Maybe Baby Lite

by ANDREA SMITH

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Your nightmares seem to be focused around your mother,” he commented. “Are you sure that there isn’t more you’re not telling me?”

  His questions were starting to make me feel defensive. “What if it is my mother in those dreams, those nightmares? What does that prove? It doesn’t prove that I was sexually molested or raped, or that I’m frigid!”

  I was yelling by this time.

  “Who said anything about you being frigid?” he asked, his eyes flashing. “Is that what frightens you Tylar? Because I can tell you this, you don’t have one frigid bone in your beautiful body. No, there's something else you’re not telling me. Why won’t you trust me?” he pleaded.

  “There's nothing to tell!” I screamed. “I have a shitty mother, so what? A lot of kids grow up with shitty mothers and absent fathers. I guess we can’t all be brought up with perfect parents, perfect educations, and perfect lives, Trey! Some of us simply do the best we can with the cards we're dealt!”

  “Don’t go there with me Tylar,” he warned his voice sharp. “Don’t you turn this around as if I'm flaunting my upbringing in your face! Don't presume the last 30 years of my life haven't had their share of disappointments and heart-break either."

  “Maybe that’s it, Trey,” I replied. “Maybe both of us are presuming too much about the other. You're right; I shouldn't presume that your life's been free of heartache. I want to know what your life has been like. You want to know everything about me yet you share nothing about yourself. Why?"

  “Tylar,” he sighed, raking a hand through his hair, “you’ve never asked me about any of that. But yes, I'll tell you whatever you want to know when the conversation is about me; right now it's about you. I want to know what's happened that makes you have these nightmares."

  I realized that Trey was sincere. Without saying as much, he knew that I was troubled. And maybe in some way, he felt that he was messed up too.

  “Trey, I can’t explain the nightmares because when I dream I'm not sure what is reality and what is fantasy—or at the very least, symbolism. I can tell you that if anyone has the answers, it’s my mom.”

  “Good,” he answered, “then that's where we will go. We will find your mother so that we can get some answers.”

  “I’m afraid to have you meet my mother,” I said hesitantly.

  “Why?” he asked softly, reaching for my hand. I hesitated. He was waiting for an answer.

  “Because—” I said, burying my head into his clean linen shirt, smelling his smell. “Because if it turns out my dreams are based on reality and not fantasy, she's a fucking monster.”

  The tears and sobs let loose, and he held me and stroked my hair, softly whispering and soothing me. He told me that everything would be fine. He asked me to trust him. Trust had never come easy for me.

  Trey did his best to change the mood after our discussion. He wiped my tears and kissed my face countless times. I was finally laughing, begging him to stop. We walked back over the horse and put our helmets back on. He lifted me astride Derringer, and for the next 20 minutes led me down a path that opened up into a perfect riding arena. It was circular, fenced in, and private.

  Sliding down off the horse, he handed Derringer’s reins to me and cautioned me to trot for a while, letting Derringer get used to the feel of my reining him. The horse and I moved around the perimeter of the arena, practicing our halt-walk-trot transitions. He yielded effortlessly to my leg signals and slowed to a walk when I sank low in the saddle. I let out an exaggerated exhale and the horse halted. I knew then that he was an expertly trained dressage horse. I only hoped to do him justice. Trey smiled at us from the center of the arena, watching our movements. Derringer moved like he'd been carrying me forever. Trey was clearly impressed. He encouraged me to ask Derringer for a canter. With an almost imperceptible squeeze of my calves, the horse lifted into a canter, carrying us around the arena as though we were on a cloud.

  At 2 p.m. Trey asked if I was hungry. The truth was I was famished. He climbed up behind me once again, taking the reins, which allowed me to settle back against him. I was getting my ‘Trey-fix’ two days in a row and I loved it.

  Once we were back at the stables, Charlie Roberts was inside feeding the horses and cleaning their stalls. He seemed surprised to see me with Trey. He eyed me a bit warily, and again, I got a creepy feeling. Trey appeared not to notice. He dismounted then turned and lifted me off the horse. Trey called Charlie over, handing him Derringer’s reins.

  “Will you untack and rub him down?” Trey asked. A dark look passed over Charlie, as if he felt put out for having to care for Trey’s horse. It did not go unnoticed by Trey.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Not one bit,” Charlie replied, his face expressionless. He turned away and led Derringer down the aisle toward his stall. Trey gazed after him for a moment, his face unreadable. He turned back to me, all signs of irritation gone, and smiled.

  “Let’s go eat, Ms. Preston. I’ve got just the place in mind.”

  He took my hand and we turned to leave the stable. Behind us I heard Charlie mutter something. I couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like, “uppity bitch.” I looked over at Trey, but he was reaching for his phone, having been beeped with an email message. He scanned it, and then shut the phone off. He'd not heard the muttered remark.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Trey,” I whined as he tugged me across the lawn toward his car, “shouldn’t I change if we're going out for lunch?”

  He laughed playfully, displaying his glorious dimple. “It’s just lunch Tylar, you look great,” he said. “Trust me, it’s nothing fancy.” He held open the door for me on the passenger side of his intimidating black sports car. It was impeccably clean inside; I only hoped any horsehair I may have accumulated this afternoon would not mar the immaculate interior. Trey slid into the driver seat, fastening his seat belt and instructing me to do the same.

  “Ready baby?” he grinned like a kid showing off his toy.

  “Maybe baby,” I responded. “Kick in the afterburners, Sinclair, let’s see what this machine can do.”

  That was all the encouragement Trey needed. He fired up the engine, and within seconds we were peeling out onto the highway, my hair blowing in the wind. It truly rode like a dream; a very swift dream as Trey put the car through all of the gears.

  “Zero to 60 in three point two seconds,” he bragged.

  “There you have it,” I said. “That alone makes the $250K price tag a steal!”

  He laughed good-naturedly. “Smart ass,” he teased.

  We passed through Bristol where most everything in the small town was closed on this Sunday afternoon. Just outside of town Trey downshifted into the parking lot of a lone brick building with a neon sign in the window blinking “Open.” The door read “Morelli’s Fine Italian Dining.” Trey parked, got out, and opened my door, helping me up from the low-ride seat. As soon as we walked in, the aroma of Italian cuisine enveloped me. I was ravenous. A smiling matron came over to greet us. It was obvious that she knew Trey.

  “Signore Sinclair,” she greeted heartily, “it’s nice to see you! How long has it been mio ficco?”

  “Saluto, Carmelita!” Trey greeted the woman, embracing her, “Come stai?”

  “Equesta la vastra bella moglie?” asked Carmelita.

  Is this your beautiful wife?

  “No, non ancora forse un giore succedera,” Trey said.

  No, not yet, someday maybe.

  The restaurant was filled with patrons eating an early Sunday supper. Carmelita led us to a table for two in a quiet area of the restaurant. It was quaint with red and white checkered tablecloths. Soft Italian music played. Trey ordered a bottle of Chianti for us. I raised an eyebrow at him from over my menu.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, smirking, “I just recall how pissed you were with Clint because I was drinking at Luke’s bonfire the night of m
y…accident.”

  “Who said anything about you drinking tonight?” he replied giving me his cocky smile.

  “Well, I suppose then that I'm the designated driver?” I inquired sweetly.

  “No way, Tylar,” he laughed, “I don’t think you can handle the horsepower.”

  “What's good here?” I asked, ignoring the last jab.

  “Really there's nothing bad here. I like the baked ziti.”

  “That sounds fine to me.”

  Trey ordered for both of us: baked ziti and salads. Carmelita brought fresh bread on a cutting board to the table and filled our water goblets. Trey poured two glasses of Chianti, handing me one.

  “This is your one and only glass,” he advised. I rolled my eyes mockingly.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and taking a sip. Trey sliced the bread, putting a thick warm slice on a small plate and passing it over to me. “You might want to try this with the house olive oil, it's really good.”

  I took the olive oil dispenser that had a small spray nozzle and lightly spritzed my warm bread. Taking a bite I moaned audibly, catching Trey’s attention in an instant. “Ohh, this is sooooo good,” I said, in a very sultry tone. I licked my lips, and took another bite, teasing him with my sensual enjoyment of the bread, licking my fingers when I finished. He rearranged himself in his seat a bit and pretended not to be affected. I sipped some more Chianti, enjoying the slight buzz I was getting. Our salads came, and as we started in, Trey brought up the subject of Clint.

  “You know, Tylar,” he said, “you were right about one thing. I had no right to be so hard on Clint over the incident at the pool that night. I suspect I may have had more of an issue with him than your inebriated state.”

  I eyed him warily; what was he up to with this? “Oh I get it,” I said, “you’ve made nice with Clint now that you’ve turned him into your own personal nark!” I blurted. I refilled my glass with more Chianti, watching Trey give me a slightly reprimanding look.

  “I don’t have a clue what you're talking about,” he replied.

  “Oh come on, Trey. I know that it was Clint that called you and told you that I was riding Jezebel in the fourth. You’ve put the fear in him, it’s obvious. I don’t have any desire to remain friends with someone that would nark me out.”

  “I see,” Trey responded. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Clint was worried about you racing so soon after you were released from the hospital?”

  “Maybe,” I said, a bit snidely, “but answer me this, Trey. If Clint had not called you in Atlanta to let you know so that you could bust ass back to Bristol and scratch me out of that race, who would you have been more pissed at when you discovered on your own that I'd rode—me or Clint?”

  Trey was thoughtful for a moment before answering. “I suppose I'd have been equally pissed at both of you,” he answered.

  “I get that you want to keep me safe, but in the process, you're kind of alienating me from my co-workers and friends. You're making it very lonely here for me.”

  “I won’t be second-guessed; I did what I did because, as I've explained, I won’t allow you or anyone else to put you in harm’s way.”

  It appeared that I wasn't the only one with issues. I knew Trey’s motivation, now that he had a snitch in hand. He wanted to continue using Clint to keep tabs on me. Trey started to say something, but stopped when Carmelita arrived at our table with the baked ziti.

  Trey was right; it was delicious. I cleaned my plate while polishing off another glass of Chianti, which irritated Trey. We ate in silence, partially because we were both so hungry, and partially because it was a bit strained after the topic of Clint came up. Carmelita came over to clear our empty plates, noticing the silence between us.

  “Signor Trey, credo chevoi e il vostro amore bisogno di dolcezza, no?” Carmelita said.

  Mr. Trey, I think you and your love need some sweetness, no?

  “Concordo Carmelita. Che cos a vi suggerisce?” Trey asked.

  I agree Carmelita. What would you suggest?

  “Vl faro qualche Tiramisu Signor Trey. Ti alimenti e per il vostro amante. Essa ha bisogno di un po’

  I'll bring you some Tiramisu Mr. Trey. You feed it to your lover. She needs a little fattening up, eh?

  “It seems we’re having dessert Tylar,” Trey said, his eyes dancing. The tension lifted. He pulled my hands into his, gazing into my eyes.

  “I’ve had a really nice afternoon with you. I have to leave on a flight to Atlanta tomorrow morning. Our firm has a class action trial starting on Tuesday, so I have to go. Will you be all right?”

  No. I don’t want you to go!

  “Of course I will,” I replied nonchalantly.

  “Ray should have the locks on your cottage changed by now. He is going to make sure that the key he has is not hung on the hooks with the other master keys to the cottages. Does that make you feel any safer?”

  I only feel safe with you wrapped around me, Trey.

  “I never really felt unsafe Trey. It’s just been creepy in the cottage since then, you know? I mean it’s not like anyone has threatened me directly or anything like that…”

  “You don’t have to stay there you know?”

  “Where else would I stay?”

  “Well, you can stay up at the main house if you wish.”

  Give me a minute to pack!

  “Oh and that would look real good, wouldn’t it? I can just imagine the comments from the rest of the staff on that one.”

  “Tylar,” he said impatiently, “I don’t care how it looks or what people think. The fact of the matter is I'll be gone for the week and I don’t want the additional stress of worrying about your safety. There’s staff at the house. No one would bother you there.”

  “I’m a big girl, Trey,” I asserted. “I can take care of myself; if something starts creeping me out, I’ll make sure I call Ray or Denise, how’s that?”

  I could tell he felt a little relieved, but I was certain that having me stay at the manor would have made him feel totally better. Carmelita brought over a plate with a large piece of tiramisu with two forks. She winked at Trey and removed his dinner plate, hurrying off. I reached for one of the forks, but Trey stopped me.

  “Here, let me,” he said in his soft, silky voice.

  He lifted a fork, and cut a bite-sized piece of the cake, dipping it into the small cup of warm chocolate sauce that was on the plate. He raised it slowly, teasingly up to my lips, cupping his other hand underneath it to catch any dripping. His eyes never left mine. I parted my lips slightly, and felt the warm cake as it brushed past my lips and reached my tongue. A small drop of chocolate dripped onto my bottom lip; Trey leaned over and wiped it from my lip with the pad of his thumb, smiling as his eyes locked with mine. He licked the chocolate from the tip of his thumb, circling it provocatively on his bottom lip. We continued this ritual until the cake was gone, taking turns feeding each other. It was totally erotic and delicious.

  Oh wow!

  When the last of the dessert was enjoyed, Carmelita cleared our plates. She paused at the table and gave my cheek a pinch.

  “Prendersi cura di Signor Trey il cuore dolce, lui vi portera indietro presto!”

  Take care of Mr. Trey’s heart sweet one; have him bring you back soon!

  I looked at Trey quizzically for translation.

  “She said to take care and that she hopes you come back soon,” he interpreted for me.

  I was pretty sure I could say thanks in Italian. “Grazie,” I responded smiling. I gave Carmelita a quick hug.

  She beamed and turned to Trey.

  “Ah questo e un modo molto meglio rispetto alla femmina Charlotte, amico mio!

  This one is so much better than Charlotte, my friend!

  Trey got a funny expression on his face, quickly giving Carmelita a hug and a peck on her cheek and we were out the door. I didn’t say anything, letting him think Charlotte’s name in Carmelita’s last exchange was lost on me.


  “Thank you for lunch, Trey, that was really delicious,” I said, smiling over at him as we got settled in the car.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it Tylar. Carmelita is quite the character, and very fond of you I can tell.”

  “I'm impressed by your command of Italian. I'd no idea you spoke so fluently.”

  “I studied abroad during high school and college.”

  “Trey, can you translate something for me?” I asked.

  “I’ll try,” he laughed, rubbing my knee with his right hand.

  “Okay, what does ‘Charlotte’ translate to in English?” I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.

  “Oh, you caught that, huh?”

  “Well…yes.”

  For all of his denial of having any type of relationship with Charlotte, it appeared that they made their rounds as a couple. “Carmelita reads too much into things,” he said impatiently. “I took Charlotte to Morelli’s one time weeks back for dinner. Carmelita thought she was a royal bitch, which she can be. Charlotte insulted the Carpineta Fontalpino wine we were served. She told Carmelita it tasted like Tuscan vinegar spiked with battery acid. You can imagine how that went over with Carmelita.”

  “How'd it go over with you?” I asked.

  He slowed for a traffic light and looked over at me, taking my left hand into his right one, raising it to his lips. “I’ve told you before, Tylar, there's no relationship whatsoever between Charlotte and me. As far as that particular incident, it was embarrassing for me.”

  The light turned green. He kissed my hand before setting it back in my lap, shifting gears and accelerating onto the highway. I leaned back into the seat and sighed. We were back at the estate in no time. As we pulled into the winding drive leading up to the mansion, Ray’s truck was parked near the pool. No one was swimming, but Ray looked to be checking the chemical levels, probably waiting for Trey to get back. I hopped out of the car, not waiting for Trey to open my door. I felt a little uncomfortable with Ray seeing me on a date with, well, our boss. I cared about what Ray thought of me. He was probably the closest thing to a father figure even though I'd only known him for a few weeks.