Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men)
Page 7
He couldn’t mean the orgasm thing. That was just... talk. Obviously, he’d grown bored with the idea, since he hadn’t even tried to have sex with her. But she was already in love with the loft. Maybe not having sex was for the best.
Until they agreed on the rent, buying clothes seemed foolish. At Christmas, her parents had given her money. She’d socked the cash into her savings account. Now, her parents were budgeting for her sister’s wedding. Even if they offered, she wouldn’t feel right about taking more money.
She was certified to officiate high school and recreation league games, in multiple sports. There were a few regular season games left on the basketball schedule, but at the high school level, post-season games went to the most experienced referees, and rarely to female officials. She didn’t have enough seniority to worry about being passed over because of gender.
Meaning she’d have to take every rec league game she could get, in order to afford rent, gas, food, and a new wardrobe. Thankfully, the wheelchair tournament would run all weekend, and baseball season was just around the corner. At least she wouldn’t have to buy any more textbooks. She wouldn’t need a large selection of dressy clothing until she started student teaching, after Spring break. For now, she’d worry about buying one outfit for the stupid practice interview required as part of the workshop on presenting a professional image.
With no more than a half-assed start on her paper, she wished she’d begged off last night when her friend Kevin sent a text asking for a ride to work this morning.
Amy opened her e-mail program. Looked like her mom had been back from the coast for all of an hour before writing to ask if Amy had bought any clothes to wear for student teaching. She scowled. The news got worse. Her sister had picked out her bridesmaid’s dresses. Amy’s dress was being shipped to a bridal shop at the mall for fitting. She held her breath, clicked the link, and glared at the hideous photo that opened. The shiny, clingy dress was a weird shade of pink. Great. I’m going to look like a roll of bologna. Thank you, Hannah.
Amy closed her e-mail and opened her browser. The public school system and local colleges were running on the normal schedule. The cabin was at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She supposed that was why the snow had been heavy here but the images taken in town showed the white stuff barely dusted the ground.
She scanned the headlines. She’d be glad when the De Marcos’ mom was no longer front page news. The family referred to Cammie’s death as “murder”, but the old farmer only confessed to causing an accidental death, then panicking and hiding the body. With no hate crime law to prosecute the crime, she feared Eric’s family was going to be disappointed with John Carpenter’s sentence. The farmer admitted he’d attacked her after he accused her of sleeping with one of the black or Mexican migrant workers working on the De Marco’s peach farm.
Stripping her panties down her legs, Amy decided she’d find the courage to talk to Eric about rent tonight. Maybe she’d have time to think this thing through by then and figure out what the hell the rules were.
It stung that he hadn’t wanted to have sex, but for all she knew, that’d never been his intent. Or, maybe he was just giving her time to relax and settle in. She hadn’t had much practice at figuring men out or, apparently, much success.
She grabbed her toiletry items and eased off the bed, trying to be quiet so she didn’t wake him again. Entering the spacious bathroom, she dumped her stuff on an old, gutted dresser that boasted a polished metal bowl perched on top, under an arcing faucet. Hefting a towel from the shelf, she shook her head. The thing was blanket-sized and a boring shade of tan.
She wasn’t much on bubble-baths, but she thought she might be overdue for a long soak after looking at the claw-foot tub. Amy rose on her toes and heaved the towel over the shower rail.
She pulled back the shower curtain and adjusted the pounding spray, feeling dumb for trying to make this arrangement follow the rules of a love affair. Besides, daydreaming about Eric wasn’t going to get her to Kevin’s on time. Amy rushed through her shower and shampoo. Turning off the water, she used the huge towel to dry off. After yanking a comb through her wet hair, she caught the dripping mass in an elastic band, unperturbed by the steam obscuring the mirror.
She stepped into the loft area and grabbed her referee’s uniform, thankful she’d stayed awake long enough the night before to get the clothes dried before falling into bed. Finally dressed, she draped her whistle around her neck and dashed down the steps. Skidding awkwardly to a stop in the living room, she swallowed hard at the sight of Eric. Stretched out on the huge leather sofa, he had one leg drawn up so the newspaper could rest on his knee. A massive television remote dangled from his hand. He did have big feet. Those made her wonder.... Her face started to burn. Dammit.
"Um, sorry about not hearing my alarm.” She was sick of feeling like a backward thirteen-year-old around him.
“You can’t be going to a game this time of day.” Ignoring her apology, he discarded the paper and eyed her uniform.
“I’m giving a friend a ride to work. Then I’m going to referee at a wheelchair basketball tourney at five,” she explained.
His brows disappeared under the shock of dark hair over his forehead. “They’re playing wheelchair basketball somewhere in town this weekend?”
“Sure are, at the elementary school gym. Best of all, reffing pays twenty-five dollars a game—in cash—which I need so I can give some to you. For rent? We, um...never got around to talking about that. I need to know an amount so I can make a budget, please.”
He stroked his chin. God, that goatee was sexy as hell, and she didn’t even like facial hair. “I don’t expect cash for rent.” The look in his eyes seemed to grow hotter. “I said we’d barter.”
Barter.
Amy's normally agile mind went completely blank. An image of the frozen doe morphed into her head. Now he wants to have sex? Maybe not. “I... um... I suck at c-c-ooking,” she finally stammered. “But, I can help clean.”
Eric burst out laughing again. “Amy, if you’ll remember, I’ve seen inside your car.”
It was too cold to stand outdoors, wiping windows and vacuuming. But she did need to rake out the take-out containers. Fighting for composure, she tried to joke. “I’m not useless. I happen to know the rules of just about every sport played in America.”
“And you come with your own whistle.” He chuckled, appearing to consider availing himself of her knowledge. “Nope, can’t use that, but it’s an interesting ability.” His smile turned her kneecaps to liquefied rubber.
She needed to get moving, but she couldn’t look away from his intent eyes. The sudden biting desire to straddle him and rub her cheek against the hair on his chest made her bolder than she’d ever been. “Then you’re stuck taking sexual favors.” She winced internally at his momentary frown. She’d always sucked at flirting. She rushed to add, “Or laundry. I can do laundry. In fact, I very much need to do laundry.” Hell-oo. Can you stop babbling?
Waiting for him to blow off her offer to have sex, she felt like an idiot.
To her amazement, his laughter tailed off and the look in his eyes heated. “I’m holding you to our deal. You let people know you’re living here. I’ll teach you to feel sexy. Anytime, anywhere I choose to make you come, you’ll come. That’s the rent.”
Coming had always been such a hit-and-miss affair that all she could do was stand there, getting wet and cursing the unattractive referee’s shirt. Not that she owned a shirt he might find more enticing. Not that making her come seemed to pose a problem for him.
“Okay, deal. Gotta go.” She began edging past him.
“I thought the perk for being a senior was getting first shot at the late-morning classes?”
“Class isn’t why I’m up so early. A friend’s having car trouble. Gotta give him a ride to work.”
“The shop can use the business.”
“He took it to Smith’s. I already bitched at him about that.” She moved anoth
er inch toward the door.
“Don’t forget your appointment with Phil at one-ten. You can’t go dressed like that, not if you want to get a favor out of him.”
She hadn’t forgotten. “Don’t you think this will be okay?” He shook his head emphatically. “Crap.” Now she felt younger than thirteen, like maybe five.
“Tina Bidwell, the girl Dani mentioned? She works in the Petites Department at that new department store. Ask for her. She’ll help you find a dress before your appointment.”
Meeting another woman like Dani or Dee held little appeal. She thought the uniform would look fine.
His concern might not be about her. “Is she one of the money-sucking vampires I need to scare off?”
He nodded, and his hair tumbled across his forehead. “Plus, she’s into gossip and she knows a few of the other bloodsuckers.”
Since she had no plans to go shopping, she made a non-committal sound and dashed for the door.
“Amy, where’s your damn coat?”
She could hear him yell as she jogged down the front steps, dodging some large boxes in her way. She had no idea where her coat might be, but had no time to dick around hunting it. The wind cut through the polyester shirt like a hot knife through butter, but she felt plenty warm from looking at Eric.
The sun was a glittering diamond peeking through the heavy thatch of trees lining the long lane. Peering through the screen of evergreens when she passed Lila’s, she couldn’t see any lights on, but smoke curled above the trees.
By the time she reached the stop sign at the end of the road, her headlights were unnecessary. She turned left and squinted into the low sun, slowing when the next farm came into view. The house and barn to her left looked so... normal. Despite the Honda’s reliable heater, she shivered. This was John Carpenter’s farm.
There’d been a massive manhunt for Cammie De Marco when she disappeared in 1984, according to her parents. The spot where her bones had been found a few months ago had been searched thoroughly back then. One of the reasons for that haunted look in Eric’s eyes had to be a gruesome detail that was helping keep the story in the news. Carpenter had confessed he’d stored Cammie’s body in a freezer in his barn for five years.
If he killed her accidentally, why hide the body?
Slowing to get a better look, she wondered why the farmer had so many dog houses. She’d never noticed them before, but the colorful cubes stood out against the blanket of white.
The boxes were about four feet tall. All were trimmed in white, but their zany colors looked as though he’d shopped among the piles of mis-tinted paints at a home improvement store. She couldn’t see an opening, unless the hole bored below the peak of each low-slung roof counted. They seemed too large for bird houses. Some were scattered along the far edge of the big field bordering the road. Many more were stacked on a flat-bed trailer. Curiosity was her curse, but she’d rather die than ask any of the De Marcos a question about John Carpenter.
God knew they’d been asked enough questions about him, by the police, by reporters, by nosy people. Maybe the old farmer built them for sale, then waited to cut the hole until he knew what size dog his customer owned?
The paved roads were clear. It took only minutes to arrive at her destination. The front door of the brick ranch opened as soon as she turned into the drive. The sun bounced off the windows fronting the home, illuminating Kevin’s copper-colored hair and glinting off the tubular chrome on his wheelchair. He raced down the ramp, making her laugh. She rounded the front of her vehicle in time to see his grin when he grabbed one wheel, jerking the chair into a hard forty-five-degree turn, barely missing his father’s truck. She opened the passenger door. Three hard pushes brought him to her side.
“Oh, look, it’s the Foul Queen.” Kevin elbowed her in the thigh.
“You stop rammin’ people when you’re not going after the ball, and I’ll stop calling those fouls.” She grinned at the newest player to join the wheelchair basketball league, her best buddy since middle school.
“I thought you might show up last night.”
“I found a place to crash, for now.”
She waited until he shifted from the chair into her front seat. Grabbing the handles affixed to the chair’s back, she folded the chair and wrangled it into her back seat.
When she landed in the front seat and stuck her hands toward the heater vents, she noticed Kevin was practically bouncing, which was saying something for a man with limited movement from the waist down. “What?”
“Gene got a grant!”
“Really?” Gene Rolley was a part-time youth minister and full-time employee of the telephone company. The portly black man had become the driving force behind the area’s newly-formed wheelchair basketball team. “I didn’t know he’d applied for a grant?”
“He’s gonna start a training camp, so we can play and work out year-round. He won’t get the funds until he can show the agency a lease or a deed for a facility, so he’s going to talk to the school board about the old Carver High gym today.”
She hadn’t realized Gene’s aspirations were so large.
“That mall exhibition of yours is gonna be a great way to kick this off. Did you get in to talk to that dude yet?”
“Going today at one.” She put the transmission in reverse.
“Hell, yes!” Kevin held out a palm for her to slap. “You’re gonna change into something nice first, right?”
She was tempted to aim for his face. Damn minions.
Chapter Seven
The lawyer stopped talking.
Staring at his fists atop the conference table, Eric gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something to reinforce his position as family fuck-up. He didn’t dare look at Dan or Colton. Not yet. Not till he could take a deep breath.
The whole county believed Cammie had gotten tired of putting up with his father’s demanding ways and run off. He might not be thinking too clearly, but at the moment, he couldn’t recall a single aspect of his life that well-known fact hadn’t tainted. He’d staggered under the weight of that belief many times, because Cammie’s disappearance made his family less than. Less than other families. Less than his mother’s side of his family, the Chapmans, for damn sure.
Then, five months ago, that fact crumbled. Through the maelstrom, when reporters were shoving microphones in their faces, Dan insisted the family remain mute. Eric could feel Dan’s stare. His big brother wanted him to keep his mouth shut. His big brother always wanted Eric to keep his mouth shut.
Fuck it. Eric was tired of staying quiet. “Three years?” he barked. “That sonofabitch killed our mother and hid her body for twenty-seven fuckin’ years. Now you wanna pat him on the head and send the racist ass to prison for just three years?”
Some days, it was still hard to wrap his head around the idea that Cammie hadn’t been living it up with a family she wanted more, since that was how he’d always pictured her. Happy, but with a different family. Not dead. Alive somewhere, so there was still a chance Eric could tell her in explicit detail how to get to Hell, for ripping the heart out of his family.
For turning his father into exactly the man the Chapmans told people he was. Didn’t matter that they said Rafe slapped his wife around or that they said it in whispers, they fucking said it. Rafe’s supposed abuse of Cammie turned out to be another lie, but as the years wore on, their father’s grief made him turn to the bottle. After that, Rafe had done his talking with his fists.
Brice Hammond, the district solicitor, smoothed gray strands off his forehead before holding up his hand. Unlike Eric’s and his brothers’, the lawyer's hands were manicured and unstained, but Eric had to blink twice to be sure they weren’t dripping with blood. “No, I want to lock him up and throw away the key, but I need evidence to do that. Please. I know you’re upset, but if we could all remain civil, I’d appreciate it. Three years is the plea bargain Carpenter’s attorney is asking for. I plan to hold out for the statutory maximum of five.”
How many times had Rafe said, “Son, I’m glad your mama’s not here to see what a damn fool you turned out to be?” How many ex-girlfriends labeled him “emotionally damaged goods” and said his “commitment issues” were because his mother abandoned him? Outrage turned his tongue to wood, while the pain of all those taunts bore into his chest like termites.
To his left, Cynda Avery leaned forward, stabbing the table with one French-polished nail. “This is why South Carolina needs a law about hate crimes. John Carpenter said he argued with Cammie because he thought she’d been sleeping with one of the migrants. We all know those workers were black or Mexican. People say not a single man workin’ the crops that year was white. He belongs to a hate group and he’s proud of it.” The young black woman straightened her shoulders. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Not prosecuting him for laying hands on her out of hatred is like sayin’ racism doesn’t matter.”
Dan tightened a massive arm around her slight shoulders, but the anointed head of the De Marco family didn’t speak. He did shoot Eric a warning glare.
Eric guessed Dan couldn’t afford to piss off the same man who’d declined to prosecute him for killing the man who’d attacked Cynda. Eric didn’t think Dan should go to prison for protecting his woman from being assaulted in his home, but it was just fucked up if the trade-off was that their mother's murderer would get off with a slap on the wrist.