Sated and wrapped in thick bath towels, I carry her into the bedroom and take her again, warming us both in an old fashioned way.
Breathless and flushed, she sprawls across my chest as I stroke the silk of her hair, feeling like the world is a better place because of this woman.
“Justin…”
I hear the hesitancy in her voice, and my hand stills on the back of her head.
“Yeah?”
She lifts her eyes to mine, holding my gaze as her lips tremble.
“I know this is terrible timing…”
“Whatever it is, just say it.” Just don’t say it’s over.
She takes a deep breath.
“Why me, Justin? Is it because I’m … convenient?”
Hot, red anger flares through me, colored with darker shades of sadness.
“What the fuck have I done that would make you think that?” I ask roughly.
Her eyes are glossy with tears.
“Because you’re amazing and gorgeous and loyal and only thirty-three. And I’m ordinary and boring and forty-one. My thighs high five each other when I walk.”
I’m having a hard time understanding the turn in conversation; I was expecting her to kick me to the curb, but she’s telling me that she’s insecure? This wonderful, caring woman thinks she’s just convenient? But even though I’m just a dumb grunt, I know that now isn’t the time to be angry with her.
“Rachel, no, baby! I had a hard-on for you the first time I met you. You’re a goddess in the bedroom and a demon in the kitchen. Could be the other way around.” I take a deep breath. “But I … um … you know, the love thing … because you’re so fucking sweet, you’re kind, you’re so smart, and you have a way of seeing the good in people.”
Her smile looks tortured.
“The ‘love thing’?”
“Ah, sheesh, don’t make me say it!”
Slowly the pain recedes from her face and her sweet pink lips curve into a small smile.
“Maybe I need to hear it, Justin.”
I suck in a lungful of sex-scented air. Time to grow a pair of big, round, hairy cojones.
“Fine. I fucking love you.”
Her lips quiver, torn between tears and smiling. I’m relieved when she chooses to smile.
“Eloquent as ever. I love you, too, by the way.”
I pull her into my arms, holding her close.
“Rachel, I don’t have smooth moves. I can’t sweet talk you. I don’t do that shit. But I’d take a bullet for you, baby. Every fuckin’ day of my life, I’d take a bullet for you. So don’t ever doubt what you mean to me. And don’t ask me to say it again.”
Her reply is a whisper.
“Thank you, Justin. I won’t.”
MOIRA ADDAMS, Attorney at Law, is one scary beast from the Black Lagoon. Her eyes are colder than a Polar Bear’s dick, and she’s got a handshake like a Russian Spetsnaz sergeant. I’m happy she’s on my side.
Her offices are a block from DMA Tower, and her conference room projects a picture of authority. It’s also stripped down; nothing sweet or feminine here. The furniture is industrial and uncomfortable. I can’t help thinking she’d be right at home in Anderson’s meditation room. Except she’s not his type, and definitely not into dudes.
She’s thin and angular; nothing soft about Ms. Addams. I’m not surprised that her nickname is Morticia.
She’s also a bigger shark than Carla’s hotshot lawyer, making him squirm like a tadpole, and that’s just over the phone. I can’t wait for them to meet in person. I think she might actually bring thumbscrews. I’m betting odds she has a dungeon in her office basement. It’s where she puts the clients who don’t pay on time. I can’t help shuddering, relieved that she’s on Anderson’s payroll; especially when I find out that she bills at $1200 an hour.
Kids, if you’re reading this, stay in school and be a pointy-toothed lawyer.
And if you are a kid reading this, you’re so fucking grounded.
The interview goes like this:
Morticia: Well, Mr. Trainer. I have spoken to your ex-wife’s lawyer, Frank Fordham. Frankly, she should have come to me.
Dumb Grunt: Um… [Thank Christ she’s on my side. I think.]
Morticia: We’ll cut him off at the knees. [And I mean that literally.]
Dumb Grunt: Ah… [I bet you use a dry cleaning service to get the blood stains out of your suits.]
Morticia: I’ve filed the paperwork to modify the custody order, and I’m confident the judge will rule in our favor. [Or I’ll make her life a living hell.]
Dumb Grunt: That sounds…
Morticia: I’ll send Anderson my bill.
Dumb Grunt: Thank y—
Morticia: And next time tie a knot in it so you don’t knock up a woman who hates your guts.
Dumb Grunt: …
Morticia: Merry Christmas.
I can see why she and Anderson get along.
Rachel is waiting for me at home.
“How did your meeting with the lawyer go?”
“Pretty good, I think. She’s going to get it fast-tracked—I didn’t ask how—and she says I’ll be seeing Lilly on Christmas Eve.”
Rachel’s face softens and I can see the tension drain away. She was worried for me. My whole body warms with that thought. I haven’t had anyone care about me like that in a long, long time.
She rests her head against my chest and I hold her. For once, it’s not sexual. I’ll always want her, but the peace in this moment is something that I crave. Usually, I try not to be inside my head too much because I don’t like the thoughts and memories rattling around in there, but right now, I can imagine a lifetime of holding this woman in my arms. That should worry me, but it doesn’t.
Eventually, she loosens her arms, kissing my cheek as she slides away from me.
“Dinner in twenty minutes.”
I watch her moving around the kitchen, calm and competent. I like watching her, and I don’t mean that in a creepy way. I just like the way she moves, the way she seems to be doing three things at once, but nothing is rushed.
Feeling better for being home, I loosen my tie, kick off my shoes and put my feet up on the coffee table. I should go shower, but you know what? I can’t be bothered.
I’m checking emails on my phone and watching the game on TV when Rachel returns from serving Anderson dinner. Other than cleaning up after him later, which never takes her long, we’re pretty much off the clock now. I look forward to these quiet moments.
“Since the Bears are playing, I thought you’d enjoy a TV dinner,” she smiles.
“That sounds great, babe. Wait, you know that the Bears are playing?”
She laughs, shaking her head at me.
“I didn’t think it was a secret.”
“No, but … I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you liked football.”
“I don’t mind it. When Allison and I were little, we used to watch it with our dad. We’d pile onto the sofa with milk and cookies and he’d explain all the plays to us. He probably wished he had boys, so he was making the best of it. He loved having Bill and Brian over to watch with—finally got the sons he wanted.”
It sounds like the Waltons to me. I don’t have any memories like that.
“Dad would have loved you, too,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
Neither of Carla’s parents liked me much. They wanted a college-educated guy for her. I can’t blame them. I want that for Lilly—not for a couple of decades—but a guy who has a nice, safe office job. A guy who’ll come home every night and have clean fingernails. More than I ever gave her mom.
Rachel frowns, watching me carefully, then walks across and leans down to kiss me.
“I mean it, Justin. Dad would have adored you. Almost as much I do.”
She slips away as I try to make the kiss deeper.
“Dinner’s ready.”
She returns from the kitchen with two lap trays of … purple food?
“Moussak
a,” she laughs as I poke at the eggplant with my fork. “I’m working on a new recipe. Just try it.”
It’s good. Of course it’s good.
“Not bad,” I say, grinning at her so she knows I’m not serious.
She doesn’t rise to the bait, just smiles at me and I smile back.
I kinda like smiling these days. Who knew?
After a few minutes of watching the game, Rachel crinkles her eyes.
“Those aren’t the Bears playing.”
“You only just noticed?”
She huffs softly.
“So who are we watching?”
“Vandals versus Fighting Illini.”
“Oh, College football? I know the Illini, but who are the others?”
“University of Idaho.”
“Because you’re from there?”
I feel a tug in my belly. I don’t like talking about where I grew up. It wasn’t much of a home.
“Yeah,” I reply shortly, but because I see the disappointment on Rachel’s face, I keep talking. “Bonners Ferry. Real small town, only thirty miles from Canada.” The school mascot was a badger. Don’t know why I was reminded of that. “Most of the kids either went into the services or lumber. No way I was going into lumber like my old man.”
There’s a short silence.
“You’ve never mentioned your father before.”
I push my plate away, appetite gone. That happens on the rare occasions I think about the asshole, or the rarer times I talk about him.
“He wasn’t a good father, definitely not a good husband. The only good thing about him was that he used to be away a lot. He headed up crews who went deep into the forests for logging: bigger, older trees. It was better when he was away. One day he went away and never came back. Heard he was shacked up with a waitress from the next town over.”
“And … and your mom?”
I shrug, wishing I’d never started this.
“We’re not in touch.”
Rachel has stopped eating, too. She’s staring at me like I’m a broken toy. I don’t like it. I don’t like that feeling. I became a Marine so I wouldn’t have to feel like that anymore.
There were a lot of guys like me in the Marines—men and women looking to trade up on the families they’d been given. It’s no surprise that there are more foster kids in the armed forces than in any other profession.
Rachel is still watching me with a worried expression.
“When was the last time you talked to your mom?”
I run my hands over my hair and take a deep breath, pushing away my growing irritation. I’m not annoyed with Rachel but with myself. After all this time, after everything I’ve achieved, it still gets to me.
“I asked her to fly over for Lilly’s Christening. She said she didn’t have the money, so I sent her a check for the airfare. She cashed the check but never showed and I never heard from her again. I’m done making excuses for her.”
I don’t remember my mom ever coming to any of my football games, and she never came to a parent-teacher meeting. As long as I attended school and wasn’t getting a failing grade, she fed me, put clothes on my back and she never hit me, but she never showed much interest in me either. It’s hard to admit that. Makes me feel weak and worthless.
Rachel takes my tray from my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and leaning into me.
“You’re a wonderful man, Justin. Hard working, loyal, a loving father. It’s her loss.”
I want to believe her so badly.
Chapter 18
My Girl 2
“YOU ASSHOLE!”
Oh, hark! The sweetly lilting tones of the ex-wife.
“Nice to hear from you, Carla.”
“You absolute fucking asshole!”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!”
“You lose points for repetition.”
I know exactly why she’s calling and I’m going to enjoy every second of this.
I can hear her breathing hard, and mentally I’m imagining smoke coming out of her nostrils and fire out of her ass. Sometimes it’s really hard to remember that we ever loved each other enough to create a baby, a little girl as special as Lilly.
And she’s the only reason I’m hanging onto the frayed threads of my temper when I take the call at work one evening.
“Do you really want to screw up Christmas for Lilly? Are you that much of an…”
“Asshole?
“Aaaaaagh!”
She screams so loudly, I have to hold the phone a foot away from my ear. She’s set off the fucking tinnitus again, and that pisses me off.
Most guys and gals who’ve served in the military get fucked up hearing. Being around weapons discharging and explosions will do that to you. Half the artillery guys you’ll meet are stone deaf. Robin Williams totally nailed that scene in Good Morning, Vietnam.
When the yelling dies down, I wonder whether to hang up or see if Armageddon has been averted. If not, Arm-a-geddin-out-of-here.
“Justin…”
“Wow, you remembered my name.”
“Don’t be an even bigger asshole than you already are.”
“Did you call just to yell at me, because I thought it might be fun to go try and cure my constipation instead. Seems like it’s already working though.”
“You’re vile!”
“Bye, Carla.”
“Justin, wait!”
“You have ten seconds before I hang up.”
“You’re screwing up Lilly’s Christmas.”
I clench my jaw and spit out words between gritted teeth.
“I just want to see my daughter.”
“We’ve already made plans and if you go ahead with this bullshit visitation order, you’ll be responsible for ruining your daughter’s Christmas.”
“I repeat: I just want to see my daughter on Christmas Eve. You get her for the rest of the holidays.”
“I already told you! We’ve made plans!”
“Jesus, Carla! She’s six years old! She doesn’t make plans.”
“No, I mean we already…”
Her words trail off as she realizes that she’s made a mistake.
“So who have you made plans with, Carla?”
“My mother,” she snaps back.
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. She’s seeing some limp-wristed asswipe and has made plans with him that involve Lilly.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
“I’ll be at the house at 9:30AM. Don’t make me come looking for you, Carla.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fucking promise.”
“Congratulations on ruining your daughter’s Christmas, Justin.”
She hangs up.
Talking with my ex-wife is less fun than an enema with much the same result. Shit happens.
WHEN I WAKE up on Christmas Eve, Rachel is in my arms, her soft golden hair spread across my chest, and one hand cradled over my hip. I’m hard, but I try to ignore it, instead enjoying the peaceful puffs of her quiet breaths washing over my skin.
It’s pretty fuckin’ perfect, until I glance at my watch and see that it’s time to let the Chief Head Case off the leash.
With extreme reluctance, I slide out of bed and tug on sweats and sneakers. And my Smith & Wesson. I don’t take a shit without that.
That sounded bad. Maybe I should say I don’t leave home without my weapon. Either of ‘em.
Anderson arrives at the penthouse lobby the same time I do and we nod at each other.
“Sir.”
“Trainer.”
And that’s all the communication until we arrive back forty-five minutes later, sweating like hogs on a Texas ranch.
I shower quickly while Rachel works in the kitchen, preparing food for the beast from 20,000 fathoms. After that, she’s heading out for some last minute shopping, then driving over to her sister’s later. I was invited but I figured they’d already put up
with me for Thanksgiving and I didn’t want to wear out my welcome, especially since Allison still thinks I’m vegetarian.
I pull on jeans and a long-sleeved gray tee, then strap on the Smith & Wesson again. Carla hates me wearing a gun around Lilly. It’s not my favorite thing to do either, but the time you need a weapon and don’t have it, is the time you’re severely fucked and don’t even get a thank you in the morning.
“I don’t often see you in jeans, Justin.”
“Missing the suit?”
“Not necessarily. You look very handsome in either.”
“You know it, babe.”
“A little humility, Justin?”
“Nope, life is too short. Now give me those gorgeous lips.”
She shakes her head, backing away from me.
“I just fixed my makeup and now I have to serve Mr. Anderson’s breakfast. Behave yourself!”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I call after her.
I’m only half-teasing, but she’s too professional to let me get away with that crap.
A few minutes later, I’m saying goodbye to her. It’s only for two days, but I hate it all the same. I’m aware it’s pussy behavior, but when you meet someone who treats you well and makes you feel like you’re a decent human being after all, when just being in the same room as them makes the fucking sun shine, you don’t want to let them out of your sight. Even more so at Christmas.
But I’m not going to be a possessive asshole with Rachel. I want her to be happy more than I want it for myself. Wow, I must be growing as a person.
Good to know.
“I’ll miss you, Justin.”
“Your sister won’t.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I seem to remember she rather liked looking at you, especially your cute little tush.”
I cringe.
“Babe, please! ‘Cute’ and ‘tush’ are not words that belong in a sentence about me. And jeez, Allison? Really?”
I do not need that image in my head.
She laughs, then makes the world a better place by kissing me on the mouth, her lips warm and sweet-tasting against mine.
“I’ve left your present under the tree.”
Yeah, we have a Christmas tree in the staff quarters. I came home one evening and found this gimpy little three-foot high silver tinsel tree, all decorated with lights and ornaments.
Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 20