Mind F*ck (15 page)

I’d like to bitch and complain about how Liam pitched a fit until he got his way to Travis, and I was demoted from the Manhattan penthouse on Madison street to a two story, three bedroom two and a half bath, pool house located on the back stretch of Dean’s Estate, but I won’t.

And I won’t because it worked out even better for me and my plans involving little miss Lexy Mayer Dean.

From what I’ve been able to get off line and then in conversation with her while we see each other in passing on a day to day basis for the last few weeks, I know she likes tulips, Mr. Lincoln roses, and gardenia’s. I know she’s awake before the rest of the house, and I also know she probably thinks she’s the last one to fall asleep, but I’m not like housekeeping, when the sun goes down, I don’t. Nor do I go away to my rooms.

I work. From dawn till dusk, especially on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s, and I ain’t got my suit on, hell I barely can afford to wear jeans on some days in this hellish, yet odd New York spring heat. It’s ninety-eight today, I haven’t seen my shirt since eight-thirty this morning when I was cutting out old dry-rotted wood from the front left side of the house.

I briefly wonder as I square off the two by four on the circle saw if the sun effects tattoos. Then I wonder what’d Lexy think if she ever saw all the shit I’ve had tattooed across the planes of my front and back. There could be ten or over a hundred and ten, depending on how you look at them, I guess.

Angels and demons are their main theme, good and evil. Yin and Yang. Light and dark. Seven years is a long time, and don’t worry, I witnessed the needle sterilization process with my own eyes, hell I came up with the chemical compound, and rest assured, the needles were sterilized. Well past state health regulations. 

Anyway, between pushups, reading, running, boxing, cleaning up behind insane convicts, and teaching the new trustee’s how to purify our shit water into drinking water, I filled my lonely nights burning paper and pencils and flaking the burnt dust into a solution creating my own ink for my own tattoo’s. That’s how I spent my seven. Well, doing that and counting the days till today.

And while my interactions have been limited with Lexy, there is a method to my slow madness.

Fret not, little one, if anyone knows the importance of a slow hand, it’s the man who’s spent some time behind bars.

I not only know patience, I invented another mind fucking dimension of it.

And my plans for Lexy are…very in depth. And thorough.

I use my forearm to swipe away the beading sweat that’s been collecting on my forehead when I hear her clear her throat and then I freeze, waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her response. To me.

“I—I made tea. Iced tea. I used to live in New Orleans, you know. I…I don’t know why I didn’t mention that before—“ Her words trail off as if she forgot where she was headed with them, and I realize she’s as transparent as crystal clear glass.
That’s why I couldn’t get a fucking read on her. There’s nothing to read.

“Bloody fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath before grabbing my v-neck t-shirt from where it hangs from my back pocket and turn slowly for effect, while flexing every already flexed muscle from my pecks to the lowest abs, and tug my shirt over my head. But not fully. When it snags halfway down, I leave it and smirk at how perfectly choreographed it probably looked. Then I reach up and pull my hair down, before shaking it out and wrapping it back up in its ponytail holder.

The only thing I was able to keep of mine was my hair. I kept it up. Kept it under the beanie hats they handed out to Ad Seg population my first Christmas there.

It’s funny how little things like that become important when everything else has been stripped away.

Thankfully, they let the hair and the beanie slide.

And I think I’ll keep both, at least for a little while.

I know I’ll keep the hair until I’m tired of hearing Trav bitch about it. I shrug my thoughts away, and when I’m facing Lexy and finished fucking with my hair, I smile my million watt smile and wink at her.

Cursing my already rising ninety percenter.

“You probably didn’t mention it because you were so flustered by your husband’s asshole behavior. How long have the two of you been married? Not long enough for you to lay down any ground rules, I know. Or at least I hope that’s the case.”

She blinks several times. “Five, almost six years. Ground rules?” Her cute little nose wrinkles just as she tilts her head and furrows her brows.

I can’t help but chuckle at her. She’s too cute.

I shake my head and reach for the tea she’s been holding out. “I’ll explain ground rules later. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be painless. Your parents’ still in New Orleans? I thought Trav said you were from LA?” I try changing the subject before taking a sip from the glass she hands me.

“No. Mom lives in Seattle now. We lived there with husband number two, hers. Not mine. I was eight,” she blabbers and I can see her frustration rising, so I curb my chuckle and go serious.

She seems to respond better when I’m stern and serious, I’ve noticed. She gets rattled when I try to flirt or joke with her.

Which sucks. Bad.

And I plan on correcting that habit soon.

But not yet, remember…I’m still living in the hell of practicing the patience of Job over here. She’s flighty. And from what I can tell when she doesn’t think anyone else is looking, she’s hurting too.

Fuck. Ing patience.

Of Job.

This shit’s been testing me like nothing other, Bill Clements included.

“Five years seems like a long time.” I test her by pushing her.

I said I was patient, I didn’t say I wasn’t above making it as uncomfortable for her as it is for me, don’t get it twisted.

I’m no saint.

“It was. I mean it is. I—“ Her eyes cut into mine, and I smile at her increasing agitation. “Five years is five years,” she spits. As if it makes all the sense in the world, and I guess it sort of does.

“I recently decided I’m good if I never live another long year. I want my years to be short, the short ones always seem to count the most.” I nod, liking the way my words sounded. But when I look down and see the look across her face, I bust out laughing.

She was
not
expecting that dose of real talk, and that fact is clearly reflected in her expression. “What? Well that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” She scoffs, and verbally spews a pfft. A pfft! “Pfft, everyone wants more years, long or short.” She continues staring at me completely baffled.

So I concede, and then I push a bit further. “Does a snack or a sandwich come with the sweet tea, or is that extra?”

What? I’m not flirting. I’m looking for some lunch. A guy can get hungry in this heat. And besides, I’m sure my sugar is low. I haven’t eaten shit all day.

Her mouth, with its sweet pouty pink lips, opens and closes a few times before she gets her ducks and her words in a row and finally speaks, “I made a salad. I can have some soup made or some sandwiches thrown together real quick though. It wouldn’t take Mary long at all. And it isn’t noon yet, so she isn’t napping. I didn’t even think to ask, Rhett!” Her hands come up and cover her mouth and I notice her nails are painted the same pale shade of pink as her lips. Huh.

She uses pale and bleak like camouflage. Khaki and muted pink. Gray. I take her in from head to toe and feel my ninety shift into low gear before going rock hard somewhere after scanning past her tits.

She can cloak herself in these damn drab colors all she wants, I still clocked her ass. I clocked and zeroed in, and I don’t know if she knows it or not yet, but she’s mine.

I just gotta get her out from under her husband’s brainwashed rule and quick.

I’m pretty sure I already have her on my side.

And that’s a solid step in my favor.

One I’m treading very lightly on…at least for the time being, anyway.

“Do you not have any money? Do you not have any groceries?” Her face is pale as if she’s just realized the world suffers from real, true hunger. “Oh my god, you don’t.”

I don’t string her along, as much as I’d like to, I’m more hungry.

I do however, have tears in my eyes from laughing so hard when I’m finally able to catch my breath and speak again, “Jesus Christ, woman. You’re the fucking saint. Please, don’t be the death of me. It’d suck entirely too bad.” I chuckle.

When I feel her muscles tense, I hurry to explain, “I have food. I have money. Which, I’m surprised you’d think different. Wait.” I stop her with my hand touching her wrist just before we walk under the trellis and onto the back porch. When I have her turned to me, I lean in a little closer than I originally meant to, but I don’t correct it.

I stay where I stop, an inch from her face. “You don’t think I’m your husband’s bitch do you?” As soon as the first hints of blush creeps up from the modest neckline of her summer dress, water floods my mouth at her simple purity and the beauty of it. Of her.

“Lexy, don’t be so appalled by what I say. I’ll never lie to you, but I also won’t dress it up in lies and candy coat it either. What you see is what you get with me. I’m not mysterious, but I’m not chock full of bullshit either. Don’t forget what this is based on, Lexy. What
we
are based on.”

I glance between her eyes, and when my hand comes up to sweep the piece of hair that the wind blows across her face, it turns me into a hypocrite, because I stop it. I stop myself, and instead I tuck my own stubborn wind-blown hair behind my ear.

“This, us…is based on truth.” I smirk before sliding around her in her own space and waltzing into the kitchen like it’s mine. “So, this where you made the salad?” I ask looking down at the evidence of vegetables recently being cut for a salad.

I’m trying like hell—you know what, fuck it. From the evening I moved into that pool house, I’ve
been
trying to come up with ways to talk to her. Make her smile. Steal a snippet of information about herself or her thoughts, and not this damn house or the renovations I’m doing or what’s being shipped in for it and when.

I see her nod, and this is when it dawns on me. This is when I realize I am in
way
over my fucking head.

I’d give anything to keep her talking.

Anything.
And this…may be where one would find a chink in my patience armor: where my lack of knowledge about her and all things Lexy concerned, and my increasingly consuming need to find out more.

I feel like I’m a fucking yo-yo with her. It’s been back and forth with us, give and take. Grab a step forward, lose fucking five back, since the beginning of Spring.

“You learn any Cajun recipes when you were eight and living in New Orleans? Or did the fine LA cuisines make you forget? Where all have you lived before, by the way?”

Jesus. Please stop it. Please stop the word vomit.

“Wow. Will there be a test, or is this it? Why all the questions, Mr. Bennett?”

My feet lay dead in their tracks.

Right there in the middle of her kitchen, I am
very
effectively, and for the second, no third time, in her presence, I’m left speechless.

Did she just talk shit to me?

“Did you just talk shit?” I chuckle at her choice of words as they register. “And will there be a test? I dunno, probably. I’m interested. So, kill me.”

After I get over the fact that finally, after three long weeks, she’s warmed up enough to me to joke, I make my way towards the refrigerator attempting to stay on track for food.

I’m hungry, haven’t I mentioned that? Oh, and I’m an insulin dependent diabetic, so when my sugar gets low, I don’t just get grumpy, I go into a coma.

Once the sub-zero air is hitting my face, I glance over my shoulder and raise my eyebrows. “Not again. Where’d she go? I like the feisty side of you, why do you keep it so hidden? You’re funny when you let go, you know it?” I laugh when I catch her trying to cover her smile up.

“She knows it,” I mutter, answering myself and look back into the fridge. Then I ask her over my shoulder, “What do you like to eat? Scratch that, Do you like to cook? And if so, what do you like to cook for yourself to eat? What do you like to cook for others? That’s several questions for one, and if I’m being accused of testing someone, I might as well do the job right.” I wink at her. “Right?”