TWELVE
Her soft curves contrast as well as complement her strong spirit.
Leelo
Son of a bitch!
I drop the pile of dirty sheets I just collected from the empty units on the ground outside the shed. I normally keep the separate doors to both the storage space and the laundry room locked. Guests are told when they check in that they can come borrow the key if they wish to use the facilities. Not that anyone in their right mind would walk off with the equipment. The two washers and dryer are massive industrial-sized machines, which is why I’m dragging the sheets over here. I can wash them all at once, instead of running the regular washer and dryer at the house all day to get them clean.
But this morning the laundry door is hanging open, and judging by the state of the doorpost and lock, I’d say someone was eager to get in.
Crap. After the debacle Friday night, I’d had such a good weekend.
I may have woken up Saturday morning feeling all kinds of hungover and sorry for myself, without the benefit of getting drunk first, but after my second cup of coffee things started turning around.
Shaking off the drama and shoving Riordan Doyle firmly from my mind, I grabbed my keys and headed to the Valu-Mart in town. My objective was their garden centre. The large planters in front of the motel, I had painstakingly rid of weeds, needed something.
Late afternoon, a sore back, buckets of sweat, and two hundred fifty dollars in annuals and potting soil later, the facade of the motel was sufficiently beautified to put a bright smile on my face.
I just stepped back to admire my work when two cars rolled onto the parking lot. A group of travelers stopping for the night on their way to Thunder Bay. Apparently with the festival in town in full swing, mine was the first ‘Vacancy’ they’d seen.
That night I slept like the dead; my body deliciously sore from a productive day and four of my units rented out.
Yesterday I spent ripping up the carpet from the bar. Disgusting work, and at the end of the day, I had decades of dirt covering my body and my fingertips were bloody stumps from pulling up a truckload of staples. The wooden boards I uncovered were worth every last drop of blood and sweat, though. So Sunday ended much the same way Saturday had, with me rolling sore and satisfied into bed.
My guests left yesterday, but I didn’t want to stop what I was doing and clean the rooms. That had been on the agenda for this morning. I got up early so I could get it done before Roar shows up to get going on the dock.
And now this, putting a damper on my good mood.
I gingerly nudge the door open wider with my foot, and at first glance all I notice is laundry detergent covering the floors, the folding table. But when I shove the door all the way open, the stench hits me. It’s so thick and putrid; I slap my hand over my mouth and back right up before I lose my breakfast. Jesus. Smells like something died in there.
Walking far enough away to get some fresh air, I contemplate my options. There really aren’t any, other than going in there, finding and removing the cause of that godawful stench. I take a few deep breaths, and yank the neck of my T-shirt over my mouth and nose, before stepping back inside.
Good God. Determined not to let the smell get to me, I focus on breathing through my mouth, while I search for the source of that pungent aroma.
Nothing is immediately obvious, but then I see the doors of the two washers, as well as the dryer, are closed. I know I left those slightly open so they wouldn’t start smelling musty. Flicking on the light for a better look, I spot dark smears on the white enamel of the dryer, and something is visible against the inside of the porthole door. A quick glance at the two other machines shows the same dark smears on the top-loading lids. Something tells me this is not going to be pretty, but with one hand pressing my shirt against my mouth and nose, still I reach out to open the dryer door.
The instant the latch releases, it swings open and something unrecognizable falls half out of the opening. A wave of rancid air has tears blur my vision, and I have to blink a few times before I’m able to identify an eye, dangling from the socket of what looks to be a deer head, by a single strand.
The violent surge of my stomach has me running out the door, away from the sick carnage, and straight into a solid mass of muscle.
“What the hell?” Roar’s voice barely penetrates the pounding in my ears as I bend over and deposit my breakfast all over his dusty boots.
-
“A prank?”
I’m well aware that my voice is pitched at a level that could be considered painful to some, but I don’t give a flying fuck.
Some sicko decided to stuff a carved up deer carcass in my washers and dryer, which is disgusting and vile enough by itself—but it also rendered the machines useless, and this damn OPP officer calls it a prank?
“You call that a prank?” I repeat, a little less shrill this time.
Roar’s large hand wraps around the back of my neck. I’m not sure if it’s to calm me down or to prevent me from charging the snot-nosed, uniformed punk who seems to find the whole situation quite amusing.
“Ma’am,” Constable Williams drawls in a condescending tone that has me grind my teeth. “I’m sure it’s not something you’re accustomed to, coming from the city, but it wouldn’t be the first time some kids played around with roadkill for a giggle.”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming my frustration, but apparently Roar has heard enough as well.
“Hardly the same as poking a stick at a dead opossum on the side of the road,” he growls, as he moves me out of the way and takes a step closer to the much smaller officer, who wisely loses the smirk from his face. “A full report better be on your staff sergeant’s desk by tomorrow. Bill said he’d pop in this week anyway, it’s been a while since we’ve been fishing.”
The blanching of the young punk’s face is almost comical as he backs away, mumbling an apology of sorts.
It had taken the OPP cruiser forty minutes to get here. Enough time for my nausea to subside and the shivers to stop. I tried apologizing to Roar for puking all over his footwear, but he waved it off. Unperturbed he grabbed the hose and rinsed his boots off, while I gathered up the sheets I dropped and carried them inside the house to wash. The subsequent wait, for the constable to show, had not done the overall mood any good.
“Grab me some garbage bags?” Roar turns to me after watching the police cruiser drive off, his tone still angry.
Not in the best of moods myself, I swing around wordlessly and stomp off inside. Grabbing the box of bags behind the bar, I also pick up the work gloves and bucket I used yesterday, before marching back out, and without looking at Roar, head in the direction of the shed.
“Fuck me.” I hear him mutter behind me as he follows. “I’ll take care of it,” he barks when he catches up with me, trying to snatch the bucket from my hands.
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly so angry. Perhaps it’s the fucked up events of this morning and the realization that no matter how much cleaning we do, my laundry facilities are a write-off, but I don’t think that’s all. It’s Roar I’m pissed with.
All weekend I’ve shoved him to the back of my mind, determined not to obsess about the fact I didn’t hear from him after he left me hot and bothered, not to mention emotionally wrung out, last time I saw him. My initial relief, when I quite literally, ran into him, is fast disappearing at his less than companionable mood. The last thing I need is him ordering me around.
“Shit, woman!” he snaps, letting go after a fruitless tug of war on the stupid bucket. “I said I’d take care of it. Why the fuck are you so stubborn?”
I can almost feel the steam shooting from my ears as I swing around and fling the bucket at him.
“Stubborn?” I start, poking a finger in his chest. “You know what? I’ve had it! You’re just another typical asshole, who can only feel the size of his dick by going caveman on some hapless creature he can order around, yet feels it shrivel in the presence of a self-sufficient woman, who knows what she wants and when she wants it!”
I don’t realize I’m waving my arms around like a crazy person until I find myself suddenly restrained, my front plastered to a, by now well-acquainted, chest and my hands pinned behind my back. My attempts to struggle free are easily thwarted by the steel bands of his arms that hold me in place.
“You done?”
Roar
It shouldn’t, but the snarling, spitting, and royally pissed-off woman in my arms turns me on faster than a spark in a haystack.
“You done?” I grind out through clenched teeth and her body stills instantly.
She seems to have wasted all her energy on that spirited rant, because she doesn’t answer, but I let go of her arms anyway. The moment I do, she steps away from me. All I get is a death glare before she turns on her heels.
I let her go, following her with my eyes as she walks off with her hands fisted at her side.
She’s pissed all right.
I have some time to think as I stuff the rotting remains in garbage bags, fighting my gag reflex the entire time. By the time I remove my tools and lumber from the back of the truck, toss the garbage bags in, and drive the putrid load straight to the dump, I’ve come to the conclusion that, although the infuriating presentation left much to be desired, she may have a point.
Coming to the rescue is something I don’t think about, I just do. It comes natural and it makes me feel good. I may grumble when Charlie calls me to fix something, but I’m pretty sure she keeps calling me because she knows I like doing it. And for reasons that are slowly becoming clearer, I like being that person for Leelo as well. Especially when something happens like this morning.
She scared the crap out of me when she came barrelling out of the shed, like the devil was on her heels, and when I saw what she’d been running from, the hairs on my arms stood on end. This wasn’t some innocent prank, more like malicious attempt at scaring Leelo senseless for whatever reason. Something that worries me and I’m gonna do my damnedest to get to the bottom of.
What she’s way off base on, is her assumption I’d rather have her be helpless than the capable person she’s proving herself to be. It’s her strength I find attractive, and I thought that would’ve been clear, but given that tirade, I’m thinking it might require reinforcing.
There’s no sign of Leelo when I get back and hose down the laundry room, as well as the bed of my truck. For good measure, and because the stench is lingering, I strip down to my shorts, throw my clothes and boots in the bed of the truck and wash those down as well. Leaving them to dry in the sun, I fetch the wheelbarrow, load it up with my supplies, and head barefoot to the back of the property.
It isn’t until I have dismantled the lopsided and rotting portion of the dock, that I spot Leelo. Wearing only a pair of cutoffs and a tank top, her pale legs stand out for their lack of colour. The tattoos covering her arms have clearly not made it that far. Yet. She’s carrying two bottles in one hand, and keeps her gaze focused on the ground in front of her feet, allowing me a chance to observe.
There’s something about the way she carries herself that is at the same time defiant and oddly self-conscious. Both even more obvious when her eyes peek up from under her lashes to find me staring, and immediately her back and shoulders straighten in a silent challenge.
“Hey,” I throw out as a peace offering, when she gets close enough.
“Hey yourself,” she replies, wading into the waist-deep water to hand me a beer. “Thought you deserved a cold drink after all that.”
I keep my eyes on her as I take a long tug from the cold bottle to watch her do the same. While setting the bottle on the dock with one hand, I reach out with the other and slide it around her neck, pulling her close for a quick kiss on the lips, clearly surprising her. The instant I let her go, her free hand comes up to touch her lips.
“Tough day,” I offer with a tilt of my mouth that grows into a full grin when she snorts unceremoniously in response.
“Ya think?”
And just like that, it seems like balance is restored, as we spend the rest of the afternoon working side by side.
It’s not until much later, when it gets close to dinner time and I get ready to leave and check on the lodge, that she makes a subtle reference to this morning’s scene.
“Lock everything tight after I leave,” I tell her, pulling on my jeans over my wet shorts.
“There you go again,” she says, amusement lacing her voice. “Bossy—again.”
I straighten up to find her quickly averting her eyes from where she was staring at my chest. The grin is involuntary. I’m far from gym-worthy, and I show every one of my forty-five years, but I can’t help feeling pretty good about the sturdy, work-honed body I have.
“Concerned,” I correct her, tugging on a strand of hair that escaped her ponytail. She looks good. Healthy and a little sunburned, with a relaxed smile on her pretty face.
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I confirm. “Although I will admit it might come across as bossy.”
“So noted.” She smiles as she looks down at her feet. “And ditto,” she adds, glancing up before clarifying; “my impression of a banshee this morning.”
“Point taken.” For a moment the two of us stand there, just grinning at the other. “I should get going,” I finally say, although I really don’t feel like going. “Call me if you need me.”
She lifts up on tiptoes, puts her one hand in the middle of my chest, and with the other pulls down on my beard until her mouth can reach.
“I will,” she promises with a brush of her lips against mine, before she turns and heads inside, her round ass beckoning me with every step.
It takes a will of steel.