by K B Cinder
Dash’s eyes showed flecks of gold swimming in a green and amber sea, his eyes promising everything from a wild time to safety. They pulled me in, and I found myself leaning toward him, scooting closer as Dr. Robbins finished up.
My formerly-frozen tush was now seated almost hip to hip with his, his hand wrapped in both of mine like he was on life support rather than getting a simple blood draw.
“I’m going to run this to the lab and check with radiology about your CT scan. Hang tight, and don’t run off to Vegas while I’m gone, lovebirds.” Dr. Robbins shot us a wink before vanishing behind the curtain, leaving me holding Dash’s hand like a precious Fabergé egg.
“I think I’ll survive,” Dash joked, glancing down. His hair was a mess from his helmet, standing every which way like a drunken corn maze.
I dropped his hand, immediately folding mine on my lap. “Sorry, habit,” I explained quickly, feeling my cheeks ablaze.
He smiled again, as devastating as ever. “No need to apologize, Juni. Thanks for being here.”
I reached out to tame a thatch of particularly wild hair atop his head. If I was in his position, I’d want someone to help me look a little less crazy. “Your mom is going to flip.”
He groaned, closing his eyes as I smoothed his hair into place. “I’m not telling her.”
“Dash, she’s going to find out, and when she does, God help you if you haven’t told her.” Marie might have been overprotective as hell, but the woman could launch into some epic French tirades when she was ticked. “She’ll wrap you up in bubble wrap and never let you leave her sight again.”
“Don’t say that around her. You might give her ideas,” he breathed, leaning in to my touch while I struggled with his hair. “She still hasn’t recovered from me joining the fire department, and it’s been fourteen years.”
I returned my hands to my lap, fumbling clumsily with my fingers. “Has it really been that long already?”
“I know; I’m an old man.” He leaned back into the bed, his long, lean muscles flexing as he made himself comfortable.
“Ancient, really,” I added, letting a smile sneak through.
“You’re catching up, petite genévrier,” he shot back, using the little juniper nickname Marie gave me as a child. I hadn’t heard it in years, making my smile grow exponentially. “Thirty in a few months, huh? Pretty soon you’ll be going to bed before nine with the rest of us.”
“Don’t remind me,” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my chest. It wasn’t that I was afraid of the big three-oh; I felt like I’d wasted my twenties - the so-called prime of my life.
“You don’t look a day over twenty-one,” he assured, running his fingers along my upper arm. “I’d still card you for booze.”
I searched his eyes with a smile as his fingers drew drunken circles on my arm, somehow branding my skin despite the layers of fabric between our flesh.
In them, I found an answer, a nod that what I was feeling, he was too.
I didn’t think in that moment - I reacted - leaning forward to press my lips to his.
Initially, he stiffened as my mouth brushed over his, but just as I went to run for the hills, his hand sunk into my hair, pulling me close as his lips moved against mine.
Warning bells blazed in my mind, every moment of growing up together flashing in some kind of sick, twisted home movie, reminding me that it was Dash I was kissing. It was Dash that was making my heart skip a beat, a bolt of electricity shooting between my legs with every slide of his lips.
I didn’t care. I’d spent a day obsessing over him like a lovesick teenager since he walked in the door, and I needed to get whatever it was out of my system.
So I took what I wanted, swooping my tongue in his mouth without playing the usual coy game of lip knock-knock, barging right in and tasting him. He tasted as good as I feared, and he felt it, too, the heat growing down low as he growled in response, sampling me just the same.
It felt dirty, filthy even, my hands balling as they cradled the back of his neck and cheek. If he felt the same way, he didn’t show it, kissing me like I was the last woman on Earth, just as hungry as I was.
We were two willing participants in a frenzy that could only spell disaster, not that we planned on stopping anytime soon.
But it came to a screeching halt with the slide of the metal rings on the curtain rod. I flew backward off the bed, landing on my ass on the tiled floor.
I turned to see Dr. Robbins standing there with a knowing grin, Dash’s chart held to his chest.
“Was my patient in need of resuscitation, ma’am?” he snickered, tapping his fingers on the back of the plastic clipboard.
Dash laughed, but I stayed silent, scraping myself off the hospital floor, now likely crawling with every germ on record. It’s not like I had a defense to his words. I was caught red-handed sucking Dash’s face.
Dr. Robbins pressed a finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me, but there’s a man in the waiting room raising hell. I’ll make you a deal: I take Dash for his scan, and you handle the bear.”
6
While Dash was carted off to radiology, I headed to the waiting room to handle Sage, knowing it was him the moment Dr. Robbins mentioned someone raising hell. He’d never been one to handle conflict well, always blowing a gasket from the jump.
His hoarse shouting was distinct when I pushed the door to the waiting room open, the six-foot-three-inch monster trading words with the sign-in meanie. So far, she was winning, not even breaking into a sweat while he was red-faced and furious.
“Sage, what are you doing?”
He snapped his head to me, but rather than seeming relieved, he looked angrier, every hulking muscle tense, the vein in his neck bulging. “Oh, I don’t know! Apparently I can’t see my best friend of thirty-one fucking years, but Dash’s fiancée can? Cute, Juniper!”
“Calm down, or you’ll get us both thrown out,” I said through clenched teeth, gripping his forearm as I approached.
He shook it away, folding his arms over his chest and seeming to double in size. “This is bullshit, Juniper.”
“Listen, I did what I had to do to get back there,” I explained quietly, glancing at the woman who held the key to getting back to Dash. “Let me take care of this.”
I stepped away and headed to the desk, prepared to deliver my second performance of the day.
“I’m so sorry about my brother.” I blinked back crocodile tears, balling a fist at my mouth. “He hasn’t been the same since the botched vasectomy. He didn’t drip on your floor, did he?”
The woman’s eyes widened, looking between me and my unsuspecting brother who was still fuming out of earshot behind me. “Drip?”
I looked down dramatically, pretending to scan the scuffed tile. “Oh, thank goodness. You’re in the clear. Sometimes he has… seepage. It’s very sticky. Almost like chewing gum if you step in it.”
The grouch softened somewhat, though her eyes remained wide as she looked to Sage, her nose crinkled. “That poor man.”
I shook my head sadly, catching her bespectacled eyes. “You should feel bad for his wife.”
She visibly recoiled. Without another word, she buzzed us in, her eyes glued to Sage as he followed me into the back.
“What did you tell her?” he asked, stomping angrily beside me as we strolled by curtains, the same wails as earlier loud and clear coming from behind them.
“A sob story to get your ass out of trouble.” He’d flip out if I mentioned the particulars, so I chose to leave him in the dark. “You’re lucky she didn’t call the cops. You can’t act like that, Sage.”
“Good thing most of them are wiping the floor with the firefighters down at the high school,” he replied, grinning despite the anger reddening his cheeks. “So, how long have you two been engaged?”
“I told you, I said what was necessary to get back here. You saw how strict that lady was. She wouldn’t budge with anything less.”
I bit down on my in
ner cheek, guilt flooding through me. He would have a meltdown if he caught a whiff of what went down minutes earlier between Dash and I.
“Good, because I’d rip Dash’s dick off.”
It was a playful threat, punctuated with a smile, but I knew he was serious. He might not remove any appendages, but he’d certainly tear us apart in other ways.
I left after leading Sage to Dash’s empty bed. He made it abundantly clear he could take things from there, and I didn’t argue. I wanted to get out of there more than he wanted me gone.
Nerves and guilt battled in my belly as I rushed to my car. Dash wouldn’t say anything, knowing Sage’s temper as well as I, but I couldn’t help worrying.
What if Dr. Robbins made another joke?
What if Sage picked up on something being different in the air?
Sage was a ticking time bomb. He’d never physically do anything, but he could hold a hell of a grudge.
I’d never forgive myself if the two of them fell out because of me, throwing away a decades-long friendship because of a kiss. A smoke-show of a kiss, but just a kiss nonetheless. It was small, so insignificant in comparison, but the lines were long drawn in the sand between Sage’s friends and I. Any time he caught one looking a little too long in my direction, they were cut from his life.
The air was colder than I remembered outside, the wind whipping my hair and stinging my cheeks as I rushed across the parking lot. After the hours spent outside during the game, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had windburn.
It was early, but I drove to my parents’ house anyway. Mom was out, likely picking Babcia up, but Pop’s truck was in the driveway. I let myself in with my key, a mixture of turkey and cinnamon scents greeting me as I stepped inside.
“Pop, I’m early!” I called in warning, not wanting to spook him. He was as jumpy as I was, and I didn’t need him accidentally cutting himself if he was in the kitchen. Not that Mom would let him cook anything, but caution didn’t hurt.
“In the den, Junebug!” Pop shouted, safely away from all things sharp, thankfully.
I hung my purse on a hook and slipped out of my coat, setting it over my purse to conserve space. Babcia would be dressed like she was on an Antarctic expedition. She’d need at least the rest of the rack to stow her cold-weather arsenal.
The house was toasty, the fireplace roaring on the far wall, the mantle a shrine to Thanksgiving with ceramic turkeys and autumn garlands, a half dozen cylindrical red candles glowing. If that wasn’t enough, Mom also had pulled one of her many faux Christmas trees out of storage, dousing it in pumpkin ornaments, a pilgrim’s hat on top.
The kitchen was equally enshrined to the holiday, though Mom’s culinary handiwork was the star. Pies on the island. A turkey roasting in the wall oven. A line of crock pots filled with various dips and appetizers, Mom never one to slack when it came to feeding her family.
The smell alone had my stomach roaring.
I headed down the few steps into the sunken den to join Pop, the back of his salt-and-pepper head to me as he worked on one of his favorite activities at his desk - a crossword puzzle.
Pierogi sat on the ottoman like a king, donning a turkey sweater and an orange ribbon behind each ear.
“Mom didn’t bring Thanksgiving down here, too?” I asked with a grin. The den was the one place Mom didn’t get to flip upside-down on a whim. It was Pop’s zone where he vegged out with football.
He chuckled, his shoulders rolling as he turned in his computer chair to look at me. “Rule number one of marriage, Junebug, is compromise. I get this room. Your mother gets the rest of the house.”
“That’s not very fair.” I leaned in and gave him a hug before joining Pierogi on the ottoman, my little fur brother too cute to ever compete with as he climbed on my lap.
“Sure it is. It keeps your mother happy and me sane.” He lifted his crossword, waving the puzzle at me. “You know the first word on this one? Juniper! And the last one was Ivy!”
I smiled, cringing internally at my first and middle names, even as an adult. Mom sounded like a total hippie whenever Sage and I’s names were said together aloud, though she wasn’t going the nature name route at all with them; she named us after her favorite ingredients: sage and juniper berries.
Somehow that totally went over fine with our father, Michael Mullen always saying yes to us kids and Mom. He was an eternally agreeable man, wanting nothing more than to make everyone smile.
I shoved the thought out of my mind, refusing to go there on the holiday. I loved Daddy. I always would. But thinking about him still ached, the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death barreling closer.
“Everything okay, Buggy?” Pop asked, narrowing his eyes at me as he set his crossword back on the oak desk.
“Yeah, uh, I just came from the hospital. Dash was roughed up with a tackle. Everything is fine. I’m just a little tired from all the action, I guess.”
“My God, you’ve had a helluva week,” he exclaimed, shaking his head as he let out a long sigh. “What are we going to do with you?”
I mimicked him, shaking my head. “I guess you’ll have to throw the whole daughter out and start over.”
He tossed his head back with a laugh, slapping his hands on his jeans-clad thighs. “You’re too much sometimes, you know?”
I smiled. Leave it to Pop to chase one out of me. “I’ve heard that a time or two.”
A rustling upstairs sent Pierogi springing off my lap, running toward the stairs barking. More like yapping. He’d never managed to work up a manly bark.
“Sounds like Mom and Babcia are here,” I noted.
Pierogi stayed at the base of the stairs barking, glancing back over his shoulder every so often at us as if begging us to follow him.
“He must sense evil,” I cracked, Pop erupting with laughter again. “I guess I’ll head up and face Satan one on one.”
Most people would shudder at calling a grandmother such things, but they hadn’t met Babcia. I had yet to figure out how such a wicked woman birthed an angel. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the old crow laid eggs.
“I’ll be applying holy water like lotion,” Pop joked, spinning around in his chair to go back to his crossword. “Can’t be too careful with the Jersey Devil in the house.”
I followed Pierogi upstairs, finding Mom and Babcia in the living room. Pierogi took one look at the pair and booked it back to Pop, abandoning me at the gates of hell.
Babcia was as peckish as ever, her nose and cheekbones chiseled like a castle gargoyle. Her poker-straight bob was dyed jet black as usual, the severe cut almost as frightening as the pointed acrylics she wore — long, red and promising pain if you wandered too close. Sometimes I wondered if cartoons had modeled their villains after her.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Babcia,” I greeted, stepping into view with a deep breath.
Bring it on, Babcia.
Now was the time for her to fire off her first shots. What was it going to be this time? Did I gain weight? Was my skin bad? Hair oily? Clothes cheap? I was ready for whatever was coming.
“Oh, Juniper, your mother told me about that awful man!” she huffed, shrugging out of coat number one, a thick, winter parka with a fur-trimmed hood that she chucked at Mom. “You know, I never liked him. When I saw him on Labor Day, I knew he was a shyster! Remember that, Mabel? I told you he was a bozo!”
“Ma, let’s not soil Thanksgiving with talk about that rotten turkey,” Mom urged, hanging the parka on one of the hooks. “Doesn’t Juni look beautiful? I love that dress, honey.”
Babcia stripped off coat number two, one complete with a dead animal around the neck, head and tail still attached. “Oh, that dress reminds me of that hooker movie. What was that movie, Mabel? The one with the prostitute with the heart of gold.”
“Pretty Woman, Ma,” Mom grumbled, reluctantly taking the roadkill jacket. “Juni is our little movie star.”
“Thanks.” I swished from side to side for effect, the dress’s skirt shim
mering as its hidden sparkle caught the light. I made sure I selected something Babcia couldn’t pick apart too much, but sure enough, she found an opening.
“It is nice to see your breasts tucked away for a change,” Babcia muttered, slipping off of her final coat, a green mass of yarn with snagged loops for days. Her actual outfit fit her to a T, a black, tasseled turtleneck dress with pointed loafers. All that was missing was her broom and cauldron. “You always look like you’re for sale, no offense.”
I shrugged, smiling sweetly at the tiny demon. “I guess I’ll have to start charging a fee then.”
“Ma, I’m going to work on dinner with Juni in the kitchen. Make yourself at home here in the living room. Do you need anything?”
Babcia murmured something in Polish under her breath before scanning the room. “Where’s little Yogi?”
“Pierogi’s in the den with Pop,” I informed. “He’s tired today.” I figured I’d offer him an out. No living creature deserved to be forced to spend time with her. Even plants.
“Oh, good. He’s still alive.”
I didn’t offer a response, heading to the kitchen for a glass of wine. It was the only way I’d make it through Thanksgiving with Babcia.
7
Sage arrived after glass number three.
I’d have to spend the night in my old bedroom to sleep it off, but I’d rather do that than deal with Babcia’s tormenting sober.
In time, it became entertaining. The slut comments started cha-cha-ing with the lack-of-marriage jabs, forming their own conga line of nastiness. The brain static it caused had the bonus of silencing the worry over kissing Dash.
But seeing my brother walk in brought it rushing back, alcohol adding a splash of paranoia to up the ante. It was worsened as he greeted everyone but me, settling into the seat next to mine at the dinner table without a word my way.
“The CT scan come out okay?” I asked after a long, awkward pause.