Skin (McCullough Mountain 2)

by Lydia Michaels

  The heavy weight of his father’s gloved palm landed on his shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for. Now, come on home. This shit can wait until Monday.”

  * * * *

  The rain dried up by that afternoon. Mallory was carrying her laundry back from the Laundromat when her breath caught at the sight of Finn’s truck outside her apartment. She did a quick inventory of her appearance. The yoga pants and T-shirt weren’t really working for her, but that was good. They needed to get back to basics and she didn’t want to address the kiss situation again.

  She turned the corner and there he was, leaning up against the railing of her steps, looking all mountain-y delicious. Shit.

  “Hey,” he greeted her, softly.

  She shifted her basket on her hip. “Hey.”

  “I missed you.”

  Alert! Alert! Her heart did something totally inappropriate and seemed to flutter madly in her chest. “How was your week?”

  “Long. How was yours?”

  “The same.”

  They stood in awkward silence for a bit. This was what she feared. They wouldn’t be able to get past the kiss.

  He took a few steps toward her. “Here, I’ll carry that up for you.”

  She was relieved of her basket and headed for the stairs. His steps echoed behind hers as her heartbeat did a drumroll in her ears. When they reached the small landing she reached for her keys, coming up short when she realized she didn’t have pockets.

  Turning, she said, “My keys are in the basket.” Fumbling, she awkwardly fished out the keys. They were too close. The metal turned in the lock and she stilled when he spoke.

  “I like those pants.”

  Change! “Th—thanks.” The door slid open and she quickly dashed inside.

  At the kitchen she busied herself, cursing that she’d done all the dishes that morning.

  Finn dropped the basket on her couch and came to lean his hip into the counter as she pulled out a can of tuna. Tuna salad took a while. She’d make that. Her fingers twisted the can opener and stinky juice spattered on her hand when he startled her by asking, “Should we talk about it?”

  Her shoulders tensed as she proceeded to drain the tuna. “I don’t see why we should.” She dumped the fish into a bowl and began forking the chunks apart.

  “Mallory?” He was standing right beside her.

  She continued to fork and sprinkled some pepper in the bowl.

  “Mallory,” he repeated. “Can you at least look at me?”

  She shut her eyes and wished she were somewhere else.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I thought…it doesn’t matter what I thought. I just want you to know I regret it and I’m sorry.”

  That sounded about right. She knew he would regret anything remotely sexual with her, thus why she didn’t want to ever go there with him. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, skirting past him to grab some fat-free mayo and cottage cheese from the fridge.

  He huffed. “You aren’t acting like it’s okay.”

  “It’s fine, Finnegan. Let’s move on.”

  He caught her elbow and she froze. Electricity zinged up her arm and her insides quivered. He sucked in an audible breath and released her. “I just want you to know it won’t happen again.”

  Relief was quickly followed by a sense of disappointment. “Good. Did you want a tuna melt? I make them on mushrooms.”

  “Sure. Sounds delicious.”

  He abandoned the kitchen and she exhaled. The television clicked on and her mind focused on making their lunch. The weighted silence over the TV was tedious and she never forgot he was sitting only a few feet away. Was he watching her? She was too chicken shit to look.

  When lunch was done, she popped it in the oven for twenty minutes and collected her basket. “I’m going to put these away. I’ll be right back.”

  As she was slipping her panties into a drawer Finn’s phone rang. Her hands stilled and she stopped breathing to listen.

  “Hello? Hey. I don’t know, probably.” He sighed and sounded stressed. “Erin…”

  Mallory’s stomach knotted. Why was she calling him? Was that why he’d been MIA all week? Did they get back together? Was that the main reason he was sorry he kissed her?

  “I’m not going through this again. I can give you a ride to drop off your car, but next time you need to—” His words cut off abruptly, then in a softer voice. “I know. Me too. Yeah.”

  The apartment was quiet and then the door to her bedroom squeaked. “I have to go,” he said, standing in her doorway.

  “Oh. Okay. Is everything all right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I just have to give a friend a hand with something.”

  Friend? Don’t lie to me, Finnegan McCullough. “All right.”

  She shut her drawer and he shifted. “Do you wanna go out tonight?”

  She hesitated. “Where?”

  His shoulder lifted and dropped. “Maybe catch a movie, grab something to eat. We can see if anyone’s hanging out at O’Malley’s.”

  “A movie sounds good. Nothing scary, though.”

  “Big baby.”

  She smiled. That was the first thing he said that made her feel like they were normal again. She could do sarcasm. She was a master at it.

  “I’ll pick you up around seven, how’s that sound?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  He left and the oven beeped. He never got to have lunch.

  * * * *

  That night they went to the Cineplex and saw a raunchy war film with lots of bombs and explosions. Getting past the concession stand was no easy task, but she managed.

  Finn held an enormous bucket of greasy popcorn that smelled orgasmic, but she was fully enjoying her bottle of water. “I have something for you,” he whispered, the soft musk of his woodsy cologne tickled her nose and sent quivers to other parts.

  “You do?”

  He shifted in his seat, lifting his hips. Her eyes locked on the way his zipper curved outward over his jeans and she quickly darted her gaze to the screen.

  “Here.” He produced a yellow apple from his pocket.

  It was just an apple. There was no call for trumpets and doves, but that’s exactly what filled her mind. As though a magical light from heaven shone on that little piece of fruit as angels sang, she stared at the offering and wanted to cry. He’d thought of her and brought an apple, knowing her well enough to predict she wouldn’t let herself snack on the junk they served at the theater.

  His eyes moved under the thick dusting of lashes as he waited for her to take it. Her breath came in low pants as she simply stared at it. That stupid piece of fruit would be her undoing. He wasn’t allowed to do nice things like that if they were to remain platonic.

  “Thanks,” she said, hoping her voice disguised how much the gift meant to her.

  He smiled and faced the screen. As she bit into the juicy Golden Delicious, he sipped noisily from his Slurpee. On the screen, people died and tanks blew up, but nothing was as entertaining as the replay in her mind of him offering her an apple.

  When the movie let out, they walked through the dark lot and found his truck. He opened her door and she frowned. He needed to stop doing nice things. Guys at home didn’t open doors. Even Joe, Ally’s husband, who doted on her whenever he had the chance, never opened Ally’s door.

  “Wanna grab some dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  Your body. “Salad.”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “O’Malley’s does a grilled chicken Caesar. Wanna go there?”

  “Okay.”

  On the way to the bar they listened to the radio. Finn liked country and that seemed fitting. The lot was full when they parked and while she opened the passenger door of the truck, he held it, and shut it.

  “Th—thanks.”

  The pub was busy. He directed her to a booth in the back and she tried hard not to tense as he placed his warm palm just above her b
utt. Breathe and knock it off!

  Kelly waved and sent a waitress over. She was perky and everything Mallory was not. “Hey, Finn, what can I get you guys tonight?”

  Yup, you’re just one of the guys…

  Finn ordered a burger for himself and a salad for her. “What to you want to drink, Philly?”

  “I’ll take a Cosmo.”

  The waitress raised a brow and jotted down their order on a little pad. What? Did people not do martinis around here?

  When the waitress left, Finn reclined in his seat, his arm draped over the back. He had great, rugged hands, creased at the knuckles, and sort of permanently beaten up from work.

  Oh my God, there is something wrong with you! Stop looking at his hands!

  She pulled over the little rack filled with sugars and began shuffling and reorganizing them. The waitress returned and plopped down Finn’s draft and her martini. Her fingers curled around the glass as she brought it to her lips for a sip. “Hoo! That’s got a kick!”

  Finn chuckled. “Should I be preparing for another evening in your bathroom?”

  “Maybe. You know I’m an awesome toilet pow-wow talker.”

  He laughed. “Pretty much.”

  A man walked by with a large speaker and she frowned.

  “There’s a band tonight,” Finn said, obviously catching her confusion.

  “What kind of band?”

  He arched his neck to read the chalkboard behind the bar. “Gridlock 64. They’re great. They do a little bit of everything.”

  “Country?”

  “More rock and stuff. This place will be a madhouse once they start.”

  She sipped her Cosmo. “Do you dance?”

  He laughed. “I try not to.”

  “Not unless someone’s chasing you?”

  “No, when something’s chasing me I run. I usually only dance if someone’s shooting at my feet.”

  She grinned. “I’ll get my gun.”

  Their food was delivered and by the time the band took the stage and opened with a familiar alternative rock ballad, they were finished eating and the crowd had doubled. The waitress refreshed their drinks and they watched as people began to fill the area where tables had been pushed back.

  “Did you want to dance?” Finn shouted.

  “I don’t have my gun.”

  He grinned. “We’ll call it a favor. You’ll owe me one.”

  She eyed the stage and the crowd. The band was singing Friends in Low Places. “I don’t know how to dance to this.”

  People passed as they watched the crowd. This was the busiest O’Malley’s had ever been since she’d started coming there. She wondered where all these young people hid throughout the workweek, because she didn’t recognize half of them. The band must be great. Everyone seemed to have come out to hear them play.

  The song ended and the crowd cheered. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” the lead singer asked over the microphone. “How ’bout we start this night off with a social. If you got a drink, hold it up. If you don’t, get one. Now lift it up and when I say drink, everyone drink. Drink!” The people cheered and the bass and guitar player folded into a rhythm. “Now let’s have some fun, Center County. We’re Gridlock 64 and we’re here until one, so tip your bartenders and servers and come out and dance.”

  Blue lights transformed the stage as steam coiled through the dancers. They had a great sound, a nice, alternative twang. Finn stood. “Come on, Philly, let’s see if you can dance in those shoes.”

  She’d worn her tangerine pumps with black pants and a plain, black shirt. They weren’t the best for dancing, but she’d done her fair share of clubbing back in the day. She could hold her own.

  The ‘dance floor’ was packed. Finn slipped behind her as they found a niche to claim. She moved to the beat and burst out laughing when she saw Finn’s moves. They were from an era way before their time.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted over the music. It was much louder this close to the stage.

  “What? This is my signature move. How about this? I call this the lawn sprinkler.”

  He clamped his hand on the back of his head and extended his other arm outward, ticking it slowly in clockwise motion then drawing it back like a sprinkler.

  She laughed. “You’re going to have to stop doing that, right now.”

  He shrugged and went back to his horrible impersonation of she didn’t know what. It was like Emilio Estevez dancing in The Breakfast Club, but on crack and mingled with parts of The Hustle. He was hysterical and made it tempting to stop caring what others thought and just let loose and have fun.

  “How about this one,” she said. “I call it the shopping cart.” Her feet marched in place as one hand steered an invisible cart and the other arm reached for invisible items on a shelf, pretending to plop them in the cart.

  His head tipped back as he laughed. “Awesome! Remember Thriller?” He went into full zombie lurch.

  Invigorated, she jumped back, held out her hand as the other one swatted out several air spanks. Finn turned and did an Apache-like-booty dance. Even when he was acting like an ass, his ass looked great.

  “I call this the SpongeBob.” She started kicking her legs out like a little Russian soldier. They’d fallen into a full-blown dance off.

  “This is the lawn mower,” he yelled as he bent like he was repeatedly yanking a cord. Her face hurt from smiling.

  She busted out her sweetest surfer moves and jerked to a halt when someone’s hands were suddenly fondling her butt. Her gaze snapped behind her where some drunk guy was laughing. Finn’s smile morphed into a death stare.

  “Hey! Hands off!”

  The guy held up his palms and thrust his hips. “Aw, come on, dude. She’s got plenty to go around.”

  Mortification gutted her as she caught the asshole’s words shouted over the band’s music.

  Finn took a deadly step forward. “What the fuck did you just say?”

  “Finn,” she said, used to those sorts of comments, but her voice was suddenly small and he didn’t seem to hear her.

  The guy said something back and Finn towered over him, pushing her behind his broad back. She pressed against him, trying to break them apart, but the band was killing it and the throng of dancers crowded her to the point she could barely move. No one seemed to notice what was happening.

  “Apologize,” Finn growled.

  She tugged on his shirt. “Come on, Finnegan. Let’s go back to the table.” He ignored her.

  “Yeah, go back to your table. You’re probably hungry from staring at her muffin top all day,” the guy said and she flinched.

  Finn looked back at her quickly and the pity she recognized mixing with panic in his eyes slayed her. She blinked back tears of humiliation and whispered, “Let’s go.”

  His lips formed a thin line and he scowled, but thankfully nodded, and exhaled. Assholes were everywhere. She was used to it.

  “Hey, tonight when you’re tapping that, you might want to try some fantasy play. I highly recommend the Princess Leah in the gold bikini. She can be Jabba the Hut.”

  “Motherfucker,” Finn hissed and turned. The next thing she knew people were screaming and the asshole was on the floor.

  She panicked and turned to the bar just as Kelly was leaping over the counter. He pushed her aside and yanked his brother back. She couldn’t take anymore. Everything erupted into absolute chaos and she forced her way through the dancers and rubberneckers to escape to the bathroom. Once in there she locked herself in a stall, dropped to the seat, and started to cry.

  Her fingers struggled to pull a reasonable length of toilet paper out of the jammed dispenser, which only upset her more. The music stopped and all she could make out was the sound of people talking. Hopefully Kelly broke it up before anyone got hurt.

  She glanced down at her feet. They were slightly swollen from dancing. The entire evening was a waste. Sometimes she hated being her. She’d been having so much fun, really enjoying the live mus
ic, and then some dickless ass-clown had to molest her and call her names.

  The names she could take. No matter what he said, it didn’t erase the fact that he’d had his hands all over her. He’d obviously seen her as an easy kill and was offended when she—the chubby girl on the dance floor—rejected him. But it wasn’t what he said that hurt. It was the fact that he’d said those things in front of Finn.

  She’d heard it all. Guys at school used to call her peanut butter because she was extra chunky. Once, at a party in college, some bitch sang Carole King’s I Feel the Earth Move the moment Mallory walked in. People had beeped when she’d backed up, called her Fat Sajak, blubbers, and worse. She was immune.

  The door opened and she sucked in a breath, trying to be invisible.

  “Mallory?”

  Her head snapped up. Finn? Shh. Don’t say anything. Make him think you left.

  He tapped on the stall door. “Hey, Mallory, you in there?” She remained silent. There was no way she was letting him catch her crying in some bathroom after what just happened. “I can see your feet.”

  Fuck.

  “This is the ladies’ room,” she hissed.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Are you? You’re the one who decided to go Old West and punch the guy.”

  “He deserved it.” They were both silent for a moment. “He’s gone now.”

  Great. Nothing like making the walk of shame back to her table after being the cause of a spectacle. “Okay.”

  The door jiggled and her spine stiffened. “Open the door.”

  “Finnegan! I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Are you peeing?”

  Her face scrunched as she stared at the chipped paint on the stall in total shock. “No!”

  A few seconds passed. Quietly, he asked, “Pooping?”

  “Oh my God! Get. Out!”

  He didn’t sound bothered. “Will you come back to the table? I was having fun dancing with you.”

  Yeah, there’d be no more dancing for this girl for a while. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”