I Knead You Tonight Page 6

  “Matter of fact,” he says, clicking it open, “we’re going to pretend we aren’t even here yet.”

  He rolls the window down and lights up a joint, puffing on it for several moments before saying anything.

  “I can feel you judging me.”

  “I’m not judging you,” I tell him. “I just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you smoke that.”

  “Do you have a problem with it?”

  “No. I used to smoke when I was a teen, but that was a long damn time ago.”

  “Really?” He looks at me, brows raised with a mocking grin. “Now that bit of information is surprising.”

  “If you think that’s surprising, I better never tell you about the rest of my childhood and teenage years.”

  “What? Did you not get straight As because you smoked a little pot?”

  “Straight As?” I scoff. “I barely graduated high school with how much we bounced around. I went to seven different schools in four years. We didn’t live anywhere long enough for me to ever settle in.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just watches me and takes another hit.

  “What? Did you think I grew up with a white picket fence? Think again, Winston.”

  He accused me of judging him just moments ago, and now he’s the one judging me. I look away from him, because I can’t stand his curious eyes boring into me.

  “I’ve just never seen anything good come from it with other people who use it like you do,” I say to him.

  “People like me?”

  “Yeah, the ones chasing something.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you don’t smoke for fun, Winston. You use it as a way to chase your demons away. You smoke to feel nothing.”

  He gives me a derisive laugh. “You’re wrong there.”

  “Oh yeah?” I cross my arms, dying to know how that’s possible. “How so?”

  “I don’t smoke to feel nothing, Drew. I smoke to feel everything.”

  Before I can say anything else, he’s out of the car and stomping off inside.

  With a reluctant sigh, because a bitchy Winston is so not what I wanted to deal with tonight after the long day I had, I follow him inside.

  My prayers have been answered because Riker is out cold when I check on him in Sully’s room.

  “He’s good. We’re good. Just get a good night’s sleep,” the surfer tells me, waving me away as he types a million miles an hour on his keyboard.

  Normally, I’d argue with him, because he’s my baby and my responsibility.

  But tonight I’m worn out to the bone and a night off sounds amazing.

  As I retreat to Winston’s room, heading straight for the shower because I need to scrub this day away, I see him standing out on the patio, smoke swirling around him.

  I briefly wonder if it’s pot or a cigarette this time and what it is he’s running from.

  Winston has the perfect life. Everything he wants is at his fingertips. He survived a horrible accident with no permanent damage, and with the settlement he got, he bought his house. He doesn’t even have to work full-time to keep up with his bills. He can literally just sit around, surf, and do photography on the side whenever his hands itch to hold his camera.

  In my eyes, he has it made.

  Whatever he’s chasing—either something or nothing—I don’t understand it one bit.

  I leave the bedroom door open a crack just in case Sully needs me and then I strip off my work outfit, grateful to remove the pizza-smell-infused material.

  I turn the water up as hot as I can stand it and release an audible sigh when the stream cascades over my tired body.

  This is what I’ve been looking forward to all damn day.

  Hell, maybe even all week.

  Or month.

  No. Definitely for the last three months, since before my life changed drastically.

  Don’t get me wrong, I knew when I was all swollen and pregnant that my life as I knew it was over. I knew I’d probably never again feel the joy of a full night of sleep, knew I’d probably never pee in peace again and wouldn’t ever be able to eat a meal with two hands, no matter how quickly I could shovel the food into my mouth.

  What I wasn’t planning on was never having a full moment to myself ever again.

  Even when I’m not with Riker, I’m thinking about him, thinking about what I need to do to provide for him, for his future.

  I think about him all the time.

  Even now, when I know he’s in the capable hands of Sully the child whisperer, I’m worried about him waking up in the middle of the night. What if he misses me? What if he needs me?

  Sighing, I lather the soap through my hair then grab my razor so I can shave my legs for the first time in way too long.

  All the while, I try to push thoughts of Riker away and just enjoy the night Sully is giving me without letting my second best friend creep into my mind.

  Mommy guilt.

  It’s the main reason I’m constantly worrying about Riker.

  If I don’t worry about it, it means I don’t love him as much as I possibly can. It means I’m doing something wrong. It means I’m not being the best mom I can be.

  Or at least that’s what my brain tells me.

  “I can hear you thinking in there.”

  I scream, the razor in my hand slicing into my leg. I feel the sting of the water hitting the wound before I can see the blood begin to gather. “SON OF… CHRIST ON A CRACKER, WINSTON! What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  He sighs. “Do we really have to go over how this is my bathroom again? I’m brushing my teeth so I can try to sleep through your snoring.”

  I poke my head around the shower curtain and throw a shampoo bottle at him.

  “Hey, watch it! You could have hit me in the face. How would you feel if I choked on my own toothbrush?”

  “I’d think it was fitting, and deserved since I am clearly taking a shower. Don’t you know what fucking boundaries are?”

  “Again, my bathroom.”

  “I just cut my leg because you scared the shit out of me!” I say, ignoring his interruption. “Go get me some Band-Aids, dammit!”

  Winston groans, but I can hear him stomp out of the bathroom.

  I quickly finish shaving my leg and run my loofa over my body, trying to beat Winston in his hunt so I’m not naked when he comes back in.

  I’m out of the shower, just tucking my towel into place when he comes barreling back through the door, a small box in hand.

  “Took me forever to find these. Here’s your bitch stickers.”

  “Bitch stickers?”

  “Yeah. Only little bitches use Band-Aids.”

  “Then why are they Ninja Turtle themed? Kinda cutesy for a guy who never uses them.”

  “Because my sister is a brat and bought them for me as a housewarming gift.”

  “What a convenient cover story.”

  “They’ve sat unopened for years,” he maintains. “They’re probably expired.”

  “Band-Aids don’t expire,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Thanks. You can go now.”

  Only he doesn’t move.

  His bright blue eyes roam over my body.

  His gaze feels like fire has licked its way beneath my towel, sneaking into all the spaces I will never tell anyone I imagine him sliding into.

  I don’t know if it’s the residual steam from my hot shower or his gaze, but the longer I stand here, the more I want to jump back in the stall and crank the water to cold to soothe this burn.

  I can’t recall the last time someone looked at me like this.

  Like I was something special.

  Something desirable.

  Worthy.

  He takes a step toward me, and it pulls me from my haze.

  I’m tired. I’m not thinking straight.

  This is Winston for crying out loud.

  “See something you like?” I say to brea
k the tension.

  I watch as my words work their way through his head.

  First his eyes meet mine. Then brows scrunch together. Lips pull into a sneer.

  “Nah. Just trying to figure out why you’re bothering wasting your time shaving your legs. Not like anyone is going to want to fuck you now that you have baby baggage attached.”

  Winston’s fist sinks into my stomach.

  Or at least that’s what his words feel like.

  Forget the cold shower. His comments are icy enough to cool anyone off.

  I try to straighten my shoulders, try not to let it show just how deep his words cut.

  I try not to cry, especially in front of him.

  “Odd since you’re the one standing there with a half-hard dick, so clearly turned on by my baby-baggage body.”

  I don’t know if that’s true. I didn’t look. I refuse to look.

  “Here’s your fucking Band-Aids.”

  He tosses the box onto the counter, leaving in a huff.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the door clicks closed.

  Then I reach for the faucet handles, hoping the sound of the water will drown out my cries.

  Slice Six

  Winston

  Drew and Riker have been staying with me for just over a week.

  And three days have passed since we last spoke outside of work.

  I’ve barely slept. Have had little to no appetite. I haven’t even had the desire to smoke.

  Nothing is making me feel good.

  The worst part is that it’s no one’s fault but my own.

  I should have never said what I said to Drew. She’s barely even glanced at me since I told her nobody would want to sleep with her now that she has a baby.

  That’s a complete and total fucking lie.

  After seeing her in a towel, I spent half the night with a throbbing cock. I waited for Drew to fall asleep before I snuck back into my bathroom to shower just so I could relieve myself.

  Now every time I see her, I feel guilty.

  Not for jacking off to her, because I’m a grown-ass man and I accept my actions.

  But because every time I look at her, she appears so…dejected, and I know that’s all my fault.

  My eyes drift toward the back patio for probably the twentieth time in the last ten minutes.

  We’re both off today and Drew is out back with Riker, laughing at him as he plays in his little chair. It’s the only time she looks happy, when she’s with her son.

  I shift my attention back to my laptop. I’m working on editing a few photos I took of the ocean last night.

  I don’t know why I bother editing anything I upload onto my hard drive. It’s not like it’s going anywhere. I don’t share my photography with anyone outside of my family.

  I don’t shoot for money. I shoot for me. I enjoy it too much to put the pressure on myself to turn it into anything more than a hobby.

  I know me better than that.

  Drew lets out a loud laugh, and my eyes drift back to hers because I can’t seem to stop them from seeking her out.

  She’s cracking up at something Riker’s done, and her smile is infectious, even when it’s not aimed at me.

  I don’t realize I’ve set my laptop aside and picked up my camera until I hear the familiar shutter sound—and feel the recognizable ache in my shoulder.

  It’s getting harder and harder to hold it steady.

  How the fuck can holding a camera hurt so badly?

  Probably because you’re a dumbass and didn’t complete physical therapy.

  Ignoring the pain, I snap a few photos of Drew and Riker, knowing she’ll appreciate mementos of these little moments with her son when she’s less angry at me.

  I pop the memory card out and start uploading the images to the computer, saving them to the folder I created just for her.

  It’s not a creepy folder or my spank bank.

  When Drew isn’t looking, I’ve been taking pictures of her and Riker.

  Or just her.

  I remember when my mother died, and we had to go through our box of pictures for her memorial service. We had such a difficult time finding ones with my mom in them, as she was always the one behind the camera. She was the one waiting on the shoreline, ready to feed us or reapply sunscreen. She was the one sitting off to the side capturing the moments on film as my dad played baseball with us around the yard.

  She was in on the action, but there’s nothing to prove it.

  Going through that box made me realize that any time she sat down to look through old photos, she never saw herself with us.

  I don’t want that for anyone else.

  “NOOOO!”

  A loud screech filters through the sliding glass door and I leap up, rushing toward Drew before I can even think twice.

  “Move, move, move!” she shouts as she comes barreling in, holding Riker away from her. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Literal or metaphorical shit?”

  “Metaphorical!” she hollers as she rushes past me and into my bedroom. I follow her. “He projectile vomited all over himself and me. Can you grab the basket from the laundry room?”

  I spring into action, racing to grab what she needs.

  When I skid back into my bedroom, Riker is pissed. His little scrunched-up face is beet red and his lungs are at their max capacity.

  “Here.” I toss the basket onto the bed.

  “No! No, no, no,” Drew chants as she digs through it. “I didn’t change the load over. Fuck!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This isn’t my stuff, it’s Sully’s. I’m out of clean burp rags and shirts for myself.”

  She’s been running this operation we have going on with limited supplies. It wasn’t such a huge issue when she was taking Riker to Doris because she has her own hoard of baby essentials, but now that Sully seems to have taken over babysitting duties most days, it’s clear we’re running extremely low on things.

  “It’s fine. I’ll go grab a towel.”

  I scamper out of the room, snatching one from the top of the linen closet and beating feet back to my bedroom to try to help Drew in any way I can.

  She’s so close to her breaking point, I can see it.

  Riker is still going nuts, and all I want to do is relieve some of the pressure she’s feeling.

  I come to a halt when I enter the bedroom.

  Drew’s standing with a crying, almost-naked Riker on her hip.

  Shirtless.

  If I thought Drew Woods in an old, shabby green towel was prime jack-off material, I was wrong.

  It’s this moment right here.

  Not because she’s topless, though that isn’t hurting anything at all.

  It’s not her appearance, because let’s face it, her eyes are sunken from lack of sleep and her hair is an awful mess.

  It’s none of that.

  It’s the way she looks at her son, even as he cries so loudly my eardrums are hurting.

  The way she took the literal shirt off her back just to clean him up so he’s not sitting there soaked in his own spit-up.

  The way she’s singing off-key.

  The way she’s dancing to no music.

  It’s just…her.

  She’s breathtaking.

  Drew gets Riker to latch on to the binky she’s holding, he finally begins to quiet down, and relief floods her face.

  “Oh, thank god.” She sighs. “I thought he would never stop.”

  She stands there, rocking him for several more minutes until his tired eyes grow heavy. Placing him on the bed with what I’m sure is all the gentleness she can muster, she tucks his blanket around him and backs away slowly, hoping he’ll fall for it and take a nap, or at least let her clean up without screaming.

  When she’s sure he’s not going to freak out again, she stands.

  Hands on her hips, eyes closed, she tilts her face skyward, muttering something I can’t make out.

  I take the opportunity to look her
over.

  I always thought Drew was attractive. The first time we met, she caught me staring at her rack, so it’s no secret I’m physically attracted to her.

  But since having Riker, her body has transformed in subtle, sexy ways.

  Her hips are wider, fuller. Still flat, her stomach has a squishiness to it that wasn’t there before—and I would know because the girl loves her belly shirts. Her tits aren’t as perky and perfect as they once were, giving them a more natural look.

  She’s sexier than she’s ever been.

  As if she can feel my eyes on her, she slides her tired gaze to me.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” she snaps, curling her arm around her waist.

  I want to march over there and peel it away.

  How fucking dare she cover her perfect body up. How dare she act like she’s anything less than gorgeous.

  But it’s not my place to say anything to her.

  So I gnash my teeth together, yank the tee I’m wearing over my head, and toss it her way. “Here. A clean shirt.”

  She catches it, staring at the object like it’s foreign for a moment before, much to my surprise, she slides the material over her head without any argument.

  It’s way too big on her and she looks ridiculous in it, but I can tell she’s relieved to be covered up.

  “Thanks.” She lets out a groan. “Sorry, that was an intense few minutes there.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Really? All my…what was it?” She taps her finger to her chin. “Ah yes, I remember.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her signature I’m fucking pissed stance. “Baby baggage, right? My baby baggage isn’t an issue for you?”

  I wince, loathing having my words thrown back at me. “Fuck, Drew. I didn’t mean it. I was—”

  She holds her hand up. “You know what, Winston? Save it. I’m tired of hearing your excuses. Besides”—she lifts a shoulder—“I’m used to you talking to me like I’m trash. Nothing new.”

  I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.

  And it must be exactly how Drew felt the other night when I spouted off the most bullshit thing ever.

  “Drew—”

  “No, really, Winston. It’s fine. I’m fine. Like I said, totally used to it. You always say mean things to me. It’s how our relationship works.”