A different guy swung a bat and hit the wall over Farley’s head. “Let me talk to the old geezer.”
The sheetrock above Farley’s head crunched. White particles, appearing almost like snow, rained down on his face. Dragging a deep breath into his tired lungs, he smelled cigarette smoke. While he couldn’t see the odd woman anymore, he felt her presence. And for some reason he didn’t feel so alone. He blinked and tried to remember what she needed him to do.
The baseball bat crashed into the wall again.
Oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Chapter One
“Cali Anne, your alarm went off twenty minutes ago, and that naked weasel in bed with you cut it off.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Cali McKay rolled over in bed. She buried her nose deeper into her lavender-scented pillow and tried to ignore the roar and grind of Hopeful, Texas’ Monday morning traffic filtering through her bedroom window. Sleep offered escape. Escape from—
“Did you hear me?”
The four-finger touch against Cali’s back sent panic shooting through her sleep-dazed mind. She popped up on her hands and knees, air hitching in her throat. Gasping, she stared over her shoulder. Nothing. No Mom. Of course, no Mom.
“What is it?” a masculine voice asked.
She looked at the weasel—er, Stan—stretched out next to her. His black hair lay scattered across his brow.
“Just a dream.” Still positioned as if offering horsey rides, she saw Stan’s gaze zero in on the scooped neckline of her nightshirt. Her girls were no doubt making an appearance.
His violet eyes went from casual-sleepy to wanna-get-laid in a nanosecond. She flipped over and plopped on her butt.
“Bad dream?” he asked as if guesstimating his odds for getting lucky.
And from the smirk in his eyes he had the odds all wrong.
“Not happening.” She adjusted the nightshirt to non-cleavage level, and blinked at the red-illuminated numbers of the clock. “Crap, I needed to be up twenty minutes ago.”
“Kids love it when their teachers are late.” He inched closer as if he hadn’t heard her not-happening comment. His calf hair crinkled against her knee, and his tongue flicked inside her ear. A move that had even her liver shriveling up and screaming yuck.
She really needed to tell him she didn’t like that. But telling men what she liked and didn’t like in the sex department was like asking a new boss for a raise, or telling a stranger he had a blob of spinach in his teeth. It just didn’t feel right.
“Can’t be late.” She leaned out of tongue range.
“Then skip work.” He caught the hem of her nightgown and finger-walked his way up. Past the knee, past the thigh...
“No.” She grabbed his wrist and jack-knifed out of the bed.
“Do you know how long it’s been since we had sex?”
Halfway to the bathroom, she pivoted, stared, and decided the relationship was too new to be having this conversation. That meant it was also too new for her to be waking up with him. He’d been here for three weeks now. She couldn’t remember for sure how long he’d told her it was going to take for his new apartment to become available. But three weeks was too long, wasn’t it? Or had that been a lie?
Oh, goodness, she hated early morning epiphanies.
“It’s been forever since we’ve done it,” he snapped.
She blinked. “Four days. We did it last Thursday.” Before the call from the hospice nurse.
“And that doesn’t seem like forever to you?” He yanked off the blanket. Naked and aroused, he stood up. And at six foot plus, a lot of man stood there, too. His penis jutted out and bounced. Once. Twice.
How could men do that? Just prance around, penis bobbing, with no concern whatsoever? A man’s privates were not eye friendly. Well, not when you were late for work and sex held about as much appeal as a pap smear.
Stan groaned. “It isn’t normal.” His Mr. Wiggly lost some of its oomph.
She tipped her chin up, swearing not to look at it again, and anger stirred inside her. Anger at Stan. Anger at herself for letting this thing with Stan get so out of control. Why hadn’t she already asked him about his apartment? Oh, yeah. She’d been too busy dealing with her dying mother.
Then came the anger at her mother for refusing the last sessions of chemo. And that was the anger that hurt the most. The chemo would have given her another few months.
Stan continued to stare. “Why don’t you want to have sex?”
Maybe because funerals are not an aphrodisiac? She bit down on her trembling lip. Crying in front of him felt wrong, but she’d had sex with him. What did that say about the relationship? When had crying become more intimate than sex? What did that say about the sex they’d had? Not a good sign. “It’s been a bad week,” she said with sarcasm.