Jackie dives at Dylan, throwing her arms around his waist. “Thank you so much for trying to save him. I know you did everything you could. It means so much to me and my family. So much.”
Dylan’s hands are in the air – obviously not wanting to touch Jackie who clings to him tightly. Myra coughs to cover a smile when she sees the expression on Dylan’s face which happens to be a crazy combination of startled, disgusted and tortured.
Jackie gives Dylan one more squeeze before she finally lets him go and turns to Myra. “I have to go. I have so much to do. I’ll see you soon,” she says with a wave as she bounds out the front door.
“Sorry about her,” Myra says to Dylan with a small smile. “She’s a little… different.”
He frowns at her. “We need to go get your cabinets and other materials ordered. It’ll take a while for that shit to come in.”
“Can’t I order it online?” she asks as her heart starts to beat faster. No way does she want to have to ride anywhere in a vehicle with this jerk.
He shakes his head. “You have to do it in person. You can’t return custom-made kitchen cabinets if you don’t like them.”
Her mind scrambles for a way out of this but she comes up with nothing.
“Can you be ready in an hour?” he asks.
Myra chews on her thumbnail, trying with all of her might to come up with some excuse. She sighs. “Yeah, I guess,” she says as her shoulders slump.
“I’m gonna go re-measure. We’ll leave in an hour,” he says before he abruptly takes off towards the kitchen.
* * *
Dylan finishes measuring the cabinets, double checking his previous measurements on his clipboard. He stretches and grabs his coat off of the kitchen chair. Slipping it on, he shoves the clipboard under his arm and walks back into the living room to find Myra.
“You ready?” he asks as he stares at her sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her, staring intently at her computer.
“Yes,” she says as she closes her laptop. Slipping on her coat, she grabs her bag and follows him out to his truck. He groans when he remembers all of the shit he has in his front seat. Walking around to the passenger side, he yanks open the door and moves tools, trash, papers, and a ton of other garbage to the back seat until he finally clears a spot for her to sit. He then uses his hand as a broom and tries to sweep out the remaining dirt and crud off of the seat as best he can.
Slightly embarrassed at his slobbishness, he steps back and motions with his hand for her to sit. Stepping onto the stainless steel nerf bar, she unsteadily grabs onto the handles and throws herself awkwardly into the seat. Dylan closes the door after her.
He climbs into the truck and backs out of the driveway. “Do you mind?” he asks, glancing at her as he flips on the radio.
“No,” she answers softly.
Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he rests his right on the center console. Unconsciously, his long, slender fingers tap along to the beat of an Aerosmith song that plays in the background.
Dylan takes in a deep breath, readying himself to be a dick if she starts trying to talk to him. He doesn’t talk. To anybody. But the minutes tick by silently. Frowning, he sneaks a curious sideways glance at her, thinking maybe she fell asleep or something, but finds her simply gazing contentedly out of the window. His shoulders relax a little as he leans back into his seat.
Pulling into a parking space, he turns off the truck. “Hang on, I’ll get the door,” he mumbles as he lumbers out of the truck. Making his way around to her side, he notices the wet slippery spots on the pavement.
“It’s slick. Be careful,” he warns her as he opens it. He watches as she struggles to get out of the truck.
They make their way to the kitchen cabinet section of the home improvement store. “Look at the cabinet styles on display here. I’ll go get with a salesperson to set up the dimensions of your kitchen into the computer,” he says before taking off to find someone.
About an hour later after speaking with one of the associates, Dylan goes to find Myra. He dreads this part of his job because it can take hours and hours for someone to pick out shit.
He spies Myra standing in front of some cabinets, chewing on her nails as she stares intently at them. “Find anything?” he asks. “If not, they have more on the computer.”
“I like these,” Myra says as she points to the cabinets in front of her. Dylan nods. They’re a good choice. Classic lines that’ll go perfect with the style of that old house of hers.
“You sure? Remember, you can’t change your mind.” He watches her profile carefully.
“Yeah, I like them.” She reaches her hand out and gently touches the wood with her fingertips.
“Let’s get them ordered.”
The next hour passes quickly. Myra makes quick, confident decisions about what she wants. She chooses the countertops and flooring easily, and Dylan orders the materials that he’ll need. They even manage to select and order all the materials for the bathrooms as well.
* * *
“You wanna grab something to eat?” Dylan asks as he backs of the parking space.
“Sure,” Myra says.
He pulls up to a stoplight and cocks his head sideways at her. “A burger okay?”
She nods.
“You don’t mind eating in the truck, do you?” he asks as he pulls into a drive-thru joint.
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little. No way does she want to eat in his truck.
She clears her throat and looks straight ahead. “I guess not. I just hope I don’t spill anything.”
“Well, if you do, I’ll never know. My truck is kinda nasty,” he says. She turns her head to look at him, shocked to see a small smirk on his face. Her heart beats faster because she’s never seen anything other than a scowl or a frown on him before. That small smirk lights up his handsome face so much that it leaves her stunned.
Swallowing hard, she quickly scans the menu board, trying to find something healthy she can order. “Know what you want?” he asks.
“A grilled chicken sandwich with water.”
His face turns into a slight frown.
He orders her food and then proceeds to order himself a double bacon cheeseburger, large fries and a chocolate milkshake.
Myra opens her bag and grabs a twenty dollar bill out of her wallet. “Here, I’d like to pay,” she says as she hands him the money.
“Not a chance.” She stares at his stern profile for a moment and decides not to argue with him. Shrugging, she slips the money back into her wallet.
Dylan pulls up to the window and pays. Sliding into a parking spot, he turns the truck off and hands her the chicken sandwich along with some napkins. Peeling back the wrapper on his burger, he places the open bag with the French fries between his legs. He takes a huge bite and then shoves his hand down into the bag to retrieve a fry.
Myra takes small bites of her chicken sandwich, praying that she doesn’t spill anything in his truck or, heaven forbid, all down the front of her coat.
He quickly eats all of his food including his shake before she even gets halfway done with her sandwich. “You done?” he asks. She nods as she folds up the uneaten portion in the wrapper and places it in the bag he offers her as a makeshift trash can.
Reaching for the door handle he murmurs, “I need a smoke.”
Her gaze stays fixed on him as he walks up to the trash can in front of the truck and throws away the bag. He rubs his fingers along his neck, stretching. Grabbing a pack of smokes out of his pocket, he lights one and takes a puff. Her lip curls up at the sight.
He keeps his back to her, occasionally turning to the side so that she can see his profile. Even though she finds his habit filthy and death-inducing, she can’t help but admire his attractive physique.
After tossing the cigarette butt, he climbs back into the truck, the scent of smoke swirling around him. She discreetly puts her hand over her nose.
When Dylan pulls back into her d
riveway, she picks up her bag as he turns off the truck. “I tracked down your wiring problem,” he tells her. “It’s a bad main breaker. I’ll replace it this afternoon, but I’ll have to shut the power off for a while.”
“No problem,” she says with a nod before she climbs out of his truck.
* * *
Myra looks down at her vibrating phone and grins.
“Hey.”
“Hey, hon. How’s it going? I sure miss you.”
“I miss you, too. Did the men in your life miss you?” Myra asks.
“Yeah, they missed me all right,” Susie says. “They missed their chef, chauffeur, accountant, housekeeper, tutor, sexual needs provider; you get my drift.”
Myra laughs.
“I swear I’m ready to beat their sorry asses. I got home and my house was a damn disaster. Looked like someone threw a grenade in there and ran away laughing. I cannot believe how much filth three males can generate in such a short amount of time. Honest to God, every dish in my kitchen was dirty. Why do men have to be such loathsome swine?”
“Those pigs,” Myra adds with a snicker.
“Then Jeff spilled something – I have no idea what the hell it was – underneath the burner on my stove and instead of taking two seconds to clean it up, he left it there and cooked with that burner the rest of the week, baking that shit right in, that idiot. It took me two hours of scrubbing that kitchen to make it look decent.”
“Oh no.”
“And the smell? God, the smell in that house almost knocked me flat on my fat ass. I know those boneheads had farting contests while I was gone because I found a bunch of bean cans in the trash. And I just know I’m going to find some shitty underwear hidden under the bed or in the couch cushions because someone got a little too competitive and left brown tire tracks in his shorts. And I lie not, if I find one pair of Jeff’s shitty underwear hidden somewhere, I am going to make that man wear them on his head to work. Why couldn’t I have been blessed with girls? My house smelled like stank toe-jam-infested sweaty gym socks, reeking hairy armpits, mixed in with a little back-end of a wart hog.”
Myra laughs hysterically.
“Even though I’m still super pissed at Jeff over the disgrace that is now my house, I will have to give him a little credit. He’s been trying to make it up to me. He bought me some chocolates. Yum.”
“Ah, how sweet.”
“Yeah, but I think the only reason he did it is because he’s a horny bastard, and he knows I have a chocolate addiction. Ever since I got home, I swear I can’t keep that man’s hands out of my pants. His dick…”
“TMI. TMI,” Myra shouts. “God, please stop.”
Susie cackles. “I love annoying you, hon. So is the scruffy Greek god asshole working today? Too bad it’s not the middle of summer because then he’d have to take off his shirt because he’s so hot and sweaty. Or he’d have to wear some cutoff jeans all hung low on his waist with that sexy ass tool belt swinging. Then you’d get to see his…”
“Susie,” Myra yells.
“Sorry. I wish I could control my mouth, but for some reason, it just won’t shut the hell up.” She sighs. “I gotta get off of here. I’ll call you later.”
They say their goodbyes and hang up.
* * *
“Have you been doing the exercises I gave you, mi querido?” Elaina asks Dylan as she presses her fingers deep into his neck.
He despises doing those damn exercises, but the pain has been intense lately so he’ll try just about anything. “Yeah,” he says before he lets out a long, deep contented moan.
“How’s your pain level? The same? Any better?” she asks.
“A little better. Mm,” he says, groaning happily, his eyes closed and all of the muscles in his body relaxed.
“Wonderful. How’s your stress level been?”
Dylan grunts. “Not as bad.”
“Good. Just remember if you can keep your stress level down that’ll help with the pain.”
“Kind of hard to do that with the psychos I run into.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” he mumbles. “I’m working on this house – the one I was working on when I found Jim – and the woman introduced me to her friend who then proceeded to have the balls to chew my ass out over shit that wasn’t even my problem. It pissed me off.”
“What did she say?”
“A bunch of shit about how I should’ve stayed around for her friend after Jim died. I’m not a fucking grief counselor. Then she had the nerve to tell me that I needed to look out for her friend. Do I look like a damn babysitter to you?”
Elaina laughs lightly. “Definitely not. Sounds like you run into some unusual people.”
“You have no idea.”
Elaina pats him gently on the back. “You can sit up now.”
She walks over to her desk, her magnolia print flowered dress swirling around her shins. “Your neck and back looked much better today. Keep doing those exercises, and I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay, mi querido?”
Dylan nods and mutters, “Thanks,” before he heads out to his truck.
* * *
The next day, Myra tosses her paper plate into the trash and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Chewing on her thumbnail, she nonchalantly glances out of the kitchen window and sees a ladder propped up against the front of the garage. Leaning against the window to get a better look, she spies Dylan on top of the garage roof taking measurements. The garage’s steep slope makes her nervous as she watches him; she hopes he doesn’t slip off.
Taking a sip of her water, she chokes when Dylan disappears. Straight through the roof. Dropping the water bottle on the floor, she runs to the back door as fast as she can, darting outside in just her socks. The wet ground immediately soaks them. She runs to the open side door of the garage, ignoring the pain in her feet from running on the gravel.
“Fuck,” he roars as she steps inside. Dylan lies in a pile of scattered, rotted wood and shingles right smack dab on top of the hood of her car. Stunned, she stands there frozen, her mouth hanging open.
Snapping out of her stupor, she runs around to the side of the car. “Oh my God,” she mumbles breathlessly as she takes in his disheveled appearance. “Are you hurt?” she asks as she reaches her hand out towards him.
“Fuck,” he yells again. “Goddamn roof,” he bellows as he starts to try to move off the hood.
“Wait. Don’t move. Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Of course I’m hurt. I fell through a fucking roof. Are you stupid?”
Myra frowns surprised that something as simple as a few words could cut her so deeply. “No, I meant do you think anything is, is broken?” she stutters. She wants to help him but has no idea what to do. Her thin body trembles as she stands there in the freezing garage with no coat on in her wet socks.
“How would I know?” he growls. “Damn it.” As he slides off the hood, shingles and wood hit the concrete floor of the garage making loud snapping and pinging noises. Her stomach churns when she sees the condition of her car. Her graduation gift. The gift from her dad and Grampie that means so much to her.
“Let me help,” she says as she reaches for his arm to steady him, trying not to step on any of the debris on the floor.
He clutches his back in pain. “Shit, my back. This is all I fucking need,” he yells angrily.
“Let’s go inside and I’ll take a look at it,” she says as she tugs on his arm.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he shouts as he rips his arm away.
“I just, I want to make sure you’re okay,” she stammers.
“Get back in the house,” he shouts, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. “You don’t even have a coat or shoes on for fuck’s sake.”
Myra stares at him for a moment. “You, you… jerk! You’re so mean,” she yells before she stomps her sock-covered foot on the hard concrete for emphasis. “You got hurt on my property so either you come in and let me take a l
ook at you or… or… I’ll call Porter and have an ambulance sent over here and make them take you to the hospital.” She stares at him defiantly with her fists clenched at her sides.
Dylan glares back at her, his steely eyes looking like he wants to maim her in some terrible way.
“Fine,” he says with his lip snarled.
Myra pulls in a shaky breath, feeling a little frightened and a little bit liberated.
“Do you want to hold onto my arm?” she asks, knowing the answer to the question before it even leaves her lips.
His rage-filled eyes bore into her causing her to cower back an inch or two. “No,” he says. She flinches at the coldness in his voice.
Giving her a smart-ass smirk, he flings his hand dramatically in the direction of the door for her to walk ahead of him.
Once in the kitchen, she pulls out a chair. “Here. Sit,” she says. With her heart beating hard and her body trembling, she stumbles down the hallway towards the bathroom. A lump forms in her throat when she thinks about her car. But she can’t think about that right now. She needs to focus on Dylan. Rummaging under the cabinet, she pulls out a first-aid kit along with some peroxide and cotton balls. Her hands shake so much that she drops the cotton balls on the floor.
Back in the kitchen, she sets everything on the table before grabbing a clean dish towel out of the drawer and wetting it.
“Take your coat off,” she says in an unsteady voice as she keeps her back to him at the sink. Taking in some deep breaths, she closes her eyes, willing her nerves to calm down. From behind her, she can hear him standing and removing his coat.
She turns and instantly feels a pang when she sees the scratches on his beautiful face. He has a small one on his forehead and an abrasion on his left cheek. Myra moves to his side, and takes the wet towel and cleans his face gingerly, her hands trembling. Standing so close to him makes her breathing difficult. She can feel his eyes on her, watching her intently, making her feel self-conscience, but she doesn’t dare make eye contact for fear that she might pass out or do something equally embarrassing. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained on the scratches.
Once she cleans his face and rinses the towel in the sink, she pulls up a chair next to him, picks up his hand and places it gently in her lap. Myra carefully cleans the small nicks and cuts, irritated that her hands won’t quit shaking and her heart won’t stop pounding. Moving his clean hand back into his lap, she replaces it with the other, making sure to carefully clean each abrasion. She can’t help but admire how large his hands are. They are laborer’s hands, though, as she sees the rough callouses on them from the work that he does.
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