Carried Away

by P. Dangelico

  “You’re good at not letting the smack talk get to you…it’s impressive.”

  He shrugs and holds the door open for me. “Decades of practice.” Then he throws a sideways smirk and points to the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t always this good at it.”

  Outside things get very quiet and a little awkward, an elephant sitting between us. Jake starts walking in the direction of the Comfort Cottages and I hurry to keep up with his long strides. It’s a cold clear night and a dusting of snow covers the ground from yesterdays freak snowfall.

  “Why did you do that?” he says a few minutes later, puffs of cold air hanging by his mouth.

  I take his wrist to stop him, and he turns to face me in front of a dark storefront lit by a Main Street lamppost. “Why do you let people talk to you like that?”

  “What do you want me to say? They’re right.”

  “Give me a break, Turner. It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “Somebody died, Carrie.” He starts walking again and I jog after him.

  “So for the rest of your life you’re going to take abuse from people? How long are you going to punish yourself?” I say a bit too loudly.

  We pass a young couple headed in the opposite direction. They turn to stare before walking on toward the bars.

  “Turner…Jesus Christ Superstar, slow down I can’t keep up with your oafishly long legs. Jake, c’mon!”

  He slows enough for me to see he’s hiding a smile.

  “Hey, asshole. Miss us?” We both turn to find Dumb and Dumber standing ten feet away, all puffed out and looking for trouble. Crap.

  In contrast, Jake’s face is a portrait in serenity. Albeit with a slightly murdery undertone.

  “Don’t do it, Jake.” I can see it now––a lawsuit, a possible arrest. His name in the news once again, which is his biggest nightmare. “Jake, please…” But he’s not hearing me. He steps forward and I scuttle after him.

  “You get one shot at this so make it a good one,” he tells Dumber. “Then it’s my turn.”

  Wearing matching sinister smiles, Dumb and Dumber glance at each other. Steroid Boy steps up and rolls his shoulders. Bouncing on his toes, he raises his fists while Jake stands perfectly still. Meanwhile, I fret in the background.

  I mean, what do I do? Play accomplice to this mess? Get in the middle of it? I’m thinking if I get in the middle of this, I’ll be the one knocked on my ass, and I will not be the dumb girl in this story.

  Steroid Boy throws a punch and his fist connects with Jake’s jaw. His head snaps to the side and I screech. It’s violent and ugly and I immediately want to go check his face, but I take one step in his direction and he shakes his head at me.

  Then it happens, lighting quick. Jake swings so fast at Steroid Boy that I don’t realize what’s happened until he’s on the ground, squirming and moaning, holding his bleeding face while his friend laughs at him.

  “C’mon, Carebear. Let’s go home.” He frowns at his knuckles and stretches his fingers. After which, Jake Turner, painter, fighter, one-time hockey God, takes me by the hand and leads me there.

  “Of all the idiotic things…” I soak a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and step closer. “You could’ve been sued.”

  As soon as we got back to the cottages, I dragged him––under heavy protest––into the Austen and ordered him to sit on the pink tufted armchair. The punch split his lip open and his jaw is swollen. He needs medical attention even if he did chuckle sarcastically when I told him so.

  Seeing him now all big and dark perched on a delicate pink chair brings a halfcocked grin to my face.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  I’m standing and yet we’re almost face to face. “You. In that chair.”

  “You still think you have to live in a big city to have a grand adventure?”

  I chew on that for a moment. Since I landed in Albany, everyday has been an adventure. “I think I’ve had my fill of adventures for a while. Bailing you out of jail would’ve been my limit for the year.”

  “You weren’t worried he’d hurt me?” he says in a mocking tone. Stepping between his splayed knees, I grab a chunk of his hair and push his head back, dabbing the cotton on the corner of his bottom lip. He winces when the peroxide hits the cut.

  “Maybe I should’ve. If a little sting gets a reaction, you’re not the D-man I thought you were.”

  His lips fight the smile wanting to grow, but he loses that fight. When he does, the dimples make another appearance, and I find myself smiling along with him.

  “Who do you think I am now?”

  It’s the inflection in his deep voice that makes me raise my eyes to his, the cotton ball suspended in mid-air. Something in that question tells me the answer is important to him. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Regardless, I can’t be flip about it. I can’t be anything other than completely honest. This moment feels too important.

  “I think you’re more sensitive than you want people to know. I think that you have a fragile heart and that you protect it fiercely…I think that I want a tenth of your self-control.”

  Done with the cleaning of the cut, I toss the cotton ball down on the table with the rest of the first-aid materials.

  “I think you’re an incredibly talented artist…and I think you must have veneers because no one with a career as long as yours could still have all his teeth.”

  Raising his index finger, he points to an incisor and the tooth next to it. “This one and this one. But that’s it.”

  The moment expands, changes into something else. This isn’t our usual back and forth dance. This is something meaningful. Despite that he’s not at all what I would pick for myself, despite that I’m leaving and he’s staying, despite that he’s barely civil most of the time, I think I’m falling for him.

  Jake is unexpectedly thoughtful and kind. He’s selfless and honest. And part of me feels ashamed that I stepped in it once again, assuming the worst about him based on what I learned from the press.

  His thighs close gently around my legs, and he leans forward. My body comes alive with the knowledge that I’m about to be kissed. Even better, I’m about to be kissed by a man I want to kiss. My skin feels sunburnt under my long sleeve shirt and a suspicious heat grows between my legs. And all I have to say is thank God I have my good underwear on.

  His soft lips press against mine and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  This…this is a kiss. That’s the thing with a really great kiss––you can’t explain the feeling, but you know it when you feel it.

  A current of awareness runs over my skin and up my back as he ever so gently savages my mouth. Slowly, he rises from the chair, pulling me in, curving his big body around mine. His hands are in my hair, holding my head like it’s a sacred treasure.

  There’s no time to think, there’s no need. I am gone. Wrapped up in him, consumed by the need to get closer. And I do. I want to get closer so badly I can hardly stand it.

  My hands grip and knead his arms. Too wide for me to get my fingers around, they travel over his shoulders and down his broad chest covered in fine wool, and he sighs, sighs! sweet heaven’s sake.

  “Jake…Jake…Jake…” I hear my voice echo. It sounds like a faraway supplication, my tongue and lips shaping the words in between tender teasing kisses.

  He pulls away and searches my face, amusement dancing in his indigo eyes. “What?” he whispers, punctuating it with another kiss.

  “Nothing,” I murmur back, so ridiculously happy I’m floating, giddy with the anticipation of more. “I just like the feel of your name of my lips.”

  His smile slowly fades as he stares at me. And when he kisses me again, he does it softly, reverently, like he’s planning on making it last forever. Like this is all there is and the only place he wants to be. For the first time since we’ve met, Jake Turner is living in the moment, and that moment is me.

  “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali. I’m going back to Cali…” m
y phone rings, the tone courtesy of LL Cool J. “I’m going back to Cali…”

  Jake pulls away and we both stare at my phone sitting on the tabletop, Ben’s name flashing on the screen. It’s a total mood killer and Jake’s expression proves it.

  “You should get that,” he says over the sound on the music.

  But I don’t want to get it. I want to get back to kissing and possibly more. “Jake.”

  Walking backwards, he reaches the front door of the cottage. “Jake wait…” Damnit, I want to cry. It’s been years! And the last time wasn’t exactly all that memorable.

  “You should get that.”

  Rooted to the floor, I stand in the middle of the cottage, completely powerless as I watch all the amazing feelings flowing between us a minute ago disappear without a trace like they never even happened.

  Jake walks out and the phone continues to ring. Instead of leaving a message the traitorous rat hung up and redialed.

  “Yes?” I answer, my tone making it clear that I’m less than happy to hear from him.

  “Carrie. Fucking Christ, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a week. You have to come back. Kennedy is a mess. She can’t do anything without me having to hold her hand. Legal is up my arse because she didn’t follow up on a source and half my dry cleaning is missing.”

  Ben sounds frazzled. Ben is never frazzled. I am secretly pleased at this new development in his character. But this is no longer about Ben. It’s about me and a fork in the road, so to speak.

  “Ben…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry about Kennedy.”

  “Great. So when can I expect you? By the way, where are you? I went by your place and the old lady next door, the one with the cat, told me you’d moved.”

  “Lake Placid…New York”––by eyes drift to the wall I share with Jake––“and I’m not coming back yet. But I do have a suggestion.”

  “I need you, I don’t need suggestions.”

  Yeah, he needs his slave back. No thanks. It dawns upon me then. Falls out of thin air and hits me in the head. Getting fired may have been the best thing to ever happen to me.

  I stare at the wall that separates my cottage from Jake’s. The second best.

  “Ben…”

  “Yes?”

  There are moments in life when one must practice restraint. This is not one of those moments.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Chapter 14

  Regina and I head to Farmer’s Market the following day. I need inspiration for my next article. The first person we run into is Beth Herman, one of the mean girls that used to terrorize us at lunch. In tow, she has four-year-old twin girls and one tired looking husband.

  “Gina Polizzi and Carrie Anderson! Oh my Gawwd. It’s so good to see you two. And you’re still friends. How cute!”

  The feeling is not mutual. To my regret, she looks exactly the same. Small, blonde, and beautiful.

  We make polite conversation, and she tells me how much she loved the article. “Brad and I are donating. Those poor poor boys. It’s terrible. And it’s so great that that hockey player”––she turns to her husband––“Honey, what’s his name?”

  “Turner. Jake Turner.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. It’s so nice that he does the lessons.” She cups her hand near her mouth. “Madison says he’s smoking hot. She’s got it bad for him.”

  Madison can go pound salt.

  She turns again. “Honey, one minute.” Honey looks like he wants to swallow a gun.

  She takes us aside, out of earshot of her family, and what comes next surprises everyone.

  Beth starts crying.

  She goes on and on about how many times she thought of all the awful things she’d said to us over the years. She says that now that she has kids she can’t imagine someone, anyone, treating her girls that way. Honestly, I wish she would’ve had her come to Jesus moment a little sooner. Like a decade sooner. But I accept the apology now nonetheless. After the Sean Gorman incident, this is a big deal.

  It’s twilight by the time I get back to the Cottages. I smile the entire walk home, a sense of satisfaction reaching deep into my bones that I haven’t felt since breaking my big story all those years ago. Things are definitely looking up for me.

  On my way back to the Austen, I think about Jake and wonder what he’s up to. I even contemplate knocking on his door. Except, I never know which Jake I’m going to get. I have no idea how Mr. Unpredictable will behave. And since I’m not ready to come down from the high of today’s victory, I scrap the plan.

  As I’m passing by the house, I spot a tall figure under the porch light. He looks like my father, but it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t because this man is standing awfully close to a woman with shoulder length brown hair, their posture undeniably intimate. And everyone knows my father doesn’t date.

  Until I draw closer and I see the smile. Holy crap, it is my father. This is major breaking news. Great news, in fact.

  Pulling my phone out of my tote, I text my sister.

  Me: Alert. Alert. Eugene Anderson is finally romancing a woman!! Hallelujah and praise the Lawd.

  An incoming text rings, and I immediately mute it. My father and the mystery woman are talking in whispery words, and I don’t want to be caught perving on them.

  Jackattack: OMG!!!!!!

  Meanwhile, just like a perv, exactly like a perv, I creep closer and crouch behind an azalea bush. Which is when my sister calls.

  “I can’t talk and spy at the same time!” I whisper hiss.

  “What does she look like?” Jackie whispers back.

  “Did you not hear me? Hold on––” I glance at them again. “Tall, thin, brown hair. Dressed kinda shabby in worn jeans and a chunky, faded blue sweater.”

  “Eh, I dunno,” my sister, the bitch, says. “Dad deserves better than that.”

  “What are you talking about?! That’s exactly what Dad needs. I’ll tell you what he doesn’t need––another social climber that will ask him to make changes he’s not ready to make. Like sell the hotel and travel the world. Dad would hate that.”

  My sister laughs. “Who are you, Dr, Phil now? Don’t draw up the marriage contract yet. She might be a vendor.”

  “Yeah? You stroke your vendor’s hair when he makes a delivery to the office?”

  “Never mind,” she says, giggling.

  For years we’ve been gently trying to encourage him to date. My father has the biggest heart and so much life to live. He should share it with someone that values and worships him. He doesn’t deserve to be alone for the rest of his life because he was burned by one conniving fraudster.

  “Oh, oh, Jackie I gotta go. I think he’s going to kiss her and I need to get closer!”

  “Don’t hang up on me! Wait! Take pictures––” I hear Jackie hiss right before I hang up. Take pictures…the hormones are making her crazy.

  Sticking my phone in the back pocket of my black skinny jeans, I move from the azalea bush to the evergreen hedge.

  They’re standing even closer now, huddled together. I watch as he leans down and places a brief kiss on her lips, this mystery woman who seems to have stolen his heart right from underneath my nose. She must have because knowing my Dad, he wouldn’t be here with her if he didn’t have feelings.

  It’s about bloody time.

  He’s wasted too many of good years pining for Zelda. I know more than a few single women in town who have been going after him with a full court press only to be disappointed with a gentle rebuttal.

  “What are you doing?” a scratchy male voice inquires.

  Startled, I whip around. Jake is standing halfway between my cottage and the hedge, approximately ten feet away from me. The volume of his voice is way too high for lurking and spying so I make a face and place my index finger over my mouth. That’s when I notice his attire. Or lack thereof. He’s shirtless and sweaty, taking deep breaths from the run he just returned from.

  Without a word,
he marches over, his black silky shorts clinging to every muscle as he walks. Other parts too, but I do my best not to stare. I mean, I’m not a total savage. His chest, however, is fair game. Needless to say, I look my fill.

  “What are you doing?” he repeats in a completely regular volume.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I’m doing nothing. Shhhh.”

  Popping out his ear pods, he studies me, then follows my line of sight. “That’s strange because it looks like you’re spying on your father.”

  “Keep your voice down!” I whisper. “And bend your knees. Get down or he’ll see you.”

  Crouching next to me, he places his hands on his knees and watches me while I watch my dad. “This is wrong.”

  “Duly noted. Now can you please shhhhush.”

  He’s so close his bare arm brushes up against mine and my pulse quickens. Although I have a sweater on, it doesn’t change the fact that I can feel him. It’s a narcotic to the senses––and completely distracting. There should be a warning label taped to his ass.

  “Stop staring at me,” I mutter.

  “Why? You don’t like it?”

  My lips quiver with the need to laugh. Funny Jake might be my favorite Jake. “No. It’s distracting. You’re distracting me while I’m in the middle of some very important investigative work.”

  “You’re spying on your dad.”

  “Whatever,” I hiss, and bite down on my lip to school the grin. It’ll only encourage him to continue.

  Meanwhile, across the way, the heat between the mystery lady and my dad turns up to medium hot. And while I watch, I’m increasingly reminded that it was only a few days ago that Jake and I were doing much of the same and worse.

  He hasn’t broached the subject and neither will I. It’s not like I can just ask him what he’s thinking. For instance, if he liked it as much as I did. If he still thinks we have chemistry. For all I know, he’s had his taste and has lost interest. The latter may actually break me.