by M. C. Cerny
There wasn’t much else I could say. We held each other for a while longer and our hearts seemed to be beating in a staccato rhythm as one. I remembered the damn wood carving digging into my leg through my pocket and shifted on the bed to reach it, hoping it hadn’t snapped. I pulled it out, and Taylor Jane sat up, mostly in my lap now with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed.
“What is this?”
Holding it out to her, she took the squirrel carving in her hand, rolling it over and looking at it. I was embarrassed now. It was dumb, just a piece of wood.
“Just a silly squirrel.” I shrugged, and she sat on the bed cross-legged to look it over again.
Her fingers traced over the divots of cut wood. “Did you make it?”
“My uncle gives me the scrap wood to carve. It helps the bad days.” And it did. The anxiety and out of control feelings I wasn’t able to talk about. It helped when I wanted to rage at the world and when I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. It kept me focused on not being a young and dumb asshole like my father had been. My uncle told me things and warned me about what becoming a man like him would do and for once in my stubborn life I listened.
“My mother, she loves…” Taylor Jane cleared her throat before speaking again. “She loved to watch the squirrels from the kitchen window in the fall while she baked.” A throaty chuckle escaped her lips with a tremble. “She said the squirrels were naughty.”
“Naughty?” I watched her half smile and her top teeth bit her bottom lip lost in thought. I had naughty thoughts of my own I slammed the door on quickly. I was older, more experienced yes, and all of those things she didn’t need right now.
Taylor Jane was transfixed by the carving and asking me questions that should have brought up the pain, but instead made me warm throughout. I was supposed to be comforting her, but she turned the table on me.
My armor felt dismantled in her presence, and I overshared, waiting for her to say something. I changed the direction back to safer topics. “What did she bake?”
Her quiet voice was whisper thin when she spoke, “My mother, Jolene—Joey, my dad would call her—made the best cherry tarts. She would put dough shaped acorns on all the mini pies she made and drizzled them with icing, which was the best part.”
I watched her lose herself in the memories and get off the bed to place the squirrel on the windowsill.
“I thought maybe it would make you smile. Your mom always told Damien and me how she loved your smile.” It was true. Taylor Jane’s mom loved to see her daughter happy and telling me made me feel responsible to make that happen now that she wasn’t here any longer.
“Thank you. I love it.”
I stood up, and we looked out the window together, our hands slipping down between us, fingers grazing at first and then tentatively touching in a wordless understanding. It seemed natural to hold her hand like this entwined, like tree roots stabilizing each other. The warmth in our grip was reassuring and ready to put up some good fights in the future world to come.
“Ahem. Food’s ready.” Startled, we turned our heads and Damien returned with Kristen in tow, peeking over his shoulder. I felt their glances sizing me up and realized we were still holding hands.
I glared at Damien, who had this shit eating grin on his face, daring him to say something smart-alecky so I could punch him. The urge to hit him was there, but her touch kept me grounded and the riotous feelings at bay. Gently, I broke the hold I had on Taylor Jane’s hand. “We’ll be right down.” Gruffly I ushered them back down the stairs and waited, escorting Taylor Jane next to me. I felt rattled and still unsure who had needed who most in the moment back there.
9
Hunter
“Hunter! Holy shit, get in here!” Taylor Jane screamed at the top of her lungs, scaring the shit out of me as I scrambled to get down off the ladder, nearly catching my hammer in the process. This happened to be one of those nights where it was the two of us who remained working together and everyone else quit for the day. The ladder jerked and for a moment I wondered if I was going to fall before I righted myself, taking another step down to the solid wood floor beneath my feet.
This woman would be the death of me. I questioned why I ever agreed to this damn project in the first place, tripping on the last rung down. My boot lodged, the aluminum ladder colliding on top of me. Crashing down, my body broke the ladder’s fall and my back hit the floor hard, kicking the wind right out of me. Luckily nothing killed me falling off the top, only the rain of silver nails I had been using to secure the section of drywall I was working on putting up. I rolled over off the floor, and felt the pinch of two nails poking through the ass of my jeans.
“Fuck,” I said to the empty room. The nails pulled out easy, and I tried to recall the last time I had a tetanus shot. I didn’t remember. It might have been a year ago when I sliced my arm splitting dry wall. I really didn’t want to have to get another one. This project would be the death of me, this much I knew was certain.
“HUNTER!”
“Coming, Shrew….” Grumbling through the pain, I pocketed the stupid nails, ignoring the sting of punctured skin, wondering if I bled through my damn boxers. All these years and the girl still had a set of lungs on her that didn’t have me too worried about someone busting into the house. Nope, she’d just take a few years off my life in the process.
I rushed toward the kitchen, bypassing a mirror hanging on the wall that she refused to take down and imagined seeing a few new gray hairs taking root in my scalp. I couldn’t confirm from first glance, but I would be back later to check it out.
“Babe”—the nickname fell from my loose lips followed by—“what the hell—oh fucking shit.” I stumbled into her, nearly taking her down, getting a mouthful of strawberry scented blond hair. Grabbing her shaking shoulders to keep her upright in front of me, I pulled her back against my chest. Her breasts were heaving under my arms, two soft mounds pressed against me with the potential to cross my eyes and curse me stupid. If I were a real pervert, a skill better left to Damien to master, I would have sneaked a peek down my best friend’s red checked flannel shirt. Instead, I forced myself to think about aging aunts with twenty cats and piss smelling trailers in the Alabama heat to keep my dick from doing anything dirty from behind. She was holding the crowbar she must have been using to chip off the godawful tiles from the counter’s backsplash. I looked past her at the corner of the kitchen into large black beady eyes that glowed with malevolence from under tufts of gray and brown feathers.
“Stupid bird scared me half to death.” She shuddered under my grasp, and hooking my arm protectively around her, I squeezed gently, pulling her back out of the way into the hallway behind us.
“Give me the crowbar.”
She handed me the metal bar, hovering next to me. I took it from her hands and placed the ball cap on my head backward so nothing obstructed my view of the disease bringing flying rat.
“Hunter?”
I waved her back with one hand, my eyes trained on the enemy. “I got this.” Eyes locked on the bird, I didn’t know who I was trying to reassure more, her or myself, but I knew I couldn’t back out once the words were uttered.
“Hunter, are you sure? I mean, what if it has rabies?” Hissing, I found Taylor Jane’s faith in my ability to annihilate the feathered creature not at all encouraging.
I huffed my reply, “Babe, grab me the swifter from the pantry.” Ignoring her soft snort of irritation, I issued my command, hoping this damn bird wouldn’t emasculate me. It was a good thing I had the crowbar, right? Taylor Jane left the kitchen and for a moment we stared each other down. Man to foul. My eyes to his beady ocular orbs. I expected it to fly at me claws out and screeching, but it seemed as uncertain of me as I did of it.
“Here.” Nudging me, Taylor handed me the pole. “Don’t hurt him.” Pleading blues eyes melted my angst and I wondered how the hell I was getting this thing out of here without ruffling more than just a few feathers or putting holes in th
e kitchen’s new sheetrock. One second she was screaming bloody hell, and now she had her panties in a bunch, begging me to let this animal live in our half demo project. Unbelievable. I would never understand women.
“Wait in the living room.” There was that pout of hers again. What was she expecting with an infectious disease winged killer hanging out over the sink? I tried again, indicating the living room with a nod. “Please? It’s safer and I won’t have to worry about you getting clawed or me swinging too wide.” Hefting the crowbar I still held, she rolled her eyes.
“Hunter, you played football, not baseball. Don’t hurt yourself, please.”
This thing could have some communicable disease, probably a half dozen, and new ones not yet named by the scientists at the CDC, and she had the gall to mock my good arm. Taylor Jane muttered something about equal rights and entered into the living room, leaving me with something akin to Hitchcock’s The Birds.
Taking a deep breath, I squared off with my opponent. “All right, you beady eyed fucker, time for you to get out of my girl’s house.” I took a step toward him, one hand with the swifter and the other a crowbar, and it took off flying in a wide circle, screeching. The piercing sound surprised me, forcing a bob of my head down, and I was glad no one else was here in the house to witness this.
“Ahhh!” The swifter got waved in a compulsory arc followed by the crowbar and a duck for cover when it swooped down only to circle the ceiling a second time. Nothing about my time in the Marines could have prepared me for an enemy like this. “You’re going down, motherfucker.” Muttering under my breath, I dropped the bar and made a dash for the window over the sink, flinging the windowsill upward. The little bastard made another circle of the kitchen and I felt it challenging me, mocking me even, and my temper flared to DEFCON 6. I swore it dived at me and I ducked, crouching low, throwing my hands up and covering my head. I lunged toward it, trying to encourage it out the open window. “Grrrr!” I missed and ended up knocking over Taylor’s fancy life planning notebook that had a girly name I couldn’t remember off the counter, scattering her notes everywhere like a nuclear winter.
“Everything okay in there?” She was going to be pissed about the planner, but I had to pick my battles and right now getting rid of the Tootsie Roll Owl was my top priority instead of tertiary shade organized paint chips.
“Yup, almost got it worked out.” Everything according to plan…
“Are you sure, Hunter? Maybe I should call Chase to come over.”
I blew a gusting breath of air that lifted the nonexistent hair off my forehead. I didn’t need her best friend’s brother, my former football teammate, who happened to be a veterinarian, coming over to take care of this. I was a Vet of a different kind, and trained for shit like this.
“Nope, it’s fine. I got this. Go do something upstairs.” Please, woman, just let me fix this without you undermining me for once.
“Chase said he could come right over.” Taylor Jane yelled from the living room.
“You already called him?” Yelling back, I felt incredulous and hot behind my ears. Not even a minute and she’s called in backup, such faith she has in me.
The bird swooped down again before perching on top of a cabinet.
“Chase said—”
Interrupting her I yelled. “I don’t need Doctor-Fucking-Doolittle! Grrr… damn it.”
Taylor Jane really knew how to shrink my ego quicker than a cold shower. I hoped and prayed she stayed out and let me take care of this, my way of course. I might add a few more holes to the kitchen, but nothing I couldn’t cover up tomorrow. Another yell and scream, and I had the swifter up and underneath the vermin. Heavy breaths left my hands unsteady and I squared my shoulders, holding tight. The winged beast was less than five feet from me, and for something so small I freaked the fuck out like a virgin on prom night. The whole encounter left me emasculated, and if it was the last thing I did, I would win this battle of Man vs. Bird. I would do it for my girl.
Getting back to business, I raised the swifter up to level out the bird, and its eyes bore down on me. Deep breaths slowed my racing heart as I kept my arms steady to the point of cramping. “Easy. Easy, bird. That’s it.” I realized I was talking softly to a damn bird and I hoped Taylor Jane appreciated this by baking me some damn cookies, double fudge brownies, or her mother’s cherry tart recipe I loved so much.
Anxiety twisted my stomach in the hope for chocolate anything after all this damn effort. “Come on, Mr. Owl.” I moved him just slightly, but it wasn’t enough to get it out the window yet. “It’s okay, oh-kay, good boy. Please don’t fly in my face again.”
“Hunter?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, gathering a calming breath. Not now, Taylor Jane.
“Not now, Taylor Jane.” Gritted teeth, I scolded her in a deep voice as I lowered the damn puff of brown and gray feathers another fraction of the distance closer to the open window. Those black and gold rimmed eyes seemed to narrow in on me like lasers and if I was a lesser man I might have shit myself.
“Don’t hurt Mr. Hooter!” she yelled from the vicinity of the front foyer.
“Did you just name this bird?” Clenching my teeth would have my dentist pissed, but I was beyond rational emotion and I swear this bird had to be male because this felt like the worst pissing contest possible.
“Sure did. He’s cute, don’t you think? He needed a name, right?”
I was one hundred percent positive my best friend had it out for me. I would gladly take rabies after this.
“No. No, I don’t think so.” Grumbling, I kept my eye on the downy feathered prize that squinted at me. I was positive birds could do this, because that was exactly what it looked like as he was sizing me up. At least I could confidently say my dick was bigger not that it mattered.
A step closer had me coaxing the bird in a hushed growl. “Doing good, Mr. Hooter. No, nooo, don’t fly away, Mr. Hooter. Dooon’t fly. Please stop looking at me. Oh Jesus Christ, here we go.” Coaxing the wild bat of feathers, I stepped back, lowering the rod further outside the rim of the window and got the rod just beyond the lip of the window. “Oh Jesus, oh my, hey Jesus Christ. Oh shit!” I shook the rod with a good swing, knocking the bird off, forcing him to fly away from the house.
“Fuck yeah! Yeah! Fucking yeah motherfucker!” Mission accomplished, I flung him off the swifter, letting it go out the window feeling a little like John McClane in Die Hard watching the bird take off into the night sky, flying upward as I fell back against the cabinets with heaving breaths. I was splayed out on the floor feeling a sting in my ass from the nails that, well, fucking nailed me moments earlier when Taylor Jane rushed in again, kneeling at my side.
“Is Mr. Hooter okay?” Her hands clutched my face and all I could do was close my eyes and let my head bang back against the cabinets.
“Seriously, Taylor Jane?” Here I was on the kitchen floor, a wounded victim from two nails in my ass, and she was more concerned about a damn bird that almost stabbed my eyes out with his beak. A bird she named fucking Mr. Hooter and all I could think about were boobs and birds right now. The idea was appalling until I looked at Taylor Jane’s heaving chest and wide eyes.
Birds and boobs.
Boobs and birds.
I hoped my dick stood down. The sleeves of her too large red flannel shirt were rolled up and a wide braided belt nipped in her waist over short as hell jean shorts, joined by her new tan Timberland work boots. I kind of missed the blue ones she wore matching her eyes, and it was a mighty fine sight as my dick agreed, pressing painfully against my jeans. Why couldn’t my best friend wear clothes that covered her business up? A paper bag, a black trash bag, anything that didn’t scream sex me up on the kitchen floor with drywall dust for starters would be nice. My mother would have called her exasperating. If I was being honest with myself, I wanted to fuck her, hard.
Frustrated, I stood up a little unsteady and walked past her back to the living room and my current drywall project. My ass
hurt, but I said nothing, limping back to my half put up sheetrock with a tetanus shot on my to-do list for tomorrow. I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Hunter?”
“Yes, Taylor Jane.”
“Is—uh your butt bleeding?” The observation wasn’t lost on me, but my patience was paper thin, and I couldn’t deal with any more emasculation today. I needed to go home, watch some sports, and drink a beer in the dark.
“I’m fine.” But even I knew that was a lie. I was so far from fucking fine with this girl.
“Hunter?”
“What?” My tone was sharper than I meant it to be.
“Sure you’re okay? You kinda screamed like a girl back in there.” A wicked little smile turned the corners of her face up as she thumbed in the direction of the kitchen and I shook my head, ignoring her. Taking off my baseball cap, slapping it on my leg, and running a hand over my shorn head, I walked away, leaving her mouth gaping in the kitchen. Her designer notebook pages littered the linoleum tile floor that would be ripped up later this week. Window screens were definitely getting installed tomorrow morning ahead of schedule, screw Taylor Jane’s budget. I refused to have any other ruffled feathers during this six-week nightmare that seemed fraught with problem after problem.
10
Taylor Jane
“Domineering oaf thinks I can’t do something. I’ll show his stupid ass.” Stalking back to the truck, I pulled the power washer supplies Hunter ordered me to leave alone. You’ll hurt yourself, he says. Leave that for the guys to do, he says. If he tells me one more time something is too heavy, too awkward… oooh… grrrr…. My legs tangled up in a long heavy hose and I started kicking the damn thing out of my way, huffing exasperated breaths, focused on not tripping or tying myself up accidentally because that wouldn’t look ridiculous at all. I was at the end of my rope and wanted one thing to go right, just one.