“I’m curing cancer with my breasts,” I answer sarcastically. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He holds his now unwrapped sandwich up in the air. “It looks like you’re trying to draw attention to yourself.”
I pick up my Hershey’s wrapper and throw it at him. The silver hits his temple, but he keeps chewing on his damn sandwich.
If he wants me to show him looking for attention, I’ll show him looking for attention. I lift my banana off the table and hold it up to my face, just inches away. Slowly, I run my hand up the shaft of the fruit, down, and back up again. My gaze leisurely glances around the site, as if the act of fondling a banana is completely normal.
Adam drops his sandwich in annoyance. “Now, what are you doing?”
With a hand to my heart, I look at him with the most serious yet confused face I can muster. “Checking for firmness. I don’t want to waste a banana if I’m not going to eat it.” I shoot him a duh expression, turn the banana upside down, and squeeze the tip to break it open.
“You open your bananas wrong,” he says, with his finger pointed at me.
I place my elbow on the table and school him, “For your information, you open your bananas wrong. This is the way monkeys do it. And being that it’s their primary source of nutrition, I think they know what they’re doing.”
“They also eat bugs and shit. You wanna do that, too?”
I pinch in my cheeks and let out an annoyed grunt. “Shut up.” I wave him off. “Go arrest someone or something.”
“Been there, done that,” he says with a smirk, showcasing the perfect pearly whites he obtained from years of braces in middle school. He goes back to eating his PB and J.
I can feel my eyes scrunching in at him. He is so smug, and I want to kick him.
I focus my attention back to my banana and peel it down halfway, letting the white glistening tip of the fruit shine in the afternoon heat. I poke my tongue out of my mouth and trace the rim, running my tongue around it a few times.
“Leah.” His voice is stern, but I ignore him.
Opening my mouth, I press my lips around the banana and let the fruit go deep into my throat. Closing my lips over the soft core, I pull up ever so slowly in an erotic way.
“Leah.” He’s trying to intimidate me, but I don’t care.
Again and again, I run my lips and tongue up and down the shaft of the banana, giving it the greatest blow job of my life.
Adam bangs his fist on the table and rises. “Leah Marie Paige, what the hell are you doing?”
With a quick move of my head, I look over at him and take a great big, giant bite. With my mouth full, I say, “Eating my banana. Sheesh. Do you always yell at people when they eat?”
He shoves away from the table, causing it to rock. I place my hand to steady it while Adam stalks off toward the shaded tree.
I turn my head to the next table and see Tim and Gary with very appreciative looks on their faces.
I lean back and give them my snarliest face. “What are you looking at?” I twirl my finger in the air. “Turn around, boys. You don’t have what it takes to handle this girl.”
The boys do just what I said, and I look back toward Adam’s direction. He’s standing under the tree, looking at the field.
Throwing the banana on the table, I push my uneaten sandwich away with my other hand. I’m not hungry anymore. I take the water out from my boobs and drink it down.
Everyone here looks like they’re about to die. I feel like I’m in the courtyard of a prison. All we’re missing are ugly orange jumpsuits and balls and chains around our ankles. I wonder how many people are here like me because they have to be. Just because we’re forced to do manual labor doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun doing it.
Walking around, I kick up dry dirt with my Nikes and run my hand along the vinyl siding of one of the houses. There is a stream of sweat working its way down my back, and the inside of my thighs are starting to chafe. What I wouldn’t do for a little wind to start blowing in.
“It’s too damn hot. I’m bailing,” one worker says to another.
Wish I could leave with ya, buddy.
I look over and see two guys getting up to leave.
“You’re leaving?” Toby says as he walks over to the men getting up. “Come on, Rick. I need you to help me get the siding up on the middle house.”
“No way, man. I’m not getting heatstroke. I have to be at work tomorrow.” Rick grabs his keys from his pocket.
Another man seated at Rick’s table gets up as well. “Yeah, I’m heading out, too. Maybe next week will be cooler.”
Two more people rise, and I can tell a movement is starting. Toby’s eyes look over at the people as they nod to each other, saying they’re done for the day.
With outstretched arms, Toby pleads to the crowd, “Come on, guys, it’s already midsummer. If we all head out because we’re hot, then these houses won’t be built in time.”
A few people aren’t leaving, but for the most part, the crowd is gathering their things to go home. My fingers start to dance at my sides in excitement. The girls are all heading to Jessica’s house for a pool party after work. I could get home, shimmy into my bikini, be at her house for two hours, and still make it to work on time.
Toby drops his arms in defeat, his head hanging low.
I walk over and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s ninety-five degrees, and we’re working in the direct sun,” I say, pointing up to the cloudless blue sky. “They’re volunteers. You can’t make them work if they don’t want to.”
I, on the other hand, am slave labor. Maybe if Toby goes home for the day, Adam will call it an early one, too. I can feel the crisp water on my skin as I just think about Jessica’s kidney-shaped pool.
Toby turns to me with downturned eyes. “No, Leah, we can’t waste a day. You see that house?” He points to the furthest one that has the most work that needs to be done. “That house is for Carrie Mikgus. She was severely beaten by her husband and has been living in a women’s shelter with her two kids since last summer. We promised her a home in time to start school in the fall.”
He turns to the middle house that is halfway complete. “That house is for the Framer family. They lost their home and their youngest daughter to a house fire two years ago. The three remaining kids were all burned severely. That house is supposed to be a new start for them.
“And this one”—he knocks on a post at the front entryway of the home—“is for Roger and Vivienne Montgomery. Roger was wounded in Afghanistan. Lost both legs. He needs a handicapped-accessible home. He fought for our country in the desert, for us. And if we can’t spend a few weeks in the heat, then what the hell are we good for? What kind of people are we?”
My fingers stop dancing with pool-inspired anticipation. Looking around at the homes, I take in what their true purpose is. We’re not just building houses for the sake of manual labor. We’re creating homes for people who have lost so much. Here I am, trying to get my margarita on with the girls, and there is a woman huddled with her kids at a shelter because she was violently abused by a man she loved, a family of children with burns all over their bodies, and an honorable service member who gave so much for our safety, waiting for a place to begin and end his day in peace.
Toby looks at me with a face laced with defeat. “We have volunteers here seven days a week, and I still don’t know if we’ll get these homes done on time.”
I watch the group of volunteers as they walk away. They’re not like me. They’re here on their own time. They chose to be here for a reason. A greater purpose. And they’re giving up.
Well, Leah Marie Paige does not give up.
“Toby, is there a radio anywhere?” I ask.
He just looks at me like it’s the oddest response to the sad stories he just told me. Okay, it’s not exactly what someone says after hearing such depressing stuff, but I have a point.
“Seriously, Toby, get me the damn radio.”
I t
urn around and walk to the water spigot that’s attached to the Montgomery home and turn it on. Grabbing the hose, I walk back to one of the folding tables with the hose unraveling from its holder.
I hold the gun of the hose up, take aim at Rick’s back, and shoot. I get a good shot and cascade him with ice-cold water, causing him to jump up and raise his arms like a bullet hit him.
Rick lets out a loud, womanly scream. “Jesus Christ! What the heck?”
The crowd stops to see what the hell is going on.
Climbing on top of the table, I hold the hose nozzle up like it’s a pistol. “You said you were hot. Just looking to cool you off a bit.” I give him a wide smile, the kind I give my customers from the oak top bar of The Bucking Bronco.
“Are you crazy?” Rick asks—not in a mean way, more in a I-can’t-believe-you-just-shot-me-with-a-hose way.
“Yep,” I say. I hose down the guy standing next to him, who lets out a yelp. “And you’re crazy for leaving. Why did you choose to volunteer here in the first place?”
Rick answers while pulling his wet shirt away form his torso, “Because my sister was abused by her husband. Homes for All Souls helped her get back on her feet, and now, I’m helping them.”
My heart drops a little. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Do you think the crew working on her home quit because they were hot?”
“No,” Rick says with a shake of the head and an understanding smile on his face.
“And you”—I point the hose to the other guy, who jumps behind Rick to avoid getting hit again—“why did you volunteer?”
The guy steps out of Rick’s shadow and looks around the crowd. With a stance that shows humility, he says, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. My counselor suggested I volunteer to keep myself busy, away from temptation.”
“Where are you gonna go if you leave here?”
The man chews on his lip, not wanting to answer my question.
Toby walks over with a radio and puts it on the table. Excited to see it’s a Bluetooth, I kneel down and turn it on.
“You see,” I say while syncing my phone to the radio, “the problem is that your heart’s in the right place, but you’re not having any damn fun. Yes, it’s hot, and, yes, if you don’t hydrate, you will get heatstroke. But we’re not quitters.”
I put on a techno song called “Dive in the Pool (Let’s Get Soaking Wet).” We use it at the bar for wet T-shirt contests. The electronic music blasts through the speaker, and a woman starts talking over the music about everyone needing to get wet—obviously.
“You’re all here for a reason. I have to be here to serve my time. But we’ve all found something special in this project, and we will not stop until these homes are built. I say we take a break and get a little crazy!” I hit the nozzle on the hose and spray into the sky, making it pour down on the twenty or so people standing in front of me.
They’re staring at me. They look kinda stunned, probably wondering why there’s a blonde dancing on a folding table, making it rain. I think they’re about to freak out on me, but as the cold water hits their skin, they don’t get mad. They get…excited.
The music is bumping, and Toby makes it louder. A few people start laughing, and a couple shake their heads, not knowing what to make of the moment. I don’t care. I just hold the water up in the sky and start dancing on the table.
Toby shouts over to me, “I have an idea! I’ll be right back.”
He runs off to his truck, and I keep spraying and swaying.
People start to dance, and if I had a bottle of booze in my hand, I’d feel like I was at The Bucking Bronco, giving everyone shots—except to the guy who’s a recovering alcoholic, of course.
Toby runs back with a giant shopping bag. He pulls out this water-balloon contraption that’s supposed to fill up thirty balloons in seconds. He has dozens of them.
“Do you moonlight as a children’s party entertainer?” I ask sarcastically.
Toby lets out a laugh. “I bought these for my son’s birthday party. I’ll get more. Come on, the ground is going to turn to mud. Let’s take this to the field.”
Toby has an enthusiastic expression all over his face, and I freaking love it.
“To the field!” I shout with my arm in the air, like we’re going to battle.
We usher everyone to the grassy area, and within minutes, Toby and Rick are carrying hundreds of water balloons to us. Everyone arms themselves and scurries around. Like kids playing manhunt, they take aim and hide behind a tree or a boulder for cover. I get hit twice and get a few people, too.
Most people are running and playing. Some are just enjoying watching the debacle that is happening before them. Grown men and women are playing in a water-balloon fight on a hot day. Someone took over the radio, and it has been playing classic rock, which is an overall crowd pleaser. Almost everyone has taken off their shoes, running around like children.
It doesn’t take much to boost people’s spirits. As kids, we don’t care how silly we look or how wet or dirty we get. Nothing stops us. When we grow up, we become distracted and annoyed by the slightest inconvenience. We forget to stop and take a moment to find joy in the now.
It only lasts for twenty minutes, but everyone cools off as they get a little weird, like children do.
It’s crazy, and it’s beautiful.
When the balloons are gone, we sit in the sun and dry off. Water is passed around, jokes are told, and laughter is contagious.
Rick hits Toby’s leg and says, “Come on, let’s go put up that siding.”
Toby nods with a smile, and the two take off for the last few hours of the workday. With our shoes back on, everyone goes back to their stations, not bothered by their wet clothes since the heat is still stifling.
I walk around the field, pick up the broken water balloon pieces, and put them in a trash bag. When I’m done, I start my walk back to the worksite but not before a silhouette catches my eye.
A man under the shade of a far-off tree is staring at me with onyx eyes.
I stop and look back at him, waiting for something—a movement, a wave, a smile, anything. Instead, I get nothing.
chapter SEVEN
“Night, Leah,” Rick says as he slings his cooler strap over his shoulder.
“Safe drive home,” I say, sitting on the tailgate of Adam’s truck, my legs dangling.
Everyone has packed up and left. Well, almost everyone. Adam is sulking around here somewhere. I haven’t spoken to him since he nearly threw the folding table at me at lunch.
Okay, he didn’t throw it at me, but he probably wanted to.
I take a sip from my water and put the cap back on. My pants are covered in dried mud, and I have Spackle smears on my forearms. There aren’t any mirrors around, but I’m pretty sure I look like a wreck. Running my fingers through my ponytail, I feel the matted ends. If the girls saw me, their jaws would drop for sure. I’m probably super smelly and gross, too. I lift an arm to take a whiff.
“There’s no way you smell as bad as you look,” Adam says as he approaches the truck, forcing me to jolt in my seat and plop my arm down.
“You should see yourself,” I say as a rebuttal. My words insinuate he looks like hell, but it’s quite the opposite.
Those low-hanging Levi’s with their stains and small tears are hugging his hips just right. His T-shirt is clinging to his chest, accentuating those strong shoulders at the top. His hair is messy but not like mine. He has this hot-guy-who’s-been-building-things-all-day look about him, and it’s—
Okay, gonna stop that thought right there.
Adam snaps his fingers in front of my face, pulling me out of my daydream and off the truck. He closes the tailgate and walks to the driver’s side. I go to my door and climb inside.
He starts the car, and we set off for the drive. After a hard day’s work, the air-conditioning feels like heaven. I run my fingers over the leather of my seat and let my head fall to the side. Looking out the window, I play a game with mysel
f, making up the strangest names out of the license plates that we pass. The first plate is LZZ D498. Lizzy Fornicate pops in my head.
“Lazied Fortnight,” I say to myself, somewhat impressed.
“Slave Juice.”
I turn my head. “What?”
He nods toward the car in front of us. The plate is S7V J32C.
“Slang Jerk?” I try.
He shakes his head. “Mine’s better. There’s a V in there.” He dips into the middle lane and speeds up to see the plate of another car—NST YC4D.
“Nasty Seafood,” we say at the same time, laughing quietly to ourselves.
As we realize we’re not supposed to be having fun with each other in any way, we settle back into our respected positions—him stern and straight with his hands on ten and two, and me huddled in the corner of the seat as close to the door as possible.
I run my teeth along my bottom lip and go back to looking out the window.
“You still play that game a lot?” he asks.
I nod my head. “Not really. It just popped in my head.”
“Brad was insane at that. His brain was wired differently.”
I face him and agree, “He probably would have come up with something clever like No Safety Cadavers.”
He has a slight smile. “That was a good one.”
“Thanks.” I let out a deep exhale and put my hands under my thighs as I tap my heels.
We pass a sign for Cracker Barrel. I love how you can shop in the country store while you wait for your table. Between my adoration of country music and cowboy boots, I should have grown up in the South. My stomach makes a rumbling noise at the thought of their chicken salad.
Adam lets out a disgruntled groan. “You didn’t eat, did you?”
“Half of a banana.”
His hand leaves the steering wheel and rises up as he asks, “What about the lunch I packed you?”
“I wasn’t hungry anymore.”
He puts the blinker on, and we start to exit off the highway.
I look out the side to make sure we’re not gonna slam into a passing car. “Where are we going?”
Wrecked Page 7