Unplugged (22 page)

“Why?” I asked, and pushed my way into the house.

He laughed as he stepped inside and gave me a bear hug. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

My ribs groaned. “Where’s Holly?”

He glanced into the living room, then wandered away, like a toddler looking for trouble. “Hey, you get new furniture?”

“No.” I put my purse on the counter and followed him in. “Where’s Holly?”

He plopped down in my recliner and gazed up at me. There had been a time I had thought him the best-looking boy in the universe. That was before he gave me sheep droppings and told me they were raisins. It’s hard to think charitable thoughts when you’ve got your head in your cousin’s toilet.

“She’s home,” he said.

I sat down across from him and tucked the smooth silk of my skirt under my thighs, as if I were in a session. But no such luck. Peter McMullen and mental stability would never share so much as a passing glance.

“What happened this time?” I asked.

He fidgeted, tapping the chair’s arms and glancing out the window. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re not even married yet.” He usually managed to remain faithful until the wedding. I think.

He stared at me a moment, then dropped his head back against the seat cushion and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I think I’m not the marrying type.”

“You can’t be the divorcing type unless you’re the marrying type, Pete,” I said.

He brought his head up to stare at me again. “Jesus, when did you get so damned prissy?”

I rose to my feet. Familial visits make me want to scratch my skin off. There’s something about remembering who I once was. Or maybe it’s about remembering who I still am. My mood was deteriorating from bad to dangerous.

“I think it was when you told Greg Grossman that I was a lesbian,” I said.

He laughed. “Hell, I thought you was a lesbian. You never dated no one.”

I didn’t tell him that no one ever dated me. Instead, I went to the fridge and started pulling out calories. I had the acne, might as well have the fat.

“So are you dumping her, too?” I asked.

“No.” He followed me into the kitchen, glanced into the freezer, then moved on to the cupboard. In a moment, he’d pulled out a jar of peanut butter. “I’m not dumping her. I just . . .” He unscrewed the top, lost interest, and set it aside—which just proves his lack of sanity. What kind of sane person loses interest in peanut butter? “Shit, I don’t know what to think.”

So nothing new in Chi-town.

“She’s . . .” He shook his head. A few strands of dark hair had fallen over his forehead. His eyes were the color of polished amber, as soulful as a saint’s. Girls had been falling for his soulful amber eyes since the day I wriggled out of my first diaper. Men might be a pain in the ass, but sometimes women are just downright moronic.

“Too fat?” I guessed, opening the bread bag.

“Fat?” He scowled at me. “No. Why would—”

“Too old? Too smart? Too ugly? Too bitchy?” I had heard them all.

He was silent. That wasn’t usually the case with my brothers. Unless they had passed out. I glanced up, ready to roll him onto his stomach to keep him from drowning in his own drool. My mother had taught me well.

His face looked stricken. “Jesus, Chrissy,” he said, “have I been that big of an ass?”

I straightened, guilt already nibbling at my edges. “I’m not the woman to ask, Pete,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “I was going to say she was too sweet,” he said.

I stopped buttering the bread. “They were all sweet, Peter,” I said.

He glanced toward my front door and stuck his hands in his back pockets. The man still had no belly. Damn him.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet. “And I don’t wanna . . . I mean . . . Maybe I’m not good—”

My doorbell rang. I stared at him. “Not what?” I was stunned by his seriousness. Amongst my charming, Irish brethren, nothing was serious except a beer shortage. That was paramount to the seven plagues.

“Someone’s at your door,” he said.

I glanced toward it.

“You better see who it is.”

I wasn’t sure he was right. Good news hadn’t often come knocking of late, but I wandered in that direction, my mind swirling. Maybe brother Pete was growing up. Maybe there really was a Santa Claus.

I opened the door. It wasn’t Claus. It was Rivera, standing on my stoop wearing chinos and a dark sweater and looking as sexy as sin. His charisma hit me like a sock in the gut.

“Hi,” he said.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“You busy?”

Sexy and civil. Holy crap. Maybe this
was
Santa’s doing.

“Did you need something?” I asked, my tone cautious. He’d been civil before. Generally it ended up with us spitting at each other like scalded cats.

He glanced toward the Al-Sadrs’ nauseatingly perfect yard. “I’d like to talk to you.”

My stomach corkscrewed. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“Christ, McMullen. I . . .” He paused. “Should I be?”

I ignored that question. Something about the Seventh Amendment tickled my mind. “I don’t know how my wallet got into the Cadillac, Rivera. Really.”

He scowled.

“Besides.” I felt breathless and fractured. “It’s almost Thanksgiving.”

“I realize that, McMullen.” He already sounded peeved, but so was I. He had no right to show up on my stoop smelling like a sex slave in heat when all he intended to do was prolong my inadvertent celibacy.

“Hey, Christopher . . .” Pete appeared beside me like a bad dream, nudging the door wide and glancing at Rivera. “Hi. I’m Pete.” He thrust out a hand. Rivera took it, his expression darkening. “I’m just gonna . . .” He motioned toward the interior of my house. “Go to bed. I’m dead on my feet.”

He was gone in an instant. The house went silent.

Rivera was staring at me, no expression discernible on his chiseled features. “That Ross?”

A crossroads. I realized in that instant that a normal, mentally balanced human being might very well tell him the truth. But normal, well-balanced human beings rarely have brothers like Pete, who would be more than happy to wax eloquent about the time I glued a beer can to his left cheek after a particularly irritating bender.

“No,” I said.

“Making up for lost time, McMullen?”

A flood of emotions washed through me and I think I might have snarled. “Listen, you—”

“Well . . .” He stepped back, dark eyes masked as he smiled grimly. “I’ll leave you to him. Happy Thanksgiving.”

H
appy Thanksgiving!

I was still seething the following morning. But I’d dutifully called Eddie and asked if two more could come for the feast. He’d assured me the more that came the merrier it would be—but then, he hadn’t met my brothers.

I’d also called my mother to inform her of Pete’s whereabouts, but I’d done so from my cell phone, ’cuz it has a tendency to cut out. It hadn’t disappointed me.

“Christina,” Eddie said in his lovely baritone, and gave me a hug when he opened the door. I hugged him back. I genuinely like Eddie. In fact, I had the whole time I dated him. My gaydar is usually pretty accurate, but he’d fooled me right down to my short hairs. “And you must be Peter.”

“Yeah.” My brother stepped forward. They grasped hands in a moment of time-honored male bonding. Some things even sexual preferences can’t override. “Thanks for having me. It smells great in here.” Pete grinned and turned toward the kitchen. “I think I died and went to heaven.”

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded and skimmed his gaze down my brother’s backside. “Me, too.”

I gave him a look. He looked back, sober as a monk. He lives a couple light-years ahead of me in a pretty little bungalow in Santa Monica. The beach scene there is a little weird for me, but I had to admit, Eddie had a kick-ass tan, and pecs that prompted poetry. If it weren’t horribly embarrassing, I’d admit I’d once penned a little sonnet about them.

“So Laney hasn’t arrived yet?” I said.

“N—” he began, then stopped as the doorbell rang and went to look through the peephole. “Does she look like an anime character?”

“Let her in,” I said.

“Wow.” He turned toward me. Peter had wandered into the kitchen. Eddie glanced in that direction. “Where do you find these people?”

“Chicago,” I said, shouldering him aside and opening the door.

Eddie’s greyhound lay on the couch, one ankle crossed elegantly over the other and seeming to reserve judgment as Elaine gave me a hug.

“How are you?”

“Great,” she lied, but with more flair than usual. I made the introductions.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Eddie said.

I think she blushed. As if she hadn’t heard that a million times.

“Laney?” Peter said from the dining room.

“Peter.” She hurried through the house and gave him a hug, too. “I haven’t seen you for years.”

“Years!” He pushed her out to arm’s length to ogle her better. “I’ve never seen you.”

Oh, crap! If I didn’t love her like a sister, I would have been ready to slice my wrists with the carving knife.

“Christina, help me in the kitchen, will you?” Eddie said.

I followed him toward the source of the smells. I hadn’t died and gone to heaven yet, but I did feel a little preorgasmic.

“What the hell!” he said, turning toward me.

“Still gay?” I asked, peering into the oven and jump-starting my salivary glands. Little crab canapés were roasting happily beside a lovely prime roast and tiny candied carrots. Atop the stove, garlic mashed potatoes smiled merrily. The man could even make vegetables look sexy.

“I can’t decide.” He peeked out toward the living room. “You’re brother’s not—”

“He’s been divorced four times.” I checked the fridge. A strawberry cream-cheese pie reposed unchallenged on the center rack. My mouth actually hurt at the sight of it.

“I’m feeling straighter every minute,” he said, and nudged my shoulder on his way to the oven. “Get the wine, will you?”

“Hey.” Peter showed up in a matter of seconds. “What can I do? I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

Since when? I glanced up, saw that Elaine was right behind him, and had my answer.

Men get weird around Laney. I’d once seen a guy dump his gin and tonic down his pants when she smiled at him. I truly don’t know why. But by comparison, Pete was doing okay—for Pete, although he still irritated me.

The meal was as good as the scents had promised, and while I have no firsthand knowledge of gay guys’ performance in the bedroom, I have to say, the hype about them being good in the kitchen is no exaggeration.

I ate until my stomach threatened me with expulsion and impending embarrassment. Pete dished out the appropriate and justifiable compliments, cleared his place, and offered to help clean up.

“Isn’t football on?” Laney asked, busing her dishes.

“Yeah, but I like to help out.”

I gave him a look that should have curled his hair. He grinned back, chipper as a toddler.

“Watch the game,” I commanded. “Laney and I will take care of the kitchen.”

“But—”

“Watch it,” I repeated, and Eddie smiled as he settled onto the couch beside his greyhound. She rested her head on his crotch and looked up at him with adoring eyes.

I had to get me a dog. Apparently, they have the ability to pull men away from impending fornication—not that I was rehashing old problems with almost boyfriends, or becoming morose at the thought of the looming holidays.

“So what’s Pete doing here?” Elaine asked.

I ran hot water in the sink. “Staring at you?” Maybe there was a little vitriol in the statement.

“He looks good.”

“Laney!” I said, turning on her with venom. “Don’t you—”

She laughed. “In that make-you-eat-sheep-droppings kind of way.”

I relaxed. Elaine may be eccentric, but she knew a Neanderthal when one dragged her around by the hair.

I turned back to the sink with a harrumph.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure.” I shrugged. “It’s just that stupid Rivera.”

The words slipped out in my postconsumptive haze before I could suck them back in.

She stared at me. “You saw the lieutenant?”

Crap. If I was any dumber I’d spit out my own kidneys. “Yeah, he . . . stopped by.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, wanting to dunk my head in the sink. “Something about talking to me.”

“About what?”

Shit. “About . . .” I’d almost scrubbed the color off a serving bowl. “That whole Bomstad fiasco, I suppose.”

“You’re kidding. Again? Did he say that?”

“Well, no, but it was implied.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s crazy.”

“He’s male.”

“I noticed. What did he say exactly?”

“Geez, Laney, I—”

She put her hands on her hips. “What did he say?”

I scowled at her and thought back. I was getting mad just thinking about it.

“He asked if I was busy and said he wanted to talk to me. I asked what was wrong and he said ‘Nothing.’ I said it was almost Thanksgiving and he said he was aware of the fact and then—”

“He wanted to ask you out.”

The kitchen fell into silence. My mind went as numb as a moon rock. I stared at her. “What?”

“Geez, Mac, he came by to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

I was shaking my head. “That’s crazy.”

“He’s male.”

“I noticed.” I blinked, then shook my head again. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong about men. Well, almost never. Does he cook?”

I nodded stupidly. She gave me her “There you go” shrug. I felt a little sick to my stomach, though I couldn’t have said why exactly. It might have been that fifteenth crab canapé.

16

Lust and love. They both put a fire in your damned shorts. How you supposed to tell ’em apart?

—Pete McMullen,
after every divorce