HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you want to be?” she asked, incapable of hiding the hope in her voice or her eyes.

  “I’d love to be. Some day.”

  “Do you have an agenda? Something keeping you from it?”

  I laughed. “No one has asked me yet,” I whispered.

  “We’ll keep our fingers crossed. I’ll be the happiest woman in the world when he decides to get married. I’m so worried he’ll be too old to bring us grandchildren.”

  “The happiest woman in the world, huh?”

  She leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed up at the cabinets for a moment. Then, she shifted her eyes to me and nodded. “I think so.”

  “I doubt you’d be happier than his fiancé. Or wife.”

  “I think you might be surprised,” she said. “We’ve waited a long time for him to find someone. The thought of him sharing himself with someone he’s proud enough to marry? I’d likely fall down dead from happiness. He’s quite a catch. We think so, anyway.”

  Hearing her talk openly about it filled me with hope. I’d love nothing more than to be married to March. After having him in my life, I knew I could settle for no one else. It would either be him that I married, or no one.

  “He is quite a catch,” I said.

  She looked in the living room and then shook her head. “We did our best with him. He was as wild as any child could ever be, but he always had a good heart.”

  “He still has a good heart. Great, really.”

  “No children?” she asked.

  “Me? Nope,” I said. “Saving those for marriage.”

  “So many don’t. I realize things are different, but it makes me sad to think about it. Divorce and single parent homes. I wish I could fix it, but I can’t.”

  “I wish I could fix it, too.”

  She turned toward me and placed her hands on my upper arms. “March told us about your parents. I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough, but I am. And just know…” She sighed. “We’re here for you if you need us. March, or no March, we’re here for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She patted her hand against my arm. “I mean it. Who knows, one day I just might be your mother in law.”

  The timer went off, and she pulled the bread from the oven. After letting it cool for a few minutes, she spread butter over the top of each loaf, and then looked around the room.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  She nodded toward a large cast iron pot on the stove and then motioned to two crock pots. “You can carry any of those to the table if you like. You’ll see why I’ve got so many carrots and potatoes when those two animals start eating. It’s quite a sight.”

  I smiled. “I bet.”

  We set the table. After checking everything, she pointed to the seat the corner of the table. “March sits there. Always has. He’s odd about some things like that, I don t know if you’ve noticed.”

  “It makes him unique,” I said.

  “He’s ever bit of that. You can sit beside him. Matthew doesn’t much care where he sits, as long as he’s fed.”

  The thought of eating a Sunday meal with Marc’s family brought back memories. As much as I wondered if I’d struggle with the loss of my parents while we were there, I didn’t. My only feelings, at least so far, were good ones.

  “It’s ready!” She looked at me and smiled. “Listen,” she whispered.

  “Look out, Turd,” Matthew said.

  “Age before beauty,” Marc responded.

  “Beauty?” Matthew exclaimed. “You’re so damned ugly I’m going to ask your mother to have you sit outside. It’s the only way I’ll be able to keep my food down.”

  “They fight like best friends,” she said. “Or brothers. Always have.”

  Elbowing each other and shoving, they came into the kitchen and immediately noticed we were watching.

  They both straightened their posture as if they’d been confronted by the principal in school.

  “Can you two get along long enough to eat?” Rene asked jokingly.

  “Suppose so,” Matthew said. “As long as I don’t have to look at him.”

  Marc and I sat across from Rene and Matthew. After Matthew said a prayer, we started our meal. It reminded me so much of home that it was scary, right down to the prayer.

  Pass me this, please, followed by thank you was repeated throughout the meal. Rene was right, Marc ate half the crock pot of carrots, and his father ate other half. They each had more potatoes than my mother typically cooked, and Marc ate almost a loaf of bread.

  I’d never seen him eat so much or so fast. It was almost as if he was in a contest with his father to see who could devour the most.

  “Are you two in a contest?” I asked.

  “Everything’s a contest with them,” Rene said. “Everything.”

  “No need for me to try and out eat this ape,” Matthew said. “I know what I’m capable of, and I know what he’s incapable of.”

  Sitting across from each other, it was even more clear that they were father and son. Matthew looked like Marc with gray hair. I looked at Rene, and then at Matthew, and imagined them as a young couple. The though made me smile.

  “When Matthew was still a detective, he used to--”

  Matthew sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Here we go…”

  “Stop it.” She shot him a glare and then looked at me. “He used to call Marc and say, ‘I’m starting this investigation. What are you working on?’ Marc would tell him what he was working on, and they’d see who solved their crime first. They’re a competitive bunch, for sure.”

  “Not competitive when it comes to women,” Matthew said, “I settled for you, didn’t I.”

  “Matthew David Watson!” Rene snapped. “That was uncalled for.”

  He scowled playfully. “I thought it was endearing.”

  “Far from it.”

  “What’d you make for dessert?” Marc asked.

  “Care to guess?”

  “Cranberry cobbler?”

  Rene stood. “Why would I cook anything else?”

  “Because we’re tired of that shit, that’s why,” Matthew said.

  He looked at me and winked, then leaned over the edge of the table. “Wait ‘till you try this stuff. It’s amazing,” he whispered.

  “I’ll bring you a Twinkie,” Rene said over her shoulder.

  He leaned to the side and peered through the doorway. “We’re out of Twinkies.”

  Marc show his father a look. “You’re still eating those things?”

  “From time to time. When I watch sports.”

  “You always watch sports.”

  Matthew shrugged. “Probably why we’re out of ‘em.”

  Rene carried four plates in, and then returned with a cake pan and spatula. “It’s cut into squares. Help yourselves.”

  Matthew nodded toward the pan. “Ladies first.”

  After I helped myself to pre-cut square, Marc pointed to the pan. “Pass the cobbler, Tee.”

  Matthew looked at him. “Tee?”

  “Nick name.” he shrugged. “Pet name.”

  Matthew looked at me and grinned. “It’s cute.”

  I watched in disbelief as Marc and Matthew each took three slices of cobbler.

  Before I was finished, Marc looked at his father’s empty plate. I looked at Marc’s. He had half a square left. Matthew reached for the pan. Marc quickly ate what was left on his plate and then began to drum his fingers on the edge of the table.

  “Haven’t got all night,” he said. “Get those old bones moving.”

  I looked at Rene. She mouthed the word coffee. I smiled and nodded.

  It had only been two weeks since the barista made the icing on the cake reference, but in those two weeks I’d developed a taste for coffee, and an addiction.

  Rene returned to the room and handed me a cup of coffee. A moment later, she returned with another, and some cream.

  “I never much liked this stuff,” she sai
d. “Until one day, I did. Now, I can’t live without it. Don’t care much for it without cream and sugar, though.”

  “I’m the same way.”

  I fixed my coffee and took a sip. It was the perfect mix. Not bad, for a novice, told myself.

  Pleased at what my life had become, and grateful for Marc and his parents, I watched as Marc and Matthew made themselves sick one piece of cranberry cobbler at a time. I looked at Rene. She alternated glances between the men and sipped her coffee.

  Our eyes met. She smiled and raised her cup. I raised mine.

  And, it dawned on me.

  For the first time in ten years, I had a family again.

  Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Four

  Marc

  “Do you like it, or love it?” she asked.

  I cocked my head to the side and unfocused my eyes. It reminded me of the opening to a cave. Or, half of a human skull. I couldn’t decide. I shifted my gaze from the painting to Taryn.

  “I think I like it.”

  She looked disappointed. “But you don’t love it?”

  I looked at it again, and then shrugged. It was weird, at best. “If you love it, get it.”

  I’d agreed to let Taryn put artwork on the walls of our home, and we were shopping for said masterpieces at Neiman Marcus in San Diego.

  “I think I just like it.”

  “You need to love it, you’ll be looking at it for a long, long time.”

  I’d decided if art would adorn my walls, it needed to be abstract. That way, when I looked at it, I could see whatever I wanted to see, depending on my mood. A landscape would always be a what it was – mountain and a pond, or a lake and a cabin – no matter how I looked at it. A street scene in Italy would be a row of multi-story buildings with a few people sprinkled around along the sidewalk.

  “Let’s keep looking,” she said.

  I gave the painting one last look, and then shrugged one shoulder. “Sounds good to me.”

  She meandered along the aisle, glancing at the paintings as we walked past. “Are you mad?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Far from mad.”

  “Bored?”

  Boredom in Taryn’s presence would be impossible. I could sit on one side of and empty room and she on the other. If I could see her or touch her, I’d never feel a need to have anything else. I’d never been so enthralled by the mere existence of another human being, but then again, I’d never met Taryn Fisher, either.

  “Not even close, why?”

  “I just don’t want to make you mad about this. Or have you feel like I’m pushing it on you.”

  “I agreed to it,” I said.

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean you’re happy about it.”

  I chuckled. “I don’t say things just to say them. Believe me. If I said it, I mean it. I said you should pick out some artwork for our home. That means I’ve embraced it, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I like it when you call it our home.”

  “What else would I call it?”

  “It’s your home. I just live there.”

  I crossed my arms and shot her a glare. “That’s the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “Is not,” she huffed.

  “Sure as fuck is.”

  “It’s your home.”

  “Our home.”

  She stopped and turned around. “Is your name on the paperwork?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Is mine?”

  “No.”

  She spun around and started walking. “Case closed.”

  I wanted her to view the home as ours, but I realized she didn’t. I hoped that allowing her to decorate would help her feel that she was taking part in something bigger than simply laying her head to rest there.

  I was convinced we were going to spend the rest of our lives in that home, and that belief alone made the home ours.

  I simply wanted her to feel the same way.

  “Remember the day we shared that malt?” I shouted.

  “Sure.” She turned to face me. “How could I forget that?”

  I took a few steps toward her. “I was just checking.”

  “What about it?”

  “Was that my malt, your malt, or our malt?”

  She crossed her arms in mockery of me. “It was ours.”

  I nodded as if considering her response and then looked right at her. “Who bought the ice cream?”

  “You.”

  “The milk?”

  She let out an exhaustive breath. “You.”

  “The malted milk?”

  “You.”

  “What made it ours?” I asked.

  “Because we shared it.”

  I unfolded my arms. “We’re sharing the home. Case. Fucking. Closed.”

  “You’re impossible to argue with.”

  “Because I’m right.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “Stubborn and right.”

  “Stubborn and wrong. It’s your house.”

  She took a few more steps and then gasped. “Oh, my God. Look at this one. When I am King.”

  “Is that the name if it?”

  She put her hand on her hip and stared. “Uh huh.”

  I caught up with her, and looked at the piece of art. It reminded me of something on the ocean. A reflection of a ship, maybe. I found it peaceful. “I like it.”

  “Like it or--”

  “Love it,” I said.

  “Enough to buy it?”

  “Yep.”

  She took a few steps toward it, and then sighed heavily.

  “What,” I asked.

  “It’s $2,100.”

  “So.”

  “Isn’t that too much?”

  “After what I paid for that house? I don’t think so. Quality is more important than anything.”

  I looked at the painting, and then at her. “One paining in that house is going to look like a stamp on a huge envelope. We need at least three or four for the front room.”

  “Two,” she said.

  “Okay. Two.”

  “We don’t have to find them all today,” she said.

  “Good point.”

  “So, can we get this one?”

  “We can,” I said.

  “I can’t wait until we get home and hang it on the wall.”

  “What wall?” I asked.

  “The wall in our house, you dork.”

  I tossed my hands in the air in victory.

  It might not have been much to some, but for us, it was the perfect start.

  Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Five

  Taryn

  We were walking hand in hand along the beach behind our home waiting for the sun to set. A quarter of a year had passed since we decided to start our relationship. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. 2,016 hours, and counting. I knew the numbers, I’d calculated them.

  I couldn’t imagine a day without Marc in it, let alone a life without him. For the first time, I realized the difference between making a choice to be with someone, and settling. In the past relationships I’d been in, I’d settled. Driven by nothing more than the emotion that surrounds having sex with someone, I’d convinced myself that I was in love.

  Now that I was in love, I could look back on my past and scoff. I chose to be with Marc after a month-long courtship, and he chose to be with me. Sex didn’t dominate our decisions, and I admired Marc for having what I originally believed to being the most ridiculous rule I’d ever heard. I now viewed the relationships of others and wondered how many of them would be together if they refrained from having sex for the first thirty days.

  Very few, I was sure.

  Lucky for me, the sex was exactly what I preferred. Even if it wasn’t, I’d be in the same place. Our relationship wasn’t about sex. It was about love.

  But. The sex was like coffee.

  Icing on the cake.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  I was wearing cut-offs
and a tee shirt, and he wore nothing more than board shorts. “No. Are you?”

  “No.”

  I hesitated. “Why’d you ask?”

  He tugged on my hand. “Just wondering.”

  Away from the pier, and along the stretch of beach that was lined with homes, the beach was empty on most nights. Conversely, the public areas of beach were busy most all the time. I liked that we had our own stretch of beach. The privacy, even if it wasn’t private, was nice. I took a long stride and caught up to him.

  “I want you to meet someone,” he said.

  He’d already taken me to meet his parents, and I knew he had no siblings. I wondered who it might be.

  “Who?”

  “A girl.”

  My face went hot. I didn’t want to meet a girl. I didn’t know that he knew another girl, unless he worked with one. If he did, he’d sure failed to mention her. I could handle him working with a female detective. If he had a girl who was a friend, I wasn’t going to be very happy about it.

  “Who is she?”

  “A friend.”

  I kicked my toes against the sand.

  Son of a fucking bitch.

  “Where does…uhhm. Where does she live?”

  “Vista.”

  Oh, great. A girl in a remote city, away from home.

  I was far from thrilled. “What’s special about her?”

  I probably sounded like a bitch, but I really didn’t care. Once bitten twice shy, that’s what I’d always said about being cheated on.

  I released his hand and crossed my arms over my chest. He paused and turned to face me.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Yeah. I’m cold,” I snapped back.

  I wasn’t. I was mad. “What’s special about her?”

  He scrunched his nose. “What do you mean?”

  I let out a sigh. “It’s a simple question. What’s special about her? Why do you want me to meet her?”

  “She’s intelligent, articulate, snarky, and fun to be around. I eat breakfast with her every morning.”

  Mentally, I was ready to kick him in the nuts. Instead, I cocked my hip and shot him a laser sharp glare. “Excuse me?”

  “Whoa,” he said. “Settle down, killer. She’s a little girl. An 8th grader. She’s 13 years old.”

  “You eat breakfast with a 13-year-old?”

  “I eat breakfast at that shitty little diner I told you about. She sits in there until school starts, and we talk every morning. She reads literature, and we discuss it.” He gave me a half-hearted scowl. “What were you thinking?”