Striking

by Lila Felix

  She reached over and touched Cami’s hand—she was a friend, reminding a friend who’d committed a folly. “Cami, we pray first.”

  “I forgot, I’m sorry.”

  My turn, “It’s fine. We all forget sometimes. But we try to remember.”

  Will said the prayer, making sure to ask for a blessing over the food, and a blessing over the company. But after we said our ‘Amen’s, she hesitated.

  “No more hillbilly rituals, eat.”

  She sighed relief and for the rest of the meal I ate while Will and Cami talked about everything. She’d ask Will a question and then shoot me a look like she was scared to even ask. She asked about why people who didn’t work got up at the crack of dawn. She asked how people could consume that much sweet tea. And then we all laughed when she asked about the infamous moonshine. Will was even going to show her pictures of the local snakes—apparently she’d never seen one.

  And I couldn’t help but feel the way I did when she took her first bite of Will’s cheating peach cobbler. I had to clench the underside of the table to keep from groaning at the sight of her roll her eyes back in her head. She probably looked like that in all thralls and degrees of pleasure. I wanted to be that spoon.

  God help me.

  “Why is it called cheating peach cobbler,” she asked after making several sounds that made me regret that I’d asked her to dinner—in the company of my littlest sibling.

  “Because I just stir a box of cake mix with some butter and crumble it on top of the peaches. I don’t spend hours making dumplings and crumble from scratch.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine it’s any better than this,” she told Will, who beamed at the compliment.

  We finished our dessert and she sat back, obviously sated.

  “Do they do dishes in California,” the sarcasm had worked thus far, I figured, I’d better stick to it.

  “Only when we’re in between maids,” she fired back.

  “Well, it’s your lucky day. We’ve been in between maids since—forever. I’ll wash if you dry.”

  Will got the idea and excused herself to finishing up some homework—which was bullshit since I knew she’d finished it Saturday morning.

  “Deal,” she got up and we gathered the plates together.

  I filled the left side of the sink with hot sudsy water and began washing the bowls first.

  “The dishrags are in the…”

  “No,” she put a hand up to stop me, “let me find them.”

  She finally found the right drawer and laid one across my shoulder, letting her hand linger on the top of my shoulder and she let it sway down the rest of my arm. I trembled from the contact and from the déjà vu tingling that came with our skin to skin contact. Just as I was ready to forgo the dishes and pin her against the sink, she abruptly turned back and began to dry the first washed bowl.

  “I broke a casserole dish the other day,” She said as she finished up the bowl, staring out of our kitchen window.

  “At the Macon’s,” I asked her, handing her another bowl.

  “Yeah, it was just a dish. You would have thought I sacrificed one of their dogs in a satanic ritual.”

  A snort escaped me, “The white one with the trees painted on it?”

  She stopped and looked at me, “That’s exactly the one. How’d you know?”

  “Well, other than the fact that we spent every Thanksgiving with them when we were kids, since they have no children of their own, and it was her turkey serving platter; Mallory’s mother used to hand paint dishes for extra money and just because she loved it. If I remember right, that casserole dish was part of the Macon’s set of wedding dishes.”

  She continued drying, and she sighed once. I looked over to make sure I hadn’t made her cry again.

  “Everything around here is so steeped in history, how in the hell am I expected to keep up?”

  I stopped washing and turned to her, “No one expects you to keep up with it, Cami. I just think that having respect for it is plenty enough. And it’s not just you. Trust me, there’s plenty of the newer generations who don’t have near enough respect for the old ways or for things that others cherish.”

  “Do you?” She asked me. It wasn’t a challenge, it was an honest curiosity. I wished we’d been like this from the beginning.

  “I didn’t. The lesson was force fed to me,” I shrugged.

  We washed the rest of the dishes and she helped me put them away. This friend thing was gonna be difficult with her flitting around my kitchen, shifting and reaching, making me audience to every facet of her curves. She had trouble reaching one of the cabinets above the refrigerator and I grabbed her hips and pulled her back, taking the dish from her and putting it up myself. And for the second time that night, I was witness to her glorious blush.

  She wiped her hands clean of the chore, “That’s it. I’d better tell Will goodbye and get going. I don’t want to press my luck too far. Where’s her room?”

  “Down the hall, first room on the left.”

  I’d made her stay as long as I could with the dishes excuse. I was a complete failure at this whole thing.

  She tip-toed back in, whispering, “She’s asleep. I’m just going to duck out.”

  “No, let me walk you,” I threw the towel on the counter and followed her out.

  I reached for my returned jacket and folded it around her shoulders and she laughed.

  “What?”

  “I just gave you this back,” she tunneled her hands through the too large sleeves and zipped it up.

  “Just keep it. It smells like you anyway. Can’t have that around here, ruins the ambiance.”

  She smiled, “That’s funny, I thought it smelled like you.”

  She stood there, waiting for something and I took a moment, trying to drum up some memory of how my father would apologize to my mother, for reference. She always forgave him, after all.

  “Cami,” I grabbed her hand, not meaning to, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. And I know you don’t need or want my apology, but you deserve it.”

  She didn’t respond, but turned, taking her hand out of mine and took the steps in leaps, getting in the truck in a hurry. But when she showed up at my door, I’d lost all fleck of pride when it came to her. So I followed and hung on to the rolled down window of the Macon’s truck.

  “What are you doing Tuesday?”

  She scoffed, “Probably sheering sheep or shoveling manure. What did you have in mind?”

  “I thought you wanted me to show you around town,” I raised one side of my mouth in a grin.

  “I did. I do. Are you asking me on a date, Hillbilly?” She rested her gorgeous head on the side of the truck.

  “No, Duchess, I haven’t earned that—yet. Maybe we’re all trying to change a few things about ourselves around these parts.”

  “Ok, what time?”

  Oh, say, right now. Open the door and let me show you what the bench seat of that truck was really made for.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight, Tuesday morning.”

  She nodded and I felt like I needed to leave her with something, plus there was my ever demanding craving to touch her—so I bent forward, leaned my head into the open window of the truck and kissed her forehead. Even her forehead was soft and perfect. It was just enough to barely satisfy my need.

  She pressed her lips together in a fine line, begging them not to want more—I hoped that’s what she was doing. But then she threw the truck into drive and then she was gone.

  I headed back to my house, and Will was at the kitchen table.

  “I thought you were asleep,” I winked at her. I knew she wasn’t asleep when Cami told me.

  “I thought you hated her,” she’d poured a mound of salt on the table and was swirling her finger in it.

  “I never said I hated her—and I don’t. She doesn’t put up with my shit and she’s not scared of me.”

  “That’s what I said. But that’s why you hate her?” Will still hadn’t fi
gured this stuff out. Hell, I was six years her elder and I had no clue what I was doing.

  “No, that’s why I like her. I like her a lot more than I’m willing to admit,” I took a seat next to her at the table.

  “There’s a lot more to her, Stock—under the California façade, you just have to get past the shallow stuff.”

  I swept her salt back into a hill for her, “I won’t ruin this for you, Will.”

  “I see you, Stock. Most guys are not home, taking care of their teenage sister. They are out running through girls like water, or they’ve already found someone and are married. I know this is hard for you. I feel like such a burden on you, sometimes. You do enough for me, don’t ruin this for you.”

  She started to get up, but I couldn’t let this go—wouldn’t let this go. I got up and reached for my sister and hoped my words held half of the real meaning—at least.

  “Look at me, Will.” She did, but she was crying. What kind of asshole makes two girls cry in one day—and I’m pretty sure Cami had cried more than once, by the look of her puffy eyes.

  “Don’t you know how proud I am of you? I’m so honored that you trust me enough to take care of you. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing with my life than being a part of yours. I couldn’t love you more if you were my real kid.”

  She hugged me, really held on for a while and I held on right back.

  “I’m just grateful you didn’t bolt and leave me with Bridger.”

  I chuckled and pulled away from her, “Can you imagine, you two would’ve strangled each other on the first day.”

  “Nah, he’s too slow. I would’ve killed him first, while he was busy cleaning.”

  We laughed and then she said she was really going to bed—for real that time.

  And as I laid in my bed later that night, I wrestled with the comforter and with myself—and the part of me, the one that was afraid of living the rest of my life as a lonely man—won.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cami

  “There will be chores for you to do when you get home tonight,” Mallory instructed from the porch.

  I tried to smile, but her tone was so harsh it was almost impossible not to roll my eyes. Somehow I wrestled down my defiance and gave her a respectful, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hesitated on the stairs. She had already been at work for hours this morning, and her heavy boots were thick with mud. I mentally added “sweeping off the porch” to my chore list whether she asked me to or not. I was so not getting blamed for tracking mud into the house.

  “Cami, don’t make this a habit,” her gray eyes narrowed on mine and her expression became absolutely serious. “I’m glad Stockton’s making an effort to get his head out of his ass, but you came here to work, got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I nodded quickly. A giggle bubbled out of me before I could stop myself.

  “What’s funny?” Mallory demanded but with a surprisingly softer tone.

  I shook my head and admitted on a gentle laugh, “I’m just glad I’m not the only one that realizes Stockton needs to pull that big, bald head out of there.”

  Mallory chuckled almost like she didn’t mean to, and then shot me a wink before walking down the steps and across the field to meet Henry near the sheep. I watched after her wondering if we’d just bonded over Stockton’s pigheadedness.

  It was definitely a large enough subject and an inclusive enough debate to bring all kinds of people together. I was surprised they didn’t use it in world peace negotiations.

  Stockton pulled up in an old truck almost the exact twin of Mallory’s but in much better shape, aviators on and head freshly shaved-he looked hot enough to be in Hollywood. Not that he’d ever fit in out there, and I was actually thankful for that. I’d started to enjoy his personality the other evening over dinner. He…. he wasn’t as hateful and condescending when he relaxed. He could actually be fun.

  And washing dishes with him had seemed so…. natural.

  Which was super weird. I was just not the domestic type. And that was probably what he was looking for. He wanted a Little-House-on-the-Prairie wife that would mend his socks and have his dinner ready for him every day at five. I had dreams, granted secret dreams, that I rarely even admitted to myself, but none of them included cooking, cleaning and putting up with a surely mountain man covered in dirt seventy-five percent of his life. Friends were a good choice on both of our parts.

  He would make a good friend for me while I was trying to get my life together and let’s be real, I would make an awesome friend for him-the best, hottest, sexiest friend he’d ever had.

  I suppressed a smile and pushed away from the cabin wall to meet him just as he stepped down from the cab of his truck.

  “You’re ready,” he drawled sounding a little astonished.

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Hillbilly, we’ve got work to do today.” I kept a straight face, and walked past him before he could see the smile trying to break free across my face.

  After I climbed in the passenger’s seat, he was still standing by the door looking a little dumfounded. This time the grin grew, wide and dominant, so that when I spoke again, there was no ignoring my amusement.

  “Stockton, sometimes, I try at things. I’m willing to try at you, so let’s go already!” I giggled.

  His eyes snapped up to mine and their spearmint color had deepened to something dark and heated. In a rough voice, he grated, “You’re willing to try at me?”

  My stomach jumped and fluttered at the way his words coated my skin, and clawed at my chest. He’d hypnotized me with the intensity of his stare and my mouth went instantly dry with nerves. I swiped at my bottom lip with my tongue, hoping to make it possible to speak again.

  “At our friendship,” I answered weakly. I prayed he didn’t notice the tremble in my tone. “I’m trying at being friends with you.”

  That seemed to snap him out of wherever he’d gone. He shook his head, seemingly trying to clear it and hopped up next to me in the front seat. He tilted his head towards me to give me a reassuring smile and then we were off, down the winding, gravel road and back out onto the highway.

  Music was playing from the stereo, heavy sounding boy music that I thought I hated. But as the serious lyrics filled the silence between us, I realized I didn’t mind the sound so much. It was a lot like Stockton-heavy and intense, but meaningful and the kind of deep that made a person want to climb up high and dive down into.

  “Mallory’s alright with you having the day off?” Stockton asked when we were about five minutes from town.

  “Not really,” I snorted. “But she’s giving me today. I promised her you would be making me work, so my rehabilitation was not in jeopardy of backsliding.”

  “Rehabilitation?” Stockton asked, sounding just a tad bit nervous.

  He probably thought I was some kind of dealer using my gate way drugs on his little sister. “Um, attitude adjustment camp. My parents banished me from LA until I could stop acting out in ways that are detrimental to myself, others and/or property.”

  Stockton pulled into a parking space of the local grocery store-back home we had farmers markets bigger than this place and CVS’s that probably out stocked it. He shut the car off and slowly turned to face me.

  “Cami, were you on-“

  “No!” I quickly reassured him. “Ok, I have on occasion tried something medicinal in nature and in my youth a few things that could be considered in the realm of illegal. And then there’s of course the booze….” I cleared my throat, hating how Stockton was about to judge me for my past. I couldn’t even look him in the eyes, so I darted my gaze around the inside of the truck looking for anything other than those piercingly, intense eyes to focus on. “But I wasn’t addicted to anything. I mean, I haven’t had anything, not even a drink, since I’ve been here. It was just…. I was reckless. I was,” another throat clear, “I was destructive.”

  He opened his mouth to say something but I was too afraid to hear his re
primand.

  “Stockton, I would never, ever hurt Will, or introduce her to anything like that. I won’t even let her drink soda around me because it’s so bad for you. Ok? I have a million excuses for my behavior back home, but I didn’t bring that shit with me. I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be better.” My hateful eyes glossed over with tears, and I heard the thickness in my voice before I could banish it.

  “Cami,” Stockton rumbled authoritatively, but still I couldn’t meet his gaze. His fingers slipped up to my chin and tilted my face gently so that I was forced to look into that bewitching stare. “Are you going to tell me about those excuses?”

  I lost the ability to speak at the tenderness in his tone, at the depth of forgiveness in his eyes and the pressure of his fingers still holding my chin. All I could do was shake my head. Because even if I could admit to Stockton all the problems I had once upon a time, I could not, under any circumstances, confess the reasons for those problems. They sounded pathetic even to me.

  Stockton’s eyes grew darker as if some kind of emotion had come to a boil just behind his pupils. His fingered grasp turned into an open palm against my face that he slid down soothingly until it rested against my neck-hot, firm and electrified. My heart immediately picked up its pace and my breathing became erratic.

  “You can tell me, Cami,” he promised in a low, almost growl.

  I shook my head again, barely restraining the need to lean into his palm and then into his body. “Not yet.”

  “Soon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t drag Will into any of that bullshit,” he said firmly, but his eyes were still soft with emotion for me.

  “I would never,” I swore.

  “I know,” he whispered. He leaned forward then and my breath caught in my throat. Gently, so carefully I had to believe he thought I was breakable, he pressed a kiss to my forehead for the second time since last night. His lips hovered on my skin, warm and soft and I closed my eyes against the incredible tenderness that was rolling off him in waves. Tears pricked my eyes again and I could have easily stayed there, just like we were, for the rest of the day-maybe the rest of my life.