Two Family Home

by Sarah Title

  Instead, she said, “You did the right thing, letting him stay.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently I’m a good person now.”

  She squeezed around his ribs.

  “So you didn’t know he was getting out?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I knew.”

  “You seemed surprised to see him.”

  “Wishful thinking. Or maybe I was surprised to see him sneaking into my garage, ogling my—” His what? His girlfriend? His sweet woman?

  She leaned up on her elbow and smiled at him. “What?” he asked her.

  “I didn’t say anything!” But she was still hovering over him, smiling down.

  “Something funny . . .”

  “What?” she asked.

  “What happened to that slinky thing you were wearing?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

  “No, probably not.” He sighed.

  “Are you complaining about my pajamas?”

  “No! I would never . . .”

  “Or are you just trying to change the subject?”

  “No! I like these.” He brushed the strap of her tank top off her shoulder and placed a kiss there. He felt her heartbeat speed up against his chest and she leaned heavily into him. “Sorry,” he said, sliding her strap back in place. “You have to get up early tomorrow.”

  She scrunched up her nose in a pout. But then her face softened, and she brushed some hair off his forehead. “Thank you for letting him stay.” She rested her head on his chest again. “I know you didn’t do it for him.”

  How did she do that? Cut through whatever crap he was telling himself before he even knew it was crap? She was right. He didn’t do it for his dad. He wasn’t sure why he did it, not until Lindsey thanked him.

  He’d let his father stay for her.

  He wanted to believe what she believed, that people defaulted to good and that everyone deserved, if not a second chance, then at least common decency. He didn’t believe it, but wanted to, so he’d given Red his bed because he knew that’s what Lindsey would’ve done, and he knew it would make her happy.

  There was no way she was getting to sleep now.

  She wasn’t sure why she said it. She knew it was true, but she planned on keeping it to herself. But then he kissed her shoulder and that one little brush of his lips had her primed and ready for all kinds of fun that would make it hard to get out of bed in the morning—and then he stopped. It wasn’t a sense of revenge that made her speak the truth. She wanted him, not because he was hot (although he was) and not because he knew how to make her feel good (although he did), but because he was Walker and he did that nice thing for her even though it meant doing something nice for his dad and, at that moment, she really loved him for it.

  But she didn’t want to say that. So she said, “Thank you,” and then she was airborne, lifted on top of Walker, his hands digging under her tank top, his mouth rough on hers. She pulled her shirt over her head and was just getting down to the business of reveling in the feel of his strong, bare chest against hers, when she was thrown off balance again. This time Walker was on top of her, and his hands were everywhere—on her breasts, in her shorts, down her legs. And everywhere his hands went, his mouth followed, biting and licking and not at all the gentle Walker she’d experienced that night on the kitchen table, but she liked this one, too. She might like this one even more, she thought as his teeth closed around her nipple and his hand squeezed her butt. She gasped and groaned and bucked up into him. Everything was happening at once and too fast and she couldn’t keep up, though not for lack of trying.

  “Hold still,” he whispered, and she almost laughed at the impossibility of that request. Instead, she just squeaked out “I can’t!” as his clever fingers worked their way around to the front of her. So he pulled her arms up above her head and gave her the crookedest, wickedest smile she’d ever seen and that almost had her losing it right there. But then he took one of his hands and touched her again, then guided himself into her, and she gasped and tried to keep her hips still but whatever, she was a bad listener. He twined his hands in hers, but pulled them down so they were next to her ears. He propped himself up on his elbows, their fingers intertwined, and he started moving.

  It didn’t take much for her. One, maybe two—she was completely and happily incapable of counting at that moment. She just shouted and arched and Walker was right there with her, squeezing the life out of her hands while he shuddered and growled.

  She heard Booger howl from next door, and then she thought she might die because if the dog had heard, then Red had probably heard.

  “Do you think he heard us?” she asked when she had enough breath back to form words and make them come out of her mouth.

  “No,” Walker gasped, then flopped down next to her. She decided she would just believe him. He put his arm over his eyes, and she did the same.

  She thought she might have died for a second there.

  But she didn’t. She just mildly had her mind blown. Her ears were kind of ringing. All those nerve endings freaking out, she thought.

  “Hey.” When he pulled her arm down, she saw him leaning over her. “Are you okay?”

  “Mmpsh,” she said, meaning, “nerve endings” and “dead.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  You killed me, she thought. But it didn’t hurt. She shook her head, but it didn’t wipe the worried look off his face. “No,” she assured him, putting a hand on his cheek. She pulled him down for a kiss, and lifted a knee to cradle him close to her. “No,” she whispered against his lips. But if you keep looking at me like that, you will.

  Chapter 22

  As Walker approached the laundry room door, he heard Booger’s mad scratching and picked up the pace. He really didn’t want to replace another door.

  Although that might make Lindsey happy. Give him a reason to have a date with Jake again.

  He shook his head. The woman was strange, but he liked her. She tried to do what was best for him. He wasn’t going to start bro-ing down with the whole county, but Jake was an all-right guy and Walker was glad to have made a friend.

  So what if he had to be tricked into it by his . . . by his Lindsey.

  He opened the door and Booger bolted through, running a lap around Lindsey’s apartment. “She’s at work, buddy,” Walker told the dog. “I know. I wanted her to stay home, too.”

  “You talking to the dog?”

  And that was why he wanted Lindsey to stay home. It was a little bit easier to face his father when Lindsey was there. He felt less like he might murder the guy.

  But Walker had promised Lindsey that he would give Red a chance, and Walker was not the kind of guy who took promises lightly, even if those promises were tricked out of him by the pressure of an amazing set of breasts against his arm.

  “Sleep all right?” Walker asked.

  Red looked surprised. “Fine, yeah. Once the dog stopped growling at me.”

  Walker patted Booger on the head.

  “Breakfast?” Walker asked.

  “You cooking?”

  “Sure.”

  “You still make those egg waffle sandwiches? Remember those?”

  Walker remembered. Scrambled eggs with ketchup sandwiched between two frozen waffles. He made those for dinner the first time when he was about twelve because he was pissed that Red hadn’t bought any groceries and wouldn’t let them order takeout. If Red wouldn’t get him real food, his adolescent brain reasoned, he would show him by eating something totally disgusting.

  Walker knew now that it was because Red had no money, but at the time, it seemed like Red just wanted to piss him off. So Walker wanted to piss him off right back. Instead, Red had laughed, like Walker was some kind of culinary genius, and ate two of them.

  They actually weren’t bad, the waffle-egg sandwiches, especially when he added bacon.

  This must be the bonding portion of the visit, Walker thought. Reminisce about the good old times when Red was a shi
tty father and Walker learned never to trust anyone.

  “I don’t have any waffles,” he told Red. Even if he did, he wasn’t going to make Red a special sandwich, dammit.

  “How about we go out somewhere. My treat.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any money, Red?”

  “I got enough to buy my son breakfast. Just make it somewhere cheap.” Red laughed his damn head off and slapped Walker on the back.

  Great. The bonding portion of the visit was just beginning.

  Thursdays were Walker’s day with Myron. He sometimes spent other days with him, too, but every Thursday they had a standing lunch date.

  Lindsey pretended she wasn’t watching for him at the door of Shady Grove.

  So did Myron.

  Walker had been simmering a low-burning rage since his father had come to stay. He was ornery and short-tempered, and was always trying to walk away from her rather than have a conversation. It was just like when she first moved in.

  She did not reminisce about that period fondly.

  In Walker’s defense, he didn’t snap at her, and she could see him trying not to snap at his father. This meant that Walker spent a lot of time in the garage. He would work until late at night, then come crawl into bed with her. Sometimes he’d just hold her, sometimes she’d insist she was awake, so he better get to smoochin’.

  No matter how gentle (or not gentle) he was at night, though, in the morning he was back to his silent, grumpy self.

  Myron, for all his flaws, had some kind of magical power, as if his own grumpiness somehow neutralized Walker’s. That was the one time she’d seen Walker smile since they discovered Red in the garage—when he was here, visiting Myron.

  “What’s he like?” Myron asked from his seat by the sunny window.

  “What’s who like?”

  “The pope. Who do you think? Walker’s dad.”

  “Didn’t you meet him? Back when you were teaching?”

  Myron snorted. “Red wasn’t exactly a get-involved kind of parent.”

  Lindsey sat down in the chair next to Myron. It was sunny, and the day was quiet. She could take a break. Or, if she kept talking to Myron, she could call it an assessment.

  “I’m worried about Walker,” Lindsey said, totally failing to assess Myron. “He’s not handling this well.”

  “Handling what? What’s the guy doing here, anyway?”

  “He just got out of prison, Myron. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Myron waved her concerns away. Lindsey knew she had talked Walker into letting his father stay, and she still thought it was the right thing to do.

  She, apparently, was the only one who thought so.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” Myron muttered. And just like that, Walker came through the door, followed by Red.

  Oh, this should be fun, she thought.

  “Hiya, sweetie,” said Red, using his brand-new, super-fun nickname for her. “Cute scrubs.”

  Lindsey made a mental note to burn these scrubs.

  “Hey, Red,” she said politely. “Hey, Walker. We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show.” She tried to communicate empathy in her gaze.

  “You got a problem with your face, Lindsey?” Myron asked.

  Lindsey sighed. So much for meaningful looks.

  “You must be Myron,” Red said, holding his hand out for a shake.

  Myron looked at it. “You didn’t bring the dog?” he asked Walker.

  This is going great. Lunch will be fun, she thought.

  “So, where are you guys off to today?” she asked in a voice that sounded forced, even to herself.

  “Actually, I was gonna let the boys have their time,” Red told her.

  “Big of you,” muttered Myron.

  “I thought I’d see if you needed any help around here. You know, to pay you back for putting me up.”

  “Oh,” said Lindsey, surprised. She looked at Walker, but his face did not give her any clue about what she should do with Red’s sudden generosity. “Okay, sure. Um . . .” What could she have the ex-con help her with?

  “I can do some landscaping if you need it. Or help out in the kitchen . . .”

  “Well . . .”

  “Or just hang out with people. I miss hanging out with people. If you’ve got some supplies, I could teach a painting lesson.”

  “I bet you could,” muttered the ever-helpful Myron.

  “Gosh, that’s . . .” She looked desperately at Walker, who shrugged like that idea was probably fine.

  She did a quick mental inventory of the art supplies. Gladys and Mae came out from the lunchroom and watched the little group curiously.

  “What do you say, ladies?” Red asked them. “Should we paint some happy little trees?”

  If she set Red up in the art room, she could keep an eye on him while simultaneously getting him out of Walker’s hair for a while. Plus, Red was obviously a good painter. After all, some of his forgeries worked, she thought. And he would only be here for a few more days. How much damage could he do?

  “Okay, that would be great. I’ll get you set up.” With a quick glance back at Walker, she led his father to the art room, trailed by some very curious senior citizens.

  Chapter 23

  Walker pounded through the front door.

  Red was sitting innocently in the easy chair, reading a magazine. He was even wearing reading glasses. The picture of innocence and civic responsibility.

  Then Walker noticed his duffle bag, packed and zipped by the edge of the couch.

  “What did you do, Red?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, flipping the pages.

  “You going somewhere?” Walker kicked the duffle.

  “My week is almost up. Thought I’d get a head start, is all.”

  Walker narrowed his eyes at his father. “I’ll ask one more time . . .”

  “I didn’t do anything! I told you, I’ve changed. I’m not the guy I was before I went in.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve had ten years to think about your crimes.”

  “You can get sarcastic about it, but it’s true.”

  “You suddenly realized that what you did was wrong?”

  Red stood up and threw the magazine onto the floor. He turned away from Walker and into the kitchen.

  Of course he hadn’t realized what he did was wrong. Red Smith would never admit he was wrong.

  “I did a lot of things I shouldn’t have, but I was just trying to provide for you, son. The government says I paid for my crimes. When is that going to be enough for you? I was just trying to make a life for us.”

  “Some life. Was that why I ended up in foster care? Were you so busy out providing for me that I wore shoes with holes in them?”

  “Oh, poor Walker! Like you’re the only one who’s struggled. And look at you now! I must not have done too bad if my poor, neglected son became a world-renowned artist.”

  “That has nothing to do with you.”

  “Doesn’t it? Who taught you about art, huh, kid? Who’s the one who showed you how light and dark play off each other? Who taught you how to capture movement and sound in a goddamn picture?”

  “You taught me how to copy other people’s masterpieces. That’s not art, Red. That’s forgery.”

  “All art is forgery, Walker. Wake up.”

  “Oh, big existential talk from the con man who lost his touch.”

  “That’s right. That’s me, a washed-up old loser who didn’t have a father to support his talent. I shared my gifts with you, son, and what did I get for it? Ten years behind bars, where I had the creativity sapped out of me, staring at those damn cinderblock walls. You might think I’m a con man, but I was just playing the game using whatever I could. And now—” Red’s voice broke, and Walker actually felt a little sorry for the guy. He might have been a con man, but at least he’d had something. Now he was just a con man without a con.

  That sympathy quickly disappeared as Walker thought abo
ut how much time Red had been spending at Shady Grove.

  “Red. What are you really doing here?”

  “I told you. I need to get back on my feet. Don’t worry, though, I’m out of the art game.”

  “What game are you in?”

  Red straightened so he was toe to toe with Walker. “I’m in the game of life, son. And you can sit here in your pretty house with your pretty white fence and your pretty dog and your pretty girl, but some of us don’t have it that easy. Some of us’ve gotta take what we can, or we’re out in the dirt with nothing. Don’t you dare judge me for that.”

  Walker stepped back and crossed over into Lindsey’s apartment. He came back a minute later with his little fireproof box. He pulled out a check and started writing.

  “Take this,” he said, handing the check to Red.

  “Oh, son,” Red said, sounding suddenly contrite and grateful. “I can’t—”

  “It’s not a gift. I’m buying you off. Take this, and never come back here again. Whatever information you took from those people at Shady Grove, lose it. Lose it, or I’m calling the cops on you.”

  Red stared hard at the check.

  “So you’ll rat out your old man again?”

  “That’s right. I’ll rat you out, but not because I’m bitter that you were a crappy father. And not because your world view is so screwed up that you think everyone is out to get you, when really you’re just too lazy to figure out how to do things right. I’ll do it because what you’re doing is illegal, and it’s wrong. Those people worked hard for that money. And even if they hadn’t, even if they were born with a goddamn silver spoon in their mouths, it doesn’t matter. It’s not your money, Red. You’re not entitled to it just because you think you’re smarter, or because you can take it.”

  “I am smarter. It’s not my fault people are too stupid to hold on to what’s theirs.”

  “You’re right, Red. Nothing is your fault.”

  Red tried to skirt past Walker, but he held firm, made himself a wall between Red and whatever he wanted to take that he didn’t deserve. As far as Walker was concerned, Red was done taking.

  He must’ve gotten the message, because he finished shoving his clothes into his duffle, and yanked the zipper so hard it broke off.