Ready for You (6 page)

“Are you turning me down?” She stepped away.

He frowned. “No, but I want--”

“I’m offering a blow job, take it or leave it.” She crossed her arms and stared at the front door.

He didn’t take ultimatums from anyone. “There’s the door,” he said.

He turned without looking at her and slammed the door to his room behind him. He fell onto his bed and breathed. Her scintillating, savory scent lingered on him, enticing and earth shattering. He just turned down a blow job. He had lost his mind. He shook his head and went to the door.

“Chiara?” he said as he made his way down the hall. His voice echoed back in the empty space. He opened the front door. The sun sank below the horizon as his heart fell into his gut. She was gone. He’d had her in his grasp, glimpsed her beauty, her dirty girl self…he licked his lips. Her taste--she was like no one else, she made him feel like no one ever had. His brows puckered. No, he wasn’t feeling that, it was just lust. But the discomfort of longing remained as the light obscured in the gloom of night.

Chapter Seven

Chiara ran the three blocks, down his street, around the corner, and up hers, home. She stripped and threw her clothes into the washing machine before she showered, the cold water and soap washing away his scent, his touch, obliterating all feeling so she could be frozen again, open and loving only for her children. She shook as she toweled off, but not from the temperature. His kiss…she couldn’t remember anyone ever kissing her like that. Like he had been waiting to find her and now that he had he wouldn’t let go.

But he had. She should’ve done what he wanted, unshaven legs and all. The way he kissed her he wouldn’t have cared. But when he’d stopped kissing her, the critical little thoughts crept in—she was too hairy, too fat,
too
old, too out of practice.

She thought she heard a car pull into the driveway and she scrambled to get dressed. How could they be back so soon? She and Rocco must have kissed for a long time. It seemed a blur now.

It took half an hour to get the boys settled, though they’d both been half asleep when they’d arrived. Phil sat on the couch when she came out. She twisted her hands together.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Oh?” She eased herself on the far side of the sofa.

“I could tell by your tone what you thought, us having dinner with Suzy. I know you don’t like her, why I don’t know. She’s a great person.” Chiara raised her eyebrows. “I take our marriage seriously, Claire, you must know that. I would never cheat on you.”

Her face burned. “We’re separated. We haven’t had sex in over six months.”

“Is that all it’s about to you?” He shook his head. “Have you had sex? If you can manage, surely I can.” He had a point there. It was a quality that drew her to him at first, his patience and control of his desires.
If he had any.
“I’m concerned about the boys. You must have noticed Danny’s been acting differently and Max is more quiet than usual. Maybe we should try counseling again.”

No, she needed to leave…but she had nowhere to go. “Okay,” she said. Her body ached. Was it the pain of their situation or yearning for Rocco? It didn’t matter. She had to try one more time to salvage her marriage for the boys.

Phil slid next to her and took her hand. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Phil kissed her. The vague, light pressure of his lips made her stomach churn. He tucked her hair behind her ears; she loosed it. He stood, her hand dropped.

“Do you want to call Dr. Michaels tomorrow?” he asked. She nodded. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” she said. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Chiara rose and pulled her cell out of her purse. Maybe she should call Rocco and apologize. She almost dropped the phone when the ringtone vibrated it in her hand. She rushed into the laundry room and shut the door. It was Rocco. She slid open the phone, but remained silent.

“Chiara?”
His voice, so deep and expressive… “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” she said, compounding her lies.
“You?”

He exhaled. “I wish you were here.” He didn’t sound convinced, or maybe he was angry about it.

“Me too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I had my reasons.”

“You’re very reasonable.” He was none too pleased about that.

“I better go. My husband will be waiting.” Her stomach clenched. That was low and a lie.

“Right. ‘
Bye.” The line clicked. She snapped the phone shut. When she gripped it, it rang again. She answered.

“Look, I want to see you again,” he said. “It can be somewhere public if you want.”

“I can’t, it wouldn’t be right.”
Liar!

“Why? You don’t think your husband ever has coffee or lunch with other women, like maybe that Suzy?”

How did he know that? “Okay, maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“We’re still working on that house down the street from yours. I can take a break or meet you for lunch sometime.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll see you.” It wasn’t so much a goodbye as a promise. They hung up and Chiara scuffed off to the bathroom.

She was wrong--Phil waited. He lay in bed, the sheet and light summer quilt precisely tucked around his half-spooned form.
Ready for the other spoon.
She turned off the light and fumbled for her pajamas from the drawer. The room wasn’t dark enough for her comfort, but she stripped off her jeans and shirt and shrugged on the pajama tee and lightweight cotton pants. She slid into the cool sheets.

The fan whirred and she shivered. Phil scooted next to her and placed an arm over her. She darted her eyes, trying to think of some escape. He nuzzled her neck and she gripped the sheet in an effort to keep from smacking him away like a buzzing mosquito. He kissed her cheek, then her lips. Her head tightened, if she moved it would only be to turn away in disgust. Beer and the sharp smell of oniony salsa assailed her nostrils. His gut pressed into the curve of her waist, his sticky hand moved under her shirt. She stiffened.

“I’m getting my period,” she said. It was true enough, one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to have sex with Rocco. Phil always used to complain she smelled right before. Sure enough, he pulled back and wrinkled his nose. She almost laughed, knowing full well her scent was fine.

Phil rolled away. His hands smoothed the blankets back into order. “Maybe we could try another time,” he said. “I’ve read some things and I’ve been trying some exercises. I know I don’t last very long…”

“It’s okay,” she said. It wasn’t really that,
well, that
was part of the problem. The reality was she didn’t find her husband attractive anymore and they were incompatible, in bed and out.

She turned over and faced the window. She could see through the tiny crack in the curtain. A few lights from houses on the next street over twinkled through the trees. Rocco lived on that street. Rocco, who enjoyed the way she kissed, who didn’t tell her she was being too rough or she wasn’t feminine because she didn’t want a bunch of caressing and cuddling and sweet talk. But maybe he would too, if he knew her better. Or maybe he was just a dog, like so many of the other men she’d dated before Phil. You couldn’t have both. You couldn’t have hot sex and a kind, understanding man in one relationship. She closed her eyes and breathed.

Chiara dragged the boys to church the next morning. Phil never went. He’d been raised Lutheran but he didn’t really care for religion. Chiara sat silently during the service while the boys attended Sunday school. She glanced around, glad Isabella didn’t go to church except on Easter and Christmas and her parents either went to the early service or drove over to San Leandro to go with her oldest brother Santo’s family.

The familiar backs of acquaintances’ heads surrounded her while the long ago memorized words of the service washed over her. The back of her neck prickled as if she was being watched. She glanced behind her right into Rocco’s twinkling eyes. He winked and she whipped her head forward and gripped the back of the pew she stood in front of. What in the hell was he doing here? His family went to the other Catholic Church in town--Mrs. Buffone told her. Besides, she figured Rocco for one of those twice-a-yearers, like Isabella. Chiara’s whole body began to prickle and heat up. She missed several cues and couldn’t sing the hymns.

As everyone filed out, the boys ran ahead of her to join their friends. Rocco followed her out onto the small playground where she stood apart, under a palm tree, its fronds rustling in the mid June breeze.

“Why are you here?” she whispered as he leaned against the tree trunk.

“Checking out the church in my new neighborhood.”
His tone sounded as casual as he looked. Damn him, looking so sexy in flat front black Dockers and a blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, exposing his sinewy forearms.

“Really?
You go to church often?”

“Not every Sunday.”

Sneakers clomped in the tan bark and children’s shrieks and shouts whirled around them.

Chiara rummaged in her purse for her sunglasses, which she slid on. His nearness made her feel too warm. She pulled out her small notebook and fanned herself.

“Hot?” he said, as if he didn’t know. Ha. “I could take you all out for ice cream.”

“Do you have any sense of propriety?”

“Huh?”

“You
know,
the rightness of things, the proper behavior.”

“I’m not big on proper behavior,” he said. He made it sound like something dirty. He straightened and raised his hand in farewell. “Have fun, Miss Manners.”

Chiara gritted her teeth at his departing back. She gripped her purse, ready to fling it at him. She swallowed. That man’s ass, tight and just full enough, brought her to the brink of the scream she held in her throat. She exhaled and rolled her head one way, then another, hoping to release some of the knots.

“Mommy,” Max whined as he ran up. “I miss Daddy. I want to go home.”

“Okay, sweetie, let’s get your brother.” Her stomach rolled. Oh God, what was she doing? She couldn’t possibly divorce Phil. The boys would be devastated. She took Max’s hand and they walked over to some bushes Danny and his friends had a little fort in.

“Danny, time to go,” she called.

“No,” he shouted from somewhere within the leaves and branches.

“I’m counting to five,” she said.

“Don’t care.”

She counted anyway. No movement. “Danny, come out of there now or I will drag you out.” She clenched her teeth to keep from yelling and smiled at the Youngs, who passed by.
Faint rustling.

“Mommy,” Max whined. She gripped his hand.

“Danny!”

He emerged, his eyes full of hate. “Dad never yells at us,” he said.

Chiara swallowed. She was a bug, squashed under that boy’s size one sneaker. Danny crossed his arms and shuffled, rigid and silent, to their car.

The next day, Chiara curled up on the sofa in the silent house.
A peaceful quiet rather than the tense silence yesterday after church.
The boys attended camp and Phil was at work. She had plenty she should do, but she grabbed a pillow and hugged it before leaning into the back cushion. She shut her eyes and dreamed, of a fine Italian man who kissed her like the world was about to end and made her believe they were the only two left on the planet.

Chapter Eight

Rocco spent the first few days of the week with a grin on his face. He let his hopes walk with him, unchained and unchecked. Chiara riled him--that much he knew--but all the same it was a stirring feeling. Combined with her other charms, he was left like putty, warm and malleable. That wasn’t such a good feeling. Kind of like the weather on Wednesday morning, muggy but not hot, uncomfortable but not unbearable.

He went out to his truck to grab a wrench. Pulling his navy bandana from the pocket of his Dickies, he wiped the back of his neck. A woman’s heeled sandals clicked along the sidewalk. He glanced over and swallowed. Chiara sashayed toward him, though she studied the trees across the street. In her jeans and bright deep blue tee, she looked luscious enough to sink his teeth into, juicy as a ripe Santa Rosa plum. They greeted each other and she handed him a paper lunch bag. He opened it: homemade biscotti. How did she know those were his favorites? He was about to look up at her when she spoke.

“I felt like baking but Phil doesn’t like these.”

His wide smile faded. What was he, some kind of dumping ground? “Why don’t you bake something he wants?” He handed her the bag.

Her eyes roamed the street, sparking and frowning. She met his stare. “I made them for you,” she shot out, plopping the bag on the hood of his truck, as if it was full of dog shit. She turned and he grabbed her arm. She straightened like a post, stiff and uncompromising.

“Thanks. Let’s go get a coffee,” he said.

She studied him. His cheeks broadened with his smile. She relaxed in his grip and nodded. He held her elbow and opened the door of his truck for her. She slid a hand along the door as she climbed in. He called to the guys then hopped into his seat.

“Not going to rag me for owning a truck, huh?” he said as he drove over a speed bump.

“Why would I?”

“You drive a Prius.”

“That’s Phil’s car. I drive a Ford Escape, though that was his choice too.”

“You let him make decisions for you?”

Her head whipped around and she stared at him. “To make a marriage work you have to compromise. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Her marriage hadn’t worked either, or at least that’s what she claimed. But he didn’t want to argue with her. He watched the road while he waited at a red light. Grey clouds filled the sky.

“What kind of coffee do you want?” he asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the Peets on the corner. He glanced at her when he turned off the engine. She still stared at him, a little crease between her angry, hurt eyes. “I assume you don’t want to come in with me.”

She shook her head and faced the coffee house, as if looking at it would help her decide.
“A small mocha, please.”
She scooted up and fished in her pocket. He tightened his hold on the door handle, wishing his hand could join hers. “Here,” she said, handing him some folded ones.

He shook his head. “I’ll get it. You made me biscotti. It’s the least I can do.”

She shrugged and thanked him, folding the bills in her hands.

“Be right back,” he said.

Usually he waited casually in line, glancing around at the other people, the cute girl behind the counter, or just enjoying the rich coffee smells, but now he shifted and kept an eye on the door, absently placing his order. When he jogged out to his truck, his smile returned. She still sat, watching him. Rain pattered on his head but he shook it off and opened his door, handing Chiara the tray of coffees. He jumped in.

“I didn’t expect rain today,” she said.

“Don’t like the unexpected?” he said.

“I’m not prepared, that’s all.”

“I thought you liked getting wet.” He grinned at her as he pulled out. The car approaching honked.
Keep your mind in the game.

He turned on the windshield wipers, which squeaked before keeping a steady rhythm with the increasingly heavy rainfall.

“I used to like to run in the rain when I was a girl.” Her voice was quiet, maybe a little sad.

“And play in the mud? Mud never stopped me from playing ball.”

“A dirty boy?
We would’ve made a pair.”

He stopped the truck in front of the jobsite and took two coffees out of the tray. “Be right back,” he said.

His hair dripped and his shirt was damp when he jumped back into the truck.

“I have towels at my house if you want to dry off,” she said. She twisted her hands together.
Her ringless hands.

“I’ve got it.” He stretched his arm and found a towel on the backseat. “How come you don’t wear a wedding ring?” He rubbed his hair, which would no doubt stick out at odd angles-- he was due for a haircut.

“It doesn’t fit anymore. I never got it resized.”

He grinned at her. She reached out and
hovered
her hand near his temple, as if she feared getting scalded. Then she ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it. Her touch at once set him on fire and made him feel warm and heavy as if he’d been sitting in front of a crackling blaze. He held her hand.

“Where have you been all my life?” he said. Christ, he’d never used that tired old line. But with her it wasn’t. He grabbed his coffee and gulped some down.

“A few miles away.”
Her finger traced his knuckles.

“Maybe I should’ve been
more friendly
with your brother Santo.”

“Wouldn’t have helped.
Santo and I don’t get along very well.”

“We should form a club.”

“The dirrty club?”
  She sipped her mocha.

He chuckled. The way her tongue rolled over that extended r sound…he licked his lips.
“Sounds good.
Share your dirty secrets?”

“I have a thing for Chevy trucks. Yours is particularly powerful. The longer length must enhance the package.”

He laughed. She could tease. “It serves me well. Let me guess, your first boyfriend had a Chevy.”

She studied him, a sly grin eased out the corners of her full lips. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“Ouch. Hitting too close to home?”

“No comment.” She put both hands around her cup and rubbed them along the surface.

“I think your sister’s coming to Sunday dinner at my parents’. I notice she’s a talker once she gets a few glasses of wine in her.”

“Now who’s taking a low shot?”

“I like to play dirty.”

She opened her mouth briefly before smiling. Her eyes sparkled again, a playful twinkle. He squeezed her hand back into his.

“What do you want to know?” she said.

“The answer to my question.”

She studied his face before she began. “My best friend, Jenny, was a little wild, in a good way. We’d been friends all our lives and she was over at my house almost every day. She lived with her grandparents and had no siblings. We were sixteen and I’d been dating this guy. Santo caught my boyfriend and me…” She looked out the window.

“In a compromising position?”

She fingered his hand and leaned back.
“Mm-hum.
My parents didn’t like him anyway, so that was the excuse they needed. For my seventeenth birthday a month later, Jenny gave me a box of condoms, which my mom, ever the snoop, found in my dresser drawer. I’m sure you can imagine the reaction.” They studied each other, eyes alight with amusement.

“Probably not much worse than when I didn’t go to college and then got my girlfriend pregnant.”

“Your parents seem more reasonable. Mine didn’t care that I hadn’t used any. I caught him with another girl the day before my birthday. I may have said some nasty things to my parents, mostly about how they couldn’t criticize since they only got married because my mom got pregnant with Santo at sixteen. I kind of blasted him too. There were a few more incidents and they were more than glad to see me go to San Diego for college. They worried about my influence on Isabella--she’s five years younger. They said I had a dirty mouth and worse behavior. Jenny tried to defend me, but they didn’t want to hear it. She couldn’t stand Santo for nicknaming me dirty girl when we were little, among other things. She said he was the dirty pig. I loved her like a sister.”

He almost laughed about Santo, but Chiara’s far away look stopped him
.“
You keep in touch?”

“She died at twenty five. My parents wouldn’t come to the funeral. There was hardly anyone there.
Just me, a few other friends and ex-boyfriends of hers.”

“The anti-family thing?”

She nodded. He pulled her into him and she leaned on his chest.

“Sorry,” he said.

Her head nestled close to his heart. Their hands intertwined.

“Thanks. I guess I ruined the mood.”

“Was there one?” Rocco said.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. The air, her scent, filled his lungs, almost oppressive but heady, with citrus, spice, and sex mingled.

“I guess I should get home,” she said.

He listened to their breathing, in and out in time with each other. A knock tapped on her window and she gripped his thigh with a quick, low gasp. He turned the key and rolled down the window. He leaned across her. The rain had stopped, just a few droplets dripped from the trees.

“Hey Rocco,” Juan said, “Warren needs help with that pipe.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She reached for the door handle as he closed the window.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s only a few blocks. I can walk.”

He pulled away from the curb before she could open the door. “Which house?”

“On the corner of the next block, other side.”

He made a U-turn when he got there and stopped in front of her car parked in the driveway. His stomach gripped.
“Lunch next week?”

“Where?” she said.

“I’ll call you.”

She nodded and scooted close to him. Their eyes locked. She placed her hand, trembling, on his cheek and kissed him. Before he could think, his arms slid around her and pulled her so close he felt her nipples harden. Her hand eased onto his inner thigh as they kissed. He pushed away and rubbed his forehead.

“I’ve got to get back,” he said. He sounded like he used to when he smoked too many cigarettes, raspy and dry.

“Have a good day. Talk to you later,” she said. She smiled as she left the truck. She waved before she went into her front door.

He couldn’t smile. His neck bristled with cold sweat. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel and leaned his head on it. He shut his eyes but he still saw her, still felt her presence. Shit. He faced forward and shifted the gear into drive. The curtains of her window twitched. He thought she stood there, waving. He held up his hand then drove down the street. He shouldn’t call. He should end this now. Or he should get her into bed, to prove she was just another woman who didn’t mean any more to him than the rest.

His body clenched as the truck bounced forward in his sudden stop. He threw it into park and jumped out, slamming the door. He took a deep breath. The moist air cooled him but he had to remind himself to breathe and take the steps into the house. A minute later, he came out again. He’d forgotten his tools. He shook his head. Something had to change or he’d go off the edge. Wrong, he was already there, hanging on a jagged cliff top with his fingers, scrabbling to keep hold. He shut his eyes. Below him, below the cliff, was a deep, clear blue lake. Chiara swam then rolled onto her back and floated, naked, calling to him. He let go.