Wet

by Ruth Clampett

  Everyone is being unusually civil at our family Thursday night dinner. It’s a surprise since my siblings and I usually revert to our childhood selves and goad each other into stupid arguments. Watching whomever gets pissed and storms away from the table has become a regular source of family entertainment.

  “Paddy, pass the green beans,” Ma says to my brother.

  “You really should start steaming these, Ma. You could reduce the calorie total by almost 150.”

  “But then they’d taste like shit,” I respond.

  I may be twenty-nine going on thirty, but my dad still gives me a scowl for my use of foul language at the dinner table like he did when I was a kid. Despite that, he nods in agreement at my assessment.

  “What kind of man counts calories?” my sister, Trisha asks while rolling her eyes.

  “An accountant,” Ma answers with a warm smile. She always defends my nerdy brother.

  “So Paulie, do you think you could take care of another client for me this week? The Andersons contacted us about drip systems again for their vegetable garden.”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll give them a call. Speaking of your clients, I wanted to tell you something about Ms. Jacoby.”

  “How is sweet Elle?” Ma asks. “She is always so lovely on the phone and she pays her bills so promptly.”

  “Well, she’s fine, but I guess her marriage wasn’t. She’s divorced now.”

  Both Ma and Dad’s mouths drop open in unison—to them divorce is like a capital crime.

  “What? Why?” Ma asks. Her Irish brogue is thick, and her accent always gets heavier when she’s upset.

  “Apparently they were incompatible,” I reply, leaving out the fact that it was specifically in bed that they were incompatible.

  “Tsk, tsk. Well, thank heavens they had no wee babes yet. I bet he was a cheater,” Ma says.

  “Only a man who had lost his mind would cheat on that darling lass,” says Dad.

  “Anywaaay . . . I know your rule about me not working with clients who aren’t married, and she’s Ms. Jacoby now,” I say.

  My sister gives me the evil eye like she can see right into my dirty mind but then follows it with a confused look as to why I’m trying to get out of working with her.

  For some reason my parents skip over my plea.

  “I never understand women who don’t take their husband’s name. I don’t buy that nonsense that it was because she was established with her own business,” my dad says.

  “I kept my name,” Trisha says.

  “Well if your husband had been a real man he wouldn’t have put up with that.”

  “Dad,” I say as I watch Trisha’s face get red, “let’s not get into this again.”

  Dad looks down at his plate and stabs the potatoes with his fork.

  Everything is silent for a minute while we chew our food until Ma clears her throat.

  “So, what do you think, Papa?” She nods over toward Patrick who knows the calorie counts for everything, and can do a balance sheet like a champ, but can’t add one plus one when it comes to women.

  Dad looks doubtful as he squints considering what she’s thinking. It’s creepy how he always seems to know what’s on her mind since they usually communicate telepathically or something, but after she winks at him he nods.

  “Okay, invite her to dinner next week.”

  “What?” I clutch the end of the table so hard the table tips.

  “Ma’s matchmaking and doing a hook-up for Patrick again,” Trisha explains.

  I’m pretty sure my firefighter sister, the upstanding citizen that she is, doesn’t actually mean ‘hook-up’ but just hearing the term applied to Patrick and Elle fills me with rage.

  “What’s this? So I can’t fix her sprinklers but Patrick can date her?”

  “Well you guys have opposite problems don’t you?” Trisha says.

  “How’s that?”

  “You can’t keep it in your pants, and he never seems to get his out of his pants.”

  “Trisha McNeill!” Ma yells.

  “You know I’m right,” Trisha says leaning back and folding her arms over her chest.

  “Paddy’s older so I think a divorcee is okay,” Dad says. “And as for you, Paulie, I’ll handle Elle from now on.”

  “Awesome,” I grumble.

  I get up from the table, go to the kitchen and come back with a beer. I’ll need more than a beer buzz if sexy Elle gets served up to my clueless brother next week.

  Chapter Three

  STAND AND DELIVER

  “You aren’t going to believe this.”

  My hand tightens over my phone. “Elle?”

  “My lawn is orgasming again.”

  I feel a blow to my pride. “But everything was so tight when I left.”

  “No, that backyard issue is fine. My poor old gardener took out two more heads this week in the front. I swear the man is blind.”

  “Old or not, that’s messed up. He should replace them.”

  “I tried to get him to do it once and it was a disaster. Ask your dad.”

  I’m reminded of dinner with the family last week.

  “Speaking of my dad, he told me he wants to handle your account from now on.” I feel bad as soon as the words come out of my mouth.

  “What? Why? Did I do something wrong?” She sounds more upset than I expected.

  “No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong. Remember how I told you he won’t let me see young unmarried clients because of my issues?”

  “He thinks you’ll have sex with me?” She sounds hopeful and it breaks my heart a little.

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust me. I mean look at you.”

  “You think I’m attractive?”

  “How could I not? Even if I were blind, your voice is beautiful.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet. Well, you know how I feel about you.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Elle . . .”

  “Don’t you want to see me?” she asks with a sad lilt to her voice.

  “Of course I do. And you’re making it sound like you still want to have me work on your yard?”

  “Yes . . . I do,” she says softly.

  “Okay, let me finish up here and then I’ll be on my way.” As I hang up guilt starts crawling up my spine but I do my best to say the hell with it.

  When she pulls open the door I sense that something is wrong—something more than our discussion about my dad. Damn, what is it with this woman? I want her to give me her real smile, not this half-baked smile.

  I nod toward the yard. “You wanna show me where the old guy messed up my work?”

  She sighs. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m your man.”

  She looks up at me and blinks repeatedly.

  “Your sprinkler man,” I add, correcting myself.

  She blushes and steps out the door until she’s standing next to me on the porch. I notice she’s barefoot and wearing no make-up. She looks prettier that way. I like it.

  She walks to the middle of the lawn and points to the areas of destruction.

  “Damn. Does your gardener have issues? What does he have against sprinklers?”

  She smiles. “I know, right?”

  “You should fire him.”

  “Actually he’s so old he can barely push the lawnmower anymore. I could never fire him. I’d feel terrible.”

  I bend down and pick up one of the broken heads.

  “Can you fix it?

  I wink at her. “Baby, I can fix anything.”

  She turns away and I realize her expression has fallen.

  “You okay?”

  She nods. “I’m going to get some coffee. You want some?”

  “I’m good.”

  I watch her walk away and I can’t shake the feeling that something is really wrong.

  When I’m done with the work I let myself in the house and pause in the entryway before walking further in. Everything is in hues of grayed blues and cream. The floors ar
e whitewashed wood, and a quiet beach landscape painting hangs over the couch. It’s sophisticated and more serene that I would expect from saucy Elle.

  “Elle,” I call out.

  She doesn’t answer and I pause wondering what to do.

  Hearing a sniffle, I walk past the living room toward the light-filled den. I spot her curled up in the corner of the couch.

  I notice her eyes are red as she brushes a tear away.

  Damn it all. I feel so fucking awkward. I pick up the box of tissues on the coffee table and thrust it toward her.

  She pulls a tissue out and looks away as she dabs her eyes.

  I sit on the edge of the couch. “You want to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  We sit silently for a minute. I twist my fingers together and look over at her.

  She has a glassy stare, her gaze focused out the window.

  “You sure, Elle?” I ask. My voice has an edge. I can’t hide my anxiety.

  She nods.

  I rub my hands over my knees and slowly stand. “Okay then, I think I’ll take off.” I’ve taken several steps toward the door when she clears her throat.

  “I don’t think I’m going to do Tinder anymore.”

  I stop and turn around. “What?”

  She picks at something on the sofa arm and doesn’t look up. “No more Tinder for me.”

  As thrilled as I am to hear it, I’m worried about what happened to lead her to that decision. Judging from her demeanor, it must’ve been bad. I sit back down on the sofa. “Seriously? You’re really done with it?”

  She nods. “D-o-n-e, done. Maybe I need a hobby or something instead,” she says with a forlorn expression.

  “Hobbies are good,” I agree, my tone encouraging. “I know it’s not really a hobby but I work out a lot and it’s a great stress release.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of something brain numbing like Sudoku or needlepoint.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t picture either of those satisfying you. How about tennis? Do you play? I used to, and there are great courts you can pay for by the hour down on Whitsett. Why don’t you come with me and we can just knock the ball around . . . how does that sound?”

  She looks so deep in thought that she doesn’t appear to be listening to me. “Maybe I should join your no-sex club.” She nods her head. “ASU or whatever you called it. Would you take me with you?”

  “ASU is a university in Arizona, it’s AUL, and I’ll take you if it’s what you really want but you’ve got to tell me first what happened.”

  Her expression gets dark. “He called me a slut,” she whispers.

  My head jerks toward her. “What?”

  “Scott, that guy from Tinder, called me a slut and a whore.”

  There’s an explosion in my chest. It’s fury weighted with the gut-kick that I didn’t protect her from the very thing I feared.

  “When did he call you that?” My fingers curl into fists.

  “During the sex.” She looks at me wide-eyed and in that moment she looks like a little girl. “He pulled my hair hard, and told me I was a dirty whore . . . that he couldn’t believe he was fucking such a nasty slut.”

  I have to focus on breathing so I don’t explode. “What did you do?”

  “I just laid there stunned. And when it was over he couldn’t stop talking about how friggin’ great it was.”

  “Damn,” I say shaking my head.

  She curls up tighter. “I just wanted to feel sexy and independent. Like those girls on those racy cable shows.”

  I inch over closer to her and when she doesn’t flinch I slide my arm over her shoulder. When she leans into me I pull her closer.

  “Oh, Elle. Those girls are fictional characters and that guy is a fucker. You know he didn’t mean that, right? That’s what gets him off . . . it’s not you.”

  She leans into me but remains silent.

  “When did you have sex with him?”

  “A couple of nights ago, and still I can’t get over what he called me . . . all of those awful things. I’m just so angry with myself for not following my instincts when we first hooked up. Yes, I want hot sex but being told I’m a trashy whore feels abusive, not sexy.”

  “Have you talked to him since then?”

  She shakes her head. “No. He’s left me a few messages to hook up again but I haven’t responded.”

  “You want me to tell him to fuck off?”

  Her eyes widen. “You’d do that?”

  “Sure I’ll do it. He won’t bug you again.” I crack my knuckles as I think of pounding his face in, even though I won’t have the chance to do more than threaten him on the phone.

  She drops her head against my shoulder. “You’re really something Paul. Thank you for offering but I’m going to have to do it. I need to stand up for myself, but it means a lot that you want to help.”

  “Okay. Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  She wipes her tears away again and sits up straight.

  “You know I never thought being a modern woman who embraces her sexuality would be so difficult. Why can’t I enjoy this side of me without being made to feel bad about it?”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad about being true to yourself,” I agree.

  “Before I got married I used to underplay that side of myself because I wanted to be noted for my intelligence and abilities but look where that got me. It feels like finding a man who embraces my sexual side while still respecting me may be impossible.”

  I rub my palms over my knees. “When it comes to sex, men think with their cocks. And we all know cocks are defiant assholes and have minds of their own.”

  “Is your cock like that?”

  “Well he sure as hell used to be. It’s taken two years of meetings for him to understand that I’m the boss now.”

  “What if I never find a man that wants what I want?”

  “You will, Elle. You just haven’t looked in the right place yet.”

  She smiles at me. “Hey, I forgot to tell you. Your mom called and invited me to dinner.”

  I scowl inwardly. “Yeah, she mentioned she might.”

  “She was talking up your brother, Paddy. What’s that all about?”

  “She has a second career, my mom.”

  “Which would be . . .”

  “Matchmaker.”

  “Ooo. She’s setting me up with your brother? Is he hot like you?”

  I have to choke back a laugh. “Well, we’re pretty different. He’s an accountant and he’s four years older than me.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “An accountant? That’s not nearly as sexy as a landscape architect.”

  “And sprinkler man,” I tease.

  She pushes me on my shoulder. “Is he addicted to sex too?”

  Embarrassed I look down. “Ah no, . . . He doesn’t share my affliction apparently.”

  “Okay . . . so he isn’t as hot as you, he’s an accountant, and he isn’t hot for sex. So why do I want to date him?”

  “To make my parents happy.”

  “Ha! Your parents! Do you want me to come? I’ll come if you want me to.”

  “Don’t do me any favors. Besides, you’ll have to deal with my sister, Trisha. She’s a mouthy firefighter married to a florist. It’s like a bad sitcom.”

  “Will her husband be there?”

  “He usually doesn’t come. He uses the excuse that he’s working but I think he’s scared of my dad who’s convinced he’s gay.”

  “Just because he’s a florist?”

  “My dad’s really old school. I’m hoping he’ll ease up if they ever have kids.”

  She breaks her first smile since I found her on the couch. “Oh, I’ve got to come now. I’m so curious.”

  I’m picturing Elle in her high-heel sandals and bare legs for miles. When my mom gets one look at her it’ll be the last invite for our family dinner. Ma is looking for breeders for her boys, not hot babes.


  “Okay then. Just remember that I warned you.” I give her shoulder a squeeze and then scoot to the edge of the couch. “I better go.”

  “If you must,” she says.

  I glance down at the coffee table and something catches my eye. There’s a short stack of books and the top one’s cover intrigues me. Its title is in bold red letters: Broken, and the picture is of a pissed off guy with tattoos and no shirt on.

  I pick it up to examine it more closely.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  She tucks her face into her folded arm and groans before mumbling something.

  “What was that?”

  “It’s a book I just read.”

  “What kind of book is this?” I wonder aloud as I study it.

  “A romance.” Her cheeks are pink and she looks away.

  “What the hell kind of romance is this? This dude looks like he’s going to beat the shit out of someone. Is it a gangbanger romance?”

  She giggles softly. “No. It’s an erotic romance.”

  “Well seriously? What’s romantic about this? Shouldn’t there be a girl in a low cut pirate dress about to kiss this guy? I remember my mom having some of those in the house.”

  She grins. “Pirate dress?”

  “You know what I mean. The kind that’s low cut with laces and her tits busting out. If she were on the cover I bet this dude would be a lot less pissed off.”

  I reach for the next book in the pile. This one has a guy in a suit with his head cropped off and it’s called, Deal or Die. “Is this a romance, too?” I ask, not hiding the disbelief in my voice.

  “It is indeed.”

  I flip through the pages. “Is there a lot of sex in these books?”

  “Does the sun shine?”

  “Is it hot?”

  “I thought it was.” She pulls Deal or Die out of my hands. “I burned out two sets of batteries on this book, but I doubt that will happen again.”

  Oh damn, picturing Elle burning out batteries with a vibrator between her legs will require a long shower for me tonight. “Why’s that?”

  “He talks dirty to her a lot.” She glances down to where she’s twisting her fingers together.

  “What kind of dirty?”