Rock Chick Redemption
Page 110
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“Sunshine –”
“No, Hank. I don’t want to hear it. Seriously. Now, we’re done talking.”
He watched me a beat, then two and then his eyes changed again to a look I’d never seen on him before and it was as far away from pissed off as it could be.
Quietly, just for me to hear, he asked, “You real y think your life began when you met me?”
My body jolted and if his arm wasn’t around my neck, I would have backed away a step.
I wasn’t ready for this. I’d said it in the moment and I’d meant it with everything I was but I didn’t want to discuss it.
Not now, maybe later.
A lot later.
“We’re not talking about that either,” I said to Hank.
He watched me again, a beat, then two and then during the third, his arm tightened around my neck, curling me into him. On the fourth beat, I was ful frontal. On the fifth, his other arm wrapped around my waist and his face went into my neck. On the sixth, my arms wrapped around him tight and I pressed my forehead into his shoulder.
On the seventh, although it was right in the room, it seemed far away, a couple of champagne corks popped and a bunch of people both Hank and I cared about cheered.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Normal
I saw Denver looming in front of me and, at the sight, I had a little thril that I knew was half-fear, half-excitement.
* * * * *
I’d been back in Chicago for three weeks, going out with friends to say farewel , arranging movers, packing, closing up the loft, meeting with clients, getting my ruined furniture towed away and dealing with the insurance company. I’d gone down to Brownsburg for a weekend and dealt with the whole Gil and Mimi explosion, when Mom, Dad and I told them al that had happened with Bil y.
“I’m gonna f**kin’ kil that motherfucker!” Gil shouted after I was done tel ing the story.
Good grief.
“No need, son. The man doesn’t have a hand,” Dad replied.
Gil’s temper didn’t seem assuaged.
My brother turned to me. “You wanna tel me why you didn’t tel me al of this shit’s been goin’ on for the past however-many f**kin’ years?”
“Um…” I muttered.
The only answer I had to that was that Gil was six foot four and two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle and, if he knew, he’d have snapped Bil y like a twig.
Of course, in hindsight, maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad thing.
Mom saved me.
“Al right, it’s over. Roxie’s fine. She’s got a new man now and Gil, you’l like him. Your dad likes him. I like him.
Everyone likes him. So, let’s move on. I made pecan pie.
Who wants a piece of pecan pie?”
Mom’s pie, over the years, had soothed many a foul temper.
We al moved to the kitchen and Mimi put her arm through mine.
“You sure you want to get into another relationship so soon after Bil y?” she whispered to me.
I thought about it.
For about a second.
Then I nodded to her. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
She looked dubious.
I showed her a photo on my phone that Al y took of Hank.
“Holy shit,” Mimi breathed, staring at the photo.
“They’re al like that in Denver,” I told her.
“Holy shit,” Mimi repeated.
Then I leaned into her ear and whispered a few other things Hank was like, not the sexy, bedroom things, the sweet, wonderful things.
“Holy shit,” she said again.
“Mm hmm,” I replied.
Then she gave me a hug.
Gil glared at me.
Whatever.
* * * * *
Annette and Jason were stil in Chicago, likely not moving out to Denver until the New Year. They had more to do than me (and they didn’t have a hot boyfriend to get back to).
Half of Annette’s staff were fighting to come out to Denver with her, half of them were fighting to become the new operating manager of what Annette was now cal ing
“Head East”. They also had to get things sorted for the new store in Denver (or “Head West”).
Jet reported, during one of my many Rock Chick Phone Chats, that Smithie was not happy with the delay in getting his reggae-white-woman-stripper at a pole, but he was dealing.
Hank was the one that dubbed them the “Rock Chick Phone Chats”. This was what he cal ed them anytime I referred to something said in a chat I had with Jet, Indy, Al y or Daisy (for example, “Oh shit, you’ve been havin’ another Rock Chick Phone Chat.”).
I must admit, I referred to those chats a lot, mainly when I was losing ground and trying to make a point when Hank and I slipped into a Hank Conversation.
* * * * *
I decided to take two days to drive out to Denver, doing the long haul the first day and stopping just over the Colorado border. I real y should have powered through but I didn’t want to arrive and see Hank, for the first time in three weeks, red-eyed and skanky. I wanted a good night’s sleep (didn’t get it) and plenty of time to make myself look as good as I could (this kind of worked). I had my now slightly longer hair in some nice waves and ful -on makeup (to hide the fact that I didn’t get good sleep).
I went the way of Colorado (it was apropos) and wore jeans, coffee brown, high-heeled boots and a grass green turtleneck sweater with huge cable knitting down the front. I finished this up with my funky, super-long green, raspberry and cornflower-blue stripy scarf and knit cap (because it was colder than Christmas outside).
I had another carload of stuff with me and I was moving into Uncle Tex’s for the time being. I’d been surfing the ‘net to find an apartment in Denver and I had two days fil ed with viewings ahead of me. What was left of my destroyed belongings was being picked up at the end of the week and I had to have somewhere to take it.
The staying-with-Uncle-Tex-gig and my own apartment had not gone down wel with Hank. We’d had several
“conversations” about my apartment. Hank saw no reason for me to have an apartment. He figured we were going to move in together eventual y, why delay it? I dug my heels in, not because I didn’t want to move in with him but mainly because I was stubborn and because I wanted to give him the chance to back out, just in case. Eventual y, we compromised on a six-month lease (kind of, I got the distinct impression Hank wasn’t exactly committed to the compromise, more like giving in so I’d shut up).
The backing out bit was the reason I was nervous. I didn’t mind moving. I’d done it a lot; I was a practiced hand.
Hank and I had only had a week and a half of “normal” after Bil y was caught (though normal had a weird definition in Denver, especial y when it centered around Fortnum’s).
“No, Hank. I don’t want to hear it. Seriously. Now, we’re done talking.”
He watched me a beat, then two and then his eyes changed again to a look I’d never seen on him before and it was as far away from pissed off as it could be.
Quietly, just for me to hear, he asked, “You real y think your life began when you met me?”
My body jolted and if his arm wasn’t around my neck, I would have backed away a step.
I wasn’t ready for this. I’d said it in the moment and I’d meant it with everything I was but I didn’t want to discuss it.
Not now, maybe later.
A lot later.
“We’re not talking about that either,” I said to Hank.
He watched me again, a beat, then two and then during the third, his arm tightened around my neck, curling me into him. On the fourth beat, I was ful frontal. On the fifth, his other arm wrapped around my waist and his face went into my neck. On the sixth, my arms wrapped around him tight and I pressed my forehead into his shoulder.
On the seventh, although it was right in the room, it seemed far away, a couple of champagne corks popped and a bunch of people both Hank and I cared about cheered.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Normal
I saw Denver looming in front of me and, at the sight, I had a little thril that I knew was half-fear, half-excitement.
* * * * *
I’d been back in Chicago for three weeks, going out with friends to say farewel , arranging movers, packing, closing up the loft, meeting with clients, getting my ruined furniture towed away and dealing with the insurance company. I’d gone down to Brownsburg for a weekend and dealt with the whole Gil and Mimi explosion, when Mom, Dad and I told them al that had happened with Bil y.
“I’m gonna f**kin’ kil that motherfucker!” Gil shouted after I was done tel ing the story.
Good grief.
“No need, son. The man doesn’t have a hand,” Dad replied.
Gil’s temper didn’t seem assuaged.
My brother turned to me. “You wanna tel me why you didn’t tel me al of this shit’s been goin’ on for the past however-many f**kin’ years?”
“Um…” I muttered.
The only answer I had to that was that Gil was six foot four and two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle and, if he knew, he’d have snapped Bil y like a twig.
Of course, in hindsight, maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad thing.
Mom saved me.
“Al right, it’s over. Roxie’s fine. She’s got a new man now and Gil, you’l like him. Your dad likes him. I like him.
Everyone likes him. So, let’s move on. I made pecan pie.
Who wants a piece of pecan pie?”
Mom’s pie, over the years, had soothed many a foul temper.
We al moved to the kitchen and Mimi put her arm through mine.
“You sure you want to get into another relationship so soon after Bil y?” she whispered to me.
I thought about it.
For about a second.
Then I nodded to her. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
She looked dubious.
I showed her a photo on my phone that Al y took of Hank.
“Holy shit,” Mimi breathed, staring at the photo.
“They’re al like that in Denver,” I told her.
“Holy shit,” Mimi repeated.
Then I leaned into her ear and whispered a few other things Hank was like, not the sexy, bedroom things, the sweet, wonderful things.
“Holy shit,” she said again.
“Mm hmm,” I replied.
Then she gave me a hug.
Gil glared at me.
Whatever.
* * * * *
Annette and Jason were stil in Chicago, likely not moving out to Denver until the New Year. They had more to do than me (and they didn’t have a hot boyfriend to get back to).
Half of Annette’s staff were fighting to come out to Denver with her, half of them were fighting to become the new operating manager of what Annette was now cal ing
“Head East”. They also had to get things sorted for the new store in Denver (or “Head West”).
Jet reported, during one of my many Rock Chick Phone Chats, that Smithie was not happy with the delay in getting his reggae-white-woman-stripper at a pole, but he was dealing.
Hank was the one that dubbed them the “Rock Chick Phone Chats”. This was what he cal ed them anytime I referred to something said in a chat I had with Jet, Indy, Al y or Daisy (for example, “Oh shit, you’ve been havin’ another Rock Chick Phone Chat.”).
I must admit, I referred to those chats a lot, mainly when I was losing ground and trying to make a point when Hank and I slipped into a Hank Conversation.
* * * * *
I decided to take two days to drive out to Denver, doing the long haul the first day and stopping just over the Colorado border. I real y should have powered through but I didn’t want to arrive and see Hank, for the first time in three weeks, red-eyed and skanky. I wanted a good night’s sleep (didn’t get it) and plenty of time to make myself look as good as I could (this kind of worked). I had my now slightly longer hair in some nice waves and ful -on makeup (to hide the fact that I didn’t get good sleep).
I went the way of Colorado (it was apropos) and wore jeans, coffee brown, high-heeled boots and a grass green turtleneck sweater with huge cable knitting down the front. I finished this up with my funky, super-long green, raspberry and cornflower-blue stripy scarf and knit cap (because it was colder than Christmas outside).
I had another carload of stuff with me and I was moving into Uncle Tex’s for the time being. I’d been surfing the ‘net to find an apartment in Denver and I had two days fil ed with viewings ahead of me. What was left of my destroyed belongings was being picked up at the end of the week and I had to have somewhere to take it.
The staying-with-Uncle-Tex-gig and my own apartment had not gone down wel with Hank. We’d had several
“conversations” about my apartment. Hank saw no reason for me to have an apartment. He figured we were going to move in together eventual y, why delay it? I dug my heels in, not because I didn’t want to move in with him but mainly because I was stubborn and because I wanted to give him the chance to back out, just in case. Eventual y, we compromised on a six-month lease (kind of, I got the distinct impression Hank wasn’t exactly committed to the compromise, more like giving in so I’d shut up).
The backing out bit was the reason I was nervous. I didn’t mind moving. I’d done it a lot; I was a practiced hand.
Hank and I had only had a week and a half of “normal” after Bil y was caught (though normal had a weird definition in Denver, especial y when it centered around Fortnum’s).
