“Much,” came a groggy answer. Then her eyes popped open. She jumped. “Oh, Hunter!” She quickly flipped over. The fingers of her right hand touched her breastbone. “Geez. You scared the crap out of me.”
A wave of guilt hit me but was turned back by an emotion of another sort, since now I was seeing the full bathing suit. It was simple. Classy. Kinda had a 1950s flare to it, like Audrey Hepburn, or some other starlet could have worn it. It was a solid black one-piece and definitely raised the hot-o-meter more than the polka dots did. Not that I had anything against the polka-dot suit. It was cute on her. But this one, this one was smoking. It was scrunched up, creating lines—like a pleat or something—across the top and the bottom part hugged her hips. It was shorter than yesterday’s, without being overly revealing. Hell, her stomach was even covered, but still…it was creating some very pleasant sensations in me. “Uhh…sorry,” I bumbled out.
She drew her knees in and looped her arms around them. She wore some big, dark shades. “Won’t you get in trouble for lying down like that?”
I laughed. “Not to mention someone could drown.”
“Yeah. There’s that.”
I grinned. “I came in early.” I hesitated, not wanting to seem too forward. “I came in early hoping to see you before I started my shift.”
She stared at me for a second. “Oh. That’s nice.” Although she didn’t move an inch, she seemed to withdraw from me. I didn’t get her. Sometimes she seemed into me, sometimes she didn’t.
It wasn’t how I wanted her to react. Like some idiot, I’d hoped she’d be overjoyed to see me. I turned my head, gazing toward the pool, without even really seeing anything. “I could go, if you’re…busy.” Or not interested.
She put a hand on my arm. “Oh, no, Hunter. It was sweet of you to check me out.”
She knew I checked her out? Something in my expression must have communicated my surprise.
“A-and by check out, of course I meant, well…check on me. Check on me,” she reiterated. “But I’m much better today.” Then she smiled. Which made the getting up early to do my chores before I left worth it.
“Your friend Scottie here?” I asked casually.
She scanned the deck. “Not today. At least I don’t think so. I rarely come to the pool myself,” she added.
I peered at her and she did a tiny shrug and looked away. “Why?”
She shrugged again, staring down at her chair and brushing at something with one of her feet. “I don’t know. It’s just…not my scene, I guess.”
“Why?”
She abruptly swung her legs over the side of the chair, her arms grasping the edge on either side of her. “Why? Why? What are you, a two-year-old?”
And the guard was in place again. I pressed my lips together but made no response.
Her shoulders slumped and she exhaled. “I’m sorry. That—” She stared into the distance again and fluttered a hand. “That didn’t come out right. It’s the curse of having an overly sarcastic mom.”
“It’s okay,” I said after a second, although her keeping me at a distance was frustrating.
She curled her legs and laid on her side, her head resting in her palm, arm propped by the elbow. I messed with my chair, lowering it so I could lie on my back, turning toward her when she spoke. “It’s too…” she gestured in the general direction of the pool. “…peoplely at the pool. I prefer to be at home, alone.”
I studied her. “Sounds lonely.”
Sighing, she took off her glasses, laying them on the ground, and brought her hands together, tucking them under her cheek. “It can be,” she said carefully. Now that I could see her eyes, the conversation seemed strangely more intimate. That and realizing how close we were. She was at the edge of her seat, and I was at the edge of mine. “But…” she glanced away “…I don’t know. I’m not good at conversation.”
I grinned. “You’re doing pretty good with me.”
“Yeah.” She took stock of me, her mouth pursed. “That is an oddity.” She paused, her gaze flickering over my face. “I don’t know how to talk. To people. Like I have no cool. I get nervous and I spew out stupid stuff.”
“Why do you do that?”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Put yourself down.”
“I don’t do that.”
I rose on one elbow, turned on my side, “fluffed” my towel, and stuck it under my arm pit. “Yes, you do.”
She frowned. “I do?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m only telling you the facts.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught the motion of an object headed right for her from the pool. Reflexively, I caught it, but when I did, I squeezed all of the water out of the escaped sponge ball and onto her. She gasped and flew up. Then scrambled to her feet to get the excess water off her. My mouth hung open. Not exactly the way to impress a girl.
“Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, still gasping. Then that wicked, glorious smile of hers made her face glow. “I swear by all things holy, if you ever do that again, I will take you out.”
I got to my feet, too, laughing.
“What? She pretended to be steamed, but the twitch at the corners of her lips told me she was playing with me, and she was into it. A hand went to her hip. “You don’t think I can take you?”
“No. It’s not that,” I protested, faking a frown. Then I stopped fighting the smile rising within and it slid across my face. I rocked onto my heels. “I know you can’t take me.”
“Oh, yeah?” She shoved me. It was like a wet noodle going up against a concrete column.
I made a move to capture her arms, but she evaded me. I tilted my head. “Quit that. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I see.” She pressed against my chest and actually knocked me back a step. “You. Don’t. Want. To. Hurt. Me.” With each word she pushed, advancing on me.
“I’m warning you,” I growled.
She stuck her chin out. “Oh, I’m scared.”
“Oookay.” I lunged and caught her around the waist, lifting her.
“Hunter. Don’t. Put me down!” she squirmed and sought to break free, but I carried her toward the water.
“You need to be taught a lesson.”
“No. Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t you dare what?”
“Don’t you dare—”
I swung her out over the water and let her go.
She rose seconds later, hadn’t even totally broke the surface when she was spitting out water and saying, “I let you do that.”
I put my hands on my hips, suppressing a chuckle. “You did, did you?” Peering into her face as she tread water and smiled at me, I was filled with the most incredible, indescribable swell of emotion…
…that is, until he yelled, “Hunter Reynolds!”
“Oh, shit.” My boss, Mr. Haggerty, was pounding across wet concrete toward us, his face crimson and a vein pulsing at his temple.
She crossed her arms in the pool gutter and laid her chin on them. “Uhh-oh. Would that be considered rough housing, life guard man?”
That initial stomach drop I had when Haggerty screamed at me disappeared. It was totally worth it. I crouched, inches from her. “If you get my ass fired, I’m gonna kick yours.” God, I could have kissed her right then and there.
“I’d like to see you try.”
I couldn’t respond as the Lipless Wonder was upon me. He pointed dramatically in the direction of the pool house. “You get in my office, young man. March!”
As Haggerty escorted me out I glanced over my shoulder. She was still grinning ear-to-ear, her eyes shining like a demon.
Totally worth it.
Chapter 7
Samantha
It was quiet with the boys gone. Too quiet. I sat in bed, the negligee Kyle gave me on, my back against the headboard, cushioned by a pillow. The soft light of the lamp on my bedside table drew me to my bedtime story, and I was reading it, as I had a half-dozen times. The handwriti
ng reminded me of him like a fragrance. It was neat, sexy, if cursive can be sexy. And the story was him, us, told in the uniquely stupid way we talked to each other. It was the sweetest thing anyone ever did for me, and I swear, if the house was on fire, it would be the first thing I’d take with me. I began reading.
Once upon a time, one of Bob Marley’s Wailers (picture one of the Scream guys with dreadlocks) wanted to leave the band and strike out on his own, maybe share his talents with another group. He thought it would be fun to be a Foo Fighter but learned they had a very rigid workout regimen and lost interest.
“I’ll join The Heartbreakers, then.” But upon arrival at the studio he learned Tom Petty had a policy against accepting former-Wailers, so that was down the drain, too.
Next he met with George Thorogood, in hopes of being a Destroyer. “Do you own a leather jacket?” asked George.
“No, but I can get one,” the Wailer said hopefully.
“Nah. If you don’t already own one, then you’re simply not one of us. Sorry, man,” Mr. Thorogood replied. But he wished him luck, and the Wailer was on his way.
He was rather discouraged until he read an advertisement in the papers. “Become a Goo Goo Doll,” it read. The Wailer was very excited. “A Goo Goo Doll?” he whispered in awe. “That would be the coolest.” But when he learned about the slime and Gooey Butter Cake involved, he became turned off by the idea. Plus they were looking for someone with at least three years’ experience in either the Silver Bullet Band, or as part of the Dominoes, with or without Derek.
He didn’t know what to do. He had no interest in Panicking! At the Disco, or anywhere else for that matter, and he would never Walk the Moon because of his fear of heights. Where was he to go?
Sad, he trudged on home. That night he had a dream. Diana Ross asked him to be a Supreme. But when he woke in the morning, reality set in. He wasn’t of the female persuasion and couldn’t do a spin move to save his life. Well, he thought, there’s always The Miracles, or The Four Seasons, or, if he was really hard up, he could probably join The Union Gap.
But alas, these bands, too, were not in need of his services. In an effort to cheer himself, he stood in front of the mirror and practiced his background vocals for “One,” but they fell short without Bob singing his part. The sections of the song when he didn’t sing seemed much longer than usual.
Then a knock sounded on his door, and he opened it to find Kevin Bacon outside, wearing a cowboy hat for some reason.
“Hi, Wailer,” he said. “I’ve come to help you out. I understand you left Bob?”
The Wailer hung his head.
“Come with me,” Kevin Bacon said. And, since he was Kevin Bacon, the Wailer went.
When Kevin Bacon drove up in front of Bob Marley’s Rasta house (think of a tropical shack with palm leaves for the roof, bamboo, tied together, for the walls, and dreadlocks), the Wailer became nervous. Surely Bob will not take me back, he thought. But…since it was Kevin Bacon, he went along with it.
They knocked on Bob Marley’s door, and who should answer but Bob himself. He immediately drew the Wailer into a tight embrace. With a nod he added, “Hi, Kevin Bacon.” Then he pulled away, leaving his Rasta arms around the Wailer. “Where have you been, mon? Things were awful without you. I sang, ‘No Woman, No Cry,’ and there’s no one to sing the ‘whou-oo-oo-oo-oo, woohoo’ part. I signed a singer to replace you, but he sang, “whoa-oa-oa-oa, whoahoa’ and it wasn’t the same. Won’t you please come back and sing with me?”
A grin broke out on the Wailer’s face. “I’d love to.” He turned to the man next to him. “Thank you, Kevin Bacon.”
Kevin Bacon tipped his hat. “All in a day’s work, my friend. All in a day’s work.”
And they all lived happily ever after.
The End.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. He thought of me. Thought about how silly I am and how I love music. He remembered how we joked about Kevin Bacon, Gary Sinese, Keifer Sutherland, and Harrison Ford having godlike qualities. He thought about me when he was far from home, in some musty hotel room, exhausted from skating an entire game. He thought about and created a story, solely for me, writing the whole thing out neatly on Holiday Inn stationery. To suspect him of being unfaithful was insane.
I was furious with myself for having ruined the short time we had together. After my freak out, things were awkward between us. I mean, he was still loving and caring to me, but something had changed between us, and I was anxious for things to turn back around. For us to get on the same path again.
When he came into my life, he changed my world. Opened me up. He was a good man who loved and valued me for who I was. If I was abrasive, he wouldn’t criticize me, like Bill would. He’d look for the reason I was acting that way and try to fix it. But now that he had left on his trip, the familiar unease and anxiety was ramping to a frenzy. I’d been blindsided before. Could he be making love to some woman at this exact moment?
Ahh. This is driving me crazy.
And because of that, the next day I was at the shrink’s.
Dr. Laura Downing, MD, or PhD, or some other combination of letters, I don’t know. But Kyle researched her and she had good reviews online. She accompanied me into her office and circled her desk to sit behind it. It was a long, narrow room with windows behind a gray, distressed desk and a bookshelf of the same design lining the wall on the left as we came in the door. On the right was a couch, but not the brown leather kind they show in movies, which always seemed cold, sterile, and hard as a rock. This was a cushy, gray sofa with bright yellow pillows, and a throw blanket was carefully draped over the back in such a way as to appear carelessly tossed there. It looked like a perfect spot to nap or read a good book. Next to it was a small table with a rock fountain and a lamp providing the soft lighting. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing, but I wasn’t into that whole yoga/Namaste/feng shui crap, and I was far from soothed. In fact, I was about climbing out of my skin, and the caramel macchiato I got on the way to my appointment wasn’t helping anything.
I trailed slowly behind her. It was like a stack of bricks was balanced on the top of my feet and toes, and more were being added with each step. I don’t know what I was nervous about. That she would tell me I’m crazy? I knew that already. That she’d have me committed? There was a definite possibility of that…
“So, Samantha—is it okay if I call you that?”
I jumped. “What? Oh, yes. That’s fine.”
“Let me pull up your paperwork. You can have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
Is this a test? If I pick the wrong one, will she know I have serious problems? But if I don’t choose something, maybe she’ll think I’m being evasive? Hmm….
She raised her gaze from her computer screen.
“Umm…water would be nice.”
“Okay. I’ll grab you some.” She dipped her head toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
A large, white, retro chair faced her desk, a vinyl supplicant bowing to the goddess of mental health. But to me it seemed like an electric chair, or one a prisoner is strapped into for lethal injection. I looked away. As I skimmed my fingertips along her shelves I noticed a small cat figurine. The good doctor was searching in a mini-fridge with her back to me. Curious, I lifted the statuette to examine it. It was a fat cat either sitting in the traditional cross-legged position or in the classic meditation pose, soles up, feet on the knees, it was hard to tell which way. It was made out of a dark wood, intricately carved and polished.
“That’s a Maneki-neko or Lucky Cat.” She smiled. I didn’t realize she was watching me. “It is supposed to bring me prosperity in my business. A friend gave it to me when I opened my office.”
I set it in place carefully. “Huh. How’s that working out for you, doc?”
She smiled. “Not bad.”
She resembled my best friend Dani, but with more elegance and confidence. And lighter hair. It was a dark brown while Dani’s was
more of a black. She was tall and thin, with a long, glossy mane tumbling to her shoulders in soft curls. She wore a snazzy suit I would kill for, if I ever needed a suit. A flattering black pencil skirt on the bottom was accented by an asymmetrical white jacket with a black zipper cutting diagonal from a wavy neckline to her slender waist. Two black stripes dove from her armpits in a “v” to almost meet the zipper in the middle. It was sexy, classy, and smart. I grudgingly admired that.
I wandered about, stopping at a chain hanging from the ceiling near the end of the bookcase. It had metal crescent moons attached to it at even intervals. I twirled it. Realizing she was studying me, I rolled a shoulder.
“Sorry.”
“No need. No need.” She poured water into a crystal tumbler and pushed it toward the empty, beckoning chair. When I hesitated, she tilted her head. “Would you rather sit on the couch?”
My throat was dry. “Sure. Okay.” On a scale of discomfort, I had climbed to the top and fallen over the edge. Although I would never admit it to a soul, I was slightly intimidated by her. She more than likely never served kids mash potatoes in her life. She had a diploma from Duke University School of Medicine in her equally plush waiting room where an equally well-dressed—if a bit more prim and conservative—secretary sat behind a glass desk. The desk would never make it in the Scofield household. It would look frosted because of all the smudges and fingerprints on it. It’s not that I was lazy, it was simply I didn’t care to clean things which would be dirty in the next breath. Although, somehow the secretary kept it immaculate, down to its vase of white calla lilies perched near the edge.
Dr. Downing led me to the couch, setting my drink on a white wicker coffee table shaped like a pot, wider in the middle and narrower as it rose. A small plant with vines trailing nearly to the floor and a couple of vintage hardback books were also on the top. She folded herself into an overstuffed, yellow chair, and I took the couch, forcing myself to sit in the middle, rather than at the farthest end, where I wanted to be.
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