Taking Connor (7 page)

I’m almost home when I see my neighbor, Brian, working under the hood of his truck. Pulling up beside him, I shout, “Hey Brian!” Apparently I startled him because he jolts and hits his head on the hood.

“Shit!” I cringe. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” he laughs as he rubs the back of his head with one hand and adjusts his glasses with the other.

“Truck broke down?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Piece of shit. I gotta leave for Oklahoma next weekend, and the damn transmission is acting up.”

“Can you fix it?” I ask.

“No. It’s going to have to go to a mechanic. Vehicles are like a foreign language to me.”

And here comes my sales pitch. “Well, I happen to know just the mechanic for the job, and he’s right down the street from you.”

When I return home, the garage bay door is open, and Connor is crouched down beside his Harley, his hand seemingly inside the machine. He’s wearing a pair of cargo shorts I bought him and nothing else. As I park the car, his head lifts, and his gaze meets mine. My eyes trace the intricate tattoos that run up his arms and down his back. It’s obvious he made good use of the gym in prison as his body is primed.

Snapping myself out of my lust-filled daydream, I climb out of the car, scolding myself for checking him out. Again. I’m obviously in need of some . . . something. I can’t keep checking out my cousin-in-law. That thought sends disappointment to the pit of my stomach. It’s too bad Vick didn’t ask me out. Wendy’s been begging to fix me up with one of Jeff’s friends, but I hate the idea of a blind date. So awkward.

I’m pulling a bag of groceries out of the trunk when Connor rounds the back of my car and snatches it out of my arms. “Let me carry these in for you.” With his free arm, he picks up the last two large paper bags and heads toward the house.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had help carrying bags in,” I call to him as I follow. “I’m going to get spoiled.”

Climbing the steps to the back porch, he says, “You deserve to be spoiled, Demi.”

Once we’re inside, he sets the bags on the kitchen table and begins pulling out the items. “Plumber just left. He says he’ll have to come back later in the week to fix the shower. The copper piping is rusted out or something.”

“He’s fired,” I huff in frustration. “That’s the third time he has been out here and claimed he’ll have to come back for some other reason.”

“I can fix it myself, Demi,” Connor volunteers.

I’m about to say that would be great, but a thought occurs to me. “You know what? I’ll ask Jeff if he can fix it. He’s out of work and could use the money I’m sure. In fact, there are a few things around here he could help me with. He’s a great handyman.”

“How long has he been out of work?”

“A little over a month. But when you have five kids, and you’re a single income family . . . money was already tight. I think Wendy is starting to freak out.”

“I bet,” Connor agrees. “Well, let me know. I’m here to help.”

“Oh . . . by the way. I just found your first client. My neighbor . . . well, our neighbor,” I correct myself, “Brian. His transmission is messed up or something. He’s bringing it over this afternoon.”

Connor looks at me, his features are relaxed, but his eyes are animated with some thought or emotion I can’t decipher. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for all of this, Demi.”

“Blake loved you so much, Connor. That love kind of rubs off on people. I’m not just your cousin’s wife, I’m your friend too. Friends help each other.”

“I’m a lucky bastard to have such a good friend.” He smiles and gives me a small wave as he leaves the kitchen.

The next night, as promised, Connor enters my kitchen and begins preparing my ‘thank you’ dinner. I’ve tried to help him several times, but he keeps shooing me away and forcing me to sit at the kitchen table while he cooks. I watch him while he works; his focus seems so intense.

“Do you like to cook?” I query as I sip my beer.

“Eh,
like
is a strong word,” he chuckles. “But it can be a kind of therapy, I guess.”

“Therapy?”

“When I was . . .” he pauses on a sigh, “in prison,” he finishes quickly. “I worked in the kitchen. It was nice to have something to stay focused on.”

I have no clue how to respond to this. It’s not like I can empathize with such a feeling; the feeling of being caged and needing something to keep me busy to make time pass by faster. But I decide to take it head on. I think it’s important for Connor to be able to talk about his time in prison, and I want him to feel comfortable talking about it with me.

“So prison taught you how to cook?” I wager. “That could be useful information. Might have to have you cook for me more often,” I jest.

“Well, unless you like spaghetti and shitty meatloaf, you’re out of luck,” he laughs. When he bends over the stove and tastes some sauce on the wooden cooking spoon he’s holding, he smacks his lips. “I’d like to tell you it’s amazing,” he begins, “but that would be a lie.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s edible,” he surmises.

“That’s good enough for me,” I assure him. “I’m not cooking it. That right there makes it amazing in itself.”

Music drifts into the room from the hallway where my Wurlitzer jukebox, one of my most prized possessions, plays.

“That jukebox is badass,” Connor notes in between songs as the records change.

“It’s the only thing I have left of my father’s,” I note. “He loved that thing.”

“How’d he go?” Connor asks, and I snort.

“On a Greyhound bus, I’m told,” I reply somewhat bitterly.

Connor’s gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I assumed you meant he died.”

“Don’t be. He left when I was ten.”

Taking his beer, he steps toward me and raises it in a toast. “To deadbeat dads.” Then after a beat adds, “And deadbeat mothers.”

I toast him with my beer and can’t help the sad smile I give. Connor knows what it’s like to have your father bail. His mother, too. After we take long swigs, he turns back to the stove and stirs the sauce.

“Oh, I have something for you.” I jump out of my seat and grab the small shoebox from the hall closet in the living room, returning to the kitchen with it and placing it on the table. Connor meets me at the table and watches as I open it. When he see the photo on top, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he chuckles as he picks it up and gazes at it.

The photo is of Blake and Connor in the bathtub, bubbles everywhere. Connor looks angry while Blake is laughing hysterically. Connor flips the photo over, reading the back, and bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard he’s coughing, but still manages to show me the writing on the back. I already know what it says, but I read it again anyway.

You were always pissed that my dick was bigger.

Blake certainly had a way with words. Maybe the photo would’ve made Connor sad or made him miss Blake, but instead he’s laughing. Blake was just that way; like his purpose was to make everyone else’s day better, no matter what.

“I was pissed because I wanted to sit next to the faucet, but Blake was the baby and always got his way,” Connor chuckles.

Placing the photo aside, I watch as Connor gingerly removes each item from the box as if each is made of precious ivory. There’s a few photos of them from their childhood, some little trinkets, and at the bottom there’s an envelope. He stares at it for a long moment, his expression uncertain.

“He was very clear,” I tell him, my hand on his large forearm. “That’s for you to read when you’re ready.”

After a moment, he lets out a long breath before placing the envelope back in the box and returning all the other items. “I can keep these?”

I smile sadly as I place the lid back on the box. “He wanted you to have these things. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.”

Connor clears his throat, then meets my gaze head on. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No,” he says. “Thank you for being there for him and taking care of him. Grams too. She wrote me and told me how you stepped up, how when Blake got sick you stepped up and took care of both of them. I’m truly grateful.”

My eyes tear up, and I quickly wipe them, hoping to stop any tears from falling. “I’m lucky to have had both of them in my life. Grams is like a mother to me. And Blake, well, I’m pretty sure anyone that ever met him feels like they were lucky. He was just that kind of guy.”

Connor brushes his hand over the box as he stares at it. Then, leaving it on the table he returns to the stove. As he breaks the noodles to put in the boiling water, the sauce starts splattering from where the burner is turned up too high, and several drops of sauce stain his shirt.

“Shit,” he grumbles under his breath.

I grab the lid to the saucepan and cover it. Then I grab a dishtowel and wet the end of it under the faucet. “If you don’t get this off, and in the wash, it will stain.” Without asking, I grab the hem of his shirt and begin dabbing at the stains with the dishtowel. Shaking my head, I look up to find Connor staring down at me. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing and all I can do is stare back. The confident, flesh and blood, woman in me thinks I see desire in his eyes, but the self-conscious and self-doubting part of me says, that’s silly. He doesn’t want me.

“Um . . . I think we need to throw it in the wash,” I manage as I step away. “Better do it now.”

Connor tugs his shirt over his head and hands it to me. I can’t keep my eyes from looking at his chest and stomach. Before I know it, my fingers are brushing against one of the scars on his left side. “What happened to you?” I ask quietly. I’ve played out quite a few scenarios, but all of them are similar to scenes I’ve seen on television. Inmates shanking other inmates.

“That one . . . I got shanked by a guy inside because I broke up . . . something he was doing.”

Okay, so I was right. “And this one?” I ask, as my fingers move down and run along the next scar.

“Shanked again,” he chuckles, but his expression doesn’t look humored. It’s more a look of embarrassment or disbelief.

When my fingers touch the third scar on his right side, he grabs my hand and holds it still. “That one was Blake.”

“What?” I smile slightly.

“We were wrestling in the bed of our grandfather’s truck while he was inside the hardware store. The tailgate was down. Blake tackled me, and I fell sideways on the springs. Cut me good.”

When my gaze meets his again, he’s still holding my hand, pressed against his abdomen. My mouth is suddenly dry, but I can’t help darting my tongue out and licking my lips. His mouth parts slightly and his shoulders rise as he breathes in deeply as his eyes move from my eyes to my mouth.

I’m transfixed as I watch him, but the moment is broken when the pot boils over on the stove and makes sizzling sounds as the water meets the hot burner.

“Shit,” Connor grunts as he spins around and turns the burner down.

“I’m going to throw this in the wash,” I blurt, as he fights the chaos on the stove. I rush away and into the utility room where I close the door behind me.

“What the hell, Demi?” I whisper to myself. I just touched him . . . like touched-
touched
him. “You really need to get laid,” I tell myself.

After I start the wash, I return to the kitchen where Connor is dumping the pasta into the strainer over the sink. He’s still shirtless, and I curse myself for making him remove his shirt. How am I not supposed to stare at him in all his tattooed glory?

“I should grab a shirt, but dinner is ready,” he informs me. He must think I’m uncomfortable. And I am. But I’m not going to make him run out in the middle of cooking for a shirt. We’re adults here. I can handle it.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.

“Have a seat,” he orders as he swipes at the steam rising from the pasta. “I’ll make us a plate.”

Moments later, he places two heaping plates of spaghetti on the table and sits beside me. There’s enough spaghetti on my plate to feed three grown men, and I can’t help chuckling.

“What?” he asks as he smiles at me, his dark eyes filled with curious humor.