Rm w/a Vu

by A. D. Ryan

  Dad remains silent, setting his gun aside and reaching for his Glock. There’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s still afraid of not being able to keep me safe. It’s silly, considering I lived in the dorms all last year and nothing bad happened. This won’t be much different.

  Except for the being alone in a big house with just one person and no one around to hear me scream…

  Okay, so maybe I can see where he’s coming from.

  Instead of freaking myself out entirely, I decide that I need to remind him that he taught how to take care of myself. I set my water down and wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans. “Do you need a hand?”

  Smiling, my father hands me the still-assembled gun, hand grip first, and grabs another for himself.

  As though it’s second nature—which, it kind of is—I keep my finger off the trigger and eject the magazine before I pull the slide back and check the chamber and magazine well for any cartridges. I do this several times because with this particular type of Glock I’ll need to engage the trigger to dismantle it. And I can’t be blowing holes in the walls or floors all willy-nilly. To be doubly safe, I remove all ammunition from the room and put it with all the rest on the also-canvas-covered dining room table.

  With Dad watching on, I dismantle the gun. First, I de-cock the striker, pull the take down tabs, and then pull back toward the rear of the frame. The slide then moves freely off the front of the handgun.

  I do this all in under twenty seconds, and Dad chuckles proudly. “Glad to see you remember all of this.”

  “Of course I do. Gun safety is important,” I tell him, parroting words he’s spoken my entire life.

  While I set the broken-down firearm out in front of me, I think back to a time when I was little. Fresh home from work, my dad would always, always unload his guns, being sure to put the ammo out of reach. It was ingrained into me from the minute I could understand that we were to respect the rules of gun safety.

  Every time he would set up to clean them, I would sit at the table and watch him, propping my face in my tiny hands. It was fascinating to me as a child, especially when he would explain what he was doing as he did it and why. I learned a lot just watching him.

  I was sixteen when he and my mother felt I was old enough to let me learn how to disassemble a gun. Always a responsible gun owner, he had checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded and the safety was on before handing it over and tutoring me.

  It was later that day that he took me to the shooting range and taught me how to use it. I won’t lie; I thought it was going to be easy. I mean, I had shot a bow and arrow in archery class for gym before and had to wonder how much harder aiming a gun could be. Well, bows don’t have a kickback, and I missed the targets time and time again.

  Eventually, I got the hang of it, and I very rarely miss my intended target these days.

  I’ve got the gun’s parts laid out in front of me in the order I’ll be cleaning them: frame, slide, barrel, and, finally, the guide rod and recoil spring. I look up to see that Dad is already wiping the parts to his backup firearm—a Smith and Wesson Airweight Revolver—down, and I reach for an extra rag.

  Since Dad doesn’t fire his gun often—a blessing, to be sure—there’s not a lot of carbon build up to be removed. After wiping all of the parts down, I apply the solvent and let it sit for a few minutes before scrubbing the whole gun and wiping it clean with a lint-free cloth—inside and out.

  Finally, I oil the inside of the barrel and the rest of the necessary parts thoroughly. Satisfied with how clean it is, I reassemble the gun and check that all the parts slide properly before wiping it down to remove any excess oil.

  “There you go,” I say, handing the gun over to Dad for one final inspection.

  He sets his revolver down and looks over my work. I’m not offended; I need to know that it’s operational so that it doesn’t misfire when he might need it most.

  “You did good, Jules,” he praises. “Maybe I was a little premature to think you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

  “Well, to be fair, I only cleaned the gun.” I smirk mischievously. “Though, if you’d like to take me to the range to see if my aim is still better than yours, old man…”

  Just then, the door opens and Mom calls out for us.

  Dad smiles. “You’re lucky your mother’s home.”

  With a scoff, I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “You mean you’re lucky,” I correct him cockily.

  “Potayto, potahto.” He sets his finished revolver down and pushes away from the table to greet my mom as she enters the kitchen. “Hey, sweetheart.”

  Mom giggles as Dad wraps his arms around her and kisses her. It doesn’t take long before they forget I’m here, and I loudly scrape my chair across the tile before standing up. “Okay, well I can see the two of you are in need of some adult time.” Mom and Dad don’t let go of each other, but they do acknowledge me by turning their heads.

  Backing out of the kitchen, I point over my shoulder. “I’ll, uh, be up in my room. Music blaring. Dad, I’ll call Greyston and see if dinner tomorrow sounds good?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn around and book it up the stairs. “Cool! Later!”

  Up in my room, I close my door and turn on my stereo. It’s not too loud, and I can hear the murmured voices of my parents below me. If I listen really close—not that I’m doing it on purpose, believe me—it sounds like they’re on separate ends of the kitchen and not…you know…together.

  I’m able to relax a little knowing that I’m not going to hear them in the throes of passion, and I pull my phone from my pocket, flopping down on the edge of my bed. My fingers move swiftly over the touch screen until I locate Greyston’s contact info.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Hey. Miss me already?” Obviously he doesn’t realize who’s calling him; maybe he thinks it’s that girl…Callie.

  Nervously, I bite my lip and try to hide the disappointment in my voice. “Hi, um, this is Juliette?” I don’t know why I sound like I’m questioning my own identity, but I do.

  “I know that…” Greyston chuckles. “But you sound a little unsure.”

  “Sorry. I just thought that maybe you thought I was…someone else.”

  Greyston’s quiet for a minute, and I find myself wondering what it is I interrupted him doing. I start imagining him in a lot of naked at-home activities. Laundry, cooking, cleaning…

  Okay, so I guess they’re not really supposed to be naked activities, but that’s apparently how my foggy brain likes to think Greyston spends a majority of his time when he’s at home. Naked.

  “So what’s up?” Greyston asks, interrupting my perverted thoughts. Again.

  I shake my head clear and try to remember why I’m calling him. “Oh, sorry. I talked to my dad, and he thinks tomorrow would be a good night for you to come over for dinner. You know, before I move in full time… Unless you have something already planned?”

  “Nothing that can’t be re-scheduled.”

  His response shocks me. He hardly knows me, and he’s willing to rearrange all of his plans just to meet my parents? “You’re sure? I don’t want to interfere with work or anything.”

  “Trust me, it’s fine,” he assures me. “What time should I come over?”

  Thinking for a minute, I try to remember what time Dad will be home from work; I want to make sure I have enough time to prepare Greyston for some of Dad’s usual interrogation techniques. “I have class until four, so maybe around five? That way we have time to talk before my father monopolizes most of your time with his nonsense.”

  “Juliette…” Greyston’s tone sounds almost chastising. “His wanting to keep you safe isn’t nonsense. Cut the guy some slack.”

  I laugh. “Keep that frame of mind and you’ll have no problems winning him over,” I tell him. “And if all else fails, you’ve still got that sports agent card to play.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Greyston agrees with a laugh, and I find myself remembering how h
is smile makes the outer corners of his eyes crinkle. “But I think your father and I will be able to find common ground on the issue of providing you with a safe place to live.”

  All thoughts of Callie disappear in an instant when he says that. I know I’m likely hearing something in his tone that’s not really there, but I can’t help but let him dazzle me just once more.

  Chapter 8

  I’m home around four-thirty, and I rush upstairs to put my bag away and fix my hair. I know it’s pointless since Greyston has no interest in me, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t look my absolute best, right?

  By five o’clock, I’m pacing in the living room like a crazy person, running my fingers through my hair—and then fixing it because I’ve messed it up—before occupying my hands by biting my nails, which is a habit I thought I’d given up when I was in grade school.

  Greyston is set to arrive any minute, and I’m freaking out. You’d think I was introducing them to an actual boyfriend and not my landlord. It really is ridiculous just how nervous I am about all of this.

  While I wear a hole in the area rug, Mom is in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner. Dad isn’t due home until six, but I know I’ll need the extra time to warn Greyston about his usual scare tactics.

  The doorbell rings, and it startles me a little. Gathering my composure, I check my hair in the mirror above the mantle and call out, “I got it!”

  When I pull the door open, I see Greyston on the front step. He’s handsome, dressed in a faded pair of blue jeans, a dark blue button-up shirt, and a black blazer. In his hands is a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and my jaw drops.

  “Good evening, Juliette,” he says, his smooth voice pulling my eyes up to his.

  “H-hi. Thanks for coming. Come in, please. Can I take your jacket?” I offer.

  “These are for your mother,” he says, handing me the flowers so he can slip his blazer off to give to me. It disappoints me a little, but I get over it soon enough when I realize he’s just trying to make a good impression on them.

  After hanging it in the closet, I lead him to the kitchen where Mom is checking on dinner in the oven. “Mom?” She looks up, smiles, and closes the oven door before straightening up. “This is Greyston Masters. Greyston, this is my mom, Anne.”

  Stepping around the counter, Greyston outstretches a hand, smiling wide. “Mrs. Foster. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Juliette’s told me so much about you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Greyston.” Glancing between the two of us, Mom smirks, and I know that no good can come of it. “You’re even more handsome than Juliette described. Tell me, are you seeing—”

  My cheeks are blazing, and before she can humiliate me further, I thrust the flowers in her face. “Look, Mom, Greyston brought you flowers. Pretty, huh? You should probably put them in some water.” I turn to Greyston quickly and continue to ramble, not allowing my mother to get another word in edgewise. “Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Water? Wine? Beer?”

  Greyston is chuckling through my entire spazz-attack. “Iced tea would be great. Thank you.”

  I pour Greyston and me each a glass of iced tea while my mother puts her flowers in a vase. “We’ll be in the living room,” I tell her, leading Greyston away from her probing questions.

  We have a seat on opposite ends of the couch, and I tuck my legs up under me, facing him. He doesn’t seem nervous at all about tonight, facing me with his left arm draped casually along the back of the couch while the other hand holds his glass.

  “Your mom seems great,” he says before taking a drink.

  I groan. “I’m so sorry about that. She sometimes speaks without really thinking. She had no right to try to ask if you were involved. I mean, it’s really no one’s business.”

  Greyston laughs, and I’m treated to the sparkle in his eyes that tells me it’s genuine. “It’s not a problem.”

  Glancing at the clock, I decide it’s time to start warning Greyston about what to expect from my dad.

  “Juliette, I’m sure you’re worrying over nothing.”

  I shake my head, knowing for a fact that I’m not. “When he comes through that door, he’ll take his jacket off but leave his holster on so his gun is in plain sight,” I tell him, remembering how he’d “welcomed” Ben that same way when we’d begun dating. “He’s going to try to intimidate and shake you up. You can’t let him.”

  Before I can warn him further, the front door opens. Dad’s home early.

  “Jules? Anne?”

  “I’m in here, Cam!” Mom calls out from the kitchen. “Juliette and her friend are waiting for you in the living room.”

  I swallow thickly before setting my glass on the coffee table and standing up, wiping my now-sweaty palms on my jeans. “Good luck,” I tell Greyston quietly, turning to see Dad in the foyer.

  As promised, Dad takes his jacket off and hangs it in the closet before joining us—holster on. Quickly, Greyston stands and makes his way around the couch, holding out his hand. “Mr. Foster. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  Dad accepts Greyston’s handshake—but says nothing—so I decide to break the ice. “Dad, this is Greyston Masters. The man I’ll be renting the room from.”

  “We’ll see,” is all he says before taking a seat in his recliner. He doesn’t sit back and get comfortable, though; instead, he sits on the edge and leans on his thighs, his deep brown eyes staring hard at Greyston.

  Greyston and I sit back down on the couch, but I’m far from relaxed; my back is straight, my posture rigid, and my pulse is racing.

  “So, Mr. Foster,” Greyston begins, his voice confident and smooth. “Juliette tells me you’re on the police force.”

  Dad nods. “I am.”

  Great, I think to myself. We’re in for the short-answer replies. This is going to be like pulling teeth.

  Greyston is determined, though, and continues without balking. “I can only imagine it’s a very rewarding career—to know that you’re out there making the city a safer place.”

  There seems to be some kind of staring contest going on between the two of them, and it makes me nervous. My fingers are twitching, and I have to press my hands hard into my thighs to keep from fidgeting while the silence drives me mad.

  “I do what I can,” he says, and I feel as though I can breathe a little easier now that the unnerving quiet has broken. “I feel that safety in the home is where it all starts.”

  Here it comes.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Greyston concurs confidently, even going as far as to smile at my dad.

  Dad smirks, but it’s not out of amusement. “As I’m sure Juliette’s told you, I’m not too keen about this living situation.” He points between the two of us, and Greyston nods, clearly not wanting to interrupt. “I’ve done everything in my power to keep her safe for the last twenty years, so to hear that she was planning to move in with someone—a man, no less—that she found through an advertisement… Well, let’s just say I’ve witnessed enough in my years on the force to be a little leery.”

  My mouth has just opened to tell Dad that he’s jumping to all the wrong conclusions, when Greyston beats me to it. “While I understand your concerns, Mr. Foster, I assure you that I mean your daughter no harm. I don’t know what all Juliette has told you, but my home is located in one of the newer communities here in Phoenix, and I had a state-of-the-art alarm system installed upon moving in.”

  “So, no one can get in, and no one can get out.”

  My eyes and mouth widen in disbelief. “Dad!” I scold. “That’s not what he’s saying. God, chill out.”

  Maintaining his composure, Greyston smiles and turns to me. “No, Juliette, it’s okay. I get it.”

  He’s just turning back to my dad when I reach out and grip his bicep—his strong, hard bicep. With his eyes back on me, I inhale shakily and remember what it is I was about to say. “No. It most definitely is not okay,” I say, glaring angrily at my father.

  T
he cocky jerk only grins at me; he’s screwing with us, and it only seems to be riling me up. “Jules, would you mind grabbing me something to drink?”

  His request worries me a little, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me I needn’t. “Uhhhh…” I look between Dad and Greyston, and when my eyes catch Greyston’s, I’m surprised by how at ease he still seems—even after my father’s less-than-kind remarks. Confident, even. “Y-yeah. Sure.”

  As I leave the room, I hear Dad asking Greyston more about his neighborhood. While I want to duck around the corner and listen in on their conversation, I know I’ll be found out one way or another. So I continue on, only hearing the first little bit of Greyston’s answer before I’m in the kitchen.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Mom says, looking up from her cookbook. “What’s up?”

  “Um, Dad asked for a drink,” I say with a shrug, pulling a stool from under the counter, plopping down on it, and resting my chin in my hands. “But I know he was just trying to get rid of me so he could interrogate Greyston.”

  “He’s cute,” she blurts out, and I immediately grimace.

  “Oh yeah, scaring the crap out of the guy I have to live with is really freakin’ adorable.”

  Mom laughs, shaking her head. “Not your father—well, him too, I suppose—but I was actually referring to Greyston.”

  Warmth fills my cheeks, and I find myself looking anywhere but at my mother. “Um, I suppose he’s a little good-looking.”

  Because she’s my mother, she sees right through me. “Yeah, ‘a little.’ Please, Juliette. You were making googly eyes at him the entire time you were standing in the kitchen.”

  I’m offended—and also not surprised. “I was not!” One look from her and I’m burying my face in my hands. “Okay, okay,” I mumble into my palms before peeking at her through my fingers. “What am I going to do?” The left side of her mouth turns up into a sly smirk, and I grab the tea towel off the countertop and toss it at her with a laugh. “Mom!”

  Abandoning her cookbook, she comes around and pulls the other stool out next to me. “Relax, I was only teasing. He seems like a very nice young man.”