Chapter 16

Josh’s turn:

I love my boat. I really do. But that week, post-hurricane, summer, humidity, the smell of decaying vegetation and dead fish and whatever else died out there, and I was ready for land. And interminable, relatively speaking, hot water. And cool, dehumidified air.

And a bed with a taut, clean sheet on it. With Gee in the middle of it.

Aftermath, we’re side by side, staring at the ceiling, my left hand’s fingers laced into those of her right hand.

“Wow!”

“I’m glad it’s still ‘wow’,” I said. “I’ve been told that having the same partner for too long is boring.”

“I was soooo bored,” she giggled. “I have this hole bored right into me and fluid is leaking out.”

“Perfect, Gee. You’re perfect.”

“And I will still be lusting over you when I’m old and wrinkled, Josh.”

“IF this doesn’t kill me first, lady.” Yeah, it’s THAT good.

It’s home, though, and we’re occupied with getting rid of a few trees that gave up completely in the high winds, as well as a maze of branches. That’s the price one pays for having a wooded homestead. Well, actually I suppose I could let it go natural, but somehow that just doesn’t seem right.

All that means is that one of the dubious benefits of owning a sizable wooded lot is that after a storm, one must go about picking up a certain amount of debris. When the ‘storm’ in question is a full-blown hurricane, the amount of debris increases exponentially. Our homestead now contained huge amounts of downed branches and a couple of full-sized trees, also down.

One of the toys I’d bought when I bought the place is a small ‘gentleman farmer’ sized tractor. Now Gee is a fairly competent tractor operator as well as versed in the use of a gasoline-powered chainsaw. She also does a credible job of fastening various chains and ropes (yeah, they’re ‘ropes’. We’re on land, okay?) rigging the things we’re hauling to the back of the lot.

I need to borrow a wood splitter. I have couple of trees’ worth of eighteen-inch rounds now, and some of the larger branches we collected are already cut into woodstove lengths.

Now she’s got me thinking of sitting in the living room watching the flicker of burning logs through the glass door of our woodstove. And that’s NOT on the boat. Hmmm. Thinking. We’re gonna be HERE during the heat of summer because the boat’s just, well, too hot and sticky most of the time, and now we’re looking at being here because the boat’s just too cold in the winter.

What’s happening to me?

We worked until it started getting dark, then headed to the house.

Pickles was on the back of the sofa looking out the window, a favorite perch of his, when we walked back to the house. Seeing us coming, he met us at the door. Gee and I were both covered in bits of debris stuck to sweaty bodies, dirty, hot, and...

“C”mon, baby ... I’ll get you a treat for being such a fine cat.”

How can you NOT love the woman who loves your pets?

Pickles was chewing his treat. Gee pushed me out the back door.

“Strip. Let’s hose off. We don’t want all this mess in the shower.”

“Smart girl,” I said.

Like I said, we’re private. The house is well back from the road, invisible due to the dogleg I put in the driveway, and we’re in the back of the house. You can’t see the neighbors in any direction.

Easy. Pile of clothes. Garden hose. Cold water, but it’s welcome, sluicing off the sweat and the dirt with the enthusiastic help of an interested helper. Then we go inside and shower.

When we ease together gingerly on the sofa, I can feel the various sensations of muscles and joints that haven’t seen this kind of activity in a while. I noted that the usually nimble Gee was using a bit of care, as well.

“Gonna be sore in the morning,” she said. “I didn’t used to get this physical stocking the shelves with the fall sweater lineup.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be sore after these muscles have time to set up,” I replied.

A hand traced the lump in my lounging shorts. And a giggle. “Yeah, this is the only muscle that has been REALLY getting a workout...” and she eased a bit higher to kiss me.

There’s a set of activities that releases a huge dump of endorphins on the system. We ran through an iteration of it, then arranged ourselves together in the cool of the air conditioned bedroom. I felt the bounce as Pickles jumped up to help us ease off into slumber.

Breakfast. Of course, breakfast means getting out of bed. That implies moving. I hurt all over, that righteous hurt I’ve felt before where I know I’ve done honest, possibly ill-advised, but still honest, labor.

“Call me a masseuse,” my mate said through a pillow.

“Okay. You’re a masseuse,” I said.

She rolled over. “Now I am compelled to get out of bed and beat you for that horrible effrontery,” she moaned. “God, Josh ... I ache all over...”

“Moving helps,” I said. “Won’t feel good, but it really does help.”

She followed me into the bathroom, accepted a couple of painkillers, over the counter stuff. We ate breakfast together, groaned a bit, and went back to work. By mid-afternoon, there was a huge stack of logs in the back of the cleared part of the lot and the task was finished.

We walked back into the house. “Let’s shower, top off Pickles’ food and water, and see if we can find a nice hotel room a hundred and fifty miles away.”

“Someplace near a steakhouse,” my partner added. “Yes. And maybe a sushi joint. Or a good Thai or Vietnamese place. Make that a couple of nights.”

Poor Pickles. Food bowl and water bowl full, he got kissed on his kitty head and I locked the door behind me and Gee.

Road trip. As we tooled down the interstate heading out of the hurricane footprint, Gee was on her iPad looking for hotels. There seemed to be some good choices if you didn’t need one of the lower two-thirds, pricewise.

An hour later, we were in the room.

Gee shoved me back onto a king-sized bed. “It’s about time, dude.”

“Time for what?”

“Time for you to get me in a hotel room. We’ve never been in one together.”

She’s right. It’s always been either the boat or the house. Or somewhere outdoors in proximity to either of those.

Now I’m looking up at a blue-eyed redhead with a grin that I’d follow into the fires of hell, carrying a gas can.

She dove onto me, straddling me.

“Dinner’s gonna be VERY late,” I told her.

She giggled. “Then this is just an appetizer. Do we need to change clothes?”

“I doubt it. This is Houston. We don’t need to dress up. Not for that steakhouse.” I grabbed her butt in my hands. “Wait. Just a couple more of those wiggles.”

She smiled. “You got it bad, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. Sore as I am, you’re still perfection.”

“I know about that ‘sore’ part. My thighs ... Ouch!” she squeaked as she flopped down atop me.

I stroked her hair away from the sides of her face, hooking most of it behind her ears, the short ends of it forming points at her jawline.

“I’m glad you’re the one that wants me, Josh.” She wiggled. “If you’d put that pistol on the nightstand...”

Yeah. I’m carrying. Usually do. Pistol wasn’t the only thing hard in my pants, though. So okay ... time for a little cuddling, then we both groaned our achy muscles out of the bed. I slid the pistol back under my shirt and we complained our way out into the parking lot for the short drive to the steakhouse.

Was a good steak. Tender. Cooked just past the point where it still had reflexes. A proud Idaho potato that had fulfilled its brown-jacketed destiny. And a good hoppy beer.

“If you’re having one, I’m having one,” Gee stated.

“Says the girl who chaperones Baptist church groups.”

“One beer. When you said it, I imagined the bite of the hops. Sounded perfect.”

“Two beers,” I told the waitress.

Yes, good.

We got back to the car. She looked over the parking lot. “Hey, can we get to that bookstore before they close?”

“Sure,” I said.

It was dusk. We’re circling the parking lot looking for a convenient slot.

“Don’t kill yourself looking for a close spot. We can walk,” Gee said.

“Okay.” I wheeled her little car into the next available slot and we got out for a little walk in the balmy air.

Way out in the parking lot. We were walking past a couple of oversized pickup trucks (This IS Texas) when I heard a woman scream. Close.

That’s not normal. I went on full alert, looking around. I kind of pushed Gee behind me, peered around the camper on the back of one of those trucks, seeing an ‘urban youth’ sprinting across the drive from the next row of cars over from us. There was a woman on the ground, a small child beside her, crying.

“9-1-1” I said to Gee. The turd with the purse chose wrongly, sprinting between two cars, heading between the truck we were standing behind and an SUV.

Too easy. A lifetime of neighborhood football and college rugby and it was just too easy. I don’t think he saw me coming when I wrapped him up and took him to the ground. I had him down, my ears being assailed by a string of threats laced with ghetto expletives, when I heard a car run up, a door open, then three shots.

And Gee said “SHIT!”

In the confusion, I had my particular youth under control, a knee in his back, a .380 at his ear. “Son, don’t move. Don’t move at all.”

Gee was on her phone. “Yes, parking lot in front of Book Barn. Aisle D. There’s a silver Toyota with big rims in the middle of the lane. That’s us. Hurry.” Pause. “Yes, there’s a man down. He’s not moving. Neither are we.” Pause. “Yes, I’ll stay on the line.”

She turned to me. “You okay, hon?”

“Yeah. Kinda road-rashed my forearm, though.”

“Bitch shot mah cuz...” my enterprising youth stated. “Get yo’ ass offa me.”

“Uh, no,” I said. “You just lay there really quiet. I think that if you fight, my life’s gonna feel threatened and I’ll have to ... So don’t.”

By this time the woman was working her way towards us.

Gee headed her off. “Stay back until the police get here. My husband’s got your friend.”

“He shoved me into the side of a car and took my purse,” she said. She hugged the child at her side. “My daughter ... He liked to ran over my daughter.”

“Are you okay?” Gee asked.

“Uh, yeah ... I think so.”

“How about you, baby?” Gee asked the little girl.