Chapter 15
Doc Plum’s car is almost as nice as his ass. And that big, furry, manly chest. I know which one I’d rather take a ride on, though.
“You had practice tonight, didn’t you?” James asks, eyes on me as I steal a greasy fry from his take-out bag. “Why are you out jogging?”
I got home from practice, studied for an hour, went to Green Line Ice for my first shift, then came home exhausted to find Mom crying. I couldn’t handle it, so I ran.
“Not all of us are naturally hot like you. For me, it takes a lot of work.” A dozen shades of gold and amber flash in James’ eyes as he gives them an appropriate roll.
“I’d ask what you’re doing out, but I guess that’s obvious.
” Looking for further distraction, I fish around in the bag.
“Ooh, two chicken sandwiches. Why Mr. Plum, I do believe this is fate. They’re my favorite.
” With a grunt, James reaches across the center console and snatches his dinner from my hand.
“Mine too. You want one?”
“I want something.”
“Well, then. Why don’t I turn around and drop you off. I’ve even got a coupon you can use.”
“Or you can take me back to your place and we can split your buns.”
It’s tiny. Some may say insignificant. But the slight crinkle I see at the curve of James’s lips feels like everything. “You really do think you’re something, don’t you?”
No.
“Cocky hockey players are so hot right now. I’m just giving the people what they want.
” When we slow to a halt at the next light, James seems to be at war with himself, hands tapping on the steering wheel, his head turning my way, gaze coasting up and down from chest to waist, then snapping back only to repeat the same pattern.
I can’t blame him. My red short-shorts are riding high.
“I’m not taking you to my old apartment,” he says randomly. “That can’t happen. You have to know that.”
“Hey, I’m not the brightest, you said it yourself.”
“That’s not…” His tapping ceases, fingers instead gripping the wheel as though he’s going to rip it from the dash. “It’s wrong of me to mock your intelligence. From what I understand, you have a STEM-heavy course load and you’re excelling.”
Not any more. “Duh, of course I’m excelling. I wear glasses. I’m obviously a nerdy brainiac.” James lets his gaze shift to my eyes, his own narrowing. It’s fleeting, but electrifying.
“Even at this age, you still get that nonsense? Please tell me such childish taunts don’t bother you.”
“Of course they don’t.” I aim to disguise my defensiveness but if James’ expression is anything to go by, I failed.
“Good. Because it’s ridiculous to let such stereotypical, superficial things define us.”
“What, superficial things like sexy swimmers’ bodies, with pretty pink nipples?”
Collapsing forward, he lets his head fall against the steering wheel. “Yes. Things like that.” There’s a hint of a blush rising from the collar of his polo, and I am mad for it. It’s so much fun watching him squirm that I don’t mind the silence that descends as we take off again.
He must though, as without looking, he reaches for the touchscreen media display and taps randomly at the screen.
Despite my best efforts, I know so little about him that the prospect of learning something as insignificant as the music he plays in his car is almost enough to give me a semi.
Until some lame-ass country music fills the void.
“Please tell me you’re not some secret gay redneck, because if that’s the case, you can let me out here.”
Several horns blare from behind us as James slams on the breaks, bringing us to a screeching halt. Before I can react he’s leaning over me, fingers brushing the bare skin of my thighs as he reaches to open the door.
“On your way then.”
“So it’s true? You’re one of them? A red voting redneck?” Jame’s lips purse and his cheeks puff. I think he’s going to blow and not in the way I’d hoped.
“Mr. Malkovich. Weren’t we just speaking about the dangers in believing stereotypes?
Not that I need to explain myself to you …
again … but this is Mickey Guyton. A beautiful young country artist, who happens to be an outspoken liberal.
Like me. Even if she wasn’t, I would never accuse her, or anyone, of bigotry based on their music genre alone.
” With a nod, he motions towards the door. “Good night.”
“But—”
“Good. Night.” His cheeks are red now, but it’s not caused by modesty. Stubbornly, I grip the edge of my seat. If he wants me out, he has to toss me out.
“No. I’m not going anywhere. For starters, I don’t know where we are. What if it’s not safe? How would you live with yourself if I was to be murdered?”
“We’re a block from school and you’re fast. I’m sure you can out run any killer that happens to be roaming Chestnut Hill this time of night.”
“What if I trip?”
“Well, you better check your laces and make sure that you don’t.”
“What if—” Before I can think of another lame reason to not get out of this car, my phone rings in my pocket. Saved by the bell. Holding my right arm out, index finger raised, I grab my phone with my left, accidentally switching it to speaker as I do.
“Cory,” Cherry screams. “What the hell is wrong with you? Who the fuck runs out on their crying mother?” Suddenly, James and I’s roles are reversed. I can’t get out of the car fast enough and he’s gripping my arm to keep me in. “Did you know? Have you known all along?”
“No? I didn’t know. I mean, no, I don’t know. What am I supposed to know?”
“The mortgage, Cory. Mom took out a double mortgage a few years ago, and she’s fallen behind. The bank is going to take the house.”
“Whose house?”
“Whose house? What, you think she’s crying over the Three fucking Bears’ house? Our house, you idiot. They’re taking our house.”
“I’m terrible with people, may well be a hypochondriac, and I can’t drive stick.” Is the first full sentence spoken between us since James kindly offered to drive me home. “This isn’t my car. I can’t drive stick because I never learned.” Becomes the second.
“What?”
“This is Faith’s. I drive a 1997 Honda that’s currently sitting in our garage after refusing to start for the third day in a row. Faith let me take this, and she’s going to use my dad’s car that I can’t drive because–”
“Because you can’t drive stick.”
“Exactly.” Raising my gaze from the immaculately clean floor, I shift in my seat to face James and find him studying me earnestly.
“The business I was training in, that I had just invested in and was planning to take over, went broke. There were some …. many … accusations against the owner. I wasn’t aware of any of them until it was too late and I lost everything. ”
I try and fail to return the compassion in James’s expression. “That still doesn’t explain the friends thing. Or why you can’t drive stick.”
With a wink, he taps against his temple. “Or maybe it does.”
Agitation itches under my skin, not because he’s implying he’s dumb when clearly he’s not, but because of the conversation we had in his office. “So what you told me about your brother and your apartment, that was a lie?” He shakes his head, a forced smile curving his lips.
“No. Two things can be true at the same time. It’s a long story, but the condensed version is that within a year, I lost my partner, my job, then my dad who was not only an incredible man, but the carer of his son, my brother, Dylan.
It’s been a shit time, and I’m not trying to say my life is worse than yours, rather that there’s no shame in having money troubles.
Particularly when they’ve come about through no fault of your own. Occasionally even when they are.”
Hyperaware that James, who rarely speaks of anything at practice outside that of his role, has opened the door here, allowing me a tiny peek inside.
I know I should leave it at that. But the same curiosity that killed the cat seems determined to finish me off, too.
“Why does your brother need a carer? Is he sick?”
“No, he’s not sick. He has a significant intellectual disability, and profound autism.
He used to attend an amazing day program four days a week, but when Dad died we lost insurance coverage, and we’ve been fighting red tape to get it back.
Since Faith earns a ridiculous amount more than me, she works full-time and I’m home with Dyl the days we can’t afford any outside support. ”
“Oh.” God I am such an asshole. I have no idea what to say so I go for the first thing that pops into my head.
“I’ve blocked everyone I’ve ever hooked up with on the apps.
My loser dad, who could be dead for all I know, used to tell Mom he was taking me to the rink for peewee hockey, but he’d actually leave me in the car while he visited his girlfriends.
When Mom confronted him, he didn’t even bother excusing his cheating, instead he focused on me and said it didn’t make a difference if he took me to the rink or not because midgets, who can’t see the puck, can’t play hockey. ”
“Shit, kid.”
I’m not a kid. I think to myself before allowing the word vomit to run again. “They didn’t know I could hear them, but I could obviously, and from that day on I swore I would make it to the NHL.”
“And you did.” We pull up at my house with its faded paint and crooked screen door. After putting the car into park, James takes it in, then turns to me with a grin that twitches his mustache and lights his whole face. He looks so much younger when he smiles. He really is beautiful.
“Yeah.” I huff. “But at what cost?”