Watcher

by MariaLisa deMora

  Nibbling up the column of her neck, he told her between bites and kisses, “I could eat you, babe. Eat you right up. So fucking hungry for you, Willa.” Her breath caught in her throat, and he thought for a moment he’d won the war, but she twisted out of his grip entirely, propelling herself across the room and managing to get the table between them.

  “We have to eat, Mason.” Gaze locked on him, she stood with her hands on the back of a chair, ready to dart either direction. “Food. Sup-per. Dindin. Means you need to leave me alone, honey. Now, what do you want for your special dinner?” Today was Mason’s birthday, and for at least a week she had asked him the same question. He had given her lots of options, laughing with her as she shot down each one.

  “At this point in time, I’d like to point out I already told you what I want to eat, babe. More than once. And yeah, I’d eat that particular meal any day of the week. Gladly, babe. My favorite of all time.” He feinted left, continuing a step or two until she was committed to the direction and then reversed, rounding the table to catch her and wrap her up in both arms.

  “Mason,” she yelled, twisting futilely, finding her struggles to escape wasted effort. As he leaned in, angling for a kiss, they both stopped still, mouths a fraction of an inch apart. From the baby monitor came a squawk, then a rustling noise and then they were listening to the crooning sounds of a baby waking. “Mason,” she whisper-yelled. “You woke up Garrett.” He gave her a squeeze, taking his kiss from her lips, sounds from the monitor increasing until the babbling came up the hallway as clearly as from the speaker.

  “I got him, babe,” he told her, tightening his arms a final time, squeezing a high-pitched and laughing squeak out of her that brought a smile to his lips. “You woke him, just sayin’. But, my boy needs some Daddy time.”

  That brought him to now, where he held their son to his chest, watching with a proud smile as Garrett struggled to figure out the whole scoot or crawl thing. He lifted his gaze to the doorway to find Willa leaning against the frame, head tilted to one side, wiping her hands on a towel as she watched him hold their son. “You’re okay,” she said, answering her own question and he nodded. “Love my boys,” she whispered. She walked to the couch, crouching down so her head was level with Garrett’s. Reaching out, she smoothed her palm over his head, back and forth and back again, and under his mother’s touch, Mason felt their son relaxing into him.

  “He likes that.” He told her something she already knew, earning a one-sided smile. She reached up, trailing the backs of her knuckles across his cheek, pressing them against his pursed and demanding lips, giggling when he smacked a kiss against them. “Like father, like son. I love your hands on me, too, babe.”

  “Yeah.” She breathed out the word, eyes fixed on his lips. Mason knew what she wanted so he reached out, cupped the back of her neck with one hand and pulled her close so he could kiss her again, mouths working against each other. Her breath came fast when they stopped, and he looked to see her arm had wrapped around Garrett, too, their boy held secure in the embrace of his parents who were so very much in love. Her eyes slowly opened, and she blinked, seeming to come out from under a spell.

  The spell was broken by a loud beeping from the kitchen and she grinned. “Time to get back to slaving away over a hot stove for my man.” She started to move, and then paused, biting her lip as she looked at him, whispering, “I love you, Davis Mason.”

  “And I love you, too, Willa Mason.” He returned the sentiment easily, truthfully. He shifted to accommodate the movement on his chest, feeling Garrett beginning the squirming slide of his knees again.

  “He looks more like you every day.” This was also whispered, barely breathed, sounding as much a hope as a promise.

  “He’s a good lookin’ boy.” Mason teased, knowing the doubts still ate at her, the not knowing for sure. What she couldn’t seem to understand was it didn’t matter to him. Never would have, but when she finally got to a place where she was easy with it, he had papers to show her which would lay her fears to rest once and for all.

  First, she needed to be in a place where she could believe it didn’t matter. Needed to come to grips with it on her own to be stronger than the fear. “Looks just like his daddy.” Which was the truth, because Garrett held a lot of Mason in his face. Eyes, nose, hard to tell for sure, but the hen’s party consensus was the boy was a dead ringer. He had his momma’s mouth, though, sweet and expressive. The happy baby had her disposition, too.

  The beeping escalated, and Willa pushed up, leaning over to kiss their son’s head. “Slave labor commencing.”

  Over the next hour, Mason lay on the couch with his boy, laughing at the running commentary from the kitchen. After the first few minutes, he identified a tell-tale clink of ice cubes and suspected Willa had started in on the lemon vodka, her newest thrill on the beverage side of things.

  Then, music playing softly in the background, he listened as she muttered to herself, “Is it too early for happiness? Oh hell, no. Never.”

  "Why won't the bottle”—she grunted—“of vanilla”—she made guttural, straining noises—“open?” She yipped in pain. “Motherfucker, that was my thumb.” He heard the water running in the sink, then she grunted again, laughing through the sounds. The water turned off, and he watched her shadow dance across the far wall, arms moving up and down in weightlifter poses as she provided different accented renditions of, “I have the powah!” Ice clinked again.

  Whisking sounds, the metal tool scraping the sides of the plastic bowl. “Ugh,” she muttered and then laughed. “Lumpy cream cheese looks like ghost turds.” This time, she snorted a laugh before singing, “Ooohhh. Who ya gonna call?” The freezer door opened, and he heard more ice clinking, followed by the sound of liquid pouring.

  Tilting his head to one side, he listened to cabinet doors opening and closing, drawers being pulled out and then returned to their closed positions. Those were the sounds of his woman moving through the home they were making together. Contented, he closed his eyes. “Finally.” She had a tone of celebration in her voice. “Power mixer, coming up.” Louder thumps followed by the sound of the mixer powering on, it ran for a minute, then two, before shutting off. Stark silence from the kitchen, followed by a loud, “What the...”

  Rustling, thumping, angry-sounding thuds followed by water running in the sink. “I told you that bowl was too fucking small. Now you have a mess to clean up, girlie.” Her voice fell to a mutter, his quiet laughter nearly drowning it out, but he heard, “Look at the whipped cream flung over all the canisters, counter, stove top, and my shirt.” Water in the sink again, then, “I told you the bowl was too fucking small.”

  Mason’s hand smoothed down Garrett’s back, rounding his bottom and snuggling him up a little higher. He was surprised Gar didn’t complain at the adjustment, and Mason looked down to find his boy had dozed off. Cheek resting on his daddy’s chest, his little cupid bow lips were pursing and relaxing. Mason thought the boy might be practicing his babbling in his sleep, or perhaps thinking of the same breasts his daddy loved. They had been tender and sensitive the first time Willa nursed their newborn in the hospital, Mason cradling her in his arms, for once not thinking about bedding her. That had changed the first time he’d caught her in the shower at home, standing motionless in the stream of water, hoping the heat would ease her pain. His massaging had helped, she’d told him later. He laughed quietly at the thought. “Sure know it helped me.”

  She called from the kitchen, “Why am I making a fourth pie? Why? You’d literally be as happy with a box of popcorn, but no—” She stopped talking before he could answer, and then he heard her say, “Holy shit.” She quickly corrected herself. “Oops, Nana wouldn’t like that.” She paused, then muttered softly, “Jesus Christ.” A solid thump and she said, “Annnd, she’d like that even less. Thanks, Nana. Instant karma, knocking my head like that. Fucking shit. Damn shitty cocoa all over the crappy floor…sorry Nana.”

  A minute later the freezer op
ened again, ice tinkled into a glass and then the glugging sound of liquid being poured. Glancing at the clock, he marked the time, thinking he might be the one to salvage dinner in about an hour if she kept to this pace. His Willa was kinda a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

  He pushed up from the couch, Garrett in his arms, and walked their boy to the nursery. Laying Gar on the crib mattress, he adjusted the boy’s position, tucking the blanket securely around him. Making sure the monitor was on and in place, he moved back up the hallway to the living room, catching a glimpse of Willa through the kitchen door.

  Beautiful. My God, she’s so beautiful. I’m a lucky fucking bastard, he thought as he stalked towards her. Standing there in one of his ratty Support Your Local Rebel Wayfarers shirts, stained apron tied across her middle, she had her back to him. He tilted his head. She had a hand up by her face, the other propped on the edge of the cabinet holding a cheesecake batter-crusted beater from the electric mixer. With a laugh, he called across the space separating them, “Are you licking those beaters?”

  She twisted, looking at him over her shoulder, then silently reached out and plunged one hand into the dishwater standing in the sink, still clutching one beater in her grip. “No,” she said, a strip of batter smeared across one cheek. She shook her head, eyes wide as she modified her statement. “Not now.”

  “Willa, babe.” At his words, she scrunched up her nose and stuck her tongue out at him. “Got something you can lick on, anytime you feel a need.” Raising her chin defiantly, she lifted the remaining beater to her mouth, tongue coming out to swipe a big path through the remaining batter.

  A moment later her chin came down, and she made a gagging sound. Lifting her wet hand to her mouth, she covered her lips, frantically looking side-to-side. “I think I just ate a cat hair.”

  “Wills,” he got out, laughing harder. “We don’t own a cat.”

  “And we never will,” she vowed, gagging again. “Never, ever, ever. Pretty sure that was a cat h—” She gagged and dropped her hand. “I can’t even say the word now. Just the word’s gonna make me sick. I’ll bleep myself. Wonder how many bleep bleeps I’ve eaten?” She gagged, and he laughed aloud. “Stop laughing at me. I’m never eating at a clubhouse party again. Half the guys have dogs. Look at Gunny, he’s got two.”

  “Honey, a little cat hair…” He paused and waited as she gagged again lifting both hands to her mouth, then continued, “…ain’t gonna kill you.”

  “Stop saying bleep bleeps,” she whisper-yelled at him.

  Wordlessly, he reached out and grabbed her glass, then lifted it to his mouth, intending to finish it off before pouring her another. The lemon-flavored water hit his tongue and, surprised, he lifted his gaze to hers. She smiled at him, looking like the cat that got the cream and his brows came together. Willa liked her beverages. She’d taken care when nursing Garrett, but once he’d refused to nurse last month, going on the bottle, he’d expected her to loosen back up.

  He stared at her a moment more, taking in the way her eyes stuck on him, the curve of his tee across her chest and belly. Placing the glass on the counter, he flicked the rim with a finger, listening to it ring. Beauty everywhere. There was a wide fucking smile on her face that said so much. This was a woman with a secret.

  Crossing the kitchen, he herded her into the corner, pressing against her as he ran a hand up her side, holding her in place. “Willa Mason, you got something to tell me?”

  “Maybe.” She drew the word out, turning the two syllables into a handful. “I don’t know. I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

  “You want to be sure?” He was already reaching for his keys, knowing from the bright look in her eyes that this mattered to her. Mattered just as much as their confirmation over a year ago sitting in the sunlight on a California beach. When she nodded, he dropped his head down and took her lips in a hard, demanding kiss, then without looking back—because he knew if he looked back to see her spellbound again, he would not be leaving the house anytime soon—he went out the door to the garage.

  Ten minutes later he was back, angling the bike into his parking space within the structure. After the engine sounds trailed off, he could hear her, even through the door.

  “That's the same fucking bowl, you stupid bitch!” she yelled, and then her voice dropped to the whisper-yell from before. “Look at the mashed potatoes flung all over. Fucking shit, and I don’t care if Nana wouldn’t like that, it’s just the way my mouth is today.” As he opened the door he heard her sigh. "You can't be taught, can you, Wills? Stupid for life."

  Standing in the doorway, package in hand, he watched as she finished wiping down the cabinets and opened the refrigerator, a cheesecake balanced on one palm. Muttering, she swung the fridge door closed, still talking to herself. “Told you there wasn’t any room.” Her immediate rejoinder was, “Shut up.” This time, he couldn’t help himself lifting a hand to his face and laughing hard at her unintentionally hilarious behavior. “Shut up, you,” she called across the kitchen at him. “You’re gonna wake up the Gar boy again.”

  “I wake him, I got him,” he told her, taking the half a dozen strides that separated them. “You’re not stupid, Willa. Beautiful, I’ll buy that. Sexy as hell? Yeah, you’re all of that too. Gorgeous, babe. Gorgeous and hilarious.”

  “There’s no room for the pies.” She made a face and complained when he took the pan out of her hands. She looked down as he replaced it with the package from the pharmacy. “Oh,” she whispered, lifting her gaze to his.

  “I got the pies. You take care of that,” he ordered, turning to the refrigerator and opening the freezer.

  She called out over her shoulder, pausing in the doorway, “There’s no room up there, either.”

  He pulled the vodka out of the freezer, there because she liked her drinks cold, and positioned the bottle on the countertop before placing the pie inside. That was his one concession to hoping the answer would be what he wanted. No sense jinxing things, he thought. “Now there is.”

  Her laughter chased up the hallway, and he turned to survey the damage wrought on the kitchen. Surprisingly clean, she had cleared tools and implements away as she’d finished with them, the only things left on the countertop were the empty bowl and a crock filled with mashed potatoes, ready for baking. Dosing them with a topping of cheese, he slid them into the oven, checked the temperature and smiled when he heard cooing over the baby monitor. Willa’s voice, soft and low, “Who’s Momma’s big boy? Such a good boy, my Garrett. Baby boy, Momma’s baby boy.” He moved to the sink with the bowl, cleaning it with a quick swish of cloth.

  Her voice caught, and it sounded like she swallowed a sob. “You ready to be a big brother?”

  When he heard her, Mason tipped his head back, closing his eyes, letting the peace those words offered sweep through him. Something he wanted, and she needed. Their family, growing, a little bean-sized promise and hope inside her.

  When she walked back into the kitchen, Garrett in her arms, it only took a glance for him to know for sure what he had heard was real. A smile wide as Texas stretched her lips, and she held their boy close, his cheek resting between her breasts. Breasts he had noticed this morning were fuller, more sensitive again, his prayers rising like the sun on the moans she’d given him as they’d moved together.

  She tilted her chin, asking him softly, “Whatcha doin’, Mason?”

  He stretched his arm up, carrying the small bowl in his hand to the back of the top shelf in the corner cabinet. “Babe.” That was all he gave her, and the single word caused peals of laughter to spill from her lips.

  “I know, I know,” she called, still amused, Garrett now giggling along with her, the sound of their mingled merriment swelling to fill his heart. “If I can’t be taught, at least I can be inconvenienced.”

  He turned, resting against the countertop and holding out his arms. As she moved to him, he asked her, voice soft, hopeful, “Got something to tell me, babe?”

  She
turned Garrett in her arms, facing him towards Mason and waved his chubby little arm at him. “Daddy, Daddy,” she called, her voice adorably high-pitched, imitating a four-month-old baby’s cooing attempts. “I get to be a big brother!” In her normal voice, lips hovering over his, she breathed, “Surprise! Happy birthday, Mason.”

  ***

  Watcher

  The door to the diner opened and shut a dozen times before Bones walked through, Watcher already on his third cup of coffee. He studied his friend, seeing a fatigue on Bones’ face he hadn’t noticed the last time they’d had a conversation. He then got lost trying to decide the last time he’d actually seen the man.

  As Bones pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, movement across the street caught Watcher’s eye, and he saw a small figure sidle along the wall towards where their bikes were parked. Not tall, not broad, it almost looked like a child. He stared warily, trying to determine if vandalism was the goal. Appearing to slide along the surface, whoever it was stopped about ten feet from the bikes and settled to the sidewalk.

  “Do not worry about my shadow,” Bones said in greeting, and Watcher twisted to look at him, accepting the hand extended across the table. A tight grip and release. “She will not bother things.”

  “She?” Watcher turned to look at her, still not seeing the gender markers he would expect. Then hands slipped out of the sleeves hanging from the figure’s shoulders and shoved back the hood shadowing much of the face. Her face, now clearly distinguishable as female, a mass of hair escaping from the hoodie. “Who is she?”

  “I only know a little,” Bones admitted, staring across the street along with Watcher. “She is just…always around. She goes by Ester.” His voice was wistful, musing, and Watcher looked at him, seeing a softness on Bones’ features he’d never seen.

  “She follows you?” The question of “and you let her” was on the tip of his tongue, but he restrained it, glad it remained unspoken when Bones responded.