by Freya Barker
Of course, I hadn’t even been in the ballpark yet, avoiding the whole committed relationship like the plague. To Mom’s great disappointment.
“You know...” Mom starts, and this time I can’t hold back the chuckle either. She knows we’re onto her when she shoots us both irritated looks. “Well, it would be nice to be able to bounce a grandchild on my knee before all the bounce is gone. At this rate, I’ll be dead and buried before either of you bless me with babies.” She huffs out her displeasure and part of me feels bad for her.
Dad however, who’s been sitting beside me in his recliner, watching half-time commercials with great interest as he sucks back his own brew, has heard enough. “Leave the boys alone, Jane. I told you to look into that volunteer job at the hospital. Lots of babies there need cuddlin’. You can get your fill there.”
This, of course, deteriorates into another common Sunday theme, the bickering parents.
I shoot a glance at Mark, who is rubbing his palm over his forehead. “Come on.” I nudge him. “Let’s grab another beer.” With a little lift of his mouth, he follows me into the kitchen. He knows what’s coming. After pulling two more bottles from the fridge, he follows me through the laundry room off the kitchen into the garage.
“You know I’m an officer of the law, right?” he jokes when I pull a small plastic tub from its hiding place under the workbench. Dad hasn’t been in this garage in probably twenty years, and it’s probably that long we’ve been sneaking in here for a Sunday afternoon toke.
“You know as well as I do, before the end of this year, pot will be legal in Maine. Lighten up,” I mumble as I’m lighting up the joint.
“I know,” he says, accepting the offered blunt and taking a hit. “It’ll be different not having to waste valuable manpower when there’s much more serious stuff out there we should spend our time on.” I’m surprised at the bitter tone in his voice as he hands me the smoke.
“Something going on?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a case that’s messing with my head.”
“Want to talk about it?” I take another hit and offer it back, but he waves it off.
“Nah. Wouldn’t do any good. Humanity sucks, that’s all. Gang shootings. People preying on innocents, making a living off their suffering. It just all makes me sick.” He puts his bottle to his mouth and gulps down his beer.
“Whoa, buddy,” I ease him, when he slams the empty bottle down on the workbench. “What brought this on? I thought you enjoyed being a cop?”
“I do,” he sighs, as he runs a hand over his short-cropped head of hair. “It just gets to me sometimes. Just the other day, I picked up this girl in Harbor View Park. A witness had spotted her being sexually assaulted. We were around the corner, so we took the call, a second unit coming in behind us. They took up chase when two guys came running from the brush.” Mark rubs both hands firmly over his face. “She was just a kid, man. No older than maybe sixteen, if she was a day. Swear to God. Her face covered in blood, tears, snot, fucking jiz.”
“Christ,” I hiss at the image.
“Yeah. But get this, the chick swears up and down the guy was her boyfriend. Even with the witness reporting he saw one guy forcefully holding her head as he was fucking her face. The other threatened him with a knife when he tried to interfere, and told him to get lost. Still the girl won’t press charges. She seems more scared of us than the two thugs we ran off. Next thing I know, an FBI contingent waltzes into the precinct and takes over.” I stay quiet as he reaches over and picks the roach from my fingers, taking the last hit. “Took all of five minutes for them to whisk the kid off to places unknown. But I’m telling you, I can’t get the haunted fear marring her face, as they marched her past me, out of my fucking head. The girl was petrified.” He stubs out the smoke and tosses the butt in the container, hiding it back under the bench.
“Jesus, man, that’s tough.” I clap his shoulder sympathetically, knowing full well it’ll do dick to ease his mind.
“Yeah,” he says, as he opens the door to the laundry room. “Pretty fucked up when dead bodies barely touch you anymore, but the sight of a waif of a girl with dirt and some sick fuck’s cum on her face messes you up.”
The last is mumbled as he walks ahead of me back into the house, but I hear every word. From the slump in his shoulders, it’s obvious the job is getting to him.
From the look Dad shoots in our direction when we sit back down to watch the third quarter, he’s well aware of what we were up to in the garage. Nothing has changed since we were younger; not the parental shake of his head, nor Mom’s soft snoring, having dozed off in her chair.
I sit back, put my feet back on the table and slowly get sucked back into the game. As per usual, with some brilliant passing in the last five minutes, Brady and the Pats pull another squeaker out of their ass.
Ruby
If I had his phone number, I’d cancel tonight.
I hadn’t had much time to think about Tim yesterday. With unusually warm and sunny weather for the time of year, people had taken advantage and flocked to the waterside. A lot of them ended up at The Skipper for a drink or a quick bite. It was busy, even with Dino back in the kitchen for the dinner rush. I felt a huge rush of relief when I saw him sauntering in at three, even though it was clear his mood was dark. For someone so in tune with everyone around him, he’s pretty closed off himself. My friendly, “Is everything alright?” was met with a curt, “Fine.” Obviously not prepared to elaborate, he’d thrown himself into his normal routine, and I tried to avoid the kitchen as much as possible the rest of my shift. None of my business.
Normally I have Sunday nights off, but because of the unexpected crowds, I stayed until after the dinner rush. At a little after nine, Viv finally sent me home. Again.
I didn’t sleep much on Saturday night, despite my leisurely bath, it being a new place with new sounds to get used to and all. But I did enjoy my Sunday morning coffee overlooking the wharf. Enough so, I was looking forward to doing it all again the next morning. Except this time after a good night’s sleep. I was dead on my feet, walking home with my mind zoned out, I hadn’t noticed the guy in the dark SUV when I crossed the parking lot. Not until I heard a car door open and a deep voice say, “Excuse me, miss?” That’s when I started running, ignoring the calls to stop behind me. I didn’t stop until I locked the apartment door after me. Panting and panicked, I stayed with my back pressed against the door until I was sure there was no movement outside in the hallway. Then I snuck up to the window, overlooking the wharf. From there I can see most of the parking lot, but there was no sign of the SUV.
A slew of different scenarios went through my mind, none of which were very reassuring. The longer I thought about it, the less likely it seemed I’d been found. Surely he would’ve followed me into the building. Perhaps I was just being paranoid, and the man had simply wanted to ask for directions, or the time, or something. By the time midnight came around, I’d come to the conclusion that I was overreacting and finally crawled into bed, exhausted.
When I woke up this morning, I was surprised I’d slept at all, but I did. All night long.
Then tonight’s plans with Tim popped in my head. It followed me into the shower and now, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar looking out the window, it’s plaguing me still. In my experience, men don’t offer anything unless they want something out of it. Who am I kidding? Men don’t offer help—not to me. Period. So it confuses me that a handsome guy like Tim would suddenly reach out.
There’s so much about it that concerns me. Not just the idea of being alone with a man—especially that man—but the worry he might discover who I am. What I am. I know I worry too much. When I was little, Mamá used to tell me all the time, “te preocupas demasiado!” Even as a young girl, I’d always seen the danger in everything. Until as a teenager, the dazzle of a handsome man had blinded me. I shake my head to clear those memories before they have a chance to take root. Too many years gone
by and too much time wasted on what ifs already. Even though I’d been paying my dues for my mistakes for thirty years, it would never be enough to bring my parents back.
No. Getting too friendly with anyone is too dangerous. The people I work with have stopped trying to get me to join them for social events, knowing I will pass every time. The only time I’ve spent time with anyone from work, outside of the pub, was when Viv showed me the apartment. Other than that, Pam and her girls at the shelter are the only ones I spend any time with. It’s better this way. Better for them, but also better for me.
That’s why this was a bad idea from the beginning.
I reach for the house phone again, thinking I might call Viv to ask for Tim’s number, but at the last minute pull my hand back. I tell myself, calling Viv would likely result in questions, but part of me wants to learn to cook. Learn to be independent. At least that’s what I tell myself.
-
I’m just pulling on my coat, to go wait outside, when a knock at the door freezes me. I was under the assumption Tim would pick me up outside.
The first thing I think is that the guy from the parking lot is back. When the knock comes again, this time followed by Tim’s voice calling my name, I finally move toward the door, taking a quick peek through the peephole in the door. Seeing it’s really him, I slide back both locks that haven’t been opened since I slammed them shut last night.
“Hi.” My voice sounds breathy as I tilt my head back to look up at the towering man.
“Ready?” he says casually, looking very handsome in a charcoal grey overcoat, a hint of a dark suit and grey tie underneath. Thirty years ago, I would’ve swooned at the sight. Nowadays, I seem to prefer a more casual look, especially on him.
He catches me looking him over. “Sorry about the monkey suit.” He shrugs. “I came straight here. Was in meetings all day.” With one hand, he keeps the door open and with the other, he grabs the keys from my hand. Guiding me into the hallway, I’m surprised to find him closing and carefully locking my door before handing me back my keys. “Just making sure your place is safe,” he explains, when he notices my confusion. I’ve never had someone do that before. Not ever.
“Thank you.”
With his hand on my elbow, he walks me to the elevator, where I stop dead in my tracks. He turns to me, a confused look on his face.
“I don’t like elevators,” I admit to him in a small voice. I feel a rush of embarrassment stain my cheeks.
He squints his eyes and looks at me oddly for a moment, before taking my hand and walking to the stairwell at the end of the hall. “Stairs it is,” he says easily.
A little uneasy, with his big hand holding on to my sweaty one, I toddle along behind him down the stairs and out to the car. I’d nervously cleaned the already spotless apartment, top to bottom, to kill time today. Knowing the possibility of what might be expected of me, I’d freshened up with a shower and shaved meticulously.
Nothing comes without a price, that’s something else Mamá would say. And boy, how right she had been on that one.
“Have you thought about what you want to cook?” Tim breaks the silence, as he opens the passenger door of a shiny black, expensive looking car.
“No. Not really. Sorry,” I confess.
“No worries.” He smiles as he closes the door and rounds the car to get in the driver’s side. “We’ll figure it out when we get to the store.”
“What about Chiles Renellos?” I suggest, as we drive onto the grocery store parking lot. “Mamá used to make those. They remind me of home.” I snap my mouth shut the moment the words leave my mouth. I’m already breaking my own rules of divulging too much.
“Mexican. I was wondering about your heritage. I thought it might have been, but I couldn’t be sure. I barely hear any accent.”
He gets out of the car, and before I have a chance to open my door, he is right there opening it for me. Not having much experience with being treated respectfully, I have to say it feels nice.
“Chiles Renellos is maybe something we can try next week? They’ll take a little time, and I’ll be able to take off a little early next Monday,” Tim continues, as he casually grabs my elbow again, not seeming to notice how the mention of another cooking lesson has me stumble a bit.
We end up getting ingredients for simple and fast fajitas. At least that’s what Tim says, because I really wouldn’t know if they are simple to make or not. There is a moment at the cash register when I pull some bills from my wallet to pay. Tim’s big hand comes down over mine, and he bends down so his mouth is close to my ear. “You don’t pay when I’m with you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but an intense glare from his blue eyes has me snap it shut immediately.
I stay quiet the rest of the way to his place; a nice brick, two-story house, surprisingly only blocks from the shelter. When we pull into the driveway, I start getting nervous. What does he expect?
Once inside, I take a moment to take in the space: a large L-shaped room, the short side an open kitchen at the back of the house. Very masculine, with dark brown, worn leather on the couch and love seat, and a beautifully crafted harvest dining table, with the same dark brown leather seats on the rustic wooden chairs. Dark browns and several shades of grey make up the entire color palette. Although it is beautiful, it’s drab compared to the cacophony of color in my sparse apartment.
In the kitchen, Tim wastes no time pulling the produce out of the bag and hands me a colander to rinse the peppers and zucchini.
“Are you okay cutting these in strips?” He wants to know, placing a cutting board and large knife next to me on the counter. “I’m just going to quickly change out of this suit,” he says, one hand already tugging at the tie around his neck, while he gives me a squeeze on my shoulder with the other.
I’m rattled. I don’t know whether he wants me to do what he says, or what his actions tell me. “I...uhh...I’m not sure what you want.” I turn my back to the sink and suddenly find myself facing the broad expanse of his chest. He’s managed to tug his tie loose and is already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Dark reddish blond chest hair shows between the spread sides of his shirt. I’m tongue-tied.
“I’m not sure either,” he says quietly. When I lift my head back and look up, I find him scanning my face intently.
Lust is something I recognize, so when the full heat in his eyes hits me, I think I have my answer.
With my body wedged between the counter and his big frame, I lower my eyes to a familiar sight. The hard bulge of his cock is something I know what to do with. I slowly let myself sink to my knees, my hands already reaching for his belt. He doesn’t move when I pull the belt from the buckle, or when I open the top button on his fly. But the moment my hands smooth over the large bulge underneath, he hisses and steps back.
“What the fuck, Ruby?”
My eyes fly up to find a look of disbelief on his face. For countless seconds, time seems to be suspended as I get back to my feet, while watching his expression go through a host of emotions. It finally settles in a tight pinch of his lips and a clenched jaw.
That’s when mortification hits me. I rush past him, grabbing my coat on my way out the door.
“Ruby!” is the last thing I hear as my feet start pounding the pavement.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tim
What the fuck just happened?
One minute we’re unpacking groceries, and the next, I have Ruby starting to unwrap the persistent erection that had surged to life in the store. A loose curl of her luscious hair had stroked my cheek when I bent close to stop her from pulling out her damn money. That’s all it took for me to lose the tight reign on my body. I’d been affected all the way home in the car, and was about to withdraw for a moment to give myself a stern talking to, when she went down on her knees. She floored me. For a woman so skittish, she sure had some direct moves. I’ll admit, the sight of her big, liquid brown eyes, looking up at me from her position in front of me, was a huge t
urn on. Not that I needed an extra dose, just smelling her coconut scent and her mere presence seemed enough. When it hit me that her face was a mask of resignation and her actions seemed by rote, heat was quickly replaced with shock.
I don’t really know much about her. Hell, she only just confirmed she was of Mexican descent. Though I know she must’ve had a rough life for her to end up in the shelter, I have no idea what her history is. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out she didn’t have a good experience with some guy, but the look on her face just now, hinted at something deeper.
Standing frozen in the kitchen, it takes the front door slamming shut for me to start moving. I run to the door in my socks and yank it open. Stepping out on the porch, I can just see her running toward the corner of the street. She doesn’t even slow down when I yell her name. Christ, what a clusterfuck. Rushing back in, I snag my car keys, throw off my tie, jam my feet into a pair of old work boots, and snag my leather jacket off the coat rack. It takes only seconds, but when I get back outside, Ruby’s gone.
I’m in my car, driving in the direction I last saw her, when it occurs to me where she may have headed, likely on her way to Florence House. The shelter is only a five-minute walk from my place, and I wonder if I shouldn’t just let her go and turn my car around. Something about that just doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know what that little scene in the kitchen was all about, but I want to find out.
I spot her turning onto Preble Street, no longer running but walking fast.
“Ruby,” I call out when I roll down my window and pull up beside her. “Get in the car.”
She doesn’t slow her stride, but throws a glance in my direction. I suspected her to be upset, or angry, but the look of blatant fear on her face is a complete surprise. Without thinking, I pull up to the curb and turn the engine off. Getting out of the car, I see she’s already at the gate to the shelter, and I just catch up as she steps up to the big, ornate, wooden door.
