by Bijou Hunter
CRICKET
Every time I heard the Dolly Parton song, “Why’d You Come in Here Lookin' Like That,” I always envisioned “painted on jeans” as making the guy look feminine. After seeing how tight Poet’s jeans are, though, I very much understand those lyrics.
Kissing him is like tasting the best chocolate—smooth, delicious, and addictive. I would gladly spend the rest of the night kissing him—preferably with our clothes off—but we’re past the stage of wham bam, thank you, man. I’m carrying his kid, and Poet made a grand gesture by driving to White Horse. I really ought to aim for a better impression than roadwhore desperate to hump him hard and long...
“People can see,” Chipper says, suddenly standing next to my table.
I remove my lips from Poet’s and stare up at my brother. “Did you need something?”
“A ride home,” he says and Bianca Bella appears under his arm and laughs at me. “You’re so pretty when your vagina’s inflamed.”
Distracted by their bad influence, I immediately forget about making a good impression. Laughing, I nod at her pronouncement. “I really am.”
My brother pats my head in the same way he does the dogs’. “Drive us home, and then you can get help for your lady problem.”
I smile at Poet. “This is my best friend, Bianca Bella. She’s also my roommate and assistant.” Standing up, I hug my wobbly brother. “This is my twin, Chipper. Guys, this is Poet, my baby’s daddy.”
“Poet, huh?” Chipper says, reaching out to shake hands. “I bet Cricket’s name doesn’t sound so silly to you.”
“Mom named me Felix. Poet is a nickname I got as a teenager.”
“What for?”
“For sweet-talking women.”
“Oh, you sweet-talked me all right,” I coo while reaching out to caress his cheek. “Though I think you sticking the gun in that asshole’s face likely did more for your cause than anything you said.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Chipper says, leaning against me to stay upright while Bianca Bella uses him in the same way, “and I’d like to continue meeting you when I’m sober enough to remember what you’re saying. So, like, tomorrow then.”
“We’ll have lunch,” I say and push my brother toward the door. Chipper and Bianca Bella stumble in the direction I send them while I turn to Poet. “I should go. Will you be okay at the Holiday Inn?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, reaching for my hand as if unwilling to let me go. “Wanna come over in the morning and get their free breakfast?”
I don’t know why I find this idea so much more charming than meeting at Denny’s or Waffle House. Possibly, anything he says will seem delightful to me. After all, I’m absolutely fucking giddy since he walked through the door and can barely think straight.
“I can’t explain how excited I am that you’re here,” I say while inching toward where Chipper and Bianca Bella stumble. “Tomorrow, we’ll strip away the baby on board and our amazing one-night stand. Let’s see if you and I click in less pelvic ways.”
“I’d nearly forgotten how gorgeous your smile was.”
Grinning wildly, I reach up to give him a quick kiss. Poet lets me go, maybe realizing Chipper and Bianca Bella won’t last long outside alone. I’m surprised they haven’t sat down on the curb and decided they’re too tired to move. That’s what we usually do when stupid drunk. Now I’m in the unfortunate position of playing the sober one.
Poet walks outside with me where we find my best friend and brother leaning against the wall and laughing about bad smells. I miss finding stupid things funny, but my life is bigger now. I’m a mom, and my baby’s dad is giving me a heartbreakingly sexy smile as he slides on his Harley and prepares to leave. I could stare at his face forever, but I sense that’s the long day talking.
Tomorrow, I’ll be saner.
Tomorrow, I’ll see Poet clearer.
Then tomorrow, after I do all my rational thinking crap, I’ll end up naked again with this man wearing painted on jeans.
5—POET
Hotels freak me out, mainly because I imagine all of the ugly, gross, weird people who likely stayed in the rooms before me. I know the maids wash the sheets—at least at a Holiday Inn they do—but I’m always on the search for pubic hairs or stains. I blame my stepmom, Justice, for ranting over germs at hotels. Even years later, my brain won’t stop wondering what I’m stepping on or sleeping in.
The night I spent with Cricket was the one exception to my inability to relax in a hotel. No doubt I’d be fricking fine if she were naked in my room right now. Since that isn’t an option, and I’m too riled up to sleep, I dial my dad to let him know how things turned out. As soon as he answers, I realize a heart-to-heart private conversation isn’t in the cards.
“You’re on speakerphone,” Dad says after answering.
Justice pipes in too. “We all want to enjoy this historic love story between a hometown boy and his out-of-town baby mama.”
“I don’t know about historic, but it’s going well.”
“Does she love and worship you already?” Justice asks.
“Probably. Why wouldn’t she?”
“What’s her family like? Do they think you’re a dirty biker?” her little sister, Poppy, asks. “Tell them about your girly obsession with body soap. Trust me that they’ll look at you in a whole different light after that.”
“I’ve only met one of her brothers and her best friend. I’ll probably meet her parents tomorrow. The town doesn’t seem much bigger than Tumbling Rock. I assume everyone gets to know everyone else here.”
“Is she as beautiful as you remember?” my eighteen-year-old sister, Matilda, asks. “Has she gotten fat yet?”
“Yes and no.”
“How long before you bring her back here and get to nesting?” Dad asks.
His question smacks me upside the head. I never considered what happens after I score a real relationship with my one-night stand turned baby mama. Where the frick will we live? I guess I purposely hadn’t asked that question because the answer isn’t as easy as the winning over Cricket will be.
“I don’t know,” I finally mumble.
“The next time she’s around, and you two aren’t humping, call us so we can talk to her,” Justice insists, and I hear her sisters, Poppy and Journey, laughing with her.
“I’m sure that’ll be tons of fricking fun for Cricket.”
“She has a dumb name,” my ten-year-old sister, Henrietta, announces. “You can tell her I said that.”
“I don’t think she gives a shit what some teenager thinks, but you keep hoping, kid.”
“Eat a bag of dicks.”
Everyone groans because that’s their response to Henrietta’s burgeoning bitchy preteen sickness. I can imagine the entire family lounging at Justice’s parents’ place which is the front house on our property. Poppy is on the floor with her kids, which explains why she screams her words to be heard. Journey is standing next to Justice so they can share snide comments. Dad is close to the door as if looking to run away from Henrietta, whose bitchiness acts like kryptonite to his balls.
“I need to stop talking to you people now,” I announce when they won’t stop babbling to each other. I know exactly how the conversation will go, the jokes that’ll be made, the eye rolls that’ll be shared, and the way no one ever wins an argument because no one ever remembers how the discussion began.
Man, I miss these weirdoes, and it’s been less than a day! How will I live away from them? I can’t imagine Cricket wanting to move to West Virginia, but I don’t see me lasting in this town long either.
Hanging up on the still babbling people I call family, I’m no longer strutting. My future went from golden to complicated, and I’ve never been a man who enjoys obstacles. It’s my policy to walk away from problems or crush them with violence. Neither option will work with Cricket, so I go to bed more worried about breakfast than I was about arriving unannounced in White Horse.
CRICKET
I
ought to struggle to sleep. My mind races with thoughts about Poet plus questions about our possible future.
Before I can worry about sleep, I drive Chipper home and dance with him inside. Once he’s safely tucked into bed with his cat, Muffin Top, cuddled with him, I return to my jeep where Bianca Bella sleeps with her face plastered to the window. She barely wakes up when we arrive home, and I drag her to her bedroom.
“You’re going to be a mommy, and your daddy came looking to love you,” she says, patting my face while I pull off her shoes.
“Your lushness is making me jealous.”
“I drink, therefore, I am.”
“Maybe you ought to be called Poet.”
Almost instantly, Bianca Bella falls asleep with a smile on her beautiful face. I cover her with a down comforter that she immediately kicks off.
Leaving her to sleep, I pass Redondo who prefers Bianca Bella’s room. The dog refuses to sleep around Lobo because the big bastard frequently rolls around, squishing anything in his path.
My monster dog joins me in the kitchen where I text Candy. She and Hayes are watching a movie, and I close my eyes to picture them cuddled together on the couch. His legs are likely up on the coffee table while her head rests in his lap.
Once I tell her I won’t join the family for breakfast since I have plans with Poet, I head to the shower to cool off. For the last week or two, I’ve been sweating like crazy. I assume my heat problem is hormone-related and having a sexy man around won’t help.
I climb into bed with no plans for sleeping. Lobo crashes nearby while Wheeler takes up a spot on the other side of the bed. With TV Land playing in the dark room, I expect to be awake until at least after the block of “Golden Girls” ends. Instead, I’m asleep before the end of the intro song.
The alarm on my phone wakes me at seven thirty, but I ignore it until nearly eight. Finally, I drag my ass out of bed and head back to the shower to wash off a night of sweating.
“Why am I so hot?” I ask Lobo later as we walk outside with my cup of coffee.
Wheeler runs past us and into the yard. As if sensing he’s missing the party, Redondo bolts past me. Lobo does his business before returning to my side. I suspect the big bastard is worried about me. In fact, Lobo even stares through the gate as my jeep drives away. Watching him in my rearview until I turn the corner, I feel a tinge of sadness over leaving him.
Lately, I’m emotional about a lot of crap. I even struggled against tears when one of my onion rings was overcooked at dinner a few days ago. Hayes looked at Candy and then at me and then back at her. As usual, he expected her to magically fix my problem, but she only smiled.
“Women are complicated,” she said and handed me one of her onion rings.
“Sounds like a con,” Chipper announced and took one of my onion rings. “Women pull that move on me endlessly. From now on, I’m putting my fucking foot down.”
“What the fuck are you fucking talking about?” Hayes growled, hating when he can’t follow the conversation.
Chipper only smiled like our mother. “No one knows.”
I’ll miss the family’s nearly daily breakfast that we’ve shared at Waffle House for going on a dozen years. Damn it! I feel the heat behind my eyes at the thought of them eating without me. I even consider ditching Poet before fighting tears at possibly not seeing him. Shit on a fucking cracker! Hormones have turned me into a puss.
I enter the lobby of the hotel and aim for the elevator. Poet’s room is on the second floor, and I text him to say I’m on my way up. He texts me to say he’s on his way down. If I wasn’t stuck waiting for a large family to remove their crap from the elevator, I’d have missed him.
“You’re here,” he says, looking exhausted.
“Are you sick?”
I don’t think I recoil from him, but I probably do. I tend to be a bitch to sick people ever since I caught the stomach flu from a friend and puked for a week straight.
“You’re dying,” Chipper told me while I sat on the floor next to the toilet. “And half of me will die with you, but I’m strong enough to go on.”
“Fuck off,” I’d mumbled between puking episodes.
At twelve, I really did think I’d vomit to death. Hayes took me to the hospital and told them to fix me. They put me on an IV and gave me something to stop the puking. I was fixed, but I never forgot how close to death I’d come.
“No, I’m just tired,” Poet explains. “I hate hotels.”
Stepping closer, I smile up at him. “You did fine at mine that night.”
“Well, come to think of it, I didn’t get much sleep then either but for an entirely different reason,” he says, leaning down to kiss my lips.
When I deepen the kiss, the kids from the big family get an eyeful of the mating dance that led to their parents popping out so many of them.
“Sorry I was offish when I thought you were sick,” I say, taking his hand and tugging him toward the breakfast area. “I have no tolerance for sick people. I even wear a surgical mask when I visit Pickles who lives in a tent under a bridge. I don’t care if it’s rude. The mask gives me a false sense of security.”
“Who’s Pickles?”
“When I was eighteen,” I explain while taking a plate at the buffet, “I decided to become the patron of a hobo-American. Of the possible candidates in White Horse, I chose Pickles. It’s my duty to make sure he’s cared for as much as a homeless citizen who lives under a bridge can be.”
“That is oddly uplifting,” Poet says while filling a cup with coffee.
“Coming from money, I wanted to do something good with it. I also run a local charity, but that only warms my heart so much. Pickles makes me feel better about being a wasteful, self-indulgent person.”
“No, I get it. Like how I always help people move, so I won’t have to feel bad about never picking them up at the airport.”
“Exactly. You give in certain ways so you won’t have to give in others.”
Once I fill my plate completely, and Poet loads his with mainly meat, we sit at a small table. I can barely wait to dig into my food. The scrambled eggs disappear first and then the bacon, a muffin, and then the yogurt. Finally, I remember Poet’s sitting with me.
“Sorry. I’m hungry.”
“You’re eating for two,” he says in the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.
My brain shuts off, and I blurt out, “I want to sit on your face.”
“I bet you do,” he says and caresses my cheek. “Those were good memories.”
I study his tired eyes and speak before thinking. “Want to stay at my house while you’re in White Horse? There’s no reason for you to piss away cash on a fucking hotel when I have a spare room.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, so I’ll let you sit on my face?” he asks, fighting laughter.
“It never occurred to me that I’d need to bribe you for that,” I say and consider getting another plate of food. “You can stay at my place sex-free. Plus, we can get to know each other faster.”
“You can stop selling. I hate hotels, so I’d agree even if you offered for me to stay in Pickles’s tent.”
Smiling at his exhausted face, I stand and kiss his forehead. My plate fills up quickly, and I return to find him drinking coffee and looking ready to crash.
“Can you check out soon?” I ask with a mouthful of eggs. “That way, you can follow me back to my place. We’ll hang out until after lunch and maybe catch a nap. No doubt my parents will show up this evening to put you on the spot.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he says, finishing his cup of coffee with a big gulp. “You stay here and eat to your heart’s content. I’ll go pack up and be back in a few minutes. Once you’re done, I’ll check out and follow you home.”
The way Poet says the word “home” makes my stomach flip. For months, I’ve imagined him at my house. Even before I knew I was pregnant, I fantasized about us finding our way back together. Now it’s happening, and I’m so excited I could fucking
cry.
6—POET
I realize two things while following Cricket to her house: 1) she is oblivious to stop signs, and 2) moving to my trailer in West Virginia would be a huge step down in her living conditions.
Looking like none of the other houses in the neighborhood, hers is one of those Spanish designs with the fancy roofing. I drive past the security gate and onto the red-stained driveway which leads to the side of the property and the garage.
Cricket parks in the driveway and climbs out before I slide off my Harley. She hurries to my side, smiling so much that I sense she’s nervous.
“You have a real fancy place here,” I say, climbing off my bike.
“Hayes built it for me, but I designed everything.”
“You did a solid job.”
Cricket’s gaze leaves me and widens at the sight of something at my back. She puts out her hand and says, “Stop.”
I turn to find a black-and-white dog the size of a fricking horse running at us in full gallop. He slows after Cricket’s command, but still bounces against her.
“This is Lobo,” she says, leaning forward to hug her dog.
I watch him give her a sloppy kiss and smile when she coos over him rather than wiping off the slobber. I have very few must-haves when it comes to women, but loving animals is one of them. I grew up with pets, and not having them around feels alien. Cricket’s dog might be a giant attack furball, but she cuddles him as if he’s her big baby.
“Hayes bought him for me after I moved out of the house. He worried about a single girl living alone and claimed cocker spaniels were terrible guard dogs,” she says and then gestures to the dogs now bouncing at my feet. “He wasn’t wrong about the last part.”
I meet Wheeler and Redondo before following Cricket through an arched doorway into her house.
“The spare room is down this hall. It’s a pseudo office, but you have plenty of room.”
