Second Chances (7 page)

“Your accent is adorable,” I teased him. And it was; it must have been his home territory that kicked up the hint of a southern twang that was always just beneath the surface of his words. Bly snorted at my observation.

“Why, thank ya, darlin' girl,” he responded then with extreme exaggeration. “Might I observe just how all-fired gorgeous y'all look this evenin'?”

“You may,” I told him.

“And might I dare ta hope that later ya'll will be willin' to…well, a gentleman don't like to be so blunt…” I laughed, feeling the warmth of it spread all through my body. Despite the late hour and my worry over everything, I laughed so hard that it overtook Blythe too. When I dared to look his way he winked with such a devious expression that I was lost again, swept away on waves of mirth until my belly ached.

“Are you satisfied now?” he teased, when my laughter had reduced itself to periodic giggles. He reached and cupped his big hand around my left leg, just above the knee, where he knew I was ticklish as hell. “Or do I have to keep up with the ‘adorable' accent?”

“No, please,” I gasped breathlessly as he squeezed lightly on my leg, sending another fit of laughter over me. “Please, don't!”

“Now I don't like to make a lady beg,” he began again, sounding like an over-the-top Rhett Butler. “But in this case…”

I laughed until I could scarcely breathe; he was merciless. He was also laughing hard enough that we were probably in danger of driving off the road. I was trapped in the car with his relentless hand, my protests totally ineffectual, my own hands rendered weak and helpless by that strange phenomenon that comes from being tickled.

I realized that he'd parked and was bent over the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking as he hooted at my expense. But at least he'd stopped with the torture. I caught my breath and then poked at his torso, which was like iron beneath my fingers.

“See how you like it, you bully,” I said.

“Joelle,” he gasped out between his own laughter. “I'm not…ticklish.”

“You are!” I insisted, using both hands now, and he moved like lightning and caught me close, pinning my arms to my sides and then taking my earlobe gently between his teeth. A delightful tremor ran through me, and I was breathless from far more than laughter as I whispered once more, “You are.”

He rubbed his jaw, prickly with a day's growth of stubble, lightly against the side of my neck and I shivered again, as though feverish. He moved with deliberate slowness to nip my other ear, my chin, and finally my bottom lip. I was shaking in his grasp, flooded with desire. He kissed my mouth with infinite gentleness before pulling back and whispering, his voice ripe with teasing, “You'll have to wait until later for more, sweet girl.”

My eyes flew open at that, indignantly. But then I realized we were parked in front of Bob's Bowl, also known as the place where Christy worked. I moved swiftly to my side of the truck, straightening my hair, nervous as hell now that we'd arrived. And I couldn't help but add, again, “You're such a bully.”

We climbed out into the warmth of an August night; I felt a slight sense of disorientation as I leaned against the truck door and studied the stars. I had left Landon at dawn and was now over a thousand miles away, but as Bly rounded the hood and took my hand with a grin lifting the right side of his mouth, the feeling was washed away. He wrapped his big hand around mine and led the way. I would bring him back to Landon with me, no matter what it took; I glanced up at the waxing moon and vowed it, right then.

The inside of Bob's was booming with country music and the clatter of bowling balls flying down the lanes. The crowd was rowdy; the bar side of the building was dimly lit, complete with a neon sign reading ‘Striker's Lounge' visible through a haze of cigarette smoke, while the gaming side was brilliantly awash in revolving lights. Bob's Bowl was obviously a hot spot in Brandt. We hadn't walked 10 feet before an older man with impressive sideburns and a full beard came directly to us, clapped Blythe on the back and declared heartily, “Junior, good to see you!” He was heavyset and jovial, and reminded me a little of Dodge.

Blythe drew me to his side and said, “Hey Bob, what do you know? This is Joelle.”

Bob adjusted his wide-framed glasses with one hand and reached to pump my hand vigorously with the other. He said, “Pleased to meet you, Joelle. We've heard all about you.”

I was mildly startled by this statement, but smiled back at him and said, “Good to meet you, too.”

“Ain't you lovely,” Bob observed then, and winked at me before turning and calling, “Christy, your boy is here!”

I drew a breath in attempt to calm my jittering nerves as a woman came from behind the bar, in the process of wiping her nose with a tissue. She caught sight of us and her face broke into a smile, a truly welcoming smile. I tried to return it but my lips were stiff; it took everything I had not to fidget. Bly seemed amused and squeezed my hand as his mother approached us.

“Hey, Mom,” Bly said. “Your battery is out, huh?”

She took another swipe at her nose and stopped before us, studying me with forthright curiosity. The first thing I noticed about Christy Tilson was that her eyes were exactly like Blythe's: beautiful, long-lashed, and the color of faded denim, a warm combination of blue and gray. She was petite, at least six inches shorter than I, slim and fine-boned; her reddish-blond hair probably accounted for half of her overall weight. It hadn't changed appreciably since the ‘80s, I would have bet money, with corkscrew curls, thick bangs, and a lot of aerosol spray holding it all in place. Her face was darkly tanned and delicately constructed; I realized at once that it did indeed register in my memory. She wore jeans, a black server apron and a black t-shirt with
Bob's Bowl
scrawled across it in neon green.

“Hi guys,” she said, and her voice was low and mellow; it suited her. She went on, her accent far more pronounced than Bly's, “And Junior, I know you told me about that damn battery, but I didn't have time today. You can switch it out tomorrow.”

Everyone here called him Junior; so where the hell was Blythe, Senior?

“I will,” he assured her. “Mom, this is Joelle Gordon. And this is my mom, Christy Tilson.”

“I figured,” she said, smiling again. “And I do remember meeting you years ago, when I visited Rich and Mom.”

“Hi,” I responded. “I remember you, too.”

“God, you must be exhausted,” she went on, abruptly moving into action. “Let's get you home for the evening.” And so saying, she retrieved her purse from behind the bar, called good-bye to a handful of regulars, and then shepherded us back out into the night. “I don't live far.”

Blythe opened the passenger door for us, and I insisted on taking the rear seat. We drove back through town and then about a mile into the darkness, before Bly turned left into a trailer court whose gravel road curved through an opening in a tall, wrought-iron fence. The sprawling place was actually quite cozy in the darkness; most of the trailers had lights glimmering, whether from within, or solar-powered yard lanterns, or here and there strings of twinkly white lights framing window sills, reminiscent of Christmas. After a moment Bly braked before a yellow double-wide and as I studied it from my seat in his truck, I realized this was his childhood home; my heart beat harder just imagining him growing up here. Not that my own home was so fancy, or spacious, and I was certainly no snob. But still. It hurt a little to think that all of his childhood memories were centered around a place called Gatehouse Court, where the yards seemed to consist of slim borders of scraggly grass that stretched the space of three steps to meet the gravel road which wound through the entire place, where you could probably hear every fight and smell every joint being smoked by neighbors whose homes were roughly five feet from your own.

I climbed down after Christy, noticing how she had made the place homey. Tiny Chinese lanterns glowed in candy colors where she had hung them from the Sunsetter-type awning over the front entrance. On either side of the cement steps rising to the little porch, huge terra cotta pots were overflowing with bougainvillea in brilliant magenta. There was a woven green welcome mat and two cats who met us as Christy unlocked the door and clicked on a light; its golden spill illuminated a space that was minuscule and tidy. We entered into the front room; the kitchen was just around the corner to the right, while a short hallway to the left no doubt led to bedrooms. A television set with a bowtie antenna perched on a kitchen table covered by a fringed, sage-green tablecloth, sharing the space with a stack of mail and a trailing ivy in a squatty, indigo-blue pot. The floor beneath our feet was carpeted in an atrocious brown-and-orange fleck, and there were framed pictures everywhere; I curbed the urge to go and look at every one of them. As Bly entered behind me, the space seemed 10 times smaller. I could not imagine my 6'4” lover inhabiting this place. He practically had to duck his head to get in the door.

His hand was warm on the small of my back, and I was all at once exhausted. I wanted to curl up with him in his old bed, which was no doubt far too tiny for the both of us, but I didn't care. He would curve around so that I fit against his chest and wrap his arm and one leg over me, and I wanted it so much that I could hardly tear my gaze from him. My limbs felt heavy and my nerves on edge; I knew he had to leave, and the thought made tears prickle behind my eyelids.
Pull it together
, I scolded myself.
Dammit, Joelle
.

Christy bustled down the hall, away from us, calling over her shoulder, “Joelle, have Junior put your things in his old room. I'll be right back.”

But the moment her bedroom door clicked shut Blythe enfolded me in his embrace and held tight, resting his chin on the top of my head and letting me cling to him. He smelled so good, indefinably himself, and he understood that I needed holding right now, more than anything.

“It'll be all right,” he whispered after a moment, tipping his lips to my ear. He brushed hair from my neck and kissed me lightly, and I quivered. “Don't worry. I can tell you're worried.”

I rubbed my hands over his ribcage, which was so tough and solid beneath my palms. I lifted my chin and he kissed my lips, again with gentleness and yet so much repressed passion that I trembled in his arms, and felt him grin against my mouth.

“Blythe,” I murmured, clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt now; knowing that his mother could come back around the corner at any second was the only thing that kept me from ripping it from his chest.

He kissed me again, this time much more deeply, cupping the back of my head with one hand to tip it where he wanted. The soft sound of a bedroom door being opened in a different part of the trailer was the only thing that brought me to my senses; when I pulled back, shaken, his eyes were dark and hooded with desire. But he grinned again, letting me step back, and whispered, “Soon.”

I turned just as Christy came back into the living room, clad in a pink sweat suit, rubbing lotion into her hands. She'd snapped a rubber band around her bountiful curly hair. If she suspected we'd been making out like teenagers, she hid it well as she breezed through to the kitchen asking, “Joelle, would you like a drink?”

“Go, relax a bit,” Blythe said, rubbing my back again with a gentle hand; he was so fond of doing that, and it calmed the fire in my stomach. “I'll grab your stuff, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” I told him, standing on my extreme tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his lips. Fortunately I'd thought to retrieve my bag before we'd left the Arrowhead parking lot.

Moments later I was seated at the table with the fringed cloth, uncertain, though Christy was friendly as she hustled around the space, clinking ice into tumblers and pouring us each a rum and coke. She topped these with lime wedges and slid one in front of me as Bly appeared in the archway and leaned one shoulder on the side. A smile tipped up the right side of his incredible lips.

“Junior, we'll be just fine,” his mother insisted, curling one leg under herself as she took her own seat.

“I know,” he said, his deep voice soft. “I'll be back bright and early.”

“See you in the morning,” I told him, keeping my voice as neutral as possible; his smile widened ever so slightly, and he came fully into the kitchen and reached to take a strand of my loose hair between his fingers. He rubbed it gently, like some men might rub silk or even gold.

“‘Night,” he murmured, and then Christy rose and gave him a quick squeeze. I watched him, my insides humming with equal parts yearning and tenderness. The truth was, he understood something that Jackson never fully had.

That something was me.

After his
truck had fired to life and driven away, I faced Christy at the table. She regarded me with a frankness that was disconcerting, spinning her drink in circles between her palms. Now that I had her attention, I was floundering. She didn't strike me as a judgmental person, but still; I was closer to her own age than her son's, and the thought made me squirm internally, though outwardly I sipped my drink with moderate composure and made small talk with her for a few minutes. Finally she said, “I remember what fun you and your sister had that summer I stayed with Mom and Rich.” She lifted her drink for a long swallow, before continuing, “What a pretty place you guys had up there, the restaurant on the lake. I loved it. I think I spent half the summer lying on that beach.”

“It is great,” I agreed. “I love it there too.”

“I was so happy that Bly got hired up there, and had a chance to move away from this place. Rich looks out for him so much, and he's not even his real grandpa. But that's why Mom loved him so much.” She paused for another sip, and then said, “Bly is a good boy. He's always worried about me first, even when I didn't deserve it. Too damn bad his dad wasn't the same way.”