Roustabout (The Traveling #3) (16 page)

Tucker muttered something under his breath and reached for his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, leaving it untucked. I guessed that was to cover his hard-on. After all, the boy was probably scarred enough already.

“Yeah, okay,” sighed Tucker. “You go on now.”

The boy nodded, but his eyes were on me. Feeling horribly self-conscious, I tried to tug my skirt down to a decent length.

Tucker’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his chest. The boy caught the movement and flushed red.

He turned quickly, then called over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow at the funeral, Uncle Tucker.”

I gasped, my eyes snapping to Tucker. “Wait, he’s your nephew?”

Tucker grimaced. “Yeah.”

I waited for him to expand his answer, but there was nothing. No expression on his shuttered face. A lifetime of smiles and now he’d run out?

Disappointment banked by fury ignited inside me.

“Just talk to me, Tucker!”

His lips tightened to a thin line.

“Tell me!” I cried out. “Your mom, your dad, how you grew up? Tell me something!”

Stupid tears stung my stupid eyes as the silence billowed out between us. I grabbed my shoes and the blanket, and strode to the car, wincing as sharp splinters of rock dug into my bare feet.

I flung everything in the back and jumped into the driver’s seat—Tucker could find his own damn way back to the hotel. I was too humiliated to . . .

“Tera, wait!”

My vision was blurry as I glared at him, hands bunched into fists as I gripped the steering wheel.

“I didn’t know I had a nephew until yesterday,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t spoken to my momma or anyone in my family for the last 12 years.”

I deflated as air whooshed from my lungs.

“Oh! Tucker, I . . .”

A huge sob hiccupped out of me as obstinate tears leaked from my eyes.

He shook his head. “Don’t cry, sugar. She’s not worth it.”

“I’m not crying for your mother,” I gulped, my voice wobbling.

“I don’t understand,” he said gently, pulling me into his arms.

“I’m crying for you!”

He buried his face in my hair.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t ever cry for me.”

“Someone has to,” I whispered, but I don’t think he heard me.

He held me against his chest and I could hear the rapid beat of his heart slowing, easing. I felt foolish, regretting my outburst. It wasn’t how I’d been brought up.

“Sorry,” I muttered, pushing away from him.

His arms dropped to his sides and he gave me a half smile that faded quickly.

I wiped my eyes and hoped I didn’t resemble a panda too badly.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said quietly.

He shrugged and looked away. “Like I said, we weren’t close.”

“Do you . . . would you like . . . ?”

He looked at me curiously as my words tumbled out. I took a deep breath to compose myself.

“I could go with you, if you like.”

He frowned. “Go where?”

“To your mother’s funeral . . . if you like.”

He looked stunned and I could see him already starting to shake his head.

“Don’t decide now,” I said quickly. “But if you want . . . or if you don’t want to go by yourself . . .”

“Jesus, TC,” he laughed uncomfortably. “Hell,
I
don’t want to go—I wouldn’t ask a friend to go with me.”

I swallowed the bitter pill.

“That’s what friends do,” I said quietly. “Friends help you through the bad days.”

He smiled and pressed a dismissive kiss to my forehead.

Tucker

Tera confused the hell out of me, and being around her was a rollercoaster ride.

I saw the hurt when I called her a friend, but I didn’t know what else to say. We’d fucked twice—stuff I’d done with a lot of other women. But dinner together? A goddamn picnic? That wasn’t normal—not for me. I felt relaxed around her, but jittery and on edge at the same time, and I didn’t know how that was possible. She was hotter than hell, sweet and funny. Smart, too.

She likes me
.

I teased her when she said that, but it felt good hearing it. And that made me nervous.

As for what had happened after Scotty saw us, I had no idea what that was or what it had to do with Momma’s funeral. And she’d offered to come with me . . .

Hell, I knew I was rusty, but I didn’t remember funerals being places to take a date. Unless you were Marilyn Manson.

I pulled my boots on and scooped up the cooler, wondering what Tera had packed for us. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But one look at Tera hunched over a compact as she tried to cover up the blotches from her crying jag, and I lost my appetite again.

I hated women crying. I’d do anything to avoid that.

Anything except stay.

“Do you want me to drive?” I offered.

“I thought you only drove things with two wheels,” she snorted.

“Yep, those and the eight-wheeler rig,” I reminded her with a grin, relieved that the sass was back.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay, well if you could drop me at the parking lot; that would be great. I don’t really want to hike down the mountain in motorcycle boots; they’re about as comfortable as concrete blocks for that, especially since these are pretty new.”

Tera gave me a strange look.

“Oh, do you have to be somewhere?”

I shrugged, not wanting to explain that I’d be looking for a place to camp tonight.

“I’ve got all this food, if you’re hungry,” and she jerked her head at the cooler.

“We didn’t have too much luck having a picnic,” I pointed out.

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “That was embarrassing. It’s been years since I was caught making out. I hope your nephew wasn’t too upset.”

“Seeing you will have given him plenty of spank bank material for years to come. You probably did him a favor.”

Tera looked horrified. “Oh gross! I can’t believe you just said that!”

“What? It’s true. Anyway, he’ll be finding out about women for himself soon.”

She gaped at me. “You’re kidding! He’s only, what, twelve?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but probably 11. I’ve been gone 12 years.”

I shut the words off quickly, but Tera had already caught them.

“Why didn’t . . . ?”

She mashed her lips together as if that would hold back the questions.

“Well, I think he’s got at least five years before he’s really interested in girls.”

I shot her an amused look. “I had a girlfriend when I was 13.”

She huffed in disbelief. “Oh sure, sharing snowcones and slushies at the Dairy Queen.”

I laughed out loud. “Damn! Did you grow up in the fifties? Because I gotta say, TC, you look pretty good for a 70 year old.”

She smacked my arm. “No! I’m just saying that having a
real
girlfriend is different.”

My smile faded. “They start ’em young around here.”

Tera didn’t answer and maybe she was thinking what I was thinking—that we came from different worlds.

At the hotel, we went through the same game of hide-and-seek as the night before. Tera headed to her room carrying the cooler, and I snuck in later.

I’d snuck into a lot of girls’ rooms, but this was different.

When she opened the door, I could see the picnic spread out on the floor behind her.

“Surprise!” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I am,” I said, not looking at the food.

Tera

Tucker spent the entire night in my bed. Again.

He was affectionate and funny, but didn’t share anything else about himself.

The problem was I saw a lot to like. He was sweet and surprisingly thoughtful, given his insistence that he was as shallow as a summer puddle. He was unselfish and marvelous in bed—my God! More than I could have imagined. I felt as if my body had been awakened for the first time, felt him worshipping every inch of me, seeing every part, every blemish, all the small defects that I hid with clothes: the orange-peel skin on my thighs; the white stretch marks on my hips and stomach from when I’d been somewhat chunky, gaining the freshman ten and more in college; the scar on my knee that I’d gotten falling over when I was ice skating; the birthmark on my neck that I hated because a boy had once laughed and said it was shaped like a dick. Mom said it was shaped like Florida, but that’s another story.

He kissed every part of me from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, sweet and slow and sensual kisses that made my body blaze.

And in between the haze of lust, the thick fog of sexual expression, we talked.

And although he reminded me more than once that he was an uneducated hick—his words—I found that he was well informed about national affairs and even world news. He grudgingly admitted that in private he was addicted to Fox News.

I kept getting glimpses of hidden layers and it frustrated and intrigued me.

I fell asleep with my head on his chest, soothed by that slow, steady beat.

In the morning, I woke up to the feel of his rough fingers sweeping gently across my shoulders and back.

I glanced up, but he was looking into the distance, as if his soft strokes were simply absent-minded. As I shifted in bed, he noticed I was awake and flashed a brief smile.

“I gotta get going,” he said, carefully moving me away from him.

“Okay,” I nodded, trying to sound normal—whatever that was since Tucker had become my new obsession.

“Is it alright if I shower?” he asked cautiously, pointing toward the bathroom with his thumb.

“Of course, go ahead. I’ll . . . I’ll order some breakfast.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead and slid out of bed, his muscles flexing in the slanting morning light, his tight butt and long legs a sight that made my mouth water. But it was clear his mind was elsewhere and I couldn’t blame him for that.

The previous day, I’d had one idea that would show I was thinking of him.

Making sure the bathroom door was shut, I grabbed the small bag and placed it on top of the bedside table.

The night before, Tucker had put out a clean pair of jeans and a new shirt to wear—a white button-up still in its shop packaging. It didn’t seem as if the man owned a pair of dark slacks, even for a funeral. Either that, or it didn’t make much sense to wear them when he was riding the Ducati.

He emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and smelling of my bodywash. He was freshly shaven, his smooth cheeks making him look younger than his 29 years.

Unselfconsciously naked, he dressed quickly, frowning at the white shirt as he stripped off the cellophane.

I took my turn in the bathroom, washing off the sweat from our night of love-making, washing off the scent of Tucker. I didn’t have time to blow-dry and style my long hair. Besides, Tucker had already seen me looking less than stellar, so there was no point trying to shovel on the makeup either.

I’d just pulled on a fluffy bathrobe when room service knocked on the door. Tucker opened it, and I wished he hadn’t, because the server’s wide eyes as his gaze shuttled between us made me think the news would get back to Dad somehow. Sooner rather than later. I could do without that particular scenario.

Tucker ate quickly, but he didn’t comment on the food and I doubt he even tasted what he was putting in his mouth.

He swallowed the last morsel of bacon and washed it down with coffee before immediately standing to leave.

“I’d better get gone, TC,” he said quickly. “Probably shouldn’t be late to a funeral, unless it’s my own.”

I tried for a weak smile, but it got lost around the corners of my mouth.

“I . . . I have something for you,” I said hesitantly, beginning to feel certain this was a bad idea.

He paused at the door, his impatience to be gone painful.

I held out the small bag and his eyebrows drew together as he peered inside.

“You got me a necktie?”

His eyes were questioning as he looked up, but he didn’t seem upset.

“I thought maybe . . . maybe you’d like to wear one today?”

He stared at the tie, and I regretted my presumption. But then his eyes softened and he smiled.

“Thanks, TC. Will you put it on for me? I never learned how to do that shit.”

I gave a relieved smile and stepped toward him.

As I took the soft black silk from his hand, our fingers touched and the same strange flash of heat passed between us, and his pupils seemed to dilate.

I lifted the collar of his shirt, passing the sliver of silk around his neck, knotting it carefully and smoothing out the ends over his broad chest.

“There,” I said. “You’re ready.”

I looked down at my bare feet, the disrespectful toes bright pink, hardly the color for a funeral. They butted up to the heavy leather of Tucker’s biker boots and he shifted carefully, cradling my feet between his.

I felt his finger under my chin as he lifted my head up gently.

“Thank you,” he said, whispering the lightest kiss across my lips.

And then he was gone.

I paced up and down, wondering what to do.

Friends don’t let friends go to their mother’s funeral by themselves
, I told myself.

But I’d offered to go and Tucker had all but laughed at me. Would he want me there?

Second-guessing was tiring, so I combed my hair into a neat French pleat and pulled on a dark gray linen suit that I had with me just in case.

I ignored my cell when it chimed with my father’s ringtone, then called for a taxi. While I was waiting, I Googled the local paper to check out the announcements for Margaret Foster.

She must have remarried after Tucker’s father. Another piece in the puzzle.

The crematorium was a single-story white building with trees on one side and a wide asphalt driveway. The parking lot had only a few older cars and battered looking trucks. Tucker’s bike stood out like a sore thumb.

Taking a deep breath, I paid the taxi driver and asked him to wait until the service was over. He didn’t seem unhappy when I said I’d pay him for his time, and he hunkered down with a flask of coffee and the radio tuned to a country station.