Chapter Eight #2
“What about Fletcher?” he finally asked, hoping to deflect her question.
“Who is Fletcher?” she said in a lyrical tone, her playfulness wrapping around them like a promise of something more.
“I’ve been saying that all along. Glad you’re finally on board.”
“Yes. You. Have.” She tapped her fingers against the door, punctuating each word as if driving them deeper. “I need to be a better listener.” She turned slightly, examining him with curiosity. “I think we should run through the drive-thru and grab a bottle. The night’s still young.”
“You really think that’s a good idea?”
“Do you have a better one?” she practically cooed the words. “I’m not done celebrating the end of my relationship.”
The temperature rose some. “I don’t think you need another drink.”
“What are you now, Bear? The alcohol police?” she slurred.
“No, a good friend.”
“Such a gentleman.” She reached over and laid her palm against his cheek. He felt the jolt all the way to the center of his bones.
What hold did she have over him?
Whatever it was he couldn’t control how deeply it affected him.
“I’m not a gentleman. Good men don’t have the thoughts I’m having right now.”
“I’d be heartbroken if I didn’t wreak havoc in you. But you are good, Bear. You’ve been there for me. The best friend a woman could ask for. A true cowboy.”
“Best friends don’t want to sleep with each other. Just sayin’.”
“Really? I beg to differ. Being best friends should be the base of every relationship.”
“Now we’re talking relationships?”
“You’re holding on to every word I say.” She turned her attention to the window. “I’ve had my fill of relationships for a bit.”
“About Fletcher—”
“Oh please. I have no desire to talk about him anymore,” she whined.
“Do you know how much time and effort I’ve invested in him?
All that time I’ll never get back. Lost. Gone.
” She slipped off her boots and pulled her knees to her chest. “His mother never liked me. Did I tell you what she said about me the first time she met me? She said I don’t have birthing hips. ” She drew in a breath.
“She said that to you? I don’t know what birthing hips look like but those are perfect hips.” He whistled through his teeth.
“No, she didn’t say it to me. She told Bentley who informed me.
Want to know what else? Ms. Rude Francine said I’d never make a good wife because I don’t know how to run a proper kitchen.
She told Bentley all he’d get from me is reheated chicken tenders and potato salad.
I can cook just fine.” And just as quickly she said, “No, that’s a lie.
I can’t cook. Why can’t I cook, Bear?” She sniffed loudly.
“Is that why you were in the kitchen trying to make an apple pie? To impress Bentley or his mother?”
“Maybe both.” Her shoulders sunk some. “I’ve never tried to impress someone by being someone who I’m not.
It’s time I admitted the truth to myself.
I’m not cut out to be Bentley’s wife, or a senator’s wife at that.
I don’t have cooking skills, and I don’t even know if I want a baby.
Now or ever. God, if I said that to Bentley, he’d believe he was talking to Satan. ”
“Do first lady’s cook and take care of their children without nanny’s?” Bear questioned.
“I don’t know and at this point it doesn’t matter.
There’s no room in my life for Bentley, or his mother.
He made his choice and he should stick with it.
Let him go find himself a proper wifey who will cater to him and have lots of parties where everyone adores how pretty their house is decorated.
Someone with birthing hips to have lots of babies. ”
His chuckle made her look. “Sorry, but that’s hilarious. I thought only horses and cattle had birthing hips.”
“Oh, please let’ change the subject.” She shuddered. “I know what I want to know. What’s your real name? You’ve never told me. That’s odd.”
“You never asked.” He didn’t like talking about himself.
Never did because there was a fine line between what he could reveal and what he couldn’t.
He couldn’t remember what it was like to not live secretly.
Now he guessed this had become a way of life.
Oddly, no one really cared to ask about his real name until now.
“Well, I am now.” She tapped her nails against the glass as she tilted her head, as if sizing him up. She turned her attention back to the road. “Pull over!” she yelled.
He slammed on the brakes in reaction. The tires squealed and the scent of rubber filled the truck. “What the fuck, Aasia?” he muttered.
She flung open the door and flew out. He watched her in the headlight beams bending down to look at something in the road. What the hell was she doing?
“Aasia? Get back in the truck.” When she paid him no mind, he slipped out of the driver’s side and met her at the front fender. “Aasia?”
She turned and showed him the tiny furball tucked in the crook of her arm. The fluffy eared, black spotted kitten meowed. “I think he must be lost.” Aasia nuzzled his head.
“His ma is probably out here somewhere. She’ll come and get him,” he said and took a step back toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Are you suggesting I should put him back on the road to fend for himself?” The beams of the headlights seemed to intensify her disappointed expression.
He swiveled on his heels. Her gaze had narrowed on him and she wasn’t moving. “He’s young. When they wander the mama cat always finds them. Trust me.”
“We have no way of knowing that. What if momma cat is hurt? Or worse? There are coyotes in these woods.”
The kitten let out a loud meow as if to second her words.
He hooked his thumbs into his front pockets. He knew he was toast. “Then what do you want to do?”
“Take him home,” she said without hesitation.
“Home?”
“Yes, as in where I live,” she didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in her tone.
“I was afraid that’s what you meant.” He walked around to the passenger seat and motioned for her to get in. As she was climbing into the truck, her foot slipped and he caught her. “Steady on your feet, Grace,” he teased.
Once she was tucked into the seat for a second time, he strode around and climbed in. The kitten stared at him with big dark eyes. He felt like he was at the end of a firing squad.
“Do you not like cats?” Her question was more like an accusation.
“I’m indifferent.” He pulled the truck back onto the road.
“Isn’t he the cutest though?” She lifted the kitten up and touched her nose to his.
Why did Bear feel a bit of envy? He’d liked to be on the end of that affection.
“Bear?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t go home drunk like this,” Aasia said in a serious tone.
“Why?”
“Because Pedora will skin me alive.”
He chuckled. “You’re what? Thirty?”
“Almost. I’m sure she knows I drink but not drunk.
She says it’s not healthy for my liver. I think it’s really because she’s afraid I’ll turn out just like my alcoholic mother.
” Although her words were said even toned, he caught the flash of something in her expression.
She’d never talked about her mother, or childhood, with him before.
“Could be she’s just worried about you. You’re not an alcoholic. Not even close.”
“I know. I just don’t like to disappoint her.”
“Well, we have two choices. You can sleep in the bed of the truck, or you can come back to the Creed’s Creek bunkhouse with me.”
“You’d let me come there with you?”
“Trust me, it won’t be the highlight of your week. I promise to keep my paws to myself.”
“What if I didn’t want you to keep your hands to yourself?” Her slurred words betrayed the sassiness.
“If you’re too drunk to sneak into your house then sex is off the table.”
“Fine. I’ll keep my hands to myself too. At least I’ll have this cute thing that’ll cuddle with me.” She lifted the cat in the air and nuzzled it’s nose again.
He gave his head a gentle shake, trying to toss away the thoughts that she’d planted in his brain. “What are you going to name it?” he asked, needing to change the subject.
She placed the cat in her lap. “I can’t.”
“You’re going to name him I can’t?”
“No. I can’t name him when I’m not sober,” she said decisively.
“Yeah, I could see where that could be a crime in the worst degree.”
“Who’s the cynical one now?” She yawned and sunk deeper into the seat, cradling her new pet. “I like you Bear, a lot. But if you can’t trust me enough to tell me your name then we can’t be friends.”
He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lose her, even if they could only be friends. Fact was, he wanted to tell her things he’d never told anyone.
“Ben Lane. My real name is Ben Lane,” he said. When he got a snore in response, he glanced over at her. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell rhythmically. The kitten still held Bear in its firm gaze. “Don’t look at me like that.”