Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
DANNY
O f course, we both have to get up in the night to pee, but only I almost fall down the stairs. I blame Frankie for the fact that all my muscles have turned to cheesecake. I had an easier physical workout competing in a Tough Mudder race a couple of years back, where crawling along under barbed wire and scaling a mile of ten-foot mud mountains were only two of eighteen demanding dirt-themed obstacles. I was sore and crusty after that, but at least I could still navigate a set of stairs.
I rummage in Cam’s first aid kit for some pain killers but there’s only an herbal balm with a strong odor of Pine-Sol. I don’t want to go back to bed smelling like disinfectant, so I pass. It occurs to me that Frankie’s mom, Lee, might have given the balm to Cam, and I wonder if anything went on between them back in the day? Might explain why Frankie is so down on her mom, though she’s been civil enough with big man Cam so far. Ava would never tolerate anything but single-minded devotion in her relationship, so I’m certain that if there was ever anything between Lee and Cam, it’s long over.
Rough for Frankie to lose her dad so young, when she obviously got on better with him than her mother. I’d be bereft if Mom died and, yes, if Dad died, too. I know this because he almost did die last year, and I realized that despite our constant clashes, he’s my dad and I love him. Just wish he’d accept me for who I am instead of trying to make me fit some perfect Durant mold.
Going back up, I take the stairs carefully. My knees are still twinging and my quads and glutes are on fire . Forget beer, Frankie should start a fitness regime – Lindy Hop lessons and torture sex. A little niche, but I think it has potential.
Frankie’s fast asleep. Gingerly, I get back into bed, and check my phone, out of habit. Nothing urgent. Haven’t heard back from the producer guy yet. Despite his enthusiasm, I know it’s a long shot, but there’s part of me that really does want it to happen. I told Frankie I hadn’t failed yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m a success. No matter how good I am at it, being a car salesman isn’t like being a scientist or a Harvard MBA graduate. But if I have my own TV show, and it becomes popular … that’s something people might respect.
I fall asleep while rehearsing my speech for the Emmy’s…
…and wake to find all the covers have been stolen in the night. Okay, now I’m more alert, I can see that the covers are still here but are tucked around Frankie. She’s rolled herself up in them like a burrito. Hasn’t left me even a corner of the sheet.
I nudge her shoulder and hear a snarl. Lil Danny might be raring to go again, but Big Danny has survival instincts, and they’re telling me to put on some pants and go make coffee.
The smell of fresh brew precedes me through the bedroom door and it’s enough to rouse Frankie from slumber. She fights off the covers like it’s their fault she’s trapped, and blinks at me, disheveled and cross. Wild guess? Frankie is not a morning person.
She is, however, naked, and her luscious breasts are on full display. I can’t help it; my eyes have a mind of their own.
“Are you ogling me?” she demands.
“Yup,” I admit. “I also come bearing hot liquid. Want a shirt?”
She sees the coffee mugs in my hand, and realizes it’d be smart to cover up. Scalded bare flesh isn’t a fun way to start the day. I set the mugs down carefully on the floor because there is no side table as well as no closet in this room and fetch a shirt out of the drawer in the bed base. First one I lay my hand on happens to be a pink polo.
“This all right?”
“Give,” she says, and pulls it on.
Oh my. My shirt has never looked so sexy, and I say that as a person of not insignificant vanity. Lil Danny stirs in my Calvins but the need for coffee overrides everything. I hand Frankie her mug and carefully slide in beside her holding mine.
“Don’t speak,” she says.
No problem. Morning coffee is a sacred ritual and woe betide anyone who interrupts before the requisite level of caffeine is ingested.
We sip in worshipful silence until Frankie says, “Is it early or late?”
“It’s ten past seven,” I reply. “So … neither?”
“Shelby and Nate usually have breakfast at eight,” she says, without enthusiasm. “I guess I’d better be there.”
“I have granola and fruit downstairs,” I suggest.
“Ugh.” Frankie shudders. “Breakfast can only be eggs, toast, hash browns, waffles, or pancakes. The only acceptable side is bacon. No tomatoes or mushrooms ever.”
“Any style of egg?”
“Well-cooked scrambled,” says Frankie firmly. “Or an omelet if it’s not gooey inside. Plain only. None of those spinach and feta abominations.”
“We should both go to breakfast,” I say. “Not fair on you to take all the heat.”
Frankie sighs. “Why does life have to involve other people? It’d be way less complicated if we were all in our separate bubbles.”
“No dancing in separate bubbles,” I say. “No torture sex, either.”
“I warned you,” says Frankie, laughing. “And I also said we could take turns.”
“True…” I give her a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose?—”
“Nope,” she says, pushing away the covers that she stole. “If I’m going to face the court of Nate and Shelby, I need to look my best. First dibs on the shower, and if it doesn’t have a decent-sized water tank, then tough luck.”