Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Whoops,” he whispered.

  “Hey, buddy?” Painter asked in a rough voice.

  Jayme looked to me and when I nodded, he answered. “Yeah?”

  “What do you call a bear with no teeth?”

  “Umm…what?”

  Painter shot me a weak wink. “A gummy bear.”

  Jayme’s giggle filled the van for a second time, and Painter’s eyes closed again.

  “Polly?” His voice was rough and tired.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Is that another joke?” I demanded.

  His head swivelled toward me, eyes half-open and a little frown playing on his lips.

  “No. Why?”

  If I hadn’t been gripping the steering wheel, I would’ve thrown my hands up in exasperation.

  “Because you just fought for your life and lost a pint of blood in the process!” I glanced at Jayme, then added in a whisper, “And killed a man.”

  “But you’re all right? And Jayme?”

  I sighed. “We’re fine.”

  He cares.

  Just a few days into my life and a few hours in Jayme’s, and we already mattered to him. So much that his personal well-being came second to his concern for ours. A flush crept up my skin, not at the caring itself, but at how it made a bubble of happiness lift my heart. I stole a look at Painter, wondering if he could read my face, but his eyes were already closed again.

  “Thank you,” I said, just soft enough that my son wouldn’t hear.

  “For what?”

  “For…” I trailed off and glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Was there a delicate, non-awkward way for me to explain the warm feeling in my chest? I doubted it. I swallowed against the thick lump in my throat and turned my gaze out the window.

  “He wasn’t dead,” Painter murmured after a moment.

  “Smith wasn’t?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I froze and waited for a more comprehensive explanation, but he was silent. His breathing had the uneven cadence of restless sleep.

  “Painter?”

  No answer. I suppressed a shiver of apprehension.

  “Painter,” I repeated, a little more loudly.

  Oh, God.

  “Hey,” I said. “You got answer me, okay?”

  His reply was a wet-sounding cough that made my palms sweat nervously.

  “Mom, is it breakfast time?”

  I looked up at the sky. It was impossible to judge the time. The sky was too dark with storm clouds to tell whether it was noon or whether it was five in the evening.

  “I don’t know, buddy. Are you hungry?”

  “Does Painter need a bed?” he asked.

  “Yes, probably,” I tried to keep the worry out of my voice as I answered.

  “I saw a sign back there. Bed and breakfast.” In the rearview mirror, I saw him shrug. “I might like some breakfast. Or dinner. Whatever’s close, I’m not sure…and if Painter needs a bed…”

  Hope bubbled under my worry. “You’re good kid and I love you, you know that, right?”

  He shrugged again. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Which part do you know?” I teased.

  A tiny smile touched his mouth. “Both.”

  “Thought so. Let’s get some food and some rest, okay?”

  I clicked my signal on, then pulled a U-turn.

  I immediately spotted the same sign Jayme had seen, but when we came off the highway and followed the road up to the house, it became obvious that the place was shut down. All the lights were out and the porch was thick with leaves.

  I glanced over at Painter. His face was now covered in a sweaty sheen. I knew it wasn’t good.

  “Be right back,” I said,

  I jumped out of the van and pounded on the door until I was completely sure no one was home. Then, using my elbow, I cracked the stained glass panel beside the doorknob and reached through to turn it open.

  What’s one more little felony? I thought, and rushed back to Painter and Jayme.

  With my son’s assistance, we helped the big man to his feet. He muttered and cursed, but managed to get up three steps to the front door and into the entryway. I shot the main stairs a dubious look. Just as I was about to guide Painter to the couch, Jayme’s voice carried from down the hall.

  “Hey, Mom!” he called. “There’s a bed down here!”

  With an aching shoulder, I led Painter through the house to the dark bedroom.

  “The lights don’t work,” Jayme told me, and flicked the switch to emphasize his words.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I grunted.

  I leaned over and let Painter fall to the bed. I went immediately to the en-suite bathroom, where I found nothing but a bottle of shampoo and stack of towels. I hurried back into the room and turned to Jayme.

  “Stay here with him okay, buddy? I’m going to look for something to fix our friend up with.”

  I rushed from the bedroom to the upstairs bathroom. The cabinets were empty. I made my way back downstairs, trying to calm the desperate beating of my heart as I opened every cupboard in the kitchen. There were plenty of canned goods and candles and matches, but nothing I could use. I found a handgun above the stove and immediately shut the cupboard door. At last, I swung open the pantry door and hit the jackpot. A cardboard box labelled “First Aid Supplies” sat on the shelf there, right at eye level.

  I said a silent prayer of thanks, grabbed the box and ran back to Painter.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Painter

  My head was pressed into a soft pillow, and I smelled flowers, and I heard a cartoon theme song and I felt oddly safe.

  My eyes wanted to stay closed, but an insistent tugging on my arm made me sure I should pry them open instead to assess my situation. When I did open them—slowly—I spied a cascade of soft, dark hair bobbing back and forth in time with the rhythmic pull on the skin between my shoulder and my elbow.

  Polly.

  The past few days came flooding back.

  “What’re you doing?” I croaked.

  At the sound of my voice, Polly jerked back and a pinprick of pain jabbed my biceps.

  “Sorry!” she gasped, then she sat back, two spots of colour in her fair cheeks. “You’re awake.”

  My gaze moved from her face to her hands, and I saw that she was gripping a long, thin needle in one and a stained piece of gauze in the other.

  “If I wasn’t awake…would you be continuing to stab me repeatedly without me knowing about it?”

  She didn’t smile. “I’m not stabbing you. I’m fixing your stitches.”

  “My stitches?”

  I glanced down at my arm. A line of sutures ran up my biceps. They were uneven and the top few looked worse than the bottom few, but aside from that, the wound looked reasonably clean.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Not too long. Maybe ten hours.”

  I eyed the nightstand. It was covered in first aid equipment. Bandages and surgical tape and topical benzocaine. Ibuprofen and scissors and even a syringe.

  “And while I was out, you knocked over a pharmacy?” I teased.

  “Of course not! This stuff belongs to the house.”

  “The house?”

  “That we broke into.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s a story I’d like to hear. But first…what’s with the giant scissors?”

  “I used them to cut off your shirt.”

  I looked down. Sure enough, my torso was bare.

  “Now you’re stripping me while I’m unconscious?”

  “Can I please finish this?”

  I grabbed her hand. “Polly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I dying?”

  “What? No!”

  She tried to pull away but I held on firmly. When she tried harder, I yelped.

  “Ouch!”

  Polly’s face fell. “Oh, my God! I’m sorry!”

  “Just kidding.”

  “Jesus,
Painter!”

  I grinned. “If I’m not dying, then where the hell is your bad attitude?”

  “My—what?”

  “You’ve been giving me hard time since the second I dragged you out of Tangerines. Now you’re staring at me like I’m gonna break. So man up and tell me I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying!”

  “Then say something obnoxious.”

  She made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “Hold still, Painter, or I’m going to stab you again.”

  “On purpose?”

  She smiled. “It wouldn’t be obnoxious if it wasn’t an accident, now would it?”

  “Before I let you go…I need to know…you have done this before, right?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve at least seen it done?”

  “I worked at a vet clinic for two days,” she offered.

  “In surgery?”

  “Filing papers.”

  “Filing papers with a needle?”

  “No. And I’m probably doing it wrong. You’re going to look like Frankenstein’s monster when I’m done with you.”

  “Might be an improvement,” I joked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Can I finish this?”

  “Fine.”

  I stopped moving and let her go back to running the needle through my tender skin. I closed my eyes. Polly’s movements were swift and deft but each jab stung like a bitch, making me wince involuntarily. When she was done, she leaned back and shot me a sympathetic smile. She handed me an ibuprofen.

  “If it hurts really badly,” she said. “I found some vodka.”

  “I’ll make do with these.”

  I popped the pills into my mouth and struggled to sit up.

  Polly immediately put a hand on my chest and pushed me back down onto the bed.

  “You need rest.”

  “I just rested for ten hours.”

  We both realized at the same second that her fingers were resting on my puckered scars. Polly flushed and tried to draw away. Very quickly, I put my palm over the back of her hand and pressed it into my damaged skin.

  Her curious gaze caught mine and held it.

  The nerve endings under the burns were damaged and usually created a disconcerting sensation of knowing I was being touched without actually feeling it. Like someone stuffed a piece of thick wool between me and whatever brushed against my skin. But as Polly’s hand continued to rest against it, warmth seeped through and the sense of separation diminished. It felt good. Drag-her-into-the-bed, half-stitched-wound-be-damned good.

  “Where’s the kid?” I asked in thick voice.

  Polly swallowed nervously. “Watching cartoons in the other room. We found some old videos and an ancient TV.”

  I glanced around meaningfully, then turned back to her, a slow, lascivious smile playing on my lips. In the two seconds it took for Polly’s eyes to flick in the direction of the mostly closed door, I yanked her toward me.

  She tried to catch her free hand on the nightstand but it was too late. She lost her footing and tumbled straight into the bed, every inch of her pressed against me. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that I could feel it through her dress.

  “That has to come off,” I murmured.

  “Oomph?”

  I laughed at Polly’s muffled, unintelligible question and answered by rolling her onto her side and slipping my fingers to the top button of her dress. I got the first three open before she managed to wriggle away. My arm shot to her waist and I dragged her back.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” she protested.

  I grinned. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Polly pulled back again. Her dress slipped down exposing her bra strap, collarbone and just the right amount of cleavage to send heat straight to my groin. She fought to free a hand so she could pull the dress back up. She wasn’t quick enough. My mouth sought and found her bare skin. By the time her fingers reached the loose fabric, I’d trailed fierce kisses from the dip in her throat to her shoulder. I was thirsty for more. So when her thumb accidentally brushed my lip, I opened my mouth and drew it in with a gentle suck. She gasped and then her hands were on me.

  They explored the length of my scars slowly, like she was trying to memorize them with her fingers. I closed my eyes, amazed at how much I enjoyed the feel of her. For six long years, I’d kept myself cut off from every emotion but anger. Even the thought of being touched set my teeth on edge. Now I wanted nothing more than to sink into Polly’s caress.

  Not just now. Again and again. Maybe always.

  The realization hit me hard.

  My eyes flew open and my palms found Polly’s wrists. I pushed them back on the pillow.

  “Stop for just a minute,” I commanded.

  Her gaze sought mine, confusion and hurt clear in her eyes. I softened my hold and grazed her cheek with my lips.

  “I just want to be sure,” I told her.

  “Sure of what?”

  “That you know this does change things. For me, at least. If it doesn’t for you…”

  She shook her head, making my heart drop. I let her hands go and rolled away, but she was quick to grab me again. We were lying just inches apart, face-to-face.

  “This scares the shit out of me, Painter,” she whispered. “You scare the shit out of me. But my life changed the second you sat down on that bar stool. And I’m not sorry.”

  Without taking her too-blue eyes off me, she reached down to her dress and undid the remainder of the buttons on her dress. She did it unhurriedly, and by the time all of them were free, it took every bit of willpower I had to keep from reaching for her. But I wanted her to take the lead.

  She didn’t let me down.

  With an attractive pink in her cheeks, she reached backward and unclipped her bra.

  Polly lying there in nothing but her perfect, form-fitting underwear was all I could take.

  Hungrily, I brought my mouth to hers, finding her eager tongue. She moaned against the kiss. I pulled her to me, closing the already miniscule gap between us.

  Her hand slid up my thigh.

  “Mommy?”

  The small voice made Polly gasp. In a clumsy, unpractised move, she rolled from the bed, jumped to her feet and bolted for the bathroom. Seconds later, she reappeared beside the bed wrapped in a towel.

  “In here!” she called out casually.

  The bedroom door swung open and Jayme came in.

  “I’m done with the popcorn and you said we could have pizza.” Polly’s freckle-faced son shot her a frown. “Are you taking a shower?”

  “Yes,” Polly replied quickly.

  “Then who’s ordering my pizza?”

  “Pizza?” I looked to Polly.

  “The phone works,” she told me. “I checked. I was going to have them deliver it to the gas station in town. Thought it might be a neutral pickup zone.”

  “All right. I’ll order your pizza, buddy,” I volunteered.

  Jayme’s eyes whipped toward me, concern beyond his years clouding his features. “Will it hurt you?”

  I covered a smile. “Not if you bring me that working phone and maybe a phone book and then you help me dial. I need my wallet, too, and I bet your mom left that in the living room. Could you grab it for me?”

  Obligingly, the kid slipped from the room.

  “I am so sorry. Jayme’s never…I haven’t…I am so sorry,” Polly finished off lamely.

  I flung out my good arm and grabbed the bottom of her towel.

  “What are you sorry for?” I teased. “What were you hoping was going to happen?”

  I gave the towel a swift tug, but she held tight.

  “Stop that!”

  “No.”

  I tugged a little harder and the top of the towel slipped down. She struggled to keep it up and the bottom opened up, making me smile even wider. I slid my hand up her thigh, stopping just short of her ass, and dragged her closer.

  “Painter!” she protested.

&nb
sp; “Don’t be sorry about Jayme,” I said. “I hope we get interrupted by that kid a thousand more times.”

  “You do?”

  I brought my fingers to the edge of her underwear.

  “Well,” I amended. “I hope we don’t get interrupted every time.”

  On cue, the slap of the kid’s feet announced his arrival, and Polly scurried to the bathroom. The sound of water running filled the room and I forced myself to turn my attention to Jayme.

  “Cheese, or pepperoni?” I asked.

  “Hawaiian.”

  I ruffled his hair. “I should’ve known you’d have a sophisticated palate. Why don’t we order it right away and then you can help me out of here so we can watch some TV?”

  I placed the call, then swung my feet out of bed and pretended to lean on Jayme as we made our way to the living room. He cuddled up beside me on the couch and I slung my arm around him, but my eyes kept straying to the bedroom door.

  A cloud of steam billowed out from under the door enticingly

  “Pizza!” Jayme’s sudden shout finally dragged my attention away from thoughts of Polly under a steady stream of water.

  “What?”

  In the amount of time it took me hear the tapping on the door, Jayme already had his hand around the knob and was twisting it open.

  I rose to my feet ten seconds too late.

  As Jayme turned the handle, and the solid thump of a steel-toed boot hitting the door resounded through the room, I sought something—anything—to use as a weapon. I found nothing.

  Jayme dropped back, but he was too late, too. His scream barely got started before a hand clamped down over his mouth and dragged him forcefully into the room.

  Smith.

  The other man had a piece of tissue stuck to his neck and his hand was wrapped in seeping bandages and he looked like he was in rough shape. The welt on his forehead had turned an angry purple. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were torn. None it mattered, though, because he held a gun tight against the kid’s head.

  Jesus.

  “Let him go,” I said softly.

  “No.”

  “He’s a kid, Smith.”

  Smith smiled. “If you cared so much, you should’ve killed me in the first place.”

  I shrugged like I wasn’t thinking the very same thing. “Hindsight once again.”