The Girl He Knows Page 8

  “You are missing the point. He asked me out.”

  “Ahhh! You’re missing the point,” she takes a deep breath, “OK, fine go out with Jake. See for yourself. He’s a sly fox.”

  “Duly noted.”

  We are standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, getting odd looks. I’m ready to get this behind us. I indicate with my hand for her to continue.

  “Jake only wants one thing.” With her chin lifted and squinty eyes, she’s gearing up for a debate.

  “Ohhh. You think he wants to play hanky-panky with me. Don’t you?” I clasp my hands in glee, hoping for some levity.

  “I’m positive he does. Jeez, Paisley. He’s not the guy for you.” She drops her hands from her waist and walks away.

  “Who says he has to be and why not?” I ask.

  “He’ll never give you what you need, and he’ll break your heart just for kicks. It’s like you want to keep repeating your mistakes.” She shakes her head.

  “Assuming I’ll give him my heart. Maybe this nerdy accountant dude will win my heart.”

  Josie’s look borderlines pity. “You couldn’t date him more than once without giving a part of you. At the very least you’ll feel obligated or something. It’s who you are, honey.”

  “I beg to differ. I’ve had hot, meaningless sex with Hank and seem to be doing fine.” Ha. Stuff that, Josie.

  She gives me another of her pointed looks.

  My temper rises. “I don’t have feelings of love or any other sort of attachment for Hank any more than I do the devil himself.” I use my haughtiest tone, pull open the restaurant door, and walk in without her. I’m about make an even saucier statement when my cell phone rings.

  It’s the devil calling.

  I gulp and suck in a breath before I accept the call. It’s been two weeks since I’ve talked to him. We’ve only been in touch through e-mail and text messaging.

  “Hello?” Why, with current technology, do I try to pretend I don’t know he’s calling? Am I able to convey my ambivalence across a fickle and subjective line? No, I haven’t been waiting for your call. I’m indifferent to you calling me. My heart is certainly not racing. Can he pick up those messages with my one word?

  “Hey, Paisley. Sorry I haven’t called sooner. I was unexpectedly out of town until yesterday.”

  “Where’d you go?” I follow Josie to a booth and slide in. She’s staring at me with curiosity.

  “Oh, just some place dry and hot. Listen, I know we talked about getting together this weekend, but things have changed.”

  He’s canceling. I shake my head at Josie. I knew this was coming. I’m disappointed and vindicated at the same time. Hank Lancaster is like all the other guys. He only wants one thing, too. Like Josie says Jake does.

  “I’d like to get together next weekend—”

  “It’s OK. You sound real busy.” I give Josie an I-told-you-so look. Getting strung along by someone I barely know is one thing. It’ll be unbearable for Hank to do it. The last thing I want is to have him cancel on me again next week. How pathetic. I struggle to come up with a reason not to get together.

  “Now, Paisley, don’t get crazy in the head. I’m coming to Daytona tonight and still want to see you if you’re free, but I won’t be alone.” He lowers his voice. “Work’s been rough and we found out today, one of the guys we were at the Academy with was wounded in combat and is in critical condition. Some of the guys need to blow off steam. Someone scored Coke 400 race tickets and... Anyway, I was hoping I could see you again next weekend, alone, to make it up to you. I didn’t want to assume you’d be willing to hang out with a bunch of sailors.”

  “Oh. I hope he’s going to be OK.” I’m such a master of words. I should make a career of being a wordsmith.

  “You wanna meet us for dinner tonight?”

  “OK, sure.” And I’m a pushover.

  “Great. Six o’clock at Hops sound OK?”

  “Sure.” Now even Josie throws up her hands in disgust.

  “OK, see you then.”

  I put the phone on the table, look at Josie, and relay the conversation back to her.

  “Sounds like fun.” She checks the calendar on her phone. “Dammit. I can’t go.”

  I don’t point out she isn’t invited. It’s not like she takes no for an answer anyway.

  “Why not?”

  “My wedding planner called this morning, and I promised to meet with her to go over a few things. I wonder if I can reschedule her.” The last part she mumbles as she types out a text message.

  I’m relieved knowing Josie won’t be meeting Hank yet. I don’t think I’m ready to share him with my Daytona friends. We manage to enjoy the meal and the walk back. She’s easily distracted with wedding talk.

  In anticipation of my impending early dinner with Hank, I go clothes shopping. I buy a cute, ankle-length, straight skirt and two-inch heeled boots for the event, hoping the length of my skirt will be a deterrent. I know he says we won’t be alone, but I’ll take any reinforcement I can get. Perhaps meeting him on my territory, away from our childhood memories, will eliminate whatever pull he has on me. It’s a crapshoot, but one I’m willing to take.

  Chapter 11

  When I walk into Hops, I expect to see Hank and a crowd of brawny men. What I find is Hank and two of his friends. They stand like a wall of solid man and more than my attention is drawn to them.

  Hank pulls me into a hug and whispers in my ear. “Sorry, babe, this wasn’t what I was thinking for this weekend.”

  “This is great,” I say. No chance of me ending up in bed with him. Zilch. I like those odds.

  Hank makes the introductions. He stands next to me instead of across from me as if he’s showing me off and says, “This is Paisley.” He doesn’t call me an old friend or his sister’s friend. Just Paisley.

  “Paisley, this is Surge,” says Hank.

  Surge stands taller than Hank. His head is shaved clean, like his face, and I make no comment about his name nor he about mine. It’s friendship at first sight. The other man is Keith. He grants me a mischievous smile and some quick jokes at Hank’s expense, and I’m enchanted.

  We sit in a corner booth, and everyone orders beer.

  “You all went to the Naval Academy together?” I ask.

  They start laughing, and the stories begin to fly. Keith is a master storyteller and it’s through him I discover Hank’s nickname.

  “Sister Henrietta?” I look at Hank in wonder. He’d have never allowed such teasing in high school.

  Surge jumps in to fill the void. “One afternoon after PT, physical training, Sister Henrietta and I were called on to perform some extra fitness training.”

  The group snickers as they look at each other.

  “You see, sweetheart there”—he nods to Hank, who’s looking down at the table smiling—“didn’t do so well on an inspection and consequently got all of us in trouble for it, resulting in some extra running. Our instructor, a hard-nosed, no bullshit—pardon-me—kinda guy, asked Hank to call out some cadence during our run. Except he wanted original cadences and that’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  I look over at Hank, who is ripping the edges off a paper place mat and smiling.

  Surge continues, “Your boy, Hank, freezes. Can’t come up with anything original, so he starts spouting Bible verses and then poetry.” The group starts laughing.

  “Poetry? Seriously?” I nudge Hank with my elbow. It’s unimaginable.

  “Wouldn’t my mom be proud to know all the Bible-study group she made us go to came in handy?” He ducks his head and laughs.

  At this point Keith jumps in. “Yeah, it started out all right at first but not a lot rhymes with Lord and heaven. So he quickly switched to poetry, something about meat and eat and wanting it and thanking it.”

  I look at Hank and try to imagine it. “No, you did not. You turned Robby Burns into cadences?” Laughing, I fall over and lean against h
im.

  The guys look at me, questioning. “My family always starts dinner with a toast and a prayer. Sometimes, if my father drank too much before dinner, he’d start reciting Burns. On occasion he would use this one:

  “Some hae meat and canna eat,

  And some wad eat that want it,

  But we hae meat, and we can eat,

  And sae the Lord be thanket.”

  “That’s the one,” Surge exclaims and we start laughing.

  “Hand me a pen, please,” Hank asks me under his breath.

  I’m curious, wondering what he’s doing, but I want to hear the rest of the story.

  “OK, why Sister Henrietta?” I ask Surge.

  “Because the poetry deteriorates from there. It goes from The Lord, to food, moves to scenery, and ends up about love. The instructors couldn’t let Hank’s soft, more feminine side disappear. Poetry and Bible verses equals Sister Henrietta.”

  Keith adds. “Afterward the staff always called upon him to wax poetic. Several times he had to read a poem to the class and the chaplain liked to call on him to read verses at various ceremonies.”

  Poetry was always a big thing at my house, but I never knew he had an interest. This is a different side to Hank and I like it.

  “What other ones did you recite?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t remember. Some things I made up.”

  He smiles, hands me my pen, and slips the paper into my purse. “Keep this for me, will you?”

  I nod, my focus on his friends. “Tell me more, please.”

  The dinner flows by at a rapid pace. I laugh until my face hurts and find I’m disappointed when it’s time to separate. Hank explains they have race tickets and off they go.

  I text Josie to see if she’s free from the wedding planner, she is. We catch a movie and decide on drinks afterward. I’m desperate to quiet the nagging thoughts of doubt plaguing me since dinner. I should be happy. It felt so much like the times before we slept together it’s as if it never happened. It’s not like I really expected him to take me right there on the restaurant booth, in front of his friends. But I did think we’d touch more, or I’d at least have to put up some resistance. I’d expected refraining to be as hard for him as it was for me. Clearly I was mistaken.

  In silent agreement, we avoid our usual drinking joint and head to a Mexican restaurant for margaritas. Neither of us knows if Jake is working, and we aren’t willing to revisit our earlier conversation.

  I finish off my first, miniature-fishbowl-sized frozen cocktail, when my purse vibrates. I dig out my phone and see Hank’s name.

  “Paizie.” The voice calls out. It sounds like Hank when he is inebriated, but I haven’t seen him drunk in years.

  “Hank?” The sounds of the racetrack are in the background.

  “We have a problem.” He hiccups.

  “What sort of problem?” I give Josie a look and shrug. She leans in to listen.

  “We have a dead battery,” he yells.

  I hold the phone out so Josie can hear the conversation. He’s loud enough that I don’t need to put him on speakerphone. A clear sign he drank too much.

  “You need me to jump you?” I yell.

  Hank growls, “Oh, baby, do I.”

  I realize the folly of my words.

  “We also need you to help start this thing,” he says.

  Josie nods her agreement and is already paying the check. I sigh and give in. Hank tries to give me directions to where they are parked, but for a sailor he does a terrible job. Josie refuses to let me take her home first, obnoxiously curious about the guy who she terms my booty call. I suppose taking her will make it easier for me to find them. Four eyes are better than two, aren’t they? I’ll deal with any fallout if I must.

  We arrive in under ten minutes and start cruising the racetrack parking lot. The guys aren’t too hard to spot. Surge is standing in the bed of the truck, signaling to every passing car, waving his unnaturally long arms in the air. Keith holds a flashlight and waves the beam back and forth as if landing the mother ship. Hank is nowhere in sight.

  It’s no surprise to see Josie with her cat-ate-the-canary grin.

  “I don’t want to hear a peep from you,” I tell her.

  “Where’s your Hank?” she asks before we get out of the SUV.

  “How do you know he’s not the big one on the truck bed?”

  “Not your type.”

  Hank slides out from the truck’s cab and appears to catch himself on unsteady feet.

  “Ahh. There he is and he’s perfect,” she coos, practically rubbing her hands together.

  I snarl and escape the SUV.

  “Hi, fellas,” Josie calls out.

  “Howdy.” Surge stumbles his way out of the truck bed.

  “Paizie.” Hank shuffles over to me, drapes a heavy arm across my shoulder, and nuzzles my neck.

  “You’re drunk, mister.” I pull away. It’s a halfhearted attempt.

  “They’re all drunk.” Josie sweeps her arms wide, pointing not only to Hank and his friends, but to the remaining race fans. Keith is still swinging the flashlight in arcs, and she walks over and takes it from him.

  “Who’s your friend?” Hank asks.

  I make quick introductions and hope Josie will keep her mouth shut. I’m not very lucky in the wish department.

  “So you’re Mr. Hot and Heavy.” Josie gives Hank a thorough inspection.

  “That’s me.” He does a sloppy salute, sways, and I put my arm around his waist, steadying him.

  “Listen, boys. You are too wasted to drive home. Why don’t I take you down to Denny’s for some coffee and greasy food? Hmm?” I guide Hank toward my SUV. “You don’t mind, do you, Josie? I can’t let them drive home like this.”

  “Oh no. It’s a great idea. This could be real fun.” She locks up their truck and pockets the keys.

  We round up the drunkards like cattle in a field and load them into my car. Josie squeezes between Surge and Keith in the back.

  I drive the short mile to Denny’s and steer them to a table closest to the restrooms, just in case. I order everyone a round of coffee and fries. The coffee arrives within minutes.

  “Here’s to our wounded friend, Kyle.” Surge holds up his coffee cup, sloshing some on the table, and takes a drink.

  It’s clear how this night went down and why they are in the state they’re in.

  “How’s he doing?” Maybe they need to talk about it.

  “He’ll live,” Hank tells me, “with one less limb.”

  “And a head injury,” says Surge.

  “And a lifetime of PTSD,” adds Keith.

  Their mood is somber, and after a few more rounds of coffee and the fries, it’s obvious they’ve sobered up some, though are in no shape to drive.

  “All right, fellas,” I announce, “looks like you’ll have to crash at my place.”

  They snigger and snort while elbowing each other.

  “I get the bed,” calls Surge.

  His remark causes a ruckus regarding who is sleeping where.

  I give a shrill whistle, calling a halt to the nonsense before I lay down the law. “My friend Josie there”—I point and she waves—“currently holds your keys and if you don’t hush up, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of Surge’s truck with the sounds of the racetrack lulling you to sleep. Got it?”

  They are as quiet as church mice, with the odd occasional chuckle, on the drive to Josie’s house. She passes me their keys before she gets out, gives me a silent look and a wink. I’m surprised she doesn’t tell me to get some.

  Regardless, I ignore her.

  I drive the guys back to my apartment and put them to work pulling out my sofa bed and blowing up the air mattress. They speak a silent language, tasking each other with jobs as they move my furniture to make room. They work with military precision, and it’s cool to watch. It must be amazing to see when they are not drunk and “in the field”
as Hank calls it. They profess they’d be content to sleep on the floor should I only give them a pillow and blanket but I ignore their request. I’m not my mother’s daughter for nothing. I pull out my best linens and feather pillows and attempt to make them comfortable.

  Hank disappears to the bathroom as I’m sorting pillows. When he doesn’t come back I go to check on him. Apparently, he’s managed to find his way to my bedroom, an easy task in a five-room apartment, and is passed out facedown on my bed. Shoes and all.

  I’m stumped about what to do with the gorgeous guy spread across my bed. I know I should force him onto the floor, but I don’t have the heart. This is the guy who got a special pass to leave the Academy and drove straight through the night to take me to my senior prom when Austin Calhoun dumped me mere days before the event.

  I tug off his heavy hiking boots and lay them beside the bed. I pull out his wallet, a pocketknife, and his cell from his back pockets and take a moment to ogle his assets. Very nice, even at rest. A blush creeps up my neck and warms my face. I’m glad I’m alone.

  Pulling a blanket from my closet, I cover him, tucking in his feet the way he likes. I grab my pajamas, change, and wash up in the bathroom. Just a few weeks ago, I was sneaking out of a window, hoping to avoid any aftermath. Now, I crawl into a bed to lie next to him. This time there will be no sneaking out of my own house.

  It’s nice lying in the dark listening to the sounds a man makes when he sleeps and knowing someone is on the other side of my very large bed.

  I snuggle under the covers, forcing myself to stay on my side, and fall asleep watching Hank. I’m pulled from slumber when someone whispers my name and I feel a soft caress on my cheek. I catch the minty smell of toothpaste.

  Warm kisses are pressed to my jawline, and I smile.

  Mmm, this is either heaven or the best dream ever.

  I roll toward a whisper and his warmth and feel the pull of arms bringing me closer. I moan Hank’s name.

  “Shh.” He kisses me long and hard. “Lord, Paisley. I can’t get enough of you.” He moves to tease the sensitive spot below my ear.

  With only the moonlight and our senses to guide us, we caress, explore, and learn more with each touch. We clutch each other, pressing our bodies together, melding them into one as joint tremors rock us, stifling our cries with kisses. It’s the best way to wake up and an even better way to fall back to sleep, snuggled in his arms.