Brute: The Valves MC (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Intent on not repeating the same lameness of the first weekend with Ginger, I wanted to make this one perfect. As they say, high expectations can only bring great disappointments and I was beginning to understand how one never knows what sayings really mean until one is faced with a particular situation.

It was already Sunday morning again and everything I had in mind had failed miserably. Jenga seemed to have been received with a tad more enthusiasm but it lasted only for so long. An hour, to be exact.

I looked around the kitchen, trying desperately to find an idea for an awesome breakfast, but came up empty, just as I already felt. I sighed, and resigned to making boring pancakes. I knew she loved her father’s but I also knew her father had set very high standards. I was hoping that the blueberry sauce I found at the farmer’s market could save the day.

“Good morning!” Ginger startled me. She seemed cheerful and energetic.

“Morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

“You look bad,” was her answer and I couldn’t disagree. I must’ve posed a great contrast with her high spirits and the thought brought me even lower. I tried a smile, having lost my last shred of hope for the day. “I know what you need,” she announced, and climbed on the same barstool her father preferred.

“You do?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Mmhmm. But now it’s time for pancakes. Pancakes always make you feel better. Did you know that, Mari?”

I nodded, thinking agreeing with her would be best. She was as bossy as her father and, although I loved her cleverness, I wasn’t feeling quite up to dealing with too much smartassery. Maybe a quiet day indoors really was a good idea. Maybe I’d try her with some stories again. Wouldn’t hurt.

She tasted one bite of the first pancake and chewed it carefully. I actually held my breath for the verdict and when she dove into her plate, I relaxed significantly. Enough to actually start the conversation I didn't feel like having. “So, what do you have in mind, then?”

“For you? I think you need some girl time.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “That’s exactly what I had in mind! Where did I go wrong?”

“Stuffing me with stories and cartoons and games is not girl time. You need to relax.”

For a second I felt like I was talking to a grown-up. I was amazed in the strangest way and the feeling that I should keep the conversation going kept nudging me. “Oh, I see. What is proper girl time, then?” I expected her to present me with an array of British inspired hobbies like tea making, scone design and other such things I knew she loved but no.

She slid down to her feet and walked around the table to me. “Mari, listen to me.” She looked me dead in the eyes. “You need something serious. I don’t know just yet what, but I think we should watch the fashion channel.”

That didn’t seem so far-fetched and I wanted to slap myself for not thinking of it myself. “Okay, baby. We shall watch the fashion channel, then.”

She nodded, thoughtful, and went back to finishing her breakfast. After we ate, she helped me with the dishes, then took my hand. I was being guided towards the living room, where she took charge of the remote control and flipped through numberless channels until she decided on a particular one. The show, something about makeovers, was near the end and Ginger looked like she was waiting for something. Once the commercials were over, she cheered as a wedding show began.

“This is what you have decided on for me?” I was honestly surprised.

“Mmhmm. Wedding dresses make every girl feel special. Look! She looks stuffed, that one,” she pointed with the remote at a rather plump woman trying on a much too ornate dress. She was right; the woman did look stuffed. If I ever doubted her artistic talents, this was the moment I became sure the child was some sort of prodigy. She then proceeded to explain why one dress didn’t go with another woman and why the groom should have chosen another color for his boutonniere. It didn’t go with the bride’s smile, she said.

Slowly, I really got into the whole bridal fashion debate and even dared to state that pure white works for both brunettes and blondes. She argued that blondes look better in a warmer tone and I had to give her credit for that. At one time, I regarded her with the greatest interest. I had always believed I did fine, even better than most, when it came to style, but Ginger could’ve put me to shame any moment.

I made the mistake of liking a dress she believed would look terrible on me and I had to back down because she really seemed hurt by my choice. It was just a hypothetical exercise, after all, but that didn't stop me from daydreaming. For a second, I saw myself in “that ugly bathrobe,” as Ginger called it, and, right next to me, Dawson would’ve been nervously fidgeting with his salmon and white boutonniere. I wanted big boutonnieres and I wanted them to match with the ribbons in all the women’s hair.

“Ribbons?” I asked myself. I guess Ginger’s ideas were rubbing off on me.

I heard her giggle to my side and looked quizzically for the reason why. “You look like you’re dreaming about something. Are you?”

I blushed and instinctively looked away. How could I tell her I was picturing myself as the bride of her father? She, however, didn’t seem fazed one bit. “I know!” she suddenly jumped to her feet. “Have you made your dream wedding yet?”

“My what?”

“Dream wedding. It’s a thing girls are supposed to do. I think boys should, too.”

“I agree, but I have to disappoint you, dear.”

“No!” she cried, making a spectacle of stretching the ‘o’ as long as she could. Shoulders slumped, eyes round with disappointment, she looked truly upset. I would’ve been fooled if she hadn’t decided it was better to right the situation than to dwell in it. “Do you have fashion magazines? Cute fabric? I will also need some glue and scissors. You can cut for me, just like in class, but Daddy lets me make my own collages. He trusts me, you see?”

The torrent of words coming from her took me by surprise. I didn't know what to take on first. Should it be the obvious hazard Dawson allowed around her? Or the fact that she knew so much about fashion collages? Or, maybe, her bossing me around “for my own good,” as she put it.

There were too many options so I resigned myself to laughing and following Ginger’s lead.

“I believe I might have something of that nature in a box in the attic. From my childhood. I used to sew dresses for all my dolls. Fashion magazines I don’t have. Maybe a couple of
Marie Claire
somewhere in the guest bedroom,” I said, rising to my feet.

“That’ll do. You should really have more fashion magazines, though,” she couldn’t help but reprimand me on my apparent lack of girly appreciation.

I decided to nod along and showed her to the guest room. I scooped the magazines out of a box with miscellaneous items and made her promise me she’ll behave until I come back from the attic.

She looked upset with not getting to see the treasures that were supposed to be up there but I explained the stairs were shaky and I couldn’t bear the thought of her getting hurt.

I took as little time as possible, concerned with what excitement she might feel from the old magazines and afraid she’d start cutting out pages by herself. I managed to find one of the many boxes labeled “Childhood memories”, only hoping I got the right one.

On the living room floor, she was deep in thought over a vintage ensemble showed in black and white.

“Here you go,” I made myself noticed. She looked up and her expression changed to pure excitement in a split second. It was so obvious that I felt it, too.

Getting her hands on the heavy box, she decided against moving it from where I temporarily had left in and dug right in. I didn't have time to warn her before the dust rose in the air. She didn’t seem concerned with such meagre things. Elbows deep into the exciting contents, she kept throwing back various items that didn't have anything to do with her vision or with the idea of fashion. I just stood around, watching her react in the most beautiful ways I ever saw a human have before.

“Aha!” she finally exclaimed. “I thought you lied about sewing.”

I smiled, curious about what had satisfied her requirements. I had been so taken by the look on her face that I didn’t notice a pile of fabrics and dolly dresses growing beside her. She gestured towards it in a way that said “behold” in the most theatrical manner.

I moved closer and benefited from the most intricate bridal tutorial a five year old could gave. She helped herself with various pictures from the two magazines I managed to supply and ended up co-opting me for the creation of my very first wedding journal.

I had turned an old notebook into the actual journal and we spend our afternoon cutting, gluing and combining the best possible outfits and arrangements for my dream wedding. Naturally, it turned out to be more of Ginger’s dream wedding, since most of my choices seemed to be the wrong ones.

CHAPTER SIX

Why did Wednesdays seem like the longest days of the week?

I kept thinking about this phenomenon as I was trying to decide if I was hungry or not. During recess, students were in the cafeteria where I usually joined them, together with the rest of the teachers. Today, I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat. I was more preoccupied with the newest book I had bought and hadn’t even moved from my desk.

A call interrupted my train of thought. “Hello!” I answered, a wide grin stretching my lips.

Hearing Dawson’s voice made me feel energized. Without too much preamble, he asked me if I could come outside.

I feared someone from the school might see us so I suggested the parking lot across the street, then darted through the hallways. I checked my watch to make sure I had enough time to enjoy his presence.

Hurrying outside, I saw him pacing lazily on the sidewalk. He looked impressive in his riding gear and I smiled like a little girl. I felt like skipping and twirling around but I refrained from doing so as I crossed the street.

“Hi…” He didn’t let me finish. He shut me up with a kiss. “What’s the occasion?” I inquired, when I was able to breathe again.

He shrugged. “I wanted to see you, that’s all. Is it a bad moment?”

“No, not at all. Want to grab a coffee while you see me?”

“Why, sure,” he laughed and took my hand. “I saw a food truck close by. Are you hungry?”

I thought for a moment. “Now that you ask me, I think I am. Is it the Mexican one?”

“Mmhmm. I already had some taco from there. Let me tell you, it was the best I ever had!”

I approved wholeheartedly. These guys were geniuses when it came to food.

Discussing the science behind Mexican flavors, we walked hand in hand towards the food truck. I noticed that my hunger had become more noticeable so I got the lunch special, which was a hefty meal with dessert, and a coffee.

“Are you sure you can finish that?” Dawson asked.

“You have no idea.”

We sat at one of the wooden tables that the guys from the food truck placed around their car. I dove into my food with greater interest than I expected while Dawson was watching me curiously, waiting for his coffee to get to a drinkable temperature.

“Wow,” he whispered after a while. I looked up. “That’s some healthy eating, right there!”

“Mmhmm,” I mumbled, mouth full of delicious food. “Oh, sorry. Do you want a bite, perhaps?” I was in very good spirits and felt like joking around. My offer came on a more mocking tone than it should have been and Dawson raised his hands.

“No, thank you. I’m sorry I doubted you before. Now, I’m wondering if that’s enough,” he said, pointing at the half-eaten meal before me.

I reached for my coffee and washed the last bite down. Searching for his eyes, I looked for the reason why he decided to see me.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I shrugged. “Just wondering why you came.”

He rolled his eyes. “I told you. Can’t a man want to see one particular woman sometime?”

I felt blood rushing to my cheeks as I imagined every possible interpretation of those words. He had a way of getting me hot and bothered with the simplest of things: a glance, a crooked smile, seemingly innocuous words.

“I hope it wasn’t a bad time,” he followed and I shook my head. “Good. Talking about seeing you, how would you feel if I changed our agreement? For the weekend, not completely.”

Just a hint of panic stirred my thoughts around. Was he suggesting we drop our understanding? I tried to play it cool. “Are you planning a trip with Ginger?”

“No. More like, mixing duty and pleasure.”

I regarded him quizzically.

He went on, “I was thinking that, maybe, you’d like to babysit Ginger at my place this weekend. I think she’d like it more. Don’t you think?”

I squinted. “Yes…It does seem better for her,” I agreed, still suspicious of his motives.

“God, you look in doubt,” he laughed.

That’s because I am
, I said to myself, then aloud, “Maybe. What’s the pleasure part of it?”

“Ah!” He leaned on the table, closing in on me. “How about we mix my part of the bargain with yours? I usually come home Sunday night anyway, but I can’t take Ginger back that late. Now, imagine if you were sleeping at my place.”

I was beginning to see where he was getting at and, frankly, I liked the idea. “Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to give him the chance to change his mind. What was there to discuss anyway?

He, apparently, had something further to say. “Well, that was easy. How about you come around eight, Friday evening?”

“And lose a whole afternoon with Ginger?”

He shifted in his seat. “Yeah, sorry about that. But earlier than eight I can’t do it.”

“What? Opening the door for me? It’s not like we haven't done this before. At my place, but still.”

“Yeah, but I can’t do it. Will you be okay with that?”

I looked at my food. What was with him? I couldn’t really get why he needed the change just to make me have Ginger later. Now, I did like the idea of seeing a bit more of him, but his request was bugging me. “Why?” I asked, picking at my food.

“What?” He was avoiding my question and I didn't like it.

But how could I push it? It wasn't like I had any real basis for demanding full disclosure. I felt how the cheerfulness of the day was sipping through the cracks, leaving me with a hint of a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Come on, Mari. Please don't be like this. It’s to do with my job, nothing personal. That’s why I can make this change this weekend. If I didn't want to see more of you I wouldn’t have suggested you sleep Sunday night at my place. I want to find you there when I come home.”

“You do?” I whispered, my butterflies already dancing in circles.

“Yes!” He sounded as sure as a man can be and all it was forgotten on my part. I grinned at him and he finally smiled back. He stood, stretching his impressing frame and reached a hand for mine. “I believe all is settled, then, Miss Bennett?”

I took his hand. “Indeed, Mr. Holt.”

Since my appetite was gone, I left almost half of my lunch untouched. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his mouth in just a couple of bites. “I told you I love the food here,” he explained himself under my inquiring gaze. I laughed seeing his serious expression. He did really love the food.

We walked back to school slowly, his arm around my shoulders, like we were promenading. I kissed him goodbye and watched as he went to his motorcycle, mounted it and rode away in the sound of the sexiest engine roar.

“God, he’s sizzling,” I sighed and turned to get back to work.