Authors: Kristen Brockmeyer
Lucky in Love (3 page)
"I was in shock, not to mention unimaginable pain." he interrupted sadly.
"Whatever," I barreled on, undeterred. "If you'd had your wits together, maybe you wouldn't have smashed your melon in the parking lot."
At that reminder of his cranial trauma, Chance put his hand to his head and winced. I felt more unwelcome sympathy creeping under my wronged-ex barricades. I relented a little. "Can I get you some water or something?"
"Please?" He sounded so pitiful that it was hard to remember that I hated his guts. The poor-me routine was probably all just a ruse to let him peek down my dress when I leaned over the bed.
On second thought, I figured, let him get his kicks. He'd had a hard day.
God knows I didn't want to feel any compassion for my old runaway boyfriend, but he was partially right about my being to blame, so I picked up the styrofoam cup of water from his bedside table and leaned over to give him a drink.
Just then, Dr. Distrustful walked in. "Stop!" he shouted, apparently thinking that I was giving his patient strychnine through a flexi-straw. He darted toward me from across the room. Like a slow-motion football re-cap, I bobbled the cup wildly in surprise, and then gained control again as my other hand came up to steady it. But by then, the doctor was already in mid-tackle. He not only succeeded in dumping the ice water all over Chance, but knocked me into Chance's dislocated arm in the process.
Chance's howl brought every nurse in the tri-state area running.
At around 6:00 AM, Chance was finally released and officially my responsibility. His sister and brother were both living in Ohio and his parents had moved back to Alabama the year before, so since no next-of-kin or non-newlywed best friends were available, the medical staff had reluctantly remanded him into my custody. I didn't like it any more than they did, but what could I do? I just wanted to go home, get out of my bridesmaid dress, and maybe drink a beer with the morning news.
Chance was still flying high on painkillers when I hefted him from the wheelchair into the Roadmaster, thankfully with no further incidents except another "accidental" grab at my butt. Chance's body might have been battered, but his sex drive was still firing on all twelve cylinders.
Although, that could have been the morphine, too.
"Really did miss you, Lucky," he purred from the back seat. The unvarnished seduction and the little bit of sexy Southern in his voice made me drop the car keys on their way to the ignition. I was saved from coming up with a snarky shut-down by a long snore.
Despite blinding rain that my wipers could barely cope with, I got us home without hitting any more dogs—human or otherwise.
I lived on the third floor of a renovated Victorian house in what's affectionately known as the Student Ghetto. I had happily accepted 1920's parquet floors, a marble-topped fireplace, an ornate stained glass window and a $450-a-month rent payment in exchange for the noisy summer block parties, the occasional drunk frat boy neighbor mistakenly banging on my door at 3:00 AM, and once, a man showing up mysteriously on my living room couch.
That was actually less creepy than it sounds. Seventy-two year old Julian was sitting in the living room when I stumbled out of bed one morning, watching old reruns of Tom and Jerry. He had found his way to my building, where he had grown up when it was still a single-family home, on a routine escape from his assisted-living facility. He commented on my Frank Sinatra record collection, and before I knew it, we had discovered a mutual love of all things vintage, although, in Julian's case, it was just nostalgia for the good old days.
We talked for hours that day, shared a box of Captain Crunch and watched some TV, cementing a solid friendship. Now, I pick him up two Saturday nights a month and take him to Bingo at the fairgrounds. Julian also has the habit of turning up at my apartment a few times a week on his self-directed field trips, so I leave a key for him under my doormat.
Addy likes to tease me for seeing so much of him, saying he's the closest thing I've had to a boyfriend in over a year.
Navigating the slippery back steps to my third-floor apartment was tricky with a semi-conscious Chance propped against my shoulder, but I managed. Once in my apartment, I flipped on the light to chase away the early morning gloom. I could tell that Julian must've been by while I was at the wedding, since my dishes were clean and stacked neatly in the drainer and Louie's bowl was full of food.
"Chance," I muttered, jiggling my shoulder to wake him up, "The couch is thataway." I'd barely gotten the words out before he lurched instinctively toward my bedroom.
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, swinging him back toward the couch. He apparently didn't have the wits to argue and was back to snoring in seconds.
Once he was unconscious, I had an easier time being nice to him. I pulled off his dress shoes, and carefully lifted his head to put a pillow underneath. And, I'll admit, I was weak enough to brush my hand against his dark-stubbled cheek, but just for a second. And after I'd tossed a crocheted throw over him, I couldn't help it anymore and gave in to the urge to just stare.
Why had the years been so nice to him, when all they'd done was put 12 pounds on me? Chance looked even better than he had in high school. He'd grown into his height with muscle to spare, and was a far cry from the slightly awkward high school football player I'd bounced around the Buick with. That almost-black hair was the same, and so were the green eyes and dimples chipped into his cheek, but his face a definite rough-around-the edges look that clearly stated this wasn't the same boy I'd been so crazy about once upon a time. A thin white scar bisected his left eyebrow and I wondered how he'd gotten it. It was kind of hot.
Ugh. I was disgusted with myself. I was actually standing here
lusting
after the jerk. But my mind swooped back to the same questions I'd been asking myself for years. Why'd he leave? Was it my personality? Did our first time suck that bad? Had my Teen Spirit not been strong enough?
Giving a snort of self-loathing, I headed for the bedroom to change out of my bridesmaid dress. I caught myself lingering over a smutty little 1940's satin sleep set that had been languishing in my underwear drawer, just waiting for a man worthy of seeing it to stay the night. Resolutely, I shoved it aside and grabbed my most ancient and raggedy pair of grey yoga pants and a black tank. My only concession to Chance's testosterone was the fact that I left my black thongs and lacy bra on.
I figured a few tantalizing glimpses of lingerie might drive him wild. And then, when he inevitably made his move, I could kick his lame ass to the curb. Just the thought of Chance shivering outside my door in the rain, bandaged head and all, had me grinning in delight. After whipping my hair up into a messy topknot and creaming the makeup off of my face, I went back to the living room.
Chance didn't even twitch when I picked up a dictionary and dropped it on the floor next to the couch with a sound like cannon fire at close range. Shrugging, I plopped down in my
squishy, oversized armchair with one of the hideous handmade thrift store afghans that I always grabbed when I saw them, and clicked the TV on. I was asleep within minutes.
My dreams were hot and spicy.
I was in lying on my stomach, one cheek resting against a smooth, cool surface. Something warm and slightly rough was tracing a slow and leisurely path from the sensitive area behind my ear to the back of my exposed neck. I moaned slightly at the sensation, willing the ticklish feeling to not stop. Heat pooled low in my belly and I raised my hand to touch the face of the lover behind me.
My hand met fur.
As my brain struggled to process this startling fact, my ears simultaneously registered the unmistakable sound of male amusement. Two idiots were in my confusing dream, laughing, one muffled and the other a rich baritone chuckle. I pushed myself up to my elbows abruptly, freaking out Louie the one-eyed cat. He hissed and spit, swiping out a claw-filled paw to leave four perfect furrows on my forearm that instantly welled with blood. Rolling into a sitting position, I glared vehemently at the two dummies on my couch and cradled my wounded arm.
"What. The. Hell." It was all I could get out in my pain and rage.
Julian, immediately contrite, stopped laughing. "I'm sorry,
chickie. Do you need a Band-Aid? That scratch looks like a nasty one."
I couldn't stay mad at Julian, because then I'd have to buy a dishwasher and find a real boyfriend. Shaking my head, I let him off the hook and glared at Chance instead. He had to be the corrupting influence on my normally sweet friend.
Chance was still alternately snickering, and wincing at what must've been some serious pain in his skull. "God, I'm sorry Lucky," he finally choked out. "But that was so freaking funny—why'd you go to sleep on the floor if you didn't want to be molested by that mangy cat?"
"I went to sleep on the chair," I grumbled, heaving myself to my feet and heading for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. "Who knows what happened after that."
"You fell down, dear," offered Julian helpfully. "You must have heard the music from
The Young and the Restless
, because you flopped right over and hit the floor. Didn't even wake you up."
Thank goodness for DVR.
The Young and the Restless
was another of my many weaknesses.
I turned the tap on warm and stuck my stinging arm under the running water. Sucking my breath in sharply, I held it there until I figured all the nasty Louie germs were washed away. As I turned the water off, a muscled brown arm reached over my head for the open medicine cabinet and grabbed the Neosporin.
"Gee, Julian," I said mildly, wanting badly to bite the mouthwatering bicep that was suspended a few inches from my face. "You been benching?"
"Yeah, I can press more cans of prunes than anyone else in the old folks' home."
Chance's breath feathered over my skin, and I shivered in another deliciously weak moment, picturing those lips mere inches from my sensitive neck. Oh right, the same neck that had just been licked by a cat. Telling myself to get a grip, I swung around to grab the tube from him. Chance was closer than I thought and my forehead connected with his chin. The antibiotic cream went flying and landed in the toilet.
That's where everything in my bathroom usually ended up. There was a magnet in there that pulled in towels, mascara tubes, shoes—you name it.
"Shit-damn, Lucky! You haven't learned any coordination in the last few years have you?" Grabbing his bruised chin, Chance hobbled out of the bathroom.
"Well don't stand so freaking close then, moron," I shot back. "It's called personal space. Learn it. Respect it."
I grabbed a spare tube of Neosporin out of my makeup drawer. I had the stuff stashed everywhere. After the addition of a couple of Mickey Mouse Band-Aids, I rejoined the motley crew in my living room.
Louie, apparently over any trauma he might have suffered, was curled up on a windowsill, watching birds in the oak tree outside the window. He had his shaggy grey and black head cocked to the left—the better to get a bead on them with his good eye, I figured.
Chance was trying to pry the cap off a bottle of pain pills he'd brought home from the hospital. He also had a red mark on his chin from where I'd whacked him and I smugly rejoiced in my rock-hard noggin.
Julian was engrossed in the tail end of
Y&R
, leaning forward with his bony elbows on his khaki-clad knees, eyes intent under bushy grey brows.
He gasped. "Lucky, do you believe that stubborn idiot? Jill still won't acknowledge that Katherine is her mom and not that imposter, Marge! Even with Nikki on her side! She's got the ring and everything!"
"Don't give anything away, Julian, I'm recording it."
He shook his head, muttering, "I'd take Katherine Chancellor in off the streets any day. That is one hot broad."
Mentally filing that disturbing comment under "R" for "Repress," I moved toward the kitchen. "Chance, you need food with those pills. I'll feed you and then drive you to the airport or train station or bus stop or whatever. "
"I'm staying in town a while." His lips quirked in a smile and there was a challenging glint in his eye.
"Not here, you're not," I said coolly. "How about a sandwich, Julian?"
"Don't worry about me,
chickie," Julian assured me blithely as he rose to his feet, pretending the room wasn't electric with tension. "I'm saving room for dinner. They're serving Salisbury steak tonight back in heaven's waiting room." He patted his belly and wiggled his eyebrows.
"I really wish you wouldn't call it that, Julian," I replied, shaking my head. "You're only 72. God's going to be waiting on you for a long time yet."
Julian was perfectly capable of living on his own, but his rotten excuse for a son had shuffled him off to a nursing home so he could sell Julian's house for some extra cash three years before. Julian had just lost his wife, Dot, to ovarian cancer and was grief-stricken and battling severe depression, so his son had him declared incompetent. Julian didn't fight the ruling, at first because he was too deep in mourning to care, but later, I think because he enjoyed breaking the all the rules of the nursing home.
