by M. Q. Barber
“Sounded like my girl was home.” Perched on a stool, Dad hunched over their latest garage sale find, a busted espresso machine. Fixed, the basic home brewing setup might bring a decent profit at the shop. Parts lay scattered across the table. “Late night. Trouble?”
“Tire blew.” She jerked her thumb toward the offender.
Dad laid aside a gasket and wiped his hands on his pants. “You all right?”
“Uh-huh. Good Samaritan stopped and gave me a hand.” More he’d stayed out of her way, but he’d lent her muscle and acted the charming gentleman.
Pleasant, sweet, and so not her type. Didn’t explain her goose-bump shivers at the thought of him. Brian. Hugging herself, she rubbed her upper arms.
“Tire’s shredded. Rim’s good. I’ve got the spare on.” They’d have to take the truck in to get checked anyway, replace the—
“We’ll have to take her to Tom.” He ambled past her and squatted by the back tire. “Get him to give her a look-see and pick up a replacement.”
As alike as peas in a pod, Mom always said. Tinkerers and problem-solvers. “I know, Dad.”
He patted the fender with the gentle care most reserved for children and beloved pets. “The old girl brought you home safe, though.” Standing, he cracked his back. Grandpa’s death last year had aged him more than hitting the big six-oh. “Go on inside with you.” He shooed her through the garage. “Your mother’s keeping a plate warm.”
She slipped into the house as he settled back at the workbench. The wall hook accepted her keys. The laundry closet welcomed her purple tank, so grubby that stripping the grime would demand a miracle. The lime one underneath would do for now. She scrubbed her hands at the sink in the half bath, her fingers sore and pinched and her palms red beneath the dirt. Burdened by more than a year’s worth of road salt and mud and nameless gunk, the tire had thoughtfully transferred its collection to her skin and under her nails.
Brian wouldn’t be so rough and dirty. Him in his office-guy dress shirt with his I’m-a-regular-Joe jeans, driving his older but still fancy Audi, asking for a date as if people whose hormones clicked needed to pretend to like each other for a few hours before the clothes came off. He’d be one of those tender nice guys sucking on her fingers and gazing at her with eyes green as new shoots in a flower bed.
As she shut off the water, giggles filtered through from the living room. Better than her nieces fighting. The Squabble Sisters’ screeches demanded high-quality ear protection or escape. So-called nice guys seduced women with their bullshit, and when they walked out they left behind babies who grew into bickering teens. The house had enough of those.
She dried her hands on a shaggy rose-petal towel Dad had picked up for Mom at a garage sale a dozen years ago. Sorry, Brian, but her fingers would stay unsucked. Shoes toed off on the rug, she sock-footed into the kitchen.
Wiping down the cheery Formica floral counters, Mom half-turned. The way the spots darkened her vision, a full-on stare would’ve meant less attention than a sidelong glance. “Hiya, sweetie. Did you lose track of time on one of your projects again?”
“Hey, Mom. Something like that.” She squeezed tight in a come-from-behind hug. Her height hadn’t come from Mom’s side of the family—her mother fit under her chin. Had since she’d hit eighth grade. “Thanks for holding dinner for me.”
Mom patted her hands and swiped at a stray smudge on an upper cabinet. The stenciled yellow flowers on the white cupboards matched the counters, scaled bigger. Hand-cut by Mom, hand-painted by Kit and Erin when they were small. “Mm-hmm. Your plate’s in the oven.”
“Erin working tonight?” Keeping up with her sister’s picker schedule at the warehouse took a color-coded calendar.
“She went in at four.” Mom hung the washrag over the faucet, neat and tidy. Dirty dishes wouldn’t dare linger in her sink. “Second shift this week.”
With an unevenly stitched potholder birthed in a middle-school home ec class, she pulled out her dinner and shut off the warmer. Meatloaf and mashed taters. “Are there any—”
A jar of dilly beans landed in her hand. “Last one until this year’s are ripe. You girls best make them stretch until August.”
“Sure, if Dad doesn’t find them.” She carried her loot to the table and dug in. A glass of iced tea appeared at her elbow, and she mumble-chewed her thanks. The granola bar had helped, but lunch lay eight hours past, and her stomach had started in with reminders three hours ago. She fingered the seam of the table leaf. Thirteen years ago, the extra board’s appearances had been limited to holidays and potlucks. Once Erin moved home and brought the girls with her, the leaf had taken up permanent residence.
If she’d accepted Brian’s invitation, she’d be dining somewhere else instead of her usual chair tonight.
Mom slipped into her seat in front of the sliding door to the backyard, keeping her company at the table because she’d never let one of her girls dine alone. She’d like Brian’s politeness. “Bring that nice boy over,” she’d say. “A hot supper will thank him for stopping to help my baby.”
His blond hair and trim body made judging his age tough. His smooth cheeks and peach-fuzzy arms lent him youth. The crow’s feet embracing his eyes marked him as more than a boy, though. His manners sure as fuck didn’t scream twenties. Older than her, but how much?
Half listening to her mother’s rundown of the day, she nodded and hmmed between bites. Brian intruded with silent persistence, more distracting than a macho jackass throwing attitude. If he’d called her “little lady” or taken the wrench from her and tried to change the tire himself with less skill, she’d have shut him down and sent him on his way. Instead, he’d complimented her mechanical skills and joked to entertain her. And paraded around with his tight ass, trotting to and fro on her orders.
Arms bared by his rolled-up shirtsleeves hinted at a balance of brawn and brains, the peak before sexy fell toward overbearing posturing. His spiky hair ruffled on top as the wind directed, but the front tendrils flowed down his forehead and the tips promised curls if he delayed a haircut. Brian was a real guy, not a badass punk.
Exactly why dating him would be a train wreck. He’d make her life messy. Entangled, connected, and longer than one night. Ditching assholes came easy. They didn’t give a shit why she refused to bring them home or insisted on fucking in the parking lot. They cared about two priorities—when and where they could stick their dicks.
She’d be an unfair bitch to lead on nice-guy Brian when he should be looking for a settle-down girl. He didn’t behave like a fuck-and-run, and she didn’t do long-term investments. And if he was faking like all so-called nice guys, he’d get bored and walk away once she’d gotten hooked.
Mr. Frog-in-His-Throat. A real Prince Charming. The minute she kissed him, the world would drive her toward fairy-tale princess dreams she’d shunned since childhood. Her happily ever after came with a mess of metal and wires under a work light, not a white gown and a gold ring under the eyes of God.
* * * *
Gravel crunching under his tires, Brian pulled up to the farmhouse and parked alongside Rob’s pickup and the SUV they’d gotten to replace Nora’s beater. Fuck takeout. He’d run his ass off cramming best-man duties in the narrow window between Christmas and New Year’s. A bachelor deserved to dine off that apology at least through summer grilling season. After Labor Day would be soon enough to call them square.
He took the porch steps in one leap. Rob understood women. He’d landed Nora despite the awful introduction Lucas would never live down. And Nora, she’d know why his nameless Amazon had rejected him. She’d decipher woman-code, he’d track down said woman, and the date would be on.
The unlatched screen door invited him on inside. He poked his head ’round the corner toward the kitchen as the screen snapped shut. After eight. They might’ve eaten or be out back finishing up.
“Hey, Sherwood, Maid Marian, what’re you serving tonight?” he yelled toward the
stairs as he patrolled the empty first floor. The dining room sported actual furniture instead of Rob’s piles of someday projects. Living with a woman changed a man. “I come bearing no gifts.”
“Brian, I swear to—” Rob’s deep bark cut off, and the peal of Nora’s laughter followed. “If you’re staying for dinner, grab a beer and go the fuck outside for at least fifteen minutes.”
He slumped over the banister and howled his laughter. Heading into month six and they still went at it like newlywed rabbits. “You’re only giving her—”
“Make it thirty.” Nora shouted louder than her husband. Bedsprings creaked.
He sucked back the laughs to get words out. “You two trying for a baby up there?”
“Go grill the damn steaks.” Nora wasted no time hollering orders. Helluva shift from the shy blusher he’d met last summer. “Beer, fridge. Steaks, grill. You, outside!”
Shit, these days she scared him more than Sherwood did. “On my way. You folks take your time, now.”
The fridge held the promised beer and a platter of beefy red beauties. He hauled both outside and fired up the grill. Fifteen minutes to kick back before that puppy heated. Bypassing the picnic table smack in the setting sun’s path across the yard, he dragged one of the sloping loungers into a shady spot on the porch and slapped his feet on the rail. Not bad. The balcony on his apartment measured three by six in a generous accounting. Rob’s place, now—room to sprawl, no neighbors setting off smoke alarms—this was the life. Except the huge fucking yard to mow.
He’d put a good sear on the steaks and lowered the temp on the grill by the time Rob trotted out, barefoot and in jeans, wrestling a T-shirt down his back. “Sorry, Surfer Boy. You drop by unannounced, you gotta expect to wait.”
He saluted with his longneck. Condensation splashed his cheek. “Husbandly duties. Far be it from me to stand in the way of a man getting some regular.”
“Regular.” Rob snorted, snatched the tongs, and prodded the meat. “With Nora, every time’s a fresh adventure. You ought to give long-term a try. Find a woman, settle down.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll get right on that.” The woman tonight, though. Casual competence and a brilliant smile. “I did, actually. Find one.”
“Are you bullshitting me?” Rob dropped the lid on the grill. “What’s her name?”
He scrubbed his head. Maybe a genie would pop out and deliver the answer. “I don’t know her name. Yet.” Thank God her truck offered a clue. “But I know where she works.”
“Didn’t get her name. Uh-huh.” Standing in the yard, Rob knocked Brian’s feet off the rail and planted crossed arms in their place. “Sounds like the Brian I know. Let me guess—you got distracted by her bouncy bits, deployed your tongue, and forgot to ask after.”
“Shows what you know, married man.” He swigged his beer, the last of the bottle coating his throat. Taking her at her word, mystery woman loved to fuck. Just not him. “She thinks I’m a nice guy. A smart, non-sexy nice guy. Says she doesn’t date—she fucks. I gotta find a way to get her to date me.”
Easy, except she turned him into the flustered seventh-grader clutching his math book over his intractable hard-on and rehearsing his invitation to the dance for Jenny Shlovski. He’d whiffed with his knee-slide and Bon Jovi serenade. The first girl to pick someone else over him, but not the last. At least she’d had the courtesy to tell him to his face.
Nora swished by in a blue sundress. “You sure it’s really this woman you’re interested in?” She deposited a lumpy foil packet beside the grill and plates and silverware on the picnic table. “Not the challenge of chasing her?”
“Hey, I don’t chase women.” His class clown routine roped them in and gave him his pick. Always had. Almost always. “They chase me. I’m good-time Brian, the life of the party. One and done.”
True for twenty years. If she wanted one night and he wanted the same, they could have an explosive experience. But the words tasted sour this time around. Anticipating a single all-night fuckfest ought to make him energized, not weary. At the least, the sex ought to be more enticing than a vision of her guarding his flank next summer when he walked into a gym full of balloons, streamers, and people he hadn’t talked to in those two decades.
Rob hung back and drummed his thumbs on the rail. “You do have a hard time letting a victory flag go, though.” Shading his face, the porch brought his narrowed gaze into focus. The ex-sarge’s inspection attitude signaled a demanding interrogation in the offing. “You mad she’s one-upped your usual move?”
“Whoa, unfair.” He set his empty beside the chair and rolled to his feet. He didn’t leave a string of broken hearts behind or lie to women to get them in his bed. “I’ve always made it clear up front when I wasn’t looking for more.”
“And so is she.” Nora, plates distributed, had claimed a corner of the picnic bench. Frowning, she rubbed her stomach. “What, a woman can’t be looking to skip the date and go straight to the after-party?”
“Not this woman.” The answer punched out without a speck of thought, faster than a Navy fighter catapulting off the boat and twice as cocky.
Mouth clamped tight, Nora stalked past him and into the house. Hawk-alert, Rob stared after her. The screen snapped and bounced twice in the frame before settling.
His unaccustomed defensiveness retreated into a touch of panic. Rob had been closer than his brothers for twenty years, and in the last year Nora had become the closest he’d ever had to a woman friend. “Shit, did I piss off your wife?”
Rob quirked his lips and shook the tension off his shoulders. “She’d let you have it if you did.” Meandering to the grill, he waved him over. “Tell me about this woman.”
Where to start, Christ. He hopped the porch rail and landed in a crouch on the grass. This woman out-toughed the obstacle course at Lackland, and he quailed before the flutter in his chest. “She’s got this no-nonsense tone, but then she’ll throw a deep curve on it and fire a sly laugh in the pocket.” As Rob lifted the silver lid and the last rays of sunlight flashed, he circled the smoke. “She talks like she’s got places to be, and I want to be the place she’s going.”
“Conversation, laughter…” Grill sizzling as fat burst into flame, Rob snatched the steaks clear. He tossed the foil packet in. “What’s she smell like?”
“Sweet and thick.” Mmm, yeah, she did. Her short-cropped hair made her neck a tempting target. “Pineapple, salt, and motor oil.”
Tongs frozen in hand, Rob stared.
“What?” Brian yanked his shirt from his jeans and stretched out the tails. The spare’s tread pattern across his chest would give his dry cleaner fits. “She was fixing a car when I met her.”
Rob took his time tenting the steaks under foil and slotting the tongs over the tool rod. “You know this is the first time you’ve described a woman you wanted to bang and didn’t lead off with the size of her tits?”
They’d landed in the same training squadron as eighteen-year-olds. Longer ago now than the years they’d counted behind them then. The charge couldn’t be true—but Sherwood didn’t lie, and no name came to mind to refute him. “Maybe.”
Feet planted at-ease, Rob crossed his arms. The screen door claimed his full attention. “Conversation. Laughter. Scent. My daddy told me that’s how you know you’ve found the right woman.”
Right meaning Nora. Marriage. A house together. The total commitment to one woman for the rest of his life. Fuck no, not for him. Maturing beyond banging a nameless woman along the side of the road didn’t transform him into a slack-jawed, yes-dear spouter. He tamped down a patch of uneven grass. “My dad advised me to ‘clean up your act, you smart-assed punk, and stay out of jail.’”
The screen crept open, Nora leading with her back and making a slow turn. An oversized salad bowl occupied both hands.
“Flip the veggies in a minute.” Rob shoved his shoulder and hustled to the porch steps. “You all right?” He jammed the bowl in the
crook of his elbow. “Let me take that. You need anything?”
Smile growing, Nora gripped his free arm and descended. “I just got a little queasy. We’re fine.”
“Sure?” Rob rubbed her stomach, his broad hand flattening her dress to her body. Her not-quite-flat body.
“Holy shit. You two are growing a baby?” They didn’t waste time. Engaged at Christmas, married at New Year’s, a squaller any flipping minute. Guess the newlywed honeymoon phase— “Goddamn, Rob, you were fucking your wife when I got here. What if you hurt the kid? Shit, should she sit down? Nora, get off your feet.”
“Oh God, now I have two of you to contend with.” Burying her face in Rob’s chest, Nora slapped her husband’s shoulder and laughed. “Rob, you tell him the ground rules, because I’m not putting up with male nonsense for the next six months.”
“I will. Promise.” Salad in one arm, wife in the other, Rob kissed the top of her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
As Nora delivered a proper kiss, Brian turned his back and flipped the foil pack. A baby, hell, that’d be over the top. But the easy trust and friendship with a woman? A dinner companion and bed partner who got beyond, “So, what do you do?” and “Where’s the condom?”
Envy flickered quick as the lightning bugs buzzing around the lawn in a mating dance. The first star winked into existence past the roofline. Pretty as a fucking postcard. Wish you were here.
* * * *
Kit closed the door behind herself and leaned against the wood in the house’s last refuge. The girls’ clutter covered the sink surround, and the extra towel bars created dual-level drapery for the peach walls, but the bathroom came the closest to privacy in a home crowding six.
Washing up for dinner hadn’t cleared the road grime and stray grease streaks from her knees and elbows. A hot shower would soothe tight shoulders, too. Knocking the lug nuts loose had demanded brute strength.