by L. C. Morgan
It wasn’t until Mona found her husband standing at the far side of the large patio, shooting the shit with his nearly-identical cousin, that I realized why I was wearing this dress and what she was trying to do.
“Hey, baby,” she greeted Phil, kissing him on the cheek before turning back to me. “Laney, you remember Patrick, Phil’s cousin.”
Nodding, I struggled to smile, taking his outstretched hand when he offered it. “Of course she remembers me. Don’t you, Laney?”
“How could I forget?”
Grinning, he brought the long-neck to his mouth and took a long pull. I wiped my palm on the soft cotton of my dress, eyeing Mona with a little communication myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Patrick. He was nice and attractive in his own way. It was just that I could have sworn I made it clear to Mona that I wasn’t interested in him as anything other than a friend.
“Pat, why don’t you offer Laney here a drink. She looks thirsty,” Phil said, no doubt picking up on my discomfort. He sent me a wink, his gaze wandering off to the side of the lawn. I followed it, spotting a cooler sitting just a foot away from Joe’s feet.
“You know what, Pat? You stay put. I can get my own drink.” Taking off in the direction of the reclusive guest, I found him folded forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. I grabbed a bottle out of the cooler before giving the side of his boot a playful nudge.
“Thought you didn’t come to these kinds of things,” I teased, and he straightened, leaning back against the trunk of the tree.
“Don’t usually.” He tilted the neck of his bottle in my direction, catching my eye before taking in what little clothing I was wearing. “But I heard it could be fun.”
His attention lingered on my legs, and I crossed them at the ankle, twisting to sit down beside him on the circular bench.
“So is it?” I asked.
“Is it what?”
“Fun.”
Sniffing a laugh, he leaned forward on his thighs again. “You tell me,” he said, his gaze settling somewhere in the distance. I followed it to find Patrick heading toward us.
Great.
Wait.
Was he jealous?
Patrick smiled at us, and I returned the gesture before taking a big gulp of my beer. I was going to need it for this.
“Hey, Joe. Didn’t expect to see you here,” Patrick said.
Joe all but ignored his passive-aggressive greeting with a single nod of his head.
“Yeah … So, you wouldn’t mind if I stole Laney away for a bit, would ya? There’s some people your sister wants to introduce her to.”
Bringing the bottle back to his lips, Joe took another long pull before speaking. “Well, Pat, that’d be up to Laney.”
I couldn’t help but feel this exchange between the two of them was about more than just my decision to stay or go.
Brows raised in disbelief, I picked at the label on my bottle before standing. I nudged Joe’s boot. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
Without looking up, he nodded, folding at the waist to rest his forearms on his knees again.
For reasons beyond me, it hurt to walk away from him. I had a feeling he came for more than just the beer, and that reason had just blown him off.
Patrick proved to be a worthy distraction from the guilt I carried for deserting Joe. He poked fun at the guests, sharing his amusing observations with the shell of my ear. However, the more he drank, the duller he became, yammering on about his obsession with reality TV and type-k copper piping.
Letting my glazed-over gaze wander, I found those green eyes of Joe’s again. They never left mine as he raised the brown bottle to his lips, tilting his head back to take a nice long swig of his beer. I felt my heartbeat hot in my throat picturing the bob of his Adam’s apple that was hidden somewhere under the bulk of all that beard.
His unrelenting gaze made my head swim and my insides flutter. Combined with the alcohol coursing through my veins, it sent a rush of heat to the lowest pit of my stomach, and I squirmed under his scrutiny, wondering how long it had been since I promised we’d talk later.
“So, whatta ya say? You wanna go or not?” Patrick’s voice sounded fuzzy, faded by the hypnotic hold of another man’s stare. Blinking, I looked down at where he was playing with the flimsy spaghetti strap on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, and he huffed out a laugh.
“That diner I told you about.” Taking a step closer, he pushed my hair back to run a finger down the side of my neck. “Do you wanna go … with me this time?”
Putting some space between us, I touched the skin he’d just touched, glancing over to find Joe still sitting there, watching the intimate exchange. How did Patrick even know I’d gone with Joe? Was he spying on me?
A tight sensation filled my chest, slowing the throbbing pound of my heart. I could hear it in my ears, drowning out the music and the obnoxious laughter. How much had I had to drink?
Turning, I twisted, ignoring Patrick’s calls as I maneuvered my way through the crowd to wrench open the back door and escape inside the empty house. The cool conditioned air felt good on my sweaty skin. I wiped at the crawling portion Patrick had touched without invitation.
Uck.
Obviously, I wasn’t interested. If I had been, I would have said yes by now. Hell, I was even staring at another man half the time he was talking to me.
I shook my head in disbelief and took off for the bathroom. I locked myself inside, plopping down on the cold porcelain so I could get myself together.
What was wrong with me? What was my deal? What did I expect? Joe to cause a scene? Throw his beer bottle down and come charging over to pummel Patrick into the ground for touching me? What? I was the one who had abandoned him, not the other way around.
I didn’t know how long I was in there, just sitting and staring at the white straps wrapped across the tops of my feet when I decided to get up and splash a dash of cool water on my face. I needed to pull it together, get back out there and stop living this one-sided soap opera.
I was being ridiculous.
Dabbing my face dry, I checked my makeup in the mirror before flicking the light switch and opening the door. I startled when a rough hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me out to push me up against the wall, the fuzzy moonlight hitting us both at mid-thigh.
Even though I couldn’t make out his face, I knew it was Joe, his sweet cedar scent filling the air surrounding us.
We just stood there for a moment, my breaths coming out so much faster than his. His warmth surrounded me, the light bump of our chests leaving me hot and hazy. I stiffened under his touch, the brush of his hand as he pushed my hair back and dipped his finger under the strap of my dress to slide it off my shoulder. His callused fingers felt rough but gentle, skimming down the length of my arm and leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
Slow and tender, he lowered his head, the bristle of his beard barely scratching the skin on my collarbone. My heart swelled with the noticeable change in his breathing. It felt rough and ragged now, the remnants of all the beers he’d drunk seeping into my system while his hand slid up my waist and grazed the side of my breast.
“You got no idea,” he said, his lips lightly touching the side of my neck before he pulled back.
A pair of headlights shone through the window, showing a flash of green. My eyes flickered from his eyes to his mouth as the back door slid open.
Backing away, Joe turned from me and brushed right by Mona, both acting as if the other weren’t even there.
“Patrick’s been looking for you,” she said as Joe slipped out the back door. Stepping closer, she eyed the rumpled fabric of my dress. “I think he’s leaving, wants to say goodbye.”
Nodding, I pulled up my strap, and Mona stepped out, leaving me to catch my breath while I thought over what Joe had said.
You got no idea.
I got no idea, what?
***
My arms were burning, my breath coming out in
short, shallow pants as I scraped the faded floral nightmare from the living room wall. Pieces of pentas and posies and pretty pink peonies fell all around me, floating and flittering with the breeze flowing through the open windows, the hardened edges of paper tickling my bare feet.
I hated wallpaper, and it was on every goddamn surface of every goddamn wall, old and gummy, a real bitch to get off.
Stepping away, I wiped the sweat from my brow before going right back to town on a particularly stubborn spot.
Come on, you super-glued piece of shit! Come off!
I had a little extra cash from the life insurance my father had left me, enough to pay Phil and his crew to do all the hard work, but I could just hear my father now, his disapproving words floating through my head.
“Never pawn off or pay for what you can do yourself, Laney. You’ve got to take pride in it, kid. Pride in what’s yours and yours alone.”
Dropping my aching arm, I let it dangle at my side, squeezing the plastic end of the metal scraper in my hand. My eyes burned with memories of him and I sucked in a deep breath, coughing out the particles of paper still hanging in the air.
Some days I wished more than anything he were still here to help, even if he’d only end up annoying the shit out of me in the end. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do, not a faucet he couldn’t fix, or a roof he couldn’t patch. He was a mechanic, an electrician, a plumber and a painter. A real do-it-yourself kind of man—my dad. He taught me what I would listen to, which wasn’t much, because even though I preferred to spend my time horsing around with the neighborhood boys, I was still a girl. I was a kid, and I wanted to play, not map out the inner workings underneath the hood of a car.
Bringing the blade back up to the paper, I scraped harder, worked faster. Being my father’s daughter, I was just like him—proud and persistent, raised to depend on myself and myself alone. A real lesson, one not entirely learned until the day he died.
The older I got, the more I wished I’d listened, taken notes, recorded the deep croon of his nurturing voice, something, anything, because now … now, I felt more dependent than ever.
The click of the latch had me stopping and spinning around, flat metal weapon at the ready in my hand. I loosened my grip as Joe stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He hadn’t showered, I assumed from the rumpled look. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, the same flat expression on what I could see of his downturned face.
I glanced at his hands, my heart hammering against my chest as a rush of heat flooded my cheeks and stomach.
They remembered.
I remembered how those hands felt, and I wanted more.
Passing by, he didn’t look up as his shoulder grazed mine, and he disappeared through the entrance to the kitchen.
I wanted to follow him and ask what he was doing here, and on a Sunday, no less. But mostly, I wanted him to touch me again like he had last night.
Placing the metal back against the wall, I continued to scrape, listening to him clink and clank and stomp around the kitchen. I wondered what it was he was doing, what he could be fixing. By the sound of it, it was the kitchen sink, his low grunts muffled by the depth of the lower cabinet and the piercing screech of loosening rusted metal.
A sense of calm washed over me as a faint hum took over the silence. I jumped with the occasional ruckus from the kitchen, smiling with every muttered curse that flew out of his mouth.
I liked hearing his voice, gruff and flustered, his colorful vocabulary ranging from explicit to worse.
The longer we worked, the more comfortable I became, finding myself almost content with having him near. He made me feel safe, all the while scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. He held this power over my mind and body, turning them both to mush with one simple look, a tender touch. Hell, just the thought of him sent my head into a thoughtless spin. It made me wishful, willing, weak.
Speaking of weak, I dropped my arm to my side, my face falling with what little I’d accomplished in such a long amount of time. It was bullshit—complete and utter bullshit, I deciphered, throwing the scraper down to take my frustration out on the wood floor at the same time a concerning crash came from inside the kitchen.
“Joe?” I called out, stepping over the sheets of wallpaper, no longer caring how it stuck to the bottom of my bare feet.
“Joe?” I called out again when he didn’t answer, rounding the entrance of the kitchen to find him hovering over the sink, clutching his hand. Making my way over to where he stood, I opened one of the top drawers and pulled out a dish rag. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. I was in pure panic mode. “Here, let me see.”
“It’s nothing.” Pulling away, he played it off like a typical guy.
I gave him a look, grabbed his wrist and pulled it toward me to hold pressure over the wound. My main focus was to stop the bleeding, and once that was under control I could feel my heart beating again. I could hear the hum in my ears and feel the tingle on my skin, suddenly very aware of his proximity.
Warm and musky, he smelled of last night’s campfire, its smothering hickory smoke. And a little bit like sweat. A good sweat, though. A really good sweat.
I could feel his eyes boring into the top of my bowed head. Lifting my gaze, I came eye level with his chest, and I watched the steady rise and fall as I opened my mouth only to close it again.
This was usually the opportunity one took to look up and smile, make small talk. That was what people did when pushed up against one another, nothing much else to do or look at while in an awkward position. Only it wasn’t awkward. A little unnerving, maybe …
Okay, a lot unnerving, and I found it ridiculous that I could let this man touch me like he had, that I could tend to his wound, but still couldn’t work up enough courage to ask him how his day had been.
Lifting the towel, I made sure the bleeding had stopped before I let go to grab a lukewarm bottle of water from under the kitchen counter. Twisting off the cap, I poured the water over his hand, trying to wash away the butterflies along with the dried blood staining his unbroken skin. He was just lucky my dad had also taught me to always keep the first aid kit handy.
Pulling the kit from the drawer, I set it on the counter to open it up and pick out its contents.
My hip brushed up against his when I stepped closer to him, my insides heating up again as I twisted off the cap of the antiseptic and he rested the rough pads of his fingers on my thigh.
“This is gonna sting,” I warned him, glancing up into his eyes. Giving me a single nod, his thumb swept under the bottom of my cutoffs, and I took it as a silent sign to continue.
The heat from his palm was distracting as it crept up and under the frayed hem of my shorts. I hesitated, watching him watch me, letting him touch and comfort himself with an exploration of my skin before he looked away and I squirted the cruel, cold medicine on the open gash.
To his credit, he didn’t flinch, only tightened his grip on the flesh of my thigh. I should’ve felt guilty for enjoying it, the vulnerability he was showing with just one simple squeeze. But I didn’t. Not the least little bit.
Looking up into his eyes, I found them still on me, just as green as the growing grass out back.
I dropped my gaze back down and tore off a couple strips of tape, making a mental note to remember to buy a lawnmower while trying to ignore the growing ache between my legs. Loosely wrapping some gauze around his outstretched hand, I secured the end, thoughtlessly bringing his open palm to my lips and kissing the bandage.
“All better,” I said, stepping away and altogether slipping his hand from beneath my shorts. I couldn’t think when he was so close, touching and staring, intimidating me with those hardened eyes and that big muscular body of his.
What supplies I hadn’t used were placed back in the kit. I nearly dropped it all on the floor when his wounded hand shot out to stop me.
“Thanks,” he said, and his woodsy scent hit me all over again.
“No problem.”
He let go of my wrist and I put away my supplies while he crawled back under the sink. Without another word, we settled back into our routine of him ignoring me and me wishing he wouldn’t.
Chapter Five
I was never much of a gardener, born with my mother’s brown thumb and all. At least, that was what my gran always used to tell me.
“Gardening’s a persnickety business, Laney,” was what she had said. “Either you can or you can’t. You simply can’t.”
That was the only time she ever told me I couldn’t do something, if you didn’t count eating in the living room or coloring on her pristine white walls. And I believed her. I still believed her to this day, seeing as everything I touched seemed to wither away and die.
Everything.
But she’d made up for pointing out and putting my flaws into perspective by pulling off her soil-stained gloves to lift my fallen chin. “You have your mother’s thumbs, child, and her eyes and her hair,” she had said, running her curving fingers through it. Deformed arthritic joints couldn’t even keep that woman down. “I wouldn’t change you for the world.”
My gran, while brutally honest, was the only one who ever talked about my mother. She was the only one who reminisced about who she was and how she used to be before she died. Happy, warm-hearted and carefree. Apparently I was nothing like her, aside from my looks and lack of gardening skills. I took after my dad in the personality department. He was quiet and withdrawn, not too keen on showing emotion or affection. I was the exact same way, which was why I was surprised I’d been so eager for a man I hardly knew to put his hands on me, especially when he seemed to want so little to do with me when sober.
But wasn’t that the way it always worked, coveting what we couldn’t have?
