Unrestrained

by Joey W. Hill

  She should just pop up from behind the counter like some kind of macabre cartoon. "Yes, how may I help you?" Instead, she wiped her eyes and rose into view in a way that made it look like she'd been bending below the counter to get something out of the cabinet, rather than pushing herself up the wall as if her weight had tripled since she'd landed there. "I'm sorry, we're not open yet."

  The words were spoken before she took a look at her first customer. A good thing, since she might have stammered. He wasn't what she was expecting. Not just because he was a he, though she'd assumed men weren't the store's target demographic. Of course, it had been a long, long time since she'd been in a lingerie store herself, and Alice had possessed an eclectic clientele.

  This guy was in his early to mid-twenties, and looked like he'd escaped from the cover shoot for a romance novel. His stone-washed jeans belted at his lean waist, the style defining a superior tight ass, noticeable because he was turned away from her, examining the merchandise on the rounder closest to him. The sleeves of his denim shirt were rolled up at the cuffs, exposing tanned forearms. He had good shoulders--wide enough for his age. As he grew older and his muscle weight thickened, they'd probably get even nicer. She expected beneath those clothes his body was well-sculpted by the gym. Guys who worked out hard moved like wild animals, with easy grace and strength.

  His sandy brown hair brushed his collar and brow, and when he glanced toward her beneath an attractive scattering of strands, his blue eyes reminded her of the sky. "Hi. I'm Troy. I work next door."

  "Oh." Not a customer then, even though he'd been perusing a rack of bras, fingering a lacy D-cup with speculative interest and no self-consciousness. Cross-dresser? A lifetime ago, before their falling out, she'd spent time in Alice's world, brushing shoulders with everything from transgender to cross-dressers to dungeon masters. She'd learned enough about the various cultures to pick up the basics.

  Because of that, she didn't think he fit the type. He wore his clothes without any excessive fashion sense. Simple, basic guy clothes: blues and denims, work shoes. Though a cross-dressing straight guy was possible, his gaze marked her with automatic hetero interest. Interest in what she looked like out of her clothes, not how she wore them.

  "Nice to meet you." She regretted her listless tone, but he didn't seem fazed by it, approaching the counter to extend his hand. She suppressed the urge to take another swipe at her face, make sure her nose wasn't running. Yeah, that would be nice. Wipe her nose, then offer her hand to shake.

  In Boston, her client list included exacting millionaires and powerful corporate businessmen. She could handle an employee from . . . what was next door? A hardware store, that was right. In this artsy downtown area of Matthews, a quaint municipality on the outskirts of the much bigger city of Charlotte, all the stores were kitschy boutique-type ventures. The hardware store, the brief glimpse she'd had of it, was a historic leftover from eighty years ago, maintaining the original brick facade in front. It was still run like one of the old-timey general stores, advertising horse feed and strawberries in season, for heaven's sake, as well as small engine repair.

  Alice had relocated here from a Charlotte strip mall location a few years ago. In those previous visits, before their two-year estrangement, Madison hadn't had a chance to meet her new neighbors.

  "When we heard you knocking around, Mr. Scott told me to come over and see if you need anything."

  She realized he still had his hand out, and she was staring at him as if he'd sprung out of the walls. With a jerk, she lifted her hand to clasp his. Instead of doing the functional shake, he closed his fingers over hers, just held them. He had a rough palm, a strong, warm grip, and those eyes never left her face. "We're so sorry about Alice. She was an incredible person, and she loved you so much."

  Wow. He just zeroed right in on the personal, leaving her nowhere to hide. Madison blinked, hard, and unconsciously squeezed his hand, to find her own squeezed right back. She'd been dealing with lawyers, city clerks, real estate people . . . all of whom talked about Alice in distant niceties. This man was just as much a stranger as they were, but his obvious personal connection to Alice, physical and emotional, made her hungry to maintain the contact. She didn't want to make a fool of herself, but Troy saved her from that. He covered her hand with his other one, holding hers sandwiched between them and giving her an appropriate excuse to keep it in that position.

  "She left me this place," Madison heard herself say. "I'm not sure how to run it. I mean, I know how to run it, I've been in sales, but . . ."

  Good grief, Madison. She shrugged to get him to let her go and put both hands on the counter, pressing her palms against the cool glass. Beneath it was an array of jeweled nipple clamps and clit jewelry, displayed as elegantly as any offering in New York's Diamond District. She was pretty sure some of them had actual diamonds, since one had a $2,000 price tag. For nipple jewelry? In contrast, on top of the counter, Alice had a basket of plastic hopping penises, breasts and bright red lips. There was a cheerful yellow bow on the basket to draw attention to it.

  Alice. God, I'm going to miss you.

  Troy hesitated, then picked up one of the toys, wound it up, let it hop across the counter, making them both smile. "She was crazy," he said. "Crazy, wonderful, beautiful, sexy."

  She glanced up at him. Had they been lovers? Somehow she didn't think so. Yet his tone was intimate. He lifted his dark lashes to meet her gaze. It was impossible not to focus on his mouth, those eyes. When she saw him recognize that she was staring, she flushed. He straightened to his six-foot height.

  "Sorry. Mr. Scott says I need to be careful about doing that. I tend to be distracting." He said it without ego, giving her a half smile. "He says there's nothing wrong with looking the way I do, as long as I give as much pleasure as I take. But since I love giving it, it gets kind of confusing, because that's a form of taking, you know?"

  Fortunately, he didn't seem to expect an answer to such a complex question. "Anyhow," he continued, "I'd better get back. Come by later if you want to check out our store. You're always welcome. Mr. Scott wanted to give you time to settle in, but remember to call if you need us. We're here for you."

  With a nod, he moved back to the front door. Bolero was in its final strains. As he opened the door again, another song started. It was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," done in a poignant ballad piano style. Alice used to sing it to her, call her Little Star.

  Christ, how was she going to do this?

  --

  She locked the door and worked in the back on inventory for a couple hours, but eventually she came back to the cash register, pulled out her handheld and started making a list. Okay, if she really was going to do this, she needed to plan an ad in the local paper, announce a grand reopening under new management.

  When her palm settled on the folded letter she'd left on the counter, she saw she'd missed a postscript on the back of the last page. Unfolding the thin paper, she lifted it up to catch the dim light, since she still hadn't turned on the overheads and the sun was high enough that she wasn't getting as much of its light through the east-facing front window.

  P.S. You can trust Logan with anything, MadGirl. Don't forget that, no matter what. You can trust him like you trust me, like family. No, even more. Like a soul mate. He took care of me until you came.

  Alice had died three days after she arrived. There was already a nurse in place, helping with bathing, medications and the like, but Madison's understanding was she'd only been called in full-time right before Madison arrived. Because of everything else going on, she hadn't thought about the day-to-day primary caregiving, and Alice hadn't brought it up. Nor had the nurse discussed someone else. Had Alice instructed her not to say anything? Who the hell was Logan?

  Alice had never mentioned him in her letters or emails, not ever. Yet Madison could supposedly trust him more than she trusted her sister, the only person she'd ever trusted?

  With a sigh, she set the paper down. She shifted and b
umped that heavy package, a reminder that it was still there. When she squatted to take a closer look, she let out a mildly irritated oath. It wasn't her package. It was supposed to go next door, to A Different Time Hardware. Damn it, she'd had Troy right here.

  Well, she could use the break. The quiet of the place was getting to her. It was like Alice was standing there, waiting, watching, yet separated from her by a veil that couldn't be penetrated. It was making her head hurt.

  She also hadn't brought a soda, and she'd bet they had some over there. With the times-gone-by theme, maybe even an orange cream one, something she rarely indulged but today seemed to call for it. Maybe that and a Mallo cup. She'd pass out from sugar shock and discover this was all a bad, crazy dream, her sister gone, leaving Madison to run Naughty Bits.

  When the store was in its planning stages, about a decade ago, Madison had been the first to call it that, teasing her sister: "A career selling naughty bits . . ." Next thing she knew, Naughty Bits had its Christmas grand opening, with the catch phrase "Where naughty is nice . . ." She'd helped Alice decorate a tree with everything from filmy, sparkly thong panties to crystal snowflakes and tiny bullet vibrators in gleaming colors of blue and silver. They'd put a porcelain angel at the top dressed as a dominatrix, complete with wings that looked like two fanned-out floggers, tipped with gold.

  She picked up the package, the weight on the label indicating it was a little over twenty pounds. The clanking she'd mistaken for chain was probably nails or some kind of fastener. Exiting the front door of her store and locking it behind her, she walked down the sidewalk. It was about ten o'clock, so the other stores, mostly bistros and clothing boutiques, were starting to open. According to the hours printed on the hardware store window, they opened at seven a.m., Tuesday through Saturday, which explained why Troy had been able to show up in her store at about that time.

  The humid air suggested it was building toward a hot June day, but enough of a breeze stirred the crepe myrtles planted along the sidewalk to keep things pleasant. Around the entrance to the hardware store, hanging baskets spilled out lush falls of petunias, tempting pedestrians to buy.

  The door was already propped open with an iron boot brush. A chalkboard sandwich sign had been placed beside it with the day's specials: tomato plants, $3; all garden implements 20% off; fresh baked apple pie and coffee, $1.50.

  Heated apple pie was one of her favorite breakfast foods, and she smelled it the second she stepped into the shop. Given that the next thing to hit her senses was Troy, it wasn't a bad combination.

  She had a direct view down the aisle to where Troy was stocking. He'd donned a work apron, which didn't diminish the view a bit, given it didn't cover anything in the back. The shirt stretched over his shoulders as he reached toward the higher shelves. Since he was on a ladder, his ass had a nice taut lift. Maybe it was because she'd spent her morning immersed in articles of erotic fantasy, but her mind was flooded with an image of him sprawled facedown across a bed. He'd be sleeping, wearing nothing but a very artfully arranged sheet. She'd see a hint of pale buttocks just above it, the lengths of firm thighs exposed below. His fine toes would be curled against the cotton. One sandy lock of hair draped in his eyes, his lips parted, inviting a lover to press her lips to his, tease his tongue, wake him in all ways.

  "He's beautiful, isn't he? I've seen women's hands curl at their sides and them not even realize it, as if they're restraining an overwhelming need to touch him."

  She jumped, not only because she had company, but because her private thoughts had been intruded upon so accurately. When she turned, she discovered something even more unsettling.

  Her tongue had tangled at the sight of Troy. What she was looking at now stole all words and left only incoherent need, strong enough to close her throat entirely, take her breath.

  Yes, Troy was beautiful. Everything a virile young man should be. What was standing behind her was what such a young man could aspire to be, even though she expected few achieved it. It wasn't just this man's looks. It was everything beneath, the inside creating the outside.

  Like Troy, he was six feet tall or better, with shoulders like what she'd imagined Troy's rounding out to with maturity. He wore jeans and workboots as well. The cotton shirt unbuttoned at his throat gave her a glimpse of curling chest hair. She saw Anglo-Saxon in the strong bones of his face, a large man with large hands, a commanding presence. The warm brown eyes that focused on her face held so many things . . . Standing inside that gaze, it would be impossible to feel anything bad, no heartache daring to intrude while she was under its spell. He was near, and that was all that was needed.

  Okay, rein back the crazy and return to reality. He was close to forty, with gleaming, thick brown hair brushed back from that masculine face. It was long enough he had it tied back. She couldn't see how far it fell down his back, but the fact that he had it tied back suggested it went past his shoulders. She mocked men who wore long hair after they left their teens. It was pretentious and ridiculous, an attempt to hold on to vanishing youth. On him it looked right, a natural part of his persona, the way it would on a man born into a time period where long hair was the fashion. Vikings, seventeenth-century Scotland . . . It only enhanced his masculinity, the way it did a pirate or desert sheikh. She'd told Alice she loved that look in men--just not many men could pull it off.

  He did.

  For the second time today, she found herself caught simply staring, not responding like an articulate adult. She took an extra moment, struggling to recall his remarkable statement about Troy's beauty. Not the usual thing for a straight male to point out. "Are you two . . . together?"

  The word trailed off as his gaze sharpened on her. Christ, even if Matthews was an annex of the urban Charlotte area, she was still technically in a small Southern town, not Boston. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

  "Not where you're from, obviously." The trace of amusement in his brown eyes relaxed her, on that point at least. He crossed his arms and hooked his thumbs under his armpits, giving her a thorough perusal. "Down here, it's still like congratulating a woman on her pregnancy. If you're right and she is pregnant, all's good; if you're wrong, you're telling her she's fat."

  He had a voice that could narrate books. Whether they were romances with quiet whispers in the dark, seafaring adventures that called for commanding roars or English mysteries needing a sexy, cultured tone with the right pauses for emphasis, his voice would hold attention, ears straining to catch every intonation.

  He shrugged. "No, we're not together. And not just because you're my preference. I'm training him for someone else, in exchange for blatant exploitation. Home Depot has fifty thousand square feet, but I have Troy. The local ladies turned out in record numbers for my spring gardening sale. I even lured a healthy percentage of gay men away from the Depot's home decor offerings." He winked.

  "Do you offer to let everyone touch him?" she asked.

  "I wasn't offering that. Just observing how tempting it is to do so."

  "Sounds like entrapment."

  The brown eyes got warmer. "Spoken like a woman who knows the rules and rarely breaks them." He glanced at the box in her arms. "Is that for us?"

  "Oh. Yeah, here."

  "Since we share an address, deliveries sometimes get left at the wrong door. Sorry, I should have had you put this down right off. It's like a pile of bricks." He'd taken it from her as he spoke, moving behind the counter. She tried to keep her focus on his face, rather than the way the shirt strained over his broad shoulders. The temptation to reach out and touch the curls of coarse hair at his throat was making her fingertips tingle.

  She cleared her throat. "I figured someone had sent you a cinder block."

  Those attractive lips curved as he fished a box cutter out of a drawer and slit the box open. "Lead. We have customers who pour their own bullets for hunting, self-defense and historical reenactments, so I keep a supply, along with primers, powder and the like. But there should be something else in here." Hi
s expression brightened. "Right here on top."

  He freed the item from the packaging with remarkable gentleness, revealing a set of antique gold metal hinges. "The supply house for bullet lead also does metal work?" she asked.

  "They're an eclectic enterprise. A mom-and-pop place in Missouri. They even have a blacksmith who shoes horses and makes swords for Renaissance faires. I've been out there and visited. Almost bought an Excalibur replica, but decided on a good wood lathe. The lathe was cheaper."

  She studied the engraved design on the hinges. It looked like barbed wire, but on closer inspection she assumed it was a vine of thorns, interspersed with tiny leaves and loops. "You don't usually see thorns without a rose."

  "No, you don't. The potential of the thorns is often overlooked." He extended a hand. "Let me show you."

  She curled her fingers together, uncertain, though she knew she was being foolish. She was intrigued, and she was in a public place. Still, she hedged at the physical contact. This guy was doing weird things to her. She needed to get back to her store. "Hand holding? We haven't even been introduced officially."

  His gaze met hers. "I'm Logan Scott."

  Trust Logan. Like you'd trust me. Or a soul mate.

  This was the man who'd cared for her sister, all except those last three days. While she couldn't fathom why her sister had made sure they wouldn't meet until after she was gone, the knowledge of who he was now gave Madison the confidence to comply with his request. She put her hand in his.

  His fingers closed around hers. She'd never thought of a man's touch as unforgettable, but she drew in a breath at the way it felt. Reassuring. Firm and strong. Something that would become a permanent craving if taken away.

  "At last," he murmured. "We meet."