Wild Man

by Kristen Ashley

  “Okay,” she said quietly.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “We didn’t mean—” she started but I quickly cut her off.

  “I know you didn’t, honey.”

  “I won’t say anything to them about, you know,” she assured me and I closed my eyes.

  Then I opened them and told her, “You don’t have to keep this secret. I did for too long. I didn’t do anything to be ashamed of so there’s no reason it shouldn’t be in the open.”

  “Still, girl, I’ll let you do the talkin’.”

  Okay, maybe she was nosy, meddling, and a little scary. But she was also very sweet.

  “All right,” I replied.

  “Over cosmos at Gwen’s.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Another night.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence then, softly, “He threw a chair?”

  I smiled at the dash but my smile was for me. Then, softly back, I replied, “Yeah, he threw a chair.”

  “I’m thinkin’ Hawk don’t know that,” she remarked.

  “Well, maybe you should tell him.”

  “Bet yo’ boots I will. I got one on Hawk. I never got one on Hawk.”

  I laughed softly.

  Through this, Elvira said, “Have fun with your hot guy.”

  I smiled again. That one was for her even though she couldn’t see. Then I said, “I will.”

  “Later, girlfriend.”

  “Later, Elvira.”

  I took the phone from my ear and hit END CALL. I dropped it in my purse, gathered up my stuff, was sure to bleep the locks on my car, and I braved the rickety steps.

  I stood in front of door number sixteen and knocked.

  Two seconds later it was thrown open by a tall, gorgeous, rounded, dark-haired, silver-eyed woman with a flushed face and a visible desire to kill.

  I took a step back.

  She whirled to face the apartment and shrieked, “Dylan! You do that to your brother one more time and it won’t be the naughty step when we get home! I don’t know what it’ll be I just know you… won’t… LIKE IT!”

  I checked the impulse to grab my phone and inspect the text Brock sent me to make certain I got the apartment number right when she turned back to me, smiled sweetly, and said, “Hey, you must be Tess.”

  I blinked.

  She went on. “I’m Laura, Slim’s sister.”

  My entire body seized and I feared an acute onset of epilepsy when I heard Brock’s rumble coming from deep in the apartment. “Jesus, Laura, what the fuck?”

  To which Laura (apparently Brock’s sister!) turned back to face the apartment and snapped, “Slim, we try not to drop the f-bomb in front of the kids.”

  “Great, you’re in your house or at little league or wherever-the-fuck, try not to do it. Your hooligans are systematically tearing up my place, anything goes.”

  He appeared in the door by his sister, grinned at me, leaned out, extending a long arm. His fingers closed on my wrist and he pulled me into the apartment whereupon his arms locked around me and he shuffled me in deeper. And, before I knew it, his mouth was on mine and he laid a hot, sweet, deep, but short wet one on me.

  “Gross, Uncle Slim!” a child’s voice shouted.

  “Yeah! Gross!” another one chimed in.

  “I like her shoes,” another one, this one clearly female and clearly having good taste, observed.

  Brock’s head lifted and I had three thoughts. One, even with an audience of family members, some of them being children, he could really kiss. Two, I was obviously meeting members of Brock’s family and I was in no way prepared. And three, I was glad I gave the flip-flops a rest and was wearing a pair of sexy, strappy sandals, really good jeans, and a complicated designer blouse.

  Before I could utter a noise or, perhaps, gather my thoughts, Brock divested me of the purse and overnight bag on my shoulder (both he dumped on the floor), the white bag filled with my famous bakery-fresh snickerdoodles (this he tossed on the coffee table) and turned me to the apartment. One arm sliding around my shoulders and holding my front close to his side, he made introductions.

  “Babe, this is my sister, Laura, her hooligans Grady and Dylan, my princess, Ellie, and my Mom, Fern. Everyone, this is Tess.”

  His mom, Fern?

  He kissed me with tongues in front of his mom, Fern?

  I scanned the room and a lot forced itself into my brain. Too much to process. So much, my mind started to shut down and it took every bit of effort I had not to lapse into catatonia.

  First, the door had been closed and Laura, Brock’s gorgeous sister, was standing by it grinning like a madwoman.

  Second, there were two dark-haired boys on the floor. Both of them in little-boy football uniforms (sans shoulder pads). Both of them appearing at some point in the not too distant past to have rolled around in the dirt for a good length of time and my guess was that was at least five hours. Both of them appeared to be arrested in mid wrestling match. And both of them had green Kool-Aid mustaches.

  Third, there was an adorable little dark-haired girl wearing a princess dress costume, complete with fake satin top and masses of tulle skirt, this ensemble complimented by clickety-clack, little girl plastic high-heeled shoes. She was sitting on the couch with her legs straight in front of her, feet bouncing while she gamely licked a melting Popsicle but was struggling in this endeavor as evidenced by it dripping purple on the fake satin of the top of her dress.

  Fourth, an older woman with thick silver hair, blue eyes, and an overall look that screamed, “Grandma!” was standing in a doorway grinning at me like a madwoman.

  And last, Brock’s furnishings were, at a glance, approximately two point seven five steps up from the overall feel of his apartment complex. But at least the place appeared clean if not tidy. And when I say “not tidy” I say this in the sense that it also reflected that Brock was a single man with a Harley Fat Boy and a beat-up pickup truck that Martha was right about. It needed to be traded up and that trade up should have happened around a decade ago.

  “Uh… hey,” I greeted.

  “We’re a surprise, we know. We were on our way back from junior football league practice and we thought we’d stop by,” Fern said, coming farther into the room and I saw she was holding a dishtowel. “We brought KFC because the kids had to eat. We didn’t know Slim was expecting company.”

  “Um… okay,” I told her, then added stupidly, “Cool.”

  She made it to me and held out her hand. I took it and her fingers closed around mine. Her other hand came up and closed around our clasped hands. As she did this, she looked into my eyes and did a Mom Scan, which left me feeling mildly ill at ease considering the fact that I was pretty sure her blue eyes read all the words written on my soul. Therefore, she knew I’d lied to my mother when I was ten and told her I didn’t try to shave my legs (when the nicks on them proved this to be false) and that I let Jimmy Moriarty get to second base at the homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school.

  She released me from The Scan, let go of my hand, stepped back, and luckily didn’t announce to the room I was a floozy who lied to her mother.

  “They’re about to leave,” Brock stated, to which Princess Ellie shouted, “No, we’re not! We’re watching Tangled!”

  And to this, Dylan (or Grady, it had not been pointed out who was who), shouted in return, “We’re not watching Tangled! We watched Tangled this weekend five times.” He swung his head to Laura and whined, “Mooooooom! I’m sick of Tangled!”

  “I’m not sick of Tangled. That movie is awesome,” I found my mouth (again) stupidly muttering.

  “See!” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her Popsicle, off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled!”

  I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five-year-old girls heard what they wanted to hea
r. In fact, lots of fifty-five-year-old girls heard what they wanted to hear.

  Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that Popsicle.”

  “Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we?” Dylan (or Grady) whined.

  “Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”

  “I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.

  At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ! What’s the commotion?”

  “Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the Popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.

  I was rooted to the spot, looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”

  For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.

  “Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.

  Uh-oh.

  “Mom—” Brock started.

  “Slim, tell me… he… is not… here,” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.

  Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze.

  My head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never fuckin’ home.”

  Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.

  “Heya, Laurie, honey. Heya, Slim. Heya, Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” Grady returned.

  “Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.

  Brock’s father’s look became cautious when he muttered, “Hey, Fern.”

  “Cob,” she bit off, clearly deciding not to go with the option of leaping forward and scratching out his eyes as this would scar her grandchildren for life, but I could tell she was hanging on to that control by a thread.

  Brock’s father’s gaze hit me. His head tipped to the side and his eyes flashed back and forth between his son and me about seven times before he said, “Uh… hey there, little lady.”

  “Dad, this is Tess,” Brock introduced.

  “She’s Uncle Slim’s girlfriend!” Ellie shouted, her fingers curled into Cob Lucas’s pants, her back arched at an impossible angle, her grape Popsicle-stained mouth smiling huge up at her grandfather.

  He looked down at her, put a big hand gentle on her head, and asked softly, “Is she, my Ellie?”

  “Yeah!” Ellie cried. “And she wears pretty shoes and she’s gonna watch Tangled with me right now!”

  Cob’s eyes came to me. They were curious, searching even, but like he looked at Fern, hesitant as he muttered, “That’s fantastic, sweetheart.”

  Into this conversation, Fern asked acidly, “There a reason you’re here, Cob?”

  “Well, actually”—his eyes moved from Fern to Brock to me and back again—“yeah.”

  “I’ll bet there is,” she mumbled bitingly.

  I caught sight of Laura bugging her eyes out at Brock and with that I decided to take action.

  I slid out from under Brock’s arm then leaned and carefully took the dishtowel out of Fern’s hand.

  I walked to the couch and grabbed the bag of snickerdoodles at the same time I swiped up the Popsicle and announced, “All right, kids, in this bag are bakery fresh snickerdoodles I made at my shop for your uncle. Whoever gets to the kitchen and gets their hands and mouths clean gets a cookie. Who’s with me?”

  Dylan and Ellie instantly abandoned their grandfather and raced to the kitchen, Ellie, hindered by her heels, nearly taking a header twice. Grady got to his feet eyeing the bag and his mother, clearly weighing cookies versus hanging with the adults in a tense situation and, not surprisingly, cookies won out. So he sauntered after his brother and sister. I followed them and didn’t look back as I was confronted with a kitchen Fern obviously just cleaned and shut the swinging door behind me.

  I set about hiding nine of the dozen snickerdoodles (Brock’s favorite) and setting out the other three at the same time supervising cleaning up three tired, wound-up kids.

  When they were clean and sitting at Brock’s scarred, wooden kitchen table eating cookies and sucking back milk from glasses I’d poured, Grady, the oldest (my guess, Ellie around four or five, Dylan around six or seven, and Grady around eight or nine) informed me, “Grandma isn’t Grandpa’s biggest fan.”

  Hmm. How did I respond to that?

  “Well, sometimes things get complicated with adults,” I told him lamely.

  Grady kept the information flowing. “Dad isn’t his biggest fan either. Dad says he’s a douchebag.”

  I pressed my lips together to stop the giggle escaping then I said, “Douchebag isn’t a really nice word, but that said, your father is entitled to his opinion.”

  Grady kept speaking. “Uncle Slim puts up with him but I think he does it for Mom and Aunt Jill ’cause they like ’im but Uncle Levi thinks he’s a douchebag too. I heard him and Uncle Slim talkin’ when Uncle Slim told Uncle Levi to cool it about Grandpa because it was bothering Aunt Jill. But Uncle Levi said that Grandpa never paid child report and he had a bunch of girlfriends other than Grandma so he didn’t owe him anything and neither did Aunt Jill.”

  Apparently, Grady had a mind like a sponge, though he got one thing wrong. Child report I was guessing was child support and I was also guessing having a father that didn’t pay it and played around on your mom was not good.

  “I like Grandpa!” Ellie piped up.

  “Of course you do, honey,” I said, smiling at her from my place leaning against the counter.

  “I put up with him like Uncle Slim,” Grady announced.

  “Grady’s gonna be Uncle Slim when he grows up,” Dylan, sporting a milk mustache, shared.

  Grady did not challenge this information. Instead, he declared proudly, “He played first base and I play first base. He played linebacker and I play linebacker. His job is scary, Mom says, but he does it to keep kids like me safe so that’s what I’m gonna do too. When I get old, I’m gonna keep kids safe.”

  I was feeling warm and gushy again.

  “That’s a fantastic goal, Grady,” I said quietly.

  “Do you got kids?” Dylan asked.

  “No, honey, I don’t have any kids.”

  “That’s good. When you marry Uncle Slim, you can be mom to Rex and Joel,” Grady offered and I blinked.

  “Sorry, honey, who?”

  “Rex and Joel, Uncle Slim’s kids, our cousins,” Grady told me. My body went completely still, including my heart and lungs, the warm gushiness evaporated, and Grady kept talking. “Aunt Olivia used to be married to Uncle Slim and Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Jill, Uncle Fritz, and Uncle Levi aren’t her biggest fans. I’m really not allowed to say the word Mom calls her. Dad too. And Uncle Levi said if he saw her again, he’d break her neck.”

  I stared at him.

  “She has a pinchy face,” Ellie added to the conversation, making her own scrunchy face that stated clearly she felt the same about Aunt Olivia as everyone else did.

  “She never brings snickerdoodles to the family reunions,” Dylan put in, then sucked back more milk before he musingly went on. “Or anything.”

  “She wouldn’t think about snickerdoodles. She doesn’t care about snickerdoodles. Mom says she only cares about looking good and that’s why she’s always gettin’ her nails done,” Grady authoritatively told
Dylan.

  “She has pretty nails,” Ellie told me. “I like her nail polish even though it’s almost always red. She should try pink.”

  Although I was nowhere near processing the information they’d provided me, Grady kept spouting it. “She brings Rex and Joel to the family reunion every year and she stays and Mom says she stays even though she’s not family anymore just to show off her fancy outfits and be a wet blanket. I can’t say why Uncle Levi said she does it because most of the words are bad.”

  Uncle Levi clearly had a mouth much like his brother.

  And Brock Lucas had an ex-wife and two sons. A pinchy-faced ex-wife who had a perma-manicure and two sons.

  This, I did not know. This, a thing you shared. This, I did not know what to do with.

  To be fair, I had known Brock as Brock for three days.

  Still.

  “Can I be your flower girl when you marry Uncle Slim?” Ellie asked.

  Again, my body, lungs, and heart went completely still and then the latter two started pumping and when they did this, they did it hard.

  Damn! Now how did I answer that?

  I decided on honesty.

  “Right now we’re just seeing each other, Ellie, but I’ll keep a line open to you if it looks like it’s getting serious,” I promised and she giggled.

  Then she placed her order. “Okay, but I want my dress to be pink.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her and she grinned at me.

  She had a milk mustache too.

  I grinned back.

  The door swung open and people flooded through, starting with Laura and ending with Fern, Brock sandwiched in the middle. He came direct to me, eyes on my face and my eyes slid away. Fern went direct to the table to gather glasses. Laura started herding kids.

  “All right, kiddos,” Laura started, snatching a towel from a rack, “wipe off those milk mustaches and inspect Uncle Slim’s living room for your stuff. We’re packed up and in the car in five minutes. March!”

  Grady grabbed the towel, swiped his face, tossed it vaguely in his mother’s direction, and raced out. Dylan followed suit. Ellie skipped to her mother like she had all the time in the world to tiptoe through the tulips, rubbed the towel across her face once mostly smearing milk and not lapping it up then she skipped out.