Two Family Home (10 page)

He stepped back suddenly, his hand still on her breast.

“Are you okay?” he asked, breathlessly.

She gave him an impatient look. “What?”

“I thought I—” he jerked his hand away. “Sorry.”

No way, not this again, she thought, and she crossed her ankles and pulled his hips closer. He still looked like he had something to say, so she reached down and pulled her shirt over her head and he might have said something, but his face was buried in her bra so she really didn't care. He spun her away from the wall, then stopped. He looked like he was trying to make a decision.

“Couch?” she suggested, remembering the state her dog had left his bed in. He nodded and in two steps she was down on her back and he was on top of her, his hips grinding against hers through their jeans.

Jeans. Stupid jeans. She reached between them for the button on his while he sat up and pulled his shirt off and, holy god, up close he was even better. He smiled and leaned down to kiss her but she held him back. “I need a moment,” she said, and ran her hands over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, his smooth sides. His breathing got heavier, but then he started to look embarrassed so she sat up real quick and undid her bra so he wouldn't be the only one without a shirt on.

“Holy god,” he whispered, and his rough hands were gentle on her sensitive skin, his calloused fingers running over her nipples, tracing a circle under her breasts.

She managed to arch herself into his hands and get his jeans down over his hips at the same time. She was feeling very impressed with herself, and then she was just feeling Walker, hard and hot against her thigh. She reached down and he cursed into her neck.

“Lindsey,” he whispered and she melted. Then he cursed and twisted around, digging at his feet into the pocket of his jeans. He tangled and lost his balance, his knees still straddling her on the couch, one hand holding himself up off the floor.

She giggled, and he gave her a teasing look. “Come on,” she said and scrambled out from underneath him, then pushed him down so his back was on the couch, his head propped against the arm. She climbed over him, took the condom from his hand, and tore the wrapper with her teeth, just like in the movies. She slid the condom down over him in one smooth move and he was hot and hard in her hand and she couldn't wait, and didn't think he needed her to wait, so she positioned herself above him and went to work.

“Oh my god,” he said as she slid over him. She wanted to revel in her triumph over his grumpiness, but then she was full of Walker and she couldn't do anything but throw her head back and gasp. He gripped her hips, moving her as he moved, and her spine stopped working and she had to prop her hands on his chest, and the shift in position felt so good that she had to lean her whole chest against his, the rough hair abrading her breasts as he rocked her.

And, holy crap, he rocked her. Then he lifted up a knee, just a little, just enough to change his angle and she reared back, surprised and breathless, and she screamed and flew over the edge. Walker gripped her hips even tighter and bucked hard under her, once, twice, then he groaned and she tightened and collapsed on top of him.

She let out a breathless laugh. She'd known her persistence would pay off. She'd known it would be worth it to get Walker out of his shell.

 

The lady was great. She smelled really nice and she loved to hold him and pet him and play with him. At first the lady was his favorite. But then the guy played with him and gave him snacks and he had even more interesting smells that he had to dig real deep to find. So now he couldn't decide who he liked better. Good thing he got rid of that door, so he didn't have to choose.

“N
ice place.”

It wasn't the messiest his apartment had ever been, but it was pretty bad. Walker suddenly wished he'd picked up a little.

In his defense, he didn't know that Jake Burdette was coming over. Not until Jake rang the bell and told him he had a door for him.

Walker tried to look at his apartment through Jake's eyes. Big furniture—he liked to nap. And a big couch was good for a lot of things. A giant afghan Darlene had made for him. Shoes everywhere, which was a bad habit he had to break, especially since most of those shoes were now missing laces, thanks to Booger.

It wasn't great, but it was home.

“Lots of good light in here.” Jake knocked on the walls, looked at the doorframes. “Solid. How long have you had this place?”

“Couple years.”

“Ever think about making it a single-family home?”

Walker thought about waking up with Lindsey wrapped around him after they moved to her bed for round two.

Which had nothing to do with construction projects.

He just liked thinking about her wrapped around him.

To Jake, he just shrugged, and continued to show him around.

It was weird standing in his kitchen, talking to Jake Burdette about normal guy stuff. Walker hadn't seen Jake since freshman year of high school, when they both went out for the basketball team. Walker had a few inches on Jake, but Jake was faster. He remembered it clearly: Jake faking and swerving around the defense, Walker raising his arms and blocking the shot.

He remembered all of his time in Willow Springs.

Hell, that was why he came back. It was one of the best places he and Red had lived, where the kids were more curious than cruel to the big, gangly new kid. Where he actually lived with his dad, not that he saw him much. But by that time, Walker was getting old enough to be sick of Red's informal relationship with the truth, so that worked out just fine. Walker cooked rice and beans, like Mrs. Garcia had taught him. He mostly did his homework, and went out for basketball.

And he made the team. He did, Jake didn't. Walker had thought that was unfair, that he had only made it because of his “wingspan,” as the coach called it.

But it didn't matter, because a few weeks later, he and Red were on the road. Walker always wondered if Jake got his spot on the team.

He could ask him. They were sitting around, talking like guys.

“Is this the destroyer?”

“Dammit, Booger!” Walker tried to keep hold of the dog's collar as his giant paws made a lunge for Jake.

“It's okay,” Jake said. Then,
oof
. “He's gonna be big. Look at these feet.”

“And he's got an appetite.”

“You're a real tough guy, you know that?” And now Jake was on the floor, roughhousing with the dog.

Finally, Jake stood up and stretched a hand toward Walker.

“So. Welcome back.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

“Been a while, huh?”

Yup,
thought Walker.
It's been a while since my dad faked some Civil War-era paintings and we had to skip town.

“Sorry I haven't come by sooner. Grace thinks I should've shown up with a gift basket.”

“Grace?”

“Fiancée. Wife, soon, but she doesn't want to plan a wedding so we both keep putting it off.”

“Why don't you elope?”

“Her sister and my sister have threatened bodily harm if we do.”

“Hmm.” Walker couldn't even imagine what life would've been like with siblings. Everyone he knew talked like sisters and brothers were the worst thing in the world, but in a way that made it clear to Walker they were actually the best. But to have another kid grow up like Walker? Would a sister have made watching late-night motel TV more fun than it was?

“So what have you been up to? Grace tells me you're a big-time artist now.”

“Not big-time.”

“Well, you got you a palace here,” Jake said, and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “And I got you a door. Just pretend there's a bow on it, for Grace's sake.”

“Yeah, okay. Dog proof?”

“Normally I'd say yes, but your dog seems to be a door-eating savant.”

“Not my dog.”

Walker saw Jake's eyebrow raise as Booger ran insane circles around the two of them.

“Forget it. Let's get this door.”

 

And now there's another guy! He smells like a cat, which isn't great, but he's a lot of fun and he's really impressed with how fast I can run around in circles. Hey, wait. Where are you going? Oh, whew, he's back. What's that big thing he's holding? Where are they going with that?

Oh, no . . .

 

Jake grunted as he tried to shove the door into place. “I've installed easier doors.”

It wasn't helping that every time Booger scratched on the bedroom door, Walker had a little panic that he was going to break free. He didn't think Jake's housewarming generosity would extend to a second replacement door. And he definitely wanted this door replaced. This was a two-family house. Lindsey needed her space; he needed his. Sometimes they could share space, but that would be optional, with the option to close the door.

“I gotta be honest with you,” Jake said. “Grace put me up to this.”

“Grace sent you to fix the door?” How did she even know?

“No, Lindsey sent me for the door. Grace sent me to find out the dirt on you. She's dying of curiosity. It killed her when she came over the other night and couldn't get into your studio.”

Walker hadn't actually met Grace, but he'd seen her at the gallery on campus. He'd been attempting to unobtrusively look at the exhibit of Appalachian landscape photography from the 1930s. She was in there with a class, talking about post-modernism. He recognized her laugh.

He wanted to tell Jake that if she'd waited around long enough, Lindsey could have snuck her in. Not that he really minded that anymore. Especially not since he started sneaking into her apartment to kidnap her dog.

No, the idea of Lindsey in his studio didn't bother him as much as it should have. He was probably still high from last night. And this morning. “Not you?” he asked Jake. “You're not curious?”

“I don't really care what you do, man. As long as it's not illegal.” Jake looked at him sharply. “It's not illegal, is it?”

“No, it's not . . . it's hard to explain.” Hard to explain that he was a pretty famous artist but he was protective to the point of paranoia about his work because he used to help his dad make a living by faking art. And the only person he'd let into the garage was Myron. And now Lindsey. And, recently and regularly, the dog.

“Just don't blow up the neighborhood,” Jake said, slapping him on the back. He gave the door a push. “This oughta hold. Feed the dog real food, okay?”

“Hey.” Walker threw his hands up. “Not my dog.”

“S
o now you have a dog?”

Myron sat on the bench inside the wire fence of the dog park making faces at the slimy tennis ball that Booger kept dropping at his feet.

“It's Lindsey's dog,” Walker told him, picking up the ball and tossing it to the other end of the park. The dog took off like a shot after it, not letting a little thing like tripping over his own feet stop him from reaching his target.

“Sure don't look like Lindsey's dog.”

“She can't exactly bring the dog to work.”

“Why not? He doesn't slobber near as much as Eugene does.”

“Ha ha.” Walker tossed the ball again.

Booger went nuts after it.

“So what's really bothering you?”

“Nothing. It's a nice day. I thought you'd like to get out, that's all.”

“It's a nice day at Shady Grove and I don't step in dog poop there.”

“I told you, that's just mud.”

“And you've got that assy face again.”

Walker tossed the ball one more time, but Booger was too involved in something under the doggy slide. Walker sat down next to Myron.

“My dad called. This morning, after . . .” Walker wasn't sure he wanted to explain about the door and Jake. It was complicated. Never mind last night, and the complications he had created with Lindsey.

“Ah. What's he want?”

“Nothing, he said. Just wanted to tell me he's getting out.”

“Oh yeah? He's a free man after ten years and he wants nothing from you?”

“He wants to come visit, see what I'm working on.”

“Huh.”

“I didn't tell him where I am, and I didn't invite him. But he's Red, so I'm kind of expecting him to show up any minute.”

“I'd be interested in seeing him again.”

Walker gave Myron an eyebrow. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“What's he gonna do, swindle me out of my money? No problem. I ain't got any.”

“I just think . . . the further he stays away, the better.”

“Well, if he bothers you, you can sic your dog on him.”

“Not my dog,” Walker said. Booger rolled in the mud, then chased his tail.

T
his day needed to be over.

Without her ending up in a car wreck.

Lindsey rolled down the windows, but the hot summer night air was doing nothing to help keep her awake. Just one more block . . .

Fortunately, the residual anxiety of the Worst Wednesday Ever kept her from drifting off the road. It had started rough. Ned Grubb apparently hadn't paid the bill for the institutional catering company they used, so Glen, their cook, had to run to the grocery store and get creative with eggs and canned fruit, and still her credit card would probably never recover. Then Eugene spent the morning flirting instead of eating and his blood sugar dropped, and nothing ruined a sunny day at a nursing home faster than someone being taken away in an ambulance. The fact that he was fine did not reduce the amount of paperwork she had to do.

Then Lindsey spent hours on the phone, first trying to reach Eugene's daughter, then trying to calm her down enough that she could safely drive to see her father. Then Evan called and said he had strep, and there was no way Lindsey was letting any of those germs near Shady Grove, so she ended up working a double, which meant she also had to stay for the Willow Springs Middle School Chorus on their annual “sing to the old people concert,” as Evan called it. Not that Lindsey didn't love a good show tunes medley. She just . . . she was tired. Tired and strangely wired.

Lindsey sat in the driveway, not ready to face more of real life.

Real life meant a dog that needed to be walked, although she'd managed a moment to text Walker to ask him to feed him. She also had to feed herself, and Willow Springs was sorely lacking in takeout options. What she really wanted was a glass of wine and someone to take her mind off her Wednesday from Hell. She let herself in and saw the light on in the garage.

 

Walker glanced up toward the corner. She was still there. But now she'd found a stool and was perched, elbows on the drafting table, sipping a glass of wine. Still watching him.

“Am I making you self-conscious?”

“No,” he said, suddenly very aware of how dirty his shirt was. “I'm still not used to an audience, that's all. This is not meant to be a performance.”

“I don't want you to perform. I just like watching you.” Booger got up from his bed in the corner (because, yes, Walker had put a dog bed in his studio) and sat at her feet. She idly leaned down to scratch behind his ears.

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“In a just-friends way.”

Walker grunted noncommittally. A lot of things she said sounded worse than she meant. It was part of what made listening to her so much fun.

“I mean, how do you know where to bend the thing or stick the thing to the thing?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You know,” she said, waving her hands vaguely tree-ward.

“I took some metalworking classes.” Well, he took some after-school lessons from Myron. Close enough. He flicked his torch. “They don't let just anyone use these, you know.” Actually, that wasn't true. But he was not a total dumbass, so he did learn how to use it properly first.

“I don't mean the technique. I mean, how do you know that moving this thing this way will make it look like this? Do you have a picture of it in your mind?”

“Yeah. And I have to sketch it out first. And I have to make sure it's balanced.”

“Balanced? But this one is over here and that one is over there—” She must have been as tired as she looked. She was barely using words. He wouldn't have any idea what she was talking about if she wasn't pointing at the pieces of metal bark he was installing.

“I make sure the weight is balanced. Otherwise it'll topple over.”

“And that's a whole different kind of sculpture.” Booger put his paw on her lap, then climbed right up there. Without looking away from Walker's work, she opened her arms and let the dog snuggle in.

He smiled. “Exactly.”

“So you sketch it, and then you just . . . make it?”

“Well, it's a little more complicated than that.”

“But the sketch. Where does that come from? Do you just see it in your mind?”

“No.” He saw her make a frustrated face. “Sort of. There's a tree I saw on a hike. It was dead, but it was huge. This huge, twisty tree had grown out of a rock, looking over the valley.” He couldn't really explain it any better than that. He saw it, and now he was making it. And there was still that rush he got from creating, from shaping metal because he wanted to, because the metal wanted to, not because it had to look a certain way. But he didn't know how to explain that, exactly. He stood up and wiped his hands on a rag. “What are you getting at? What do you really want to know?”

“I don't know. I guess I'm just sort of fascinated by the fact that you can do this.” She waved tree-ward.

“Thanks?”

“I don't mean it like that. I really meant it as a compliment. Don't you find it fascinating that people have such different gifts? That there are people in the world who can see things that no one else sees, and then can recreate them so other people can see them.” She sipped her wine. “I am so tired. I'm not making any sense.” She looked into her wine glass. “This probably isn't helping.”

Walker looked at her. He was starting to appreciate her Pollyanna way of seeing things. He had never thought about his art as a particular gift. He just liked putting big metal pieces together, and people liked to buy the result. He never really thought about his vision being an extraordinary thing. Especially since he was raised by an artist who had no vision of his own.

Not that Red would admit that.

He turned and looked at the half-finished tree. He could see what it would become, for the most part. There would always be pieces that surprised him. That was part of what drove his compulsive welding binges, to get to that point of discovery.

Like that part, there. That needed to go. He put his gloves on and picked up a set of pliers and started peeling off parts of the bark.

“Now what are you doing?”

He jumped. He'd forgotten she was there.

“Sorry. Can you not work while I talk to you?”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Would that stop you from talking?”

“Sure, yeah.”

He turned back to the tree. “I'll believe that when I see it.”

She was silent for a minute.

Just for a minute.

“When you hear it.”

“What?”

“You'll believe it when you hear it, not see it. Or don't hear it, I guess. Because I won't be talking.”

Walker didn't say anything.

“Okay, yes, I see what just happened. Ha ha, she can't stop talking. I'll go.” She started to climb off the stool.

“No! No, you don't have to go. I was just teasing you.”

“I don't want to interrupt.”

“It's fine. Keep talking.”

“You're making fun of me.”

“I swear I'm not. I like your talking. Just, don't ask me so many questions.”

“Just talk.”

“Yeah.”

“Just talk to myself?”

“No, talk to me.”

“But don't expect an answer?”

Walker didn't answer.

“All I can think of are questions.”

Walker sighed.

“How did you start?” Which was a question. She was tired . . . he should cut her some slack.

“What, you want my bio?”

“No. I already googled your bio. No picture.”

“So?”

“It's just a shame.”

Walker looked over at her. “Why?”

“No reason.” She blushed. He smiled.

“What else did you learn?”

“You're an art school dropout and you're inspired by nature. Why'd you drop out of school?”

Walker shrugged and went back to the tree. “Ran out of money.”

“Oh. But you bought a house.”

“Yeah, because I stopped running out of money.”

“But you didn't go back to school? Why not? Too cool?”

“Not cool enough.”

“Hmm. And you'd have to deal with people. That's, like, your kryptonite.”

Walker felt his face heat up. He focused on the tree.

She didn't say anything for a while, but he could feel that she was still there, watching him. It was kind of nice. She watched him like Myron did, just to watch. She didn't seem anxious about the finished product, just curious. There was no judgment in her gaze, no concern that what came out wouldn't be good enough.

Booger jumped off her lap and came over to sniff Walker's hands, but gave up when no pets were forthcoming. Walker saw him go back over to Lindsey and put his head on her knee. Puppy dog eyes were her kryptonite, obviously, because she started scratching behind his ears.

“This is hard.”

Walker looked up at her, confused.

“Not talking,” she explained.

“You can talk. I told you.”

“I don't know what to talk about.”

“All of the questions you want to ask me, answer them about yourself.”

“Do I work out?”

He looked at her, confused. Then he remembered that first week, and that workout DVD. “I already know the answer to that question.”

“Ha ha. Okay, where do I get my inspiration?”

“Sure.”

She didn't say anything, and he looked over to see her nose wrinkled in confusion. “I don't know if ‘inspiration' is the right word for what I do. I just like making people feel better. I don't mind blood. And I like old people. I don't really know why. When I was little, my Brownie troop did a service project at a nursing home, and I just fell in love with the people. Maybe it's because I don't have grandparents . . .”

She trailed off, and Walker looked up to see her staring dreamily at the ceiling.

“No grandparents?”

“They all died before I was born. Just me and my parents. I have an aunt somewhere, but she and my dad had some fight over my grandmother's will, so they don't speak. I don't even know if I have cousins. God, that's kind of sad.”

Walker felt a small pang of jealousy. How lucky to feel wistful about not having contact with your family, instead of grateful.

She shrugged. “Geriatric nursing just seemed like a good fit. That's not a very exciting inspiration, is it?”

“People do things for much stranger reasons.” Like forging art just because you can. “Sounds like you went into it because you love it. That's pretty good.”

“Hmm. I never thought of it like that. I mean, I know I love it. But I thought I was just being practical.”

She was quiet again, and he turned to see her staring vaguely into space, her head in her hand. He shook his head and went back to work.

He wasn't sure how many minutes passed, but she was quiet the whole time. It was a miracle. He found he sort of missed her jabber.

When he turned around again, though, he saw why she was quiet.

She was asleep with her head in her hand, the wine glass precariously close to the edge of the table.

He looked up at his tree, satisfied with what he accomplished tonight. There would always be more to do, but he had time. Tonight he had to put his sleepy Pollyanna to bed.

 

Lindsey woke up to a gentle jostling, and then Walker was in her face, blurry and smiling. She must have fallen asleep while he was working. She sat up straight, and she saw his hand snake out to grab her tilting wine glass.

“Good save,” she told him. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“Come on, let's get you to bed,” he told her, taking her arm gently.

“It's fine, I can do it.” She hopped off the stool and tripped over Booger. If Walker hadn't been holding her arm, she would have landed on her face.

“Yup, you're fine.”

“You stay and work.” She patted his chest vaguely, tiredly.

“I don't trust you to make it inside without tripping over Booger again.”

She let him guide her out of the garage, then took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked into the house. When they got to the porch steps, she stopped. “Wait. Did you just call my dog Booger?”

He shrugged, and she could see from the light spilling out of her kitchen that he looked guilty. “It's not an insult. It just . . . it just sort of fit.”

She looked down at her squirmy little puppy with the giant feet and the floppy ears. “Booger,” she said. The pup looked up and barked.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered.

Walker led her inside, where she tripped up the first step to the bedroom. He grabbed her around her waist, saving her face, but also igniting something inside of her.

“You gonna make it?” he asked from behind her, and she shook her head. So he took her hand and led her up the stairs and she let him pull her scrubs over her head and down her legs and watched as he pulled his shirt over his head and sat her down on the edge of the bed and knelt down, his shoulders strong between her thighs, and he took excellent care of her.

 

“So your dad's an art guy.”

Walker was beginning to realize the many benefits of sleeping with Lindsey. She was generous, she was responsive, she was amazingly hot under that good-girl exterior. So far the only downside he could identify was afterward.

She wanted to talk.

Usually about him.

Walker said nothing.

“But not an artist,” she said in that gently prodding way of hers.