Big Deck

by Remy Rose

  There’s a sprinkling of light rain on my windshield, so I flick on the wipers. Tonight will be the first time I’ll have seen my father and brother since I left the company two years ago. So there’s that.

  Christ.

  James sounded uneasy talking to me on the phone. He should, given what he did to me. And this brings up another potentially shitty situation: what if Brianne’s there, too? It’s not like I’m stressed that it’ll open up new feelings—any feelings I had for her died the second I learned she was banging my little brother. It’s more about the battle inside myself between knowing I need to be civil and really wanting to rip both of them a new one. But bottom line, my father is in the hospital, and I’m going to do my best to put all my negative feelings aside for him because it’s the right thing to do.

  I hear my text notification, and I glance down at the center console to see my phone screen. It’s a short text from Madeline that makes me smile, despite my mood: I may or may not have opened your Play-Doh #sorrynotsorry. Thinking of you.

  Man, I really wish I hadn’t had to leave.

  I pull into the hospital parking garage at 9:07 and text James to ask what room our father’s in. I’ve been to Maine Med twice in the past ten years: once when I broke my wrist playing men’s league basketball, and once to sit beside my mother when she took her last breath. Hard to believe that was almost eight years ago.

  Honestly, we all kind of fell apart after she died. She’d been the glue that held the family together. Small in stature, but one of the strongest people I’ve ever known—able to put up with Dad’s bullshit and temper tantrums, sometimes taking the brunt of it to spare James and me. My father changed after she died—his good moods, which were already few and far between, became basically non-existent. He worked ten to twelve hour days during the week and drank heavily on weekends, so my home visits from UNH became less and less frequent, even though I felt badly for James, who was still in high school and living at home.

  I don’t want to make it sound like my father has no redeeming qualities. He’s a fiercely competitive, impressive golfer. He’s tough on the higher-ups in the company (like James and me) while being surprisingly kind and generous to people like his secretary, forklift operators and warehouse workers, and he donates a lot to charity. And obviously, he’s a brilliant business man. A dick most of the time, sure, but he took what was a family hardware store and turned it into a multi-million dollar corporation in a span of fifteen years.

  So it’s the positive things about my father I’ll try to focus on as I walk through the sliding doors of the hospital’s main entrance and head to the elevators. It feels like I’ve got C-clamps all along my spine. I’m not a fan of hospitals anyway, but tonight’s got me all kinds of uneasy. The smell of antiseptic, medical staff hurrying past, the tense faces of family members...then throw in my traitor of a brother and a father I don’t like or speak to, and watch Jack lose his shit.

  But I don’t. Not when I get off the elevator on the cardiac floor, and not when I see James down the hallway. He’s alone, thank God—no Brianne. I walk toward him, vaguely aware that the walls are painted a sage green, undoubtedly to promote a feeling of calm. It’s not working. James is dressed in business casual—a royal blue golf shirt and tan khakis.

  I’m in what I guess you’d call “carpenter casual.”

  My younger brother looks uptight, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s worried about Dad or stressed about seeing me. Probably both. I don’t care.

  He gives me a quick nod but avoids my eyes, casting his gaze on the tile floor. It’s a jab to my gut, seeing my mother in him. He has the same light brown, wavy hair, same big hazel eyes.

  I won’t do small talk. I mean, it’s been two years. “How is he?”

  “He’s alert—insists that he’s fine, wants to go home...his usual grouchy self. Guess that’s a good sign.” James gives a quick, nervous laugh. “The cardiologist was just in—said it was a mild heart attack that’s a result of coronary artery disease. The EKG showed one blocked artery.”

  “Is the doctor thinking surgery?”

  “Fortunately no, not at this point. They’re going to try adjusting his meds, get him to make some lifestyle changes, and if those don’t work, he’ll probably have an angioplasty and a stent. Hopefully he’ll listen, but you know Dad—he pretty much does what he wants.”

  “Yeah.” Call me a stubborn grudge-holder, but no way am I ready to be all in agreement with my little brother. “I’m gonna go in and see him,” I mutter, turning toward the door.

  “Jack.” James’s voice has a hint of desperation to it.

  I don’t look at him, but I stop.

  “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry...Jesus, it sounds so inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got. I really am sorry. About everything.”

  A little zinger in my chest, right about where my heart is. Part of me is thinking, this is your little brother—the one you used to make blanket forts and open Christmas presents and play HORSE in the driveway with—but the other part of me that still simmers with anger is telling me I’m not ready to forgive, not yet—not with all the shit he did to me both personally and professionally. So I tell him, “I don’t know what to do with that, James. I’m going in to see Dad now.”

  I push open the door, the back of my neck feeling prickly as I take in the sight of John Decker lying in his hospital bed. He’s aged—I’m not sure if it’s from the heart attack or that I haven’t seen him in a long time, but he seems a lot older to me. Even frail, which is shocking, because after all, this is John Decker. His black hair, salted with gray, looks disheveled, but this isn’t out of the ordinary—he’s always been one to rake his hands through it when stressed out or pissed off, which was often. His skin looks a little pasty, and that, along with the absurdity of the hospital gown on this man is a bit unsettling. But his eyes are the same—dark, snapping with unwarranted disapproval and irritation. I may be imagining it, but it seems like they brighten up a little, seeing me.

  “Jackson. You’re here.”

  “Of course.”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “This is where I should be. How are you feeling?”

  “Good enough to go home.” Scowling, he lifts his arm and gestures at the IV. “And like I want to be unhooked.”

  “It sounds like you’ll be able to avoid an operation, if you make some changes.”

  “Yes. Easier said than done.”

  “Staying out of surgery should be your motivation.”

  He regards me closely and changes the subject. “Are you still working for yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it satisfying?”

  “Very.” I don’t want to go down a road that will inevitably lead to a detour involving the past. Two can play the changing-subject game. “When are they going to let you out of here?”

  “Tomorrow, most likely.”

  “And you’ll have a follow-up appointment?”

  “Jackson...you sound as though you care.” His eyes are veiled with sarcasm, but there’s some amusement in them, too.

  “You’re my father.”

  A dry laugh from the hospital bed, and suddenly, it feels like there is nothing more to say. Which is ironic, given that there’s so much we could say. But I don’t ask about the company, and he doesn’t bring up James, so the two of us sit in stale, awkward silence until thankfully, a nurse enters the room to check his vitals, and I use this as my cue to leave. I smile at her and address my father. “I’m staying in Portland tonight. I’ll have James keep me posted on how you’re doing. If it looks like you’re getting out tomorrow, I’ll head back early in the morning. I’m assuming James will be checking on you at home?”

  He flicks a hand at me. “I’ll be fine. Won’t need anyone checking on me.”

  The nurse catches my eye as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm. I give a little shrug and grin. This is so my father.

  I tell him goodbye, and the do
or is closing behind me when I hear him call my name. I push it back open and look at him. I wouldn’t call it softness, because nothing about John Decker is soft, but his expression is lighter, somehow. He’s leaning slightly to look at me around the nurse.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “You’re welcome, Dad.” I feel my voice start to catch a bit, realizing that I’ve called him Dad, and Jesus, I hope he didn’t hear me falter. I go quickly into the hallway, glad that my brother isn’t there anymore, because I just want to get out of here. I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling. A whole bunch of shit, really, swirling around and around inside me. I came to see my father more because I felt I had to, not because I wanted to, and that makes me feel guilty—but then I think back on what went down, those ugly feelings resurface, and I’m resentful and don’t want to deal with it. And then it’s back to the guilt.

  Guess you could say I’m a ways from putting everything in the past, but mixed in there is a kid—the ten-year-old Callaway sees in me—hoping his dad will be okay.

  Chapter 18 ~ Madeline

  July 31

  “I wish the granite was a lighter color.” My client Sydney is frowning as she looks at the kitchen countertop, which I personally find gorgeous—a dramatic display of blacks, golds and grays that look like someone scooped up stones out of a riverbed and sprinkled them across the slab. She drums her perfectly-manicured, shell-pink nails along the edge of the counter as her frown deepens. “I suppose I could have it replaced.”

  As awful as this sounds, if she had a penis, or at least was plainer looking, matronly or old, I’d consider recommending Jack as a contractor, but given that she’s a smoking-hot blonde with a Kardashian ass, I’ll keep quiet.

  Sydney’s heavily-fringed eyes brighten. She appears to be having a light-bulb moment. “Ooh, now there’s a thought...I could hire Jack again.”

  Fuck.

  There are lots of Jacks, I tell myself firmly. There are men named Jack who work on houses.

  I don’t want to know, so I don’t ask. But she confirms it for me anyway.

  “My contractor is amazing. He did some really good work for me.” And now she’s smirking—like she has this delicious secret. Even though she’s a client looking at a $400K house and we stand to make sixteen grand in commission, I find myself loathing this woman. The way she said my contractor is the icing on a very bitter cake. Jack Decker doesn’t belong to anyone.

  Including me.

  Reminding myself helps me hate her a little less. But just a little.

  Two more showings and one signing of an offer later, I arrive home at the end of a sultry summer day, which calls for iced tea. One for me, and one for “my” contractor. If Sydney can use that term, so can I.

  Jack was gone before I got home yesterday—he’d texted me he was playing in a men’s league softball game and was going to leave a little early. I wasn’t sure he would even work, but his father had been discharged yesterday and doing well. So even though I didn’t see him, I was glad he got to do something fun after the stress with his dad. And the thought of him in an athletic uniform (especially the tight white pants) definitely assuaged my disappointment.

  Walking up the stairs with two iced teas, the ice cubes softly clinking against the glass, I try to make myself promise that I will not bring up Sydney from this morning. But the part of me that’s really good at ignoring myself feels like it’s going to win out. Just a hunch I have.

  I walk into my bedroom. Murphy looks up at me, curled contentedly on the carpet, apparently wanting to be near the man in the house. He’s not the only one.

  The new bathroom door is partly open. He’s back-to me, smoothing out some sort of orange fabric on the shower wall, but that’s not what I’m focusing on. He is shirtless. I take a moment to stare unabashedly at him—the rippling of his muscles as he reaches and stretches, the slight dip running along the center of his smooth, tanned back, his tapered waist. He’s jacked (or maybe it’s Jacked) and muscular, but it’s a natural kind of muscular—not steroid-y. Everything looks good on Jackson Decker.

  I’m standing there with the drinks cold in my hands—other parts of me growing warmer—when he turns around. A grin drags across his face, like he’s not at all surprised that I’m watching him.

  “I brought you something to drink,” I say, because stating the obvious is all I can do right now.

  “Thanks. It’s hotter than hell today.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I don’t usually work shirtless, but I didn’t think you’d mind.” He winks at me, flashing me another toothpaste commercial grin.

  “I see you brought your arrogance with you today. As usual.” I’m trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

  He walks over to take one of the glasses from me, leaning down to brush his lips against my cheek and making me shiver involuntarily. He smells delicious, his deodorant mingling with a hint of male perspiration. I watch him tip back his head and drink the amber liquid slowly, and I want to crawl inside him.

  “What’s the orange stuff for?” I ask, needing to shift the focus to anything but what is going on in my pants.

  “Waterproofing membrane. So when you’re taking your long hot showers and masturbating while thinking of me, you won’t flood the house.”

  I open and close my mouth in exasperation as he bursts into laughter and raises his finger to make two imaginary marks in the air. “That one’s worth at least double, maybe triple, points.”

  “We’re still keeping score?”

  “Always.”

  “Speaking of scoring...I met someone you may have done that with.”

  “Really.” He arches an eyebrow with interest. “And who is that?”

  “A client I had today for a showing. Sydney. Blonde, big boobs, big butt.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Let me guess...she wanted a bigger deck?”

  “Ha! Impressive, Callaway.” He nods appreciatively and chalks up a point for me.

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you done any...work for her, lately?”

  “Nope. She’s in the past. History.”

  “Just like I’m going to be.” Shit. Did I really just say that?

  He holds me with those crystal-blue eyes until I drop my gaze. “Ground rules, Callaway, remember?” His expression is soft, almost rueful.

  I nod, even though inside my head I’m stomping, burning and burying the fucking ground rules. His eyes are roaming over me now, and my body responds almost as though I’m being caressed. “Come with me,” he says, his voice edged with huskiness as he takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

  My heart is a wild bird fluttering in my chest. He sets his empty glass on top of my bureau and holds out his hand. “Can I take your drink?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, giving it to him. You can take my drink, my mind, my soul, and most definitely, my body. Right now. Any way you want.

  “I’m thinking of calling it a day with the bathroom. That okay with you?” He traces my jawline with whisper-soft fingers, a hint of a smile toying with his lips.

  I nod.

  “Just want to make sure that I keep on schedule with the project,” he says, with feigned, wide -eyed innocence.

  “There is absolutely no rush with the bathroom,” I tell him. “Take all the time you need.”

  “So generous of you, Callaway,” he chuckles. “It’s almost as if you don’t want me to leave.”

  There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, then.

  His hands on my shoulders, he guides me to stand at the edge of the bed. I watch as his broad chest expands with each deepening breath.

  I have to touch him.

  I trace his pecs, running my fingers lightly over his glistening skin as he bends forward and captures my mouth in a slow, deep kiss. I am drowning in his lips, and too soon, they leave mine to kiss my neck and nuzzle behind my ear.

  He laughs softly as I scrunch up my
shoulder in a shivery protest. “I know firsthand that other parts of you are even more sensitive.”

  Thinking of what he will do to me—what I hope he will do—makes me ache.

  “Take off your clothes, but leave on those sexy shoes.”

  I shudder again at his commanding tone and the rasp in his voice. The idea of him wanting me in my black high heels is a tremendous turn-on.

  I unbutton my professional silk blouse and step carefully out of my professional black skirt, letting both slip to the floor, so that I’m standing in front of him in my cream-colored bra. And matching lacy thong. I planned this, of course, with him in mind, and from his expression, I did a good thing.

  “Jeeesus,” he breathes. “You look fucking amazing, Callaway. All professional on the outside, but underneath, a different story. I like that. But a thong...that’s a little risqué, don’t you think?” His voice is husky with want.

  I swallow.

  “There may need to be a little consequence for that. Just sayin.” He arches a playful eyebrow, but his eyes are smoldering as he begins to unbuckle his belt, working it free from the loops.

  Holy fuck. I can feel my chest heaving, and he’s staring at my breasts as they rise and fall.

  “I’ll never ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Madeline,” he assures me gently. “But I think you might like it.”

  I think I might, too. I think I might like anything you do to me, Jack.

  Holding the belt in one hand, he slides off his jeans and briefs. His erection is enormous, and even though I’ve seen it before, I can’t stop staring at it, at him—at this beautiful, statuesque, muscle-rippled man that’s hard in all the right places.

  He takes his cock in his free hand and slides it along the shaft. “Do you see what you do to me? How badly I want to fuck you?”

  I cannot speak, so I just manage a small nod. My thong is already soaked. I am so ready for him.

  “Do you think you can take a little consequence?”

  I nod again. I’m a little fearful, and this adds to my arousal. But even with the apprehension, I realize that I trust him, and the awareness of that creates a bloom of elation in my chest.