Heaven and Hell (51 page)

I nodded yet again.

“When you’re here, you need a ride. So I’m
seein’ to you havin’ a ride.”

Okay, although there were more words to this
explanation, I was still not following.

“Yes, and I can rent one from Avis or
something, like you did when you were in Indiana.”

Sam’s head cocked to the side again
and
his brows drew together again at the same time which I
thought might be a scary combination.

“Baby, I live here.”

I was getting kind of impatient. “I know,
Sam.”

“And you’re my woman.”

Uh-oh. Not this again.

I had a feeling there was an additional
nuance to me being his woman that he thought I should get that I
did not.

“Sam –” I began to tell him this but he
turned fully to me, lifting his hands and curling his fingers
around either side of my neck, his face dipping to my face, his was
serious so I shut up.

And I would find he was serious when he
said, “This isn’t a vacation for you. You’re not here a few days to
relax and enjoy the beach and then goin’ home never to come back. I
didn’t just buy four vases because my woman wanted to fill the
house with flowers. I bought four vases because my woman’s livin’
at my house and she’s the kinda woman who fills the house with
flowers.”

Oh boy. I had a feeling that explained the
garlic press.

Sam went on, “I dig that you gotta sort out
what you gotta sort out at home. When I’m there with you, we’ll
sort out what I gotta sort out when I’m in Indiana with you once
you got what you gotta sort out sorted.”

Right, I followed that… kind of.

He kept going. “But we don’t have shit to
sort for you when you’re here except this, gettin’ you a ride. So
I’m sorting it.”

Light was dawning.

“Are you saying I’m going to be here often
enough to need a car?”

This got the head cock, eyebrow draw
and
narrowed eyes which was definitely scary.

“Uh… yeah.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“You with me?” he asked.

“Um… yes,” I answered then foolishly
queried, “Am, I, uh… paying –?”

I didn’t finish.

Sam cut me off with a firm, unyielding,
deeply growled, “Kia.”

I pressed my lips together.

Then I ventured, “Okay, then, uh… can I
point out you already have a gas guzzling utility vehicle and
perhaps we should spare the environment another gas guzzling
utility vehicle?”

Luckily, that made Sam grin, his hands went
from my neck to become arms wrapped loosely around me and he kept
grinning down at me when he replied, “You can point it out but
you’re still gettin’ a Cherokee.”

This was when
my
brows drew
together.

“Sam!
I
have to drive it.”

“Yeah, and it’s safe, if you don’t drive
reckless and roll it. Someone hits you and you’re in a Cherokee,
they may not come out breathin’ but you will.”

This point held merit so I didn’t debate
it.

Sam finished with, “But you can pick the
color if you want.”

Well, that was something.

I glanced through the lot and, I had to
admit, the green was really cool. It was so dark, it was nearly
black. And since Sam’s truck was black, they’d kind of match.

I looked back and told him, “I like the
green.”

“Right,” he muttered, grinning again.

Then, I didn’t know what came over me, I
blurted, “You have a garlic press.”

This only got me a head cock for which I was
relieved.

“Come again?”

I said it; I had to go with it.

“You have a garlic press.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

“I find that surprising,” I shared.

“Why?”

Hmm. How to traverse this?

Luckily, as my mind whizzed from thought to
thought Sam spoke.

“I like to cook but while doin’ it I don’t
like to fuck around with shit that takes ten minutes when I can
spend twenty-five dollars on something that’ll make it take ten
seconds.”

Whoa. There was a lot there.

I started with the easy part.

“You spent twenty-five dollars on a garlic
press?”

He grinned again and asked, “Are you not
gettin’ that I like the best?”

This was true.

So I kept going, “You cook?”

His grin got bigger and he replied, “I’m
thirty-five, I’m a bachelor, I’ve always been a bachelor and I was
an athlete then a soldier. No one’s gonna take care of my body but
me so I do but I like food. You wanna take care of your body and
you like food, you learn to be creative. I learned. Before that, I
was a kid with a Mom who worked full-time, sometimes she had a
part-time job on top of that and I had a little brother. She put me
in charge and part of bein’ in charge was gettin’ both of us fed.
Canned soup and TV dinners get old real quick. You want better, you
learn to make better. So, again, I learned.”

I thought this was cool and sweet.

Before I could share that with Sam, he kept
talking as his loose arms got tighter, “You don’t race back to
Indiana, I’ll show you what I can do in the kitchen.”

“Will it include carbs?” I asked.

That got me a full-fledged smile and a soft,
“I can do carbs.”

I melted into him and replied softly back,
“Then I won’t race back to Indiana.”

Yes, that was what I said. I might not have
a hit out on me anymore but my entire life was still up in the air.
Even so, I promised to increase my indeterminate stay in North
Carolina an indeterminate amount just so Sam would have the
opportunity to cook for me.

This was my dedication to my mission. I’d do
anything.

“Good,” he muttered and it was then I
realized I’d scored.

It wasn’t huge. But he talked about his
brother, his mother and himself. He’d shared. And he’d made it
clear I was going to be around awhile and back often, enough to
lease a vehicle.

And that was what he did. He leased me a
deep, forest green Cherokee. I drove it back to his place and even
though I wasn’t used to that big of a car, I still thought it was
the shit.

That evening, Sam did not thrill me with his
culinary brilliance and spoil me with carbs.

He took me to Skippy’s Crab Shack.

And it was just that, a shack out in the
middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but dense trees accessed by
a single-lane, dirt road. It was so dilapidated, how it stayed
standing was anyone’s guess. The only part of it that had walls was
the kitchen. The rest of it was a long, cement porch covered in a
rickety roof that drunkenly slanted.

I also met Skippy who was the antithesis of
Patrizio. And not just because Patrizio was an older man who
clearly enjoyed his food but neither of these things hid he was
once very good-looking and still had it and Skippy looked like his
mother birthed him in the blazing hot sun and, although that
blessed day was apparently one hundred and fifty years ago, he’d
never been indoors since such was the weathered look of his skin,
the complete absence of his hair and brawny, bulldogedness of his
frame.

No, it was also because Patrizio was warm
and funny and Skippy was so hard and surly, he was crusty.

I learned this immediately.

As we made it to the edge of the patio under
his censorious glower, he took one look at Sam then he looked at me
then he declared, “You call me Skippy even once, I’ll piss in your
beer.”

I decided not to reply and spent my energy
focusing on not looking freaked out or offended by this
greeting.

“His mother named him that, as in, put it on
his birth certificate,” Sam explained to me while grinning at
Skippy. “But everyone calls him Skip.”

I could see a brown-skinned, leathery-faced,
burly old guy with a serious attitude wishing to lose the “py” on
his name. It was clear he’d never been a boy even when he was a boy
so he’d not want a boy’s name when he was most definitely all
man.

“I’ve never tried urine but I’m also
relatively certain I don’t want to so you have my word you’re only
Skip to me,” I assured him.

He didn’t give any indication he heard me
speak when he continued laying down the law.

“I also don’t do substitutions and if you
got a lactose intolerance, a nut allergy, you need gluten-free,
you’re on some stupid-ass diet that means you can’t have ketchup or
whatever, I don’t give a shit. The menu is the menu. You order, you
get what it says you’ll get and you’re happy with it since I also
don’t do complaints.”

“So noted,” I replied.

“And I got beer, Coke, Sprite and Diet Coke.
You’re on an asinine diet, you order Diet Coke. I do not do light
beer. I do not serve water. You want light beer or you wanna do
something moronic like drink water with fried food, you can find
another crab shack,” he announced.

“Message received,” I assured him.

Skip wasn’t done.

“You’re with Sam and you feel like tyin’ one
on, I’ll pull out the bourbon. You’re with Luci, I’ll bring out the
vodka. You become a regular and don’t get up my nose, I’ll keep a
bottle a’ whatever you like in the Shack. You
ever
bring Hap
back here; you’re eight-sixed for life, just like him. Got me?”

Hmm. Wonder what Hap did. I couldn’t see him
ordering a light beer so I suspected it was something else.

I stared at Skip’s craggy face and decided
to ask Sam later.

“Got you,” I told him.

He examined me head-to-toe and took his
time.

So much of it, Sam asked, “Skip, Ma’s comin’
to town tomorrow. Need your approval of Kia before we have to hit
the road for Raleigh. We got any prayer that’s gonna happen?”

Skip glared at Sam while he spoke and when
he was done, his eyes sliced to me.

“So, Maris is comin’ to check you out?”

I bit my lip and shrugged.

“Sam was my boy, you’d get approval just
because you got a great rack,” he informed me.

Jeez. Seriously. What was up with the men
Sam hung out with?

“Uh… cool,” I muttered.

Skip looked at Sam and continued, “And a
mouth made to be kissed.”

That was better…
ish.

“Noticed that, Skip, now can we sit and
eat?” Sam asked, sounding amused.

Skip looked back at me. “Two fried crab
sandwiches, two beers, comin’ up.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the
Shack.

Sam led me to a picnic table, one of the
kinds where the seats were attached with angled boards. We mounted
the seat on the same side and Sam claimed me by pulling one of my
legs over one of his thighs then twisting his torso to me and
resting his arm over my lap.

“Skip’s a character,” he told me.

“Got that, honey,” I muttered and Sam
grinned.

Then his grin faded and he shared softly,
“Fifty cents of every dollar he makes he gives to ALS research
‘cause his sister died of Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

My heart squeezed.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

“He’s a nut but he’s a nut who really
fuckin’ loved his sister.”

I felt my face get soft and I looked toward
the Shack.

“And when Gordo died,” Sam went on and I
quickly looked back at him, “and Luci lost it, he slept on her
couch for two weeks because he didn’t like her bein’ alone. He made
her breakfast every morning and stood over her, makin’ her eat when
she wouldn’t. He left the Shack and made her lunch. And he left it
again to make her dinner. He can be an ass, he’s hard to take and
that’s why he never got married, never had kids. That doesn’t mean
he hasn’t adopted a number of them along the way. He adopts you, as
you can tell, he’s still an ass and hard to take but he’s good
people.”

“Never judge a book by their cover or
talking books that tell you two minutes after you’ve met them that
you’ve got a great rack,” I said quietly and Sam grinned again.

Then he agreed, “Yeah.”

“What did Hap do?”

Sam’s grin got bigger before he stated,
“Hap’s in the Army.”

“Right…” I drew it out on a prompt.

“And, before Skippy started his crab shack,
he was in the Navy.”

“Ah,” I murmured, nodding my head.

“One night, Skip broke out the bourbon and
Hap had too much, didn’t shut up, there was a discussion, it got
heated, it veered to the Army Navy game the previous season which
Army just happened to win. Hap rubbed it in and Skip blew a gasket.
Eighty-sixed Hap for life and meant it. Hap’s tried twice to come
back. Skip got out his shotgun and fired buckshot at him twice.
Hap’s not a big fan of bein’ fired on in the line of duty and
really
not a big fan of bein’ fired on when he’s just
lookin’ for dinner. So Hap hasn’t attempted a third time.”

“This is probably wise,” I stated.

“Definitely wise,” Sam agreed.

I held his eyes and told him, “Celeste said
that you can tell a lot by the company a man keeps.”

Sam burst out laughing. I smiled and
watched.

When he controlled his laughter, he
remarked, “Great. Not sure that’s good, baby.”

My smile died and I whispered, “I am.”

Sam’s eyes got intense, his face got intense
and I held my breath.

Then he leaned into me, opening his mouth to
speak just when two bottles of beer thudded loudly on the wood
beside us.

I choked back growling my frustration when I
turned to the bottles to see Skip had deposited them so forcefully
both of them were foaming over. Then my eyes tipped up to look at
him.

“Beer,” he grunted the obvious then stalked
off.

Sam chuckled, grabbed a beer, reached out to
a napkin dispenser, yanked some out and wiped one down before he
handed it to me.

The moment was lost.

I decided to let it go and find my time to
make another one.

Not long after, our meals were served.

I was an experimental eater, I would try
practically everything. That said, the operative word in that was
“practically”. And it had to be said that I was willing to try a
fried crab sandwich but was still apprehensive about it. After
meeting Skip, learning about him and seeing the many picnic tables
filled with people and the steady coming and going of cars picking
up takeaway orders, I felt better about this. After actually eating
it and the mound of homemade, spiced by hand, thin fries that were
fried to crispy perfection and covered in ketchup, I knew why Sam
was a regular.