Take It - Part Two (11 page)

I nod my head as Pierce points to the door of the room he’s cleaned for me. Pushing it open, the squeaky hinges give way to a plain room. It’s void of any of my childhood toys, and that alone makes me feel more at ease than I was at my mother’s. Flopping onto the bed, I feel the cushion of an extra pillow top below my back and the silky luxury of a puffy down comforter. Kicking off my shoes and climbing to the top of the bed, I tuck myself under the blankets and intend to indulge in the restful sleep of being in a grown-up-sized bed with decent linens. If nothing else, I’ll sleep better here. And hopefully soon, with Pierce, I’ll be losing plenty of sleep here, too.

My racing mind and sexually frustrated body won’t succumb to a nap; I curse not having a vibrator. It’s like living in the stone ages. They make every kind of glowing, twirling, sparkly dick-shaped apparatus known to man these days, and I have none. After lamenting, I crawl my fingers down to the delicate lace trim of my panties and decide I’ll have to take this problem into my own hands.
Literally.

I make sure Pierce has gone off to sleep as I slide my panties off my body. It’s been so long since I’ve had to do this with no battery-powered assistance it takes a while to get comfortable touching myself. But it’s like riding a bike because as soon as I run my finger across my swollen and desperate clit, I’m over any hesitation. I close my eyes as I plunge one finger inside me and run my thumb gently between my folds. I want to conjure the image of Pierce, dressed only in his fireman’s hat, strutting toward me with a giant smile . . . and erection. But I can’t. I’ve never seen him in anything less than a pair of shorts and a shirt. He’s given me next to nothing to work with.

Like an invading army, thoughts of Harrison shove any image of Pierce aside and take over. I shove the cup of my bra aside and try, unsuccessfully, to mirror the sensation Harrison gave when he tantalized me. It’s impossible. His moves were signature and tailored to what drives me wild.

I know I’m not leaving this bed without an orgasm. I refuse. This is like a sit-in. I’m protesting self-control. I visualize Harrison crawling down my body and planting his face between my legs. I let the pace of my fingers grow more frantic. Not meaning to, I whisper his name with a panting breath. By now I’d have two handfuls of his hair as I swivel his head to just the right angle to get me to come. This is the moment I’d be shouting for him to finger me.

My own fingers work to keep pace as I inch toward climax. I whisper his name again as I feel my muscles clamp down over my finger, and my body shudders with an orgasm.

Sweat has beaded on my forehead; I’m completely winded. It feels so good to release the volcano that’s been building in me. But it fell miles short of anything Harrison had ever done. Will this be what it feels like for the rest of my life, just the shadow of remembered pleasure? A morsel, never big enough to keep me from starving? I roll onto my side and clutch the pillow as the tears start to fall. I’ll never have what we had. It’s time to face that.

“How the hell do people do this?” I mutter as I cram a few more shirts into the washing machine. I’ve always gone to the Laundromat down the street from my apartment and dropped my clothes off at the wash, dry, and fold counter. My mother cringed at the money I spent for a task I could easily do myself, but that made me more adamant about it. Some of my strongest convictions were formed out of the desire to do the opposite of anything my mother did. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. My mother is a kindhearted and lovely woman who people adore. Can people say the same for me? Not likely.

There are no real instructions for laundry on the bottle of bleach. It says not to use with colors, which makes me realize I should have sorted the laundry rather than stuffing everything that was in the hamper. Things are getting desperate; I have to do something. Staying in Pierce’s house and being utterly useless is getting old. He leaves for work every day, and I go and work a few hours at the pet store. Some days I’m home far too early, but that’s what part time is. I have a car Pierce helped me pick out. It’s used, but he spent an afternoon under the hood, making sure it was worth the two thousand dollars I paid for it. Celibacy isn’t getting any easier the more he helps me. Looking at him covered in grease, pulling up the bottom of his white shirt to wipe his brow, and exposing his tight ab muscles was too much for me. I was happy for the closed door that night. Even without my vibrators I had to give myself pleasure just to release the overwhelming pressure.

Adding to my guilt, Pierce comes home day after back-breaking day of fighting fires and saving lives and still cooks for me and tosses in the laundry. But that ends today. I’ve got the day off from the pet shop. Today I’m cooking a meal, doing the laundry, and cleaning the house.

My determination is off to a good start. I’ve found a reasonable recipe that we have all the ingredients for. How hard can chicken and rice be? Surely a person of my intelligence can manage a few tasks around the house, especially now that I’m rid of that stupid walking boot. I look around the kitchen, sizing everything up. Pulling a pot from the overhead rack, I fill it with the right amount of water and rice and click the gas stove to life. Easy. The directions on the back of the rice box are simple. I’ll get that cooked first and deal with the chicken after.

I smile at my sneaker-clad foot, which feels completely back to normal now. And while I’m shocked about it, Pierce was right. Things haven’t been weird between us. It’s been oddly comfortable. Each day we have dinner then we do the dishes; he washes and I dry. After changing into sweats, we grab the remote and catch up on shows, some nights watching half a season at a time while curled up under a blanket. My desire to jump his bones hasn’t exactly subsided, but I’ve compartmentalized it. The logic behind his argument is making more and more sense every day.

Every day I don’t see or hear from Harrison feels like a step forward. It’s been hard not to reflect on the time I spent with Harrison. I push out the good thoughts that creep in and think exclusively of sitting across from my boss as he leered at explicit and personal pictures of me, reminding myself Harrison caused that.

As I move back into the living room I glance around for my next task. Vacuuming. I know I can handle that. I did it in my apartment both times my cleaning lady called in sick. Pierce’s fancy contraption takes me a couple minutes to figure out. I need to hit the lever with my foot to get it going. This thing works awesome compared to the old, constantly clogged, one I had at my place. This little baby has real suction power.

When I start to feel proud of myself, I hear the most unsettling grinding noise, followed by the screech of a seizing engine, and a crash. Apparently that’s what happens when you get too close to long drapes. They get sucked into the vacuum, bind up the spinning parts, and yank everything off the wall, including the rod. The smell of singed rubber fills my nose, and I yank the plug out of the wall and stand completely motionless. The large metal curtain rod left some damage in its wake, knocking over a framed picture—now in a hundred shards strewn across the hard wood floor. The holes in the wall are enormous. There is no way I’ll be able to put them back up the way they were. Not to mention, I don’t know if the vacuum will vomit up the curtains.

Stumbling backward I let my ass hit the couch, thudding hard against the back of it and nearly knocking the wind out of me. I need a plan. Clean up the glass first then work to free the curtains. Rehanging them is a job for Pierce, but at least I can make it look a little better than it does now. I jump nearly a foot when I hear a thunderous banging that grows louder with each thud. It sounds like a monster trying to escape the laundry room. I abandon my efforts to fix what I broke in the living room and instead charge toward the washing machine to see what’s making it sound like it’s about to come through the door on its own.

The clothes inside are sopping wet and all bunched up on one side. The drum thing is tilted in a way that I’m sure means it’s broken. I start yanking the clothes out with every curse word known to man. My cursing grows louder as I realize the dark colors have bled into the lighter stuff, most of which is Pierce’s. The clothes are dripping everywhere. They are too wet to put into the dryer, but holding them isn’t doing me much good. I scoop them into my arms and run like a mad woman toward the bathtub. I toss the clothes into it with a sloshing sound that punctuates my helplessness. Looking at the soggy pink and blue pile of clothes, I start to cry. Having Pierce rehang a curtain rod is one thing but ruining a batch of his clothes is quite another. What if one of these shirts is his favorite or irreplaceable?

Deep breaths.
I need to take some deep breaths and figure out how to fix this. Now even the washing machine smells like smoke. Or does it? Something does smell like smoke, but it’s not coming from the laundry room. With an ear piercing, heart-stopping screech, the smoke detector goes off. I turn my back on the clothes now in the tub and dart to the kitchen. The pan I filled with rice is now filled with black smoldering goop, and the smell is overwhelming. I throw it, pan and all, into the sink and turn the knob until water makes the burning food a sizzling but manageable mess. Grabbing a towel, I wildly fan the smoke away from the detector, while begging it to please shut the fuck up.
Please just shut the fuck up.

But it doesn’t stop. It continues to blare for another five minutes, and when I think the noise might drive me mad, it’s trumped by an even more frightening noise. Sirens.  Red lights come streaming in through the now bare window of the living room, and I feel like my legs are about to give out.

“Jenny?” I hear Pierce calling as he comes barreling through the front door in full gear with two other firefighters dressed the same right behind him.

“No,” I say, planting my hands on his chest and trying unsuccessfully to push him backward. “No, you can’t be here right now. Go.” I keep shaking my head, looking like an insane person. The front of my clothes are soaking wet, and my hair is frazzled and out of my ponytail.

“What’s going on?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. I grab the collar of his jacket to keep him from doing so.

“Don’t look. Please whatever you do, don’t look.”

“Jenny is there a fire?” he demands, clamping his gloved hands down on my shoulders.

“No, I just burned a pan. No fire. You can go now. Go back to work.” I try shooing them all away but none of them move. The two other men just keep exchanging concerned looks.

“You guys can head back to the firehouse. False alarm. I think I’ll call it a day if you guys can cover me.” Pierce gives a pleading look to his buddies, and they nod as they head out of the house.

“Jenny, why are your clothes all wet?” Pierce pulls his gloves off and then steps out of his boots. “What’s going on?”

“I tried to do some things, and they didn’t work out. I need you to leave so I can fix them. If you walk through the house right now you’ll never be able to look at me the same way again. I really screwed up.”

“What were you trying to do?” Pierce asks with a laugh and then falls serious when he sees tears in my eyes.

“I did some laundry,” I choke out, gesturing at my wet clothes. “Then I tried to vacuum.”

“How does someone
try
to vacuum?” Pierce asks, taking off his protective jacket and exposing his tight gray T-shirt held even tighter to him by suspenders.

“They get too close to the curtains and suck them off the wall, breaking a picture on the way down.”

“That’s no big deal. An easy fix.”

“There’s more,” I admit, clearing my throat as I take his hand and lead him into the kitchen. “That was going to be chicken and rice.”

He is attempting to keep a straight face, but the corners of his mouth keep dancing upward. “Making rice is actually harder than it looks,” he offers, but it’s all lost on me now.

“There’s more.”

“More rice?”

“More screw-ups.” Grabbing his hand again I lead him to the laundry room. “I broke your washing machine. The drum thingy is all off.”

“That’s happened before. I can fix that.” Pierce leans in and gets a closer look, attempting to set the drum up the right way but laughing a little when it falls to the side again.

“There’s more,” I admit, sucking in a deep breath, “in the bathroom.”

“I’ve only been gone for an hour. What else could you possibly have tried to do?” He is laughing now, only making me feel worse.

“I’m glad you think this is funny, but you might not when you see this.” I point to the tub where our ruined clothes lay soaking wet, a trail of tinted pink water trailing toward the drain.

“Yikes,” Pierce says, reaching into the pile and pulling out a couple of his things. “You really did a number on these. I’m man enough to wear pink though, so it’ll be fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” I huff, wiping the tears away. “I thought this was the easy stuff. Dishes, laundry, cooking. But everything I touched kept breaking or burning. I completely understand if you’re furious. You should be. And when I get a paycheck I’ll pay you back for all this.”

“I think it’s great you were trying. And if you keep trying, you’ll get better at it. We’ll clean all this up, and we’ll make that chicken and rice recipe together tonight.”

“You aren’t mad?”

“No, not at all. It means a lot that you were trying to do this stuff. I know it’s not your thing. You’re great at so much, but you can’t be great at everything. Not without some practice anyway. Now, grab the dustpan and I’ll get the drill, and we’ll start in the living room.” Pierce leans in and gently kisses my lips, letting me know he does forgive me. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head so I can hear his thumping heart.