Francis dropped her hands and lifted her apron to clean them with the hem. With a pish sound of dismissal, she turned back to her task. “A gentle nudge is hardly leading. Besides, sometimes we all need to know where to start, right?” The pointed look Francis sent her way was telling.
“Um hm.” January scoffed, hoping to put Francis off.
“Don’t sass me, young lady. Besides, you don’t call it leading to use a map, do you? I certainly don’t. I call it smarter. It beats wandering around the boondocks looking for a trailer in the woods. Just think of me as the phone voice lady. She tells you what you need to know and you don’t worry she’ll tell the next person who picks up the phone where all the bodies are buried.”
Finished with her weird mismatch statement, Francis resumed her humming and preparing, seemingly leaving the ball in January’s court. I know better, damn it. I’m gonna talk. No matter how hard I try to fight it, by the time we get to the pie, I’m going to talk.
Francis continued to buzz around the kitchen. The silence seemed companionable on the surface, but for January’s part, it was tense.
January laughed out loud when Francis turned toward her and she finally noticed her apron. JUST ‘CAUSE YOU SLAP BUTTER ON IT, DON’T MAKE IT A BISCUIT!
She returned to her previous activity before asking, “What’s so funny, sweetheart?”
Pointing, January answered, “That. I mean, I wasn’t raised that awful far from here, but this place is a world removed for me. The sayings y’all have are just…too much. What does that even mean, anyway?”
Francis looked down as if she needed to read it; her answer proved she didn’t. “Oh, I bought this for you, dear. It just spoke to me. I threw it on because I…well, I wanted to. I’ll wash it up for you to take home with you, when will that be, again?”
“Uh, I think I’ll head back in a week or so. I should’ve left already, but, I just can’t resist the hospitality. So, are you going to tell me what it means, or do I need to trust random strangers on the Internet to explain it to me?” January was caught completely off guard by Francis’ query at first, but speaking about an innocuous subject relaxed her.
“It means things are what they are and as much as you may want to, you can’t make them what they aren’t. So, if you’re craving a hot, flaky biscuit, putting butter on a piece of bologna just ain’t gonna cut it. I mean, have you noticed that some people go into a job or a relationship or whatnot, something they know isn’t right for them? They give it their all, but it ain’t no biscuit, and it never will be.”
Okay, wow and what the fuck? How did this conversation about a fucking apron turn into an analogy for my life? And also, gross. Buttered bologna, yuck. Thoughts churned in January’s head, making her damn near dizzy. They were being swirled around like sharks in a tornado.
“I’ve got to eat buttered bologna for a decade and pretend it’s a biscuit.” It was a thought that rocked her back.
“No you don’t, sweetheart. If you want biscuits, then have ‘em.” Francis’ words chilled her very soul, because that meant…
“Oh, that was…I mean.” January was flustered.
“You mean those words were for your pretty little head and not for me?”
“Yes, actually.” Would she have to explain now, because she wasn’t sure she could without betraying Gus? Her sister wouldn’t want that dirty laundry aired, and she did not want to be the one to hang it on the line. But…
“Go on, child,” Francis instructed as she dried her hands and leaned against the counter, giving January her undivided attention. “I don’t judge, and I’m a damn fine listener. It’s clear you have something weighing heavy on you. Something the size of Texas, by the looks of it.”
Francis offered her a motherly touch of encouragement and shit just came spilling out. Some shit, anyway. January held back on betraying her sister and some of the finer details.
When she had finished speaking, she slapped both hands over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in. They were feathers in a hurricane; they were scattered. January was mortified.
No one knew the lengths her parents had gone through to control their children. Even Chadwick had no idea just how her parents had arranged their marriage. He knew he wasn’t her first choice, but he didn’t know the extent of the agreement. He probably wouldn’t give a shit, even if he did, so that was a wasted thought.
With tears swimming in her eyes, she let her line of sight drift up to the older woman’s face. The judgement and disgust she feared would be there were absent. Instead, there was sympathy and love. Francis practically tackled her.
Damn, for a little thing, this woman hugs like a hungry anaconda.
“Oh, sweetheart. Wrong, that is just wrong. Those ain’t no parents. They don’t deserve you.” Sentiments like that just came pouring out of the woman, along with tears.
“Francis, it’s okay, really. Ten years is nothing, and I assure you, they won’t break me.” January didn’t know what else to say to soothe the woman who had become like a mother to her in such a short time.
Francis pushed out of the embrace but kept her hold on January’s arms. Oh shit. The look in her eyes was pure rage. Murderous intent and if January wasn’t mistaken, she would relish the act. “Lucky for you,” Francis released her grip on January and smoothed her hair and clothes, then reached for her cell, “we have two of the best lawyers in the world in this family and we will—”
“No!” January didn't mean to shout, but it was imperative she stop Francis from making that call. “I can’t let you do that. While I suffered from a bad case of over-sharing, there are some things you don’t know, and I prefer to keep it that way. Anyway, I cannot involve anyone legally…and I…” She let her eyes drift to the eleven by fifteen picture on the sofa table. She couldn’t see the front of it from the kitchen, but she knew every detail, every shadow and highlight by heart.
It was she and Gus the night of Gus’ prom. Her sister saved up and bought her a matching prom dress. January wore it all night long, and when Gus got home, they made trash can nachos and talked all night. She fell asleep curled against her sister on their beanbag.
They were still in their dresses the next morning and caught hell for it. It was unladylike and not to mention ruined expensive garments. Blah, blah, blah. Their mother was fit to be tied, but it was so worth it. It was one of the best nights ever.
“I mean, I just…” January trailed off. She didn’t know how to convey the gravity without selling out her sister.
Francis followed her gaze, and January knew the moment she made the connection. Francis had an extremely open face. Maybe Francis needed confirmation, but it was more likely she needed January to know she knew. Whatever the reason, Francis walked over to the sofa table and lifted the frame off the glass surface.
The way she looked at the picture and caressed it with such affection warmed January’s soul. Augusta had found the thing she had been denied from birth: a loving and understanding family. Francis set the picture back down and shallowly nodded twice in quick succession. “Right, no law dogs.” Francis returned to the kitchen and resumed her prep work.
Just when January thought the conversation was put to rest, the older woman spoke, “However, we need to do something, because that ain’t no biscuit, and you deserve biscuits, damn it.”
“Oooh, are you making biscuits?” Both occupants of the kitchen turned toward the voice. Gus was entering the door loaded down with groceries. January rushed to unburden her sister.
“Of course, we are," Francis answered.
Ten
On the eighth time around the block, Logan realized it was time to make a move. Either that, or someone would call the cops, and he’d go to jail for stalking or some shit.
Logan just wasn’t sure how to do this male bonding, fatherly advice thing. He gave it a shot with John, but he seemed closed off. Maybe he was too close to January to be objective. He figured he’d seek counsel elsewhere. “Look at me, looking for people to talk
to about emotional shit,” Logan breathed into the car.
This was so not him. Logan was not a bonder or even an asker. Growing up, asking got you a hand to the face, and bonding, well, bonding got you worse. Bonding was considered a pussy move. One that someone else would take full advantage of if they could. Never give someone else your throat, period.
And this woman made him so crazy. So crazy, he was casting his history and learned behavior to the side and exposing his throat. He pulled into the drive and sighed after he killed the engine. He wasn’t even sure what advice he sought, just that he felt the need to seek it.
Logan had his hand poised to knock, but Frank halted his action by coming around the house wiping his hands on a red shop towel. “Hey there. We’re around back. Join us?”
Jesus, the man’s like a panther. Logan prided himself on not allowing anyone to surprise him. Not since two broken bones, three fractures, and forty-two stitches. That had been a flying whiskey bottle he tried to stop with his arm.
Just as the us registered in his mind, he entered the garage right behind Frank to see what he assumed was Walker and Dax hard at work on an old El Camino.
“Grab a brew and a wrench and help us finish up some of these little connections,” Frank instructed as they passed the beat up refrigerator by the toolbox.
Dax’s head popped up around the hood, “Grab me one, too?”
“Ditto, but non-alcoholic for me,” came the disembodied voice of Walker.
Opening the fridge, Logan grabbed three amber bottles and one green. He tossed one directly to Frank, then he uncapped the others as he approached the car. He distributed them accordingly, and when Walker looked up to take his, his eyes widened. “Thank…hey, it’s Logan. Praise fuck. Someone who knows what he’s doing, here.” Walker traded his ratchet for the beer. “Can you figure out what I’ve got crossed over here?”
Walker moved out of the way, and Logan took Walker’s place, swigging generously from his beer before he set it on the fender to study the task at hand. Logan found this an easier, less daunting possibility. He wasn’t sure how to approach Frank with the subject of January or feelings.
Or approach those subjects at all. Not like he had an ass-ton of experience with emotions and shit. He was so far out of his depth, he was plotting an exit strategy already. Exit strategy sounded far better in his head than chickening out.
Silence overtook the garage, broken only by the sound of swallowing and the rustling of wires. Logan chanced a glance at where the other occupants stood drinking their brews.
Their heads were whipping around with a lot of mouthing of words and hand gestures. This made Logan even more uncomfortable, if that were possible. Nothing good had ever come from men plotting with him right in the same room.
Not to mention it amplified his feelings of inadequacy. That age-old resurgence of being the outsider. He was done making nice with people who saw him as a lessor or too stupid to just fucking talk to.
He pulled his hands back and rested his elbows on the car. Then he turned the tool in both hands, studying it. Looking for…what, he didn’t know. Finally, he stood and pointed it toward his adversaries. That’s how they felt right now, adversarial.
“Fuck, if you’ve got something to say, just say it. Stop acting like I’m not here.” The three men just looked at each other, silently passing the buck, he assumed.
Logan shook his head and stormed toward the door. “Fucking teach me to give a shit about people. I’m the only one I can rely on and I don’t need this…” Logan trailed off his mumbling rant as he aggressively tossed the ratchet in the direction of the toolbox.
As his palm landed on the door with a slap, ready to push it open and leave these men in his past, Dax spoke, “Damn, the kid’s got more anger issues than you do, Walker.”
That was it! Logan was about to kick this motherfucker’s ass. He spun on his heels and was puffed up in Dax’s face in no time flat. His face was a bit of an exaggeration, more like staring into his Adam’s apple. Damn, this fucker is huge. Logan never noticed just how much so until he was on the verge of engaging him.
It was simply an observation. Logan had kicked the ass of, and gotten his ass kick by, bigger men than him, and he’d survived it.
“Who are you calling a kid? I’m pretty sure I’ve got a few years of experience on you.” Things appeared in shades of red. Even though he wasn’t really pissed at Dax for his comment, it was just the culmination of everything in his life to this point for some reason.
The things he was feeling for January weren’t processing the way they would in anyone else. For most people, you meet a girl, you like the girl, you advance the relationship in increments until you end up with a mortgage and fights over laundry and dishes and the toilet seat and…shit.
Logan was screwed, as in, royally as fuck. As inexplicable as it was, he wanted those things with January. He found the idea of fighting over his socks on the floor or bitching about her online shopping addiction…appealing? He knew about her combat shopping for leggings, and he found it adorable how she’d scream at her phone while furiously claiming a pair with elephants on them or something.
Logan was wrenched from his thoughts by rumbling laughter and Walker’s overly amused voice. “I recognize that look. Somebody’s thinking about honeymoon sex and rugrats.” Walker clapped him and Dax both on the shoulder, effectively diffusing the situation without bloodshed.
“Yeah, yours,” Devil Kip said in his mind.
Dax’ stance relaxed and as it did, Logan breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t like he wanted to fight the big guy. It was just the only way he had ever learned to channel any real emotions. Dax pulled a pipe from his pocket, never breaking eye contact, and lit it. “All’s good, brother, just don’t ever step up to me again unless you plan on taking me down.”
His voice came through the cloud of smoke loud and clear. He was grinning like he wasn’t threatening him, but Logan saw the truth of his statement through it all. It wasn’t a threat, just a fact. “Noted.”
An apology was poised on his tongue, another first for his collection, but for all the facial hair and deceptive grinning, it was clear Dax meant it was all-good between them.
“Besides,” Dax added as if he could read his mind, “you’ve got way bigger fish to fry.”
For some reason, Logan was wilting under Dax’s appraisal. Lowering his chin, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while the other went to his pocket to thumb the turquoise stone Lucinda had tucked into his palm the night before she left.
It was something she had done every night when she put him to bed. She told him he could transfer all his bad emotions, nightmares, and fears into it just by rubbing it. In the morning, she would take it back and tell him she’d wish them all away during the day so the stone would be empty for him the next night.
Logan knew it was complete and utter bullshit, but for some reason, he had kept it with him all these years. But instead of rubbing the quarter-sized stone, his hand reached for January’s blood red garnet thumb ring. She had left it in his room the first night she’d come over.
Initially, he had pocketed it to return it, but she never asked, and he had forgot about it until he’d slipped his hand in his pocket and it slid onto the tip of his pinky. After that, she’d never asked, and he never mentioned it.
“No, that’s not weird at all. Perfectly normal to steal jewelry from the women you sleep with,” Devil Gene quipped sarcastically, and Devil Kip laughed in solidarity.
Yeah, I’m not fucking crazy at all.
Comfort and a measure of peace washed over him as the ring once again circled the end of his pinky. There was still a lot of shit nagging at him. Now that he had effectively accepted that he might want a normal relationship with January, he had an ass-ton of other issues rear their ugly heads.
The fighting over the toilet seat he was kinda looking forward to became a point of terror. It felt like he had swallowed that socket wrench instead of tossing i
t. Logan didn’t know anything about fighting that didn’t end in an ER visit for someone. No one in his life ever taught him productive fighting, if that was a thing.
If anyone in this little group could understand anger management, it would be Walker. But how the hell do I bring that up to the guy? Sure, we’ve bro-ed out a dozen times or so, but asking about that still seems personal as fuck.
Logan hadn’t noticed Frank stepping away until he slapped a cold beer in his hand. For some reason, Logan just stared at it as it chilled his fingers.
“Drink up, son, and then tell us what’s troubling ya?” Frank commanded, and Logan mindlessly obeyed. He was still in shock with his own revelation of the depth of his feelings for January.
After a long pull from his beer, followed by a satisfied sigh, Frank spoke again, “It’s clear you care about our girl, but what’s also clear is that scares the shit out of you. Why?”
Logan lowered his empty bottle and just glared at it, as if he could make Frank give up if he pretended to care about the ingredients of the amber brew he just chugged.
“Just think of this garage here as a slice of Nevada—what happens here, stays here. So anything said goes no further than us here.”
“Unless it’s illegal,” Dax and Walker added damn near in unison. But their laughter and toast to like minds, Logan guessed, told him they actually wouldn’t break whatever this garage code was. Kick ass maybe, but not blab.
Frank exchanged his bottle for his abandoned socket and shooed him toward the front of the car. Logan allowed it. This would be way easier without eye contact. The wink Frank gifted him before Logan disappeared under the hood was reassuring. It was as if the older man got him somehow. He seemed to know being face-to-face and open was too confrontational for Logan.
Note to self, send the man a thank-you six pack or some shit. Even if they didn’t help him resolve his problems at hand, this was helping him manage some age-old issues, and that was something.
“Fighting. How do you do it without it being…violent?” Shit, Logan didn’t even know how to word it without making it sound like he would punch her in the face the first time they disagreed. That wasn’t it at all, but Logan didn’t know how to explain it. Damn it, I’m fucking up my one chance to figure this shit out. “I mean—”
Unmistakably Us (Imagine Ink Book 5) Page 11
