Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) (8 page)

A
loud shriek ripped the silence. Eric jerked upright, heart pounding. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, growing cold from the chill in his bedroom. His first thought was of Lila. Had something gone wrong with the baby? But the siren wasn’t the wail of an ambulance. The racket was coming from inside his house. His smoke alarm made a low, continuous drone, nothing like the wail piercing his eardrums. He didn’t have a burglar alarm. Sounded like some innocent machine was being tortured. In his loft.

Loft.
The memory of confused brown eyes swept the cobwebs from his brain. The god-awful noise had to be Amy’s alarm. Collapsing against one pillow, he clamped another over his head, waiting for her to hit the snooze button. A minute crawled by. The brain-curdling sound didn’t relent. He flung the pillow aside to glare at the clock beside his bed.

Who the fuck sets an alarm for five in the morning?
He’d expected a college kid to sleep in. After two solid minutes of auditory torture, Eric decided she was either deaf or dead. He prayed she was still breathing. So he could fucking kill her for taking her sweet time turning off her alarm.

What the hell was I thinking, bringing her here?

Waiting impatiently for silence to resume, he wondered what he’d tell Dan and Colton—much less Lila or Cynda—about his sudden urge for a roommate. Lying on his back, glaring at the ceiling in the dark, he knew Dan would see Amy’s car when he left for work. His brother would recognize the Honda, too. Knowing who drove what vehicle was second nature to a small town mechanic. He’d almost rather talk to the circuit solicitor today than have one more conversation where his brothers called him a dumbass. He yanked the pillow over his head again, but the piercing sound seemed to have pissed off his conscience. That bitch was screaming nearly as loud as Amy’s alarm.

You hurt her last night.
His conscience didn’t seem to care he’d had little choice in the matter.

I’m not sexy.
The memory of her plaintive whisper crept under his ire.
The fuck you’re not.
He flung the pillow aside and glared at the ceiling. If she didn’t turn off her damn clock, he was going up those steps to paddle her ass. If she’d set an alarm, then she had somewhere to be, though God only knew where the fuck that could be at this hour. So why wasn’t she getting up?

For a woman standing about five-two barefoot, Amy Sizemore had the potential to become about fifteen feet worth of trouble. Of course, he’d gone looking for this particular trouble. But why?

“Amy! Turn that damn alarm off!” Eric rolled onto his knees and pounded the wall behind the bed.

The blaring noise stopped. Blessed silence settled over him like a second quilt.

He sighed, flopped back onto the mattress, and stretched. He closed his eyes and waited for his heartbeat to slow.
What if the lawyer tells us he’s made a deal with John to do a year in prison? Or he’s going to recommend probation?

Eric’s stomach knotted. His eyelids felt like window shades, snapping open. He sat up and hurled his pillow. He knew from bitter experience, he’d be unable to go back to sleep. For weeks, he’d been waking while it was still dark, feeling like he’d had rocks for supper. Might as well get his ass up and go fetch the steamer trunks for Amy’s clothes.

The small voice piped up again.
You want her here.

“Brought her here, didn’t I?” he muttered, stomping into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on a light.

He felt dog-tired and his stomach was a roiling pit, but peering through the bathroom window, the charcoal sky revealed the fog floating over the geothermal spring. Squinting, he could just make out the footprints marking their run through the snow. Recalling the exhilarating dash, he smiled.  Most fun he’d had in a while. Which said something about his pathetic excuse for a life.

He might even say that unexpected romp was better than the sex... but then again, he hadn’t had sex, had he?
Fucking limp bastard.
What the hell was up with his cock? In the pool, with Amy squirming in his arms like a turned-on teddy bear, begging him with her eyes—nothing.

Nothing below the waist. His brain conjured the intense ripple of pleasure from sliding into the heat of her tight pussy, but the sensation—and act—was limited to his skull.

Gotta be stress.
Watching the snow come down, he’d started worrying that the weather might cause the courthouse to close. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting with the solicitor, but he was tired of having this concern hanging over his head. He wanted to find out John’s fate and then find a way to move on with his life.

Because, yeah. That’s going places.
Growling, he strode through the bedroom and snatched a pair of jeans off a hanger.

He started the coffee maker, then stoked the fire. The lights were on in the loft, but he heard no sound.

Outside, a cold blast of wind picked up some of the powder and hurled it across his boots while he unlocked his truck. He had to pull onto the grass to maneuver around Amy’s car. At the end of the drive, his headlights showed the tracks made by the newspaper guy’s vehicle. Looked like about an inch of snow had fallen. He figured the paved roads would be unaffected. A southern snow tended to be wet, with ice involved, typically a nasty affair. This powder stuff was a real rarity.
No snow day for the schoolgirl.

He yanked the rolled newsprint from the holder affixed beside the mailbox.
And the courthouse will be open.
Eric slung the paper into the passenger seat.

He found the two steamer trunks right where he expected, in the shed where his grandmother once taught the farm’s migrant workers who wanted to learn English.

Back at the cabin, he hauled the big trunks onto the porch and opened the first one.

Yellow cardboard boxes, about a half inch thick and the size of his palm, filled one drawer. Eric snorted, thinking about the summer his Grandmother Chapman drove them insane with her new home movie camera. She’d never quite gotten the hang of holding the camera steady. Her results had made his eyes cross and his stomach heave. And the way she yanked the camera from one subject to another....  He shuddered. To say these things would make good torture devices was like saying Bentley made an okay car.

He grabbed a handful of the film reels and turned, intending to throw them away, but something stopped him. His baby sister, Sarah, would be in these. Should he see if Jonah wanted to try and watch this crap?

The familiar ache throbbed inside his chest at the thought of his little sister. He’d locked her in one of these trunks once. When he let her out, she’d run straight to tattle. Eric could almost feel the stripes his dad put on his ass for making Sarah cry. Rafe never could handle it when tears fell from his daughter’s eyes. Colton had smeared mayonnaise under Eric’s pillow later that night. He knew it’d been Colton, though no one ever ‘fessed up. Colton and Sarah always had each others’ back.

His little sister’s death had been just as senseless as his mother’s. Eric could picture her, refusing to give up the keys to her new car and being shot in return. Something like that would never happen here.
Yeah, right. Damn you, Sarah, no matter what Dad thought, you should’ve stayed put, right here in the shadow of the Klan.
He kicked the trunk, watching the cloud of dust rise through stinging eyes.

Hadn’t Cynda almost been raped in the house where they’d grown up? Hadn’t their mother been killed practically in Eric’s back yard? And if living in California had put Sarah in harm’s way, who was to blame for that?
Me. My fault. My fault. God, Sarah, I’m so sorry.
Some days, it was all Eric could do to look his nephew in the eye.

He pulled the drawer free and dumped the film boxes on the kitchen table. Back on the porch, he flipped the latch on the second trunk and slid the two sides open. The projector rested in the hat box in the bottom of the hanging section. The camera nestled behind the fake drawer front that opened to make a writing desk. He snorted, lifting the heavy projector. Too bad he didn’t need a boat anchor. The De Marcos held on to everything—except their women.

He parked the machines beside the reels and grabbed the central vacuum hose and a rag. By the time he had the old trunks cleaned off, he thought he could handle his morning cup of coffee.

His stomach was steady, until he slid the rubber band off the paper and the page fell open. He studied John Carpenter’s photo through narrowed eyes. Gritting his teeth, Eric filled a mug and strode to the couch. Slamming down the paper and cup, he looked up. The lights were still on in the loft.

Come on down, Amy. I need to see your smile.

Carpenter had been front page news nearly every day since his stunning confession. This morning’s article was another speculating on the sentence the prick might get. Scanning the same tired conclusion—five years—Eric’s stomach lurched, nearly making him spill his coffee.
He’s not gonna get five years. He’s just not. Calm down.

He had two full hours to kill before he had to leave for work. He’d check the classifieds for an all-terrain vehicle. Jonah had been begging for one. Lila wasn’t enamored of the idea, but Eric thought she was being too protective. He and his siblings had grown up ripping and running through the orchards on dirt bikes, four-wheelers, anything with a motor. Despite a few cuts and bruises, they’d lived to tell the tale. Maybe he’d just build Jonah a go-cart.

Maybe not. The last thing he wanted was to cause a problem between his brother and his woman. Maybe Lila would chill out after the baby came. Moving Amy in was sure to set her off, anyway. No sense in starting the De Marco family version of World War Three.

He’d done that once already and was in no hurry for a repeat performance.

An hour went by without sight of Amy, though his gaze wandered often to the loft. The sudden sound of running water made him snap the paper open. A tear of roughly an inch appeared down the center fold of the newsprint, making him snarl again.

The fine print blurred. His mind’s eye saw the spray from the shower running over Amy's skin. The image was all too easy to conjure after last night. His brain sketched her hands, rubbing soap across her breasts and down her thighs. Then the image changed, and his hands were doing the rubbing.

Thinking about what he was missing, he glared at the undisturbed fabric over his cock.
Useless motherfucker.

* * * *

A
my felt like an idiot for setting her alarm for such an ungodly hour. Not only did she owe Eric an apology for waking him, she hadn’t written more than four paragraphs on her paper, for hoping he’d come upstairs and offer her a better wake-up call. Glancing across the bed, she tried to peer through the window, but all she could see was her reflection. He’d gone out and returned, but she didn’t hear any movement now.
He must’ve gone back to bed.

Shoving her textbooks out of the way, she tugged her shirt over her head. She’d put in some more work on her paper at the library before her first class.

Her gaze roamed the varnished boards overhead and her thoughts turned back to Eric. She had zero experience with casual sex. She only knew the rules to this game in theory. They were roommates-with-benefits, meaning this would be different than living with Drew. Now that she’d figured out the obvious, she couldn’t expect to stay here for free. She had to pay something for rent.

He couldn’t mean the orgasm thing. That was just... talk.
Obviously, he’d grown bored with the idea, since he hadn’t even tried to have sex with her. But she was already in love with the loft. Maybe not having sex was for the best.

Until they agreed on the rent, buying clothes seemed foolish. At Christmas, her parents had given her money. She’d socked the cash into her savings account. Now, her parents were budgeting for her sister’s wedding. Even if they offered, she wouldn’t feel right about taking more money.

She was certified to officiate high school and recreation league games, in multiple sports. There were a few regular season games left on the basketball schedule, but at the high school level, post-season games went to the most experienced referees, and rarely to female officials. She didn’t have enough seniority to worry about being passed over because of gender.

Meaning she’d have to take every rec league game she could get, in order to afford rent, gas, food, and a new wardrobe. Thankfully, the wheelchair tournament would run all weekend, and baseball season was just around the corner. At least she wouldn’t have to buy any more textbooks. She wouldn’t need a large selection of dressy clothing until she started student teaching, after Spring break. For now, she’d worry about buying one outfit for the stupid practice interview required as part of the workshop on presenting a professional image.

With no more than a half-assed start on her paper, she wished she’d begged off last night when her friend Kevin sent a text asking for a ride to work this morning.

Amy opened her e-mail program. Looked like her mom had been back from the coast for all of an hour before writing to ask if Amy had bought any clothes to wear for student teaching. She scowled. The news got worse. Her sister had picked out her bridesmaid’s dresses. Amy’s dress was being shipped to a bridal shop at the mall for fitting. She held her breath, clicked the link, and glared at the hideous photo that opened. The shiny, clingy dress was a weird shade of pink.
Great. I’m going to look like a roll of bologna. Thank you, Hannah.

Amy closed her e-mail and opened her browser. The public school system and local colleges were running on the normal schedule. The cabin was at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She supposed that was why the snow had been heavy here but the images taken in town showed the white stuff barely dusted the ground.

She scanned the headlines. She’d be glad when the De Marcos’ mom was no longer front page news. The family referred to Cammie’s death as “murder”, but the old farmer only confessed to causing an accidental death, then panicking and hiding the body. With no hate crime law to prosecute the crime, she feared Eric’s family was going to be disappointed with John Carpenter’s sentence. The farmer admitted he’d attacked her after he accused her of sleeping with one of the black or Mexican migrant workers working on the De Marco’s peach farm.