Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  “No. Get dressed. You’re wasting time.”

  “Jeez.”

  After I’m dressed, she points to the bed. “Change your sheets.”

  “Don’t have any others.”

  She plants her hands on her hips and sighs. “Then wash them. Where’s your basket?”

  “Um…”

  “You don’t have a basket. Okay then, time to improvise. Do you have a big cardboard box?”

  I reach behind the chair and pull out one of the ones I saved from moving. “This do?”

  “It’ll have to. Now strip the bed and collect your other dirty clothes. Where can I find a pen and paper?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “Right. I’ll be in there if you need me,” she says.

  “Doing what?”

  “Making you a shopping list.”

  “I hate shopping.”

  “Suck it up, big guy. Your way didn’t work, so we’re playing by my rules now.”

  As soon as she’s out the door, I grab my cell phone off the nightstand, intending to place a call to…who? Who can I call to get this crazy woman out of my house? Her mama? Mine? That’s less likely than snow in Mobile. The police? Doesn’t seem quite right to call the cops on someone who’s granted you any number of sexual favors in the past twenty-four hours. Sure, I’m sporting fingernail scratches and a bruised earlobe, but I can just see that report in the paper.

  Reluctantly, I tuck the phone into my pocket and rip the sheets off the bed. A cockroach scampers across the mattress and disappears behind a dresser. Looks like I better add bait traps to that list she’s writing.

  Don’t mind doing laundry. Not sure why, but it brings peace, as long as I use the fabric softener with the pink cap. It’s the kind my mama always used growing up, plus Juli loved to brush her cheek against my shirt and inhale.

  “Damn.” I’d managed to go all morning without thinking about her.

  The sheets and a couple of pieces of clothing go into the box, as well as the dank towels I retrieve from the bathroom. Washer and dryer are on the first floor off the kitchen, which means I can’t avoid Psycho Scarlett any longer. Here we go.

  First thing I see are her bare legs crossed, one foot perched on the rungs of a stool at the island. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact with the beast, she’ll let me slip by.

  “Please see me when you’ve put those in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I stretch out my task as long as possible. When I can’t stall anymore, I shuffle back into the kitchen.

  “Daylight’s a-burnin’. Here are your lists. There are two. One is your shopping list, the other details the chores you need to complete before I return tomorrow after church.”

  This is ridiculous. “I’m meeting with Uncle Robert after church.”

  “Not anymore you aren’t. Have these tasks done or there will be hell to pay.”

  “Heather, I’m not made of money. Can’t buy all these things,” I tell her.

  “You have a credit card?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Anyone else to support besides yourself?”

  “No, but–”

  “Exactly. Turn around.”

  “Look, this has been an entertaining morning and your antics are interesting to say the least, but whatever fucked-up plan you’ve dreamed up is just that—a dream. Think you should go home now.”

  “Oh, I’m going home, but I’ll be back. You need me. Also, here’s your key.” She plucks a key out of her pocket and drops it into my palm.

  “How did you get that?”

  “You left it on your nightstand. I took the liberty of having a copy made before I came over this morning, and don’t bother changing the locks because you and I both know you want this. Plus, I’m a clever girl. Now, turn around and take your punishment like a man.”

  Honest to God, she’s bat-shit crazy. Those locks are getting changed as soon as she’s out of sight. Yesterday I was threatened with a restraining order. Looks like I need to threaten one instead.

  “I said, turn around.”

  Fine. Whatever it takes to get her out of here. I turn and cross my arms. No doubt she’s going to scratch her nails down my back again or some stupid shit like that. Cool air hits my ass. Then her hand. “Son of a bitch! That stings!” Humiliation burns hot, and before she can land another blow, I turn and wrench her wrist away.

  “You’re completely psychotic!”

  Her gaze drops and she smirks. “Clearly, you are too.”

  I look down. “Damn it.”

  “See you tomorrow, Isaac. Be a good boy and I’ll take care of that for you.” She gives me one quick stroke before turning on her heel and walking out of my house. My house, which is now a house of shame. Looking around the room, I expect to see fun-house mirrors that will reflect the bizarre and grotesque morning that has just unfolded. Of course, there’s nothing here but me, a ticking clock, and my traitorous dick.

  ***

  “A sander? A couch?”

  Heather’s list is, of course, ridiculous. She even left little notes of encouragement, like I’m a kid she’s packing a lunch for: People, like houses, require a good foundation. Rent a sander and refinish the floors. If you work a little each evening, you’ll have them done by the weekend. No excuses. My fingers are in my hair before I realize what it means. Juli always accused me of making that gesture before I was about to cave in to something. Much to my chagrin, she was right.

  Suppose Heather has a point, too. My buddy Ben Carner owns this house, but agreed to let me stay here rent-free if I fixed it up in my spare time. So far, the only improvement I’ve made is to occasionally wipe off the kitchen counters.

  The floor is soft under my bare feet, worn smooth by decades of upper-crust Mobilians living, visiting, perhaps even dancing within these walls. Ben said the house has been in his family almost since it was built, but no one wanted to undertake the responsibility of restoring it. I’m no master carpenter, but I can swing a hammer and lift a paintbrush. Sanding floors? Not so sure about that one.

  After a trip to Home Depot, I discover that it’s not that hard. In fact, once I move all the furniture out of the parlor and cover my piano so no dust gets inside, the work is soothing. My back and arms are sore after hours of making the same movements over and over, but the movements become rhythmic, allowing my mind to wander. And at the same time, I’m able to immediately see the fruits of my labor—instant gratification as years of dirt and wear melt away under my steady hands.

  “You look good on your knees.”

  “Jeez, Heather. Give a guy some warning?”

  She shrugs and hands me coffee. “It’s not like you could hear me over the sander. So you’ve decided to embrace my brand of crazy, hm?”

  A deep breath calms my nerves and gives me courage to admit the truth. “I see where you’re going with this. Gotta say, you scared me yesterday, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw what you were doing. Pretty effective. You do crazy frighteningly well.”

  “So I’ve been told. But?”

  “But…I needed a swift kick in the ass. If you’re willing to be the one to deliver it, I’m willing to play along.”

  “Now that,” she says, arching an eyebrow, “deserves a reward.”

  “Not that I’m arguing, but I’m filthy.”

  “Exactly.”

  After we’ve showered, her Scarlett personality slips back into place. “Here, wear this. We’re going shopping.”

  “Together? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “One,” she says, ticking off a finger, “it’s a Sunday and all the non-heathens are doing the church and family thing. Two, we’re going to Mississippi, where no one will know us. Three, your car has tinted windows.”

  “You’ve thought about this too much.”

  “And you haven’t thought about it enough. Like I said before, time to suck it up and get with the program, big guy.”

  “Doesn’t your mama wonder where you are?�
�

  “Nope. She’s pissed at me for breaking off the engagement, plus she’s got her hands full dealing with Daddy,” she says. “He’s pushing for a divorce. She’s trying to save face. You know, the usual.”

  “You broke off the engagement? The other night I got the impression Golden Boy had ended it.”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime, maybe as a reward. Right now, it’s none of your concern. All you need to know is it’s over.”

  “So I don’t need to add a raging ex-fiancé to my list of troubles?”

  With a shake of her head, she leads the way downstairs and out to the car.

  “So, mistress, am I allowed to drive my own car?” I was going for sarcasm, but it comes out a little too harsh.

  “Look, I’m not trying to emasculate you. Quite the opposite. I’ll gladly ride shotgun.”

  That little admission takes a minute to sink in. No, I can see she’s not trying to cut me down, unlike most of the other people in my life lately. In less than forty-eight hours she’s lit a fire under my ass that has me a bit hopeful, like there’s something out there other than a lifetime of disappointment and loneliness. A big part of me wants to get swept up in her enthusiasm and optimism. I’d be lying if I said the, uh, reward and punishment thing wasn’t a big motivator, too, but I’ve never looked forward to positive and negative reinforcement quite so much.

  Still, a larger, more familiar part of me knows when she gets tired of this game we’re playing and takes whatever revenge she’s planning on her mama, she’ll disappear and I’ll slide right back into the black hole I’ve occupied for the last year. The only time I peeked out was when I met with Julianne, and look how that turned out. There’s not even a guarantee that once I get my shit together, she’ll be willing to give me a chance. Hell, she’ll be in Boston with Dave. The whole situation makes me bone-tired.

  “Hey,” Heather says, nudging my side. “I see the storm clouds moving in. Cut it out. We’re going to have fun today.”

  Chapter Six

  We drive west across the Mississippi state line. She directs me to an upscale shopping center that looks more like one of the European villages I visited during my performance tour in grad school.

  “Give me your list, please.” Heather holds out her hand expectantly.

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  “You forgot the list.” I groan while she taps a foot. “Fortunately, I brought my copy. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Laroche. One strike already and we haven’t even entered the first store.” Her statement makes me wonder what happens if there’s a second and third strike. “You did remember your credit cards, yes?”

  “Yeah. Got’em.”

  “Pity,” she says, sporting a wicked grin. I make a mental note to screw up something else today.

  The furniture store smells of leather and pipe tobacco, a comforting combination that says “man cave” more than “grandma’s doily.” Not thirty seconds after we’ve entered, a beautifully endowed brunette is at my elbow. Have to fight off sudden tunnel vision.

  “Looking for something specific today?”

  Inwardly, I chuckle at her question. “I am, actually.”

  The woman flips her hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure I can help you, then.”

  “Yes,” says Heather, “he is. My brother is setting up house and needs to outfit his living room. It’s an old home, so he’s not looking for anything modern. Classic, masculine lines would be best, I think.”

  Both the brunette and I raise our eyebrows, me at Heather calling me her brother, and her—I think—at Heather’s directness.

  “Well,” she says, “my name is Jennifer. What a wise man to bring along his sister for advice. You clearly have a style in mind, Miss–”

  “Laroche. Heather. And this is Isaac.”

  Jennifer extends her hand first to Heather then me. It’s slightly damp and warm. “Mr. and Miss Laroche, lovely. Let me show you a few things and you can tell me if you see anything you like.”

  Doesn’t take a genius to pick up on Jennifer’s double entendre, and that’s when I realize Heather’s reason for the sibling act. While the saleslady leads the way, Heather nudges me in the arm. “So, Isaac, see anything you’d like to…try out?” I shoot her a dry look and she snorts. Jennifer turns to face us just as Heather gooses me on the ass. That earns us a dubious look, but I have a feeling this is just the beginning of the paces we’ll be putting Jennifer through today. Poor girl.

  “May I ask what color scheme you had in mind? Warm or cool? Any fabric or material preferences?”

  My sister is quick to answer. “Leather, definitely. Dark chocolate brown.” I play along and return her intense gaze. “The room is painted a deep erotic red, so we’ll want warm tones throughout.”

  I break eye contact to watch as Jennifer blinks a few times at Heather’s choice of words and breathy delivery. Her attempt to recover her professional demeanor is Oscar-worthy.

  “Okay, well, we have a large selection of leather sofas, including sectionals. You’re a rather tall fellow, so I imagine you’ll want room to stretch out.”

  “Oh, yes, he absolutely will,” Heather replies, making no attempt to hide her slow appraisal of my height. When her gaze settles just south of my belt buckle, she lets out an appreciative sigh that makes poor Jennifer blush, and dammit, my body gives her the response she was going for.

  “R-right. Um, how about I give you two a moment to look around since you seem to know what you want. I, um, I have to check with another customer, but I’ll be back.” Jennifer speed-walks away as fast as her three-inch heels allow.

  “Told you we were going to have fun today.” Heather winks as she slides onto the closest sofa. “This is nice, very comfortable. Cleans up easily and there’s plenty of room for whatever you have in mind. Come here a second.” She scoots to the edge of the couch and positions me in front of her. “Yep, it’s the perfect height. Now switch. You sit.”

  We swap positions, but instead of standing in front of me, Heather settles on her knees between my legs. “Perfect,” she says.

  “I had no idea furniture shopping could be so much fun.”

  “Lots of things can be fun if you know what you’re doing.”

  The whole morning passes like this, and poor Jennifer—bless her heart—at least gets a big commission for putting up with our antics. I end up buying the leather sectional, two dark end tables and a coffee table, an area rug, two wrought-iron table lamps, and a floor lamp. Heather conveniently disappears to the ladies’ room when it’s time to pay.

  “Sign here and here, Mr. Laroche.” Jennifer’s fingers brush mine when she passes the pen. I sign and hand it back. “The furniture will be delivered Saturday morning. Here’s my business card. You know, in case you and your sister ever part ways.” She winks before slinking back into the depths of the store.

  “Ready to move on?” Heather appears at my side, linking her arm with mine.

  “Where to?”

  “Consignment store, for accessories.”

  “Accessories?”

  “Paintings, candleholders, knickknacks, that sort of thing.”

  Like a gentleman, I hold the door for her as we exit the store. Outside, the air is muggy and smells of a thunderstorm.

  “Are they really necessary?”

  “You’re questioning me? Isaac, I’m afraid that’s strike two.”

  “What happens on the third strike?”

  “Don’t be so eager to find out. You’ll ruin all our fun.”

  The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion, Heather leading me from store to store, choosing things to turn my empty box of a house into something livable. Normally I’d be annoyed at her presumption, but the girl has an uncanny ability to select things that fit my taste. More than once I wonder if I’m that readable, but that doesn’t align with what most people tell me—that I’m walled off.

  Strike three comes at a gift shop attached to the restaurant where we have dinner. We’re just abo
ut to leave when I see it and have to have it.

  “No, absolutely not,” Heather warns when I make a beeline for it.

  “C’mon, it’s red so it’ll match, and it’s the only thing I’ve seen today that’s got my name written all over it.”

  “If you buy that, consider it strike three.”

  “Gladly.”

  I pick up the red Alabama Crimson Tide pillow and toss it on the clerk’s counter.

  “You an Alabama fan, son?” asks the kind-looking woman.

  “Yes, ma’am. Never miss a game,” I reply.

  “What about you, miss? You a fan too?”

  “Roll Tide.” Heather sighs.

  ***

  “So…three strikes?”

  We’re cruising along Route 10 at seventy-five miles an hour. Today has been the most fun I’ve had in months, even though I racked up enough credit card debt to put any government to shame.

  When Heather doesn’t answer, I take my eyes from the road for a minute to glance over at her. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Eyes on the road, big guy. You need to learn to concentrate.”

  “Pretty hard to do when you’re taking off your shirt, sweet pea.”

  “Exactly. I noticed you’re easily distracted by sex, so it’s time for you to learn to control yourself. Your assignment tonight is to get us home safely no matter what I do. Got it?” The lump in my throat—and elsewhere—makes it difficult to answer.

  “You sure I can’t just pull over so we can take care of things?”

  “Nope, that would defeat the purpose. I won’t touch you until we safely get back to your place. I don’t have a death wish and, at least since a few days ago, I don’t believe you do either.” She reaches over and cranks up the air conditioning even though it’s perfectly comfortable in the car. When she adjusts the passenger-side vents, her intentions become clear. “However, I didn’t say I wouldn’t touch myself.”

  “Wha–” I’ve done many things in my life, things most people haven’t. Toured Europe with some of the best classical musicians of our time. Performed at Lincoln Center in front of a packed house. Even met the President once.

  I have never attempted to steer three thousand pounds of American steel down a highway at breakneck speed with a writhing, half-naked ex-girlfriend and current fuck buddy in the seat next to me. Try as I might, I can’t help looking. In the dim glow from the dashboard, I see her hands roam over her breasts, pinching and rolling until she’s so hard they’re visible in my peripheral vision. The car wanders into the rumble strip but I quickly correct our path.