Wild Man Page 36

  He had not given her any money, however.

  “She was very fond of John Atencio,” he said to me as he forked into a piece of my soured chocolate cake (to die for) with milk chocolate buttercream icing. Dade, I’d learned since Olivia left and he became a regular at Tessa’s Cakes, was a chocolate cake man. “I’m certain she can make her frequent trips to that store work for her.”

  John Atencio was a fabulous, exclusive jewelry store and I figured Dade meant that Olivia was going to be spending some time in a pawn shop, or perhaps learning how to sell things on on-line auctions.

  Needless to say, although things had worked out for Brock and the boys, and the boys, to my surprise (and delight, and it must be said, Brock’s too), had settled in quickly and easily, relaxing in my house and making themselves at home within days (or more like hours, since I made a carrot cake for Rex and a chocolate cake for Joel and this obviously screamed “You’re home!” to now eleven- and thirteen-year-old boys), this did not mean our nightmare was over.

  No.

  Not at all.

  Because Olivia was a bitch, and I was learning, when none of the games bitches could play were swinging their way, they scrambled.

  Therefore, Olivia was a regular at the station and her name was on the display of Brock’s phone so often, it was a wonder it hadn’t etched itself into the screen.

  When she phoned or visited him at work, she did not want to talk to or about the boys. No. She needed Brock to hang shelves. She needed Brock to look over legal documents Dade was sending her. She needed Brock to look at a sink that had a drip (even though she was in a freaking apartment complex with a freaking maintenance man). She was selling her Mercedes (something Dade allowed her to have) and she needed him to help her. She was buying a new car and she needed him to go with her so she didn’t get screwed.

  She told him (and Brock told me) that she was turning to him as the mother of his children to help her out in a bad situation.

  And, also by Brock’s report, she’d gone saccharine sweet.

  “She’s got her nose so far up my ass, babe, I swear I feel that bitch in my throat,” Brock, unfortunately, gave me a rather disgusting visual while we were lying in bed one night, his head to the pillows, his hands rubbing his face, his tone frustrated, his mood heavy in the air.

  Brock was a good man too, the best, but he was a different kind of good man than Dade. Or perhaps, he just had more of a history with Olivia. Therefore, he said no. Then he said no again. Then he said it again. Then he stopped taking her calls when her name came on his display. Then, without even a word, he started to flip his phone shut and turn off the ringer when she called him from other phones. And luckily his colleagues had learned to spot her when she arrived at the station. They started to give Brock the heads up so he could disappear before she made it to his desk whereupon his badge-wielding brothers told her he was out.

  He was done. He was not going to hang shelves, look over legal documents, or help her buy a car.

  The problem was, weeks had passed and she wasn’t giving up.

  While his frustration filled the room, in bed, I’d pressed into him and whispered, “She’ll eventually give up and go away.”

  Brock’s fingers had scored into his hair, his palms at his forehead and just his silver eyes tipped to me. But they told the tale. They told the tale that this was an example of her five years of her making him miserable until Dade came into her life. And now Dade was going out of her life. And Brock was facing five-plus years more. And he didn’t like this either.

  Since we were in bed and I was comfortable, I didn’t want to go get him a beer or a bourbon. So, to make him feel better, I settled on a blowjob.

  As usual, that did the trick.

  “I’m not sure Brock’s going to like that,” I said to Raul.

  I mean, I didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was, essentially, a wall and a door. How hard could that be?

  “Only another week,” Raul said in my ear.

  “We were kinda hoping you’d have it done by the time we got back from vacation,” I told him.

  “I don’t see that happening,” Raul told me.

  Damn.

  “Maybe you should talk to Brock about this,” I suggested.

  “No,” he said quickly and I pulled in an annoyed breath, knowing his avoiding the wrath of Brock was why he phoned me in the first place. He never phoned me. This was Brock’s deal. He’d made that very clear in his firm, unyielding, “I deal with things that require drywall, two-by-fours, hammers, and men with work belts” macho man way and I gave in. This was mostly because I had no desire to deal with more things that required drywall, two-by-fours, hammers, and men with work belts considering I had enough to deal with with my new bakery. “If you could do the favor of passin’ it on, I’ll schedule it in, for sure, when you guys get back.”

  “Actually, I think you need to speak to Brock,” I said.

  “Things’re just pilin’ up. I’ll sort them when you’re gone and I’ll definitely get you on the schedule week after next.”

  “Raul, you need to tell this to Brock,” I semirepeated.

  He ignored me. “That’s a promise, Tess.”

  I walked out of Dillard’s and into the mall but stepped to the side, out of pedestrian traffic, and stopped.

  Then I said, “I’ll tell Brock, Raul, but I wouldn’t waste your busy time scheduling us because, if I tell Brock you’re delaying again, he’ll phone and fire you. I know this for a fact. We needed this done weeks ago, when you promised you could get it done, and you aren’t the only contractor in Denver. If you don’t start work Monday while we’re on holiday, he’ll find someone who will. Now, I’ll be happy to tell him you’re delaying again but that’s the same as your telling me you cannot do the job. There are two options here: either we go our separate ways or you find a way to get to the house on Monday and start work. And, if you pick door number two, I would advise you to actually keep your promise. I think you get you shouldn’t rile Brock and I think you get that because you’re on the phone with me, not Brock. You’re right. You shouldn’t rile Brock. He wants a room for his son and he’s going to get it and not in June. Yes?”

  “I do understand where you’re comin’ from, Tess, but if I could do it I would and you could go with another contractor but you couldn’t get the guaranteed quality you’ll get from me,” Raul replied, and I sucked in another annoyed breath because I had hoped to save Brock from another frustration right before vacation.

  And I failed.

  Crap.

  “Fine,” I stated. “Prepare to be fired. Take care, Raul.”

  I disconnected and as my thumb found Brock’s contact info on my phone, I headed to Mrs. Field’s Cookies because Mrs. Field could bake a mean cookie and I knew I needed a cookie to soothe the abrasions I’d endure after talking to Brock.

  I put my order in as it was ringing and Brock answered on ring two.

  “Babe.”

  “Hi, honey, do you have any cookies nearby?”

  Silence, then, “Shit. Olivia, Raul, or Tess Two?”

  He was guessing as to the variety of annoyances in our lives that was making me ask if he had soothing cookies nearby.

  “Tess Two” referred to my new bakery, which was not so much an annoyance as a huge time suckage. Martha was still getting her feet and she knew me, she understood my vision, she’d spent a lot of time in Tessa’s Cakes, she’d been there when the concept was developed, but she loved me and she didn’t want to mess up. Therefore, she involved me with everything that had anything to do with “Tess Two,” even though I agreed with her on practically everything she’d asked for confirmation on.

  And Martha didn’t shut down at five o’clock. She didn’t even shut down at seven. Martha was on a mission to get Tessa’s Cakes in LoDo off and running and therefore it wasn’t unheard of for Martha to phone whenever Martha needed to phone. This included once (and only once) Martha calling at eleven thirty at night, a t
ime when both the boys were in bed asleep and Brock and I were busy.

  This happened only once because Brock snatched up the phone, looked at the display, touched the screen, and growled, “Not a good time, never a good time, unless you’re dyin’ or you killed someone. We’re in bed. When we’re in bed, no one is in this bed but me and Tess. Ever. Now, are you dyin’ or have you killed someone?” He paused, then, “Right.”

  Then he touched the screen, turned off the ringer, tossed it back on the nightstand, and came back to me. I thought it was prudent not to request details but I knew who the caller was and when Brock came back to me, he immediately resumed our interrupted activities, activities I had been thoroughly enjoying and wanted to recommence. Therefore, I made the decision to concentrate on said activities and explain things to Martha the next day.

  So I did (though, she’d already guessed).

  She never called late again and she also didn’t get mad. She’d done an about-face with Brock, learning I loved him, he loved me and made me happy, so now she thought he was the bomb (and told me so).

  And she adored his sons.

  “Raul,” I answered Brock.

  “Fuckin’ shit,” he muttered.

  “He said he has to push it back another week. I told him, essentially, he was fired though I have to admit he’s waiting for your call to confirm that,” I went on. “I’m at a mall, you’re dealing with homicides. Do you want me to call him back and confirm that so you don’t have to?”

  “You call him, darlin’, that’ll deprive me the opportunity to tear him a new asshole. So, no, I don’t want you to call him back.”

  Hmm. I kind of felt sorry for Raul.

  “Okay,” I said softly. I took my cookies and set them aside as I dropped my Dillard’s bag to rummage in my purse for my wallet. “When I get home, do you want me to search for a new contractor?”

  “I’ll deal with it when we get back from the island,” he surprised me by saying. “Rex is set for now. He isn’t complaining. It’s working so it can wait.”

  “Okay, honey.” I was still talking softly. Then I offered, “I’m at Mrs. Field’s. If you don’t have cookies handy, do you want me to buy some for medicinal purposes later?”

  “Mrs. Field’s are sweet, baby, but nothin’ beats your kind of sweet.”

  That was nice, very nice but I wasn’t entirely certain if he meant cookies from my bakery or a different kind of sweet that I could give him for medicinal (and other) purposes.

  I decided that I’d pop by the bakery, just in case. Cover all the bases.

  “Okay,” I said yet again.

  Having paid for my cookies, I smiled at the clerk, shoved my wallet back in my purse, grabbed my stuff, and took off.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “Yep. The boys have a bevy of swim trunk selections. I’m leaving the mall now, on my way to get them from school. When we get home, I’ll supervise packing.”

  “Babe, we got two days.”

  “And tomorrow we have one day. We don’t want to rush. When you rush, you forget stuff. We need to be prepared. There are four of us and the boys need supervision. And I need a whole evening to sort myself out. Not to mention, I need to concoct dinner from whatever is in the kitchen so we don’t leave stuff that will spoil.”

  “Tess, we’re goin’ to Aruba, not a jungle in Paraguay. We forget stuff, we buy it. We come home, stuff spoils, we throw it out.”

  Hmm. This was true. Except the “we throw it out” part. Brock, Joel, and Rex would undoubtedly come home and continue to utilize the fridge as they normally did. That was, standing in its open door, staring inside like doing so could form whatever they wished to have (if it wasn’t already there), and they would ignore anything with mold on it that had gone bad. Therefore, the “we” part actually meant “you.”

  Brock went on before I could remind him of this fact. “And, far’s I can tell, you can take a carry-on because all you need is a bikini.”

  I continued to dodge fellow shoppers on my way to the exit as I explained, “Brock, first, I don’t wear bikinis. Second, I need more than one bathing suit for a week. That requires at least three but I’m going with four, which is how many I bought when I was out shopping with Martha, Elvira, and the girls last week.”

  By the way, my ban on the mall was up and I made a vow to myself that, next year, post-Christmas, no matter how frenzied Christmas could get, I was lifting the ban in February because I’d gone gonzo when I hit a mall for the first time in over two months. I bought practically an entirely new vacation wardrobe. Some of it was hot but all of it was awesome and none of it I needed (really), especially not after paying for four to be accommodated at a five-star hotel and while setting up a new bakery.

  “Third,” I carried on talking to Brock, “although I intend to relax I also intend to shop and you can’t shop in a swimsuit. And last, evening will require me in something other than a bikini and who knows what we’ll be up to? We could be going to nice restaurants or local dive restaurants or family restaurants. I’ve never been to Aruba. Maybe we’ll go to all of those kinds of restaurants and each kind requires a different kind of vacation outfit, not just for me, for all of us. Therefore, we all have to be prepared.”

  To this long-winded, multipoint explanation, Brock asked, “You don’t wear bikinis?”

  I rolled my eyes and headed to the exit doors, outside of which my car was parked. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Why?”

  I pushed through the doors, asking, “Do I actually need to explain?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked his own question of, “Do you own a bikini?”

  I answered his question. “No.”

  “Babe, you’re at a mall,” he told me something I knew.

  “Actually, I’m outside walking to my car.”

  “Turn around and buy yourself a bikini”—he paused—“or four.”

  “Brock.”

  “Sweetness,” his said, his voice had dipped low, “you got a great body. Fuckin’ beautiful. Since you told me about this trip, I’ve been imagining you on the beach in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining you other places in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining taking off your bikini. All this imagining has lasted four weeks. I only got two days left to wait. Don’t take that away from me.”

  Mm. I liked that. All of it. So much, I started imagining too.

  My imagining took all my attention so I stopped behind a car and studied the tips of my high-heeled boots.

  Then something else hit me and I asked, “Do you think it’s okay to be in a bikini around the boys?”

  I could actually envision Brock’s eyebrows snapping together before he said, “Uh… yeah.” Then, “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  There was a moment of silence then, softly, “Baby, you just became stepmom to two boys. That doesn’t mean you gotta go June Cleaver.” He ended on a muttered, “Or Christ, at least I hope you don’t.”

  I thought about it.

  Then I informed him, “Donna never wore a bikini.”

  “Did Donna have a great fuckin’ body like you do?”

  “Donna was five foot two and liked carrot cake more than Rex and chocolate cake way more than Joel. How do you think I learned how to make them?”

  I listened to my man chuckle and then he said, “Turn around and buy me some bikinis.”

  “I already bought you three nighties.”

  More silence, then low, “Fuck. Make my year, sweetness, turn around and add bikinis.”

  I grinned.

  He went on. “I’ll swing by, get the boys, bring ’em into the station. Can you pick them up here?”

  His question and the casual way he asked it made warm gushiness saturate my belly.

  This was an addition to my life that I liked. Since Martha started and my load was less but Brock’s hadn’t changed, Brock dropped the boys off at school (on time) and I left th
e bakery to get them in the afternoons. Usually, they hung out with me at the bakery after school. Sometimes, I had to take them to baseball practice, which had just started, and I’d hang while they practiced. Sometimes, I called it quits early and we all hung out at home.

  I liked this. All of it. Meeting, even fleetingly, the other moms and dads I’d see during school runs, getting to know the boys’ friends and their parents, having chats with the boys about how their day went. I never thought I’d have that, asking two beings I loved if they had their homework done, listening to them chatter in the car while I drove, hearing their voices drifting up the stairs while they fought in front of the television about what they were going to watch, going to the grocery store and buying food enough for a family, not just myself or not just myself and a partner.

  I loved being with Brock. He made me feel safe. He made me feel beautiful. He made me feel loved. I loved all he’d given me, more than I could say.

  But the best thing he’d given me was a family.

  And since he gave me a family, I could give him bikinis.

  Therefore, I turned back toward the mall, answering, “Sure.”

  “Text me when you’re on your way.”

  “All right, honey.”

  “Later, babe.”

  “Later, Brock, love you.”

  “Me too, darlin’.”

  I sighed happily.

  He disconnected.

  I put my phone in my purse.

  Then I saw the middle of a man in front of me. I started to scoot by him and say, “Excuse me,” but I didn’t get the “Excuse me” part out.

  This was because the middle of that man scooted the direction I scooted.

  My head came up and I caught his eye.

  “Sorry,” I said on a small smile and scooted the other way.

  He again scooted the way I scooted.

  Uh-oh.

  “Uh…” I started.

  “Mr. Heller wants to see you.”

  Damn!

  I looked beyond him to the doors to the mall. I was four car lengths and a thoroughfare away. I was in high-heeled boots. He was big and brawny. Maybe this meant he’d be slow if I made a run for it.