93. Flamingos and Moonbeams
FLAMINGOS AND MOONBEAMS
LIVY
I thank the kid who drops the groceries into my trunk and let a smile loose when he sees Kyle’s big head turn to reach for the celery stalks. “You can give him one if you want.”
“One what?”
“A piece of celery.”
“How would I cut it?”
“Just break it off at the base.”
“The whole thing?”
“Sure.”
To Kyle, I say, “Be gentle and wait.” The tail thumping the back of my seat momentarily stops. When I hear his teeth crunching and his tail starts again, I say, “Who’s a good boy?”
“He’s cool.”
I stick the tip out of my window, and the kid accepts. “Have a great day. Kyle appreciates the treat.”
I don’t roll it up and head down the coast on an impromptu vacation. I took the rest of the week off. It’s the off-season, after all, and the few appointments I had were easy to adjust.
That whole I’m-back-and-they-can-suck-it vibe was obliterated by the time I left the meeting.
When we get to the house, I turn Kyle loose in the yard as I open the windows and doors and let the breeze off the water filter in. How I survived winters in Delaware and Pennsylvania, I’ll never know. This is so my speed.
I send Sabine a message.
Me: Things went from bad to worse, if you can believe it. I’m going radio silent for a few days.
Bean: You sure?
Me: Yeah. I’ll give you an update soon, but I can’t handle rehashing right now.
Bean: 72 hours. Any longer and I’m calling in the cavalry.
She knows I need the time to process this and sit with it. I need to calm my mind.
I leave my phone, kick off my shoes, and whistle for Kyle.
I leash him up and walk to the beach, sitting directly on the sand. The waves crashing in and being sucked back out sets the pace, and my breathing slows and deepens to keep pace. I empty my day out in those exhales and leave the horrible meeting where it belongs.
I close my eyes, lean back onto my palms, and focus on feeling the granules as they massage my legs.
I flex and contract my muscles, tightening each in turn, forcing the muscle to do its job before releasing it and moving to the next.
I’ve worked all the way from my hips to my toes when Kyle alerts me of someone coming.
He's an easy dog, and passersby never seem to trigger him, but when it’s the two of us out some place, he tends to assume the role of protector. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, though. I can only assume he would pounce and lick someone should they attack.
Feet come into view beside me. Without a word, the body they’re connected to folds to sit beside me and leans back, fingers digging into the sand, mimicking my pose.
I can feel Layton’s gaze on me for a moment before he stares out at the ocean.
Kyle circles him, sniffing and snuffling as if he’s trying to taste the air around us. When Layton extends a hand, Kyle drops his nose and takes all the love and attention he can receive.
“Who is this?” Layton asks, addressing my dog as if he isn’t two hours away from his house.
As if he were invited to join us.
“Kyle, say hello to Mr. Ranger.”
“Mr. Ranger, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Ranger is my dad.”
“That’s usually how it works.”
“Yup.” He pops the “p” at the end of the word and continues rubbing Kyle, who slides into his down position, stretching his chin to the sky. “This is a beautiful dog you have here. Sweet one, too.”
“Kyle’s perfect, actually.”
Layton hums.
I don’t know if he’s thinking or agreeing, so I go on, “He can do no wrong.”
“Lucky Kyle,” Layton says to my dog, who rolls to his back, exposing his chest and neck, openly submitting to this complete stranger. “How did you win her trust, Kyle? Mr. Ranger”—he emphasizes the words while passing a sly look back to me—“apparently can do no right.”
“Kyle, tell Mr. Ranger he was crystal clear that he and I are, at best, colleagues, and, at worst, acquaintances. He should know I’m showing him the respect I would show any colleague who doesn’t want to be associated with me.” My eyes never leave the waves.
His hand snakes through the sand until his pinky touches mine, dancing along the top of the flesh there. “Kyle is very trusting. Is this normal?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s not standoffish, but this is new.”
“Are you as trusting?” His pinky hooks around mine.
I shake my head again. No need for words this time.
Speaking to the waves, Layton asks, “Do you know how much I make?”
I yank my hand back and stand, flinging sand everywhere and whistling. “Kyle. Let’s go, my good boy.”
As I take my first step, I turn back and stare down at Layton cool as a cucumber on the beach. “Here’s the thing. I don’t give a flying fig how much you make.”
I rush for the house, not running, but making time to get away from the man who can’t stop insulting me. Nope. That gives him a pass for his egregious behavior. It’s not that he can’t. It’s that he won’t.
Layton
I stand and brush the sand from my pants. The more I know about Livy Morgan, the more intrigued I am. She’s up the porch steps and is muttering under her breath, in full sentences to her dog, as she opens the door for him, when she stops dead in her tracks.
My only assumption is that she’s distracted by my shoes that I shucked there when I saw her on the beach.
She shakes her head as if to negate their existence and walks in, never looking back.
I look at my truck, knowing the easy thing is simply driving away. Walk away from Livy Morgan and all the shit at work and keep my nose to the grindstone in training.
No entanglements. No challenges. No complications.
Instead, I open the door and walk inside the house at the threshold. It’s decorated like any beach house would be in minty blues and soft yellows, with seashells as décor and pictures of sand dunes and beach chairs with umbrellas in primary colors on the walls.
Livy keeps her back to me. Her shoulders slump, and her head faces the floor.
And I can’t stand it. She’s rainbows and unicorns. She’s flamingos and moonbeams. Livy Morgan is not defeat and frustration.
I move to stand behind her, not touching her, but close enough she can feel my heat.
I bend and kiss the defined dome of her right shoulder.
She sucks in a breath, and I finally can breathe a sigh of relief. She’s feisty, but she doesn’t hate me. She’s spicy, but she’s not unaffected by me.
“A flying fig?” I can’t hide the humor in my voice as I quietly ask.
“I don’t swear. But I really, really wanted to…” She pauses before asking, “Why would you ask me that question? It’s insulting. Did you wake up today and decide to be cruel?”
“Pix.” I turn her so I can see her face. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. I had a point. I just didn’t make it well.”
“Oh, you made a point, all right.” The fire in her eyes is irresistible, and I do what I’ve wanted to since… Oh, fuck it. Who cares when?
I pull her to me and drop my lips to hers, holding her eyes until I’m so caught up in Livy that I let go and let the wave of her kiss suck me under. I pull her to me, feeling her soft in my hard places, loving when she finally gives in.
Her moan into my mouth ignites my blood.
I deepen the kiss, claiming her mouth, pulling her deeper into my body.
Before I forget how to, I break our connection and pull back, looking down at her swollen mouth and her soft golden eyes.
“You were saying…?”
“I don’t remember what I was saying,” she whispers before dropping her head to my pecs.
“Something about points?”
“Are you trying to pick a fight, Layton?”
“That’s better. At least Pop isn’t in the conversation anymore. Not that I don’t love my old man, but I didn’t come here to discuss him.”
“What did you come here for? How do you even know about this place?”
“One thing at a time, Livy.” I grab her hand, kiss her knuckles, and use it to tug her with me to the sofa. “What did I say that was cruel?”
The look of disbelief on her face is not the soft one I put there with that kiss. Her eyes are shrewd and assess me. She doesn’t know she’s exposing me, laying me bare. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“I guess not. Enlighten me.”
“You think because you make a certain amount, you can throw your weight around? You think I’m after you for your money or…” She growls. “I don’t know what.”
“I never said either of those things.”
“You implied them.”
“Did I?” I query. This is the best conversation I’ve had in as long as I can remember, and I don’t want it to end. I’m practically goading her, but I’ll do anything to keep her talking.
“Do you know how much I make?” she asks me.
“No, I don’t. Do you know how much I make?”
Her eyes slice to slits again. “I already answered that.”
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t. You told me you didn’t care how much I make, not that you didn’t know.”
“Let me be clear then,” she starts. Her back is up and fire burns in her eyes. “I do not know and I do not care how much money you make. It’s not about your money.”
I tap the back of her hand. “You may not like this, but it’s very much about how much I make.”
Her face goes hard. I could’ve predicted that after the last several minutes with her.
“You do not know me, but I can say with certainty it is not.”
“To you,” I start. “That may be true for you. But out there—” I nod to the street. “Out there it matters. And in that room this afternoon, it really mattered.”
“Are you saying my work is less valuable?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep bringing it up?”
“Is the pinky toe less valuable than the femur?” I ask.
“Do you have head trauma or are you playing coy? What in the world are you getting at?”
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“The femur is large and weight-bearing. It’s critical. The pinky toe—which has a name, by the way—is minute, often overlooked, and could be easily dismissed. But that bone is responsible for balancing the whole body.”
“Right. So different functions but both important?”
She sighs. “Are you here to play word games? This is tiresome.” She stands, but I grab her hand before she can walk away.
Tugging a little, she falls toward me. I catch her and arrange her on my lap. I hold her eyes as I say what she won’t want to hear, but she really needs to get.
“You are a pinky toe. Critical. Providing balance. The body and its functions are wrecked without it. I’m a femur. Large, prominent. And, I’m sorry to say, seen by some as more important.”
“I’m not loving this.”
“Pix? You have a nonfraternization clause in your contract. If the people in that room saw this—” I look between us before finding her eyes again. “They would consider enforcing yours long before they’d consider enforcing mine.”
Her eyes flare, and she stiffens a bit. “That’s wrong. It’s unethical. I’d dare say it’s immor—”
I grab her neck where that fucker touched her and pull her mouth to mine, cutting off her tirade about equal rights. I kiss her, coaxing her mouth.
She pulls back, still fighting for control. “Why wouldn’t you stand up and expose the disparity in that?”
“I did what I could to protect you and your job without starting a shitstorm with your boss, my boss, and everyone else who doesn’t care about you or me or anything other than bottom-line performance and… money. Always follow the money.”
She drops her head yet again. This is softer than last time. “And you’re the money…”
“To them? Absolutely. So long as I make them rich, I have a job. No matter my behavior.”
Her acquiescence comes in the form of a nod against my chin and softening in my arms. Fucking finally!