Last year he’d brought home his latest. She was pretty and sweet, and had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. And did I mention pretty? She’d shown up at the church to help Boomer hand out Christmas gifts, which was all well and good. Boomer had worn a classic Santa hat with jeans and the ugliest red Christmas sweater ever to come out of a sweatshop. As Boomer’s elf, Teresa had chosen a snug green sweater over a white and silver leotard and paired it with equally snug green shorts and a pair of go-go boots straight out of the 60s. I have to admit she looked cute, but it most certainly wasn’t appropriate for church.
That was all I’d heard about for weeks. I came home, I had Louisiana in my kitchen, telling me how to cook and how inappropriate Teresa’s outfit had been. At work? Same damn thing. “You’re peeling the potatoes wrong. Did you see Teresa’s outfit?” People watching me cook and telling me shit I already knew. I’m sure Irene and Bud had caught it worse. Boomer, of course, was long gone, back to Houston and then off to the playoffs.
“Boomer Ray Kendall,” Irene scolded with a laugh. “That’s not how we talk to our friends.”
“Oh, Irene,” I said as I finally managed to slip out of the truck, “Boomer and I aren’t friends.”
That’s what he got for being such a fucking comedian.
As parties went, my celebration dinner wasn’t much to write home about. Guess it was a good thing I lived across the street. That meant that:
a) I could sneak out fairly early and
b) escape Louisiana and her mighty exploding breasts and
c) leave Boomer to his fan club.
At least, that was the plan. I’d just come back from my latest trip to the bathroom. Lord help me, a girl could only fake pee so many times and could only smear on so much lip-gloss.
Anyway…bathroom. I’d just come back my fourth trip to the bathroom and stuffed my lip-gloss back into my purse, finally ready to make my escape.
“Wow,” I sighed, full of excuses and ready to run. But I was interrupted by bloodcurdling screams from down the street. Purse still in hand, I dashed across the living room and crashed into the storm door, pushing the lever for all I was worth.
“Somebody call 911,” was the last thing I yelled before I went tripping outside and down the sidewalk. I couldn’t have planned it better. The sun had set, and the wind had picked up enough to carry the sounds of my neighbors yelling, mixed with the sounds of dogs barking. I’d just made it past Boomer’s truck and was standing in the middle of the road peering into the gloom and trying to sort out the who what when where how when Jupiter tried to kill me. There was no way to adequately describe what it felt like when seventy-five pounds of dog slammed into me going a hundred and fifty-three miles an hour–or thereabouts. I landed on my ass and kept going, grunting as my head smacked the concrete and air ricocheted out of my lungs, and then Dexter darted across me, bouncing off my boob and jumping for Jupiter.
“What the fuck?” Boomer roared, a confused frown on his tanned face.
Where the hell had he come from? Whimpering and rubbing the back of my head, I rolled over and pushed myself upright to find I had a front row view of Dexter and Jupiter having a snarling tug-of-war.
Over my Secret Santa gift.
Or rather, Dexter’s Secret Santa gift. I gathered up the spilled contents of my purse and reached for one of Boomer’s oversized truck tires, but he was faster. He reached down, yanked me to my feet and pulled me against him. He smelled like the inside of his truck, all cologney and leathery and manlike. My huffy glare earned me an unapologetic smile, but some sort of invisible magnet, and my very shaky legs, kept me plastered against the hard length of him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, while attempting to brush off my skirt. One hand grazed my butt while another landed just south of my boob.
Define… okay. That’s what I thought; that’s not what I said. I was at a loss for words. And did I mention my head hurt?
I didn’t have to say anything because behind me everybody else was doing all the talking. Irene kept saying, “My dear Lord,” over and over again, while Bud kept muttering, “What in the world?”. Marsh was standing on the porch with Moses in his arms, leaning against a post and wheezing with laughter.
“Is that a…”
“It’s a dog toy!” Even to my own ears my words sounded lame and half-assed.
“Oh my goodness,” Louisiana drawled as she appeared on Boomer’s other side. “Matilda, isn’t that your—”
“No,” I practically screamed while Boomer’s sides shook with laughter at the show playing out in front of us.
“Your what?” His voice was a low rumble in my ear while in the road, seven-pound Dexter jumped up and grabbed one end of the offending toy, obviously determined to get it back from that bully Jupiter. “Dog toy?”
“No it’s not. It’s not anything of mine. I’ve never seen that before.” I freed myself from Boomer’s arms and headed across the street, ready to put my shitty graduation party and my shitty day behind me.
I’d just stepped up onto the curb when Louisiana decided she couldn’t keep her damn mouth shut any longer. “I swear to God that looks just like your Secret Santa gift, Matilda,” she drawled at the top of her lungs. She pointed and added, “It’s even Longhorn orange, just like yours.”
“It’s not mine!” I didn’t bother looking back; I just kept walking. I was two feet from my porch steps when Louisiana officially got removed from my Christmas card list.
“Boomer! Boomer! Go get that for her. That’s Mattie’s. I promise it is.”
“I’m sure that’s not mine, Louisiana!” I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to turn around and see Boomer Kendall holding a 12-inch orange doggie toy that could double as a dildo. And laughing at me. Because no matter how often or loudly I denied it, we all knew that was my Secret Santa gift.
And it’d just come home to haunt me.
I pushed a hank of curls behind my ear and slowly climbed the porch steps while the mayhem in the street continued. Neighbors came out of their houses to see what the commotion was. Jeannie and Mrs. Echols joined their dogs, yelling and screaming about who owned what as they struggled to get Big Orange (because really, at this point, I had to call it something) away from the dogs and from each other.
“Jupiter has a toy just like that,” Jeannie insisted. “I bought it because it’s Longhorn orange! It matches my Longhorn throw pillows and my Longhorn Snuggie!”
“Dexter found it in our yard.” Mrs. Echols punctuated every word by jabbing her finger at Jeannie. “And possession is nine-tenths of the law. You know this, Jeannie Armstrong. Remember when you divorced that first husband of yours and the judge let him keep your Longhorn shot glass collection. Remember that? Huh?”
“I swear to God, I swear to Gawd, if someone doesn’t listen to me—” It was Louisiana again, arms flailing. If there was a Santa Claus, he’d give me what I really wanted for Christmas and make her tongue fall out of her mouth. Barring that, maybe he could just dry up her breastmilk.
Right then, at that very moment, I just wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. “Night, everybody.” I raised a hand over my head and gave them all a wave before I reached for the screen door.
“Matilda,” Louisiana wailed. “Come and tell them this is your dog toy right now!”
Holy, Jesus, I should have gone on a cruise for the holidays. I turned around. What choice did I have? Either Louisiana was officially the stupidest person in Bluebonnet, Texas, or she was a lot more cunning than I’d ever given her credit for. Jeannie, Mrs. Echols, Irene Kendall and myself all said pretty much the same thing: I didn’t even own a dog.
That didn’t stop Boomer from wading into the fray and snatching up Big Orange before Jupiter gave Dexter brain damage from shaking him back and forth. He crossed my yard, leaves crunching under his feet, his very questionable prize held high so that it bobbed back and forth with every step he took. He climbed the steps and held out to me, giving it an
extra shake. “Hook ‘em horns, my lady.”
By this point, I’d had enough. I was sweating and nauseous, my head was killing me, and I was mortally embarrassed, so I went old-school and did what any self-respecting Southern Belle would do under such duress.
I fainted.
Just for the record, I don’t recommend fainting. There are way too many unknown variables. Unless you’ve had a lot of practice or have a couch to land on—or a big, hunky football player who you know will catch you—do not faint. Also, do not faint on a porch or near other hard surfaces. Especially if you’ve already hit your head in the last fifteen minutes or so. And you don’t have the aforementioned, big, strong running back to catch you.
I woke up on my own couch, Boomer leaning over me with the weirdest expression on his face. “You’re heating the outside, Boom Boom. Were you born in a barn?”
Lord, I’d forgotten how pretty his mouth was. That’s when I realized I’d hit my head much harder than I’d first imagined.
He shook his head and sat down beside me, crowding me into the cushions. “Been a long time since you called me that.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not kids anymore.” I scooted away from him and tried to sit up. That only caused my skirt and sweater to tangle around me, so I quickly gave up, but Boomer was sitting so close I couldn’t seem to think straight. I closed my eyes and counted to five while taking a quick silent assessment of myself. Other than a sore hip, some random aches and pains, and a very sore head, and the fact I had Boomer practically sitting on top of me, it seemed I might live. “You can go. I’ll be fine.”
“You might have a concussion.”
Damn him. Mostly because he was probably right. I felt like hell. But it was the grubby, pavement-licking hell that could only be cured with a hot bath and maybe some wine.
“Should I get Louisiana?” he gave me a smirky grin that made his eyes crinkle at the outer corners.
“Do you want to die?” My threat ended on a groan. I gave him a shove, hoping he’d take the hint.
“You seriously might have a concussion. You hit your head pretty hard. Sit up and let me look.”
“No,” I whined, and didn’t move. After all the mean things I’d said to him before the party, he’d probably jab my head as hard as he could. “I didn’t even lose consciousness.”
“But you fainted on the porch, remember?”
Except I hadn’t really fainted. I just closed my eyes and sagged against him. I’d been fully aware of him cursing, then picking me up, carrying me inside, and gently laying me on the couch. If I confessed, he’d probably laugh, and that also kind of made me an asshole. I should’ve just brought Big Orange home from the party and thrown it in the trash. Then none of this would’ve happened and Boomer wouldn’t be here in my house, on my couch, acting all concerned.
“Mattie.” He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You need to sit up for me, sweetheart.” Frowning at me, he grabbed my arms and dragged me into an upright position. He ignored my protests and pulled me against his chest. So there I was, rubbing the last of my makeup all over his designer plaid shirt and trying not to get distracted by how good he smelled or how awful I felt when Marsh came strolling in. I groaned extra loud and shoved Boomer’s hands away when he found the goose egg on the back of my head.
“Mattie,” Marsh said as he slammed the door, “were you born in a barn?”
“No.” Using Boomer’s thigh for leverage, I tried to maneuver myself into a more stable upright position and put a little distance between us at the same time. I failed miserably. “But apparently Boom Boom was ‘cause he’s the one who left it open.”
“Because I was carrying you. I think she might have a concussion,” Boomer announced.
“You gonna run her up to the clinic?” Marsh asked.
“I don’t…I don’t—” appreciate you talking about me like I’m not even here was what I’d been trying to say. But my stomach had other plans, and I found myself scrambling to get off the couch. I’m not sure what Boomer was thinking, but he wouldn’t let me go until it was almost too late. I barely made it to the bathroom before I lost my dinner.
The next thing I knew, Boomer was shoving a washcloth in my face and saying, “Told you she had a concussion.”
“You should take her to the clinic.”
“I don’t have a concussion. It was just listening to the two of you run your mouths that made me puke. You sound like a couple of old women. Now get the fuck out. Of my house. Please.”
“I think I should stay the night,” Boomer said.
No. No. A jillion times no. Boomer Kendall was not sleeping in my house. He was not sleeping on the floor. He was not sleeping on the couch. He was going out the door.
“I could stay,” Marsh countered.
“No you can’t. Not without Louisiana and Moses ending up over here, too.” Damn Boomer for being right.
“But she’s my sister.”
Even with my pounding head he sounded on the verge of giving in. “I’m also grown. Now stop talking about me like I’m not.” I wiped my face again and leaned against the wall, not quite ready to stand up.
Boomer started to laugh. Then he started to snort with laughter. “Remember when she ate all those pudding pops at the fair, and then ran that relay race?”
Marsh started tee-hee’ing like an animated chipmunk. “She barely made it to the finish line before she puked all over your cousin Ty.”
“She had the biggest crush on him,” Boomer said with a shake of his head and more laughter.
“I’ll be fine,” I sang at the top of my lungs. Anything to get them to stop. “I don’t need Boomer staying. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Dear sweet baby Jesus, I did not need him invading my personal space any longer than he already had. And I certainly didn’t need Boomer and Marsh over here reminiscing all night about all the horrible stupid shit I’d done as a kid. But then Irene showed up, and she, of course, thought that it was really sweet of Boomer to offer to take care of me since he was practically my big brother.
Irene was like a mother to me and literally the nicest person I knew. In other words, not a woman you said no to.
“I know more about concussions than any doctor,” Boomer assured her with a nod. “I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
Yeah, right after he killed me in my sleep. Resting my head against the soothing chill of my bathtub, that I now would not get to enjoy since I was having company for the evening, I closed my eyes and sighed, giving in. What choice did I have? I knew Marsh wouldn’t leave until he knew I was okay. And if I didn’t get him gone soon, Louisiana would be over here crawling all up in my business. “Fine.”
Irene kissed Marsh and Boomer goodbye, and then crossed the bathroom and kissed me on the head. “I’m so proud of you for graduating. I’m as proud of you as if you were my own daughter, and I know your mom and dad would be proud of you, too.”
“Thanks, Irene,” I whispered around a lump in my throat. I didn’t bother looking at the suspiciously quiet duo standing just outside the door. There was no need.
Instead I watched from under my lashes as Boomer guided his mom out of the bathroom, a protective hand at her waist. He stopped just before he disappeared from view and said, “Stay put. Or else.”
Yeah, right. He found me in the shower. Sort of. Since I couldn’t use my lovely soaking tub, I’d slammed the door and locked it, dragged myself to my feet, and gone for the shower. The last thing I wanted was Boomer in the bathroom with me, hovering like a gorilla-sized nurse while I showered. It was a thought that gave me pause as I stepped under the hot water. Along with the thought of him actually seeing me naked. I’d barely gotten my hair wet when Boomer was banging on the locked door.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” he’d yelled.
“I’m fine,” I yelled back.
“If you pass out, be sure to make a lot of noise so I know you’re in trouble, okay?”
The hot spray stung
my scalp enough to make me wince, but it was a small price to pay for fifteen minutes of peace and quiet. Fifteen minutes I’d need to pull myself together. The huge bruise I found on my hip was the price I paid for ‘giving’ my Secret Santa present to Dexter.
“You got it, asshole.”
I found Big Orange on my bed. I’d popped two Advil, and slipped on clean panties, a tank top, and my robe before leaving the bathroom. Opening the door, all I could hear ESPN coming from the living room. I’d figured Boomer was otherwise occupied, and I was safe. I should’ve known better. He was not the living room. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, with Big Orange firmly grasped in his very large hands. The placement of Big Orange between his thighs was neither original nor sexy. But it did make me giggle.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Boomer asked as Big Orange slowly swayed to and fro.
I leaned against the doorjamb crossed my arms over my chest, momentarily debating what to say, how to explain Mrs. Swift and last night’s book club Secret Santa exchange. Even in my head it sounded ludicrous. So I just shook my head and crossed the room to sit on the bed. I fished a clean pair of socks and some lotion from my nightstand.
“You still do that?” Big Orange bobbed in my periphery as he spoke.
“Gross feet are gross,” I said as I moisturized first one foot and then the other. I took my time working lotion into and between each toe, in an effort to ignore the living crap out of Boomer. I covered them with socks when I was done. Boomer, there, silently watching me was unsettling, to say the least.
“How’s your head?” he finally asked, his voice low and slightly rough.
“Fine. You don’t have to stay.” Thanks to the Advil and shower, the throbbing had been reduced to more of an annoying tick.
“I know.”
From the other room came the sound of a football update. From Boomer’s jacket pocket came the sound of a buzzing cell phone. I unwound the towel from my head and started picking out the tangles.
“You gonna get that?” I asked after the fourth ring.
Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology Page 71