Big Deck

by Remy Rose

  I am suddenly feeling very shy and stupid in his presence. The only thing I can think to do is fix my hair, which seems to have come undone—much like the rest of me. I slide down the elastic and shake my hair free, preparing to make another ponytail and coil it into a bun.

  Jack is watching me. “I like your hair down like that.”

  “Thank you. I’m...sorry about leaving you, um, you know—”

  “High and dry? Yeah, it’s not my favorite place. But it’s my own fault, seeing as I started it. I’ll survive.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.” Somehow, this seems like the lamest possible thing to say, given that our mouths and pelvises were basically fused together a few minutes ago, but it’s all I’ve got.

  My face feels warm, and other parts of me do as well. Fortunately, I have an ocean in my backyard, which I plan to take full advantage of right now.

  “Madeline.”

  I turn. Jack has my bottle of sunscreen in his hand and tosses it to me.

  “Thanks for caring about your skin.” He winks. “And you are one fucking amazing kisser.”

  I can’t get down to the water fast enough.

  Chapter 7 ~ Jack

  July 15

  “Still glad I asked you to play?” Drew is grinning, his buzz cut glistening with sweat. He’s in town visiting me and currently kicking my ass in our first racquetball game, 13-7, but I could get him in a tiebreaker if I win the second game. Loser buys the beer afterwards, which for me, is the whole motivation behind racquetball, anyway. That, and it’s a way for me to burn off some serious sexual energy.

  “Shut up and serve.”

  Drew laughs and drops the ball, bringing his racquet back. He hits the ball squarely off the front wall as I position myself for a return. We go back and forth in a long rally, our sneakers squeaking and profanities echoing off the white walls, before I two-bounce it and give the bastard another point.

  “Fuck.” I call time to open the door and swipe my water bottle from just outside it.

  “Whatsa matter, bud? You’re a little off your game.”

  Catching my breath, I take a long swig from the bottle. “Preoccupied with my latest project, I guess.”

  “Latest project...or latest pussy?”

  “Ha! Both.”

  “Nice. Want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fair enough. You ready to finish this one? I’m one point away, baby.”

  “There’s a whole other game after this one, cupcake.”

  Drew snorts, and I follow him back onto the court. He wins on a well-placed shot into the corner, and goes on to win the second game by six. So I sucked ass today, but after a good hot shower and a few beers at Black Bear Brewing, one of my favorite pubs, I’m feeling more relaxed, and I’ll call it mission accomplished. And I’m relaxed or buzzed or idiotic enough to ask Drew about New England Home Supply. As warehouse manager of the main distribution center in Scarborough, Drew’s always up on the latest scuttlebutt.

  “Well, let’s see...do you want to know about the business, or the people in the business, or how things are going for me professionally as the best damned manager in the history of ever?”

  “All of it. Fucking lay it on me.” I take a handful of peanuts from the bowl on our table.

  “All right. Your father’s still basically a prick, first of all, because I know that’s what you’re wondering. But then again, you know a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  “Very true. What else?”

  “That bimbo Marsha in accounting was promoted to vice president of finance, if you can even fucking believe it. She must have to wash her knees after every shift, for Christ’s sake.”

  I spit my beer down the front of me. “Jesus, you’re too much.”

  “Yup. We’re all about helping people achieve their dreams at New England Home Supply. I know you must miss it.”

  “I cry into my pillow every night. So how’s the business doing overall?”

  “I know how much you want the company to tank, but there’s a rumor we’re going to open a new store in Concord, New Hampshire.”

  “Ah, shit. Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” Drew looks at me closely. “I’ve got some other news, but I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

  “Oh, what the fuck. Just tell me. I can get shit-faced after if I need to, since you’re driving.”

  He sighs. “It’s probably better that you hear it from me first, but Brianne and James are engaged.”

  The news shouldn’t be surprising, but it feels like a hornet sting—the initial piercing jab, the biting venom as it spreads and burns.

  “Sorry, pal. I know it sucks.”

  I drain my glass. “No worries. I’m at the point now of thinking they deserve each other.”

  “They do. I give ‘em three years, tops. She’ll pop out a kid, he’ll be wigged out by her stretch marks and move on to some other gold digger who doesn’t give head.”

  “You paint such a romantic picture.”

  Drew shrugs and grins. “I’m a realist. But hey, you’re doing what you enjoy, and I guess I should also add who you enjoy. Lucky bastard.”

  This would be the perfect opportunity to go into gory detail about my latest exploits, but I’m not feeling it right now. Even though I just met her, I already know that Madeline isn’t the type I want to share. For one thing, she definitely wouldn’t appreciate it, and for another...I don’t know. I guess I just want to keep it to myself. Part of it is, underneath that aloof facade she’s got going on, she has this vulnerable quality, and I’m a sucker for that.

  I’m still trying to wrap my head around what it did to me just to kiss her. Man, I wanted her, bad. It about killed me to stop, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d scare her off and there might not be a next time. And Jesus, I want a next time. I want a boatload of next times. She was definitely into it, but there was a point where the vibe shifted, and I had to put on the brakes. Some women—quite a few of them, actually—have been ready to rock and roll from the moment we meet. I’m good with that—mutually satisfying, uncomplicated fucking works best for me. I have no doubt I’ll get there with Madeline, but it may take a little while. Ease her into it, so she’s not overwhelmed.

  Christ, if the kissing is this good with her, I can only imagine how good the sex will be.

  The anaconda and I are looking forward to finding out.

  “Dude. Hey. Where’d you go?” Drew is looking at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Little mental trip to a renovation I’m doing in Surry. But I’m back.”

  “Alrighty. So are you okay about Brianne and James?”

  “Yeah. Fuck ‘em.” I raise my beer glass and Drew does the same, in a mock toast to my former fiancée and her engagement.

  Her engagement to my brother.

  Chapter 8 ~ Madeline

  July 17

  After what happened with Jack a few days ago, I decide that staying away from my house is a wise move. I make sure to be down by the water early, with a glass of iced coffee, my phone and the newspaper, so I haven’t had to see him when he gets here. I listen outside until I hear a power tool and then sneak in for a food or bathroom break, so I can be reasonably sure he won’t come downstairs. I don’t eat inside the house; I either grab a piece of fruit and bottled water or walk to the lobster pound down by the public beach, and I wait till I see his truck pull out (usually around 4:30) before I head back in.

  So that I won’t come across as a complete lunatic or total bitch, I left a sticky note yesterday for him on the front door: Fresh strawberries and blueberries in the fridge. Lemonade, too—help yourself! I added a little smiley face to show him that I don’t want to be mean, but surely he could understand that his mouth and the intensity of the kissing and in large part (so to speak), the shock of how his penis felt against me have all contributed to some overwhelming feelings, and I’m just not ready for all of this.

  It was a pretty loaded smiley face.


  I’m sure he has an idea of what this is about, and I know I can’t hide forever, but I need this time and space to get my shit together. I’m almost glad my vacation will be over soon, because then I’ll be at work instead of making up excuses not to be in my house.

  Today, I’m doing some retail therapy in downtown Bar Harbor. Usually, I get a little irritated with the swarm of tourists and their Bermudas and high dark socks, the selfies taken right in the middle of the sidewalk with no regard to other people, the loud and whiny kids jostling each other and me, but this time, I’m grateful for the distractions.

  Mum calls around noon to tell me everything went well with Daddy’s surgery. She seems pleased to hear I’m shopping and says she hopes I have other fun things planned on a regular basis.

  That woman is persistent; I’ll give her that. And like most mothers...she’s usually right.

  I escape the simmering sidewalk to go into the rock shop, browsing the jagged chunks of pink quartz and the displays of watermelon tourmaline—burgundy and rosy-colored centers, edged with different shades of green. “State mineral,” the shop owner tells me. I smile and nod. Being a native, I already know this, but I’m playing tourist today.

  I stop at Purrfectly Pampered to pick up a catnip moose for Murphy (guilt gift to make up for not being at home when I should be), get a very mandatory double scoop of Heavenly Hash in a waffle cone at Butterfingers, and decide I’ll head in the direction of Cottage Street to Nathaniel Hall Winery. A bottle of wine or four might be just what I need.

  The shop is invitingly cool, with smooth jazz music and rustic charm—exposed beams, tables made of polished wooden slabs for tops and old wine barrels for bases, painted antique stools. I taste several different wines and settle on one bottle each of Cherryfield Blues and Cranberry Isle.

  As I’m handing my debit card to the smiling cashier, I look in the direction of the opening door. And oh my fucking fuck.

  It’s him.

  My ex. And the woman he left me for.

  I am trapped. The cashier still has my debit card, completely oblivious to how much I want it back, and I am curling my toes as the f-word goes on repeat in my brain.

  Paul Randall, former co-president of Maine Coastal Realty, reigning champion of Cheaters Unlimited, current CEO of Lying Sacks of Shit.com, staring at me like he’s shell-shocked.

  Yes, it’s me, I want to yell. Still living, still breathing, although what you did nearly killed me. But here I am.

  His partner in crime catches on to what he’s looking at, her frosted pink lips drawing together like two thin worms. She’d been a client and came away with not only a closing on a gorgeous lakefront chalet, but my husband.

  Hard to believe that all that was almost two years ago, when this unexpected run-in makes it feel so raw. I’ve been fortunate, if you can label anything about this fortunate, that I’ve only seen them one other time since the divorce, and that was when I was significantly inebriated at an outdoor concert with Delaney, so between the Bud Lights and the shielding from my best friend, it was less intense than in a quiet store by myself.

  Thankfully, the transaction goes through without a hitch. I take my card, receipt and the bag with the wine, and I even manage a smile at the cashier like my two least favorite people on the planet are not within spitting distance. They’ve moved over to a display of berry wines, but I can tell that Worm Lips is watching me. I also can tell that while her lips are thin, the rest of her is not so much. This cheers me enough to be able to look at my ex-husband as I leave, like this is some sort of victory for me. And that’s actually what it feels like, because to my surprise, he looks...defeated. I have to admit, grudgingly, that his face is still as handsome, but it’s so unhappy. His brown eyes search mine almost pleadingly, and this is so unexpected and unnerving that I exit the store like it’s on fire.

  The summer air outside is stifling and not conducive to taking deep breaths, which is what I need to do. I’m walking fast, and sweating, but the more distance I put between what used to be my life and me, the calmer I feel. By the time I reach the shade of a maple tree at the end of Cottage Street, I’m okay, and pull out my phone to check the time. There is a text, sent about fifteen minutes ago.

  I don’t bite, you know.

  There’s no name, just a number, but I know who it is. Jack and I had texted each other a few days before he came to do his estimate. I haven’t put him in my contacts. Yet.

  I’m thinking of how to respond, or even if I’ll respond (while trying to ignore my annoying burst of pleasure that he texted), when I get another message:

  Unless you want me to.

  Son of a bitch. How dare he, and goddamn that I am now smiling. Not wanting to be one of those people who annoy the shit out of everyone because they text while walking, I find the nearest bench and sit, placing my bags on the ground in front of me.

  Game on, Mr. Decker. I’m holding back a giggle as I reply: Who is this?

  I wait. No response. And then…

  Jack Decker

  Oh, God, this is priceless! Bursting into laughter, I text back. I know. I was teasing. Serves you right.

  Madeline...I want you

  I’m no longer laughing. Arousal, fringed with anxiety, begins to flicker inside my belly. I both want and don’t want to hear this. Jesus, why does he insist on going down that road when he knows I need to get out of the car?

  I take a deep breath, my thumbs trembling as I text back. I am flattered to hear this, but I really would appreciate if we tried to keep things professional. I don’t feel ready for anything more and hope you understand.

  There. That should get the message across. I tap “send” and almost instantaneously, I receive another text from him.

  To tell me where you’d like me to put your outlets.

  Oh. My. God.

  My cheeks erupt in flames at my utter stupidity for assuming. I’m staring down at my phone, wondering how to reply, when…

  Gotcha ;).

  Jesus, this man! I shake my head, looking up to the sky with my mouth quivering from the effort of keeping in a laugh. No one has ever made me experience such a range of emotions in such a short period of time, and I’ve never felt like I’ve had to fight what I’m feeling so hard. Fighting to keep from laughing, fighting to keep from gasping, moaning, screaming his name, fighting to keep my face expressionless, my hands from roving all over his body…

  Maybe I should stop fighting. Wave the white flag. Maybe I’m taking myself, and this, way too seriously. Jack is clearly having fun with it. Maybe I can learn to do that, too. Paul moved on, without me, and I’ve basically been in limbo for the past two years.

  And it would make my mother happy.

  I look down at my phone again, feeling a peculiar sense of calm. I’m guessing it’s coming from feeling like—for right now—I’m in charge of me.

  Smart-ass. I’ll be home in about half an hour.

  Fantastic. Your cat misses you. A pause, and then another text from him: And he’s not the only one.

  This time, I don’t even try to fight it. I smile.

  Chapter 9 ~ Jack

  July 17

  I’m laying out the framing for the new wall when I hear Madeline come up the stairs. I turn to watch the doorway, but she doesn’t come in right away, which makes me wonder if she’s having second thoughts about seeing me. Makes me feel kind of like an ass that this woman is too uncomfortable to be in her own house. I’m thinking I’d better scale back my own wants, because maybe she’s not feeling what I thought she was. Maybe I was reading her wrong. First time for everything, right?

  I’m about to measure for the new door, and there she is in front of me. My breath hitches a little, like I’d forgotten how hot she is. I’ve seen her only from a distance these past few days, from the upstairs window, and that doesn’t compare to having her right in front of me. She’s wearing a lacy, peach-colored tank top and white shorts, with her hair in a high ponytail. She looks like a college girl on sprin
g break, rocking her golden tan—no doubt all the outside time she’s gotten while avoiding me. Her face is flushed and her eyes are bright, and damn if she’s not glad to see me.

  “Hey,” I greet her. “How was your ice cream?”

  She looks at me, alarmed, and then down at her shirt to check for drips.

  “You’re clean,” I grin. “Lucky guess on my part.”

  She gives me this adorable, trying-to-be-pissed-off frown, and I feel a stirring in my dick. Down, boy. Remember—we’re scaling it back.

  “You guessed right.”

  I pretend to lick my finger and make a tally mark in the air. “Decker, one point.”

  “We’re keeping score?”

  “Absolutely. I’m very competitive.”

  “As am I, so I’ll remind you that I should have a point for the ‘who is this?’ text.”

  “Fair enough, if I get a point for the electrical outlets text. And for the one about how I’d bite if you wanted me to.” I’ve got her hard by the eyes, and she has to look away, blushing even more. Man, this girl has no idea what she does to me.

  “All right. Fine.” Madeline raises her chin.

  “So Decker 3, Callaway 1. I’ll try not to rub it in.”

  “Unless I want you to. Ooh, looks like I just scored again!” She licks her finger for real and holds it up in the air and of course, in my mind, her finger becomes my cock, and now I’m fighting a hard-on.

  This scaling back thing is not going to be easy.

  “Well done, Callaway.” I tell her. “3-2.” She’s smiling, pleased with herself, and I love seeing this playful, uninhibited side of her. I want her to keep feeling at ease, so I turn the focus to the bathroom project. “So let’s talk outlets, for real, and I’ll put those in tomorrow, since I’m about finished for the day.”

  I may be imagining it, but I could swear I see her face cloud over.

  “Okay.”

  “I usually put them on each side of the vanity and at least two on each wall, but you can have more if you like. I know how you women are with all your electrical needs.”