by Fiona Quinn
“Is that like homeschooling?” Deep asked.
“Yeah, just less organized.” I stood up and started to clear the table.
The men pushed their chairs back. Blaze took the dishes from my hands. “We’ll handle the KP, ma’am.”
I wandered into the living area. The house was built, I’d guessed, around 1930. Someone had obviously updated the inside. The downstairs was now a great room. Coming in from the garage, you’d find a laundry room to the left and a bathroom to the right. The modest-sized kitchen, with all the surfaces in easy reach, made cooking easy. A raised breakfast bar with stools separated the kitchen from the living room and dining room areas. By taking out the downstairs walls and allowing it all to be one room, it made the small space seem both intimate and spacious. Even with seven large men, I didn’t feel like we got under each other’s feet.
Good-quality, sturdy furnishings filled the space. Not fancy. Livable. The furniture fabrics were earth toned with a lot of auburns and chocolates accented by robin’s egg blue. A decidedly Crate and Barrel feel defined this room. Underfoot, beige carpet stretched from wall to wall in the living room and hall; in the dining room and kitchen, the designer chose wood.
I shuffled my bunny slippers over to the couch and started picking at my guitar. It surprised me when the men gathered around to join in. I took a few requests. Deep had a beautiful voice, and our voices blended well when we tried a few songs.
Randy knew a lot of the songs I had learned at the Sobados’ apartment. Randy came from El Salvador. He had Latino dark coloration. I’d think he would have a name reflecting his culture and not something that sounded like a naughty English schoolboy. I bet his call name proved particularly effective. No one would put the two together.
As we sang and I played, Striker stood aloof off to the side, leaning against the wall, watching. He looked at ease to the casual eye, but he didn’t fool me. This man was taking my measure. I wondered what he thought of me. Striker hadn’t confronted me again about my secrets. He let me marinate in my anxiety.
After a while, I yawned, stretched, and told the guys I was beat. Taking a book off the shelf—Pride and Prejudice, an old friend—I went to clean myself up for bed.
I fell into a deep sleep just as Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett made each other’s acquaintance at the ball. My book smooshed into the pillow under my head as my eyes closed. Barely awake, I heard soft footsteps come into my room. Striker pulled the novel from under my head, tucked my covers up to my chin, and turned off my light.
Sounds outside my door brought me awake again around two in the morning, dragging me out of my crazy dream. In my dream, a giant blew magical bubbles, trapping me inside. I’d float toward the sun, but then my bubble would pop, and I’d fall back to the ground. Just before I hit down, another bubble caught me up. This had been going on for some time. I was relieved to have woken up. Besides, I had to use the bathroom.
I stumbled out of bed and down the hall, pushing hair out of my half-closed eyes. I opened the door to the bathroom, and there stood Striker, looking like a model for Bowflex. Toothbrush in hand. Wet hair. Freshly showered. Naked. My eyes traveled down his muscular body and stopped at his family jewels. I felt a little frown line form between my eyes as I focused.
“Lexi, I’ll be done in a minute.” Striker seemed unabashed.
“Okay.”
“Lexi?”
“Oh! I’m sorry to barge in on you …” My voice trailed off as I did some more looking, the door wide open, my hand resting on the knob.
“Lexi, you’re staring.”
“Yes, it’s rude to stare.” I stuttered, feeling moronic. Flushing painfully. “It’s just, I’ve never actually seen a real penis before. You know, a man’s penis. I’ve seen lots of little boy penises from changing diapers and babysitting.” Shut up! Stop talking!
“You’re married.” Striker’s voice sounded strangled—probably choking back laughter. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t I move?
“Yes, yes. Married.” I continued, my words catching in my throat because as I watched, it started to grow! My mouth gaped.
“Lexi?” Striker put his toothbrush away in the holder, and reached for a towel.
“Wow!” Who knew they got so big? It was a little frightening. I feverishly wished I had seen Angel’s penis. Then this would be a nonevent. I wouldn’t be so shocked. I’d just say, “Excuse me,” and shut the damned door. Instead, I stood like an idiot with my eyes wide open, and my brows up in my hairline. “You could make a balloon animal with that!” my mouth said, before I could stop it.
Striker was out-and-out laughing at me now as he wrapped a towel around his waist.
I looked at him, startled. I shook my head. “Chablis didn’t prepare me. She said white men were smaller.” It sounded accusatory as if it was his fault he was well endowed.
Striker took me by the elbow and propelled me out of the bathroom to the hall. He went into his room, removed the towel, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, arranged himself, and dressed in gray sweats. He came back out and guided me down the stairs to the kitchen. That felt better. Safe, and nonsexual. Thank God. I was still a little in shock.
Striker poured milk into a large glass measuring cup. He put it into the microwave and punched the buttons. While the milk heated, he took two green mugs out of the cabinet, and emptied hot chocolate packets into each. I perched on a stool, elbows on the counter, head balanced against my clasped hands, looking down at the surface. I was reviewing the bathroom scene. Good God, this felt awkward, especially sitting here in silence under the bright lights.
Striker poured the hot milk into the mugs, pushed mine over to me, and handed me a spoon. All of my attention went to stirring in the powder. When I dared to sneak a peek at Striker’s expression, I found bemused assessment. I could almost read the “this is going to be good,” thoughts in his head.
Finally, he said, “Okay. Let me try to understand what happened.” His tone invited confidence.
My focus went to blowing on the hot cocoa.
“You are married, right?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“To a man?”
I quickly looked up. I saw mirth dancing in his eyes though the rest of his face remained impassive. I dropped my gaze, again. “You know I married Angel Sobado. He’s an Army Ranger.”
“Reviewing the facts from the beginning. Have you and Angel had sex?”
Ugh. Way, way too personal! But I had compared the man’s erection to a balloon animal, so I guessed I did owe him some sort of an explanation. “No, we haven’t.” My memory flickered back to my conversation with Miriam Laugherty. Angel would correct that as soon as he got home. My face turned what I assumed to be a bright tomato-red.
“Do you want to explain?”
I sighed heavily. “Okay. Here it is in a nutshell. Angel and I only knew each other for three weeks when we got married. We met when my apartment building burned down. We fell in love, pretty much at first sight, and we spent a lot of time holding hands and kissing and stuff. But, his great aunt, my Abuela Rosa, had her eye on us. His family is from Puerto Rico—devout Catholics, or at least the women are. Angel’s family wanted him to marry a good Catholic virgin.”
“You’re Catholic?” Striker stirred his cocoa slowly, his focus never wavering from my face. It was unnerving.
I pursed my lips and shook my head.
“Then you fit the bill because you’re a virgin?”
“Um.”
“Go on,” Striker said. “Sorry to interrupt your story.”
“Well, I guess I got so involved in life and Mom’s illness and everything. I didn’t date much. Angel’s the first guy I had a real relationship with.” I cleared my throat. “We decided to get married before he shipped out again. Because of the paperwork, we couldn’t make our vows until the afternoon before he left. We went to the Justice of the Peace in the town he deployed from.” I pulled in a deep breath and plunged on. “All of his army
buddies from his unit stayed in the area, since they would ship out together. The guys found out we planned to get married, and when we came out of the courthouse, we found them gathered to congratulate us. They wanted to take us out for dinner to celebrate. I guess there was some drinking involved for the men—okay, a lot of drinking involved for the men.”
“And Angel had a few too many?”
“In the end, they had to carry Angel back to our hotel room and help me get him undressed. Only they stopped at his shorts. We tucked him in, and then in the morning, they came to roust him out so he wouldn’t be AWOL.”
“I bet that was fun.” Striker laughed.
“What? The morning? It included a lot of cussing, wrestling to get Angel into a cold shower, some Advil, and lots of black coffee. Voila, my wedding night.”
“You didn’t drink?”
“I’m not twenty-one.”
“How old are you? Do you mind if I ask?”
“I’m twenty now; nineteen when I got married last February. I turn twenty-one March third.”
“So this poor guy went off to war without losing his virginity?” Striker’s brow creased. Was that pity for Angel?
“He had sex when he was fourteen. The family didn’t care so much about the boys’ purity, just the girls’.”
“Doesn’t seem fair,” he said.
I pushed my hair back from my face, tucking the strands behind my ears. Striker was right—that really wasn’t at all fair. “Anyway, that’s how I came to find myself in the position of being a virgin wife.” Phew. I was glad to have the explanation done.
Striker thought about this for a minute. “Okay, I have a grasp on the never-having-seen-a-man’s-penis business, now would you please explain Chablis?”
Okay, not completely done. “Chablis was one of my unschooling teachers at the apartments.” I shrugged.
“Chablis was supposed to teach you about men?”
“Chablis was supposed to teach me about sex.” I edged a thigh off the stool and leaned my elbow onto the counter. “Chablis worked as a hooker. She lived with her aunt,” I explained. “See, her aunt usually took care of Chablis’s three kids at night, but her aunt’s friend had to have an operation. When her aunt went to help out, Chablis didn’t have anyone to watch her kids while she turned tricks. For two weeks the kids stayed with me.”
“And, in return you got sex lessons? Or sex?” His eyes had widened.
I gave Striker an “ew” face and pushed my untasted cocoa to the side. “I was learning how to be good at sex so that when I had a boyfriend or a husband, you know, I’d be able to make him happy.” I shrugged.
Striker shook his head and looked at me appalled … or maybe it was disbelief? Hard to tell. Shocked, for sure. Huh. I wondered why. As he rubbed his forehead with his fingers, I reached for my mug, took a sip, and burned my tongue.
“Were these lessons theoretical or practical?” Striker finally managed.
“Mostly practical.” Did Striker have to look at me like I’d sprouted horns? This wasn’t all that strange, was it? Chablis was just an apartment mentor. “She had a black dildo she would demonstrate the things on, and she gave me a purple one so I could practice the techniques,” I said matter-of-factly. Striker put his hands on his knees as he bent over laughing, gasping for air.
“It’s not funny!” I looked at him, hurt, mortified.
“And the purple dildo you practiced on.” Striker came back upright. “Didn’t prepare you for the bathroom scene?”
I searched my memory. “It was much smaller and thinner and there was less … well anyway, I learned her techniques on something smaller, and now I’m really concerned.” I threw my arms up in the air and let them flop back down. “Here I thought I had prepared for the physical part of married life, and now I’m a little freaked out.”
Striker stood there, tears running down his face; his body shook in silent laughter. “Oh, my God,” he gulped. “Oh, my God.” He came around the counter, wrapped me in an affectionate arm, and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Chica, you’re like a surprise party. I never know what’s going to come out of that head of yours next.” He dropped his arm. “So tell me about Chablis. Was that really her name?”
“Her work persona name. She said she picked it because she was so sweet and intoxicating.”
Twenty-Three
I snuggled back in my bed. Striker had sat downstairs talking to me until my jangled nerves were sufficiently soothed. That was nice of him. He was a good guy. I had put the earlier bathroom images and the first part of my conversation with Striker to the side. I’d give those thoughts some distance in time and space before I took them out for reexamination. I found the whole scene mortifying.
But what was a girl to think about in the middle of the night, but all of the darned creaking and groaning sounds the house was making? Warm and sleepy was replaced with stiff and edgy. A branch outside my window, one looking all too much like a bony hand, scratched at the glass as the tree swayed in the breeze. My mind conjured up the nightmarish reactions I had after reading a Stephen King novel. I was scaring the bejesus out of myself. I grabbed my pillow and hotfooted my way into Striker’s room, diving under the covers.
Striker rolled toward me. “Heebie-jeebies?”
I peeked up at him. “Skeletal hands of the undead.”
“Lexi.” He reached out, pulled the pillow from over my head, and moved it to the side. “I don’t know you well. But from what I’ve learned here at the house, you seem to be a mature and rational person who’s seen a lot of life and knows it can be messy.” He shifted to lean on an elbow and gazed down at me in the dim moonlight gleaming through his window. He gently tugged the strands of hair caught in my stitches, and tucked them behind my ear. “You are crazy smart, and you have an enormous bag of tricks. Then you climb under my covers trembling over the monsters under your bed. Putting these two sides of you together is pretty confusing.” He scanned my face. “Can you tell me what gives?”
I swallowed audibly. Striker’s eyes, warmed with kindness, felt sincere to me, and for some reason this made tears pool in the corners of my eyes and cling to my lashes. I struggled to find the words to explain myself. My voice came out low pitched and private, like I was sitting in the confessional at St. Stephens. “I’m afraid—really deep down afraid. This is the weakest point of my life.” A tear dripped, and Striker brushed it from my cheek with light fingers. I drew in a shaky breath. “A week ago, I thought of myself as strong and powerful. I could defend myself physically and mentally against the big bad wolves, you know? I trained hard to be capable and independent. Then one night …” I gestured in a sweeping motion. “I can’t get hold of my head. I don’t know when I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet, or when I’m going to be on my knees begging for relief. I don’t know when I can have my own emotions, or when adrenaline is going to put me in the throes of terror. I have no control of my brain or my safety. Even with you and your men around me, I feel … incredibly alone and vulnerable. I’m scared.” My chattering teeth punctuated my words.
Striker was dressed in a big T-shirt and sweat pants. He was close enough now that his breath brushed over my skin. He rubbed his hand up and down my arm soothingly while he took a minute to think.
“Lexi, I’ve never seen anyone, in all my time doing this sort of thing, handle everything with as much grace and courage. Give yourself a break.” He paused. “We have a good team here. We’re going to get the guy. Your doctors believe this is all going to go away eventually, right?”
“That’s what they say. There’s just no time line.”
Striker nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. “I think, for right now, if you feel safer sleeping in my bed with me, and this is where you can get a good night’s rest, then that’s what you should do. We need you healthy.”
“You’re okay with that?” Huh. Conflict churned in my head. I guessed being in here—making plans for this to be my bed, too—felt immoral. Not that
Striker wasn’t a perfect gentleman, or I had any thoughts beyond my safety. Still … if anyone knew, they’d judge me harshly. “What about your wife? Or your girlfriend? Wouldn’t this cause problems?”
“I’m not married or involved with anyone right now.”
I fell silent.
“What?” Striker asked.
“I’m weighing this.”
“And?”
“On the one hand, being in here feels safe. It would be a relief for me and my head to get a solid night’s rest. I think I could sleep if I stayed with you. On the other hand, I don’t want anyone to think I’m slutty or I’m being a bad wife.” There, I’d just lay my thoughts on the line.
“Since I’m the only one who knows what bed you’re sleeping in, I wouldn’t worry about your reputation. You’ve already deduced I’m not going to make a move on you.”
“Yes, but I’ve seen you naked!”
Striker chuckled softly. “And I’ve felt you up twice—I can be mature about this if you can.”
In the morning, I woke up alone in bed, feeling a little more like myself. I went downstairs to make my plans for that night. Getting ready to celebrate Deep took up time and brain space. Both good things here at the safe house. I was still working my fluffy-bunny plan. Diversion was the key.
Before noon, I made some hoagies for lunch using Italian meats and cheeses, with pesto and tapenade spread on the rolls. I set them in the fridge, ready for the changing of the guard, when Striker and Gater would come in.
Opening the oven, I peeked in to see how the tomatoes were coming for the manicotti sauce, and the aroma filled the house. I pulled a bowl from the cupboard and started in on the birthday cake—a coffee-flavored rum cake.
Striker and Gater walked in as I put lunch on the table, and we all sat down. As we ate, the men talked about the news from Iniquus and some of the files they still had open. The conversation turned to the cake we could now smell baking.
“Which Kitchen Grandma taught you this?” asked Striker.
