And then, between the bed and the door, there are two stacks of cinderblocks with a piece of wood laid across, holding a big screen TV. Underneath are a mess of cables and game consoles. And empty beer bottles.
This must be where the magic happens.
I hear small feet pound somewhere downstairs, and I startle. Enough sightseeing. I need cash. Clothes.
I start with the drawers. In the bedside table, he’s got the usual. Lube, lighter, a screwdriver, no cash. There’s some jewelry in a tray in the dresser, but it all looks like cheap, costume shit. The armoire’s a bust. It’s mostly empty. There’s a laundry basket next to it with folded clothes. And another laundry basket resting on top with more clothes, not folded.
I check the closet. It’s stuffed full with plastic tubs and boxes labeled 12-18 months, 2T-3T. There’re also a ton of women’s dresses and skirts and blouses. The shoe cubbies are empty, though.
Creepy.
Why didn’t Dizzy’s ex take her clothes? I check out the dresser drawers. No cash. Most of these drawers are empty, but there’s still a whole bunch of yoga pants, T-shirts, and sweaters. I grab a pair of black leggings and a bright pink cable-knit sweater. The leggings are so loose I tie a knot at the waist. The sweater comes down to my knees.
It’s weird wearing a strange woman’s clothes, but it feels amazing to get out of that filthy shirt and shorts.
And honestly, how is it different from hand-me-downs? Probably ninety percent of my clothes have gone through at least Carol and Dee.
Now, if I were cash, where would I be? I go to the bed, wedge my hands under the mattress and lift.
Behind me, a throat clears.
I drop the mattress on my fingers and yelp.
Dizzy’s standing in the doorway. He fills it, wall-to-wall-to-ceiling. He’s wiping his hands with a rag.
“Lookin’ for something?”
“The way to the beach? Is it, ah, that way?” I point east.
His lip twitches. I can breathe again.
“Try again.” He tucks the rag in his pocket. His shirt’s rolled up, exposing muscular, veined forearms. What would they feel like? To wrap my hands around them? Him propped over me?
I shift, squeezing my legs together. What were we talking about? Oh. What I’m up to.
“Would you believe I tried to take a nap? Couldn’t sleep. There was something under there. A pea, maybe? I was just checkin’.”
Both corners of his lips curl up. “I keep cash in the safe. Safe’s in the basement.”
“What’s the combination?” Hey, worth a try, right?
He chuckles. “You lookin’ to run away so soon?”
“Not flat broke, I’m not.”
He makes no move to come into the room. Or leave. He’s watching me closely, his eyes darkening. Occasionally, they flick to the bed. Oh.
My body comes alive. Flutters. Prickles. Shivers. All of it.
I perch on the edge of the bed. I aim for casual, but I’m awkward as hell. I cross my legs, but the long sweater gets twisted. It takes me a second to tug it loose and smooth things out. He tracks my movements the whole time.
“How come all your ex-wife’s clothes are still here?”
“Not all of ‘em. She lost weight before we split. She left the clothes that didn’t fit no more.”
“Why didn’t you sell ‘em on the internet?”
“Not mine to sell.”
“It doesn’t bother you, having your ex’s stuff all over the place?”
He shrugs. “I’ll get to it when I get the time.”
“Her name’s Sharon, right?”
“Yeah.”
I remember from the tattoo. “You carrying a torch for her?”
This conversation is starting to feel treacherous. I know it’s none of my business. He doesn’t know me, and besides, I’m the house mouse. Not a date.
He’s going along with it, though. And as I recross my legs so I can put my weight on my hip—and take it off my tender ass—he follows my every move.
“Nope.”
“She was really into decorating, eh?”
He chuffs a laugh. “You could say that.”
“She seems like a different sort of person than you.”
“That’s probably fair.”
“How’d you meet?”
“High school.”
“Did you go to prom together?” I wanted to go, but I couldn’t afford a ticket, and no one asked me.
“Nah. I didn’t go to prom. She did.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“We were split up at the time.”
“On again, off again?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t volunteer much in terms of information, do you?”
“You’re real curious, ain’t you?” His eyes are twinkling.
I switch positions, kneel, take all pressure off my backside. He’s utterly focused on me. There’s a ruckus coming from the kitchen, but his gaze doesn’t leave me for a second.
“You can ask me questions if you want,” I offer.
“You wearing panties?”
I shake my head no, bite my bottom lip, playing it up. There’s a bulge in his jeans. I’m turning him on. I got my clothes on and he’s not touching me, but he wants me. Bad. It’s a giddy feeling.
“I like your hair down. Take that rubber band out.” Actually, it’s a scrunchie I stole from a basket in the bathroom.
He’s being real bossy. I should tell him where he can stick it, but for some reason, it doesn’t make me mad. It would have coming from Rylan or the few boys I went out with after.
Zings whiz around my belly. I slowly tug my hair loose, combing my fingers through. My scalp tingles.
“Keep it down,” he says. There’s a clatter from the kitchen. Finally, he shoots a glance over his shoulder. “Pizza’s here. Come eat.”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I can smell it now, and I’m starving.
I hop up and follow him down the hall. The boys are already eating, sitting at the small kitchen table, watching the TV on the counter. No plates.
Dizzy takes the chair at the head and grabs a slice.
Well, when in Rome. I help myself. It’s all mushroom, half pepperoni. Parker’s eaten almost all the pepperoni slices already.
“Carson. Go get Daddy a beer.” Dizzy polishes off the crust of his first piece. There are crumbs in his beard. He catches me looking, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
“Two!” he shouts.
Carson’s already in the fridge. He sprints back, sliding the last few feet to the table and slapping the bottles in his dad’s hands. Clearly, he’s had practice.
I munch as Dizzy cracks open a beer and hands it to me. No one’s talking. The TV’s blaring. Pro wrestling.
Parker picks the mushrooms off his slice and drops them in the box. Dizzy scoops them up and eats ‘em. The boys’ chewing is loud and wet.
So this is how it is in a house of men.
Once my brother Robbie left, the only males in the house were my nephews, and they were out-numbered three to one. If this were Mama’s house, everyone would be talking at once, laughing, carrying on. At least two kids would be crawling under the table, and there’d be a baby cryin’. Mama would be hollering from the kitchen for someone to come help.
My chest aches. Homesickness is a mind fuck. It can make you miss misery, remember it fondly.
If this were Mama’s house, no one would be letting me get a word in edgewise. There wouldn’t be enough food to go around. I’d be stressed about Lula tumbling down the stairs in her walker again since no one bothered to put back the baby gate.
I’m not missing anything. And they sure as shit aren’t missing me. The shed proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
I let myself relax in the chair and take a deep swig of beer. Even with Parker tearing through the pizza, there’s gonna be enough for seconds. There’s a whole other box u
nderneath the first. I don’t mind wrestling.
Carson goes to help himself to a third pop. That kid’s gonna be wired.
As the new house mouse, the good news is there’ll be no dishes to wash.
Life’s okay.
It’s amazing how good you feel with your stomach full of cheese and dough. The whole world takes on a more forgiving light. I yawn. Where am I gonna sleep tonight? If I get the sofa, there’ll be plenty of pillows, that’s for sure.
What if Dizzy expects me to sleep in his bed? Put out? The thought makes me kind of sad. I shove it aside and let my eyelids drift shut.
“You’re tired.” Dizzy’s gruff voice shakes me from my food coma.
“Yeah,” I mumble through another yawn.
“Where’s she sleeping?” Parker asks, face pinched. So far, he’s my least favorite.
“Well, we got a choice. Carson and you can double up. Or you can take the sofa downstairs.”
“Why does she get her own room? That’s bullshit,” Parker explodes. “Put her downstairs.”
Dizzy’s eyes widen, his expression going terrifyingly dark and still. Carson gasps.
Parker’s lips contort all sorts of ways as he tries to suck those words back down. “I mean, she could take the downstairs. Sir.”
“Her name’s Fay-Lee.”
“Fay-Lee could take the downstairs.”
“Fine. But you can’t play your video games all hours if she’s down there.”
Parker’s face is turning purple. “I could just go back to Steve’s.”
“You can’t. Mom and Steve went away for the weekend,” Carson offers, mouth full of pizza.
Parker’s on the verge of tears. I’d offer to take the sofa so as not to put him out. If he had been the slightest bit nice. Since he hasn’t, I’m watching this ride out.
“Why’s she need a room?”
“She’s a girl,” Carson says.
“It ain’t fair.” Parker glowers.
“You can roll with it for a few days.”
“Ain’t never a few days, is it?” Does Parker know something I don’t? Am I the most recent in a line of house mice? Or is he talking about something else entirely?
Dizzy’s jaw tightens, but he’s not mad. His brown eyes gentle. “Man has to take what comes.”
“That’s crap.”
“That’s life.” It’s a dickish thing to say, but the way Dizzy says it isn’t dismissive. More regretful.
Parker lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll take the downstairs.” He pushes back from the table and stomps off, all sixty pounds, four-and-a-half feet of him.
Dizzy lowers his head. Carson uses the distraction to nab the mushrooms left in the box.
I attempt to lighten the mood. “If I’m causing trouble, you can always slip me a few hundred. I’ll get right out of your hair.”
Dizzy looks up. He’s bothered, but not by what I said. “That wasn’t about him sleepin’ downstairs.”
“Seemed like it was.”
“It wasn’t. He don’t like shit getting switched up on him. He’ll settle down.”
“If I find frogs in my bed, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”
Dizzy’s brow knits.
“You didn’t see The Sound of Music either?”
“That movie with the kid who delivered telegrams on his bike and the dad drove a Mercedes-Benz 540K Cabriolet?”
“Yes?”
“Once when I was a kid. I don’t remember it much.” He shrugs and stands. “Come on. I’ll show you which room. Carson, you break down the boxes, and take ‘em out to the trash. Make sure you get the lid back on tight. That raccoon’s back.”
Carson’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning. “I’ll get the BB gun.”
“BB ain’t gonna kill this raccoon. We’ll go down to the tractor supply tomorrow. Get some coyote urine.”
“We could get the .22.” Carson’s not letting this go.
“You plannin’ on eatin’ racoon? We’ll use coyote urine.”
Carson finally nods in reluctant agreement. This is a strange conversation.
Dizzy leads me down the hall.
“Aren’t I supposed to do the cleaning up? As the house mouse?” I don’t want to, but earning my keep is ingrained in me.
“Boys need responsibility. You can do the laundry tomorrow. Ain’t none of us can fold worth a damn.” Dizzy gestures me through the door next to the master suite.
As soon as I cross the threshold, the smell hits me. Little kid funk. It’s as if stickiness were a scent. I’m so tired, though, I can hardly care.
All the leftover adrenaline from earlier in the day seeped away hours ago. My muscles are stiff again. Guess it’ll take more than one hot shower to ease the ache of sleeping on the frozen ground for a week.
The twin bed is unmade. I don’t see a pillow. There’s a flat sheet, but no comforter.
I pick my way through Legos and wadded-up dirty clothes. The only thing I want is to crash on this bed and pass out. I’m not even worried about Dizzy watching me. I’m bone-deep exhausted.
I plop down on the mattress and fall back.
“My door’ll be open tonight.” He’s looming in the doorway, his face turned hard.
“Okay.”
“Don’t try to sneak out.”
“Okay.” I’m not going anywhere. This room is toasty warm. The vent is right next to the bed.
“If you run, I can’t help you. The club will come after you. They will find you. If they think you’re a threat, you’ll disappear. Understand?”
His face is tight. Worried. That I’m gonna run? That his club will hunt me down? I am way too tired to sort it out. I’m sure I’ll be scared as shit tomorrow, but right now he needs to zip it.
“I won’t go anywhere. Just let me sleep.” It comes out a grumble. My eyelids are too heavy to keep open. I curl onto my side, tuck my knees to my chest.
Dizzy tromps off down the hall. A minute later, right as I’m drifting off, he comes back. He steps on something, there’s a crunch, and he mutters, “Damn it.”
Then he covers me with a thick quilt that smells like lavender. I’m too far gone to say thank you, but I offer him a sleepy smile. He traces the scar bisecting my lips with a calloused finger.
“Don’t run, Fay-Lee.”
“All right.”
I fall asleep with the ghost of his touch on my mouth.
When I wake up, the clock on the wall reads almost eleven o’clock. I think. Instead of numbers, there are various makes and models of muscle car. It’s forty-five minutes past a Ford Fairlane.
My body is wrung out. The scratches on my legs are sore. My stomach’s growling. Last night’s dinner must’ve stretched it out. The knot in Sharon’s yoga pants came loose, so my drawers are around my ankles. Thank the Lord the door’s closed. I kicked off the quilt in the middle of the night.
Overall, I’m disoriented. Off-kilter. I strain my ears. The house is quiet.
There’s a piggy bank shaped like a pit bull on Parker’s desk.
Nah. I’ve not sunk so low as stealing from a kid. Not yet. The club will come after you. They will find you. If they think you’re a threat, you’ll disappear.
I shiver. Yeah. I should’ve panicked last night. I can’t afford to be so tired that I let my guard down. It’s broad daylight now. I need to get moving and quit lyin’ in bed getting accustomed to the warmth. This isn’t home. I’m not safe here.
This is a rock and a hard place situation. With no cash, I don’t have the slightest chance of outrunning the club. But if I’m here when they decide I’m a threat? Well, then I’m making it real easy for them, aren’t I?
I’m not stupid. There’s something else going on here besides me trespassing and taking some food. Someone steals from me, and I beat their ass, take my shit back, and send them on their way. I don’t keep them close so I can keep tabs on them.
Maybe they think I saw something. Or maybe this is how they turn women ou
t. I didn’t think the club ran whores, but I don’t know their whole business.
Yeah, I can’t get comfortable. When this turns south, I’m gonna need to be prepared.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and kick off the saggy pants. The sweater comes to my knees. It’ll work as a dress.
I venture out. Dizzy’s door is open. The bed’s made. He’s not in there. I head toward the kitchen. Coffee would be amazing. Someone’s playing a video game downstairs. Guess the boys are down there. Why aren’t they in school?
There’s a coffee maker on the counter, sludge warming in a stained carafe. Three bowls of pinkish-colored cereal milk are lined up on the breakfast bar. Oooh, they’ve got the sugary stuff. Score.
I make a fresh pot of coffee, and as it’s brewing, I riffle through the drawers. Junk, junk, and more junk. No cash. I consider the cereal, but there’s bread and a full carton of eggs in the fridge. Oh yeah, baby. I’m makin’ French toast. After I squirrel away a few cans of ravioli.
I dash to the bathroom, do my business, and retrieve the tuna I hid in the linen closet. I drop by Parker’s room and add my canned goods to the stash I’ve started under the bed. Then I skip back, my steps light. I whisk the eggs, add milk, and, while I fry up my breakfast, cram three snack cakes down my gullet. Butterscotch crumpets. Delicious.
This is a freakin’ great day.
I end up making twelve slices of French toast. Turns out my eyes were bigger than my stomach. French toast gets soggy if you save it for later.
I don’t want the kids thinking I’m the maid. I mean, maybe I am supposed to be the maid, but I didn’t trade out being Cinderella in Kentucky to be Mary Poppins in western Pennsylvania.
It’s a shame to let good food go to waste, though. I lean over the rail to the foyer and holler down to the lower level, “French toast!”
There’s a scuffle, and Carson emerges, bounding up the stairs. “French toast?”
I nod at the table.
“Sweet!” He wastes no time, digs right in.
“Your brother gonna want some?”
Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel Page 8