Chapter 9
BURGLAR BAIT
GREY
The way I'm staring at her as she walks toward the restrooms is probably illegal in at least a couple of states.
Never been kissed. Never been kissed? How in the holy fuck has she never been kissed? Did her parents lock her up? They would have had to.
And then. And then. She took off that baggy cardigan to reveal the absolute rocket of a body. Every curve, the swells of her generous breasts, her bra thin enough that the hard tips of her nipples are visible. The way it took every stitch of my will not to full on stare at her chest?
Illegal. Straight to jail.
I can't think about it anymore. I'm not allowed to think about it. Ever. So I start reciting baseball facts from the eighties, when I was a kid and she wasn't even fucking born. She's not even from my century for fuck's sake.
Jose Canseco, forty-two homers and one twenty-four RBI, .307. Wade Boggs, .366. Roger Clemens, two hundred ninety-one strikeouts.
It goes on this way for a while, long enough that I start to wonder after her.
But she's five drinks in, and it's well after one.
I've seen her nearly eat shit half a dozen times just in the last half hour, and if we stay, she's going to want to keep drinking.
So I gather her things and head to the hall where the restrooms are just as Molly exits.
I lock onto her eyes and promise myself that's where they'll stay.
"I'm ready for another drink, Coach!"
"Bar's closing soon, peaches, and you're five drinks deep. Time to head home."
She pouts dramatically. "Aw, man! You even said the codeword , dangit."
I hand her the cardigan, and she starts to walk toward the mouth of the hallway as she pulls it on.
I thought it couldn't get worse than discovering the curves I've learned are under her baggy clothes. That is, until she steps in front of me, and I see that her skirt is caught in the back of her tights. And there I find the sweetest ass I have ever seen in my whole entire fucking life.
My hand shoots out to grab her arm, which is in the air, her head somewhere in the cardigan still.
She nearly topples over, so I pull her back flush against the front of me, my other hand holding her bag and the water bottle.
With my free hand, I help her pull on her sweater, leaning down to her ear.
Her breath is shallow. She smells like lemon cake.
I swallow hard.
"Sorry, peaches--one sec." When I pull the hem to loose it from her tights, she freezes, realizing what happened.
"Oh noooooo," she says quietly.
I chuckle, my mouth still near her ear. "Nobody saw."
"You did."
I don't know what to say to that, so I stand, finally landing on, "Well, I'm nobody too."
"That's not true either." She turns around and looks up at me, flushed cheeks smiling. "I see you, whether you want me to or not."
Then she's off for the tables to say goodbye. For a second, I just stand there, blinking. And then I find myself and follow.
This was a mistake. Big mistake. Get her home and tap out.
I don't say much as we leave the bar, get in my truck, head to her house.
But she doesn't seem to notice, chattering happily, drinking the Gatorade I shoved in her hand the second we got in.
She just lives a couple of blocks away and had walked to the bar, but I'll be goddamned if I'm letting her walk home in the dark after midnight, couple of blocks or not.
When we pull into her driveway, she nearly falls out of the truck, giggling.
I spend the time between my truck and her front door measuring the risks of picking her up and carrying her inside--I don't know what I'd do with that much of her body against mine.
Instead, she wobbles toward the door, and I follow with Gatorade and Saltines.
The little yellow house is charming and teeming with personality, even in the dark with no porch light.
At a distance at least--up close, it's easy to see the effects of time in the worn, bowing wood and flaking paint.
It was probably built in the twenties like my house, but with little Edwardian details in the woodwork, the porch rails, the window casings, the beautiful front door.
Once safely up the stairs, she hinges at the waist, her eye about two inches from the lock as she tries to insert it.
I take the keys from her easily, gently, noticing that beautiful door is hung crooked as I unlock it.
This is confirmed when I open it and it sticks.
"Your door's not straight."
She blows a raspberry as she passes and waves a hand at me.
"This is burglar bait, Molly--anybody could break in." I work to shut the door, glaring at it before giving it my back.
A trail of shoes and a sweater lead toward the bedrooms, I'd guess.
"Right, since the crime rate in Roseville is on the rise."
Don’t worry! I’ve taken self-defense!”
I hear her make a karate hy-yah! sound and imagine her doing an air chop.The thought almost erases my frown as I pick up her shoes and setting them near the door so she doesn't trip on them later.
Her sweater, I throw on the back of the couch.
Looking around, the inside is in worse shape than the outside, but with even more charm--curved casings, elaborate fireplace facing and mantle, original flooring, plaster medallions around the ceiling light fixtures, though it's all in need of repair.
At a glance, a couple of the windows look stuck, and there's some bowed molding.
When I pour her a glass of water for her nightstand, I note that the sink is loose too.
"Who's your handyman?" I call, striding toward her room, looking for a trashcan. There's one under a small writing desk, and I'm glad it has a plastic bag. She very well might need it.
"Don't have one."
I frown, making my way in her direction with my hands and arms full.
"What do you mean you don't have one--"
I stop dead in the threshold of her room, once again with a magnificent view of her magnificent ass, this time with the added gift of her slender waist and bare back. All of it disappears with the fall of a gigantic tee.
I don't realize she's still talking until she turns around and her mouth is moving. She's unfazed. I shake my head like a dog.
"…and I've been fixing what I can myself. Well, me and Dale. Dale's Demos. He's pretty good, despite sometimes giving you the steps out of order. Is that for me?"
I nod, stepping into the room to hand her the glass of water and set the trashcan next to her bed.
"Ooh, thank you," she says, swaying as she glugs the water down.
Somehow, I remember my objective, unloading my haul, setting the Gatorade and crackers on her nightstand before reaching into my pocket. Next to the haul, I put a roll of tums and a little travel case of Advil after taking a few out.
"Here, take these."
She frowns. "I don't have a headache."
"Preventative measures, peaches."
With a determined nod, she knocks them back.
"Tired?"
She has to think about it. "Yes."
"Need to brush your teeth?"
"Already did. I was speedy like a fox." Her arms whoosh like she's sprinting.
"Ready for bed?"
"Yup." She's already climbing in, and once I pull the covers up to her chin, I kneel, gently taking off her glasses to fold them and put them on the nightstand.
Without her glasses in the way, I can see every dark eyelash, her dark eyes with that sunshiney burst around her blown pupils.
Her trusting eyes are relaxed and sparkly, her smile making the corners crinkle ever so gently.
I could drown in the sight. For a second, I do.
She sighs happily, bringing me back to myself. I pick up the trashcan, showing it to her.
"Just in case--trashcan, for puking." I set it down, and she follows my hand as I point to each item. "Gatorade and water, crackers if you're woozy. Advil, Tums." I scan the room, finding her phone at the foot of her bed so I can plug it in for her.
"Thanks, Coach." She smiles up at me sweetly.
"You're welcome. Anything else?"
A mighty frown hits her face, surprising me. "Wait, are you leaving?"
I pause. "Well…yeah."
Her hand shoots out to grab mine--it's small and warm and strong. "Oh, no. No, you have to stay."
Again I kneel, not separating our hands. "How come?" I ask gently.
"Well, what if I…what if I forget what I'm supposed to do? What if I wake up and don't remember?"
A chuckle. "It's not advanced math, peaches."
"Well…what if I'm sick and I need something but I can't get up?"
"You can call me."
Her eyes are big and brown and unhappy, and that does something to me that I can't account for. "Will you stay? Please?"
I probably should run. But I don't. Instead, I sigh and nod. "All right. I'll stay."
My knees pop when I stand, but she's happily sitting up, visibly relieved. "Oh good. Thank you, Grey. Here, you can sleep in here."
I'm already halfway to the door and snort. "Absolutely not."
"You can't sleep out there. The couch is too small, so uncomfortable. It's no big deal, Grey, it'll be fine! We'll just put pillows between--"
I hit the light and am out of her room as fast as I can.
"Absolutely not," I repeat. Then stop in her living room and stare.
Everything is shabby and small and familiar, including the couch, which I'm certain is going to do something heinous to my back.
But I look around for a throw blanket, finding a big fluffy one in a chair by the window that I imagine her cuddled up in with a book.
"Okay," she says on a yawn. "Thanks again. Night!"
"Night," I call, wondering how the fuck I got here. How did it get this far? How'd I lose this much of my own leash?
I'm too tired and sober to even attempt an answer. So I lay on the tiny couch with my feet hanging over the arm and spend a lot of energy sleeping like shit.
The rush of excitement beneath it all is easy enough to ignore.
Wonder how long that will last?