The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance

by Scott Hildreth

  “Wherever we’re going, just hurry,” I said. “Before I get sick.”

  My father lifted the ancient fedora from the car’s dash, placed it on his head, and checked himself in the mirror. “The good thing about a Coupe De Ville is that no matter how long it takes to get there, you make the trip knowing you’re going in style.”

  He started the car. “Get in, Jarod, or I’ll leave your ass standing there with that dumb look on your face.”

  After Jarod got in, my father backed out of the garage. I was certain our week-long vacation memories were going to be replaced by the recollection of a family outing in a car from plastic seat cover hell.

  As we merged onto the highway, my father reached for the dash-mounted tissue holder and let out a laugh. “Anyone need a Kleenex?”

  “No,” I snapped. “I don’t need a fifty-year-old tissue.”

  “That’s awesome,” Tyson said. “I need to get one of those for my car.”

  “You better not,” I insisted.

  As the car floated down the highway, memories of my childhood drifted through my mind. Wiping ice cream off the seat covers with the edge of my thumb, fearful that my father would see that I’d come close to getting it on the floor.

  Going to the drive-in theater.

  Getting in street races at stoplights with high school kids while my mother yelled for him to slow down.

  Jarod slapping me with the spare seat belt strap while we waited in line at the Carl’s Junior drive-thru.

  My father’s constant threats to rid himself of the car each time he filled it with gas, only to be followed up with a wash, wax job, and polish when we returned home.

  My incessant complaining that the air conditioner was cold, but never cold enough.

  I looked up and smiled. “Turn it up!” I said, reciting the phrase I’d said every time it was hot in the car.

  My father tilted his hat back with the brush of his hand. “It doesn’t go any higher, Kidd-o.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll know when we get there,” Jarod whispered.

  “You’ll know when we get there,” my half-deaf father repeated.

  I paid little attention to anything, other than the car-related memories that came rushing to the forefront of my mind.

  My father exited the highway, drove along a frontage road for what seemed like forever, and eventually took a side street into a residential neighborhood.

  “Are we going to dinner?” I asked.

  “Just out for a little Sunday drive,” he responded. “Sit back and enjoy the luxury.”

  My mother glanced over her shoulder and smiled. I smiled in return.

  After driving deep into a neighborhood that I didn’t recognize, we turned around and began driving right back out of it. My father’s fascination with all things Texas wasn’t satisfied with historical sites like the Alamo or the Moody Mansion.

  It seemed he got more satisfaction from driving around looking at everyone else’s homes. We did it often when I was a child, and I always wondered if one day he was simply going to buy one of the homes he was driving by ogling.

  I later learned that the drives were nothing but a way for him to relax.

  I now wondered if it was him dreaming a what if things were different?

  I leaned toward Tyson. “He used to do this all the time. We’d drive for hours, just looking at other people’s houses.”

  Tyson smiled. “I’m enjoying it.”

  The car slowed to a roll. I looked up. The neighborhood looked familiar, but not so much that I could determine where we were. The Dallas metro area was just too damned big.

  Outside my father’s window, amidst the older homes, a newly constructed white brick home sat atop a lushly landscaped hill. A wrap-around porch surrounded the home, inviting the occupants to spend their evenings enjoying the beautiful Autumn Texas evenings outdoors with a glass of sweet tea.

  A For Sale sign sat askew beside the driveway. “Daddy, stop!” I looked at Tyson. “That house is just like mine, only bigger!”

  His focus was in the opposite direction. “What house?”

  I pointed toward Jarod’s open window. “That one. It’s…” I swallowed my excitement. “For sale.”

  “Well,” my father said. “Let me park this SOB and we can take a look.”

  The neighborhood was eerily familiar, but all Texas neighborhoods looked the same once a person was inside one of them.

  After my father parked the car across the street from the home, we all got out. Half the distance to the home, a chill ran along my spine. There was something about the home’s front door that was all too familiar.

  I glanced up and down the block.

  I looked at my father, and then at Tyson. “This isn’t.” I swallowed heavily. “You didn’t…”

  “It is.” Tyson smiled. “And, I did.”

  I took another look at the home. My hands began to shake. “It’s…it’s impossible.”

  “Without the help of a few loved ones,” Tyson said. “It would have been.”

  The newly constructed home was sitting on Tyson’s lot. At minimum, his home had received an extensive remodel, including the addition of a second story, a wrap-around porch, brick façade, and what looked to be an extra bedroom or two.

  I swallowed hard once again, and then looked at Tyson. “What about. What about the radon gas?”

  My father chuckled. “You might be overly cautious on some things, but you were gullible as hell on that one, Kidd-o.”

  My eyes shot to my father. “What are you—”

  He smiled. “There was no radon gas.”

  “But Tyson got sick,” I said. “You drove to the hospital and picked him up.”

  “Tyson got sick of listening to you whine.” He chuckled. “That’s the only sickness he had. I picked him up from meeting the contractors, not at the damned hospital.”

  I looked at my mother. “Did you know?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m afraid I did.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well,” Jarod said. “I feel like the odd man out. I didn’t know anything.”

  “How come there’s a For Sale sign in the yard?” I asked.

  Tyson raised his hand to his chin. “Can’t decide whether to sell the thing or keep it.”

  I reached into my purse, pulled out my keys, and marched up the drive. After reaching the front door, I poked my key into a very familiar tarnished brass lock. After turning it, I let out a sigh and pushed open the door.

  Nothing about the home was the same.

  Nothing.

  The beiges and browns were gone.

  Grays and whites had replaced them. The kitchen’s oak cabinets had been replaced by a long line of tall white ones.

  Formica countertops had been replaced by white quartz.

  Carpet had been replaced by wide planks of gray hardwood.

  The home looked like something out of the magazines I spent hours studying before I remodeled my own home. The only thing I could see that I didn’t like was that the kitchen had no stove.

  Tyson stepped to my side. “Well?”

  “Why doesn’t the kitchen have a stove?”

  “I thought if you decided you liked this place, we’d bring yours over. It makes the best breakfast in the entire state of Texas.”

  I pointed over my shoulder. “Go get that sign out of my yard, kind Sir.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Your yard?”

  “My apologies.” She smiled and gave me a kiss. “Our yard.”

  42

  Tyson

  “Seems weirder’n hell eatin’ Sunday dinner at a house other’n my own,” John complained. “I guess with life, comes change.”

  “Be nice, John,” Jackie said.

  “I was bein’ nice, woman.”

  “You could be nicer.”

  John looked at Jo. “Steak’s mighty fine, Kidd-o.”

  She smiled. “It’s Tyson’s family recipe. He found his father
’s cook book when they were remodeling the home.”

  “Family secret,” I said. “Marinate the meat in buttermilk overnight.”

  Jackie grinned. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Having everyone in our home for Sunday dinner was a dream come true. Although I knew my father was absent, I felt like a part of him was always present in our home.

  “The gravy’s damned fine,” John said.

  “Credit to the magic stove,” Jo said. “That, and my cast-iron skillet.”

  “That skillet was your grandmother’s,” Jackie said. “It’s prepared many a meal.”

  “It’s going to prepare many more,” Jo replied.

  Thoughts of evening meals at home, making our own memories, and feeling like I hadn’t forfeited my father’s legacy had me floating on cloud nine.

  After we finished our meal, John retrieved the ice cream maker from the trunk of his Cadillac. Together, we made ice cream in the kitchen. Doing so reminded me of the day I repaired the machine in his garage.

  We served the ice cream in special dishes that Jo had picked out during one of our many trips to Restoration Hardware.

  I glanced around the table. Surrounded by my new family, I was exactly where I needed to be. I’d undoubtedly started living life late, but I was making up for it in quality.

  I clanked my spoon against the side of my dish. “I’ve got two announcements.”

  Jackie pushed her ice cream to the side and clasped her hands together. “Pay attention, John.”

  “I can eat and listen at the same time,” John mumbled.

  Jackie cleared her throat. “Jarod.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Jo looked up. “I have no idea what this is about.”

  “Change,” I said.

  “Oh, Lord.” Jo shook her head. “You are not making any changes to this home. Not one!”

  “I quit my job,” I said.

  Jo’s eyes went wide. “You what?”

  “Quit.”

  Jo’s eyes shot from her ice cream to me. “You quit your job?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I glanced at John, and then at her. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Right now, they’re not important.”

  “When are they important?” she asked.

  “I’ll let you know when they become so. I just wanted everyone to know I’m currently amongst the unemployed.”

  John slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Proud of you, Son.”

  Jo gave him a cross look, and then gave me one. “I’m afraid to ask what the second announcement is.”

  I stood and turned to face her. With her hair pinned in a tight bun, she looked like she did on the night of our first date. The recollection of her vomiting on my car caused me to cough out a laugh.

  “Are you going to tell a joke?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing? Sit down.”

  After nervously reaching into my pocket, I lowered myself to one knee. “Josephine Annabelle Watson—”

  “Oh my God,” she cried. “Tyson…”

  “Josephine Annabelle Watson—”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She glanced at John.

  “Don’t look at him,” I said. “I already asked his permission. I’m trying to ask yours.”

  She met my gaze.

  I’d spent a lifetime armed with the belief that the moment that was upon me would never happen. Josephine had spent a lifetime reading romance novels, praying that one day the moment would arrive.

  The moment had arrived.

  It was time for me to propose marriage to the most beautiful woman in the state of Texas.

  “Josephine Annabelle Watson. You changed my life with one kiss. I’d like to change yours with a lifetime of kisses.” I raised the ring and held it between us. “Will you marry me?”

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms and nodded. “I will.”

  “Hot damn!” John howled. “Now get busy making me a grandbaby!”

  I looked at John and winked. “That’s next on the list, Sir.”

  “Call me Dad,” he said. “If you care to, that is. We’re family now, pretty much.”

  I glanced at the ceiling.

  You’ll always be my Pop, Pop.

  He’s not a replacement, he’s just my Dad.

  I swallowed a mouthful of emotion and grinned. “That’s next on the list, Dad.”

  Epilogue

  The fluorescent lights surrounding the field cut through the winter evening darkness, illuminating the freshly planted sod to a near daylight-like luster. Laser-straight lines in ten-yard increments clearly marked the yardage of the three-hundred-and-sixty by one-hundred-and-sixty-foot regulation-sized field.

  Rows of bleachers sat on either side of the well-lighted stadium, which had been built at the edge of iron-rich farm ground. Beyond it, fields of corn stretched for as far as the eye could see.

  The road leading to the stadium was peppered with cars and trucks driven by parents of the children that had come from miles around, all clinging to the hope of their child becoming as noteworthy as the man who built the field with his labor, sweat, and love for the game.

  Beneath the stadium’s grand entrance, an elderly man leaned against a lamppost. He ran his hand over his crew cut. Beside him, a young woman clutched a quilted blanket and watched intently as the children tossed footballs through rubber-tired targets.

  “Elbows tucked,” the instructor barked. “Shoulder back. Backs straight. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  The children did as they were instructed, each tossing the ball with the hope of one day becoming as talented as the man who instructed them.

  Beyond the lights of the stadium and past the rows of corn, an elderly woman opened her front door. She reached for a weathered rope that hung from beneath the overhang of the porch.

  Three times she tugged the rope, each as sharply as the first. The clapper swung against the century-old mouth of the brass bell, sending three pleasant tones to all those within earshot.

  Upon hearing the familiar sound, the elderly man straightened his posture. He leaned away from the lamppost and turned toward his daughter. She pushed her glasses up her nose with the tip of her finger and met his pride-filled gaze.

  “If that bell’s a ringin’,” he said. “You can bet it’s ready to eat.”

  The young woman lifted her chin and prepared to signal her husband, warning of the meal that lay in wait.

  “You all know what that means,” the instructor shouted. “This session’s over.”

  He glanced at the eldest child on the field, a thirteen-year-old boy from Austin, Texas. The boy had promise of being the next great high school standout athlete, and the instructor recognized the talent.

  “Get everything locked up, Byron,” the instructor said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the boy responded with a smile. “See you on Wednesday.”

  “Ice on that elbow,” the instructor warned. “You don’t want it to swell.”

  The boy gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir, Mister Neese.”

  “Tyson,” the instructor said. “Or you can call me TJ.”

  The boy smiled. “Yes, Sir, Mister TJ.”

  The instructor, a young man thirty-seven years of age, smiled and strode toward the elderly man and young woman who anxiously waited to turn toward the distant farmhouse.

  Upon reaching them, he kissed the woman on the cheek.

  The young woman pulled the quilted blanket she was clutching to the side. “Be careful,” she insisted. “You’ll squash him.”

  The elderly man chuckled. “C’mon, Jo, my grandson’s tougher than that. You’re holding a future quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys, Kidd-o.”

  The young woman smiled but didn’t respond. Silently, she hoped her father was correct. Nothing would please her more than to see her son s
ucceed in such endeavors.

  Side by side, they walked toward the farmhouse. Their place settings, loaded with generous portions of country fried steaks, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans, lay steaming in wait of their arrival.

  Half the distance to the farmhouse, the stadium lights behind them went dark.

  The instructor glanced over his shoulder and bid a silent farewell to the man who oversaw each and every football practice, while seated in the stands.

  See you Wednesday, Pop.

  Also by Scott Hildreth

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