Danger, Sweetheart

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “About the White Rose of York.” Roger cleared his throat and the rocking chair creaked as he fidgeted. “Didn’t come here to snatch her back. It’s fine if you want to keep her; I just didn’t have the heart to let her starve when her litter rejected her. But what will you do with her? I mean—” He looked around the attic. “What happens next? Where will you go? Will you go? I only ask because of the piglet.”

  “He can go anywhere he wishes,” Shannah replied quietly. She went to his dresser, plucked up his checkbook, then walked to the bed and handed it to him. It didn’t actually confer any privileges on him—his mother didn’t have signatory power on that account, thank you very much—but Blake understood the symbolism of the action. “And do anything he likes. He’s a grown man with a trust fund of several million. It’s not for— It’s not for anyone to say what he’ll do or not do.”

  Wrong, Blake thought. As far as he was concerned, Natalie Lane had a say. But no one else. Well. Maybe Rake. And his mother. And the nuclear option. At the least, Blake would bend an attentive ear to their advice in the future. He was not unaware that his own arrogance played as much a part in landing him here as his mother’s.

  “Ah!” he said, not hiding the pleasure in his tone. He waved the checkbook like a flag. “No longer grounded! To celebrate my good fortune, I shall throw a kegger party tonight when you aren’t around, Mom.”

  She didn’t smile. “I was wrong.”

  His own smirk faded. “Mom, I understand why you did it. I’m not holding you up to shame.”

  “I was wrong,” she said again, as if he hadn’t spoken. Guess some things never changed, and thank goodness. And is she really doing this in front of everyone? “Wrong to judge you and wrong to penalize you for what my family did.” She was! She had an audience and didn’t give, as Natalie would put it, a ripe shit. “My family—you have to understand. It’s not that they didn’t love me or take care of me. My sibs certainly turned out fine. I turned out fine. It’s just … the minute things get hard—and they almost always do—my family quits on whatever it is. Farms, businesses—”

  “Daughters,” he suggested quietly.

  “Yes,” she replied, and sniffed. She looked at the floor for a moment, thinking, then looked up, and they locked gazes again. “And I swore—I swore on my life and yours and your brother’s, I swore I’d never, ever pull a Banaan. That’s what they actually call it here, did you know? If you give up on something, you’re pulling a Banaan. You heard about Heartbreak, how it came to be built and why they call the barn Main One—”

  “Yes indeed. One of our relatives.”

  A wry smile. “The only Banaan to ever stick to anything, and it cost him his happiness. He was our cautionary tale, you know? He was the lesson: see what happens when you don’t know when to walk away? And we’ve been giving up ever since. It’s practically on the fucking family crest.”

  Holy God. Blake could count on one hand how often he’d heard his mother drop the f-bomb.

  “I wouldn’t let it happen again,” she finished. “And you paid for it. I have no excuse.”

  “With respect, Mom, I must disagree.” This, as he realized on the street while confronting his grandfather, put his mother’s horrified rage in an entirely new light, why her calls to Blake in Vegas were getting increasingly desperate and strained. She was seeing her family history unfold yet again and would have wanted to do whatever she could to change it and not count the cost until late in the game. “Or perhaps we must agree to disagree, like we did the second time George W. Bush got elected—”

  “He did not get elected a second time!” she screeched in response.

  Ah! There’s the mother I grew up with.

  “I understand, and I’m sorry for giving in to what appears to be the Banaan genetic flaw—”

  “It was a terribly unfair thing to do to you. I’m so sorry, Blake.”

  Blake worked to hide his astonishment. Apologies were as rare as the f-bomb. Not that she didn’t feel remorse, but Shannah tended to demonstrate her apologies: being extra nice, buying him something she knew he wanted, bending a few household rules. She would show, never tell. She had paled a bit when he didn’t immediately reply, and he cursed himself for the lapse. “Mom, I—”

  “Forgive me,” she whispered as a lone tear tracked down her soft, barely wrinkled cheek.

  “For heaven’s sake.” He tossed back the blankets and stood, squashed the dizziness that made the room jump for a second, then pulled her into a hug. “I forgive you, and you’ll forgive me, yes? And then we can plot your father’s kidnapping and mutilation.”

  “Agreed,” she said, and laughed while the last tear escaped her eye.

  “Welp,” Roger said, getting out of the chair, “don’t want to tire you out. Sandy Cort made me promise to visit you and so I have.”

  “You two make each other promise things often, don’t you?” Blake asked.

  “Yep.” Roger grimaced. “He’s the one got me into my hobby in the first place.” Then, to Shannah, he asked diffidently, “Walk me out?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She kissed Blake’s cheek and stepped out of the hug. “Back in a few minutes.”

  “See you around, Vegas D—”

  “Don’t!” Natalie shrieked.

  “—ude. What?” Roger glanced around, surprised. “That’s what we call him. The kids at the bus stop started it; they love that damn truck you’re always tooling around in. The loud horn, y’know, you’re always honking it for ’em.”

  “I don’t mind,” he replied, outwardly flustered and secretly pleased. He loved that horn. He was giving serious thought to buying the Supertruck outright. Or did they make them in hybrids? A hybrid Supertruck with a tremendous loud horn would be spectacular.

  “Right, well, they started calling you Vegas Dude and the name stuck after a bit.”

  “I thought it was Vegas Douche.”

  “Oh. Well.” Shrug. “A few people call you that. No one whose opinion counts, though, so that’s all right.”

  “I guess it is,” he replied, amused, and watched Roger escort his mother down the stairs. Then: “Is it too soon to ask for more poached eggs?”

  Thirty-nine

  Outside, they visited the White Rose of York and then Shannah walked with Roger to his truck. Once there, he seemed to be having difficulty saying whatever was on his mind. He plucked his phone from the front pocket of his bib overalls and looked at her, then at the phone, then back up at her.

  “Roger?” She made her voice as gentle as she could. “Is something wrong?”

  “Noooo. I don’t think. I guess it depends on if you like it.”

  “All right.”

  “My last vacation.” He did something to his phone, then thrust it at her so quickly she fumbled and nearly dropped it. “Cripes! Sorry. There. Look now.”

  She did, and it took a few seconds for her to realize what she was seeing.

  “Are you … Is that Brad Pitt?”

  “Not the real one.” He looked away for a second, then met her gaze with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, I love museums. All kinds, but especially that kind. That’s where I was, the Hollywood Wax Museum. I sort of play God there.”

  This was it. She was about to have the stroke her family had long predicted. Though they hadn’t predicted a happiness stroke.

  “I like to rearrange the exhibits when the staff isn’t looking,” he practically whispered. “In my head canon, Brad Pitt adopted a pack of orphans with his life partner, Jamie Foxx. Plus, I always thought Sandra Bullock and Elvis Presley deserved a chance to be together. And at the museum, they are. I, um, I know that’s strange.”

  Her lips were moving. Her voice box was vibrating; she was making noises. Speaking, probably. She had no idea what she was saying until he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers in a firm, unapologetic, wonderful kiss.

  “Oh, good,” she murmured against his mouth, which was now curved into a delighted smile. “I told you to kiss me. I was wonderi
ng what I was saying.”

  “You told me to kiss you,” he agreed. “Best order I ever got in my life. You gonna tell me to do that again? I’d sure like that.”

  “Oh yes. You’ll have to come with me to see the boys for their birthday. I’ll show you my scrapbooks. Have you been to Madame Tussauds?”

  “London? Sure.”

  “The one in Hong Kong?”

  He pulled back and gave her a long, loving look. “Nope. That one got by me.”

  “You’ll come with me,” she decided. “You want to, don’t you?” His smile was reply enough. His big, rough hands had gone around her waist, but she had seen him handle the White Rose of York and wasn’t afraid of his touch. “We’ll go to the one in Washington, D.C., and the one in Berlin, too.” She paused, considering. “Don’t you think Marilyn Monroe and Gwyneth Paltrow would make a lovely couple?”

  “I think,” he said, after kissing her again, “it’s goddamn genius.”

  Forty

  “Your mom’s apology was really good,” Natalie said when she and Blake were alone again, “but you never answered Roger’s question. What are you going to do now?”

  Blake pulled back from where they’d been sitting shoulder to shoulder on his bed and gave her a look. “Don’t you know?”

  “I know what I hope you’re going to do,” she said after thinking about it for a few seconds. This was tricky ground; she wanted to make sure she said what she meant. “But it’s like Shannah said. It’s not for anybody to tell you what to do or where to go; it’s for you to do that.”

  “Oh no, that’s not at all true, Natalie, with respect to you and my mother. But here is what I want to do, and I hope it resembles what you hope I’m going to do.” He reached across her, found his phone, and pulled up his Notes app.

  “Oh God. You have a list.”

  He glanced up. “Of course I have a list, I keep several lists, I’m not a savage. Let’s see: ‘Rake Is Terrible,’ ‘Gary Must Die,’ ‘Mom Is Terrible,’ ‘Why the Nuclear Option Might Backfire,’ ‘The True Fate of the Lost Princes’—ah! ‘The Rest of My Life.’ Here it is.”

  a) propose to Natalie

  b) be engaged to Natalie for a period of no less than 30 days and no more than 730 days

  c) pay Residence Inn invoice

  d) remove all personal items from Residence Inn

  e) buy Heartbreak from seller

  f) put Heartbreak in Natalie’s name

  g) move into Heartbreak with Natalie (see above, remove all personal items from Residence Inn)

  h) ensure Putt N’Go deal is off the table forever

  i) buy back foreclosed farms from Putt N’Go

  j) figure out a way to have Natalie’s children

  k) if unable, discuss the possibility of Natalie bearing her own children

  l) if unable or unwilling, discuss adoption

  m) if children follow, research what is needed for them to be considered full members of the Lakota tribe

  n) also take them to Ireland

  o) and Great Britain, specifically the Tower of London, Bosworth, Stoke, Leicester Cathedral, Coventry

  p) but never Disney World

  q) slowly acclimate Margaret of Anjou to the children of my and/or Natalie’s loins

  r) never eat the White Rose of York

  s) live another five decades with Natalie

  t) die

  u) preferably within a half hour of Natalie

  v) find out if there is an afterlife

  w) if so, find Natalie

  x) be together forever

  Forty-one

  He misread her astonishment. “Oh, sorry, too fast? Too vague?” He frowned down at his phone. “I know there is room for improvement on my list, and perhaps some of the items need to be renumbered. And of course, I’m happy to add any codicils you might have.”

  “Good to know,” she managed. “Thanks for clearing that up. I was a little worried. About the renumbering thing.” He wants our babies to have full Lakota citizenship. Wants to find me in the afterlife. All this on a list like you’d use for groceries. God, he’s so strange and he’s mine.

  “So then, it’s settled. Excellent. Henceforth I will take the stance that anything I must decide about my life we must decide about our life. But Natalie, I don’t want to overwhelm you—”

  “Too late.”

  “I’ll wait, of course.” He didn’t smile, just looked at her like there wasn’t anything else in the world worth looking at. “I know this is abrupt. Six weeks ago we hadn’t so much as a hint the other person existed, and now our lives will be entwined until death, and hopefully afterward—I am an optimistic agnostic. Some of my items might not be at all easy, like how to restore the farms to Sweetheart and, if we can get that done to the satisfaction of all, how to get people to work the land.”

  “Oh.” She had never been so flummoxed, or happy. “You’re right; that’ll be tricky. We might not get everything on your list. Er, why the time limit?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “On our engagement. No less than thirty days—”

  “My understanding is that even a ‘quickie wedding’ takes time to plan. Also, a Las Vegas wedding is not on the agenda. Never while I live. In fact, regarding the venue, I’d like to present a list of places Rake loathes. Aside from the pure joy of making you my wife, knowing Rake had to travel to a place he hates will make our day that much more meaningful.”

  “There’s something wrong with you. What’s with no more than seven hundred thirty days?”

  “Yes, two years.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” He saved his list and put the phone back on the end table. “I don’t want to wait more than two years to be your husband.”

  “Oh. All right then. Yes. Yes to all of it. Today and forty years from now and after we’ve died within half an hour of each other: I’m in.”

  “Thank heavens.” He sighed, slumping back against the headboard. “I loathe suspense. Why do you think I study history? I always know how the book will end.”

  “Time for a new book.”

  He laughed. “We’ve been living the new book for thirty-nine days, Natalie! We only just realized it this week.”

  “This is a great time to shut up and kiss me.”

  To her delight, Blake obliged.

  * * *

  “This is a terrible idea.” Natalie groaned, clinging to him. “We’re gonna break our fool necks.”

  “Worth it,” Blake managed.

  The reading of Blake’s list had led to kissing, which led to groping, which led to showering. The attic bathroom had everything they needed, including a double shower. Natalie made Blake drink a large glass of orange juice before she stripped him, then herself, and then nudged him into the shower. As the water hit them they groaned in unison, stretching beneath the warm spray.

  At first it was (mostly) business, washing each other’s hair, scrubbing each other’s backs. Natalie had brought her OGX cherry blossom shampoo and scrubbed the thick lather through Blake’s dark blond hair. He rested his hands on her waist and luxuriated under her touch.

  “I have never been sexually aroused by shampoo before.”

  “You’ve been missing out.” She coaxed him into tipping his head back to rinse out the lather, then wriggled a bit as his hands slid over her ass and he pulled her closer. She was pleasantly unsurprised by the size of his cock, which was flushed deep pink, firm and fleshy and nudging up to hit his stomach. Well, he’s a big guy, tall, big hands and big feet. Oofta. She still had shampoo on her hands and reached between his legs, gently running the soap over his balls, fondling them in her soapy palm, then stroking his lovely long length while he shivered against her.

  He must have thought her breasts and ass were filthy, because suddenly cherry blossom shampoo was everywhere, so much that his grip kept slipping, which made them laugh as often as they moaned. Then his mouth was on hers and this kiss wasn’t at all tentative like their others. He crowded
her against the back wall of the shower, hands sliding around her slippery, soapy body as he licked into her mouth and all she could see and smell and feel and taste was Blake, Blake, Blake.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she gasped. “We’ve got to rinse off and get out and finish before I explode.”

  “That’s my line, darling,” he whispered into her mouth. “But you’re quite right. The water will wash away much of your natural lubricant, which is why sex in hot tubs is a terrible idea. Those poor souls are just asking for a case of bacterial vaginosis.”

  She groaned, equal parts revolted and amused. “God, so romantic … love when you talk to me about infections. Now talk to me about antibiotics and flu shots.”

  “Hush.” He shut off the water, pulled the curtain aside, braced his weight, then reached around and picked her up, holding her against him by the backs of her thighs. Her feet dangled far from the floor and she held very still. This might be a terrible idea. But it also might lead to more of the sex. More of the sex is good. She let out a nervous squeak as he carefully stepped out of the shower, then stood on the rug for a moment, both of them still dripping, then carried her to the bed.

  “Ahh, careful, hardwood floors! Don’t slip, don’t slip!”

  “I understand. But don’t worry; if I go down, you’ll likely squirt out from under me like a giant tiddlywink.”

  “Oh, definitely not worried now. What a relief.” What the hell is a tiddlywink? Maybe it’s some kind of Vegas-themed sex toy. Then, as he eased her down on the bed: “Blake, no, we’ll get your bed all wet, towels, towels!”

  “Fuck towels,” he growled, and in less than half a second she lost all concern for the state of his quilt and blankets as his chest settled against hers, his solid warm weight pressing her into the mattress. When other men had done this she had felt almost claustrophobic. With Blake, she couldn’t get close enough.

  She put a hand on the back of his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him with all the frustration and hurt and anger and remorse she had felt over the past month, putting every bit of I love you I’m so sorry I forgive you and you forgive me into it, and it must have worked, because he only broke the kiss to whisper to her in his deep, dark voice, words she felt as much as heard.