by Jane Anthony
“Where’s Mama?” I choke out between sobs. The anger rises up my face just saying the title she never deserved.
“You know how your ma is. She dashed in for a second to sign some papers and split just as fast. Gran was cremated this morning.”
All those years she stayed away, but the minute it came time to collect the deed to the ranch she came running. Of course. Anything for a buck. I wouldn’t doubt if she’s been on the phone with realtors all day trying to get it sold as fast as possible. Gran would be rolling over in her grave. That is if Loretta was warm-hearted enough to have given her one.
“Aww, baby girl. Hearin’ you cry just breaks my heart,” Austin goes on, killing me with the kindness ingrained in him from birth. How can he be so damn nice all the time? He should hate me for what I did. Lord knows I hate me. I told him I loved him, kissed him on the mouth, and then caught the midnight bus to the East Coast with a different man. I’m worse than dirt. I’m just like her.
“Look, I’m fixin’ to finish up some stuff down at the stables. It’s okay if I call on you again?” Austin never could stand being around a crying woman; I’m not surprised he wants off the phone the second my tears start.
“Yeah, of course. Thank you, Austin. For …” the constant support, the tender care, taking control, staying to help Gran, and continuing to love me in spite of all I’ve done wrong, “Everythin’.”
“All right, darlin’. You take care of yourself.”
I disconnect the call and curl into a sobbing ball on my bed, feeling so alone. I should have told Gran how much she meant to me. Now, she’s gone, and I’ll never get the chance. The sound of pride in her voice every time I lied about singing drives a stake through my wounded heart. I lied to an old woman, and I let it get so far out of hand.
When the phone rings again, I swipe the screen and answer without looking at the caller ID. “Austin?”
“Guess again, cowgirl. You okay?” AJ’s Yankee tone sounds gruff compared to Austin’s slow Texas style, but the concern in his voice is equal.
Immediately, I regret answering the phone. AJ and I have only scratched the surface of our relationship; I don’t want him to hear me like this. Even still, I find myself answering his question with a brutal honesty that shocks me. “Not even a little bit,” I sob. “My gran died.”
“Oh shit. Do you have to go back for a funeral or something?”
Tears roll down my forearm when I wipe the back of my hand across my sopping cheek. I need to calm down. “No. She’s already been cremated. There won’t be any services.”
“I’m really sorry, Case. Anything I can do?”
“Just … talk to me.”
The line goes so quiet that I would have thought he hung up if not for the loud rock ‘n’ roll music blasting in the background. A few agonizing moments later, he starts talking again. “A woman wants to find a husband, so she puts out an ad. It says ‘I’m looking for a man that won’t hit me, won’t run away, and can satisfy me.’ A week later, she hears a very loud knock at the door. She answers it, and it’s a man with no arms or legs. He says ‘I can’t beat you because I have no arms, and I can’t run away because I have no legs.’ The woman smiles and replies, ‘How do I know you can satisfy me?’ He grins and says ‘How do you think I was knocking?’”
I furrow my brow for a split second before bursting into a strange mixture of cackling laughter and flowing tears. “You’re disturbed.”
“Maybe. But I got you laughing.”
“You did,” I say. The bing-bong sound of the doorbell rings through the apartment, breaking my train of thought. “Hold on a second. Someone’s at my door.”
Strolling past the mirror, I cringe at my own reflection. More so than usual. My eyes are swollen from crying, and my slept on hair looks like I’ve been through the wringer. I twist it into a quick ponytail and wipe my face. I can’t do much about my puffy eyes, but at least whoever is on the other side won’t have to worry about me trying to eat his brains. With the phone nestled snug between my ear and shoulder, I unlock the deadbolt and slide the door open.
“You sound like you need more than a dirty joke, cowgirl.”
AJ’s voice comes through in stereo. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself falling into his arms and savoring the way they feel around me.
“I know how much it hurts, Casey.” He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with his foot while his hand strokes my back. “I’m not gonna lie and tell you the pain will go away. You’ll always carry a piece of it with you because you’ll never stop loving her, but I promise you, even though it doesn’t seem like it now, one day you’ll wake up, and it won’t hurt as bad. You’ll see something that reminds you of her, and instead of tears, you’ll find joy in her memory.”
“This is all my fault. It broke her heart when I ran away.”
Trying to be brave and strong flies right out the window as AJ holds me closer to his body. His scent is a mix of clean cotton, oil, and tobacco, mixed with the sweet spice of cologne, a fragrance that will make me think of him from this moment on. An unending river of tears flows from my eyes, soaking his 2112 shirt while we stand near the door in the living room.
“She gave me everythin’, and I never had a chance to thank her for any of it. All I ever did was lie to her. I’m a huge disappointment. Just like my mother.”
“Nothing you did caused this. I’m sure your grandmother was proud up until her last breath.”
My knees give under the weight of my sorrow. AJ’s arm hooks around them, lifting my feet off the floor. He settles on the couch, setting me on his lap. We stay like this, melting into each other’s embrace, for what seems like an eternity. Until I’m completely empty inside.
“You know,” he says after a while. “Whenever I’m sad, I go in my garage and play the drums. I wail on the set until I’m so spent I no longer have the energy to be sad anymore, and I’m cleansed of whatever is bothering me.” He gently strokes the flyaway hairs back from my hairline and tucks them behind my ear. It’s a simple touch, one meant to comfort me, I’m sure, but the tickling sensation from his fingertips sends a feeling of warmth settling in my stomach. “What helps take your mind off things?”
Sitting up, I wipe away the last of my sob-fest. I’ve never given it much thought. For the last few years, I’ve been in a permanent state of discontent and haven’t really done much of anything. Except …
A lost memory hits me like a tidal wave. I was ten years old, and a boy at school was picking on me, saying having no parents makes me an orphan. All the way home from school, I cried, until I reached the ranch and ran into Gran’s arms. She hugged me tight and said, “Don’t cry about the past and don’t worry about the future. Just live in the present and make it beautiful.” We stayed in the kitchen, rolling dough and eating chocolate chips until I felt like I was ready to burst. Gran was good like that. She always knew what to say in any situation, and when in doubt, she always kept the pantry stocked with dessert ingredients.
“I bake.”
AJ’s brows crease. “You mean, like …” he starts, pressing his thumb and index finger together and bringing it to his lips.
“No, I don’t get baked. I bake. Like cookies and stuff.”
How does he do it? Even when I’m drowning in tears, AJ has the ability to make me laugh.
He rises from the couch, lifting me off his lap, and then sets my feet down gently on the floor. “I like cookies. Let’s give it a shot.”
Chapter Nine
AJ
A light dusting of flour covers every surface of Casey’s kitchen. It’s like a scene from Scarface in here. Not that there are many surfaces to begin with—the room is the size of a matchbox. Almost as if the kitchen was an afterthought when they made this apartment.
Casey stands over a huge mixing bowl, humming along with the radio as she measures out a cup of sugar. I lean against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other just watching. Her hair is in
a ponytail, she’s not wearing a bit of makeup, and her Dallas Cowboys pajama pants do nothing for her figure, but I swear I’ve never seen her more beautiful. Standing at the oven, Casey seems completely at ease. She’s baked two trays of cookies so far, all from memory, and not a single tear fell the whole time.
The earlier sadness in her voice tore me open. It was like reliving the death of my own parents again with every tear that fell from her giant blue eyes. Losing a loved one like that causes irreparable damage. I have an intense need to fix things. It’s what I do when something is broken. I tinker with it until it's whole again. But this problem is unfixable. The only thing I can do is be a friend and keep her mind occupied.
When she pops the cookie sheet into the oven and turns, a wavy strand of gold falls over her face. “Are you sure you don’t have to go back to work? I feel bad keepin’ you.” She pushes the strand away, leaving a small streak of flour in her hair. I reach for her, running my fingers through it and wiping it away.
“I think I’m entitled to one afternoon off. Besides, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
Casey’s lashes are dark and stuck together from crying, tiny crowns gracing each lovely blue eye. Her tongue slips between her lips, moistening them as they part. It leaves a thin sheen of saliva that shines in the midday sunlight beaming through the small kitchen window. I lift the brim of my cap just long enough to scratch my head before plopping it back down—a nervous tic I’ve never been able to shake. Part of me wants to kiss her so badly it aches, but the logical part knows taking advantage of a vulnerable chick is a real douchey move. Still, I can’t seem to tear myself away.
“You have a little chocolate here.”
She swipes her fingertip over the corner of my mouth, letting it graze across my lips before slipping it between them. The taste of sugar explodes on my tongue, from both the cookies and what I’m sure is the natural flavor of Casey’s skin. Everything about this is wrong. She spent the entire afternoon crying on my lap. She’s confused and hurt, and I shouldn’t want her this bad, but fuck, it’s hard to control.
I reach up, closing my fingers around her wrist. “What are you doing to me, Case?” My voice is deep and husky, riddled with want I no longer care to hide. The look in her eyes and the smell of her skin turns me inside out. She knows what she’s doing to me.
At the other end of the room, the doorknob jiggles. Casey jumps as Marisa comes bursting in. Her orange hair is wild, and huge silver earrings dance in the light as they dangle from her ears. I wouldn’t be surprised if her panties were wadded up in a ball in her purse. She’s the very poster child for the walk of shame. “Oh!” she says, hovering in the doorway, a sneaky smile spreading across her too-red lips. “Well, well, well. What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” I reply, pushing off from the counter. “Just making some cookies.”
Marisa looks at Casey, then back at me, with her Joker style grin. She probably thinks I slept here.
“Looks like a whole lot of nothing to me,” she says, walking further into the room. “It’s cool. I ain’t here to judge.” She saunters into her room and closes the door behind her.
I look back toward Casey while shoving my hands into my pockets to adjust myself with stealth. Marisa’s sudden appearance threw water on my libido but not nearly enough. I need a cold shower and a cigarette. “I’m gonna take off for a bit and let you rest.” I push her ponytail off her shoulder and run my fingers through it freely. “But I’ll come back to pick you up tonight if you want.”
“Can’t wait.” She lifts herself onto her toes and presses her lips against my cheek as I back away. “And AJ.” I turn from the open doorway to face her. “Thanks.”
The sun is still high in the sky as I roll past Morello and Tate and into my sister’s driveway. She’s probably going to give me shit for never returning to work after lunch, but whatever.
As usual, music plays through the open windows, loud and brash. Geoff Tate screams in his high-pitched soprano, preaching about religion and sex ruling the world. Meanwhile, back at Casey’s, some dude with two first names was prattling on about the power of prayer. The irony of the situation puts a smile on my face as I jump down from my truck and head for the door.
Not bothering to knock, because no one would hear me anyway, I let myself in and head for the kitchen. My sister is always cooking something. Whether it’s a giant meal, a snack, or baby food, she lives in this kitchen. She’s so much like our mother—it’s scary sometimes.
“Don’t you two have a room?” I grumble as I enter and find Jameson nuzzling her neck from behind while she stirs whatever it is she’s cooking on the stove. He looks up, flashing me that stupid, lazy grin of his.
Originally, the idea of them together was enough to make me want to go on a murder spree. I actually went all alpha and forbade him from going near her, but I guess love has a way of conquering all the obstacles in its path. Fate will always intervene when it’s meant to be. I sound like a chick, but it’s true. Love will find a way. My father loved my mother so much he couldn’t stand to be apart from her. Her death eventually killed him. It’s hard to live with a heart that's so broken.
“It’s my house, motherfucker. If I wanna bend my wife over the table and tap her ass in the dining room, I will.” Jameson stands full height and steps away, punching my shoulder on his way to the fridge. “Again.”
“You’re late,” Jillian jokes. She’s so used to this routine between Jameson and me that it doesn’t even faze her anymore.
She turns to give me a quick hug, and I panic. Usually, I change my shirt before coming over, but with everything that happened this afternoon I forgot. “And you smell like …” A sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin. Jillian may be the size of a large child, but you do not want to piss her off. The last time she caught me smoking, she lost her damn mind and went all Tasmanian devil on my ass. I wait for the inevitable shit storm, but instead, she pinches her brows together, and says “Cookies?”
Why couldn’t she just smell smoke?
“Oh. Yeah. I was with a friend.”
A slow smile grows on her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest. “And you were baking? Would this be a female friend?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Look at his face! Holy shit!” Jameson bellows. It’s not until he points it out that I realize I’m wearing the lamest grin of all time. I feel my face get hot. Thankfully, my skin is dark enough to hide that shit. Jillian got Mom’s snow-white complexion, while I was blessed with an all-year tan like our father.
“Fuck you, dude!” I say, trying my best not to appear like a love-struck idiot in front of my brother-in-law. He’ll never let me hear the end of it. Neither of them will. Ballbusters—both of them!
“Tell me everything,” Jillian insists.
I should have just gone home. There’s a reason I haven’t mentioned my non-relationship with Casey. Because there’s nothing to tell. We had one date. It's way too soon to be involving my crazy family. Especially Jillian.
When she was single, she didn’t care what or who I was doing. Now that she’s married, the topic of my love life is always front and center. Married people are cult leaders. They’re always trying to recruit new members. If she thinks I have even the possibility of a girlfriend, she’ll be naming my kids before I know it.
I bring a bottle of beer to my lips and hope my silence is enough of an indicator that I don’t want to talk about it. Turns out, it’s not. “At least tell me her name!” Jill begs.
“Casey. She works at The Wreck.”
Jillian’s absurdly large eyes grow as big as saucers. “Musician?”
If there’s one person on this planet who loves rock ‘n’ roll as much, if not more, than I do, it's Jill. For me, it’s always been about technique. The way the various pieces fit together seamlessly, each unique sound working together to create something majestic. Each player has his own voice; it’s not just about the singer. Jill is differ
ent. She loves it as a whole. She feels it deep in her bones and uses it to control her moods and her feelings. The soundtrack to her life constantly plays wherever she is.
When we were kids, Jameson and I played music in the garage out back—me on the drums and him on guitar. Jill would sit there for hours just watching us. It didn’t matter that we sucked, just hearing the music made her happy. The idea that I may be involved with a musician would be like completing the circle.
“Bartender.”
Jill turns back to her pot and continues stirring. “Do I get to meet her?”
I take another swig of my bottle and change the subject. “Zakk sleeping?”
My nephew is the perfect segue out of any conversation. The second someone mentions his name, Jill gets all soft and pliable. It’s ridiculous how something so small can have such an enormous impact. The second that little ass-kicker came flying out our family began breathing again.
“Nah,” Jill says with an instant smile. “He’s in his playpen in the other room. I have to feed him, though. You can go get him if you want.”
Zakk’s baby pen sits in the corner of the family room, facing the television. Bert and Ernie dance on the screen singing about ducks and shit, but Zakk looks too amused by the squishy ball in his lap to notice. Black hair pokes up on his head in every direction as he tries his best to shove the entire ball into his mouth.
“Hey, kid. You don’t wanna eat that.” I grab him from his mesh prison, making sure to avoid the V-shaped wet mark on his shirt. I’m told he’s teething, which explains the drool always pouring out of his gummy smile. Wiping his face with a nearby cloth, I carry him into the kitchen where Jillian’s already laid out a pureed feast.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the baby and setting him in his high chair. He smacks the white tray in front of him and shouts, demanding food.
Jameson shoves a spoonful of vegetable mush into Zakk’s waiting mouth. He swallows it down then yells until Jameson does it again. Seeing Jameson with his own kid is bizarre. When we were younger, I was the one on the straight and narrow, and he was the fuck up.