by Freya Barker
“True,” I concede, a little disappointed at the practical considerations, but I shake it off.
The rest of the drive is silent, although I can feel Ben glancing over every so often. When he pulls into a parking spot, around the corner from the hardware store, he turns off the engine and twists his body to face me.
“Not sure what thoughts are going around in there,” he says, tapping a finger to my forehead. “But fit this one in there; you are far from a convenience.”
“So now I’m an inconvenience?” I say, turning my head away. I’m not sure where that comes from, but it’s out before I can stop it. Petty, stress-induced word games. It’s childish and I’m immediately ashamed, but when I turn back, Ben’s already getting out of the car. “Ben...” I plead, scrambling to get out on my side when he throws his door shut.
I have to run to catch up with his long strides and manage to grab his arm right before he turns the corner.
“Stop. Hold on a sec.”
He turns around and I try to read his eyes, but his expression is impassive.
“That was just a dumb thing to say. I...”
“Ya think?” he counters with a snort, before grabbing my upper arms and pushing me with my back against the brick wall. “Trust, Isla,” he bites off between clenched teeth, his forehead almost touching mine. “You’ve gotta trust that what comes out of my mouth is exactly what I mean. No more, no less. Don’t project your insecurities on my intentions.” He lets go of my arms and takes a step back. “That’s a battle I can’t win for you.”
“Wait,” I call out, rushing after him when he starts walking away. My heart is in my throat and my stomach is doing flips, but that doesn’t stop me from launching myself at him, hanging on to his neck and burying my face there.
His arms catch me, just as I knew they would.
“I’m sorry. Please, let me be sorry,” I whisper in his ear like a mantra, ignoring the odd looks we’re getting in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Babe,” he rumbles, letting me slide down and peeling my arms from around his neck. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, Ben. I don’t know why I say shit like that,” I admit, close to tears.
“Stress,” he says, tagging me behind my neck and pulling my head into his chest, leaning his chin on top. “Both of us. We need to slow down.”
“Yes,” I mumble. His hand finds mine clenched in his jacket next to my face, and carefully untangles it, slipping his fingers between mine.
“Let’s get some paint,” he says, gently tugging me along.
Forty-five minutes later, we have twelve gallons of paint loaded in the back of the Toyota. Not enough, but a good start.
“Can we stop at the print shop?” I ask when Ben pulls out of the parking spot. “I need to pick up some new memory cards for the camera, and I want see if Nate has those prints ready I want to give the guys.”
It had been Ben’s idea, actually; when I mentioned wanting to do something for the guys as a thank you for their hard work, he’d suggested getting a print done for each of them. I ended up with pictures of each of the guys at work on the house. Some I already had, and some I went out and shot specifically. I sent the files over to Nate last week.
“Sure,” Ben says casually. “I’ll pick up something quick for dinner. Fast food okay?” I chuckle. From what he tells me, he existed on fast food most of his life, and gets a craving every now and then.
“Wendy’s is around the corner,” I point out.
“I know.” He turns to me with a grin before turning east on Main Street. “I’ll pick you up around the corner,” he says a few minutes later, dropping me off in front of Southwest.
Nate is busy with a customer when I walk in, so I have a look at the display of memory cards on the far counter. I have my selection made when I hear the door close and Nate walks up.
“They’re not done. The color wasn’t right,” he says by way of hello. “I’m running the print again tonight, after I close up, and will have them for you tomorrow afternoon. That okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll pop in tomorrow or the day after. We were just in the neighborhood, I thought I’d take a chance,” I explain, handing him the memory cards to ring up. “What do you think of the website?” I ask, following him to the cash register.
“Not bad,” he says. “It could do with a bit of tightening up, but you’ve got a bit of traffic going over it already.”
“Seriously?” I’m pleased as hell. I didn’t expect anyone to look unless I told them to. “How did they find it?”
“I made it a little more visible. Checked with Jen to see if we could link it to her website, and she checked with the gallery. Your link is up on both. People who visit the coffee shop, or the gallery, can easily find your work now.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
“Thank you so much. I never got that far.”
“I’ll get my buddy to look at the site itself. See if he can’t put a few moving graphics and some music on. Make it a bit more interactive. It’ll take off,” he says, handing me my change.
“I appreciate it, Nate. Why don’t you give me a call when the prints are ready?”
“Yup,” he answers, lifting just two fingers when I walk out the door.
I don’t expect Ben to be back yet, so I turn down Beech Street to pick up a bunch of large padded envelopes for the guys’ prints. I’m having them mounted the same way Nate did the prints for the gallery, on thin rigid board.
The post office isn’t that busy. I’m in and out pretty fast and walk back toward Main Street, keeping an eye out for Ben.
I’m just crossing the alley that runs parallel to the main thoroughfare, all along the downtown, when an engine revs to my left. All I see is a flash of white from the corner of my eye, and I instinctively throw myself forward, landing hard on my hands and knees. Behind me there’s a screech of tires, and when I turn my head, I can just see the back of a white sedan turning the corner at the post office.
“Are you okay?” An older man comes walking out of the barbershop and helps me to my feet, collecting the envelopes that flew from my hands when I fell.
“I’m okay,” I assure him. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He looks at me oddly as he hands me the envelopes.
“Not sure it was on you,” he says. “Saw that car speed off, they sure were in a hurry to get out of here.”
Of course Ben picks this moment to pull up beside us. I quickly thank the man and climb into the passenger seat.
“What happened?” he asks right away.
“I fell. Well, technically, I almost got hit by a car.” I can immediately feel the charge in the car as Ben’s eyes turn to slits.
“What?”
“I wasn’t looking,” I quickly explain. “All I saw was a white blur and I jumped. Nothing happened. The old guy came to help me up, that’s all.” Ben grabs for my hands and turns them over. My palms are a little scraped but nothing major.
“Anywhere else?” he snarls, sounding almost mad at me.
“I may have bruises on my knees tomorrow, but really, it’s no big deal,” I try to reassure him.
“You get hurt, it’s a big deal to me,” he grumbles, turning the key in the ignition.
“Smells good. Did you get fries?” Ben glares at me for a moment, before reaching into the back seat and pulling out a brown paper Wendy’s bag.
“Eat. But don’t think for one minute you’re distracting me.”
CHAPTER 12
Ben
“You won’t need the space heaters,” Jim says, when I find him in the master bath, installing the showerhead. “Furnace is up and running.” He turns to me with a big grin on his face.
The guys have been working like mad these last couple of days, running lights along with their power tools off of the generator, so they could keep working into the night.
“No shit?”
“We’re out of here tonight. I’ll leave the furnace running overnight to get the chill from the h
ouse, and I’ll come back around noon tomorrow to do a last walk-through with you; make sure everything is working as it should. But other than that, we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Make sure you stop at the trailer before you head out. Isla’s gonna be pissed if she doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”
“Will do.”
She would be too. She picked up the prints a couple of days ago, signed and left a personal message on every one of them. I’m sure the guys will get a kick out of them. I asked her to pick up a bottle of scotch for each of them as well, my way of saying thanks. For nearly two months, we’ve seen these guys every day, ate with them, worked side by side with them—it’s going to be quiet when they’re gone.
I get the feeling winters are going to be long up here. Not sure how we would’ve fared if we’d had to wait for spring to build, but I’m glad we don’t need to find out. As it is, it’s been a little tense with Isla and me.
They say purchasing a house, or in our case building one, can make for the most stressful times in a relationship. I don’t really have much experience to draw from, but I’d have to say it certainly doesn’t help. Nor does the fact that we’re no closer to figuring out who sent that picture. I wish we could brush it off, but it’s too damn personal for that. It hit Isla right where it hurts, and it has me racking my brain to come up with a person I can attach to it. Other than that I agree with Damian, it’s got to be a woman, I’m no further on that front.
Then this morning, when I popped back into the trailer to grab my phone I’d forgotten, Isla startled and slammed her laptop shut. Not sure what that was all about, but it sure as fuck made for an awkward moment. She’s hiding something, and although I’m tempted to sneak onto her computer to find out, I can’t do it. Not when I’ve been preaching trust to her. It’s messing with my head.
Tomorrow is Sunday. We’ll have three days to get painting started, and then Wednesday morning; we leave for Albuquerque. I’m hoping that trip will be good. Get away for a bit. Besides, it’s been too damn long since I’ve seen Stacie and Mak, who’s probably grown another foot.
I leave Jim in the bathroom and walk-through the master suite and down the short hall into the living area: a big, open living/dining space, with the kitchen on the other side of it. The master bedroom, the great room, and the kitchen are all at the front, facing the reservoir. The roof over the center of the house has a steep peak over the great room, making for high cathedral ceilings inside and massive windows that showcase a fantastic view. The entire house is one level with three bedrooms, or in our case, two bedrooms and one study. The spare and the study plus the second bath are on the backside of the house. There’s a main entrance behind the kitchen, off the side of the house. We opted for a small basement, just below the kitchen, with a set of stairs leading down beside the main entrance. The furnace and water heater are down there, as is a cold storage room. Laundry is on the main level, on the backside of the house, with a door from the main entrance.
It’s not huge, but it feels big because of the high ceilings in the center of the house. I’m planning to build a deck in front of the big windows of the living room and a small porch off the master bedroom. All plans for the spring.
I slip outside through one of the doors on either side of the living room windows. Pretty sure tonight will be another frosty one, the air is cool and crisp on my face as I make my way to the four-wheeler, but I can smell evidence of Isla’s cooking from the trailer below.
“How much did you make?” I ask her, when I step into the trailer a few minutes later. She turns from the stove to face me, a curious smile on her face.
“Why? Are you hungry?”
“That,” I admit, “and I told Jim to stop by before they take off. They’re done.”
Isla’s smile breaks wide open.
“For real?”
“Jim’s gonna come back to walk us around tomorrow and sign off on the job. Looks like we’ll be painting.” I chuckle when she starts jumping up and down. Suddenly she stops and her face falls.
“I’m going to need more garlic bread from the freezer.” She turns her back and starts pulling things from the fridge and cupboards, her movements rushed and slightly frantic.
“All of them?” I ask.
A sharp nod and a mumbled “Uhhuh” is the only response I get.
By the time the wheels of the two pickup trucks crunch over the gravel path, there’s a fire burning in the fire pit. The venison stew Isla was making has been expanded with potatoes and vegetables, and the last of the garlic bread is coming out of the oven. Grudgingly, I dive into my beer stash on Isla’s instructions, to grab a twenty-four for the guys, just as they come sauntering up to the picnic tables.
Despite the fact everyone is tired, the mood is celebratory and it isn’t until we’re well into my second case of beer that Jim gets up and calls it a night.
“Wait!” Isla jumps up from where she’s been huddled under a quilt by the fire, listening to the guys talk, and surreptitiously snapping a picture here or there. “Give me a hand, Ben?” I follow her inside and grab the tote with bottles before letting her load me up with a couple of her prints. She carries the rest outside herself.
After handing out the scotch, shaking hands, and slapping shoulders, I stand off to the side and watch Isla as she says her goodbyes. If these guys didn’t love her already, they certainly would after tonight. She knows something about every one of them—the name of a spouse, a sick parent, a child’s performance—she has them all eating from her hand. The prints are a big hit and every last one of the guys promises to come back during the summer and bring their families.
“You good?” I ask; slipping my arm around her as we watch the trucks drive off.
“Gonna be quiet,” she says, tilting her head back, giving me a watery smile.
“I know,” I acknowledge. “But we’re gonna be too busy to notice,” I remind her. “We’ve got a house to paint and floors to lay.”
-
“Ben?” Isla’s fingers trail through my chest hair, drawing lazy patterns.
I’m almost asleep after she rode me hard and fast, my hands holding onto her hips, and my mouth on her perky tits. What little energy I had drained away with every spurt of my cum inside her.
“Hmmm.”
“Do you really want a dog?”
Isla
I flinch at the loud gurgle of my Keurig when I hit the button for my coffee.
I was up early and left Ben snoring in bed. I’m eager to get this day started; head up to the house and slap some paint on those walls, but he’s been working hard––seven days a week, ever since the house went up, so I figure he deserves to sleep in for once. The paint will wait till he gets up. My need for caffeine has run out of patience.
When my cup is brewed, I peek around the corner, fingers crossed he’s still sleeping, otherwise I’ll have to hand off my coffee. Satisfied he’s still down for the count, I take my cup and snuggle in the corner of the couch, my laptop within reach.
He’d laughed last night when I asked him if he was serious about a dog. At first, I was worried he’d changed his mind, but then he told me that he wouldn’t mind one, if that’s what I wanted.
I flip open my laptop and look at the picture I’d found when I was searching the breed he’d mentioned. Bernese Mountain dog. It popped up, a shelter in Farmington, where a seven-month-old male had been put up for adoption. A black face with soulful liquid eyes, and little tan patches for eyebrows, the narrow strip of white fur running between and ending in a white snout. His name is listed as Atsa.
I called the shelter yesterday. The lady who answered was very friendly. She told me he’d been there for a month already, the owners had given him up when they discovered he was getting too big for their apartment. It pisses me off when people don’t think ahead when they see a cute little puppy. In the end, it’s the dog that gets hurt. Just like those dumb people who buy kittens or puppies for Christmas, only to discover that they
don’t stay that cute forever. Ugh. I confessed to her I was interested but that it wasn’t just up to me.
“What has you smiling?” My head snaps up at Ben’s raspy voice, and my hand is already poised to slap the laptop shut. A frown appears between his eyes when he notices my movement, so I drop my hand back in my lap.
“This,” I say instead, turning the screen toward him. The frown smoothes out and a little smile lifts the corner of his mouth.
“Who’s that?” he asks, making his way and sitting down next to me, pulling the laptop closer.
“His name is Atsa, he’s seven months old and the rescue shelter in Farmington is looking for a permanent home for him.” Ben turns his head and looks at me with his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
“Yup.” The P pops between my lips, drawing his gaze down, before his eyes drift back up to my eyes, humor shining in them.
He reaches out and taps his index finger on my nose.
“And it just so happens, we’ll pass close to Farmington on our way to Albuquerque,” he points out.
“So it would seem,” I admit, feigning innocence, which doesn’t fool him for one second, judging by the growing smirk on his face.
“Manipulated already, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
I jump up and rush to jab a mug under the Keurig—but I’m smiling big.
-
“I can’t believe how toasty it is in here.”
I strip off the big sweater I’m wearing and toss it on the kitchen counter, next to the trays and rollers I just brought in, along with a can of paint.
“Yeah, Jim really cranked it up, trying to get the chill out. Let me adjust the thermostat,” Ben says, as he follows me into the kitchen, carrying six cans of paint. Show-off.
“What time was he going to be here?” I call after him when he walks out of the kitchen.
“Noon,” he calls back.
It’s just past nine now, so we have plenty of time to tackle one of the rooms before he gets here.