Chapter Seven
Misty
The last thing I expected was to find a biker I’m supposed to be leery of standing in my front yard talking to my daughter. And being that hot was even less expected.
God, that dark hair he tied up combined with the short beard on his face made me want to jump his bones. The large muscles didn’t hurt, either.
It took everything in me not to invite him inside for a nice, cold beverage. And then taking off every piece of clothing with my teeth. Especially because he seems to derive pleasure from my bitchiness. The only defense mechanism I have against men.
No, I can’t let him get to me. One week a year.
That’s all I allow myself to give into my urges, and based on my reaction to the sexy, tatted man who called Bernie cute, I’m ready to burst. Or, maybe he called her glasses cute.
Either way, he didn’t immediately give an excuse to run away when he learned her diagnosis.
Zeppelin. What kind of name is Zeppelin? I know he said his mom was a fan, but was she a groupie? Really loved to get high and listen to classic rock?
But it oddly suits him. Fits.
I just have to get my mind off that strong jaw beneath his beard. All I want to do is reach out and touch it to see how soft it is. And discover whether or not it would leave red marks on my thighs.
Or against my face as he kisses me senseless. God, I bet he’s great in bed. Skills very few other men have.
Stop it, Misty!
When spring break comes, I’ll send my baby to spend the week with her father’s parents. They’re decent grandparents even if they let their asshole son kick us out when I was pregnant. And don’t find it worth reprimanding him because he has nothing to do with Bernie.
When they take her, I have a week to find a man or two to help me scratch the itch I have. The one that the vibrating toy doesn’t quite reach when I’ve gone too long without physical intimacy with a man.
“Zep seemed nice,” Bernie calls from the kitchen.
“Something like that.”
“I heard him ask about me. Just like the kids in class did.”
My mind completely abandons thoughts of Zeppelin in bed, and I walk to her with concern. “The kids in class asked about you?”
“Yeah, but it was okay. Most of them seem nice. There’s one girl, Carly, who seems really nice. I think we’ll be good friends.”
“Do you want to invite her over for dinner one night?”
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “We’ll see. She’s in soccer, so she’s at practice after school every day. She wears tall socks. Do you think I can get some socks like hers, Mommy?”
I smile and find a snack for her. “I think we can go shopping soon to find some. Do you have any homework?”
“Just math. It sounds like Zep’s as good at math as me.”
Wow, these walls must be pretty thin. “I bet you’re better than he is.”
“I wonder if I could beat him in a race. Of math. He has very long legs, so I don’t think I could win a running race.”
Zep did have amazing legs. Thick thighs I suspect are pure muscle. “You’d be surprised,” I say, pushing the thoughts away. “Catch him at the right moment, and you might speed past him like a blur.”
Yeah, like when he’s drunk off his ass. Or maybe high. Whatever his vice is.
“That would be so funny!”
I grab the cookies and pour two glasses of milk. I don’t always give her sugary treats like this, but I think she might be downplaying what it was like for her at school. Bernie tends to put on a brave face for me.
“I have to make a birthday card for Dad,” she says, catching me by surprise.
“He’ll love to get it,” I say, taken off-guard.
How the hell did she remember Ben’s birthday?
“Mommy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“How come you don’t have a boyfriend?”
And now we’re switching gears again. Bernie knows her father and I aren’t together, but she doesn’t know the truth about him. And if I have my way, she never will.
“Um, I guess I don’t really need one. Why?”
“Ms. Larson… you know, my teacher? Her boyfriend sent her roses today. She wouldn’t tell us why, but her cheeks turned pink when she read the card. Then she hid it so we couldn’t find it. You deserve to get flowers, Mommy.”
I can imagine what those roses were for, and I’m finding myself heating up a bit too much. The type of activity I haven’t done since last spring break.
I’ve never gotten flowers in my life. I might’ve had flowers in a corsage if I’d gone to prom, but I didn’t. And when Bernie’s sperm donor and I were together, neither of us had enough money to buy condoms let alone purchase something frivolous like flowers.
“Maybe I’ll get flowers one day,” I say with a smile.
“Zep might give you flowers.”
Yeah, if I screwed his brains out, maybe. But they’d likely be ripped from a neighbor’s garden. “I don’t think Zep’s the boyfriend type.”
“Really?”
“I know men like him, and he’s more of a friend. At best.”
“What’s your favorite type of flower?”
Smiling, I tap her nose. “What’s your middle name?”
“Daisy!”
“I do love daisies. They were on the wallpaper in the hospital room where I delivered you. I remember thinking they were so pretty, but I wanted to name you something that would have a nickname. And didn’t make people assume you were fragile and delicate.”
Bernie giggles and splashes milk on the counter as she dunks her cookie into it. “I’m not fragile!”
“No, you’re not.”
Maybe I should put up some daisy wallpaper round here. Brighten things up a bit. Grandma’s house hasn’t been updated since the 90s, at least.
“I should look into whether I can plant daisies outside,” I muse. “We can pick our own flowers that way.”
“It’s not the same,” she says with her mouth full. “You need to be given flowers by a boy.”
Tickling Bernie, I scrunch up my nose. “You can get yourself flowers, baby. Never think you need a man for something you want or desire.”
“But it’s nice to get something from a boy.”
She’s eight. Where the hell is she getting this from? “Sometimes. But there’s something empowering about getting something for yourself.”
“Can we invite Zep over for dinner one night?”
There’s a very little chance she’s going to let this go. “Maybe.”
“How about this? We’ll have Carly over for dinner after you ask Zep to come over?”
This girl is going into sales, I swear. “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”