Is that code for having sex? And why, after all morning moping about whether he’ll contact me or not, do I feel like giving him a hard time? Would serve him right if I didn’t answer until later.
Maybe he’s a mind reader, because another message pops up. We need to talk.
I sigh and scrub a hand over my face. He’s right, of course, but I have the sneaky suspicion that if we get together there won’t be a lot of talking. Either way I might as well go. We really do need to get some stuff straight. I just wish I didn’t feel as if I’ll look desperate and easy giving in.
Okay. Can’t stay too late though. I’ll bring pizza. I look at the screen for a while, trying to figure out how he’ll interpret that. Then I add: Any preference on toppings? And hit ’send’.
No fucking pineapple. I’m not fussy otherwise.
I snort. Somehow I’m not surprised by the pineapple issue. Okay. See you about 6?
Sounds good.
It’s only after I finish work that I check my phone again and see where he’d sent another text. This one just says: Thanks.
I order the pizza before I leave work, then swing by the apartment to get my laptop, just in case he meant what he said and it isn’t code for, ’we can have some more wild, monkey sex.’ Then I pick up the pizza on my way out to his place.
Spring is my favorite time of year. Having grown up in a tropical country, winters get oppressive after a while, especially if they’re very overcast and gray most of the time. Of course, when they’re sunny is almost just as bad, because then they’re colder. Okay, winter’s just plain nasty all round and by the time spring comes I’m going cuckoo. Winding down the windows, I let the breeze fill the car and enjoy the warmth and occasional scent of the cherry and crabapple blossoms when I pass trees in full bloom. Everything is green too. Not the kind of green you get in the tropics, for sure, but I’ll take it anyway.
I miss home. It’s a totally different vibe from North America, often more social, more laid back. Sure, most Canadians like a good bush party or backyard barbeque, but that’s not the same as lying on a beach listening to reggae and drinking Red Stripe beer, then staying up all night playing dominos or dancing calypso. But it’s more than that, I think. It’s being surrounded by people who’ve lived the same kind of life, who’ve had the same experiences. I know people don’t have to be the same to be friends, but sometimes you just want someone who has the same points of reference.
Or someone who’ll take the time to get to really know you. Listen to your stories. Understand where you’re coming from.
As I’m turning on to the road where Kyle’s house is, I realize it’s really only about ten minutes away from mine, a fact I was too upset to really pay attention to the day before. It’s because I live in the east end of the city and he’s farther east, so there’s no going through or around the center of town. Handy, if there are to be more of these booty–calls.
And I’m pretty sure it is a booty call. I’m not convinced there can be anything more than sex between us, no matter what he says.
But when he opens the door he doesn’t jump me the way I half–expected. Instead he takes the pizza from me and says, “Are you starving? Or can you hold off eating until I finish ironing my uniforms?”
“I’m okay for a while.” I slip off my shoes and put them on the mat, then lean my laptop case against the table leg. “And I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who still owns an ironing board.”
Coming back out of the kitchen, he starts up the staircase, throwing a half–smile over his shoulder to me as I follow. “Some of the guys send theirs out for dry cleaning, but I like to do it myself because then I know it’s done right.”
I chuckle, seeing another indication of his borderline OCD. But it’s something I’m familiar with and can relate to. “My father was a stickler about his uniform too. Wouldn’t let anyone else iron it. And when I was in the Army Cadets in high school, if our uniforms weren’t perfectly pressed our commander got very rahtid.“ When he pauses and looks back at me, his eyebrows somewhere up by his hairline, I laugh. “Angry. He got angry. I have to stop doing that to you.”
“Nah. I like it. As long as you explain and don’t make me guess what you mean.” He goes into a bedroom close to the top of the stairs and I step in behind him. It’s set up as an office, with a desk and chair along the wall where the window is, an armchair close by, and his ironing board next to a closet where a bunch of apparently freshly pressed uniforms already hang. “Only a couple of shirts left to do. Then we can eat.”
Settling into the armchair, I stretch my legs out. “No problem. I’ll sit here and supervise.”
He gives me an ’oh yeah?’ glare, then laughs. “You can try, buddy, but I’m good at this, and I know it. Spray starch is my best friend. You can’t come between us.”
I laugh with him but, at that exact moment, under the influence of that gorgeous smile and those sparkling eyes, I know I’m getting in deep, deep, deep.
And hope I don’t end up drowning.
Kyle
I see the sideways looks Vincent keeps giving me as the evening goes on, but I don’t do anything about them. They don’t look inviting, more speculative, and I can almost bet he’s waiting to see when I’ll make a move. I don’t plan to, although I really, really want to. There’s more to what’s happening between us than just sex, and I need to make sure he knows that, and knows that I know it too.
We eat the pizza sitting at the kitchen island. Usually I’d take it into the living room, where we could watch TV, but every time I look at my couch I remember what we did on it. Right now, trying to sit on it with Vincent in a casual way just doesn’t seem either wise or doable. Better to stay as far away from it as possible.
While we eat I tell Vincent that my brother Denny has made plans with Pat to go see the pups, and that Damon is crazy excited about choosing one. Vincent swallows a mouthful and shoots me a smile. “Did you tell your brother how many puppies there were? And that there was a chance he’d end up with two?”
“It didn’t occur to me.” But I have to chuckle at the thought of Denny trying to get Damon to pick just one. “Maybe I should.” Vincent and I exchange a knowing look, then I shake my head. “Nah.”
He laughs. “Mean, Kyle. Real mean.”
I shrug. “Hey, you have no idea how many times Denny beat the crap out of me growing up. I take vengeance when I can.”
That makes him laugh again, and I like the way the sound fills the room. No wonder the house felt so empty today. Vincent’s personality and spirit add something that’s always been missing.
Suddenly seemingly fascinated by the slice of pizza in his hand, he asks, “You just have one brother?”
“Nope.” I like that he’s interested in finding out more about me. “There’s one more brother, younger than me, and two sisters.”
“They all live here?”
Reaching for another piece of pizza, I check out the meat distribution and pick off a piece of pepperoni to move to another spot on the slice as I answer. “Denny does, of course, and my older sister Marika is here too, but the other two live up on the GaspéPeninsula, near to my mom. After my dad died, about ten years ago, she wanted to go back to Quebec to be closer to her family. We older kids were pretty settled here already–Denny was married, Marika was in grad school and I’d just graduated from Police College and gotten a job with the force here–so we decided to stay. Tigger and Nick were still in their teens, so Mom dragged them, kicking and screaming, back with her. Now, I don’t think either of them would even consider moving back.”
“I’m sorry about your father.” He looks straight at me when he says it, and it doesn’t sound like a platitude the way it does when most people express sympathy. “It’s hard to lose a parent, no matter how old you are.”
I nod slowly. “It was hard, especially since I didn’t really get on well with him. Somehow that made it worse because I’d always thought at some point we’d get to a place where we co
uld talk things out. But then he was gone, and I had to come to terms with the fact it would never happen.”
Saying it sort of shocks me. I never speak to anyone about my father–well, except maybe to Denny, but with him it’s all shorthand, because he was there and knows all about it. We’ll skirt around the subject of Dad with a lift of our eyebrows or a “you know”, not having to actually say the words, just knowing what the other person means. The interest and hint of understanding in Vincent’s expression makes me want to tell him everything.
“My father was…” God, it’s harder than I thought it would be, but I won’t back down now. “He was one of those people that everyone outside of his family loved–funny, always cheerful, generous–but at home he was a totally different person.” I swallow, the pizza I’ve eaten suddenly like a rock in my stomach, and I push my unfinished slice away. “He wasn’t a monster, just cold and, I suppose some people would say, emotionally abusive. My mother says it’s the way he was raised–his father was a violent alcoholic who beat all his kids and his wife too–and Dad figured as long as he wasn’t physically hurting us, it was okay. He also was totally anti–establishment, so my going into policing didn’t buy me any brownie points.”
Vincent doesn’t say anything for a few moments, his gaze steady on mine, as though he’s trying to hear the stuff I couldn’t bring myself to say. The years of name–calling and being ignored if I did something he didn’t like. That feeling of being somehow never good enough for him. Getting beyond it was one thing–I like to think I’ve moved on, done my own thing, my own way–but it’s not hard to see getting over it is something else altogether.
“I’m sorry.” He touches my shoulder, and his lips twist. “Weird isn’t it, how it sometimes feels like the past will never let you go, no matter how far or fast you run?”
I have to look away then, because I’m not sure I can control my expression, and don’t know what it’ll tell him. I’m not used to feeling vulnerable, and Vincent has a way of striping me down to the bone. It’s too much.
“Hey.” He pushes back from the island and closes the pizza box. “I promised you an ass–kicking in Ring of Steel, and I won’t be denied. Get your laptop, and prepare to be trounced.”
Taking a deep breath, flooded with a sense of relief and, strangely, gratitude, I get up too. “Trounced?” I sneer. “Who the fuck says, ’trounced’?”
“The man who’s about to teach you exactly what it means.”
He goes to get his laptop from where he’d left it and I head upstairs to grab mine, taking a moment while I’m alone to pull myself together and wonder why I feel so light.
Downstairs again, I find Vincent sitting in one of the armchairs, and I push the coffee table a little closer to him. “Put your feet up, if you want.” I set myself up on the couch, because I like using a mouse rather than the control pad and need the extra space, but I’m glad he’s at a safe distance.
Just as we’re logging on to the game, his phone buzzes. Fishing it out of his pocket, he looks at the display, and his lips twist. Then he glances up at me. “I should take this. You mind?”
“Nope. You want some privacy?”
“Nah.” He smiles slightly. “It’s my cousin. I forgot she said she’d call me tonight or I’d have called her earlier and put her off.”
He answers the phone and I realize why he didn’t need privacy. All of a sudden it’s as if he’s speaking a foreign language. Completely unintelligible sentences are interspersed with “Ee–hee?”, “Nah” and that sound Jamaicans call kissing their teeth, where they suck the air in through their teeth to make a sound both slightly disgusting and strangely understandable. Depending on the inflection–and there are a surprising number of them–it can signal amusement, disgust, dismissal or just “I hear you.”
Partway through the conversation his gaze slides toward me and then just as quickly jumps away.
“Nah,” he says into the phone. “Nah go happen.” That I understand. What’s he telling his cousin won’t happen? “Alright. Yeah. Yeah. Walk good. Hail–up Anton fi mi.”
Ending the call, he puts the phone away and goes back to fiddling with his laptop. I want to ask what was said, but if he wants me to know he’ll tell me and I’m not in a position to ask.
“You ready?” he asks, giving me a challenging smile. “To be trounced?”
I snort, and the battle begins. He’s good, and I’m distracted, so he does indeed trounce me in the first match, but although he laughs and generally behaves as if he single–handedly won WWII, he’s so funny I can only laugh with him. And pay him back by winning the next two matches.
“Rassclaat,” he groans, as my avatar raises his battle axe in triumph again. “Lucky play.” He glances at his watch, then grins at me. “One more, then I have to go. I’m back into work at eight tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. I don’t mind kicking your butt again.”
With a twist of his lips and a kiss of his teeth, he lets me know just how he feels about that statement, and I’m smiling when I look back at the screen.
He wins convincingly and practically crows. I tell him off, accusing him of using all kinds of underhand moves to get to victory, which just makes him laugh harder.
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Babylon. The poor little black boy must have cheated to win.”
That takes me aback. It’s not the kind of thing most people would say jokingly, and I wonder if he thinks I’m in any way prejudiced. He can’t, can he?
Vincent looks up from packing up his computer and laughs even harder. “Jesus, Kyle. I’m kidding. I know Canadians are ultra–PC but Jamaicans aren’t all the time. It just means I’m comfortable with you, so get used to it.”
“Okay.” I realize I’m grinning at him, at those words, ’I’m comfortable with you.’ “I’ll bear that in mind.”
Getting up, he stretches, and I’m sorry his shirt is tucked in. No hint of that belly for me tonight. “I’m outta here.” He slides me a glance, his lips twitching up at the corners. “Let me know when you want a tie–breaker match. I’ll be ready to rout you.”
Laughing and putting my laptop aside, I get up and follow him toward the door. I don’t want him to leave, and wish we were at the stage where I could’ve just asked him to stay the night. But, I remind myself, I’m supposed to be showing him it’s not all about sex.
Pausing at the back door, after having put on his shoes, he turns and smiles at me. “This was fun. Thanks.”
“I enjoyed it too. And thanks for the pizza.” Should I just let him leave like this? It feels…wrong somehow. He reaches for the screen door handle, and I hear myself say, “Wait.” Eyebrows raised, he looks back at me and I move in closer, but don’t crowd him, giving him room. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”
Vincent’s eyelids droop, and I wait to see if the tip of his tongue will touch the unscarred corner of his mouth. When it does, I know the answer, even before he says, “Yeah.”
Keep it cool. Keep it light.
Yep. Right.
Even if I were able to hold back, Vincent’s reaction would have derailed my best intentions. As soon as I cup his cheeks and rest my lips on his, my control slips and I’m deepening the kiss before it’s even properly started. Then Vincent is kissing me back with the same kind of voracious hungry churning in my gut and firing out into my bloodstream. There’s a delicious rumble of sound in his chest, and his arm comes up around my neck, pulling me in so close I can feel every muscle, and every rough breath he takes. My legs go weak, and I lean against the wall behind me, spreading my thighs so I can grab him and tug him between them. When he gives one of those sexy swivels of his hips, I groan, wanting him so bad I don’t know how to stop myself from taking whatever he wants to give.
Sliding my hands down, I palm his ass, squeezing, holding him tight to my groin. Right then thoughts of letting him walk out catapult out of my brain. It just feels so damn right to have him in my arms, I don’t want to let go.
It’s Vincent who f
inally braces his hand on the wall and pushes himself back just enough to break the kiss.
“I have to go, Kyle.” It’s just a rumble of sound. “I have to work early tomorrow, and I wasn’t very effective at work today.”
Can’t say I feel bad about him not being able to concentrate–not if it was because he was thinking of me. “I know.” I rest my forehead on his. “I know. But I don’t want you to.”
He eases back a little more and I reluctantly let him, although I don’t release him completely, keeping my hands on his hips. “Glad to hear, but…” He takes a deep breath and blows it out, then shakes his head. “I know I won’t get enough sleep if I stay. I don’t have any clothes…”
I slide my hands up and squeeze his waist. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just, with me being on afternoons this rotation, I know I won’t see you for a few days.” Maybe I should soften it with a smile, but I can’t. “Can you come by on Sunday? That’ll be my next day off.”
“I can’t. I promised Jenalyza I’d go visit her in Windsor.”
“Can’t you go another day?” It’s my cop voice. Why do I fall back to that when I’m with him? I try to temper it, but it still doesn’t sound much like a request when I tack on, “Please?”
He looks away for a second, then looks back at me. There’s something different about his expression, but I’m not sure what it means until he says, “Why don’t I meet you here Saturday night, after you get off, and you come to Windsor with me on Sunday?” Before I can process that, much less find an answer, he goes on, really fast. “It would be fun. You’ll like Jenalyza and Anton, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not like I expect you to pretend to be my boyfriend or anything.”
It hurts that he wants his cousin’s company more than mine. It’s annoying that he wants me to go somewhere with him, outing myself to strangers, even if it would be in a town where I’m pretty sure I won’t see anyone I know.
“No.” I let my hands drop, but I hold his gaze. “Sorry.”
Vincent nods slowly. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe we can get together sometime next week.”
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 25
