by Toni Blake
"Why didn't you come over for supper?" Davy asked. Glad for the change in subject, even if it injected some guilt, Nick forced a smile. "Had some paperwork to do for the business," he said, and Davy smiled back, all white teeth and adoring eyes he was always so proud of Nick for having a business. To Davy, he was the equivalent of a rock star or a sports hero; Davy didn't know any better, and Nick never got used to how much that hurt, how much his brother's inability to perceive the real world twisted him up inside. And maybe it was a blessing-that's what he tried to tell himself-but he never really believed it. Each time Davy smiled at him I like that it broke another little piece of his heart away. He would never live up to Davy's grand ideas of him.
"Davy helped me make dinner," Elaine announced, scooping the dish towel back up to wipe around the stove burners. Nick raised his eyebrows playfully in his brother's direction. "Learning your way around the kitchen, huh? How'd you help?" Elaine said, "He stirred the pots, and he made the brownies."
"I put chocolate chips in 'em," Davy added.
"That's right." Elaine turned. "Have a brownie, Nick." She motioned to a Tupperware container perched on the counter. "You made these all on your own?" he asked as he pulled off the lid and reached inside.
Davy nodded eagerly.
Nick grinned. "Is it safe? Sure you put all the ingredients in? Sure this isn't some evil plan to get rid of me?"
Elaine rolled her eyes. "Nick, eat one." After all these years, she still didn't get their relationship. Davy was smart enough to know he was kidding, and he laughed. Davy's smile might break his heart, but he loved making Davy laugh.
He took a big bite of the brownie, chewing carefully, pretending to ponder over it like a food critic. Finally, he nodded. "Davy, these are great. Elaine better hide 'em or I'll eat 'em all."
Again came Davy's crushing smile. Nick felt it in his gut.
Don't be sad for Davy, Everything s right in his world.
That's what Elaine always said when Nick lamented Davy's injury all those years ago. And sometimes, he even believed it was true he'd never seen anyone so proud of brownies from a box mix. He tried to soak up the ease of the moment and let it cover some of the hurt.
"Wanna play a game, Nick?"
An image flashed in Nick's head. Him at twelve, Davy at nine. Other than Davy's deeper voice, he sounded exactly the same. Pretending to mull the question over for a minute, Nick grabbed up a couple more brownies, then said, "Race ya." And for a moment, he was twelve as he and his brother stampeded down the narrow hallway to Davy's room, Once there, they sat on the worn carpet next to his bed and played three games of Trouble-Davy's favorite, his whole life; he never got tired of it. Nick won the second, since he'd popped an overabundance of sixes and didn't want Davy to catch on that he usually took a dive whenever they played.
"You're just too good for me, Davy," he said after the game was back in its box and he was getting to his feet, ready to call it a night.
Davy grinned and punched him in the arm, and Nick pulled his brother into a hug. Nick wasn't generally much of a hugger, but he knew Davy needed his hugs.
* * *
Davy lay in his room looking at his poster of the Tampa skyline at night thumb tacked to the wall at the foot of his bed. He had other posters, too-the Reds, Faith Hill, and one that was a huge calendar, and he X' ed every day off with a blue Magic Marker. But the skyline often drew his eyes more than the others, the buildings' smooth lines and curves all blending to a silhouette you could cut out of black construction paper,
He'd even tried that once, cutting it out of paper, but it hadn't turned out good-some cuts weren't straight enough, others not curved right. Yet he still figured someone better with scissors could do it. Knowing the city could be shrunk into a single thin layer of construction paper made the jungle of tall buildings seem simpler, less scary,
Not that he ever went into the city, but he wanted to be prepared. He didn't like new situations, new places. And because he saw pictures of the city everywhere-on the evening news, in the paper and heard about people working there and shopping there, he figured it was a smart thing to be ready for. Especially since Nick sometimes twisted his arm into going new places, winking and saying, "You need to get out more, buddy."
One day, out of the blue, they'd driven to Tampa Bay Downs to watch horses race. He hadn't liked it at first. The place was too big and there were too many people but then he'd picked a horse with a funny name and Nick had bet five dollars on it. The horse won and he' d ended up having a fun day. Another time Nick had taken him to Epcot Center in Orlando. There' d been so much to look at, it had boggled his mind, but then he'd learned how cartoons were animated and watched some
cool 3-D shows. And that night they ate at a Mexican restaurant with stars in the ceiling and a volcano on the wall that'd been like magic because the stars and volcano had seemed real, and he kept forgetting they were inside a building. The volcano had erupted every few minutes and he made Nick take a picture of it. So when Nick said he needed to get out more, Davy believed him, It was scary, but it usually came out good.
Thinking of Nick, though, made his chest go a little hollow. Nick always acted happy when they were together, but sometimes his eyes were sad even when he was smiling. He knew Nick wasn't really happy-he just didn't know why. Maybe it was because he worked so much. Davy couldn't believe anybody worked as much as his brother. He wondered when Nick had time to sleep or read or watch TV. Davy had a schedule he followed most of the time-certain shows he watched, certain hours he blocked out for yard work or shopping with Elaine. It was a pretty busy life, so he couldn't imagine how busy Nick must be. running the whole company on top of all that other stuff.
Or maybe, he thought, it was because of Dad. Nick stayed mad at Dad because he drank beer and slept a lot, but Davy loved his dad and Nick, so it was hard to understand why beer and sleeping made Nick angry. Of course, Davy knew their dad wasn't like other dads. Dennis Cahill up the street was always riding bikes with his kids, and sometimes Davy rode with them. And when Steve next door came home from work, Tara and Tyler always ran out to meet him, and Davy saw how much he loved them just from watching. He had to admit he hadn't seen much love in his father's eyes in a very long time, but maybe be understood that more than Nick did because he understood being different.
Davy never seemed to be what people expected him to be and he didn't know why, but he'd gotten used to it. He knew his dad was just different, too, "Hey, buddy, I'm taking off in a few."
Davy turned his head on the pillow to see Nick filling the doorway. He smiled. "Okay."
Nick lowered his voice. "And when Elaine isn't looking, I'm gonna smuggle out some more of those brownies." His heart filled with pride. "I won't tell," "Whatcha readin'?"
He followed Nick's eyes to the worn paperback lying face down on his chest. "Treasure Island." Elaine had dug it from a box of her old schoolbooks in the garage a few months ago when he'd been watching stuff about the Gasparilla Pirate Fest in Tampa on TV.
"Any good?"
He nodded, "Pirates." "Cool."
Despite Nick's cheerful wink good-bye, Davy kept thinking about the dark knot inside his brother. He thought of it like a black storm cloud in Nick's stomach. Yet Davy didn't always feel the storm, Sometimes when he and Nick were alone, it was more like one of those afternoon drenchers that came in the thick of summer, then disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving the sky blue J again.
Dad always brought out the storm in Nick, though.
And Elaine always invited them over at the same time anyway. She always said, "Nick probably won't like it, but we're a family and ... " She never finished that part, though, so Davy always wondered what she meant to say.
"Can you take Dad home?"
Nick and Elaine had just stepped into the living room, where their father's snoring punctuated the quiet.
He gave her a hard look, She knew better than to ask. "Come on, Nick, give me a hand here." She used the sharp tone mean
t to remind him she was the oldest and thought it should count for something, despite the fact that it had quit counting soon after their mother's death.
"How did he get here?"
Elaine pursed her lips. "Davy and I went and got him before dinner."
"Then maybe you should take him back. I can stay with Davy 'til you get home."
"Do I ask so much of you?" she snapped.
They both glanced instinctively down the hall toward Davy's room. He'd endured enough yelling in his life; it always upset him.
"Maybe not," Nick said lowly, honestly. He peered hard into Elaine's eyes to make sure she was paying attention when he added, "But I don't like being put in this position. Now help me get his drunken ass off the couch and out into the car." Five minutes later, Nick was driving too fast toward his father's ramshackle apartment. The older he got, the less he could bear to be around him. He hated the man's smell-sweat and booze-beside him in the seat. He hated the way he lay slouched like some limp, over sized doll, occasionally bumping the-gearshift with his knee. Twice already, Nick had shoved his father's leg over and said. "Watch it." Now his dad smacked his' lips every few seconds. and the sound was unnerving. "Jesus," Nick muttered in disgust.
He couldn't believe he'd lived through twenty years of this, but that's when it had all started-the stormy day their mother's car had been broadsided by a delivery truck in an intersection with a broken traffic light.
He remembered with clarity how happy and how passionate his parents had been-always kissing, grabbing, rubbing, even when their kids made fun of them. "Yucky," Davy had once called their behavior, and Dad had laughed and said, "You wait and see, David. One day you'll understand,"
Their mother's death had buried their father in a hole so deep he'd never even tried to climb out. That's when the drinking had started, and the meanness, and the neglect. At thirteen and twelve, Elaine and Nick had learned to handle the neglect and silently taken on the roles of mother and father to Davy even before it had been completely necessary. But it was their father's meanness that had ruined them all. And that was Henry Ash's fault.
After the accident, John Armstrong had sunk into a depression that kept him in bed for days on end, but only when Henry cheated him out of his half of Double A Construction, the company they'd built together, had things turned so goddamned, unforgivingly ugly. Losing all he'd worked for had been the blow that pushed their father so far into despair that he wanted to hurt someone. That someone should've been Henry-but Nick, Elaine, and Davy bad been easier targets. God, Davy, why did you have to go out into the garage? What did you say to him? What even made you go near him? Nick couldn't bear to firmly recall the horrors of that day, but flashes of memory blinked through his mind as his headlights cut a swift path through the balmy night. He could still feel the chill of the white hospital corridors, the fear that had immobilized him as they'd wheeled Davy away, not letting him follow.
Nick nearly ran a red light, looking up just in time to slam on the brakes. His father slid into the floor, but barely seemed to notice-just silently pulled himself back up, then let his head droop against the leather seat, resuming his rag doll posture. Nick simply shook his head, then pushed the memories away. They never hurt any less, and they sure as hell never helped anything.
When the light changed, he floored the gas pedal as he passed empty fruit stands and ailing businesses on a deserted stretch of Alternate 19 that'd once thrived. He wanted to get the old man home and get on with his life. "How's business, son?"
Nick glanced toward the passenger seat, where his father sat suddenly awake, even if bleary-eyed. It was like that sometimes-his father could lie passed out for hours, then open his eyes without warning and act as if he'd just been sharing a long conversation with you.
He returned his gaze to the road. "It's good, Dad. Good."
"I'm proud of you, Nicky," he slurred. "You know that, don't you?"
Something in Nick's gut pinched. "Yeah, sure, I know." They did this every now and then, had this same inane talk. He supposed his father's praise was meant to make up for everything, but nothing could make up for the past. . Soon after, he watched as his father stumbled from the Jeep toward the run-down' building he called home.
Around 1960, the Sea Shanties-a collection of four apartment buildings-had probably been shiny and new, but now the shine had all peeled off and the place housed drunkards and single moms on welfare. He pulled away, unconcerned with making sure his dad got in all right; he was just glad to be alone again.
Swinging the Jeep into the driveway of his oceanfront condo a few minutes later, he went in, kicked off his shoes, and fell into bed, still in blue jeans and a T-shirt. The red glow of the clock next to him said it was only ten-thirty, but it'd seemed like a hell of a long day,
Sitting up just enough to yank his shirt off over his head, he dropped back to the pillow and let his eyes fall shut. He didn't want to think about his father anymore, or Davy, or Henry-and as sleep began to descend, a much more inviting image re invaded his mind unbidden: Lauren Ash.
His thoughts grabbed hold, focused warm and tight, and a fantasy quickly took shape. In it, he was pushing aside all that smooth satin, running his hands over inviting curves and valleys, molding her breasts in his hands, soon kissing their puckered tips. He licked and suckled her and let her soft sounds of pleasure drive him forward.
He envisioned himself lying in bed, just as he was now, except that Lauren Ash hovered over him, her body skimming his, her golden hair cascading over his skin. She kissed his mouth with full, sensual lips, then grazed a kiss over his jaw, down onto his neck. She kissed her way down his chest, stomach, .. until she finally opened his jeans and took him into her soft
mouth. Yes.
Nick still couldn't believe what a beautiful woman she'd grown up to be, or that he was falling asleep to imagined sex with Lauren Ash-he'd hardly gone to her house thinking of anything sexual. But it was too late to go back now, and the images in his mind led to hot dreams .
Chapter Three
As Lauren stepped into the warm spray the next morning, she still couldn't believe the words she'd uttered to her painter. If you want me, I'II be in the shower. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Had it been a Freudian slip? She hoped not. But then, why was he still on her mind?
Well, she rationalized, because he was there, And other than the pool guy and the lawn guy and the landscape guy-people who usually came and went within an hour or two-she wasn't used to having anyone there. Before getting in the shower, she'd been aware of the sounds of him working outside, just as she had all day yesterday-ladders being leaned against the house, heavy cans of paint plunked on the brick walk. Each time she almost forgot about him, she'd hear him again, As she ran a soft sponge filled with raspberry-scented body wash over her arms, she thought of her ocean fantasy and decided maybe she should add a new entry to the journal. That's what she did to ease her sexual frustrations-and she was obviously frustrated, considering the reaction she'd had to the guy. Surprisingly, writing down her fantasies actually seemed to help, at least to a degree, Writing it wasn't doing it-but it was something, some vague way of acting it out. If you want me, I'll be in the shower ...
What if he had followed her yesterday morning? She knew she'd locked the door behind her, but what if she hadn't? What if he'd followed her inside and up the stairs, and into her bedroom, then her bathroom?
What if they'd both silently taken off their clothes and climbed into the shower together? She couldn't help penning another fantasy-even if only in her mind-as she washed.
We stand naked-water sluicing over our bodies. never touching until he reaches for the soap mitt hanging beneath the shower head. He watches my eyes as he rubs a bar of soap on the mitt, lathering until it makes a thick foam, Only then does his gaze drop to my breasts, as potent as any touch, making their crests harden into pink beads.
He swipes the mitt slowly across the tops of my breasts, leaving behind a trail of white suds tha
t glistens with iridescence as globules of soap begining to slide down my skin. Another skim of the mitt, this one across the lower swells, makes me sigh with pleasure before he grazes a soapy, winding path down my stomach, stopping just short of the juncture between my thighs.
Letting the mitt fall to the shower floor, he takes my soap-covered breasts into his big, warm hands, caressing, kneading, all as I try not to cry out, not to let him know how profoundly his touch is affecting me-yet his hands feel like velvet through the thick suds, and I tingle madly below, wishing desperately he hadn't stopped the stroke of his foamy mitt,
Then he turns my body away from him, gliding his soapy hands up my wet arms, showing me to brace myself against the tile wall. His grip moves to my hips, and he eases inside, huge and filling and wonderful, and now
I have no choice but to cry out for him, sobs of pleasure leaving me at each intense stroke,
His hands continue to caress, fondle, each touch feeling more and more like the softest velvet. Even where no soap covers my skin, his fingers are like feathery sweeps of luxurious fabric-especially when they sink between my thighs. I move against his lush touch, arching, arching, until it seems as if his velvety fingers are all I know, all I am, and when I topple off the edge of sanity, moaning my climax, a wide, sumptuous swath of velvet seems to catch ... me.
My pleasure drives him to the point of release as well, his thrusts turning harder; his groans thick in my ear as the water crashes down over our skin--and it is only , then that I remember we're in the shower; not in the plush world to which he took me with just a few hot, tender touches.
Oh, stop it already!
Was she crazy? Fantasizing about him, her surly painter?
If you want to fantasize about somebody, surely you can find a better guy than that.
He was a shrine to all that was male, true, but his personality sucked. And wasn't she always telling herself sex wasn't about the physical act, but everything else surrounding it-the emotions, the intimate connection, the bond that went deeper than two bodies intersecting for a few minutes?