by Julia London
“Sure, sweetie! You and Matt run along,” she said, grinning broadly as she turned her attention to the next bingo sheet. Rebecca quickly stepped around Matt, paused only to tell Grayson to stay put with Grandma Lil until she got back.
She paused in the middle of the room and looked around. “Where’s Tom now? I left him back by the sign- in table.”
“Let’s hope he’s not testing the beans,” Matt said jovially. When Rebecca gave him a dark look, his smile faded a little. “Okay,” he said, putting up a hand. “I’ll find him.”
He went one way, Rebecca went the other, to the dais to tell Grandpa it was time. Only Grandpa wanted to review with her some of his better jokes, which he did until Matt showed up with Tom. Tom had obviously been enjoying the free food, judging by the bit of barbecue sauce on his shirt. Angie was with them, too, as was Gunter and the photographer. Pat was right behind them all, looking very disgruntled. “I think the whole thing is rigged. I lacked only one number for three calls and still didn’t bingo!”
“Okay, is everyone here?” Tom asked, gleefully rubbing his hands together as Gunter’s photographer bounced around them, snapping pictures. “This is our big moment, the reason all these folks came out tonight. So!” He looked at Rebecca. “Do you have my remarks?”
The question stunned her. “Didn’t Gilbert prepare some remarks for you?”
“Yep,” Tom said congenially. “He said he was faxing them to you.”
No one uttered a word; Rebecca could only gape. Pat muttered, “Good God.”
“The rainy day fund,” Matt said quickly. “Talk about how we need that fund to meet the needs of everyone in case of an emergency, to ensure that we are never in danger of cutting back on services.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” said Tom, jotting it down in his pocket notebook. Rebecca silently agreed, recognizing instantly that she wouldn’t have come up with that in a trillion years. Which begged the question of what, exactly, she would have come up with.
“I can talk about how I’m a huge advocate for saving money,” Tom said. “Not that I can save my own damn money, but they don’t have to know that, right?” he asked, laughing easily. Pat groaned again.
“Okay folks, we have a real treat for you tonight,” Grandpa said. “The Silver Panthers’ president, Francine McDonough, is coming up here to tell you all about it.”
Francine, eager for the microphone, pointed her scooter toward the dais and punched it. Matt likewise nudged Tom toward the dais, made him take two steps up behind Francine when she parked her scooter and inexplicably bounded up the steps.
“And health care initiatives,” he said to Tom. “Mention that. Remember, don’t take any questions, and for God’s sake, be vague!”
Tom laughed. “Don’t worry, Parrish! This ain’t my first rodeo.” He jogged up the steps and began sauntering toward Francine.
Rebecca looked at Matt from the comer of her eye. “Okay . . . the rainy day fund was close to brilliant. Thanks. I really owe you one for bailing me out.”
Matt grinned down at her, his gray eyes sparkling with delight. “I do not believe sweeter words were ever spoken. Great thing, debts—”
“Stop it—”
“First I owed you one—”
She laughed nervously as Gunter’s photographer turned and suddenly took several shots of them.
“Now you owe me one.”
“Excuse me!” Rebecca whispered to the photographer, and pointed at Tom. The photographer shrugged, turned back to Tom. She could hear Matt’s deep chuckle, but she refused to look at him, lest she lose what was left of her composure, and refused to think about debts or bets in any direction. But while they waited for Francine (who seemed to like the limelight as much as Grandpa) to finish her long spiel, the feel of Matt standing so close to her, his body radiating delicious energy, she could not keep the seductive thoughts of debts from her mind. By the time Francine turned it over to Tom, Rebecca was so uptight that she feared she might actually twist off and spear herself into the ceiling.
Tom strutted across the stage, thanked Francine, and began to speak about why he had come tonight and how important the Silver Panthers were to the state and to candidates like him. He then launched into a little well- rehearsed speech about what he hoped to accomplish as lieutenant governor—which consisted, when one cut through the rhetoric, of not raising taxes. And then a plug for a new superhighway, from Dallas to Old Mexico, with a gas pipeline running beneath that would bring commerce to Texas.
“Huh,” Matt muttered. “That’s new.”
“You know, he looks like a sausage,” Gunter said thoughtfully as Tom spoke extemporaneously. “He’s really not very photogenic.”
“Okay!” Rebecca said, feeling better as the crowd clapped. “This is going pretty well!” She glanced hopefully at Pat. Pat shrugged.
“Now about that rainy day fund,” Tom continued from the dais. “I’ve heard a lot of talk about that. Everyone’s concerned, myself included. And I have a lot of colleagues who would like to take a bite here and there. But I say no! I say we jeopardize our future and the future of our children by messing with our savings account. As residents of Texas, we need to make sure that the rainy day fund goes untouched so that all needs are met, and if we should hit a rough patch—God forbid—services are not cut!”
That was met with strong applause. Rebecca turned a beaming smile to Matt at the very same moment Tom said, “And oh, by the way, today I pushed a fun little bill through that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Pat instantly threw her head back and closed her eyes. “No, no, no,” she groaned. “Please tell me he is not going to say it.”
“My bill designates chips and salsa as the official state snack of Texas!” Tom said, raising his arm into the air in some sort of half-cocked victory pump.
“Wow,” Angie said, shaking her head.
“Maybe they will think it’s cute,” Rebecca said hopefully.
“Political suicide is not cute,” Pat snorted.
Pat was right. Rebecca peeked around him; the crowd noise had definitely fallen to a low pitch. Dozens of wizened faces— voting faces—were upturned to Tom, waiting for the punch line that was, apparently, not going to come.
“So! Wander on into the dining room and get some chips and salsa!”
“Who’s going to tell him there are no chips and salsa on the buffet?” Pat asked of no one in particular.
There was another smattering of applause; Grandpa shuffled on stage and took the microphone from Tom, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you, Senator! Okay, ready for the last session of bingo?”
Tom came striding off the stage, grinning. “Well done, Senator,” Angie said as he jogged down the steps and paused for another photo.
“Ah, Re-be-caaaa!” Tom said, stretching his arms wide for a hug, into which Rebecca reluctantly walked. “Thanks again,” he said, squeezing tight. “Thanks a million for putting all this together.”
Honestly, sometimes she thought Tom would gush if she stood up and belched. “No problem, Tom,” she said, wiggling out of his embrace.
“We could all take a page out of your book,” Tom continued, and Rebecca couldn’t help notice that Pat and Angie, standing to one side, looked as if they might barf all over his shoes. “You and Matt be safe getting home, now. Come on, girls,” he said to Pat and Angie. “I’m going to treat you to a beer on the way home.” He moved to the exit with Angie, Pat, Gunter, and his photographer trailing behind.
“I have to agree,” Matt said, shoving his hands into his pockets as they watched Tom glad-hand his way to the door. “Pretty amazing job you did here.”
Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. “Thank you, I think.”
“But you know he hasn’t even begun to ramp up, don’t you?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we aren’t going to have the time or luxury of this sort of setup again. You might want to adjust your expectations for the long haul.”
“You know wh
at you are?” she asked. “A rationalist.”
“A what?”
“A rationalist,” she repeated, casually picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her jacket. “You know, the kind of person who likes to be in command, likes lots of rules and boxes to put people into and doesn’t like people stepping out of their cages.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about. I fight against rules all the time.”
“You sure stick to them like glue when it comes to the campaign.”
“Where do you get this stuff from? I’m not trying to keep you in a box, I am trying to help.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly sound like a good thing, either,” he said gruffly.
“I was merely making a friendly observation,” she said, enjoying seeing him on the defensive. “I only mention it because the more you know about someone’s personality type, the easier it is to work with them. Here’s another observation . . .” she said, and clasping her hands behind her back, she went up on her tiptoes to almost look him in the eye, and said, “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.”
Matt’s whole body seemed to light up when he grinned down at her. “Wanna bet?”
A surge of heat raced up her spine; Rebecca eased back down.
“So tell me,” he said, still grinning, “What personality type can’t play bingo? The perfect type?”
“Compared to you, at least,” she said buoyantly. “But if you really want to know, I’m a traditionalist, and there’s a huge difference between a traditionalist and a rationalist. We might as well be on different planets—”
“Oh, I think we are,” Matt said, nodding emphatically.
“Okay, folks! Fifteen minutes to the next game, so get your snacks!” Grandpa called. “By the way, the kitchen has asked me to inform you that there are no chips and salsa. I’ll say that again—no chips and salsa tonight.”
“You know what your problem is?” Matt said. “You think too much. Just let yourself go. You know, run with your gut and not your head . . . with or without panties.”
“Oh, how very helpful,” she drawled as they began to walk back to the table. “Never short on advice, are you?”
“Why, no. It’s my job,” Matt replied, walking alongside her as if they belonged together. “You’re not the only psychoanalyst in the room, you know. I know about people like you, people who use self-help books like a bible, searching for something.”
Rebecca paused next to the sign-in table and looked up at him with a laugh. “Oh, please. I’m not searching—”
“It’s a cover for what’s really going on inside that perfect body of yours.”
“There is nothing going on inside me—” Wait. That wasn’t quite right, as she could certainly feel the heat stirring her up. “I mean, nothing like you think.”
“What I think is that something is bubbling away in there, creating chaos in your otherwise perfectly ordered little world. I can see it in your eyes,” he said, and leaning into her, added in a whisper, “And I saw it when you let go. So why don’t you just let go and let it out, especially since you have someone as handy as me standing by, ready to assist in any way he can?”
She thought they had called some sort of truce, but this didn’t feel like a truce, this felt like a long untangling into something she feared she could not extract herself from. “Okay. All kidding aside, I thought we weren’t going to go there,” she reminded him.
“A guy can hope, can’t he?”
A smile spread across her lips. “If I were you, I’d hang on to the hope,” she said, leaning into him. “Because it’s as close as you’re going to get.” With that, she gave him a little push and started walking again.
But Matt laughed and caught her hand before she could escape—just a touch—but it felt as if a thousand volts of energy surged through his fingers and into her body. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something? You owe me. Come with me now, and I’ll make it fast and painless.”
“God, Matt, that’s crude, even for you.”
“But I’m in a hurry,” he said with a wink, and pulled her to his side to follow him.
“Wait! I’ve got Grayson—”
“I know, I know, but trust me, it won’t take more than a minute. He and Grandma won’t even notice you are gone.”
“But I—”
“Rebecca, calm down,” he said, the light in his eyes burning bright. “We’re not going there. But I want to show you something, so just come with me for a couple of minutes, okay?” He put his hand on the small of her back, gently urging her along with him.
He’d asked nicely. Rebecca glanced furtively around her and let him lead her out of there. But as he pushed open the door leading to the main hallway, she collided with his back as he came to an abrupt halt—Tom and company were still in the hall; Gunter’s photographer was getting a few last shots. She and Matt looked at each other. An unspoken agreement passed between them; they shared a conspiratorial smile as he firmly slipped his hand around hers. They turned as one, hurrying quickly to the doors at the opposite end of the hall.
In the parking lot, Matt still had her hand, would not let go, and laughingly told her to hurry up. Her heart was beating a wild, uneven tempo, and as clueless as she was to what she was doing, it was nonetheless exciting in a bad girl, very unperfect way. When they reached his car, he quickly opened the passenger door and all but shoved her in.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, and shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, got in, and turned on the radio. A jazz CD.
“Mood music. How classy,” Rebecca laughed.
“Only the best in my crib.”
“I haven’t hung out in a car since I was in high school,” she said, shifting so that she could face him.
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing,” he said with a grin.
“I’m missing the bingo bash—”
“Okay, all right, just hold your horses—I have something for you.”
“For me?” she asked laughingly. “Your book of campaign rules?”
Matt smiled enigmatically. “Actually, no,” he said, and reached behind him, pulled out a leather-bound sketch pad and placed it carefully in her lap.
A sketch pad.
Rebecca stared at it, a little confused, a little alarmed by whatever it was that was swirling in the cavity around her heart.
After a moment, Matt moaned. “Please take it, Rebecca—if you don’t, I’m going to feel like a complete idiot.”
She lifted her gaze, her eyes searching his, looking for the joke, the catch. “What is it?”
“Has it been so long you don’t remember what they look like?” he asked with a sheepish grin. “It’s a sketch pad.”
“For me?” she asked, feeling warm. God, she couldn’t even remember the last time someone had given her a gift for no reason. “Oh, my,” she murmured, picking it up and carefully turning it over. “Oh, my.” She looked up at Matt again in wonder.
His smile had faded; there was a strangely tender look in his gray eyes. He suddenly reached behind him again and handed her a red velvet box. “I, ah . . . I didn’t know if you still had pencils or not,” he said, thrusting them toward her. “The guy said these were the best.”
Rebecca took the box and folded her arms tightly over her gifts, holding them against her chest as a smile lit from a place deep inside her and spread throughout her entire body. She was touched, genuinely and deeply touched. And for someone who walked around so cocksure all the time, Big Pants suddenly seemed so vulnerable, fidgeting around, looking for something to do with his hands.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, “but could you tell me what happened to Matt Parrish? You know, the popinjay?”
“Well,” Matt said, shoving a hand through his hair, “unfortunately, he’s taken complete leave of his senses. He’s gone off to have his testosterone checked, because the fact of the matter is,” he said, sighing a little, “that if you
owe him anything, he wants you to draw again.” He dipped his gaze to the box. “At least try, will you? You might be surprised at how good it feels,” he said, lifting his gaze to her again. “I want you to get it back, Rebecca. You deserve to have it back.”
She wanted it back. She wanted it in this moment like she’d never wanted anything in her life. “Matt . . . thank you,” she said. “This is so nice.”
“Yeah, well, please don’t say that too loud—wouldn’t want that going around town, you know.”
She smiled.
Matt paused as if he was searching for something to say. His eyes reflected the same desire she could feel churning inside her, a desire so strong that it frightened her. She could feel that internal dam cracking, and she impulsively leaned across the console, surprising him with the touch of her lips to his cheek.
Startled, he caught her face with his hand. Rebecca slid her lips to the corner of his mouth, landing there for the breadth of a moment, enough to make her heart flutter like a thousand winged birds.
Matt turned a little more, sliding his lips to hers, soft at first, then more demanding, deeply, until he was coming over the console to her. As he deepened the kiss, his hand pressed against the side of her breast, kneading it softly. The sketchbook and pencils slipped, in her clumsy groping about for them, she brushed against his trousers. And her hand lingered there, lightly stroking his erection, marveling at the feel of him, hot and hard beneath his clothing.
Matt groaned into her mouth; he cupped her breast, filled his hand with it as he drew her bottom lip between his teeth. His kiss was electrifying; Rebecca felt wildly out of control again, felt things happening inside her and between her legs that she didn’t want to happen. She knew she was about to slide off into the deep end of that rough, unbridled passion, and the thought of her son and grandparents suddenly flashed into her mind. She pushed Matt up at the same time she slid deeper into the seat, gasping for air. “I have to go,” she said hoarsely.
“You can’t. My testosterone is back and begging for a do-over,” he murmured against her lips, nipping at them. “Forget drawing and art . . .”