Dirty Talk

by Megan Erickson

  Alex laughed. “Greta Sherman?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She balled up her empty sandwich wrapper. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said to Ivy.

  Ivy looked down at her half-eaten lunch. “I can leave—”

  “Nah, I’ll be right back. You finish eating.”

  Alex tossed her trash into the can on the way out.

  Ivy took a sip of her tea and picked at her sandwich. She’d spent all morning on the computer, applying for jobs in and around Tory. It wasn’t necessarily a mecca of job opportunities, but Alex had found a place she fit in, and the pay wasn’t bad. Ivy had some savings, but it wasn’t going to last forever, and she wanted to pull her weight in the little family they’d created.

  Her résumé was a bit slim. She had a high school diploma but no college degree, having spent her early twenties raising Violet. Her job options in Tory were working as a secretary for a lawyer, selling furniture at a department store, or being a nanny.

  None was appealing.

  But at least they all paid.

  The chair across from her squeaked, and she lifted her gaze, opening her mouth to tell Alex about her job options.

  Except Alex wasn’t sitting across from her.

  Brent was.

  He leaned back in his chair, feet up on the table and crossed at the ankle. He held a packet of peanuts and tipped it so a couple fell into his mouth. He chewed, steel eyes on her.

  She clenched her jaw shut.

  He swallowed. “You looked like you were going to say something.”

  “Sure I was. To Alex. But you’re not Alex.”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m a great listener.”

  “I’m sure,” she said drily.

  His lips quirked. “Want to hear about what other things I’m good at?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Because I can do this thing with my tongue—”

  Good God. “I don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  She waved a hand between them. “This. Flirting.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Babe, I haven’t even begun to flirt.”

  She took a deep breath to calm her rising blood pressure. “Don’t do that either.”

  “Jesus! Now what?” His exasperation might have been cute if she still had a heart.

  “Nicknames.”

  “Babe?”

  “My name is Ivy. I-V-Y. Three letters. Two syllables.” Even she wanted to cringe at how much of a bitch she was being.

  He was studying her now, his face a little less amused and more . . . thoughtful. She didn’t like thoughtful Brent. Amused, flirting Brent? Harmless. Thoughtful Brent, who tried to look deeper? Dangerous as hell.

  He ran two fingers over his lips and then dropped his hand to the table, cocking his head. “You’re just thorns everywhere I touch, aren’t you?”

  She froze at his words, like a deer in headlights because yes—yes, she was a whole lot of thorns because she’d learned long ago they were necessary to protect all her soft parts.

  Brent wasn’t done, though; his voice was softer when he spoke again. “You born that way, or something make you that way, Ivy?”

  She swallowed. Yep, Brent Payton was dangerous in a sexy-as-hell package. His words were seeping past those thorns, hitting all the spots where she was weak. So she gathered herself and clenched her fists at her sides. “You’re just acting like this because I’m the first woman who hasn’t fallen at your feet.”

  He laughed at that. “Fallen at my feet? Nah, there are plenty of women who’ve told me to go to hell. My percentage is good, though. Maybe eighty-twenty.” He grinned that shit-eating grin. “But you got me curious now. I wanna keeping prodding until I find a place that isn’t a thorn. How long do you think that’ll take me?”

  Shit, no; that’s exactly what she didn’t want. With those eyes that were smart and trouble at the same time.

  She swallowed and straightened her spine. “You’ll never get close enough.”

  He cocked his head. “No?”

  “No.”

  He hummed a little and leaned back in his chair again. He threw a peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth. Then he chewed, with those steel eyes daring her to look away. “Guess I gotta plan my attack better next time, huh? You better work on those defenses.”

  She heard Alex’s voice as her sister made her way back to the lunchroom. Ivy smiled and lifted her chin. “Who says I’ll be the one who needs defense?”

  He laughed sharply, like he was surprised. “Oh, babe, bring it.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Ivy.”

  “Babe. I call it as I see it, and you’re definitely babe.”

  Ivy growled.

  He smiled, and then he was up out of his chair and walking out the door as Alex made her way in. Her eyes trailed Brent as he retreated to the garage.

  Alex turned to Ivy, eyes concerned. “Was he bothering you?”

  Bothering didn’t even touch it. “No, he’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Alex shrugged. “I can talk to him—”

  “Alex, I swear, it was nothing, and even if it was, I could handle it.”

  Her sister eyed her and then stole a bite of her sandwich. “Fine; now eat. You’re getting skinny.”

  “Quit mothering me.”

  Alex pointed to the sandwich with raised eyebrows, and Ivy glared at her as she took a bite.

  Chapter Two

  EVERY TIME BRENT had to say this dog’s name, some of his testosterone cried out in a slow, agonizing death. “Honeybear, come on, girl.” He patted his thigh and whistled, but the dog was yards away, sniffing where his property ended and the woods surrounding his townhouse complex began.

  Brent stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and shivered against the fall air that was growing sharper every day. He thought he saw movement in the back window of the townhouse connected to his, but then it was gone. He hadn’t met his neighbor yet. He’d just moved here a week ago. His housewarming present from Cal? This dog, with her stupid fucking name. She was lucky she was cute as hell.

  But if he had to yell this goddamn dog’s name one more time . . . “Honeybear!”

  She finally perked up, turning her two-toned face—half black and half white—toward him.

  “Get inside before I leave ya out here,” he called, and she began to trot toward him.

  Honeybear was an Australian shepherd mix that Cal found at the local shelter. She’d been turned in by a family that said she was too energetic and silly. Cal had heard that, cracked up laughing, and immediately said the dog was made for Brent.

  Brent wasn’t sure if he should take offense to that, but whatever. Honeybear was perfect, if not for her name. They’d never had pets growing up; their father had said it was too much trouble, so Brent felt like a little kid at Christmas when Cal led Honeybear into his townhouse with a big red bow around her neck.

  Brent would have named her something appropriately gender-neutral, like Sam or something. But nope, she only answered to Honeybear, so that was what he found himself yelling at all hours of the day, including this Monday evening.

  She reached his side and sat at his feet, her tail swiping the too-long grass, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. It’d taken about five minutes to fall in love with her. Brent scratched her behind the ears. “How’s my girl?”

  Her ears swiveled, and then she turned her head toward his neighbor’s. Brent gazed over and saw a man sitting on his back porch. The man didn’t move or make a sound, and Brent straightened, unsure what to say because lately, first impressions weren’t his forte. Then the man raised one hand in greeting, and Honeybear took that as her cue to investigate. She bounded over and began to lick and sniff the palm the man lowered to her.

  Brent walked over, and as he entered the fenced-in back porch, he noticed the man was in a wheelchair, his legs covered by a thin blanket.

  “Uh, sorry, she gets a little excited,” B
rent said, scratching the back of his head. He reached out a hand. “Brent Payton. This your place? If so, I’m your new neighbor.”

  The man eyed Brent’s hand and then slowly stretched out his own. His handshake was firm, fingers calloused. He nodded. “Davis.”

  “Davis?” Brent asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s your name? Like, one name? Davis?”

  A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw. “My name is Barney Davis. I go by Davis.”

  “Barney? Like the purple dinosaur?”

  Through gritted teeth, the man said, “That’s why I go by Davis. And is a man with a dog named Honeybear really giving me shit about my name?”

  Brent pointed at his dog. “She came with that name.”

  Davis raised his eyebrows. “I came with my name too.”

  Brent pushed his lips out. “Huh. Okay, that’s a good point.”

  The man smiled then, a big one that creased his face. Brent wasn’t in the habit of checking out other guys, but this dude was solid—big shoulders, hands, and chest. His eyes were a deep brown, and he wore a short beard, which was tinted red, in contrast with his dark brown hair.

  Davis looked around his bare patio. “I’m, uh, not out here much. Sorry I don’t have a chair or anything to offer you.”

  Brent shrugged. “It’s no problem. So have you lived here for long?”

  Davis reached down and ran his hand over Honeybear’s head. “Coupla years.”

  “I like it here; kinda quiet.”

  “Couple that lived here before you had two kids, so that wasn’t so quiet. Now all I hear is you calling for your dog. For a while, I didn’t realize it was a dog, and I thought you were kinda weird.”

  Brent laughed. “I’m definitely weird, but I can honestly say I’ve never called a woman Honeybear.”

  Davis looked up at him, quiet for so long that Brent was ready to excuse himself. Then Davis jerked his thumb in the direction of his house. “You wanna come inside for a beer or something?”

  Brent’s eyes shifted to the sliding glass door leading into Davis’s house. “You don’t mind if my dog comes in too?”

  Davis patted her head. “Not at all.”

  “Then sure.”

  Davis was quick in his wheelchair, turning sharply before reaching up to slide open the door. Brent thought about offering to help, but the guy had gotten out himself; Brent figured he could get back in.

  Honeybear was delighted with her new friend. She trotted alongside his wheelchair as he made his way over to the refrigerator. He pulled out two Stellas, popped the caps off with an opener that said Tory Fire Station 22, and then handed a bottle to Brent.

  Brent took it with a smile and tipped it toward Davis in a cheers gesture.

  The beer went down easy—crisp and cold—and Brent thought he liked the guy already if he kept decent beer on hand. The floor gleamed, and the counter was uncluttered, topped by a couple of clean appliances. Brent was pretty sure he could see his reflection in the smudge-free stainless steel refrigerator.

  “So tell me about your dog.” Davis’s head was down, focused on Honeybear.

  Brent took a pull on his beer. “Uh, well, my brother thought I needed a dog in the absence of a steady woman in my life. So when I moved in to this place, he came over with Honeybear, here. He got her at the shelter, and of course she won’t respond to anything but that stupid name.”

  Davis propped his arms on the shoulder rests of his wheelchair. “It’s not too bad. You could shorten it to Honey.”

  “I tried that; it’s not taking.”

  “Maybe she just has to get used to it.”

  “I’m not giving up; that’s for sure.”

  Davis smiled and drank his beer, his eyes never leaving Brent’s face. “What do you do?”

  “I work over at Payton and Sons Automotive with my dad and brother.”

  Davis nodded. “I thought your name sounded familiar. I think I’ve gotten some work done there a time or two.”

  “Come around next time. I’ll comp ya an oil change.”

  “Thanks for that. Might just take you up on it, although I don’t drive so much anymore.”

  “What do you do?”

  Davis picked at his beer label, and Honeybear whined, leaning into his wheelchair in a desperate plea to get more head scratches. “I used to be a volunteer firefighter over at Station 22, but now I just help work at dispatch.”

  Brent sat down in a chair at the kitchen table. Being a firefighter was a little-boy fantasy of his that he’d never grown out of. He knew which station Davis mentioned, because he drove by there all time, watching the firefighters clean their vehicles, or train, or respond to calls.

  He wanted to be one of them—always had. He’d mentioned it to his dad and Cal one time back in high school, and they’d looked at him like he was crazy. Brent, responsible for other people’s lives and safety? That was preposterous. Ridiculous. Brent couldn’t be taken seriously.

  It pissed him the hell off every time he thought about it.

  He cleared his throat. “Being a firefighter have anything to do with why you’re in a wheelchair?”

  Davis gave in to Honeybear’s whines and began to scratch her again. “Yeah. Coupla years ago, responded to a call for a house fire in Tory—one of those old duplexes. Long story short: I fell through a weak spot in the second floor and fractured some vertebrae. Paralyzed from hips down. So here I am. Not fighting fires anymore.”

  Brent’s mouth was dry, and the beer tasted sour on his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Davis kept his eyes on Honeybear. “Yeah, me too.”

  Brent wanted to ask more questions—like, Do you regret it? Would you do it again?—but instead, he took another sip of his beer and watched his neighbor pet his dog. “You’re free to spend time with her. Or walk her. Or clean up her shit. Anytime, really.”

  Davis laughed. “Is that right?”

  “I’ll just leave some poop bags with you, just in case.”

  “I think I’ll just go with visiting every once in a while.”

  “Well damn, I tried.”

  Davis leaned back in his wheelchair and drained his beer; then he set it on his counter. “Haven’t had anyone in my place except for my sister since I moved in. Sorta weird to have someone here, but it’s also kinda nice.”

  Brent spun his bottle on the table. “I’m pretty much at the garage or home lately. I used to go out more, hit the bar scene, but now I got Honeybear and . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m getting a little sick of the grind.” The curvy body and big blue eyes of Ivy Dawn flashed through his mind. He’d surely give up the scene if she was in his bed every night.

  Too bad she hated him.

  “I’m still in the stage where I miss it,” Davis said softly.

  “Miss the bar scene?”

  “Miss women,” he said with a grunt.

  Brent refused to let his gaze drop into Davis’s lap. He didn’t make it a habit to think about dicks, but he wondered how much Davis’s injury affected his . . . love life. But they’d just met, and Brent wasn’t about to go there. “You’re free to go out with me sometime.”

  Davis didn’t look at him. “My sister’s on me to go out. Haven’t since the accident but . . . not sure how I feel about rolling my ass into the bar.”

  Brent chewed his lip and thought about how to ask his next question. “You worried about people staring? Or making comments?”

  “I thought about it a lot,” Davis said, gazing out his back door. “And I’ve accepted what happened; how I am. This is me now. But I hate feeling like I need to make other people comfortable. Like I have to be the one to apologize for needing handicapped access ramps into restaurants. Does that make sense?”

  It did. Brent nodded. “You don’t gotta apologize to me.”

  Davis smiled, a bigger one than before. “Yeah. It’s why I invited you in. You made a good first impression.”

  Brent raised his eyebrows. “Really? Beca
use I suck at those.”

  Davis laughed. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Davis asked softly, “You want another beer?”

  Brent was comfortable here. His dog and a new friend. He propped his feet up on the chair beside him. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  Davis grinned, and Brent decided that the key to making a good first impression was to always bring his dog.

  A SMALL BODY crashed into Ivy’s legs, and she looked down into the wide blue eyes of her six-year-old daughter.

  “Mommy,” Violet whimpered, her lip trembling. She pressed herself closer to Ivy’s side, so Ivy wrapped her arms around her daughter’s slender shoulders. Ivy looked up to see a large man standing next to them in the aisle, holding a box of Cheerios and looking at Violet with a confused look on his face.

  Ivy wanted to cry. Just break down in the middle of the grocery store on this Sunday afternoon. Because Robby, Alex’s bastard of an ex-boyfriend, had sufficiently done his duty to damage every one of the Dawn girls.

  If he stood in front of Ivy right now, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

  Through watery eyes, Ivy smiled at the man. “Sorry, she’s, uh, not comfortable with men.”

  He jolted a little and threw the box of cereal in his cart. “Oh well, then I’ll just move along—”

  “It’s okay—”

  “You have a nice day.” He turned his back and made a hasty retreat down the aisle.

  Ivy closed her eyes and counted to ten; then she looked down at her daughter, who watched the man’s back with trepidation. “Everything’s okay, Vi.”

  Her daughter peered up at her, wiping tears from her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. It’s okay. But we talked about this, right? Not all men are like Robby.”

  Violet’s eyes darted toward the man and then back to Ivy. “I know, but I still got scared.”

  “I know, sweetie.” Ivy didn’t know what to say anymore, how to curb this fear that Robby had instilled in her daughter, the fear Ivy failed to protect her daughter from. It was a failure she thought about every second of every day.