by Nicki Rowe
“Let’s get some food in you,” I say. “Would you like to stay in or go out? I can cook you something.”
“You know what sounds totally awesome right now? Pizza.”
“Pizza? Really? I have steaks and all the fixings.”
He shakes his head. “Pizza is one of the essential food groups.”
“I’m sure a nutritionist would love to hear you say that.”
He chuckles and we climb out of bed. He pulls his pants on, but leaves his shirt on the chair. We make our way out to the living room where Gideon sinks onto my couch and curls up with the blanket I have thrown over the back. I sort of admire the way he can make himself at home anywhere, it’s endearing.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask after I order a pizza.
I sink into the cushions opposite of Gideon, and he takes the opportunity to put his feet in my lap. I’m not used to someone invading my personal space or putting their feet in my lap without invitation, but again, it’s something about Gideon that I find endearing. I place my hands on the tops of his bare feet, stroking them with my fingers, remembering that Gideon said he was a tactile person and loved to touch or be touched.
“Yeah. I was looking through your collection. How about something John Hughes?”
“Didn’t take you for a John Hughes fan,” I reply, gently pushing his feet from my lap and going to my DVD case.
“Not normally, but I’m in the mood for some Molly Ringwald.”
I pop in Pretty in Pink, Lacey’s favorite movie, and resume my spot on the couch. Within seconds Gideon's feet are back in my lap.
“What do you watch normally?” I ask as the movie starts.
“Action and horror are my favorite genres. Give me a movie based off a comic book character or a good slasher film any day of the week.”
I make a face at him. “That’s how Sam is. I think we went to see that new ghost movie three times.”
Gideon’s warm laughter fills the room, making me smile. “You got off lucky. I made Alex and Anthony see it with me at least five times.”
We settle into the couch, burrowing deeper into the cushions to watch the movie before the pizza arrives.
After the pizza does arrive, we eat and our conversation segways into eighties fashion. Gideon thinks the fashions were too big and too loud, and though I agree, I still have to give him shit.
“Who the hell needs all that lycra and shoulder pads?” he argues. “Shoulder pads!”
“This coming from the man who wears banana printed shirts,” I tease, shaking my head.
“Those are in style!”
“You don’t really get a say on eighties fashion,” I continue, pretending to watch the movie. “You weren’t even around in the eighties.”
“I was born in 1987.”
“That does not count!” I exclaim, slapping the top of his foot as he bursts out laughing. “It only counts if you were at least a teen in the eighties.”
“Man, not all of us were fortunate enough to live in the land of neon color and leg warmers.”
“Hmm,” I finally concede, “Count yourself lucky.”
He sits up and looks at me seriously, dropping another crust into the pizza box, adding to the pile that he has already discarded. “Please tell me you did not have a Flock of Seagulls haircut.”
I try really hard to not look guilty--those were some dark times--but fail miserably. “I did not have a Flock of Seagulls haircut.”
“Oh my God, dude!” he bursts out laughing, doubling over so his head is nearly in my lap. “I need to see pictures!”
“Hell no! Those pictures are never seeing the light of day.”
On screen Molly kisses her love interest.
He looks up as the credits start to roll. “I guess I better go. I have an early day tomorrow.”
We stand in unison, and Gideon disappears down the hall for the rest of his clothes. I gather the empty pizza box and the soda cans and throw them in the garbage. When he returns, I’m standing near the couch, leaning against it with my arms crossed over my chest. Gideon doesn’t look like he wants to leave, he keeps shuffling his feet and playing with his keys. I don’t want him to leave either, but I have an early morning as well, and I am failing to come up with an excuse to make him stay.
“I really had a good time tonight, Gideon.”
He looks up at me and smiles. “Me too, Wally.”
I push off the couch and brush my fingers over his cheek, loving the way he closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
He opens his eyes and nods before disappearing out the front door. I hear his Jeep start with a gentle roar and pull off down the street.
My only regret is that I never got that kiss I so desperately craved.
~ ~ ~
I wake up the next morning to the sound of someone rummaging around in my kitchen. I untangle myself from my blankets and pull a pair of pajama pants over my black briefs before heading out to the kitchen where I would find either Sam or Cason raiding my fridge. Besides Lacey, they are the only ones with a key, and she has the decency to call before she comes over.
As I suspected, I find my son pulling bacon and eggs out of the fridge. He’s dressed in his favorite military style jacket, a faded and holey gray tee and black harem pants with combat boots. His chipped purple polished fingers are holding the package of bacon loosely as he turns towards me with a big lopsided smile on his face.
“Hiya, Pops.”
“Morning, Sammy,” I mumble as I go to the coffee maker and begin making a pot. I scratch at my hairy chest. “What brings you by?”
“Well, I was on my way to work and wanted to check in on you.”
“Check in?” I look at him with my brow furrowed. “Why?”
He smirks, reminding me of his mother when she was up to something. “Well, you left Glensville so fast yesterday, I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”
I roll my eyes. “Hush up, Sam.”
He bursts out laughing and begins to make breakfast. “Really though, I stopped by to ask if I could borrow your truck. Syd is moving into a new apartment and needs help.”
“Yeah. Keys are in the bowl by the door.” I take my coffee and sit at the table. I chug half of it--black with a touch of cream--before continuing. “How is Syd?”
“He’s good.” Something in Sam’s voice is off, but I don’t press. Sam and his best friend, Sydney Richards, had been friends for nearly fifteen years. Sometimes they fight, but they always make up in the end. “Anyway, I have to get to work,” Sam says before I can ask him what’s going on with him and Syd.
“How are things at the store?”
“Good,” He replies as he goes to the hall and swaps his keys for mine. “Ace just booked a signing with Hollow Brewer before he starts his tour.”
“Who the fuck is Hollow Brewer?” I ask as Sam comes back into the room and flips the bacon.
“He’s this new up and coming singer. Syd is totally obsessed.”
“Hmm,” is my only reply as I sip my coffee.
“I only made three slices of bacon and egg whites for you this morning. I cut up some strawberries as well,” he says, pulling a plate from the cupboard and loading it. “You need to watch what you eat, Pops.”
“Since when do I need to watch what I eat?”
He smirks again as he slides the plate across the table. “You need to remain healthy if you are going to be chasing men that are nearly half your age.”
“Get the fuck out of here!” I yell, throwing a dish towel at him.
Sam’s laughter follows him out of the back door.
I shake my head at my meddlesome son and tuck into my breakfast. After I finish, I wash the plate and other dishes and go to get ready for the day.
As I pass the photos in the hall I stop and look at the picture taken on the day Doris and I were married.
We had gotten married the day after Doris graduated from college. In the photo I
had scooped her up and her head was thrown back in laughter, and her wild hair was tumbling down my arm that supported her neck. She had been wearing a cream colored leather skirt and a billowy white blouse with motorcycle boots. I was wearing a pair of black jeans and a leather vest over a red button up with a black tie. My hair had been longer then, the black strands had been tied at the nape of my neck with a leather cord.
Our wedding had been simple, an exchange of vows in front of my brother, Rodney, and Doris’s friend, Charlotte. Rodney and Charlotte are married now with three adult children.
It’s been seven years since Doris was shot, but I still miss her every minute of every day. I hate the cliché saying: ‘time heals all wounds.’ It’s been seven years and the wound of losing the love of my life is still as raw and as open as on the day she was murdered. I can still feel her in the walls of the house. I can still hear her laughter and see her face when I close my eyes.
But even as I wish for the wound in my heart to heal, I don’t want to forget her. I just want everything to hurt less.
Shaking my head at my solemn thoughts, I go to my room and get dressed, and then head out to get things ready at the bar.
Chapter 7: Gideon
It’s going on three in the morning, I’m browsing the shelves at the twenty-four hour supermarket down the street from my apartment building. I’ve always preferred to shop after hours when there is no one in the market except for night owls and the employees. There’s no fighting over the last loaf of bread with a single mother of three, or having to side step people as they stopped in the middle of the aisle to chat. At night I was able to meander through the aisles with no real hurry and listen to the chatter of employees as they stock the shelves.
I’m in the middle of trying to decide between poppy seed bagels and onion bagels when I hear a familiar voice come from down the aisle. The stocker is putting boxes of tea on the opposite shelf and listening to some folky-rock song on full blast.
“Syd!” Wally’s voice sounds over the music blasting out of the stocker’s phone. “How are you?”
I turn to see a man about my age look up from his task. The man is red-haired and muscular, good looking. “Hi, Mr. Pyke.”
“Son, I’ve been telling you since you were seventeen to call me Wally.”
“My mom would kill me if I called an elder by their first name.” The younger man laughs, shaking Wally’s hand. “Thanks for letting Sam borrow the truck to help me move.”
“Anything you need, Sydney, you know that.”
Sydney nods and shoves his hands in his back pockets. “I know, Mr. Pyke.”
He smiles kindly at the man. “What are you listening to?”
“Hollow Brewer.”
I turn back towards the shelf, pretending I’m not listening, but it's hard to ignore the pull of Wally’s presence.
“Right! Sammy told me that you were into him.”
“A little bit,” the man replies sheepishly.
Wally’s chuckle carries down the aisle, I turn my head again in time to see him look over the man’s shoulder, noticing me standing at the other aisle, still holding the two bagels like an idiot. His eyes light, and his smile broadens. He turns back to Sydney. “It was nice to see you, Syd. If you need my help moving or anything, you give me a call.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pyke.”
Wally says goodbye to the man and then strolls up the aisle towards me. I abandon the idea of pretending I’m not paying attention to his conversation with Sydney, and turn towards him. His smile grows with each step he takes, causing a fluttery feeling to go through my chest. The light in his eyes makes me stand a little bit taller, like there’s praise in the light green depths, and I bask under it like a cat in the sun. His leather and pepper scent envelops me, and I inhale it, taking it deep into my lungs.
“Hello, Wally,” I breathe out.
“Gideon.”
I drop both bagels into my basket and lean on it, my eyes raking over Wally’s big body. I lick my lips when my eyes meet his hungry green ones. “What are you doing on this side of town?”
Wally shrugs and starts walking down the aisle. Of course, I follow. “I’m on my way to Cason’s. We’re heading out to camp in the morning.”
“How long are you guys camping for?”
“Four days.” My heart sinks at the words. Wally stops to look at me, I’m sure I look like a kicked puppy, but I can’t hide my disappointment. I had been hoping to see him this week. “Maybe I can see you when I get back?”
“I wish, but I’m going to Baltimore.”
Wally turns and goes down the aisle. “To visit your parents?”
I nod. “And to see what my sister has decided about moving.”
He works a hand over his beard. “When do you get back?”
“Tuesday.”
“After that then.” He puts a hand on my cheek, and I feel this electric pulse where he touches me, almost like static. “I’ve been dying to see you again.”
I look up at him, smiling. “Me too, Wally.”
We walk around the store, talking mostly about how every year Wally and Cason camp for about a week to recharge and get away from the city. We talk about how Cason lost his leg, and how Wally got his scars, he seems sad as he talks about that day in Iraq, but as I curl into his body as we walk, he smiles, placing an arm over my shoulder and pulling me even closer. We talk about my phone call with Amber that afternoon and how she plans on moving in with me, though I expect her to change her mind at least twice over the weekend. We talk about everything and nothing, which has always been my favorite types of conversations.
After we check out with the college aged girl who kept popping her gum in between her words, Wally offers to walk me home. It isn’t a far walk, just around the corner, but I will never say no to spending more time with him.
“How did you get into the community?” I ask as our conversation topics stray to something we both have in common: kink.
He’s carrying the majority of my groceries. I hadn’t bought much, but he’s carrying four of my five bags, and wouldn’t let me carry more than the bag containing my soda and gum.
“Doris,” he answers. “She had always wanted to try getting into BDSM, and I was intrigued with the idea of bondage.”
“Do you ever get tied up?”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you asking because you want to tie me up?”
I shrug. “If you’re into it.”
“I have been, and I enjoy it, but it’s like you with the pictures,” he says. “I need to trust the person completely before I let it happen.” He pauses. “Maybe down the line . . . if we keep playing together.”
We reach my apartment building, but I am reluctant to let Wally go. I look up at the gray stone and frown, wishing I could have more time with him before he leaves tomorrow morning.
“I would love to keep playing together,” I admit.
His eyes burrow into mine when I look back at him. “I only have one regret.”
I swallow, and my heart falls into my stomach. I feel like I can’t breathe, until he says:
“I regret that I didn’t kiss you that night.”
My heart double times, and I feel my breath hitch. “Kiss me now.”
He leans in and electric air licks at my skin, making the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. Wally’s leather and pepper scent is overpowering, but it also makes me feel safe and warm. His lips are firm, yet soft against mine--dominating, yet tender. He tastes like chocolate and coffee. The world falls away; the cars fall silent, there’s nothing more than me, him and this moment. I want to press my body into him, and wrap my arms around him, pull him into me so that we’re pressed together chest to chest, hip to hip, but the groceries create a barrier; the only obstacle to an otherwise perfect kiss.
I never want it to end, but Wally pulls back, his eye blazing with the promise of what would have come if we continued.
“I want you to come up,
” I whisper.
We’re still so close that we’re sharing one breath, when I speak my lips brush his.
“I would love to,” he whispers back, “but I told Cason I would be at his house thirty minutes ago.”
“And we know how much you hate tardiness,” I joke as he passes me the bags.
He smirks. “I’m willing to throw the rules aside if it means I can spend time with you.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “We’ll see each other when you get back from Baltimore.”
“Yes, Wally.”
He gives me a soft smile, and lightly rubs his tattooed knuckles over my jaw. “Be good, Gideon.”
Chapter 8: Wally
I retrace my steps back to the store where I had left my bike. With every step I take my feet drag, hating the fact that I won’t be able to see Gideon for a whole week. It isn’t lost on me that the only other time I had felt such a quick and strong connection to someone was Doris . . . but I’m not going to think about what that means, it’s too early to be drawing those types of parallels.
Once I reach my bike, I take off down the nearly deserted streets of Seattle until I come to the small house with its blue painted door. I park my bike along the curb and head towards the house, unlocking the door with the key Cason had given me years ago. He’s sitting on the ugly brown couch when I enter, drinking a beer, and the almost empty six pack is sitting on the floor by his feet. The TV is playing a late night infomercial.
“Hey, man,” he greets, putting the bottle to his lips. “You’re late.”
“And you’re drinking. Bad night?”
“Leg’s killing me.”
It’s then that I notice his prosthetic leaning against the wall by the TV. He rubs the area of his thigh that is red and angry from where the prosthetic had been rubbing against his stump all night.
I drop my grocery bag on the coffee table and sink into the chair opposite of Cason, plucking the beer from his fingers and taking a swig. “You’re going to have a hangover tomorrow.”