Wild Man

Chapter Seven Mountainous Swirls of Frosting

I stood at my front door waiting.

Then it came. Martha stopped folding her body into the driver’s seat, her eyes came over the roof of her car, up the steep rise at the edge of my front yard, the four steps up my front stoop to me at my arched front door.

Then she pressed her fingers to her lips, stretched them my way and blew me a kiss.

My throat got clogged but I blew one back.

She folded her petite body behind the wheel, started up her car and rolled away.

I watched until I lost sight of her brake lights then I watched for longer.

Suffice it to say, my best friend Martha Shockley did not take the news very well that my ex-husband had hit me and raped me even if it happened over six years ago. She had not been mad at me; she’d been devastated for me. Upon the news, she crumbled instantly. She hated this for me and watching her absorb the burden of this information I was reminded why I didn’t tell her.

Then she enveloped me in her arms and forced me to promise never, and I mean never, to hold something like that to myself again.

“It’s always been you for me, Tess, and I can’t bear thinking it isn’t me for you,” she whispered. “I’m done backing off, hoping you’ll sort your head on your own, honey. You gotta let me be there for you and from now on, I sense something’s wrong, I’m gonna make you let me be there for you.”

I held her close and I gave her that promise.

Seriously, what else could I do?

Needless to say, salad did not really go with confessions of the soul so Martha ate four of the dozen cupcakes I brought home for Brock.

But learning this news had not put Martha off her game and when Brock showed, she watched him like a hawk waiting for him to fuck up in some way so she could pounce and she did this with eyes constantly narrowed so much I feared she’d give herself a migraine.

Brock, however, was who he always was (even when I called him Jake). He was Brock.

Sensing he was not going to fall at the first hurdle and expose the screaming dickhead he was hiding within, Martha finally gave up and left.

Which led me to now.

I closed the door, locked it and turned to my living room.

I lucked out. Four years ago, after the bakery caught on and life started to get a lot less scary, I went house hunting and the second house I looked at was this one.

The couple who bought it spent years fixing it up and getting it to exactly what they wanted it to be. Then the husband received the word he was being transferred just weeks before the finishing touches were put on the last of the loving care (and scads of cash) they’d put into their house – a brand new kitchen.

They were devastated at having to leave.

I was elated (though I didn’t share this).

The dark wood floors had all been redone. The walls had all been reskimmed. The bathrooms were updated and fabulous. The basement had been finished into a huge family room where I kept my TV. Also down there was a powder room, laundry room and a guest room that had its own bath. The furnace had been replaced. The roof reshingled. The yard landscaped. And a swamp cooler had been installed.

But it was the kitchen that did it for me. The kitchen was phenomenal. An abundance of white cabinets, the wall ones all glass fronted, quirky ones handcrafted to set in corners and spots that were tough to fill. Slate floors. Fabulous black and white tiled splashbacks. An enormous island in the middle. Shiny marble countertops. Restaurant quality, stainless steel appliances including narrow but fabulous wine fridge. Inlaid cookbook holder. Built-in microwave and double oven, one fan assisted.

A baker’s dream.

My dream.

It was fifty thousand dollars over budget but I bought it because I thought it was worth it.

Since then, even though the first year it was rough going, I never regretted it.

As I walked through the front living room off which were two bedrooms and a bath to the double doorway that led to the kitchen, I thought the same thing.

And when I hit the kitchen and saw Brock resting faded jeans-clad hips against the back counter, teeth sinking into a cupcake, half of a mountainous swirl of silver-dusted, pale lilac frosting, sprinkled with pastel, candy confetti disappearing behind his full lips, I made the instant decision I was going to go through my paperwork, find out the day I signed on the dotted line that made that house my home and celebrate it with a huge, honking party every fucking year.

“She’s gone,” I informed him, stopping on the other side of the island and putting my hands on it.

I watched with admittedly captivated attention as he licked frosting from his lips after he swallowed and then he asked, “How long’s it take her to get home?”

“Twenty minutes,” I answered.

His eyes locked with mine and he said quietly, “You need to call her in twenty-five minutes, babe.”

My gaze held his as more warm gushiness hit my belly knowing he got it, he read her mood, he knew she was hurting and he wanted me to check in on her.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He studied me and I let him.

Then he asked, still talking quietly, “How you doin’?”

“Sharing that with her was not fun,” I admitted.

“I could guess that part, Tess,” he told me, again quietly.

I nodded and took a breath. Then I added, “I’m glad I did it, I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier, I’m glad it’s done and I’m glad I never have to do it again. That’s as far as I’ve got.”

“Right,” he whispered.

Then he shoved the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. I watched him chew and swallow.

Then he asked, “Would it piss you off to know that right about now I’m wondering if I walked in here yesterday because I missed my Tess or if it was because I missed her cupcakes?”

I grinned at him.

Then I answered, “No, because I am my cupcakes.”

And it hit me right then I was. On the outside it could be tees, jeans and flip-flops or pencil skirts, complicated designer blouses and high-heeled strappy sandals or, me being me, just about anything. But on the inside, it was all about mountainous swirls of delicately colored frosting with sprinkles of candy confetti, edible fairy dust all on top of rich, moist cake.

And as that understanding settled inside me, that made me feel warm and gushy too.

“Come here, baby,” he murmured, I caught the feel of the room and the look on his face and didn’t delay in rounding the island and going there.

When I got close, his arms folded around me and he pulled me deep. Then his head dipped and he gave me a sweet, delicious, long, deep cupcake kiss.

When he was done, against his mouth, I whispered, “You taste good.”

To which he replied, “I know.”

I smiled against his lips and he returned the gesture.

Then he lifted his head an inch, his arms gave me a squeeze and he said gently, “I wanna spend the night.”

My belly dropped and I felt a convulsion between my legs.

Then I replied, “Okay.”

His eyelids got heavy, his arms got tighter, my arms around him got tighter, his head descended and he kissed me again, this time longer, deeper, sweeter and even more delicious.

This went on for awhile. Long enough for me to get my fingers in his hair. Long enough for Brock to get one of his hands up the back of my tee and the other one clamped tight on my ass. Long enough for my nipples to swell and the area between my legs to get wet. Long enough for me to think the bedroom was way, way, way too far away and to be glad I kept the kitchen floor mopped because that was where I wanted him to take me.

But unfortunately not long enough that we were still making out standing up in the kitchen rather than somewhere either naked or semi-naked and thus at the point of no return when a knock came at the door.

Brock’s head came up on a low, short, frustrated growl and his eyes went over my head toward the front door. I blinked at this unwelcome turn of events and twisted my neck to look in the same direction.

It was closing on ten. Too late for a caller. Unless that caller was Martha who forgot something and Martha was the kind of gal who consistently forgot something no matter where she was, like her wallet, purse, credit card and other such non-trivial items.

Another knock came at the door and I felt Brock’s arms squeeze, this also happened to coincide with his fingers digging pleasantly into my ass. That felt great, so great, I forgot someone was at the door and I looked to him to see him looking at me.

Oh my.

He was still turned on too.

And let’s just say that look on his face was nice.

“Hold that thought and for fuck’s sake, whatever you do, hold that look,” he growled before he let me go, I teetered slightly but managed to stay standing, turn and watch him stalk toward the door.

I walked the few feet to the island and put my hands on it as he unlocked the front door.

Then my eyes dropped.

On the corner of my island was a white, ceramic pedestal cake stand with glass dome.

Sweeping lines. Simple and elegant. It cost a fortune and I didn’t care. I baked cakes. I needed fabulous cake stands. At that moment in my life, I owned seven of them (in my home, at the bakery I had tons more). All of them fantastic, most of them expensive. They rotated to the top spot on my island depending on my mood.

In the one now were six cupcakes with mountainous swirls of frosting, glittering, edible fairy dust and pastel confetti. Two had mint green frosting, two had pale pink, two baby blue.

This meant Brock had a cupcake while I was saying good-bye to Martha, before I made it to the kitchen when he was eating his second one.

I felt my face go soft as I realized I missed that too. He had a great body, the kind of body that no matter what age, but especially at forty-five, you worked on. He didn’t shy away from his food, his beer or his bourbon. He lived his life like he appreciated it. But he still took care of himself. I’d phoned him enough times when he told me he was at the gym or just got back from a run to know this was true.

But he had a weakness for my cupcakes. And my cake cakes. And my cookies. In fact, anything that came out of my oven, he made no bones about liking it, liking it more than anything else that I’d noticed he liked and he didn’t do this by handing me flowery compliments. He did this by consuming them with relish.

And in that moment, I found I loved that.

On that thought, I heard Brock snarl, “You have got to be shitting me,” and my head snapped up.

“Who are you?”

At the sound of the familiar voice asking that question, my hands slid down the counter and curled tight around the edge as my chest compressed so deep it felt like I was being crushed.

Damian.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you are not here. You are never here.

You are never anywhere near this fuckin’ house, Tess’s fuckin’ bakery or Tess. I see you or I hear you are, honest to fuckin’ God, I’ll deal with you and you do not want me to do that.”

Brock was still snarling, it was vicious, biting and I could feel his mood all the way across the living room, through the kitchen and to me. It was filling the house, beyond his pissed off snap of electricity, this was rough and abrasive, scoring at my skin.

“I beg your pardon?” Damian asked.

Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.

Damian was at least three inches shorter than Brock. Damian was probably twenty pounds lighter if not more. Damian was lean in the sense he was lean, not muscled, no bulk. He was fit but there was no power to his frame like there was to Brock’s. In a physical tussle, Brock would take him, easy.

And Damian wouldn’t give one flying fuck. Damian spent most of his time pissing in corners. Damian would not take to a threat well.

Not at all.

I started to move around the island to instigate damage control, my eyes on Brock’s back seeing he had his body between the door and the doorjamb, his big frame blocking Damian from view, his back to me.

Still, he lifted an arm out behind him like he had eyes in the back of his head and could see me starting to approach and he barked, “Tess, do not fuckin’ move.”

I halted at the side of the island.

“If Tess is in there, I’d like to speak to her,” Damian, voice tight, requested.

“Did you not hear me ten fuckin’ seconds ago?” Brock asked.

“Who are you?” Damian demanded to know.

“You didn’t hear me ten fuckin’ seconds ago,” Brock decided.

“All right, I’ll ask politely. Please move aside so I can talk with Tess,” Damian asked.

To that, Brock stated, “In five seconds I’m closing the door. You’re not in your Escalade and on the road sixty seconds after that, I’m on the phone with the cops. No joke, no delay.

Got that?” Then, as he promised, he stepped out of the door, closed it in Damian’s face and locked it.

I stood where I was at the side of the island.

Brock moved to the window and yanked hard on the cord to the blinds to expose the glass.

Then he stood in it, arms crossed, feet planted.

I licked my lips.

Brock didn’t move a muscle.

I put a hand out to the counter and held on.

Brock didn’t twitch.

I counted to ten. Then to twenty.

Brock leaned to the side, yanked the cord and the blinds dropped with a crash.

Then he turned and prowled through the living room towards me, one hand to his back pocket. He had his phone out by the time he stopped a foot away.

I held my breath when I saw his face up close.

“Honey –” I whispered then stopped speaking when his hand came up abruptly.

I tensed as it came to me but, whisper-soft and unbelievably sweet, his fingertips skimmed my cheek on their way to glide into my hair where his hand curled around the back of my head and he pulled me closer.

I went because I didn’t have a choice and because I wanted to. When I got near, I put my hands to his abs.

“Mood’s broke, sweetness,” he muttered. “And I need to make some calls. If you’re tired, go get ready for bed or, if not, give your girl a call. I’ll be in in a minute and we’ll get some shuteye. Yeah?”

“Is he gone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I swallowed.

His hand gave me a squeeze and I watched his eyes flare.

Then he asked, “He won’t stay gone, will he?”

I shook my head.

His mouth got tight.

Then he said gently, “Give me a minute to make some calls, baby.”

I nodded. His hand gave me another squeeze then sifted through my hair until it was gone.

Then I moved to my bedroom.

Okay, it was safe to say I wasn’t tittering with excitement nine months ago when my abusive ex-husband who raped me contacted me for the first time in over four years, shattering the illusion I’d built that I was safe in a life that no longer contained him. And it was also safe to say I deliberated at length going to lunch with him.

But I loved his Dad.

Donald Heller was a good man, he adored me openly and it cut to the quick when, to erase Damian from my life, I had to break ties with anything that had anything to do with Damian, including his Dad. Donald tried to keep up a relationship with me but I did not encourage this and he finally quit trying. News that he was unwell broke my heart, gave me guilt and, just as Damian knew it would, spurred me to show at lunch.

It was a mistake that I would pay for quite a bit, it would turn out. And this settled in my soul the troubling fact that I’d allowed myself to be played, again, by Damian.

I left him the day after he raped me. My dog and I lived with Martha for the year and a half it took finally to get a divorce then I moved to my own apartment. And for that year and a half, Damian stopped at nothing to “win me back”.

I couldn’t take another year and a half.

Unfortunately, this current scenario wasn’t conducive to me finding that perfect nightgown to wear the first time I slept the night with Brock Lucas. We had slept together, twice, both times me falling asleep with him on my couch while watching a movie. No, strike that, three times adding last night.

But, except for last night, he’d always been gone before I woke and we had never slept together in a bed.

This was a momentous occasion which I should mentally and, arguably more importantly, fashionably prepare for but at that moment, I didn’t have it in me.

I sorted through my nightgown drawer with trembling hands and luckily my inherent girl power kicked in and my fingers honed in on my cotton candy purplish pink, embroidered eyelet nightie with its empire waist, spaghetti straps and teensy weensy ruffle at hem and bodice. Cute, girlie, comfortable therefore it seemed a casual choice like it was any other night but it bared lots of skin, showed serious leg and a hint of cleavage all of which stated plainly I was making an effort for my man.

Freaking perfect.

I grabbed it and my glasses, took them to the bathroom and did my nighttime gig, contacts out, face washed, teeth brushed and flossed then I changed clothes, slid my glasses on and walked out.

I heard Brock’s rumble when I did.

And this was what it said, “No shit, Calhoun.”

I pressed my lips together at that name, scurried into the bedroom, dropped my clothes in the hamper then scurried out.

I knew he wanted to protect me but I was forty-three years old. I was in a situation. This situation was unlike the last. Now people knew. People who cared about me. People who had my back and people willing to take my front and act as a shield.

But it was high time I got my head out of the sand.

Somehow, I’d managed to be a survivor. But I was thinking that was pure luck and it only had to happen because I’d left my head in the sand too long with a husband who was no good for me from the start and I knew it, I just didn’t do a thing about it.

I needed to get my shit together.

So I stopped in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, doing this with my eyes on a Brock Lucas who had his fist to his waist and his eyes on me.

Then he did something beautiful.

He trusted in me and the strength I was building inside enough to keep talking.

“You call the DA and you tell him to tell that asshole’s attorneys that if he doesn’t desist in harassing Tess, his boatload of legal problems will become a shitload. He already forged her fucking signature on bank documents. And we already got taped testimony and phone records that show for six months he’s been dicking with her. So, when the DA talks to his legal team, he needs to use the words stalking, harassment, assault and sexual assault.”

I felt my chest rise with my indrawn breath and I knew Brock saw it but he kept trusting me and thus talking.

“Statute of limitations is not out on that. No way in fuck that Tessa O’Hara who runs a bakery and sprinkles fuckin’ confetti on her cakes will take the stand, describe her nightmare and he won’t go down, I don’t give a fuck if we have no physical evidence. She’ll have any jury eating out of her hand. His lawyers will know that. Now, I smell that guy’s fuckin’

cologne, Calhoun, she’s pressing charges. This ends for her tonight. Make the fuckin’ call.”

He listened for about two seconds then grunted, “Yeah,” and flipped his phone shut.

I waited for him to shove it back in his pocket before I asked softly, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he answered harshly. “I had my tongue in my woman’s mouth and my hand on her ass for the first time in three months. I like your ass. For three months, I spent a good deal of time thinkin’ about havin’ my hand back on your ass. What I didn’t spend time thinkin’ about is havin’ my hand on your ass and someone knockin’ on the front door and that someone being your slimeball motherfucking ex.”

Well, there you go.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Kentucky is becoming more attractive.”

He stared at me.

Then he grinned.

Then his eyes swept the length of me and back again before he said low, “Great nightie, babe.”

“Thanks,” I replied, tipping my head to the side then, to shift the mood and probably breaking all the rules of the game by doing something that would get me kicked out of the sisterhood, I shared, “If I’d have known you were spending the night I would have carved out some time to take a trip to the mall to buy a silky, sexy nightie that shouted, occasion, ” with this, I lifted up my hands and shook them then dropped them and continued, “though it would be carefully selected so when you saw me in it you’d think that was what I wore to bed every night when it isn’t . But since I didn’t know, I had to make do and this is what you get.” To that, I flicked my hand to my cotton candy nightie.

“I’m thinkin’ you did all right in a pinch,” he noted.

“I’m glad,” I said on a smile.

“So what do you wear to bed every night?” he asked.

“Well…” I thought about it then finished, “various versions of this. Though, I will warn you so you don’t get your hopes up, some of them don’t have ruffles.”

To that, he burst out laughing and he did it while walking to me. He stopped laughing and walking a half a foot away.

Then with his head tipped down to me, he said quietly, “Call your girl, sweetness, and then let’s hit the sack, yeah?”

I nodded but asked, “I’m sensing our earlier activities have been scheduled to recommence at a later date.”

He lifted a hand and curled it around the side of my neck as he dipped his face close to mine.

Then he said, “It sucks but yeah.” His hand gave me a squeeze while he went on, “You’re right, this is an occasion, it’s important and that douchebag showing marred it. When that happens between us again it’s gonna be just you and me without the ghost of that guy tarnishing it.”

I liked that. I liked that he wanted to give me that. I liked knowing us connecting in that way was as important to him as it was to me. And I liked holding the knowledge that he wanted to make it special.

I liked it so much, my hand came up, my fingers curled around his wrist at my neck, I got up on my toes and touched my mouth to his.

When I rocked back, I whispered, “Okay. I’ll call Martha and meet you in bed.”

He bent forward an inch, touched his forehead to mine then pulled back and dropped his hand. I released his wrist and he moved around me and toward the bedroom.

I went to my purse and dug out my phone. Then I called Martha. She was home. She wasn’t fine but she’d just opened a bottle of red wine in an attempt to get that way or at least put herself to sleep. We chatted until I heard the tremble go out of her voice. Then I hung up.

Then I walked to my bedroom to find a bare-chested Brock “Slim” Lucas in it, on his back, sheets to waist but hands to his face rubbing.

Those hands dropped when I hit the room but not before I remembered the last time he was in my bed, pressing the butts of his palms to his forehead, his manner conflicted and his expression would provide further evidence of that when he’d turned it to me.

This made a curl of apprehension writhe in my belly.

He rolled to his side and got up on a forearm while asking, “Babe, you gonna sleep on your feet or get in bed?”

I came unstuck, moved to my bed, pulled back the covers and got in cross-legged. Then I took off my glasses, set them on the nightstand, grabbed my tub of moisturizer and commenced moisturizing my face.

Face moisturized, I sucked up the courage to ask, “When I came in, what was on your mind?”

To my surprise, he didn’t hesitate to answer.

“What was on my mind was that Calhoun was the lead on the investigation into Heller.

Calhoun is a good man. A dedicated man. He and a lotta guys spent three years building up to that takedown. They made twelve arrests with that sweep and ten of those twelve are major players in Heller’s operation. That takedown was huge. Planned and orchestrated with precision and the man hours behind it are incalculable. No case is rock solid but what they got on all those guys is the closest I’ve ever seen. And I was thinkin’ that if that asshole fucks with you and I do what I had the near overwhelming urge to do tonight when I looked at his motherfucking face seeing he had the balls to be standin’ right at your front door at ten o’clock at night, I’ll fuck all that.”

I was watching him as he spoke.

When he stopped, I asked, “What urge?”

Brock blinked up at me.

Then he asked a repeated, “What urge?”

“Yeah, what urge?”

He stared at me three seconds then leaned into me, grabbed the tub of moisturizer out of my hand, leaned deeper, half-tossing, half-placing it on my nightstand then, with his strong arm tight around my belly and hip, he pulled me into the bed and into him.

Once he had me settled, arm still firm around me, he said softly, “I am not a normal guy, Tess.”

I’d already got that.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“I’m the oldest boy, I got two sisters, a brother and Mom got us all in the divorce. Dad’s a decent guy but that didn’t mean he didn’t jack her around. He did. A lot. Too much. He and I have come to uneasy terms and, since he jacked her around so much, this took awhile but because of his shit, I grew up bein’ the man of the family. This started when I was seven. I did not learn to be the man I am from my Dad. The man I am is ingrained in me, starting at seven.”

I wasn’t sure I understood what he was saying but I was sure I thought it was fascinating and furthermore, I very much liked lying pressed close to him in my bed with his arm tight around me while he told me stories of his life.

“Okay,” I whispered again when he didn’t go on.

“What I’m sayin’ is, you do not fuck with a woman that means somethin’ to me. And when I say that, I mean, you do not fuck with a woman that means somethin’ to me.”

Oh my.

I got it.

“You wanted to hurt Damian,” I said quietly.

“Hurt? Yeah. In a way he’d feel that pain every fuckin’ day for the rest of his motherfuckin’ life. In a way he’d never forget me. In a way he’d never forget the lesson I taught him. And in a way he’d think about you and instead of you giving precious headspace to wishin’ you never met him, his headspace would be filled with wishin’ he’d never fucked with you.”

Before my mind told me to do it, my body pressed closer to his. But if my body asked my mind, my mind wouldn’t have argued.

I slid my hand up his hard chest, along his corded neck to come to rest on his stubbled jaw.

Then, looking deep into his eyes, I admitted, “I don’t have words.”

His arm got tighter and his face tilted on the pillow to get closer before he whispered,

“Tess, I learned somethin’ early about you. You are the only woman I know who doesn’t need words. Everything you do speaks for you and it never lies. Just your hand on me, babe, said it all.”

He held my eyes and I held my breath because he said that like he liked it, not a little, a whole bunch.

I nodded. His face got soft. Then it dipped to mine where he touched my mouth with his.

When he pulled back, he murmured, “Hit your light, darlin’.”

I nodded again, took my hand away and rolled. I turned out the light then curled on my side, pulled the covers over my shoulder, shoved my hands under my cheek and called,

“’Night, honey.”

Half a second later, I found my body hauled across the bed, my ass in the curve of his hips, his knees cocked into mine, his front pressed to my back, his arm tight around my belly and his lips at my hair.

Only then did he murmur, “’Night, Tess.”

Brock Lucas spooned.

I fell asleep smiling.