by Tanya Holmes
First up, my beef with my brother-in-law. So far, we’d shared a drink. Trash talked. Cracked jokes. You know, the usual shit guys do to disarm a frenemy, but I was determined to make our truce real.
“The cemetery called this morning,” Icky told me when he came back. He plopped onto his chair, set a hot basket of fries on the table, and dug in.
I tossed back a shot. “And?”
“They’re replacing the headstone for free, but Bev’s been crying nonstop.” Icky dabbed a fry in catsup. “Guess it finally hit her that Dottie’s gone.”
“I’m glad you were there for her.”
Icky paused mid-chew. He looked surprised.
White noise filled the void: sounds of liquor pouring, drunken laughter, and clinking ice cubes. Voices rose. A trio of rummies sang out of tune. One of the barmaids dumped a beer on a guy who’d squeezed her ass. Damn if she didn’t look like Shannon. Same height. Same hair color. Breasts were smaller though.
Shit.
I’d thought of nothing else since she’d run out on me last night; had to stop myself from calling her at least twice today. Hell, would she even show up tonight? One part of me worried I’d taken things too far, while the other—more vocal part—didn’t think I’d gone far enough.
“Can I be straight with you?” Icky asked, dragging me back to the present.
I hitched a shoulder. “You got the floor.”
Icky drummed his thumbs on the table while he chewed. “I just wanted to say that the stuff I pulled at the plaza—it was wrong.” He hunched closer. “We’re never going to be boys again. I think we both know that.”
“Icky—”
“No, hear me out.” Perspiration dotted his upper lip. “But I’m willing to pretend for Bev’s sake.”
I scooted forward. “My sister’s made her choice and I accept it. If getting along with you makes her life easier, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Icky stared back at me. “You’re serious?”
There were shadows in his pale green eyes. Sweaty half-circles stained his underarms. His shirt collar had a centimeter or two of dampness as well. The boy had always had a nervous energy about him…when he was strung out.
It’s none of your business. Let it go. “This thing with Mama got me thinking about a lot of stuff,” I told him. “You and me, we’re kin now. Let’s just lay all the bullshit aside.”
A temporary peace settled over us after that. We chatted some more, even laughed a few times. But an hour and several thousand hollow words later, Icky’s watch—a Rolex—beeped.
A Rolex.
Yep, gonna have to let that one go as well, Tracemore.
Icky flicked a glance at his watch. “Damn. It’s three o’clock already.” He stood, fished a twenty from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. “Man, I’m sorry.” He threw his suit jacket over an arm. “I’ve got to meet somebody.” He turned to leave, then rounded. “Wish you’d been there for Thanksgiving. Bev outdid herself. Maybe you could come for Sunday dinner?”
“Ah, yeah. Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
I watched Icky leave, wanting to believe we could be one big happy family, but my gut said otherwise.
TRACE
____________________________
“I wake up. You’re gone. I call. You hang up. What’s going on, Amber?”
Longneck in hand, I leaned a hip against my kitchen counter and wedged the receiver between my shoulder and jaw. On a lark, I’d dialed Amber’s number, hoping to catch her in a better mood, but I’d had her on the phone two minutes already and she’d been anything but cooperative.
“You knew I had to get back to work eventually,” she said. “Payroll was due and we’ve got a ton of events this month.”
“So you just up and leave without saying goodbye?”
“I had my reasons.”
“Which are?”
“You. Me.” She paused. “Our sex life. Need I go on?”
Just as I’d suspected. This was about the robot thing. “How do a couple off nights justify your disappearing act?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to go there.”
“Damn it, will you just tell me?”
A long stretch of dead air followed before she said, “You talk in your sleep.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Some people mumble, but you—you talk.” She paused again, for dramatic effect, no doubt. “The morning I left, you were tossing and turning. It was about 5 a.m. so I thought you were having another nightmare. That’s when they usually happen. But this time I couldn’t wake you. So I turned the light on.”
I washed down a swallow of beer. “Is there a punch line?”
“You were smiling.”
“Since when is that a bad thing?”
“You were also hard.”
I rolled my eyes. “For cryin’ out loud. I can’t help what my cock does when I’m asleep.”
“Your dick isn’t the problem. It’s your mind.” Silence echoed for a few tense seconds until she dropped a bombshell. “Trace, you whispered ‘Shannon.’ Then you came.”
Speechless, I sagged against the wall and clumsily set the beer on the counter. Felt like she’d hit me with a knockout punch. An eternity inched by before either of us spoke.
“Look.” Her voice gentled. “I know we have a no strings thing. I’m the one who set the rules up that way. But no woman, no matter how open-minded, could deal with something like this. You’ve got feelings for her. Admit it.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. I’d been wrestling with these ‘feelings’ for weeks and hadn’t a clue what do with them. Shannon was engaged. End of story.
She’d made that clear when she stood me up four days ago. Didn’t even bother to call with an excuse, or at the very least, an apology. And every call I’d made to her cell phone went straight to voice mail. I’d left at least three messages—five if you counted hang-ups.
Calling her office yielded the same frustrating results. Her‘administrative assistant’ Beatrice always answered, claiming Shannon was in a meeting. Or that she’d just stepped out. One time I’d even heard Shannon whisper, ‘Tell him I’m not here.’
I didn’t need a house to fall on me.
“You won’t believe this,” Amber continued, yanking me away from my wandering thoughts, “but your face gets all weird when we pass her billboards. It’s…a predatory look. Reminds me of the face my ex-husband used to make when he’d take me deer hunting.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, I’m serious. I can even tell when you’re thinking about her. Like you were that night I made dinner. Then there was the time I watched the two of you at Home Depot. In the parking lot. Trace, the way you were looking at her—you never looked at me like that. Not once! And I know the hanky I caught you sniffing was hers!”
“Amber—”
“How can I compete with a woman you won’t even admit you want?”
“Nobody’s asking you to.”
“But that’s how I feel! I can’t help it.”
I stared up at the ceiling, expelled an irritated breath. “Do you want to get past this?”
“I don’t think we can, shug. You haven’t been yourself since you left Gainstown. I thought it was the readjustment. But it’s partly because of her too. It wasn’t a big deal at first, but that wet dream was it for me.”
I rolled the back of my head against the wall. Obviously, our relationship meant more to her than she’d let on. I should’ve known something was up when she went all domestic on me—washing my clothes, cleaning the house, making that big Thanksgiving dinner, and a slew of meals after it. Not to mention how she’d ironed creases into the sleeves of my work shirts. Hell, all those fancy Australian boxer briefs she got me should’ve been a dead giveaway.
Yep. She wanted strings and I didn’t. “I’m sorry, Amber.”
“Don’t be. We had some wonderful times in stir. Great sex. Good conversation. It was exciting and dangerous, sneaking around like we
did. But nothing lasts forever, I guess.”
I rubbed my eyes. This was going nowhere. “We need to talk. Face-to-face.”
“No, we don’t,” she said in a quiet voice. “I can’t be a substitute for what you really want. I deserve better, and so do you.” She sniffed. “Listen, I need to go. I’ve got dinner in the oven and…well, you be good, okay?”
The line went dead just as my doorbell rang.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hand To Mouth
SHANNON
____________________________
The house looked gray and ominous, matching its infamous reputation. Bars fortified the windows on the outside, while yellowed newspaper shielded the glass from within. Three of the four shutters were missing. The remaining one barely clung to a nail as the howling wind propelled it to and fro. The only thing missing from this dreadful place was a sign bearing Dante’s:
‘ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.’
Hugging myself against a chill, I paced the battered porch. What was I doing? Hadn’t the incident at the club proved we shouldn’t be alone?
Days later, I could still feel the ghost of Trace’s touch. Just the thought of his hands on my body made my nipples harden. I’d barely slept since that night, and the few hours I’d managed to catch were plagued with erotic visions of him…doing things to me.
So why was I here?
Because! I needed his help, that’s why. Given the sorry state of my feeble investigation, I’d run out of options. What choice did I have but to come to his house? Briar was out of the question, and we certainly couldn’t meet in public.
Trace ripped the front door open, flooding the porch with light. There he stood, an unsettling combination of heaven and hell poured into a tight black T-shirt and jeans that hung below his narrow hips in a way Auntie would’ve deemed vulgar.
We stared at each other for half an eternity as Ray Charles crooned, “You Don’t Know Me” from somewhere in the house.
“Take a wrong turn?” he asked, ice dancing in his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw worked. “Four days, two hours, and twenty-three minutes of sorry. You get my messages?”
I nodded in shame. “I just…”
“Got scared.”
My breath escaped in a misty cloud. “I should’ve called.”
“You think?” He studied me in angry silence for a time. “Lose the hood.”
“What?”
“The hood.” He nudged his chin. “Take it off.”
He was testing me. His ‘you’re ashamed of me’ look was unmistakable. So I did as he asked. I tugged it down. “Satisfied?”
Trace swung the door all the way open and his arm formed an arch. I studied the man-made entrance with caution, then ducked beneath it and went inside.
He kicked the door shut.
Unbuttoning my coat, I watched him lean against a wall, arms folded. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to study me with the same lethal aloofness of a cat watching an unsuspecting mouse—right before the pounce.
To steady my frayed nerves, I concentrated on the beautiful living room. He was renovating. I smelled paint, and drop cloth draped the floor in the adjacent dining room, which he’d jammed with tools and supplies.
An ornate brass floor lamp stood attached to an extension cord that snaked down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. A cute tabletop Christmas tree, complete with tinsel, golden ornaments, and candy canes was propped on a twenty-five-inch TV. The pine floor had been polished to a high gloss. Beige paint with alabaster molding covered the walls. Stylish brass vent and outlet covers complemented the gilded vintage ceiling fan above them.
I gestured. “You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. My shrink thought it’d be therapeutic.”
“You do good work.” I tore my eyes from his sullen face. “It’s beautiful.”
“But a far cry from the fancy digs you’re used to.”
It wasn’t said maliciously. In fact, there’d been a ring of humility in his tone that had almost bordered on apologetic.
“My tastes are simplistic,” I said. “I fell in love with a dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I hesitated. Now it’s under contract.” I turned to him and sighed. “Speaking of which, I may have a job for you. The couple buying it needs a good carpenter. Can I give them your number?”
He hitched a shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“When do you think you’ll be finished here?”
“In a few months.” He lifted a brow. “Guess I’ll be needing a real estate agent.”
“Look no further.” I tried to smile, but it felt lame. What had happened at the club and my vanishing act screamed in his eyes. “So, do you have a place picked out or….”
“Naw.” He paused, then in a serious tone added, “I’m leaving Temptation the second my parole year is up. Sooner if I can get a transfer.”
My smile froze. He’s leaving? “Ah, th-that’s understandable. What, with everything that’s happened.”
“Exactly. There’s really nothin’ keeping me from going, is there?” He paused and cocked a brow, then said, “Cholly’s got his own life. Mama and Daddy are gone. Bev’s married, and if Cole ever gets out, I’ve got to find a way to help him—but not here. Not in this town.”
Fearing, dreading, I hesitated before asking, “Will you at least stay in West Virginia?” I cleared my suddenly dry throat. “Or will you move away?”
“What do you think?” He gave the room a fleeting glance. “Three tenants lived here over the past twelve months. When they heard about the suicides, they hauled ass. So selling this shack won’t be easy. Either way, I figure I’ll check out the West Coast. Maybe Washington state.”
It felt like he’d reached across the room and punched me in the stomach.
“You okay?” He looked worried.
I ran unsteady fingers beneath my throat scarf. “It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
Trace was way ahead of me. He peeled one of the newspaper curtains away and cracked open a window by the sofa. A cool blanket of air blew in. “Better?”
“Much.” I slipped my coat off and tugged the lamb’s wool scarf from my neck.
“How ‘bout a drink?”
God yes, preferably something strong. I draped my things over an armchair. “What do you have?”
He headed for the kitchen. “Beer. Jack Daniels. Herradura.”
“The latter will be fine. With ice.”
He swung a surprised look over his shoulder. “You know what Herradura is?”
I smoothed a hand along my skirt. “Tequila, right?”
“The best.”
He disappeared around the corner and I wilted onto the sofa. Heat ripped through my stomach.
He’s leaving. There it was again. That same cloying reaction.
No, I didn’t want him to go. But why? Well, he was a friend and I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Why wouldn’t I feel sad?
What else?
Nothing else! His leaving was probably a good thing. There’d be no one to harass him or his friends. He’d be able to start over again with a clean slate. Perhaps if I kept telling myself this, I’d believe it.
Trace returned bearing a tray of drinks, including a bottle of Herradura and a Corona long neck. Two of the tray’s four glasses were filled with what looked like tomato juice.
He pushed a shot glass of tequila into my hand and settled in next to me.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “Why are you drinking when you’re still on parole?”
He half-smiled. “Providence. The watchdog they assigned me? We played varsity ball at Temptation High—me, him, and Cholly. Zander stayed in touch with me the whole time I was in stir. I’ve known him since forever, so….”
“He’s lenient.”
Trace snorted. “Yeah. You could say that. Zander gives me a head’s up whenever I’m due for a ‘surprise’ visit or a drug test. I just have to be discreet
.”
He tipped the Corona to his lips, and as he drank, his throat worked in slow pulses. Condensation from the bottle dripped onto his neck, glistening along his Adam’s apple. Watching him, I sipped my tequila with care. The golden liquid was smooth on my tongue, but burned its way to my stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a lime.
As if he’d read my mind, Trace handed me one of the glasses with the red liquid. I set the empty shot glass back on the tray.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“You never had sangrita?”
“Sangria?”
“Naw, sangriTa. It means ‘little blood.’”
I examined the concoction warily. “What’s in it?”
He held his at eye level. Light glinted off the glass while he turned it this way and that. “Clamato, OJ, minced tomatoes and cucumber, lime, cilantro…uh…and grenadine and Tabasco sauce.” He nodded at me. “I made it myself.”
I glanced from the drink, to him, then back again before I sipped. Surprisingly, it was quite good. The taste enhanced the earthy tang of the tequila.
He cocked a brow. “You like?”
Nodding, I sipped again. “Mmm.”
His mouth became a flash of straight white teeth, his face, an instantaneous softening of hard features. He poured me another shot. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, why?”
“You were staring.”
The lighthearted moment evaporated, replaced by an awkward hush as thick as the leaden tongue in my mouth. He killed his drink, his movements jerky. I followed suit. This time the liquor didn’t even burn going down.
He examined his empty glass. “Sooooo, you ready to see what I dug up?”
The tension leveled off and I gave an inward sigh of relief. “To be honest, I’ve been on pins and needles.”
Trace grabbed some papers from the end table. “I don’t have internet, so I had to use the library.” He handed me the mini stack. “This is all about memory repression. Check it out.”
I thumbed through the papers. “I did a bit of research a while ago, but I didn’t really find anything substantial.”