries me and I’m gonna do my damnedest to get to the bottom of.
What she’s way off base on, is her assumption I’d rather have her be helpless than the capable person she’s proving herself to be. It’s her strength I find attractive, and I thought that would’ve been clear, but given that tirade, I’m thinking it might require reinforcing.
There’s no sign of Leelo when I get back and hose down the laundry room, as well as the bed of my truck. For good measure, and because the stench is lingering, I strip down to my shorts, throw my clothes and boots in the bed of the truck and wash those down as well. Leaving them to dry in the sun, I fetch the wheelbarrow, load it up with my supplies, and head barefoot to the back of the property.
It isn’t until I have dismantled the lopsided and rotting portion of the dock, that I spot Leelo. Wearing only a pair of cutoffs and a tank top, her pale legs stand out for their lack of colour. The tattoos covering her arms have clearly not made it that far. Yet. She’s carrying two bottles in one hand, and keeps her gaze focused on the ground in front of her feet, allowing me a chance to observe.
There’s something about the way she carries herself that is at the same time defiant and oddly self-conscious. Both even more obvious when her eyes peek up from under her lashes to find me staring, and immediately her back and shoulders straighten in a silent challenge.
“Hey,” I throw out as a peace offering, when she gets close enough.
“Hey yourself,” she replies, wading into the waist-deep water to hand me a beer. “Thought you deserved a cold drink after all that.”
I keep my eyes on her as I take a long tug from the cold bottle to watch her do the same. While setting the bottle on the dock with one hand, I reach out with the other and slide it around her neck, pulling her close for a quick kiss on the lips, clearly surprising her. The instant I let her go, her free hand comes up to touch her lips.
“Tough day,” I offer with a tilt of my mouth that grows into a full grin when she snorts unceremoniously in response.
“Ya think?”
And just like that, it seems like balance is restored, as we spend the rest of the afternoon working side by side.
It’s not until much later, when it gets close to dinner time and I get ready to leave and check on the lodge, that she makes a subtle reference to this morning’s scene.
“Lock everything tight after I leave,” I tell her, pulling on my jeans over my wet shorts.
“There you go again,” she says, amusement lacing her voice. “Bossy—again.”
I straighten up to find her quickly averting her eyes from where she was staring at my chest. The grin is involuntary. I’m far from gym-worthy, and I show every one of my forty-five years, but I can’t help feeling pretty good about the sturdy, work-honed body I have.
“Concerned,” I correct her, tugging on a strand of hair that escaped her ponytail. She looks good. Healthy and a little sunburned, with a relaxed smile on her pretty face.
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I confirm. “Although I will admit it might come across as bossy.”
“So noted.” She smiles as she looks down at her feet. “And ditto,” she adds, glancing up before clarifying; “my impression of a banshee this morning.”
“Point taken.” For a moment the two of us stand there, just grinning at the other. “I should get going,” I finally say, although I really don’t feel like going. “Call me if you need me.”
She lifts up on tiptoes, puts her one hand in the middle of my chest, and with the other pulls down on my beard until her mouth can reach.
“I will,” she promises with a brush of her lips against mine, before she turns and heads inside, her round ass beckoning me with every step.
It takes a will of steel.
THIRTEEN
All it takes is the ghost of a smile in her voice to sustain me.
Leelo
To say I slept soundly last night would be a lie.
Every time I closed my eyes. I could see that bloodied head toppling out of the dryer. The dark swollen tongue sticking out of the side of its mouth, and that eyeball swaying from a thin string of tissue. Each time my eyes would shoot wide open and I’d lay staring at the ceiling in the dark.
It’s funny how suddenly you analyze every little noise you never noticed before: the light creak of the house settling around you, that slight scrape of a branch against the outside wall. I did exactly that until I finally fell asleep, exhausted, as the first light of morning softly filtered into my room.
Needless to say, coffee is my friend this morning. Although last night I wished for a motel filled with guests, right now I’m glad for the absolute silence as I sit on the steps of the little porch at the side of the house, sipping the fresh brew.
I can’t see the work we did on the dock yesterday from here. It’s just on the other side of that copse of trees jutting into the water. From this side of the property, I have a pretty decent view in the opposite direction, where the early morning mist comes rising off the water. Already feels like it might be a scorcher today.
Roar said he’d be back today. We managed to shore up the remaining fixed part of the old dock and replaced some boards that were rotted. He already hauled a stack of lumber to the waterside yesterday and mentioned bringing over four large barrels today. I didn’t question him, he generally seems to know what he’s doing, but last night I did Google some DIY pages online to educate myself. He mentioned something about getting the barrels framed today, and at least now I know what the hell he’s talking about.
It’ll be nice, once it’s done, to just take my morning coffee out on the dock and watch the day wake up.
We worked well together. That is, when I wasn’t staring at his mostly naked body. Who knew that chest hair could be so goddamn sexy? He’s not covered in heavy fur, thank God, but he’s not baby-butt bare either. David was, and the odd hair that would grow on that milk white chest he would pluck. David would probably have been well-served with a good mat of hair to hide his weak chest.
No weak chest on Roar. No sc
rawny arms either. A workman’s body with big hands and strong long legs, and to my surprise, he had a decent tan on him. For some reason I’d expected the pale skin associated with redheads.
It was hard not to stare at his chest. Every now and then, the sunlight would play off the water droplets clinging to the silver and rust coloured curls, and I’d be so mesmerized, Roar had to call my name twice to get my attention.
When my cup is empty, I hoist myself up on the railing. I desperately need a refill to clear the cobwebs, or at this rate, I won’t be much help today at all.
The storm door creaks when I open it, and closes with a satisfying bang behind me. I’ll always associate that sound with growing up. When my dad was still alive, we’d rent a cottage on a lake somewhere for a few weeks, and those inevitably had a storm door that squeaked. Something my mother loathed but my dad insisted on. As an only child, vacation time was precious to me, because it would mean Dad got to spend time with me. He doted on me. Where my mother was constantly trying to improve me, my father adored me just the way I was. I know he’d be proud if he could see me now.
The unexpected wave of emotion blurs my vision, and I wipe impatiently at my eyes and nose. Lack of sleep, that’s all it is.
I’m pouring myself another coffee when my landline rings. My eyes shoot to the small clock on the stove to see it’s barely seven.
“Whitefish Motel,” I answer.
“Leelo?” Roar’s voice rumbles over the line. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah...why?”
“You sound upset.”
“Nah. This is my normal morning voice,” I joke, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
“Something to look forward to,” he fires back, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Promises, promises.”
I honestly don’t know where that came from. One minute I’m bawling in my coffee because I miss my dad so much, and the next, I’m joking and flirting with a man I didn’t even know six weeks ago. And flirting? Last time I tried that was in high school when I tried getting Jeff Stokes’ attention by showing off my dance skills. Problem was, I had none, and it resulted in a trip to the emergency room and a cast for six weeks. I gave up on it then.
“You’re killing me here,” he growls, making me grin even bigger. I may have picked up some skills over the years after all.
“You’re the one who called at seven in the morning.”
“Yes, right. And that kills me too. I was planning to head out to your place in an hour or so, but it appears three of my guests are having problems with their boats. I’ve gotta work on getting those fixed and back out on the water as soon as possible.”
“Sure, of course,” I reply immediately, but I have to fight the wave of disappointment washing over me.
“If I don’t make it out there today, then tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is fine. Gives me a chance to run into town for supplies today. Good luck with the boats.” I put as much cheer as I can muster into my voice.
“Thanks.” I hear him clear his through before he continues, “And Leelo?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d rather be there.”
I open my mouth to say something back—probably me too, or something equally stupid—when the soft click in my ear tells me he’s already hung up.
I’ve barely put the phone down, when it starts ringing again. Convinced it’s Roar calling back—who else would it be at seven in the morning—I answer with a chuckle. “Miss me already?”
The heavy silence on the other side is a warning that it was clearly not who I thought it was.
“Hello?” I prompt, to which I finally get a response.
“Mom?”
“Gwen?”
“Last time I checked,” comes the deadpan reply. The sarcasm is strong in my daughter.
“Hey, baby, how are you?” I know I’m gushing, but I can’t seem to help myself. It always slips out before I can check it; in my eagerness to set the right tone in our somewhat strained relationship. And like always, I can almost hear the roll of her eyes at the endearment.
“Pretty sure I lost that title when I learned to pee on the potty, Mom, but I’m fine. Thanks.” Her tone is snippy, as it often gets when everything I say seems to rub her exactly wrong. The harder I try, the more irritated she gets.
It’s been months since I spoke to her. A conversation that did not go well, since my girl thinks I’m an irresponsible twat—and told me that in so many words—when I told her I was moving up here. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. I must’ve left half a dozen messages since then, but so far without response.
Until now, and already tension crackles the air. Not a promising start.
“Who were you expecting?” she wants to know, an edge to her voice.
“Oh, just a friend,” I offer dismissively, hoping to avoid deeper probing, but I should know better; Gwen rarely lets go when she gets a whiff of something.
“Must be some friend if you’re on top of the phone at seven in the morning, waiting for their call.”
And there it is, the accusation clear and the sting no less than all the times before, when she found ways to remind me of a brief period of time after her father left me. I’d been hurt and lonely, and my judgement had been temporarily absent when I tried forgetting my sorrow in the arms of another man. Or a few men. Not sure what I was thinking, but for a while I could feel less alone and a little more desirable.
I’m still not sure how she found out, but she did, and the whole experience left me labelled with a big scarlet letter on my chest. Never mind that her father had fucked around on me for a year before he finally decided to dump me for her.
I swallow hard, trying not to become defensive or even react to the clear taunt. I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and it’s never worked out well for me.
“Are you on your way to work? How is it going?” I firmly change the subject.
Gwen found a great job, straight out of university. She’s always been a bit of a tech nerd, and working with computers was a dream of hers.
“I am,” she says after only a moment’s hesitation. “The job’s good. I’m still loving it.”
“Great. That’s great, honey. I’m glad.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I talked to Matt over the weekend, we’re helping Jess plan a surprise fiftieth for Dad, and he mentioned he’d been up to see you.”
I bite down the bitter, “That’s nice” that I’d like to vent at the perfect family picture she paints with just a few words. Instead, I settle for a non-committal hum.
“He says he really likes it up there.”
“I’m glad,” I say cautiously, not quite getting where this conversation is going.
“Yeah, well, I’m not,” she counters, her voice raised and gathering steam. “He’s talking about moving there, Mom. Quitting his job with Dad and buying some land. What have you been filling his head with? And who the hell is Roar? It’s one thing for you to throw your life away in the middle of nowhere, but Matt has a future here, Mom. A future where in maybe ten years he’ll take over Dad’s company and be settled for life.”
“Whoa...” I breathe out slowly, when her rant ends on a sob. “Hold your horses, kiddo. I know Matt really enjoyed himself, but I know nothing of him quitting his job or any plans to move up here. Are you sure he’s not just fantasizing out loud?”
“Of course I am,” she sniffs. “We got in a fight over it. This whole family is falling apart and all because you had to move all the way up there.”
I could point out to her that the family fell apart long before that, and I was as much a victim to that as she was, but I’ve been down that road and I won’t go there again. I understand her better than she thinks. Gwen has a strong, determined personality and she is harder on herself than I could ever be. It may not show on her polished surface but she feels deep too. She sees it as a weakness. The sensitive side she’s fought her whole life to hide, but I know is there. Her defense has alway
s been anger, and often that was, and is, directed at me. Probably because I see all of her.
“Sweetie,” I try gently. “Don’t forget you moved to Toronto yourself. Something I supported because it was what you wanted, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Whatever I chose to do, or Matt might end up choosing for himself, distance doesn’t make us less of a family, unless you let it.”
“Whatever, Mom. I’ve gotta go, I’m at the office.” Before I have a chance to say goodbye she’s already hung up.
That’s twice already today, and it’s not even eight o’clock yet.
I’m thinking it might be a good morning to check out that tattoo place I saw in town.
-
“Nice sleeves.” The girl behind the counter points at my arms and smiles. “Looking to add?”
“Maybe,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders as I look around the place.
The place looks spotless. Smooth plywood paneling on the walls, polished to a high sheen, and plywood and steel dividers, creating a little privacy around each of the stations. The only contrast a single, deep plush wine-red couch and richly coloured tattoo designs decorating the walls. Very minimalistic and very attractive, as is the girl addressing me.
“You know this might not be the best time of year to get new ink, right? Sun exposure and all that?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m thinking of something small, though. Simple. Something that would be hidden from the sun,” I say, thinking out loud as I pull the binder, open on the counter, toward me, an idea forming on the spot. It doesn’t take me long to find an example, since it’s a tattoo I’ve seen quite often. “See this one? I like that concept, except I’d like it customized.”
It takes me only a minute to explain what I want, and a further five for Ginnie, as the girl introduces herself, to sketch.
“Where are you thinking?” she wants to know.
“Over my heart.” Is my immediate answer.
