by Karen Cimms
Her eyes crinkled, and I could feel her smile beneath the palm of my hand.
“Good.” I slid my hand to the back of her head and pulled her toward me until our lips were almost touching. “Be yourself. That’s all I want. I’ll love you no matter what color your hair is or how much makeup you wear or don’t wear or how you want to dress . . .” I had to be honest with her, or she wouldn’t believe me. “You know. Within reason. I’m still me, after all.”
She rested her chin on my chest.
“We good?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
Chapter Eight
“Hey,” I said unlocking the screen door and letting the afternoon sun stream into the room. “C’mon in.”
Diane hooked her index finger over the bridge of her sunglasses and slid them down until her bright blue eyes were fixed on mine.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Don’t you start too.” I headed back into the kitchen.
“You could’ve at least warned me. Jeez. I haven’t seen you with hair that color since—since never. That’s not your hair color.”
“Close enough.” I pulled two beers from the fridge and handed her one.
She twisted off the cap and pointed the neck of the bottle in my direction. “You want to explain why you look like our fifth-grade teacher all of a sudden?”
“I don’t look frowsy.” Or maybe I did. Chase would never have said it, but maybe that’s why he’d reacted the way he did when he first saw me. I shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “Do I look that bad?”
She shook her head. “No. Just different.”
I grabbed the big bowl of popcorn I’d made before she arrived and we went to sit out back on the patio so I could watch the kids playing in the yard. A lawnmower whirred down the street, and the smell of fresh-cut grass drifted toward us. If Dennis hadn’t spun out and done damage to the race car last night, Chase would probably be here cutting our grass instead of working on the 57’s front end.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Diane asked around a mouthful of popcorn.
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Too bad I didn’t have an answer. I felt like I’d lost my footing somehow, like all of a sudden I didn’t know who I was or who I was supposed to be. For as unconventional as my relationship had been with Preston, and for as uncaring of my feelings as he’d been, he’d never had an issue with how I dressed or how I acted. In fact, he’d been the exact opposite. Preston loved that I was Miss February. Knowing that I’d posed naked or semi-naked always turned him on. If someone flirted with me or touched me inappropriately, he found it amusing. Probably because he knew he had me wrapped around his little finger.
That wasn’t necessarily a good thing. And I loved Chase much more than I’d ever loved Preston. It was no contest. Chase was my everything—my soulmate, if there was such a thing. The connection we had was so real I could feel it zipping through my body whenever he touched me.
Yet for some reason, I felt insecure, and obviously, so did Chase. And I had no idea how to fix it.
I stared down the neck of my Heineken. “Whatever I say stays between you and me, right?”
“Of course.”
“It’s just that Wally and the guys . . .”
“We’ve already established that my husband and his friends are a bunch of old women who like to gossip. I won’t tell him anything.” She mimed locking her lips and tossing the key over her shoulder.
Okay. “Remember in November when you watched the kids for me so I could go into New York?”
“When you went Christmas shopping? Yeah.”
I popped a handful of popcorn into my mouth. Chewing would give me time to figure out exactly how to tell her what I had to say without making her want to dump the contents of the bowl over my head.
“I didn’t exactly go shopping. I was working, actually. To earn the money for Chase’s Christmas present so I could pay you back.”
Her chewing slowed, and I waited for her to swallow.
“What did you do?”
Judging by the tone of her voice, she wasn’t expecting me to tell her I’d spent the day as one of Santa’s elves at Macy’s.
Might as well spit it out. It wouldn’t matter, anyway.
“I did another photo shoot with Antoine.”
Her eyes widened. “What’s wrong with you?”
I tugged on the hem of my shirt. “Nothing’s wrong with me. It was the only way I could raise enough money to pay you back for the tickets.”
“You told me you’d been saving up for those tickets all year.”
“I did. Sorta. I had enough money for the tickets, but they sold out before I could get them, so I had to buy them on Stub Hub.”
Diana tipped her chin up, considering. “Is that the concert Chase told Wally you guys walked out on early?”
My forehead hit my knees, and I wrapped my arms around my legs. “Yep. So you know why we left?”
I heard her fingers scrabbling for more popcorn. “Uh-uh. All he said was that Chase got pissed off about something and you had to leave. What happened?”
The bite of the salty popcorn was a reminder of the sting of emotions I’d battled with all week. I took a swig of my beer, wishing I could wash away the bad taste in my mouth as easily as I could dilute the salt.
I tilted my head far enough so that I could watch her reaction. “Have you ever been to a rock concert?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I hadn’t. We were in the pit near the stage. Chase lifted me up on his shoulders. It was awesome! I’d had a couple shots of tequila before the concert, and I was singing along with the band, and then the bass player pointed at me, and—”
“Oh god, you didn’t?”
I buried my face into my knees. “I did.”
I heard her gulp down the rest of her beer. “Not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, but it’s not like you started a trend. It happens all the time. Knowing Chase, I can see why he’d be upset. But if you were on his shoulders, how’d he even know you flashed them?”
“It gets worse.”
When she started to laugh, I wanted to slug her. “Worse? What’d you do? Get on your knees backstage?”
“I’m glad you find this amusing.”
She stopped laughing. “You didn’t, did you?”
“What the hell, Di? You think I’m a slut too?”
“Of course not.” She ran her hand comfortingly up and down my back. “What else happened?”
“Some tattoo-covered gorilla came over and invited me backstage to meet the band—specifically Harlan St. James, the bass player.”
“I know who Harlan St. James is. Sex on a stick. And holy shit. Is that what did it for Chase?”
I nodded. “He grabbed my hand, and we were out of there and on our way home in less than fifteen minutes. We had a huge fight when we got home. He apologized the next day, but still. What he said really hurt.”
Even though the words had been living in my head since Chase had said them, it was difficult to speak them out loud.
“He asked if I knew how difficult it was to be married to me.”
For a moment, I thought she was about to erupt. “What?”
“He didn’t say it in the heat of anger, either. Just matter of fact. The next day, he said he hadn’t meant it. But after all this time, instead of his jealousy getting better, it seems to be getting worse.”
“So that’s why you dyed your hair and tried to change the way you look.”
I didn’t have to answer.
“Rain, honey, I don’t think there’s anything you could do to make yourself unattractive. I don’t think that’s what you really want, either, and I seriously doubt that’s what Chase wants. You’re still as pretty as ever. If you want to ditch the acrylic nails and wear less makeup and less revealing clothes, go for it—as long as it’s what you want. Don’t ever do that shit because it’s what a man wants, even if he is your husband.”
&nb
sp; I waited for the but.
“But if you keep doing these photo shoots, you two need to sit down and talk about it. I’d bet anything Chase isn’t okay with it, and you can’t be doing that shit behind his back.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I know. I wasn’t thinking. I thought it would be an easy way to earn the money. I should’ve known there was a reason Antoine was paying me more than usual.”
She rocked back on the step. “Please tell me you didn’t do porn.”
Great. If my best friend who’d known me since kindergarten thought I would do a porn shoot, what the hell might my husband think?
“Do you really think I’d do something like that? Really?”
She hesitated a little too long. “Not really. But you have a very wide-open attitude when it comes to nudity.”
“Nudity and porn aren’t one and the same. I’d never do that. Never.”
I brushed the salt and butter from my hands on the back of my legs as I stood. “I need another beer.”
I also needed a minute to cool off.
When I was ready to face her—and myself—a few minutes later, I grabbed two more beers and went back outside.
She took the beer I held out. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do porn. It’s just that you can be a bit of a free spirit. And you’re trusting. And if someone you trusted, like Antoine, told you it was going to be artsy and elegant, I’m not exactly positive you would say no. Hey, one of my favorite romance writers has a Tumblr page with some gorgeous black-and-white photos and gifs. They’re artsy and they’re beautiful, but they’re still porn.”
I pointed an unmanicured finger in her direction. “You’re admitting that you look at porn online, which I’ve never done, while you’re accusing me of being like the girl in the photos.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying it’s not all seedy, creepy shit filmed in a cheap motel room. Some of it can be artsy.”
I took a long swallow of beer and followed it with a handful of popcorn. “To set the record straight, I didn’t pose for porn. I did pose almost naked with another man, but I didn’t know he would be there until he walked in. Antoine had booked me for the entire day. I thought it was going to be the regular stuff: no nipples, no pussy shots. Maybe some side boob, or my hands on my breasts. That kind of stuff. Halfway through the shoot, this guy walks in wearing nothing but one of those pouch things covering his junk. I almost died.”
“Shit. I can’t believe Antoine didn’t tell you. What a jerk.”
I let out a slow, deep breath. “Turns out he did. I just didn’t bother to read the contract, which was pointed out to me when I said I was going to walk if the guy didn’t put some clothes on. If I didn’t complete the entire day, not only would I have lost the money from that morning but I would’ve had to pay to hire another model.”
“What about Chase? Are you going to tell him?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“But if he finds out—”
“He won’t.” I picked up her empty bottle. “Another?”
She shook her head. “Why won’t he?”
“Because he can’t, that’s why.”
Chapter Nine
Late April
The rumble of a fine-tuned engine vibrated beneath my feet and the bell chimed outside, signaling someone had pulled up to the gas pumps. I stood, wiped my hands on the napkin Rain had packed in my lunch box, and tossed it in the trash can in the corner of the small break room behind the work bays. Erik was out on a service call, which meant Scott was working the gas pumps until he got back.
“I got it,” I said as Scott attempted to shovel half a ham sandwich into mouth.
“Mm’soor?” he mumbled, exposing a mash-up of half-chewed meat and white bread.
“Yeah. Finish eating. And try taking smaller bites, because I ain’t giving you the Heimlich.”
I made my way through the bays just in time to see Erik hurrying toward the saffron yellow Aston Martin DB11 idling at the pumps farthest from the building.
Changing my trajectory, I saw Dylan in the waiting area, looking out the window.
“Some car,” he said, not taking his eyes off the megabucks model. Even inside the glass-enclosed room, we could hear the difference when the driver cut the engine. “I think this has to be a first. I can’t remember ever having a car in here costing upwards of a couple hundred grand. I can’t even remember the last time I saw one of those babies.”
I shook my head and chuckled. “You don’t have any Aston Martins in your neighborhood?”
He responded with a quiet laugh. “Hardly. A few Bimmers, a Lexus or two. Nothing like that. You?”
He should’ve known better, considering my neighborhood was blue collar all the way, unlike his, which was a mix of professionals and business owners like himself. But his tone wasn’t mocking, more conversational. It was a nice change. Dylan and I hadn’t chatted like this for a long time. I’d begun to think our relationship had been permanently damaged.
“Actually, yeah,” I said. “About a week or two ago, I was out cutting the grass, and I could’ve sworn I saw an Aston Martin turning the corner when I changed directions. It was that sick yellow too. I had earphones on so I couldn’t hear the engine, but it was hard to miss that color.”
“Divine red,” Dylan said, his voice reverent. “With a black gloss roof panel and smoked taillights.”
“Nah, magnetic silver all the way. Ten-spoke directional gloss black diamond wheels and black interior.”
“You and your black,” he scoffed. “You know what those leathers seats would be like in the summer?”
“Who the fuck cares? Auto-start, air-conditioned seats, baby.” I slanted my eyes so I could see him from the side. “Besides, my blond wife looks hot as fuck in a black car.”
And just like that, Dylan’s walls snapped back into place. I knew it was too good to be true. The deep roar of the DB11 cut through the sudden silence. Dylan went back into his office, and I went back to the bays to finish the brakes on the 2007 Ford Taurus.
Headache-inducing yellow or not, what I wouldn’t give to get my head under the hood of that Aston Martin.
“Can I stir the chocolate chips in?” Zac tugged on my pajama bottoms, still wearing his pajama top and a pair of pullup diapers. A smear of chocolate was creased in the corner of his mouth. He held up the open bag of chips.
“You bet, buddy.” I set him on the counter beside me and let him fill the measuring cup and pour it into the batter I’d just finished mixing. I handed him a wooden spoon and waited while he stirred. Making our traditional Sunday morning breakfast was one of my favorite times of the week.
Zac was almost three, and as such, Sunday morning cartoons were calling. I gave him a gentle swat on his bottom as he bolted from the kitchen for the living room. I’d just poured batter on the griddle when I heard the finely tuned roar of a powerful engine calling my name. The plate glass window in the living room vibrated, and the linoleum-covered floor rumbled beneath my bare feet. I darted from the kitchen through the living room and out the front door into the yard in time to see the back end of a saffron yellow Aston Martin turn right at the end of the street.
I didn’t doubt that there was more than one Aston Martin in Somerset County. There was probably even more than one saffron yellow Aston Martin. But in this neighborhood? The guy across the street worked for the post office. The woman next door was a teacher, and her husband worked for the gas company. Two doors down lived a retired couple, and across the street from them, a nurse. I didn’t know the guy on the corner, but while he had one of the larger homes on the block, I’d never seen a two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar car parked in his driveway.
“What are you doing?”
Rain stood in the doorway, watching me with an annoyed look on her face.
“The kitchen’s empty. The pancakes were burning. And you’re standing in the front yard in your pajamas holding the spatula.”
She snatched the spatula from my hand, and I followed her into the kitchen. She lifted the burned pancakes from the griddle and tossed them into the trash, then turned the heat back on and ladled out more batter.
“Have you ever seen a car like that around here before?” I asked. “An Aston Martin?”
She poured orange juice into Zac’s sippy cup and secured the lid.
“I wouldn’t know what an Aston Martin looked like if it backed over me.”
“James Bond drove an Aston Martin.”
She paused for a moment. “The silver one?”
Finally. “Yeah. That one.”
She flipped the pancakes, tossed the one that hadn’t burned on the stack beside the stove and stood in the doorway. “Zac! Izzy! Breakfast is ready.”
“Well?”
“Yeah, I guess. Doesn’t Mrs. Markham have a silver car?”
I love my wife, I really do, but sometimes it’s like we’re on different planets. “Mrs. Markham works at Lowe’s. As a checker. She doesn’t drive a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. She drives a Ford Focus.”
She shrugged. “Sorry then. Can’t help you. She’s the only one I know of around here with a silver car.”
“I’m not asking if you saw a silver car. I asked if you saw an Aston Martin.”
“You said it was silver.”
“No, you said silver. I said it was like James Bond drives, and you asked if it was silver and I said yes.”
“Exactly.”
I ran a hand through my hair and gave it a tug. “No! Not exactly. The car I’m talking about is a golden yellow color.”
She looked up from buckling Zac into his booster seat. “Yellow? You didn’t say anything about yellow.”
Zac took a sip from his cup and pushed it in Rain’s direction. “I don’t want juice.”
“Just a little, sweet pea. It’s good for you.” She poured juice into three glasses, dropping kisses on Izzy’s head and then mine as she passed them out.
