chapter Six
We drive west across the Mississippi state line. She directs me to an upscale shopping center that looks more like one of the European villages I visited during my performance tour in grad school.
“Give me your list, please.” Heather holds out her hand expectantly.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“You forgot the list.” I groan while she taps a foot. “Fortunately, I brought my copy. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Laroche. One strike already and we haven’t even entered the first store.” Her statement makes me wonder what happens if there’s a second and third strike. “You did remember your credit cards, yes?”
“Yeah. Got’em.”
“Pity,” she says, sporting a wicked grin. I make a mental note to screw up something else today.
The furniture store smells of leather and pipe tobacco, a comforting combination that says “man cave” more than “grandma’s doily.” Not thirty seconds after we’ve entered, a beautifully endowed brunette is at my elbow. Have to fight off sudden tunnel vision.
“Looking for something specific today?”
Inwardly, I chuckle at her question. “I am, actually.”
The woman flips her hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure I can help you, then.”
“Yes,” says Heather, “he is. My brother is setting up house and needs to outfit his living room. It’s an old home, so he’s not looking for anything modern. Classic, masculine lines would be best, I think.”
Both the brunette and I raise our eyebrows, me at Heather calling me her brother, and her—I think—at Heather’s directness.
“Well,” she says, “my name is Jennifer. What a wise man to bring along his sister for advice. You clearly have a style in mind, Miss–”
“Laroche. Heather. And this is Isaac.”
Jennifer extends her hand first to Heather then me. It’s slightly damp and warm. “Mr. and Miss Laroche, lovely. Let me show you a few things and you can tell me if you see anything you like.”
Doesn’t take a genius to pick up on Jennifer’s double entendre, and that’s when I realize Heather’s reason for the sibling act. While the saleslady leads the way, Heather nudges me in the arm. “So, Isaac, see anything you’d like to…try out?” I shoot her a dry look and she snorts. Jennifer turns to face us just as Heather gooses me on the ass. That earns us a dubious look, but I have a feeling this is just the beginning of the paces we’ll be putting Jennifer through today. Poor girl.
“May I ask what color scheme you had in mind? Warm or cool? Any fabric or material preferences?”
My sister is quick to answer. “Leather, definitely. Dark chocolate brown.” I play along and return her intense gaze. “The room is painted a deep erotic red, so we’ll want warm tones throughout.”
I break eye contact to watch as Jennifer blinks a few times at Heather’s choice of words and breathy delivery. Her attempt to recover her professional demeanor is Oscar-worthy.
“Okay, well, we have a large selection of leather sofas, including sectionals. You’re a rather tall fellow, so I imagine you’ll want room to stretch out.”
“Oh, yes, he absolutely will,” Heather replies, making no attempt to hide her slow appraisal of my height. When her gaze settles just south of my belt buckle, she lets out an appreciative sigh that makes poor Jennifer blush, and dammit, my body gives her the response she was going for.
“R-right. Um, how about I give you two a moment to look around since you seem to know what you want. I, um, I have to check with another customer, but I’ll be back.” Jennifer speed-walks away as fast as her three-inch heels allow.
“Told you we were going to have fun today.” Heather winks as she slides onto the closest sofa. “This is nice, very comfortable. Cleans up easily and there’s plenty of room for whatever you have in mind. Come here a second.” She scoots to the edge of the couch and positions me in front of her. “Yep, it’s the perfect height. Now switch. You sit.”
We swap positions, but instead of standing in front of me, Heather settles on her knees between my legs. “Perfect,” she says.
“I had no idea furniture shopping could be so much fun.”
“Lots of things can be fun if you know what you’re doing.”
The whole morning passes like this, and poor Jennifer—bless her heart—at least gets a big commission for putting up with our antics. I end up buying the leather sectional, two dark end tables and a coffee table, an area rug, two wrought-iron table lamps, and a floor lamp. Heather conveniently disappears to the ladies’ room when it’s time to pay.
“Sign here and here, Mr. Laroche.” Jennifer’s fingers brush mine when she passes the pen. I sign and hand it back. “The furniture will be delivered Saturday morning. Here’s my business card. You know, in case you and your sister ever part ways.” She winks before slinking back into the depths of the store.
“Ready to move on?” Heather appears at my side, linking her arm with mine.
“Where to?”
“Consignment store, for accessories.”
“Accessories?”
“Paintings, candleholders, knickknacks, that sort of thing.”
Like a gentleman, I hold the door for her as we exit the store. Outside, the air is muggy and smells of a thunderstorm.
“Are they really necessary?”
“You’re questioning me? Isaac, I’m afraid that’s strike two.”
“What happens on the third strike?”
“Don’t be so eager to find out. You’ll ruin all our fun.”
The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion, Heather leading me from store to store, choosing things to turn my empty box of a house into something livable. Normally I’d be annoyed at her presumption, but the girl has an uncanny ability to select things that fit my taste. More than once I wonder if I’m that readable, but that doesn’t align with what most people tell me—that I’m walled off.
Strike three comes at a gift shop attached to the restaurant where we have dinner. We’re just about to leave when I see it and have to have it.
“No, absolutely not,” Heather warns when I make a beeline for it.
“C’mon, it’s red so it’ll match, and it’s the only thing I’ve seen today that’s got my name written all over it.”
“If you buy that, consider it strike three.”
“Gladly.”
I pick up the red Alabama Crimson Tide pillow and toss it on the clerk’s counter.
“You an Alabama fan, son?” asks the kind-looking woman.
“Yes, ma’am. Never miss a game,” I reply.
“What about you, miss? You a fan too?”
“Roll Tide.” Heather sighs.
***
“So…three strikes?”
We’re cruising along Route 10 at seventy-five miles an hour. Today has been the most fun I’ve had in months, even though I racked up enough credit card debt to put any government to shame.
When Heather doesn’t answer, I take my eyes from the road for a minute to glance over at her. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing?”
“Eyes on the road, big guy. You need to learn to concentrate.”
“Pretty hard to do when you’re taking off your shirt, sweet pea.”
“Exactly. I noticed you’re easily distracted by sex, so it’s time for you to learn to control yourself. Your assignment tonight is to get us home safely no matter what I do. Got it?” The lump in my throat—and elsewhere—makes it difficult to answer.
“You sure I can’t just pull over so we can take care of things?”
“Nope, that would defeat the purpose. I won’t touch you until we safely get back to your place. I don’t have a death wish and, at least since a few days ago, I don’t believe you do either.” She reaches over and cranks up the air conditioning even though it’s perfectly comfortable in the car. When she adjusts the passenger-side vents, her intentions become clear. “However, I didn’t say I wouldn’t touch myself.”
“Wha–” I’ve done many things in my life, things most people haven’t. Toured Europe with some of the best classical musicians of our time. Performed at Lincoln Center in front of a packed house. Even met the President once.
I have never attempted to steer three thousand pounds of American steel down a highway at breakneck speed with a writhing, half-naked ex-girlfriend and current f*ck buddy in the seat next to me. Try as I might, I can’t help looking. In the dim glow from the dashboard, I see her hands roam over her breasts, pinching and rolling until she’s so hard they’re visible in my peripheral vision. The car wanders into the rumble strip but I quickly correct our path.
We cross the state line into Alabama and honest to God, I burst out laughing at the welcome sign that reads, “Sweet Home Alabama.” Never were those words so true.
“Mmm, Isaac, we’re halfway there. You’ve done pretty well so far. Guess I need to up my game.”
“Heather, that’s–”
“Do you have any idea how wet I am from watching you grit your teeth and white-knuckle the steering wheel? Just a few more miles and you’ll have those long fingers all over me. In the meantime, I’ll have to do the job myself.” She slowly inches up her skirt until a quick peek reveals lacy black panties—wet ones, just as she said. She loosens her seatbelt enough to pull up the lap belt, giving her room to lift her hips off the seat. Then in one quick motion the black lace is around her knees. A few more light tugs and they’re off.
“Any idea what I should do with these? Your rearview mirror looks awfully bare.”
Now, I’ve known plenty of guys who collect garters at Mardi Gras and weddings so they can hang them from their mirror. Never have I seen a lacy black thong dangling in such a fashion.
“I’m going to whisper in your ear, so don’t flinch, okay?”
“Right. Got it.” We’re approaching Tillman’s Corner, a small area outside of the city. There are more businesses, which means more lights, though we’re not in a residential area yet. I’m wondering at what point she should put her shirt back on.
“Are you listening?”
“What?”
“You tuned me out?”
“Guess so.”
“Normally I’d be pissed,” she says, “but that’s a good thing this time. Let’s see if I can keep your attention from here on out.” She loosens her seatbelt to the point where it does no good, so she can lean over the armrest. Warm breath envelops my ear. “Judging by the other night, you like things dirty and rough. I’m going to make you blush. Mmm, Isaac,” she moans, “I’ve never been so thoroughly f*cked. My mouth is watering for your giant cock. I can’t wait to run my tongue up your length and suck you dry. Oh, baby, oh, baby.” She and I both break into laughter. “Hey, I didn’t say it’d be good, I just said I’d make you blush. Mission accomplished.”
“Heather, we’re coming into town. Shouldn’t you cover up before the lights get more frequent?”
“Why, Isaac, are you worried about my honor?”
“That, and I’m not sure a cop would approve of your teaching methods. Last thing you need is a criminal record. Hanging out with me is bad enough.”
“In that case, yes, I’ll cover up, but only because you just made a selfless suggestion. You’ve definitely earned a reward for both concentrating on the road—mostly—and thinking of someone other than yourself. Congratulations.”
“That’s a back-handed compliment if ever I heard one.”
“Fine. Thanks for not getting us killed—you’re a swell guy. Now hurry, because I don’t know how much longer I can go without touching you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Two hours later she’s made good on her promise—several times—till I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.
“When are they delivering the furniture again?” she mumbles.
“Saturday morning.”
Her hand drifts up and down my abdomen, knuckles playing with the trimmed hair that survived manscaping. “Then you have until Saturday morning to get the floors finished. That includes staining and sealing.”
“Slave driver.”
“Whiny bitch. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She slides off my chest and begins dressing.
“Wait, you’re leaving?” The clock says it’s nearly two in the morning.
“Well, I can’t stay out all night. Even Mama would notice that.”
“You’re a grown woman.”
“Says the man whose family won’t speak to him.”
“Point taken. But you’ll be back?” I regret the question as soon as it slips out. Way to sound needy, Ike.
“If you’re asking if I’m going to stop riding your ass,” she grins, “the answer is no. I’m enjoying this—all of this—too much. See ya.”
“Um, yeah. See ya.” I follow that brilliant response with a lame half-wave. My brain wants to analyze what exactly is going on here, and why Heather’s retreating figure makes my stomach hurt, but the rest of me demands sleep. I drift off to the image of her spread out on the hood of my car.
***
On my lunch break, I notice a voicemail from Uncle Robert on my phone. Shit, I was supposed to call him back about listening to the pieces I’ve been working on. Got so caught up in Heather’s bizarre game that I plain old forgot.
“Isaac, when will I hear your compositions? I expected to hear from you yesterday, but didn’t want to call and interrupt if you were working on something new.”
“Sorry, Uncle Robert. How about tonight? No, that won’t work. Look, I’m refinishing the floors in the house this week after work, but how about Saturday? Yeah, if you come Saturday, they’ll be finished, plus I’ve got another surprise.”
“Oh?”
“Everything should be in place by noon. Why don’t you come over for lunch?”
“I’d love to, but let me pick something up on my way over.”
“No, I insist, and I promise, no ramen noodles.” Thanks to Heather, I’ve got a fully stocked fridge.
The old man’s chuckle vibrates through the phone. “Even better. Is there a special occasion? I know it’s not your birthday, that’s in October.”
“November.”
“Oh, yes, November. Goodness, it must be time for my midday siesta. So I’ll see you Saturday then, say, noon?”
“Perfect.”
Tuesday night the sander goes back to the store. Wednesday the first coat of stain goes on, and Thursday the second. Friday I apply the varnish. Aside from being high as a kite from all the fumes, things have gone smoothly. The floor is a dark umber with red undertones and warms up the whole room. Amazing the difference just a few days and some elbow grease can make. I take a picture and text it to Heather, who has been mostly MIA this week. Except for a few lewd texts threatening bodily harm if I didn’t finish the floors, I haven’t heard from her.
Hate to admit it, but I’m kind of disappointed she’s not here to see this. Figured we’d at least go out for drinks to celebrate—not that I was expecting (hoping) for a repeat of last weekend, but I guess she can’t be here at the same time as Uncle Robert. No doubt in my mind that he’d keep a secret, but this is too new and too bizarre to hold up under his scrutiny.
“Watcha thinking about?” I jump like a girl at the sudden sound of her voice. “Didn’t you hear my key in the lock? Sorry to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me.” My adrenaline spike quickly shifts from fear to something equally primal. She’s dressed to kill in denim cut-offs and a white lace tank top—the girl next door you wish would crawl in through your bedroom window. Her hair falls in soft waves that can only be the result of Alabama humidity.
“No? You always fall into a ninja pose when someone approaches? Here, I brought champagne to toast your new floors and a job well done.”
“Very kind of you. Let me hunt up some glasses.”
“You own champagne glasses?”
“Well, no, but it tastes the same in a high-ball glass.”
She rolls her eyes. “We’ll add champagne glasses to your next shopping list.”
“Listen, about that… I can’t keep spending money like crazy. I get what you’re trying to do, and agree I can’t keep living like a pauper out of a Dickens novel–”
“I was thinking disgusting bachelor.”
“Whatever. I get it, but landscaping doesn’t pay much and I’m supposed to submit a couple of compositions to a publisher Uncle Robert hooked me up with. With all this going on”—I motion to the smooth floor—“there hasn’t been time.”
“That’s why I came over tonight to tell you that after I supervise your furniture delivery tomorrow, you’ve earned a little time off—though I was hoping to get you liquored up and have my wicked way with you.”
Briefly, I wonder if it would be rude to tell her I’d rather imbibe from her than the bottle she brought. “That can be arranged. Let me find those glasses.”
Still in a box on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet is the barware Dave and I had when we lived together in grad school. We both gravitated toward beer right out of the bottle, but the Southerner in me didn’t feel right drinking fine whisky out of a plastic cup, hence the lowball and highball glasses.
“So what will you do with all your free time? Can I trust you not to backslide?”
“After the delivery guys leave, Uncle Robert’s coming over for lunch. Playing my new compositions for him and showing him the arrangements. If all goes well, I’ll send them off to the publisher soon.”
She nods as she sips her champagne. “Good, good.”
“What’s on your mind, sweet pea?”
“Hm? Oh, just wondering when I should tell you the next part of my evil plan.”
“Kinda figured you weren’t doing this out of the kindness of your heart. This have anything to do with fighting fire with fire?”
“I said that, didn’t I? Then you already have an idea where we’re headed.” She knocks back the rest of her drink and holds out her glass for more. While I pour, she says, “I do hate to throw another platitude at you, but success really is the best revenge, and there’s nothing I’d love more than to see you stick it to Mama. Figuratively, of course.”
“Oh, God, that’s not even funny.”
“I know. Sorry. Anyway, the only reason she hasn’t come to finish you off is because she’s wounded. This divorce thing has got her scrambling to do damage control, but mark my words, when she recovers you’ll be the first target in her sights. Nothing would piss her off more than to see you all pulled-together and successful.”
“And you think I can be pulled-together and successful?”
“Why not? You’ve got a great motivator.”
“True, though I think of you more as a tiny slave driver.”
“I prefer the term dominatrix, but whatever,” she says.
“I never would have figured you as that type.”
“Oh, I’m not, really. I can just see what needs to be done and adjust. After a few years in the courtroom, you get pretty good at reading people and making them do and say what you want.”
Her admission is more effective than a slap in the face. After a few blinks I find my voice. “Is that what this is? Simple manipulation?”
“The word manipulation has a negative connotation,” she explains. “That’s not what I’m doing. Like I said before, I use my powers for good, not evil. If some part of you didn’t want to be manipulated, you’d never consent.”
Her last sentence echoes in my head. With each repetition, the words sink deeper and deeper until they find the guilt still buried under two months of shame. “Truer words were never spoken.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Your face just fell and your shoulders slumped. Stop it. It’s not the same thing. Well, maybe it is, but there’s nothing you can do to change what happened with her, and regret will get you nowhere.”
“It’s true. I knew Juli was manipulating me. Not on purpose, but she wanted something and she got it. And I consented. Boy, did I ever. The worst part is I don’t regret it. Regret that your Mama outed us the way she did, and to my dying day I’ll regret the way I reacted, but being with Juli? Never.”
A few beats too late it occurs to me that I’ve just admitted to still being in love with someone who is decidedly not the gorgeous blonde standing across from me, the one I hoped to strip bare and f*ck into oblivion within the hour. If there’s a F*ck-Up Hall of Fame, enshrine me now.
Heather bursts out laughing. “I hope you never play poker. You couldn’t hide your hand from a blind man.”
“What the hell am I doing? I mean—what the hell? What is this? You waltz in here like you own the goddamn place, shave my dick, slap me on the ass, boss me around, force me to get my act together, and what do I do? Throw it in your face by talking about the one thing—the one person—I can’t have. God, what kind of man does that? Dave was right. There’s something wrong with me. Maybe I need to see a shrink. I’d rather let him shave my dick than talk about all this, but Jesus, something’s got to give.”
“Come with me.” She takes my sweaty hand in hers.
“Heather, I’m really not in the mood.”
“Shut up and follow me.”
And because I have no reply, no answers, nothing at all, I do as I’m told.