Her Younger Man (A Country Music Romance): a Renny and Rachel Romance (4 page)

“Renny’s divorced?”

“Man, that boy didn’t tell you nothing. Yeah, it’s been a couple of years but he’s still moping all over the place. It didn’t help things that I got married about the same time and now with the kid. Things are kinda rough between me and the twin.”

“I knew some identical twins years ago. They could feel when the other one was getting sick, even if they were miles apart. Maybe he feels your happiness.”

“We used to be more connected, when we were kids but, yeah, I sorta feel his pain, so maybe he gets some happy from me, except I’m as miserable as he is most of the time. Not what you expected interviewing the famous and fun-loving Taylor Brothers, eh?”

“Will you two stop being so god-damned serious, I’m fun-loving,” Garrett poked in. “let’s play some pool. C’mon, I’ll even let you break.”

Reade and Garrett said good-bye and went off to wow the fans with their awesome pool skills. I sat alone in the booth, sipping the Kahlua and cream the bartender sat before me. I looked around, wondering what was next, when I saw a pretty young woman slip Renny a napkin and he stuffed it in his jeans, never looking away from her. No matter what Reade said he didn’t seem so broken-hearted at this exact moment. And he sure wasn’t hanging on my every word.

I started to feel conspicuous and called for a cab. I slipped out without saying good-bye. I had plenty for the article, there was no reason to stay.

No one noticed.

Why should they?

CHAPTER  FIVE

What the hell was that banging noise? It couldn’t be in my head, I only had one lousy, watered down Kahlua last night. I sat up in bed. The pounding was coming from the front of the house. Some idiot was knocking on my front door. I checked the time. 9A.M. on a Sunday?  Oh, great, now they were leaning on the bell. I grabbed my robe and stormed into the hallway prepared to do battle with whatever unfortunate missionary or salesperson had the gall to wake me up on my only day off.

I threw open the door to a shiny, smiling, perky as shit Renny Taylor.

“I thought I was going to have to break in.” He was leaning against the door-frame, looking, well, pretty damn good. I, on the other hand, was wrapped in an old, stained, puce chenille bathroom I’d inherited from my mother. I was sporting an excellent bed-head as well as ‘morning after’ breath. To say I was not at my best would be an understatement. I was also, oh so slightly, pissed off.

“What are you doing here?” I looked around for the tour bus. “And how did you get here?”

“I have my ways,” he said stepping across the doorway. That’s when I noticed he was carrying a battered, large toolbox.

“So lead the way.”

“To my leader?”

“Funny. Jed told you I was going to fix your plumbing, right?”

“I didn’t believe him.”

“Believe it. This way?” He let himself further into the house and towards my bathroom.

“Wait! Let me … clean it a little ..”

“No need, I’ve seen ladies under bits before.”
Yes, they are flung at you every night.

He went straight to the shower and started tearing the knobs and whatever off it. The toolbox wasn’t just for show, these were well-used tools and he knew exactly what he was looking for. This was a first for me and I felt woefully unprepared. I couldn’t just ask him to leave. I needed the plumbing fixed and if he could do it who was I to look a gift horse, etc. etc.

I stood watching for a few minutes and then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; blurry eyes, robe half open and gaping just a bit too much. Wow, this looked like the start of every porno film I’d ever seen; rugged plumber, half-clothed, sleepy-eyed housewife. Um, no. I retreated to my bedroom and hastily threw on the clothes from last night which were conveniently right on the floor where I’d left them.

I went into the kitchen to start coffee, turned on the tap to smoosh down my hair when I remembered I had no water. I went back into the bathroom where Renny had completely destroyed my shower. God, I hoped he knew what he was doing.

“I’m gonna run down and get some coffee. You want some?”

“Sure. Black.”

“Right. Bagel?”

He didn’t answer so I left quickly. I didn’t want him to get a good look at me before I had a chance to use the Starbucks bathroom. Luckily I always had a toothbrush with me in my purse so that was taken care of.

I barricaded myself in the Starbuck’s bathroom, wet down my enormous bed-fro and styled it into something half-way presentable. Why did I have to have such ridiculous hair? Even my hairdresser had given up trying to make it look stylish. “It is what it is, Rachel,” she’d told me, “learn to love or wear a wig.”

I neither loved it nor wore a wig but I had convinced myself I didn’t care anymore. Heck, I was way past caring if I was attractive or not, right? I am a hard-hitting journalist. Who can worry about their hair in the desert when it’s 120 degrees?

Then again, I never thought a sexy musician would be fixing my plumbing on a rainy Sunday morning. Goes to show, the only thing you can expect is the unexpected.

I grabbed coffees, bagels and a chocolate cookie to calm my nerves. By the time I returned Renny was sitting at my kitchen table with pipes strewn all over the floor around him. Dirty, disgusting pipes. I handed him his coffee and food and pointed at the mess.

“Done?”

“No way. Holy Moly, your plumbing is a mess.”

“Yeah, it’s an old house.”

“It’s a disaster.”

“Hey, this is my dream home, can’t you see it?”

“No, no I can’t.”

“It just needs some TLC. I meant to fix it up when I sold my book but…”

“You writing a book?”

“I was writing a book. I am no longer writing a book.”

“Why not? What’s it about?”

“Afghanistan, Iraq. My time there.”

“You won a Pulitzer, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“You don’t strike me as a quitter.” That made me bristle. I am many things but I am not a quitter. For some reason I needed him to understand that, and why I had stopped writing the book.

“I found it very hard to write about wars that are still going on, when every day the region plunges further back into the Dark Ages. Also, well, some of it was harder to write about then I thought it would be.”

“How long were you there?”

“I spent 10 months in Iraq and over two years in Afghanistan.”

“Shit. We were there two days and that was too long.”

“You’ve been to Afghanistan?”

“Yup, and Iraq, Kosovo and Germany. We went with the USO last year, after our record hit. That’s one sad place. What the hell did you do for two years?”

“I fell in love.”

“With some Afghani dude?”

“No, not quite. With the kids. I was 100% against us going in there but then I met the children.”

“And now?”

“We may have gone in for oil but we need to stay for them.”

“Was the book about the kids? That would be an interesting perspective.”

“It’s about a young girl I got to know who was sold to an opium farmer to pay her uncle’s debts. I stayed for so long because I was trying to find her. I never did. I thought I could write about it but I can’t. Not yet, anyway. I have friends over there still trying to track her down. I don’t hold out much hope anymore.”

To my surprise tears had formed and escaped my eyes. I hadn’t cried about Maryam in a long time but then I had tried very hard not to think about her. And just like that, this guy busts in my house, busts up my shower and busts open my emotions. I hadn’t even talked to my best friend about Maryam, why this guy?

He placed his long, agile fingers over mine and said the very best thing he could have; nothing.

We sat still for a few moments while I got myself together. When I looked up he was staring at me with a mixture of searching intensity and infinite kindness. I pulled my hand away. Something about the way he was rubbing my hand with his delicately strong fingers made me very uncomfortable. The way he was staring at me made me feel warm in several places. This wasn’t good.

“So now I interview celebrities and try to live my life in a house with bad plumbing,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Listen, I have some money now, more than I need really, and if you need some help trying to find this young girl I’d be more than happy…”

Great. Now I was actually full-out crying.  C’mon Drake, get a grip, girl.

“You let me know, okay but for now, you need a bunch of new pipes. We need to head out to the hardware store, one with a first-class plumbing section.”

“It’s ok. You’ve been great, really.” I needed to get him out of here before I made a total fool of myself. The song he had, maybe, written for me was still looping through my brain. No, Renny Taylor, I think it is fair to say I have never met a man like you, not
just
like you.

“I’ll call my plumber tomorrow. I can live without water for one day.” He was not going to go away easily.

“Is this the same knucklehead who’s been fixing your pipes all along? ‘Cause he’s an idiot.”

“Hey, he’s cheap and he comes when I call.”

“’Cause he has no other clients stupid enough to call him. No offense.”

“Um.. yeah, offense. You saying I’m a stupid woman who knows nothing about fixing my own house?”

“No, I’m saying you are a smart woman who is totally clueless about taking care of her own house. You’re just lucky I’m here. I work really cheap and I know what I’m doing.”

“You? Know more than my licensed plumber? And I am not clueless about my house.”

He picked up one of the pipes from the table. “Oh yeah, what’s this?”

“It’s a drainy, curved thing for a shower.”

“It’s your shower valve. Just what I thought, clueless. You need me around here.”

“I was thinking that just today, what I need is a musician who also knows what a shower valve is. How lucky am I to have met you.”

“You can be as sarcastic as you want but you know it’s true. A man who knows plumbing is worth, well, a lot. What do you think I did before the cash started rolling in?”

“You were a plumber? That’s hard to believe.”

“Believe it and grab your checkbook, we are going shopping.”

“How much do you think this will cost?” I had all of 50 bucks to my name.

“The pipes will be a few bucks, it’s my fee you have to worry about.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a great Groucho Marx imitation. Why did I have to laugh? Damn it, who was this guy?

“Yeah, forget it.”

He threw back his head and laughed. That laugh should be bottled. “Fix me dinner and we’ll call it even.”

I was flabbergasted and embarrassed. Apparently, he wasn’t making a pass at me. If he stayed around too much longer I would make a total idiot of myself. “Sure. Right.” I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out before he could see just how discombobulated he made me.

Too late. He was still laughing as we closed the front door.

CHAPTER  SIX

I am not much of a cook but I can make a mean omelet and thank God, it’s not expensive. I had everything already in my fridge plus a bad bottle of wine someone had left from a party years ago. I was just hoping it hadn’t turned to vinegar.

Renny banged away, swore and made multiple trips around the house, even one under the house. Man did know how to work.

Finally, I heard the water sputter on and a shriek of joy from the bathroom. He came into the kitchen and turned on the faucet there, stood back and pointed to his handy work. He was filthy but happy. Some boys just like to play in the mud.

“Good work. I am impressed.”

“You should be, this place was a mess.”

“So you said.”

“Next time you decide to buy a money pit give me a call and let me look it over before you do. I would have told you this was one plumbing disaster away from a total gut-job.”

“I’ll do that. Dinners ready to go when you are.”

“Great! I am starving.” He raised his arm and gave himself a sniff. “Whew! I need a shower first. I am not fit for man or beast. Or you.”

“Be my guest, by all means.”

I scrambled eggs, chopped onions, tomatoes, grated cheese while I heard him singing in the shower. Is this what they call domestic bliss? A hard-working, stinky, sexy man in the shower, a fire in the fireplace (fake, but whatever), cooking and sipping the wine which was better than expected? Why had I avoided this? With the right person, domesticity was right enjoyable. With the right person.
There’s the rub
, as Hamlet would say.
To compromise or not to compromise
, that is the question. I am not good at compromise. I am tenacious, inquisitive and
un
compromising. It’s what made me a good reporter but a lousy partner. Still, I am older now, maybe I can learn some new tricks. Maybe if the reward were great enough I might even learn to make more than one dish. Maybe.

He came in, jeans slung low, sinewy muscles on display. Um, no shirt. I guess it would be silly to put on a smelly, old shirt after taking a shower but still. I am just flesh and blood, Renny. I can only take so much of the flesh parade before wanting to touch. Playing with fire. Both of us.

He was rubbing his hair with a towel and looked more at home in my house than I was after two years of living here. I got the feeling Renny was at home wherever he went. I got the feeling Renny was at home with Renny. It was probably the trait I envied the most. Having battled my weight my entire life I never felt finished with body. I was always a little outside myself, critiquing my newest facial lines, cellulite or bulges. More than anything I wanted to give up and accept myself as I was. I tried and I had almost achieved not caring anymore when this guy walked into my life. Now I cared way too much again.

He sat down, hair dripping rivulets down the sparse dark hair of his chest. Um, yeah, I wasn’t going to be able to eat with that going on. “Do you want to borrow a T-shirt? I’m sure I’ve got one that would sorta fit.”

“This hot bod too much for you, huh?” Oh, he knows the effect he was having on me. Beast!

“No. I just thought you’d get cold or feel…” He was grinning his lop-sided, shit-eatin’ grin. “Forget it,” I said, as I passed him the potatoes.

He was either very hungry or I’m a better cook than I thought because he had seconds and thirds of everything. He washed it down with a few glasses of wine and we both got a little tipsy. At least, I got a little tipsy. He’s a big man and I had no idea what his alcohol tolerance was but we had a great time. There seemed to be no end of things to talk about. We broke all the rules and discussed religion, politics as well as music, films, art and plumbing. I had no idea where this Renny Taylor had come from but he was well-read and opinionated. I hadn’t had so much fun talking to another person since I had left the war zone. And apparently Renny was enjoying himself as well.

It was fun to sit back and watch him gesticulate with those amazing hands as he made impassioned arguments for the things he held dear. It was fun to find out what those were too. We were on opposite sides of a lot of issues; abortion, religion, gun control, but he always had facts to back his stances and that was refreshing. I absolutely love to argue with a worthy opponent. He didn’t change my mind about the issues but I changed a little more of my mind about him. I began to wonder how any woman had ever let him go. What was his ex-wife like that this man was not enough for her? I didn’t want to ruin Ren’s mood by bringing her up though. Maybe I’d google a little deeper and try to find out about her on my own.

I found myself falling under a spell. A spell I’d always associated with young girls and Jane Austen. I knew he couldn’t be perfect. Hell, even Mr. Darcy wasn’t perfect, but for me, right now, he was as perfect a man as I had ever met.
If this is a dream
, I thought,
I hope I’m in a coma.

Then he made a mistake. He asked about Maryam and the war again. I didn’t want to talk about her, or the war, or anything I had seen or witnessed.

“Why are you so interested in her?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I have a niece now and I have cousins just about her age. I imagine those innocent, sweet girls being forced into… it makes me sick.”

“It should make everyone sick. There should be protests in the streets of every civilized city in the world.”

“Then why aren’t there?”

“Apathy? You Tube? Twitter? People don’t like complicated problems anymore.”

“That’s not fair Rachel. I think it’s because people don’t know about it. They don’t get these kind of stories anymore. Hell, they even pulled you out.”

“I pulled myself out. I quit the Times, not the other way around.”

“Why would you do that? People need to know what’s going on, especially if it’s going on in our name with our money.”

“I thought if I wrote a book, maybe then people would identify with one girl and then it would be all girls.”

“Exactly. It’s why you should keep writing it.”

I was shaking and close to tears. Didn’t he see how much this was costing me? Just talking about it, much less immersing myself daily to write it? Maybe he wasn’t Mr. Perfect after all.

Then he made a worse mistake. He moved closer and touched my hair, stroking or smoothing it, whatever. Did he think I was a horse or something? Stroke my mane and I’ll settle down.

“C’mon, baby girl, let it out, let it go. I’m here, I can take it.”

Right. Like I’m going to break down in front of this marvelous, amazingly gentle man. Like I’m going to …

And then I was sobbing into his bare chest, losing it completely. He wrapped his arms around me and just held on until the tidal wave was finished. Everything I had been holding in for the last two years rushed out. I could hardly breathe through the constriction in my throat. I feared, as I always had, that once I began I would never be able to stop. But I did. I could. Slowly the knots released and the tears thinned to a manageable stream.

When I pulled away he handed me the towel he’d been wearing when he first came in. I wiped his chest of my tears and then my incredibly runny nose and gave it back.

“Thank you.”

“It’s your towel.”

“Oh, right. Not for that, for …”

“I ain’t good for much darling,’ but I am good with pain. Other peoples, that is. You feeling better?”

I nodded and then he made the biggest mistake of all, he kissed me.

What the fuck? This wasn’t some silly romantic comedy where the heroine breaks down and is healed by a magical kiss. I felt betrayed and excited all at the same time.

“What the hell was that?”

“I kissed you.”

“I know that. Why?”

“I wanted to?”

“You wanted to kiss this snotty, swollen, red-eyed, extremely vulnerable woman.”

“Um, yes?”

I stood up, pointing to the door. “You need to leave, now.”

“It was that bad?”

“I’m not joking Renny, and I’m not one of your bimbos you can seduce with your ‘aw shucks’ charm and your boyish good looks. You played me, just like you play your guitar”.

“Where the hell is this coming from? I thought we were making a connection. One I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I’m sorry if I offended you by kissing you but, hell, lady, you gave as good as you got.”

“I was surprised. Kissing back is an instinct, it meant nothing. You could have been my, my brother.”

“You always slip your bro a little tongue?”

Now he was up and towering over me.
You can’t intimidate me Renny Taylor, with your hugeness and your beautiful face and smooth, easy ways.

“Listen Renny, I know you are used to getting your way with women, you’re used to women flinging themselves and their underwear at you, but I am not some groupie. So, thanks for the plumbing. Send me a bill.”

I turned to go back into the well-lit kitchen but instead of leaving he followed me, matching anger with sarcasm.

“So that’s what’s twisting your knickers. Yeah, I get a few panties thrown my way. What can I say, it’s a hazard of the job.”

Insufferable twit!

“I feel sorry for you really. What a burden to bear, all those women flinging their Victoria’s Secrets at you.”

“You know, I don’t think you really mean that.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“So what? Women like to fling their underwear at me. You show me a full-blooded man who doesn’t enjoy a little panty flinging. Hell, baby girl, I’m living the dream.”

“Don’t call me baby girl.”

“You should try it baby girl, you might like it.”

“I said, don’t call me baby girl! I am not a baby nor am I a girl. I am a woman and a woman doesn’t throw her underwear at some second-rate rock star.”

“Second-rate? Oh, I get it, it must be hard being such a serious journalist and all. You know what I think you need?”

“Not you.”

“I think you need to have someone throw their undies at you. I bet you’d love it.”

“I would not and stop unbuttoning those jeans Renny Taylor. Stop. Don’t you dare drop those. Oh my God!”

He stood directly in front of me with not a stitch of clothing on that… oh my frickin’ God… that body.

“Well, shit, I ain’t got no undies to throw,” he said, moving his hips back and forth, waggling in the wind.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, scream or run from the room.

Suddenly he was grabbing me. Suddenly, I was not resisting. In any way. I started shedding clothes and damning the consequences.  For a split second I hesitated. I realized that although he had showered, I hadn’t. Ah well, there was no stopping this hurricane now.

Feelings, sensations, long, long buried, boiled to the surface as we kissed and touched. All I wanted was more and everything. It was like I’d been in the desert for a very long time and his body was my oasis.

We never made it out of the kitchen. We man –and woman –handled the shit out of each other. Only once did the thought of my chubby thighs and gravity-challenged breasts cross my mind. He seemed way too busy to be worried about cellulite. Because he was, oh my God, was he biting me? Not to be outdone, I proceeded to take a small nibble out of his neck. He yelped, muttered something about a “she-devil” and lowered me to the floor where he proceeded to have his way with me, and I with him.

We fit together like last two pieces of a very complicated puzzle.