CHAPTER NINE

 

DANNY

The bird, who we’ve dubbed Pucker, is annoying as all hell, but he has good ideas. Every time he drops an F-bomb, I want to get naked with Ronnie. Which, by the way, is damned frequently. We’ve been trying to teach him to say different phrases, in hopes he’ll like one of the less salty ones better than his favorite offensive word.

So far he hasn’t found anything he likes better than fuck.

I haven’t found anything I like better than Ronnie, either. Not that I’ve been looking. I’m quite content right here, thankyouverymuch. No interest in leaving, maybe a little interest in staying. Or a lot. In curling up on her brand-new couch together and talking about our life dreams. Sharing…stuff. Being together.

Even when we aren’t banging.

Crap.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not opposed to love and forever and everything that comes with it. Obviously, considering helping women reach that point is what I now do for a living.

It’s just I never considered it something that would happen to me. I mean, come on. I’m a two-bit loser. I can’t play sports to save my life, I’ve never been good at anything except being the funny guy, the friend you want at parties because he knows how to work the room, how to make everybody laugh. I have no other redeeming qualities. I’m not the guy any woman wants to spend forever with.

“Why do you get so down on yourself whenever someone—namely me—tries to compliment you?” Ronnie asks, pulling me out of my own head.

“Huh?”

We’re currently in that scenario I had in my head. It’s late evening, and the bird is sleeping under the blanket we’ve learned to drape over his cage when we want him to shut the hell up—that’s a phrase he actually has clamped onto, by the way. We’re sprawled on the couch, me in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, her in sweats and a camisole, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, no makeup on her face. There’s a bowl of popcorn and a couple of beer bottles on the coffee table and some action flick on the TV. No idea which show, because I’ve been so caught up in our conversation—and my own daydreams, apparently—I haven’t paid it any attention.

It’s fucking perfect, and so damn weird.

“You’re afraid to be happy,” she says.

I furrow my brow. “I’m always happy. Especially lately. Sex makes me quite cheerful, especially when it’s with another person. Scratch that—when it’s with you.”

“Right there.” She flaps her hand at me. I pretend to try to bite it, and she gently smacks the back of it against my chest. “You’re almost never serious, but when you are, all you do is trash yourself. Why is that?”

I push her legs off my lap so I can roll off the couch and head into the kitchen for another brew. And maybe to avoid answering her question. What did I just think, that this was perfect?

Just kidding.

When I return to the living room with two cold beers, she shifts her position so I can sit exactly where I was, and then she crawls back into my lap, like she missed me in the forty-five seconds I stepped away.

“What about you?” I say, handing her one of the bottles and pointing at her with the other. “What are you afraid of? Or rather, why are you afraid of it?”

“What do you mean?” She takes a cautious sip, her gaze locked on my face.

“Have you ever had a serious, meaningful relationship? Ever?”

She shakes her head. “Uh-uh. I’m not one of your clients. You don’t get to psychoanalyze me, mister. Not unless it’s tit for tat.”

“I like your tits.” I rub the chilled bottle along the front of her shirt, dampening it and bringing her nipples alive. They press against the fabric, unabashedly calling out to me. Lick me, Danny. Suckle me. Bite me.

“And I like your dick. We have the perfect relationship right now. Why muck it up with other people’s ideas of what’s meaningful and serious?”

“You mean your mother’s ideas?”

She glances over the back of the couch at the silent birdcage and the window beyond. “Maybe.”

I push her pant leg up so I can stroke her calf. “Your parents are pretty damn cool. And seem to be happy. Everybody in your family is well adjusted and turned out okay. But the idea of having that scares the crap out of you. How come?”

She purses her lips and stays silent for so long, I suspect she isn’t going to answer me. But then she sighs and says, “My mother’s entire existence revolves around the lot of us. Have you not noticed that? Hell, she’s pulled you into the fold just because you’re Erin’s best friend.”

“I’m pretty sure she pulled me into the fold because I’m like an adorable homeless puppy and I love her cooking and tell her so at every available opportunity. But that aside, I still don’t get it. Are you afraid you’ll turn into her? Because I’m not seeing that as a bad thing. Your mom’s actually pretty hot for a sixty-ish woman.”

She lifts a hand to me, palm out. “Stop. Do not talk about my mom like that.”

“I’m just sayin’, if you follow in her footsteps, I’ll still be lusting after you in thirty years.”

“That’s not what I want. I don’t think, anyway.”

“To have me lusting after you? Too late, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, she says, “No. To revolve my life around other people. But that sounds so selfish.”

“Not really. More like you want to have your own identity that isn’t connected to anyone else.”

“Exactly.” Her face lights up, and she grins at me like I’ve just presented her with first prize in a contest she thought she’d never win.

“Hate to break it to you, babe, but you already got that.”

The smile fades. “No, I don’t. I have nothing. Well, I had nothing, until you called and suggested this harebrained business idea that’s actually incredibly brilliant.”

“Okay, I take back what I said. You haven’t figured out your own identity yet. Because you think it’s tied to your work, specifically to being successful at work.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Your job should not define you.”

“Your job defines you.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m doing a job I love. So therefore I’m actually happy. Oh, and I’m screwing the boss every chance I get, so I’m not just happy, I’m fucking ecstatic.”

Her cheeks go rosy while her lips lift at the corners. “I’m not the boss. We’re partners, remember?”

I slide my hand around her waist, my fingers skirting under her shirt. “Yeah, but I like it when you’re bossy. Wanna boss me around right now?”

She giggles, but it turns into a moan when I smooth my hand up over her abdomen to cup her breast under her shirt.

“Know what I like?” she asks, twisting and shifting her position until she’s straddling my legs. “I like to ride you. And I don’t think we’ve done it on this couch yet.”

“We definitely need to fix that.” I roll my hips, my erection stroking along her seam, the friction of our clothing making me groan. “Tell me what else you like.”

“Your body.” She shoves my shirt up until it’s bunched under my arms and then she rakes her nails over my chest. “Your mind. Your humor. Your outlook on life. Everything about you.”

I reach over my shoulder and grab the shirt, flipping it over my head and letting it drop to the rug. She leans forward and drops kisses on my pecs.

“I like your confidence,” I mumble, the words choppy because her lips are like electricity, shooting sparks straight to my cock. “And your personality. I like the way you meet me head on and don’t let me get away with just being that guy. Oh, and I love your tits.” I slide my hands into the neckline of her camisole and cup both of them, thrumming her nipples with my thumbs.

She moves her attention to my dick, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to tug down my shorts and wrap those gorgeous lips around my wood. But then she pauses and lifts her head, grasping my face and kissing my mouth instead. It’s hard, demanding, her tongue thrusting out to war with mine. I cup her ass and grind her against my cock while she fucks my mouth.

My phone starts ringing and vibrating against the tile on the side table. Ronnie breaks the kiss to glance at it. “It’s your dad,” she says.

“Seriously?” I instinctively turn my head to look at the device, and sure as shit, the word Dad lights up the screen. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” she asks.

“I literally can’t remember the last time he called me. It’s been years.” I’m still staring at the phone but making no move to touch it.

“That’s crazy. But it must be important if it’s been that long.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to say, “Doubtful. He probably just wants to bust my balls because I’m still an un-athletic fuck-up.” But maybe hanging out with Ronnie is affecting me, because I snatch up the phone and press the red dot on the screen before lifting it to my ear and saying a shaky hello.

“Daniel? It’s your father. I’m calling because…”

I suck in a breath. Ronnie grabs my hand and twines our fingers together, and I squeeze harder than I should, but she doesn’t complain.

“It’s your mom. They-they think she had a stroke. We’re at the hospital.”

Ronnie leaps off the couch and swipes my shirt from the rug, hands it to me, and darts into the bedroom, pulling off her camisole as she moves.

“I’m on my way,” I say.

***

Ronnie comes with me to the hospital. She doesn’t say a word during the drive, even though I know she has a million questions, especially after the way I reacted to the fact my dad called me at all. But I can’t focus on trying to explain the past when I don’t even know if my mom has a future, and I appreciate that Ronnie instinctively seems to know that.

When we reach the hospital, the older guy with the gentle smile at the reception desk gives us directions to the heart center, and Ronnie grabs my hand and leads the way. It’s nice, because I’m pretty much numb at this point. I’m scared to death to learn what’s going on with my mom, and I’m nervous as hell to see my dad again after all these years.

Funny, it never occurred to me that something would eventually happen to one of them, and that I’d immediately begin to feel all this guilt for basically cutting them out of my life. It doesn’t matter that I needed to find my own way in the world in order to be happy. Even if all I did was continue to be the person I wanted my dad to believe I was.

Mom is in ICU, still being worked on, I guess, and the woman wearing scrubs at the next reception desk sends us to a waiting room down the hall. When I step through the doorway, even though there are a handful of other people here, all I see is my dad.

He’s sitting by himself, staring at the floor, his leg shaking like it always has during the rare occasions he isn’t moving around. He glances up, spots Ronnie and I, and stands. He’s as huge as I remember, his shoulders so wide I think he has to turn slightly sideways to get through doorways. His hair is grayer than the last time I saw him, and there’s the tiniest outline of a paunch under his shirt, but the starkest difference is in his eyes. His pupils are huge, dilated, and there’s this haunted look in them. The man will be lost if my mother doesn’t pull through this.

It’s the first time since I was little, like probably toddler age, that I want to hug him, offer him comfort.

“I can tell that’s your dad,” Ronnie whispers, pulling me into the room by our clasped hands. “You look just like him.”

I almost laugh. Me? Look like him? The man’s a tank. He broke all sorts of records in high school and college, played offensive line for the Bears for a season before he fucked up his back and was forced to give up the career I think he loved more than anything else in life except my mom. And yeah, I’m deliberately not including myself and my brother in that category above football. Although my brother’s likely right below football. Me? No idea where I stand in his life, but I can promise it isn’t high on his list.

“Daniel,” he says when we reach him. He hesitates for a fraction of a second and then offers his hand to shake, his gaze flicking to Ronnie.

While I slide my hand into his, I say, “This is Ronnie.” No other explanation. I don’t have one, anyway, not beyond, “We’re sleeping together and my best friend is married to her brother and we’re also business partners and each day we spend together I start thinking maybe I want more.” And that’s all way too complicated for this situation. Not to mention, I should probably have that conversation with Ronnie first.

I clear my throat and say, “Ronnie, this is my dad. Hank. Or Mr. Harrison.”

“Hank is fine,” he says, extracting his hand from mine so he can shake hers. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sorry it’s under such terrible circumstances. Have you heard anything?”

He stares at some point over her shoulder while he talks. “She’s stabilized. They ran a bunch of tests, trying to determine the extent of the damage, but they said we caught it fast enough that they think she’ll have a full recovery. They’re moving her to a room now. We should be able to see her shortly.”

Ronnie gives my arm a squeeze while I visibly deflate, relief flooding me as the air whooshes from my lungs. Thank God.

 “Your brother’s on his way. Went straight to the airport when I called, and he texted just a few minutes ago to say he’s getting on a plane now. It’s a four-hour flight, but, you know, with the time difference…”

I forgot about my brother. Well, not really, but it hadn’t occurred to me to call him. But we’ve been as estranged as I’ve been with my parents, so this whole talking again thing is throwing me off.

“Is there anyone else?” Ronnie asks. “Do you need me to make calls? I’m happy to, if it would make things easier.”

Dad shakes his head. “Already talked to her sister and brother. Agnes wanted to come up, but I told her to wait until morning, since it’s so late already. Tom’s in Arizona. I told him to stay put until we know more information. Her dad’s gone. Her mom—your grandma…” he says, glancing at me for a split second before shifting his gaze back to staring at nothing. “I called the group home she lives in and let them know, but obviously, she isn’t going to come up here. The dementia’s pretty bad,” he says for my benefit. Which only adds another pinprick of guilt to my swamped conscience.

I should’ve stayed in touch.

“I let your uncle Gus know. He said he’d come by tomorrow.”

I nod. My dad’s brother. Another giant of a man who excelled at every sport he ever played. What a disappointment I am to my athletic family.

“How about coffee?” Ronnie says. “Or water? A sandwich? Can I get you anything?”

“I could use some water,” Dad admits.

“We’ll go get it,” I say before Ronnie can offer.

“I was trying to give you guys a minute alone,” Ronnie says when we’re heading down the hall toward the cafeteria.

“I know you were, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but trust me, it’s better if we aren’t alone together.”

“Why?”

As we pass another, smaller waiting room, I glance inside. It’s empty, so I shift gears and guide her through the open door. “Look, there’s a lot of bad blood in my family. We’re nothing like yours.”

“What makes you say that?”

“For starters, they all hate me. Well, except my mom, but she’s not very assertive, so she’s never spoken up on my behalf.”

“He didn’t look like he hates you. He looked like he wanted to give you a hug.”

I snort. “Not hardly.” My dad hasn’t tried to hug me in a bajillion years.

“And I cannot imagine they hate you. No one hates you, Danny. Not even Garrett.”

I pace to the window, stare out over the roof at the section of road I can see between the building and the parking structure. “I’m not like anyone else in my family. Which, to them, makes me a failure.” Am I really going to confess this to her? I wish Erin were here. She knows the entire story, lived through most of it with me. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if she explained.

“Just because you haven’t figured out what you want to do with your life doesn’t make you a failure. And besides, you’ve found your calling now. And you’re damn good at it. You should tell them about our company.”

My laugh is hollow. “If I told my dad I basically help people connect with their true love, he’d laugh in my face and call me a pussy. That sort of job—having a knack for guiding people through their feelings—that’s not masculine. He’d probably accuse me of being gay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” I throw my hands into the air. “Because your parents love you all for who you are. Paynter for being a genius computer geek. Garrett for being a brilliant golfer. He’s the only jock I’ve ever liked, for the record. And James for being a tough businessman. And you—you’re just straight up perfect. Which blows my mind every time we’re together because I cannot fathom what the hell you see in me.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Danny, stop it. There’s nothing wrong with you. And even if you were gay, do you really believe he would hate you for it?”

“Did you see him? Did you see how huge he is? He’s a macho man. Every man in my family for a thousand generations has been a badass, an athlete, perfect at every single thing they’ve ever done in life. Me? I sucked at football. So bad the coach in my Pop Warner league thought I was adopted. No way the Hank Harrison’s genes were in my blood.”

“You make him sound like a god.”

I shrug. “He was. At the high school where Erin and I went, which is also my dad’s alma mater, there are four trophy cases. One for my dad, one for my uncle Gus, one for my brother, and one for everyone else.”

She stares at me, her mouth hanging open.

“And I don’t have a single trophy or plaque or ribbon in any of them. I tried it all, too. Football, baseball, basketball, hockey, soccer. Was lousy at everything. My dad was so frustrated. No way his son couldn’t be good at sports. All we did was argue. Eventually, nothing I did made him happy, even beyond sports.

“He tried to teach me how to grill, and we got into a screaming match. He tried to teach me how to drive, and I hit a parked car because I was so stressed out by his backseat driving.” I shove my hands into my pockets, when really the memories flooding back make me want to punch the wall. But that’s been my solution in the past, and all it does is give me bruised knuckles.

I watch her reflection in the window as she moves toward me, opens her arms, and embraces me from behind. She squeezes, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Oh Danny, please don’t believe you are a lousy person. I happen to think you’re pretty damn perfect. And since I’m the one sleeping with you, you should listen to me, not them.”

I like smiling better than frowning. And I like Ronnie a hell of a lot more than the rest of them. She’s right; her opinion means a thousand times more to me than theirs. I tug my hands out of my pockets and clasp her arms wrapped around my waist.

“I’ll be here, every step of the way. You don’t have to face them alone.”

I turn around in her arms, cup her face, and gently kiss her. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I promise, I’ll pay you back in orgasms.”

She chuckles and steps away, motioning toward the door. “Come on, let’s go get that water for your dad.”