Wild Man
Page 10
“The crash,” I found my mouth whispering and I watched him blink.
“What?” he bit out.
“During… when Agent Calhoun… when I…” I stopped and licked my lips. “There was a crash outside the interrogation room. That was you.”
“Yeah, babe, that was me throwing a chair against the wall.”
That was him throwing a chair against the wall.
That was him.
That was him.
That was him throwing a chair against the wall.
I closed my eyes and did a face plant in his chest as my body relaxed in his arms.
That was Brock throwing a chair against the wall when he heard me admit to being raped.
As this knowledge flowed through me, it did it like a warm gush of clean water wiping away years of filth.
Oh my.
“Tess,” he called as his hand at my head tensed and his arm around me gave me a squeeze.
I opened my eyes and saw tee.
“Is this really your favorite tee?” I whispered against the fabric.
I felt his body still for a brief moment before I felt his whiskers pull at my hair as he slid his jaw down the side of my head.
Then he whispered in my ear, “Yeah.”
“It’s old and ratty-assed,” I informed him.
“Exactly,” he informed me.
I closed my eyes again. Then I smiled. Then the smile faded from my lips as I opened my eyes and tilted my head back, his came up with mine and I looked into his quicksilver eyes.
“Do you want me to stop by the store and pick up some Bud on the way home from the shower?” I asked softly and the mood shifted in the room again. It got warm and heavy, sultry, sweet.
My favorite mood of his. Bar none.
Damn, I missed that too.
“Yeah, baby,” he answered softly.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes then he opened them and dipped his head.
Then he kissed me, light and gentle at first then warm, heavy, sultry and sweet.
My toes curled and my fingers did too, right into his ratty-assed tee at his back.
Okay, okay. Seriously.
I missed this most of all.
He lifted his head and his hand at mine shifted around to the side of my neck, taking my hair with it, his thumb moving out to catch me under the chin and keep me facing him.
“Where you movin’, darlin’?”
“Kentucky.”
He did a slow blink. Then he asked, “Kentucky?”
I shrugged.
He grinned.
Then he said quietly, “All right, baby, we’ll talk about that later too.”
“Okay,” I said quietly back.
His eyes moved over my face then his hand shifted up so his thumb could glide over my cheek then my lips then he dipped his head and put his lips where his thumb was for a brief touch then he pulled away.
“Later, babe,” he whispered.
“Later, Slim.”
That got me a full blown, striking, white smile.
My toes curled again.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Four
Committed to His Job
“This cake is so beautiful, it’s a shame to cut it!” Ada cried right before she dug right into the huge cake I made for her shower.
I smiled a polite smile as the abundance of women tittered around me excitedly at the thought of getting their free slice of a Tessa O’Hara cake. Not to brag or anything but my cakes and cupcakes had been written up in the local papers because they looked as good as they tasted and my bakery was shoulder to shoulder from open to close, ten to seven, seven days a week. That cake was homemade yellow cake with vanilla buttercream frosting. Simple but a winner. Even I knew they were in for a treat.
Then that titter changed as they watched Ada cut miniscule slivers and put them on the paper plates with the big blue teddy bear on them.
There you go.
That was Ada.
She told me how many people were coming so I made a fourteen inch, four layer cake, plenty for everyone to have a nice, thick slice. But Ada was cutting slivers so she could have half a cake as leftovers for her and Vic.
I sighed, wondering what the heck I was doing there at all since three years ago when Ada met Vic and, because she was thirty-six and her biological clock was ticking so loud the personnel at NORAD were tracking it, she immediately dedicated herself to the sacred quest of making him her fiancé then her husband and now the man who was the father of her unborn child, Ada pretty much checked out of my life. She called me to make the cake for her engagement party then for her bridal shower, her wedding and now this. Only two of those cakes she paid me for and she asked for (and stupid me, I gave her) a discount on both. I’d only seen her on those occasions and all of them required me bringing a present. Other than that, Ada was all about sculpting (with chisel and hammer if she had to) Vic into the perfect suburban husband, wedding planning, house hunting, house decorating and baby making. She didn’t have time to be a friend unless it was to call on all of us to buy her presents and celebrate milestones of her life.
I didn’t even think she sent me a Christmas card last year.
And I had my own milestone to think about, I didn’t need to be here.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a milestone. But whatever it was it was a big, huge stinking deal because no way that scene with Brock “Slim” Lucas in my kitchen was not a big, huge stinking deal.
I knew it.
I started thinking about how and when I could get out of there while handing around plates with slivers of cake and baby blue plastic forks on them but when I gave one to the woman sitting beside me and she muttered an annoyed, “Muthafucka.”
As it would, this surprised me so I looked at her to see her staring down at her nearly transparent slice of cake and I was right, she appeared annoyed.
I didn’t know her but had met her that day. Her name was Elvira, mocha skin, hair in stylish crop with blonde highlights at the long bangs, fabulous tangerine top that showed even more fabulous cle**age, skintight skirt that showed this baby had back and she would have been shorter than me if she wasn’t wearing four inch, killer, stiletto-heeled sandals. She came to the party with a cadre of beauties, all of whom I’d met in passing before at Ada’s milestone “celebrate me” celebrations, a knockout blonde named Gwen, a tall, svelte, modelesque blonde named Tracy and another modelesque, tall, svelte African American named Camille.
But I’d never met Elvira.
“How do you know Ada?” I asked and her eyes came to me.
“Don’t know the bitch and don’t wanna know a bitch who puts out bowls of peanuts, no honey roast, no salt, just motherfuckin’ peanuts with the motherfuckin’ skins still on them and some corn chips for a party and then she gives me a sliver of cake. Shit. What? Crazy,”
“What?” he bit out.
“During… when Agent Calhoun… when I…” I stopped and licked my lips. “There was a crash outside the interrogation room. That was you.”
“Yeah, babe, that was me throwing a chair against the wall.”
That was him throwing a chair against the wall.
That was him.
That was him.
That was him throwing a chair against the wall.
I closed my eyes and did a face plant in his chest as my body relaxed in his arms.
That was Brock throwing a chair against the wall when he heard me admit to being raped.
As this knowledge flowed through me, it did it like a warm gush of clean water wiping away years of filth.
Oh my.
“Tess,” he called as his hand at my head tensed and his arm around me gave me a squeeze.
I opened my eyes and saw tee.
“Is this really your favorite tee?” I whispered against the fabric.
I felt his body still for a brief moment before I felt his whiskers pull at my hair as he slid his jaw down the side of my head.
Then he whispered in my ear, “Yeah.”
“It’s old and ratty-assed,” I informed him.
“Exactly,” he informed me.
I closed my eyes again. Then I smiled. Then the smile faded from my lips as I opened my eyes and tilted my head back, his came up with mine and I looked into his quicksilver eyes.
“Do you want me to stop by the store and pick up some Bud on the way home from the shower?” I asked softly and the mood shifted in the room again. It got warm and heavy, sultry, sweet.
My favorite mood of his. Bar none.
Damn, I missed that too.
“Yeah, baby,” he answered softly.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes then he opened them and dipped his head.
Then he kissed me, light and gentle at first then warm, heavy, sultry and sweet.
My toes curled and my fingers did too, right into his ratty-assed tee at his back.
Okay, okay. Seriously.
I missed this most of all.
He lifted his head and his hand at mine shifted around to the side of my neck, taking my hair with it, his thumb moving out to catch me under the chin and keep me facing him.
“Where you movin’, darlin’?”
“Kentucky.”
He did a slow blink. Then he asked, “Kentucky?”
I shrugged.
He grinned.
Then he said quietly, “All right, baby, we’ll talk about that later too.”
“Okay,” I said quietly back.
His eyes moved over my face then his hand shifted up so his thumb could glide over my cheek then my lips then he dipped his head and put his lips where his thumb was for a brief touch then he pulled away.
“Later, babe,” he whispered.
“Later, Slim.”
That got me a full blown, striking, white smile.
My toes curled again.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Four
Committed to His Job
“This cake is so beautiful, it’s a shame to cut it!” Ada cried right before she dug right into the huge cake I made for her shower.
I smiled a polite smile as the abundance of women tittered around me excitedly at the thought of getting their free slice of a Tessa O’Hara cake. Not to brag or anything but my cakes and cupcakes had been written up in the local papers because they looked as good as they tasted and my bakery was shoulder to shoulder from open to close, ten to seven, seven days a week. That cake was homemade yellow cake with vanilla buttercream frosting. Simple but a winner. Even I knew they were in for a treat.
Then that titter changed as they watched Ada cut miniscule slivers and put them on the paper plates with the big blue teddy bear on them.
There you go.
That was Ada.
She told me how many people were coming so I made a fourteen inch, four layer cake, plenty for everyone to have a nice, thick slice. But Ada was cutting slivers so she could have half a cake as leftovers for her and Vic.
I sighed, wondering what the heck I was doing there at all since three years ago when Ada met Vic and, because she was thirty-six and her biological clock was ticking so loud the personnel at NORAD were tracking it, she immediately dedicated herself to the sacred quest of making him her fiancé then her husband and now the man who was the father of her unborn child, Ada pretty much checked out of my life. She called me to make the cake for her engagement party then for her bridal shower, her wedding and now this. Only two of those cakes she paid me for and she asked for (and stupid me, I gave her) a discount on both. I’d only seen her on those occasions and all of them required me bringing a present. Other than that, Ada was all about sculpting (with chisel and hammer if she had to) Vic into the perfect suburban husband, wedding planning, house hunting, house decorating and baby making. She didn’t have time to be a friend unless it was to call on all of us to buy her presents and celebrate milestones of her life.
I didn’t even think she sent me a Christmas card last year.
And I had my own milestone to think about, I didn’t need to be here.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a milestone. But whatever it was it was a big, huge stinking deal because no way that scene with Brock “Slim” Lucas in my kitchen was not a big, huge stinking deal.
I knew it.
I started thinking about how and when I could get out of there while handing around plates with slivers of cake and baby blue plastic forks on them but when I gave one to the woman sitting beside me and she muttered an annoyed, “Muthafucka.”
As it would, this surprised me so I looked at her to see her staring down at her nearly transparent slice of cake and I was right, she appeared annoyed.
I didn’t know her but had met her that day. Her name was Elvira, mocha skin, hair in stylish crop with blonde highlights at the long bangs, fabulous tangerine top that showed even more fabulous cle**age, skintight skirt that showed this baby had back and she would have been shorter than me if she wasn’t wearing four inch, killer, stiletto-heeled sandals. She came to the party with a cadre of beauties, all of whom I’d met in passing before at Ada’s milestone “celebrate me” celebrations, a knockout blonde named Gwen, a tall, svelte, modelesque blonde named Tracy and another modelesque, tall, svelte African American named Camille.
But I’d never met Elvira.
“How do you know Ada?” I asked and her eyes came to me.
“Don’t know the bitch and don’t wanna know a bitch who puts out bowls of peanuts, no honey roast, no salt, just motherfuckin’ peanuts with the motherfuckin’ skins still on them and some corn chips for a party and then she gives me a sliver of cake. Shit. What? Crazy,”
