I smile wide, not sure why I feel like prodding the bear with a pointy stick, but I swear to god, moving has made me a crazy person or something because… I can’t resist. “Did you get your feelings hurt?” I bat my eyelashes.
Why does it feel so freaking good to zing this man? I hate that it does, but a little high wiggles through my veins as his lips tip into a surly pout.
“Gotta care about someone’s opinion to let ‘em hurt your feelings,” he deadpans and even though his words crush my gut, I can’t deny the pulse between my legs at his deep timbre.Fuck you, vagina! Don’t turn on me! He’s a jerk!
“Oh ouch,” I retort, lowering myself to the loveseat so Jett can play next to me. Except, when his consuming gaze focuses in on me, my sarcasm feels transparent, and I don’t like it. “You aren’t doing me a favor, you’re doingBeaua favor.”
Using the back of his hand, he pushes sweat off his brow and cocks an arm over his head, leaning on the doorframe. I swear the sheer mass of him makes the tiny apartment wall creak. “The way I see it, it don’t matter how the chain links. This bed’s for you, ain’t it?”
Why the hell does improper English sound good coming from him?
“You know it is,” I reply as I stroke my hand through Jett’s soft blonde hair. He’s busy at work on the rest of his Cheerios, driving his hand into the rubber-topped snack cup like he’s starved.
Without a word, Atticus delivers another dose of stink-eye before disappearing into the hall. Thunking, footsteps, curse words, then a minute later—he’s back with the pieces of my bed frame stashed under each arm. Two steps in toward the hallway, long planks traveling behind him (also with towels underneath so as to not scrape my floors), he stops and turns partially to face me.
“Hey, Jett.” Keeping my bed panels pinched in his pits, he gives Jett a small wave. And to my serious fucking surprise, Jett giggles back in response.
“Cus! At-cus!” Drool gleams brightly on his chin as he gives the asshole bed builder (and possible ax murderer) the sweetest little smile.Come on Jett, you’re supposed to be on my side!
When I turn back to see the smug look I assume he’ll have on his face; he’s already gone. A second later, he returns to swipe his tool off my table without giving either of us a single glance.
He builds the bed in less than twenty minutes, stacks on the box springs and even my mattress. When he emerges, sweat a thick glaze on his forehead, he tips his head to Jett and says, “later, Jett.” Without so much as a nod of acknowledgment my way, he leaves.
And later that evening, when I went to sleep, I would discover that my room had absorbed his scent. When I tossed and turned in my bed that night—the bed Ishould’vebeen sleeping soundly in, thank you very much—I smelled him and hated the sweaty, gritty stench.
More than that, I hatedmy stupid vaginafor loving it.
That traitorous bitch.
two
atticus
I didn’t want to stay, anyway
“Sky’s gorgeous today.”It really is. This time of year, the sky looks like a fuckin’ Monet painting. Ethereal, almost with how vivid the colors are. Rich blues mimicking shattered sapphires, robust swirls of cerulean, effervescent pops of marigold spearing through cottony clouds. With my hands tucked behind my head and elbows out, I get one last look until tomorrow. The only time I lie on my back and take in the sky are the mornings when I visit her.
“Harry and Edie are good.” We always called ‘em by their first names. It was our joke, our thing, and it made it that much sweeter that it always bugged ‘em. “Time seems to be catchin’ up to ‘em a little but…” I let the sentence die because I don’t wanna think about them turning into old folks.
“Anyway, they’re good. Harry needs more help with shit, and he’s ornery as hell when I gotta help him.” I swing forward to a sitting position and scratch my jaw. “I can handle it.” Pausing, I start to choke up a little at the words that always get me. But, like always, I suck it down as I get to my feet. “Miss you, kid.”
With a final look at the Sticky Monkey-flowers I arranged in the metal cup earlier, I head back. At the curb, I kick off the excess mud before getting in my truck, following the narrow and winding cemetery roads to the gate, and leave.
* * *
Twenty minutesand a large cup of black coffee later, I’m twisting the master key in the lock at Wrench Kings, opening for the day.
I ain’t no manager, but last year when Beau was having emotional troubles after his pop’s passing, I took over opening up. And I guess it just kinda stuck.
I like getting here first, anyway. Then it’s up to me who I make eye contact with or if I’m even in a room with other people. Most of the time, I turn on the lights, unlock the doors, and disappear into the garage until our first appointment.
This morning I’m cursed or some shit because as soon as I have the key wiggled from the lock and the door open, Miller shows up.
His happy, eager energy really gets on my fuckin’ nerves. If I even so much as accidentally glance at the guy, he smiles at me. Sometimes he even fuckin’ waves.
“Morning, Atticus.” Though he’s behind me, I know he’s grinning. I can fuckin’ sense it ‘cause the hairs on my neck stand up. A chill runs down my spine at his pep. Why the pep? It’s just a fuckin’ day, like every other.
I grunt to acknowledge he’s spoken because I’ve learned most people don’t want to converse with a grunter. Grunting gets you off the hook. Before I can get the damn lights on, he’s chirping.