Color of Loneliness (32 page)

Myra groans. “I am not going to have sex with him. And custard catcher? Where do you come up with this crap?”

“I don’t know. My brain is frightening and fried. And like I really believe you’re not going to have sex with that Greek god.”

Myra snorts in response.

“Okay, so tell me what happened next,” Susie demands.

“Well, then he asked if he could kiss me.”

“He asked? Like, for permission? Oh God, that is seriously sexy.”

“I know. It was incredible.”

“Then what happened?”

“I said, ‘Yes,’ and then he grabbed me and kissed me.” Myra can’t stop the happy giggles that slip out.

“Did you swoon? Did you almost faint? Oh my God. What did that scruff feel like? Were his lips soft? What did he smell like?” Susie lets out a high-pitched scream. “This is so exciting. I need the little deets. Spill, woman.”

Myra sniggers. “I definitely swooned. His lips felt amazing. They were soft and rough at the same time. I don’t know how I didn’t pass out. I couldn’t even breathe; my heart was pounding so hard. He smelled like smoke and musk and like the outdoors or something. A real manly, woodsy smell.”

Susie sighs dramatically. “I love it,” she says dreamily.

Myra takes in a deep breath as well, her smile so huge it almost hurts her face.

“Wait,” Susie yells. “You need to tell him you’re a virgin.”

“Why? I’m not a virgin.”

“Listen, you’ve never been with a real man before. All you’ve ever been exposed to is puny peckers. You’ve only been with douche nozzle and that other guy in college. So you’ve only had like, I don’t know, Vienna sausages or something. I guarantee you that Dylan is packing a footlong all-beef wiener with bun, relish, chili, sauerkraut and all the fixin’s included under those baggy jeans of his. I saw the freakish size of that man’s hands and feet. I know what that means.”

“Susie, for God’s sake, would you stop?”

“I’m serious. You need to get out that pink dildo I sent you and start practicing.”

“Arrrrgh,” Myra cries out in mortification.

Susie laughs. “I’m sorry. You know my mouth. I need to staple it. With extra-large staples. Or use a couple of those big chip clips on it. Listen, honey, I am so thrilled for you that I’m literally about to die. I’m just going to pray pray pray that he’s a good man and that this works out. Because if he turns out to be another Trent, I promise you that I will come out there and beat him over the head with his tool belt.”

Myra laughs, shaking her head.

“I gotta get back to work, honey, or El Numero Uno Dickhead is going to tan my hide. I’m so excited for you. I’ll call ya later tonight, okay? Now get yourself back in that pantry and rub yourself all over that hot man. I love you.”

Myra smiles. “I love you too.”

* * *

Dylan carries the cabinet he removed to the dumpster-trailer, and tosses it in. Lighting up a smoke, he leans against the house, tucking his left hand in his jeans pocket. He turns his head slightly to watch Myra as she stands in front of her car and talks to the guy from the dealership. A few minutes later, Jackie shows up, talking animatedly and waving her hands in the air. He finishes his smoke and heads back into the kitchen to work on the pantry shelving.

He can’t believe he lost all of his damn self-control and basically ravaged Myra like that. He was so fucking turned-on by that woman that he wanted to tear her clothes off like some kind of savage caveman. That thought really pisses him off because he doesn’t want to act like a depraved, sex-starved ass around her. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.

He doesn’t know what the hell to do about the whole situation. He didn’t even know what to say to her afterwards other than work-related shit about her house. Now things are just going to be all fucking weird and shit since he has to work here. And he doesn’t understand why the woman never leaves. Doesn’t she have a damn job?

He growls as he begins removing shit off of her shelves. He doesn’t want to get involved with anyone right now. Not that he can’t – although his heart sometimes tells him otherwise. He just doesn’t want to involve someone else in all of his personal shit. The personal shit that his mind continuously replays over and over every day of his miserable fucking life. The thought of having to talk to someone about his past terrifies him.

“Hey,” Myra says, her voice startling him. And just like that, all of his jumbled, confused angry thoughts melt away like butter. He turns, eager to see her face again, convinced that he has turned into a fucking pansy after one kiss.

“Yeah?” He tries to keep his face stern and professional-looking, but he can feel that shit softening.

Myra’s smile fades a little as a crease forms in her forehead. She stares at him for a minute. “I got my car back,” she says, smiling up at him as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

Staring at her beautiful smiling face, he feels his exterior melting. Clearing his throat, he frowns. “I’m sorry about your car…”

“It was an accident,” she says.

He nods and drops his gaze to the floor, unsure of what to say next.

“Um, I was going to fix some lunch. Would you like some?” she asks.

Fuck, he really wants to eat lunch with her. He’d love to eat whatever the hell she fixes and just stare at her beautiful face across the table. And then maybe push her back into the pantry and finish what he started earlier. He wants to definitely taste those lips again and maybe let his hands roam over her curves…

This shit has to stop. Now.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m gonna finish fixing these shelves and then remove that cabinet over there,” he says as he points over her head, “then I’m going home. We should keep this professional. I should’ve never eaten with you and shit. I’ve never done that with a customer before…” He knows that’s what started all of this shit; her good cooking and that stupid fucking Ray.

He coughs a little, finding it difficult to talk. “I’m sorry about what happened... in here.” The look on her face causes his chest to fucking burn. She looks so tiny and pained that he feels like he just stepped on a small, delicate flower and crushed it.

She nods before immediately leaving the kitchen.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair.

* * *

Myra feels the stinging of tears pricking her eyes as she quickly makes her way up the stairs. She feels stupid for being so happy this morning over that kiss. The kiss that Dylan now regrets. She never wants to be the object of someone’s regret.

He wants to keep it professional. But she doesn’t want to be just a customer. She wants to be more. She blames this longing on her loneliness. She’s been lonely for way too long.

Her tear-soaked pillow keeps her company until she hears Dylan’s truck pull out of the driveway.

* * *

Dylan kicks his truck into reverse as he leaves Elaina’s place. His back was an extra tight mess today thanks to all the fucking mental stress in his life right now.

Driving the short distance to his house, memories that he tries to keep buried deep inside of him come to the surface. He doesn’t want to have these thoughts right now. That shit hurts.

And on top of it, his heart fucking aches over the way he treated Myra. He feels like a sorry piece of shit as he turns off the ignition. “Fuck,” he yells as he slams his palm against the steering wheel. He wishes things were different. He wishes he weren’t so fucked-up.

He can feel rage boiling under the surface. He needs to channel this shit before he fucking explodes. Stomping into the house, he slams the front door so hard it vibrates the windows. Heading straight for the basement, he dumps his boots and tool belt along the way. Stripping down to his boxers, he haphazardly throws his clothes. Grabbing his gloves, he puts them on and starts beating the motherfucking shit out of his punching bag. Every strike on that bag releases something inside of him. The pent-up rage he felt in his truck slowly loosens. Bit by bit. Hit by hit.

He doesn’t think. His mind simply focuses on each movement of his body. The strain of every muscle. Sweat pours off his torso. His arms burn with fatigue as his chest heaves from the exertion.

Exhausted, he strips off his gloves and tosses them. Picking up his flannel shirt, he uses it to mop up the sweat off of his face and neck.

Walking slowly up the stairs, he drops his boxers on the landing and walks to the bathroom to take a shower. As the water glides over his sore muscles, he considers going to Myra’s and talking to her. But what the fuck would he say? So he decides against it.

* * *

Myra sits on her couch in her living room in the dark thinking about Dylan. She has to accept the fact that he doesn’t want her. She just doesn’t know if she can be around him anymore because it’ll hurt too much. She wonders how much longer he’ll be working on her house. Maybe she can plan on being gone while he works. Or maybe she could visit somebody. But who? She has no friends other than Susie and Jackie.

She considers looking for a job or doing some volunteer work. Or maybe she could just drive somewhere and park and do some writing in her car… Anything would be better than being here with him.

Her thoughts are interrupted when she hears a vehicle pull into the driveway and sees the reflection of the headlights shine through her window.

Her heart pounds. But she won’t be answering the door for Dylan. No matter what. She can’t talk to him right now.

The engine quiets and a door shuts. She hears footsteps on the porch. Then knocking.

“Myra, open the door.”

Her mouth drops open when she hears Trent’s voice.

He continues pounding and beating on the door. Since there are no lights on in the house, she hopes he’ll assume she isn’t home and leave.

After a few more minutes, the knocking stops and she hears his retreating footsteps. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the couch, blowing out a breath.

The footsteps return. “I know you’re in there. Your car’s in the garage,” he yells as he starts beating on the door again.

Clasping her hands together tightly, she stares at the door. She doesn’t know what to do. She can’t call Dylan after what happened today. She could call Porter. But Trent hasn’t broken any laws so Porter wouldn’t be able to do anything to him. Plus, she doesn’t want to have to explain her situation with Trent to him.

She contemplates calling Jackie. But what could she do? Talk him to death?

She needs her family. Images of her parents and her Grammie and Grampie hit her hard causing a stabbing pain in her chest. Why couldn’t she just have one of them? Just one. Everyone should have at least one family member they can turn to.

“Open the damn door,” Trent yells.

Myra pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and squeezing tightly as tears streak down her cheeks.

“I’m going to break this door down if you don’t open it,” he shouts as he pounds harder.

Myra covers her ears and shuts her eyes, praying that he goes away quickly.

Light passes over her shut eyes. She drops her hands from her ears and opens her eyes as she hears a door slam.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dylan roars. Myra’s mouth drops open.

“So she called you, huh? She called you and you came running like a little guard dog,” Trent yells.

“I’m giving you one fucking warning. Get out of here. If you don’t, you’re gonna be leaving here in a whole lotta fucking pain,” Dylan says in a deadly voice.

Myra rushes to the front door, flips on the porch light and looks out the window. Trent and Dylan are standing about a foot apart, glaring at each other.

She opens the door and steps out onto the porch. The freezing air makes her shiver.

Trent looks at her. “We have a lot more to talk about. I didn’t come all this way to get shot down so easily.”

Myra wipes her runny nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She can feel Dylan’s eyes on her, but she keeps hers trained on Trent. “I told you I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Dylan steps up to Trent, chest to chest, and stares down at him. He has at least a good six inches on Trent. “Time for you to fucking
leave
.”

“Get away from me,” Trent snarls as he pushes on Dylan’s chest with both of his hands.

Dylan’s fists clench at his sides as he gives him a menacing stare. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself, fucker.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do; I can do whatever the hell I want,” Trent shouts pathetically as he pushes his chest up against Dylan, trying to push him backwards but Dylan doesn’t move an inch.

Dylan pushes him back with both of his hands, causing Trent to stumble back. “Myra, I won’t touch him if you don’t want me to, but I really wanna kick his fucking ass right now,” he says as he glares at Trent. Dylan turns his head slightly and looks at Myra. “It’s your choice. Can I?” he asks.

“Yep,” Myra responds immediately without any hesitation. Trent needs to leave now and if that means by force, so be it.

Trent uses his left hand to push on Dylan’s chest again and then swings wildly with his right. Dylan easily dodges it and immediately lights Trent up with a body shot directly to his ribs. Trent moans as he doubles over and reaches for his side. “Fuuuu,” he mumbles before he falls on the porch, curled up in the fetal position.