This isn't a forever thing, who cares if she smiles?
It’s hard for me to understand why I care so much about this girl. I keep having to remind myself that she isn't really my girl, she's not my wife, she's not mine at all.
But it feels like she is.
It doesn't take me too long to get my shit done. I'm back at the bar in record time, ready to take her out.
“You all set?” I ask, tapping the bar-top with my knuckles.
“One sec.” Popping her head up from under the bar, she dives back down for a few more seconds. “Done and ready.” Wiping her hands in front of her chest, she walks around the front and curls her arms around me. “Can I pick the place today?”
“Absolutely.” Hugging her back, I rest my face on the top of her head. “Where do you want to go? Capriolli's? Black Satin?”
“I've got a place in mind. I'll drive, you've never been there before.”
“How do you know I haven't been? Maybe I have been there.”
“Trust me, you haven't.”
“Alright, you drive.” Taking my keys from my back pocket, I hold them in front of her face. “Here, she's all yours.”
“Let's take my car, I'm more comfortable driving that.” Her nose crinkles as she pushes my hand with the keys away. “Besides, your car is terrible on gas.” Her smile is crooked and playful as she takes her purse out from under the bar.
Wrapping my arm around her neck, I kiss the side of her face. “Alright, I don't care how we get there as long as we get there soon, I'm starving.” Brushing her hair with my fingers, I start placing kisses down her neck. “And not just for food.” Growling, I nip at her ear lobe and pluck it sharply.
Starla giggles and snuggles deeper into my arm, tilting her head and making room for my mouth. “Oh really?”
Gina pops back into the room, her jaw dropping to the floor. “My God, have you both lost your mind?” Snapping her hand to her hip, she snarls, “Bolt, your father would kill you if he saw this—”
“My father isn't here, is he?” Taking a firm step forward, I'm about to give her an earful, but Starla reaches out and touches my arm.
“She's not worth it, Bolt. Don't let her get you to do something you'll regret.” Shaking her head, she put herself in front of me. “She's no one, she's going nowhere, and she knows it.”
“Is that right?” Gina's lip curls with an evil smirk as she widens her stance and balls her fists at her sides. “You think you're better than me because you're fucking the boss?”
“No, I was better than you before this, but I think I'm better than you now because I married the boss.” Holding up her hand, she flashes the giant rock on her finger. “I'm only still doing this low level shit because I like to earn what I have. Something you're probably not used to.”
Starla lets her eyes travel over Gina and her clothes, pointing out her expensive Cucinelli sweater and Dolce and Gabbana heels.
“Just because you let him in your pants, doesn't mean shit. You have no power here.” Gina smiles as if she's just handed Starla her own ass. “It seems to me like working for what you got means spreading wide and giving him what he wants. It must be nice to not have respect for yourself.”
“Bolt, Honey,” Starla whispers with a sexy little twist. “Let's go get lunch, maybe we can bring Gina back some leftovers, we don't want her to get jealous now.”
Gina veers her stare, and I can see the hate in her eyes. “You little—”
“Uh,” I say swiftly, holding up my hand. “I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. I'd hate to have to write you up for threatening our intern.”
“This is crazy, Bolt, she's taking advantage of you.” Throwing out her arm, Gina slices the air in half. “She's just using you. Can't you see it?”
Is that what you think?
A smug grin splits my lips. I'm tempted to tell her the truth, that I'm actually using Starla, she's not using me. I say nothing, because Starla was right when she said Gina isn't worth my time.
But I can't stop myself from making one point to her, reminding her who she's talking to. “It's Mr. Sheckler, don't forget that.”
Taking Starla's hand, I lead us out. I know she’s been holding that in, and probably wanted to say that shit to Gina since her first day here.
The other girls are treating her like she’s done something wrong. What everyone in the distillery doesn't know is how she was picked from a stack of papers, run through a series of horrible questions, and offered the unthinkable.
My convenient wife.
But in reality, I was Starla's out, and she was mine. It worked for both of us.
Climbing into Starla's old, green, two door coupe, I find myself sitting with my knees in my chest.
“Are you sure you don't want to take my car?” Trying to adjust myself, my calves keep bumping the bottom of the dashboard. I barely fit in the seat.
Sticking the key in the ignition, Starla lets out a laugh. “As cute as you look like that, there is a lever on the side that moves you back.”
Feeling the base of the seat, I find the lever and pull it up. The seat slides back quickly, causing me to let out a sigh of relief when my legs can stretch out. “There we go, that's better.”
“Look at that, you're learning how us common folk live with cars that don't respond to voice commands.”
“Ha ha, very funny, but my car doesn't talk.” Pulling the seat belt over my chest, I buckle it in. “Where exactly are you taking me anyway?” I ask, unsure what she has in mind for lunch.
“A place.” Pulling out of the parking lot, we drive up Main street and hop on the highway. “I hope you like good old fashioned southern food.”
“Of course I do.”
“Good, then you should love this place.”
We drive for a bit, chatting about our childhoods, our family life, our friends. Everything between us is so different. Starla went to public high school, I went to private. Starla had to work and save her money for her first car, I was given one when I turned sixteen—brand new, right off the showroom floor.
She had used everything, from clothes to shoes, even her phone was bought second hand. I was used to having shit before they even landed on the shelves. The newest smart phone, the newest BMW, if it was new, I had it.
We’re polar opposites.
And yet we fit together like two puzzle pieces.
We both love Alfred Hitchcock movies, we both love cheap Chinese food, we both love dogs, and have even been to the same concert before we met. I actually sat three rows in front of her.
Our paths have crossed through the years, but it took this to bring us together.
The big city buildings start to thin as we cruise down the highway. Her steering wheel shakes violently and she has to hold it with two hands.
“Is something wrong? Your engine isn't going to blow up on us is it?”
“What?” she asks confused, until she sees my eyes on the wheel. “Oh, no, it's fine. I need an alignment, that's all.”
“Are you sure that's all?”
“Alright, there might be some mud in my rims too.”
“What? How did you get mud in your rims?”
“I got stuck in a ditch the other night on my way to your place after a deer ran out in front of me.”
“Oh my God, why didn't you tell me?”
“I don't know, nothing happened, I was fine. But my front wheels sank into the mud and it took a little bit to get out. I'm sure they're caked up right now.”
“You should have called me, I would have come and helped you.”
Starla tips her head and smiles with thin lips. “I know you would have, but I'm not helpless, Bolt. The girls you're used to might be afraid to get dirty for fear of breaking a nail, I'm not. I do things on my own and only ask for help if I need to. That's how I was raised.”
Her ability to handle shit, to not crumble under pressure, that shit is fucking hot. I love that I don’t need to hold her hand, that she’s able to take char
ge and figure it out on her own.
Nothing is sexier than an independent woman.
Pulling off the highway, she drives us into a suburb of the city. The homes are small, a lot smaller than what I'm used to. They have faded paint, crooked shutters, and shingles missing from the roofs.
There are giant cracks in the sidewalks, some are even missing entire sections as they crumbled and dissolved back into dirt. The grass on the lawns are patchy and brown, and I can tell we're not in my neighborhood anymore.
“Where are we?”
Smiling, she doesn't give me answer, instead she takes a few more turns and pulls into a driveway of a boxy ranch home. The vinyl siding is covered in green moss, there's a crack in the front window, and the screen door is missing its screen.
Shutting off the car, she grabs her purse and starts to climb out.
“Wait, you haven't answered me yet. Where are we?”
“I thought you did your research on me, Bolt Sheckler, obviously I was wrong.” Nodding her head, she starts up the broken pathway. “Come on.”
Opening my door, I place one foot on the pavement and climb out slowly. Following behind her, she keeps looking back at me and smiling. I can't tell if she's nervous or excited, but it seems like she could be both.
She's biting on her cheeks as she smirks, and her brows are arched high. There's a stiffness to her steps and an exaggeration to her expression that makes me think she's a tiny bit nervous.
Starla pulls the screen door open and I stop behind her, expecting her to knock. She doesn't, she just opens the front door and walks right in. “Hello? Where is everyone?” she calls out into the empty room.
Stepping inside, I'm immediately struck by the scent of apples and maple syrup. The house feels warm, like the oven’s been on all day baking pies.
Looking around, the walls are covered in wood paneling, making it a lot darker inside than it should be. The rug is a shaggy blend of orange and brown, with a pop of green sprouting here and there.
There are pictures sitting on top of a mantel that grab my attention. Taking a long step to the side, the pictures are all of Starla, ranging from childhood into her high school years.
“Awe, look at you. Weren't you a cute little thing.” Pointing at one where she couldn't have been more than five or six years old, I chuckle. She looks adorable.
Starla is sitting super tall, her back pin straight as she smiles from ear to ear like she just won a year’s worth of cookies. She has thick bangs that go all the way back to the center of her scalp, and big gawky fake pearls wrapped around her neck.
“Go on, laugh now. But I bet yours are no better.”
“You'll never see mine.”
“I showed you mine, I think that means you have to show me yours.” Flashing her teeth, her tongue runs across her upper lip as she grins.
A small woman pokes her head out from a doorway and squints her eyes as she smiles. “Starla, honey, you're home earlier than usual.”
Home? She brought me to her home?
This is where she lives. . .
It’s a bit of a culture shock for me. Not that I’m aware that not everyone lives the way I do, I know most people don't have the luxury. But it isn’t something I’ve had thrown in my face on daily basis.
This is her home. Starla grew up in a three bedroom ranch, with a yard half the size of my garage, and rugs that probably haven't been changed since the seventies. The ceiling is peeling in areas, the paneling bowed out like it’s fat and full.
That's when it all makes sense. Driving her car here, the light nerves on her face and anxiousness in her voice. I finally understand, she was bringing me home.
“I know, Gram, I brought someone I want you to meet.” Taking me by the hand, she starts to pull me toward her grandmother, giving me a little shove forward. “This is Bolt, he's the man I told you about.”
The woman steps into the room, wiping her hands on a towel, then stuffing it into her apron. “So, you're the man who's taking up all of my granddaughter's time?” Eyeing me, she isn’t shy about looking me over. “It's so nice to finally meet you.”
There's music playing in the background somewhere. It's muffled, and I can't make out the words, but I can hear the deep beat through the walls.
“It's nice to meet you too, Ma'am.”
“Please, call me Virginia.” Resting the back of her palms on her hips, her eyes keep scanning over me. “You're a little shorter than I expected. Starla made you sound like you were seven feet tall.”
“Gram!” she chirps, burying her eyes in her hands and groaning. “I can't, I just can't.”
“Hardly,” I say, chuckling and shaking my head. “I'm six foot two.
“Mm, her granddaddy used to claim he was six foot four, but I reckon you have him beat, seeing as how us old folk tend to shrink.” Her laugh is hearty and deep as she holds her belly and shakes her head. “You two hungry? I've got plenty for ya if you can eat.”
“That would be awesome, Gram, thank you. I want Bolt to meet Grandpa. Is he in the back?”
“He is, go on now, I'll have lunch ready for you in a bit.” Starting down a hall, Virginia barks, “Bolt, you like dirty lemonade?”
Furrowing my brows, I glance at Starla curiously. She's smirking and shaking her head yes, so I figure screw it, why not?
“I've never had it, but I'll definitely try it.”
“Good, I like you already,” her grandmother says as she disappears back into the kitchen.
Wrapping my hands around Starla's shoulders, I lean forward and whisper in her ear. “I love dirty little things.”
Her hand sweeps up around my neck as she tips her head back and kisses me under my chin. “Naughty, I love naughty. Just you wait until later.” Her fingers trickle down the back of my neck so softly I almost miss them.
The music is getting louder and louder and I can finally make out a man's voice as he sings his sorrows out of his chest. The emotions are so strong I can feel them in his words, in the strum of the guitar and the beat of the drums.
Starla's body starts to move as we approach a door, her hips are swaying, her head is rolling side to side, and her arms are bouncing in the air. “I love this song.”
Gripping the handle, she turns it and throws it open, then dances herself inside. “Grandpa!” she yells out as her arms lift higher and her shoulders join the rhythmic dance.
His mouth spreads into an easy smile as he points a remote at the radio and turns it down. “Sweetheart, I didn't expect you so soon.”
He's sitting in a recliner, with a record sleeve resting on his lap open to the lyrics. My eyes scan the walls and I'm in awe. This room is amazing.
Posters cover the walls, literally everywhere. All of them are of bands, some in black and white, some in color. There are shelves on top of shelves, on top of shelves, filled with records.
“And who's this?” her grandfather asks, pushing himself out of his chair easily. Holding out his hand, I take it and he shakes it firmly, his grip much stronger than I anticipated. I shake his back, with equal pressure. “Roy, Roy Nolan. You got a good handshake, son, very good.”
“Bolt, Bolt Sheckler, and thank you, Sir.”
“Roy, just call me, Roy. Sir makes me feel old.”
“You are old, Grandpa.” Starla gives him a wink. “At least that's what you say every time Grandma has a car issue or something.”
“And that's the truth, I'm too old for that crap. Crawling on the ground, under cars, in the dirt. . .” His voice fades as he shakes his head. “That's what those damn auto clubs are for.”
Starla rolls her eyes, letting them come back to me. “He likes to barricade himself in this room and pretend he can't do the things he used to. I think he's full of it.”
“I would too if I had a room like this.”
“Ah, see, he gets it.” Shaking his finger, he walks to one of his shelves and pulls off a record. “I like you already. Why don't you have a seat.” Tipping his head toward a ratt
y, old leather recliner, he sits the record on the player by the shelves.
Giving me a nudge, Starla's lips curl at the corners. “Grandpa is a famous roadie. He's spent an entire lifetime traveling with bands and getting to meet some really awesome people.”
“Oh yeah, like who?” I ask.
“Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry, Coleman Hawkins, lord, I can't even think of them all right now.” Moving the needle to the vinyl, he rests it down so gently.
There's some scratching at first as the record pops and cracks. Then the music begins to play. My ears perk at the sound, and my head begins to bounce lightly.
A deep bass is rolling out of the speakers, the drums are kicking in, and the guitar is on fire. A man begins to sing, his voice hypnotic and raspy. I'm feeling myself getting swept away, riding the notes into a trance.
“Who is this?”
“Muddy Waters.” Her body is swaying to the beat as she closes her eyes and rolls her head on her shoulders. “Does your father like jazz?”
“My father isn't a jazz kind of man, he's not really even a music man.”
Starla stops moving, her mouth falls open slightly and she lets out a light giggle. “That makes me wonder how he ever made it in the whiskey business at all. Jazz and whiskey go hand in hand, I bet your grandfather was into jazz.” Standing still, she gives me a playful smile as she turns to her grandfather. “Grandpa, can I get Bolt a glass of your special stash?”
Roy sneers, and I swear I can see his soul through his smile. “Pour him a double.”
And as I sit drinking whiskey with Starla and her grandfather, listening to the blues, sitting in a torn up recliner, with a plastic cup from The Dollar General, I’m starting to understand what she meant about the unnecessary shit in my life.
Her family has nothing, yet they laugh and smile like their pockets are full. My family has everything, but we never feel this close. We never laugh like they laugh, or smile like they smile.
I’m slowly starting to see what it means to be happy.
And it isn’t what I thought it would be at all.
Wow, I've been living life with blinders on.
The Convenient Wife Page 9