Dirty Talk

by Lauren Landish

  “That’s quite a story you have there,” I reply honestly, feeling slightly jealous.

  Sam nods. “We get to stay busy, be alone when we want to be, and share this beautiful Earth with folks who recognize they need a little time with Mother Nature.”

  “I definitely needed this recharge myself. I haven’t been getting out as much as I’d like with the busy work of business taking me here and there. I travel—hell, all I do is travel, it seems, but it’s all work, no play.”

  Sam hums knowingly. “You know what they say about that? Makes Nicolas a dull boy. Hell, before this, I was like you. Worked a job just like you . . . then I realized something. All a man really needs is a woman he loves and some time in the sunshine. That’s all we could ask for.”

  He smiles, lifting his face up to the night sky speckled with bright stars as if they’re the sunshine he’s talking about. “Think I’ll turn in. Gonna see my Susan in the morning, and she’s gonna have missed me something fierce these last few days, if you catch my drift. I’m gonna need my Zs to keep up with her.”

  Laughing, I lie back, staring at the stars too, catching a flash of light streak across the sky.

  I have a moment of childhood innocence and make a wish on the shooting star. “A good woman and sunshine . . . sounds like a great life if you can make that happen.”

  With a smile, I head over to my sleeping bag, curl up, and nod off.

  Rose

  Juggling my bag, my coffee, and my keys, I try to get the door to the Mountain Rose open. It’s a lot harder than it was three months ago when my tummy was flat-ish, I wasn’t having weird food cravings, and I didn’t spend half of my mornings chucking into the toilet.

  That’s okay, I’m halfway through my pregnancy, and despite the difficulties, every day is a new adventure and I’m looking forward more and more to what’s to come. Still . . . “Goddamn lock,” I mutter, hissing.

  Finally, it clicks, and I push the door open, setting everything on the counter and hustling back to flip the lights on and the sign to Open. Hustling is getting to be a little bit relative since I’ve already started to get a little waddle to my gait even though I’m barely showing. What with winter still in full effect, when I wear loose, warm clothes, almost nobody notices unless I tell them.

  Brad says my little baby bump looks like maybe I just had a big lunch, just a little food baby. But at five months along, this is definitely not just some burritos, although I could go for some breakfast burritos right about now. Mmm . . . warm eggs with some spicy sausage, cheese, and maybe some rice in there . . . yeah, baby, that’s what I want.

  I’ve been fortunate that while I’ve had some morning sickness, I’ve been able to eat just fine. Actually, I think Brad’s a little jealous. Every time I stop by the salon, he’s drinking something that looks like it was mixed up for the Toxic Crusader while I’m rocking something covered in cheese.

  I grab my morning coffee from the K-Cup machine, a birthday gift from Ana last year that I’ve come to love. I inhale deeply, breathing in its steamy goodness as I boot up the computer and check emails. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” I remind myself. “These eight ounces of liquid sanity are a precious commodity.”

  Everything electronic looks good today, just some spam, a few bills that I click Pay on immediately before I forget, and then my weekly pregnancy newsletter. These are my favorites, reading about how big my little Jelly Bean is, what’s developing, and what I’m likely to be experiencing.

  That one is tough because while some women are already feeling movement, I’m one of the few who haven’t yet. It worries me, even as I tell myself that everything is fine.

  The range is 16–25 weeks, and I’m smack in the middle at 20 but just ridiculously impatient for what I think will be a monumental moment in my pregnancy.

  I’ve tried a few of the ‘recommendations’ to trigger squirming like drinking orange juice, and last weekend, Brad gently poked my belly to see if that’d get some movement going. But no luck so far. He’s declared me defective, though he was only kidding. I still threatened to not let him be an auntie, so he’s piped down after that. But I’m still trying to feel something, anything.

  Sighing, I close down my emails and get the store ready for customers. About five minutes later, the door opens and my new assistant walks in. “Devon, so great to see you this morning.”

  Knowing that I was going to need some help as the pregnancy progressed and for some maternity leave, I hired help. Today’s her first day, and I’m excited that the Mountain Rose and I have reached the level where I can hire some help, and Devon seems like a really sweet girl, ready to learn and happy to help.

  “Thanks, Rose! Great to see you too. Where do you want me and what can I do?”

  Good start, girl. Very good start. “Let’s unload the new order that arrived yesterday afternoon, get it all hung and set out. I’ll show you the system and how I like to tag things. Then I’ll go over the register with you.”

  Without another word, she’s off and running, going into the back of the store and grabbing the box and moving it closer to the rack. We get to work, and within twenty minutes, I’m already in love with this girl. It would’ve been impossible for me to move that box and I would’ve spent too much time and energy walking the clothes back and forth from the box to the rack. But Devon’s got wiry strength and energy for days, and we get the racking going in half the time it would normally take.

  We move over to the register, and I quickly go through ringing up a sale, making change, and doing a return or exchange as we see customers all morning. It’s not too busy, but enough that Devon is able to train.

  “You’re a fast learner,” I tell her during a small lull in foot traffic. “You’re going to do fine.”

  Devon smiles and gives me a thumbs up. “Thanks, Rose. It’s not too different from the other registers I’ve worked so it’s an easy pickup. And this is a lot more glamorous than doing shifts down at the supermarket.”

  “Glamorous?” I laugh. “Oh, hell, Brad’s gonna love you! He’s a friend from down the street, part-owner of the salon. He stops in from time to time. You don’t mind being called bitch, I hope? It’s said in love, I promise.”

  Suddenly, my tummy lets out a loud rumble and we both freeze for a second before bursting into laughter. “Well, apparently, that’s my alarm clock for lunch. Did you bring something?”

  Devon shakes her head. “No, I figured I could grab something from the diner if we weren’t too busy, or later if we were. I mean, I could afford to skip a meal or two.”

  I don’t know if it’s the soon-to-be mother in me or just hearing that sort of bullshit too often, but I grab her hand. “No. Get rid of that thinking right now. You’re gorgeous, Devon . . . and the diner sounds great. So here’s the deal. Your boss is buying and you’re it picking up. Have any idea what you want?”

  She’s already nodding, grabbing a notepad off the desk to write down the order, when I change my mind. “Actually, this would be a great test. I’ll go grab our lunch—the walk will do me good—and you stay here. There shouldn’t be too many customers coming in right now, but if they do, you know how to ring them up. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be right back.”

  I rip the top sheet off the notepad and head out with a wave. Outside, I check what she wrote down. A garden salad? Hell no, this girl’s getting at least a turkey sandwich to go with it. Stepping into the sunshine, I tilt my chin up and close my eyes, appreciating the bracing chill that rolls through my body after being in the heat all morning. My cardigan is just right for the chilled air considering my Jelly Bean has my body temperature rolling a little warmer than usual with the bonus insulation and hormones.

  As I walk, I’m mentally debating if it’s a cheeseburger day or a club sandwich day, finally negotiating myself into a compromise of a burger with extra lettuce and tomato. That’s basically a salad, right?

  Vaguely, behind me, I hear someone calling out my name. Thinking for a moment that
maybe Devon had a question after all, I look back and see the last person I expected to ever see again. Nicolas, my baby daddy, is jogging toward me, a wide smile on his face as he waves.

  I turn and he screeches to a halt, his eyes tracking from my face to my obviously rounded belly, then locking onto my eyes.

  I see the confusion, the questions written all over his face.

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  Excerpt: Mr. Fixit

  by Lauren Landish

  Prologue

  Cassie

  “You sure about this?” Nathan asks me in his distinct Bronx accent as the muted sounds of the club preparing to open surround us. In the six months I’ve worked here at Club Jasmine, he’s been my boss, a mentor of sorts, and an ear to bend when I need it. He’s crude and he’s foul-mouthed, but he’s honest.

  “I’m sure,” I reply, tugging at the collar on my work outfit. Tonight is supposed to be ‘upscale night’, which for the patrons means suits and dresses that hit at least the mid-thigh, and if you have a collar, you’d better be rocking a tie. For me and the rest of the staff, it means a tailored blouse that highlights what boobs I do have, although since it buttons up most of the way to my neck, I can get a little bit extra out of my Wonderbra. “It’s time for me to move on.”

  Nathan sips his drink, a horrible neon blue concoction called a Little Mermaid that he can’t get enough of. To me, it smells too much like fake fruity wannabe tropical stuff, and I’ve had the real thing. There’s no substitution. “I can respect that,” he says after a moment. “We all knew this was just a temporary gig until you figured out what you wanted to do. I didn’t expect you to change your mind and make a career here.”

  I laugh, nodding. “You’re right, but it was fun while it lasted.”

  “We’re going to miss you around here. You’re popular with the customers. You’ve got a natural charm about you,” Nathan admits. He once asked me out for a drink after work, and while he’s an interesting fella, I don’t date my boss. I’m not going to hate on anyone who does, but it’s not how I want to make my way. Luckily, he took it well and it’s never been awkward, just totally cool since then. “So, what are you looking at doing?”

  “Similar to what I was doing before, in real estate, but not some corporate setting. A more close-knit group that my friend, Hannah’s, husband set up. It’s his brother’s business.”

  “Oliver? We’ve met. He’s a good man. I can respect that,” Nathan says. He stands up, offering me his hand. “Tell you what—you do me a favor tonight, and I’ll even give you a goodbye present, an extra week’s pay to get you moved and started.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Nathan’s nice, but he’s about as tightfisted as Ebenezer Scrooge. “What’s that?”

  “Roxy’s grandmother is coming in tonight,” Nathan says, and I have to both laugh and wince at the same time. Ivy Jo is . . . unique. “Yeah, well, she insists that she can see her great grandbabies and enjoy a night on the town too, and Jake don’t wanna listen to it no more. I can dig it. So, she’s coming in early bird.”

  “How long, and what time?” I ask Nathan, who shrugs.

  “Jake told me he’d try to get her out of here by nine, but last time she came in, she threatened to take her cane to my head if I pressured her toward the door one more time,” Nathan says defensively. “But Jake and Roxy both say she liked you. As Roxy’s getting ready for her set, and Jake’s at home playing proud papa, I figure you can make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble tonight?”

  I laugh again, nodding. “I’ll make sure she doesn't get too out of control.”

  Two hours later, Ivy Jo comes in, escorted by one of the security guys. “Miss White, Ivy Jo—”

  “Oh hell no, that Nathan didn’t give me no chaperone, did he?” Ivy Jo protests, decked out in an outfit that . . . well, I think it was popular during the disco era. “I said I wanted a night out, not a night being handheld!”

  “Ivy Jo, I’m not your chaperone,” I protest, giving her just a little bit of sass. It keeps her on her toes. “I’m here to protect all the men from you. I know how you are, remember?”

  “I remember. I remember your being almost as much fun as I was at your age,” she says. “Okay, I guess.”

  I get her a drink, a watered down Rob Roy that she sips at, sighing happily. “Get yourself a drink, girl!”

  “Sorry, can’t while on the clock,” I tell her, “but if you don’t mind, I’ll go for something virgin.”

  “I’d like a virgin too, but at my age, I’ll take any damn thing I can get,” Ivy Jo cackles, and I have to snicker. I get myself a Moscow Mule mocktail and sit down next to her as the early clubgoers start to come in and the DJ starts spinning tunes. “So, talked with Mindy the other day. She said you’re going to work for Oliver?”

  “Yep,” I agree, sipping my mule and wishing it had just a bit more ginger flavor. “Oli’s got a place for me. And I’m gonna earn it too. I plan on working my ass off.”

  “No doubt,” Ivy Jo says. “Hey, what about that tall drink of sexy you were teasing all over the damn place when we all went out to Hawaii? What’s his name—Calvin?”

  “Caleb!” I say with a laugh. Caleb Strong is many things, but I could never, ever imagine him being named Calvin. “What about him?”

  “Doesn’t he work for Oliver too?” Ivy Jo says with a twinkle in her eye. “You two looked like you got along well.”

  “We got along like cats and dogs, but we had fun. That’s about it though,” I reply, not admitting to her that yeah, I’ve sometimes thought about having a different kind of fun with Caleb. “He still kind of works for Oliver, but he started his own thing, Strong Services, although he’s mostly known as ‘Mr. Fix-It’ to his customers.”

  “Handy, huh? I used to be a girl who was very much into handys,” Ivy Jo says, making me half choke on my drink. “You sure that drink is virgin?”

  “I’m sure,” I say with a laugh. “But no, there’s nothing there. I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and we mostly just send each other inappropriate jokes and memes these days. We’re just friends.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ivy Jo says, unconvinced. “Honey, in all my years, I ain’t saying that men and women can’t be just friends. But I saw the sparks between you two, and two people who start off in the friend zone with those sparks either hate each other eventually or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  Ivy Jo finishes off her Rob Roy, grinning. “I won’t ruin it for you. Hell, maybe I’m wrong. Let’s go find me a man a third my age to shake my hips with. Left one’s brand new. Gotta get some use outta it before the rest of me breaks down!”

  Caleb

  Sweat stings my eyes as I reach down into the hole, working by feel. I could have dug something wider. I know quite a few of the contractors around town who damn near rip up an entire back yard for a job like this, but that’s not me. I take a lot of pride in my work, and that includes creating as little collateral damage as I can.

  “Come on, you stupid son of a—” I grunt, twisting the connector to the right. I’ve only got a tiny window, and I have to reset after just a moment, evaluating my progress as I do. Not bad. A few more and I’ll have it done.

  I reach down again, but just as I do, my earbud works itself loose and I curse under my breath. Sitting up, I use the opportunity to wipe my forehead, but it’s just too hot. To hell with it. I take my other earbud out and pull my t-shirt off, whipping it around my head in a quick do-rag-like getup that looks stupid as hell, but at least it keeps my eyes clear. I readjust my earbuds and the thrilling, driving voice of Roxy Stone fills my ears. It’s not a CD yet—she’s still working on the fina
l arrangements—but I’ve been able to listen to all of her covers as she works on them. Advantages of being a friend of the family, and her version of Hallelujah fucking rocks.

  My adjustments complete, I reach down and twist the wrench again, then again. Grabbing my flashlight, I look the whole thing over, from the pipe tape I used on the threads right down the pipe itself. “That oughta hold you,” I mutter, getting to my knees. I go over to the side of the house, turning the water back on, and head back to the ditch, squatting down and staring intently at my repair. The pipe’s good, no leaks at all, and I quickly finish up, filling in the dirt and tamping it down before putting the turf back on top as best I can. Packing my bag, I look over the whole job, nodding in approval. “Nice,” I tell the afternoon cicadas as I take off my earbuds and put them in the pocket of my work jeans. “Mrs. Barnes is going to have no problems with water leaks or her petunias for the rest of the summer at least.”

  I dust off my hands and pick up my tool bag before heading to the back door of the small but trim cottage house that I’ve been working outside of for the past four hours. Knocking on the frame next to the screen, I take a moment to admire the blue house with white trim, while at the same time noting that a lot of the trim on the north side of the house is looking sun-faded. It might need to be redone soon. “Mrs. Barnes? I just finished up!”

  There’s the sound of sandals flapping, and a soft voice calls from inside. “Come on in, Caleb!”

  “I dunno, Mrs.—”

  “Don’t worry about the dirt. I insist!” Mrs. Barnes says. She’s a widow. Her husband died two years ago, and this is the third job I’ve done around her place. She just never picked up any do-it-yourself skills beyond the basics. “My husband never worried about it, and I’m mopping the kitchen this evening after dinner anyway!”