Fissure

“He’s there now?” she whispered, gripping the arm rest. “Okay, okay. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Julia’s voice raised a decibel, so I didn’t feel as guilty eavesdropping. “He’s drunk, Emma. Really drunk. Do not, and I repeat, do not come by here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Emma swallowed, glancing at me from the side. “I’m coming.”

“Listen to me, Emma, you crazy lunatic,” Julia hissed over the phone before a pounding interrupted her in the background, accompanied by a male voice that was beyond pissed. “Dammit,” Julia hissed. “This crazy mo-fo is going to take down our door. I’d swear he’s on meth right now, Em.”

“Okay, Jules, just yell at him through the door and tell him I’m two minutes away.” Emma was frantic now, no longer trying to play the whole thing cool for my sake. “Keep the door locked.”

“Emma Marie Scarlett, listen to me!” Julia screamed so loudly I wanted to cover my ears. “Go to our favorite coffee shop downtown. Chill there, and when meth-head is done decimating our door, I’ll come pick you up. Think you can manage that?”

Julia was too irritated to listen to Emma and Emma was too frantic to listen to Julia. I was going to have to be the voice of reason. Yes, that’s exactly what I just said.

I snatched the phone from Emma’s ear. “Julia? It’s Patrick.” I gave Emma a warning look when she tried to pluck the phone away from me. “I’m taking Emma back to my place for the night. She’ll give you a call tomorrow to check in.”

“What?!” Emma shouted, turning in her seat to glower at me. “I most certainly am not going back to your place with you.”

Moving the phone from my mouth, I stared her down. “Yes,”—my voice was all edge—“you most certainly are. End of story.”

Once I was satisfied she wasn’t going to throw herself from a moving vehicle or pull the steering wheel away from me, I moved the phone back into position.

“Julia, listen to me,” I said, feeling exhausted. Trying and failing to calm two women at the same time was taking its toll on me. “Tell him you’ll call the cops if he doesn’t leave, and if he doesn’t leave in ten seconds flat, call them. If he manages to bust in before the cops get there, grab the handy dandy baseball bat I saw hidden under your bed and use the opportunity to perfect your swing, slugger.” I smiled, just imaging Julia landing a bat in Ty’s gut. “Aim for the junk, but since it’s questionable he has anything there that would cause any damage”—I winked over at a cross armed Emma, who was crossing them tighter—“aim for the knees, stomach, or throat. Sound easy enough?”

Julia chuckled as another round of pounding sounded in the background. “Thanks for the low down on self defense, but Ty knows better than to mess with me. He’s scared I’ll cast some kind of curse that will bestow an eternally flaccid penis on him,” she said, clucking her tongue. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.”

This time it was my turn to laugh. “I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on that matter,” I said, sneaking a glance at Emma. Her unyielding glare snapped my eyes forward. “You good, Jules?”

“Positively chipper cheery,” she said in a fake sugar voice.

I was about to hang up when she said, “Hey, Hayward, in case you haven’t already, seize the moment.” She didn’t need to make any other clarification—I knew exactly what she was insinuating between the lines, and she knew I did too. “Good luck, my friend.”

The phone went dead, but I didn’t lower it for a few seconds, trying to piece together something to say that wouldn’t set Emma off more than she already was. It wasn’t me, though, that ended up breaking the silence.

“Patrick, I know you’re doing what you think is best,” Emma said, regulating her voice. “But I can’t go back to your place. I can’t,” she repeated, staring out the window.

“Why not?” I asked. “I have utter faith Jules can take care of herself if Ty dares stumble through that door, I’ve got more than enough space at my place. You can have your own end of the house if you like. What’s the big deal?”

“You know what the big deal is,” she said, all elusive and vague again, like I was a mind reader, but I could take an educated guess that the big deal included her going to my place to spend the night while her boyfriend of six years waited for her outside her dorm room. On the surface, this was a juicy rumor that would hold the campus captive for a solid week.

“Fine,” I relented, sighing. “I’ll take you back to your mom’s.” I zipped across three lanes, preparing to take the next exit. “But I am not taking you back to your dorm room.”

“No,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t go back there. I don’t spend nights there anymore.” She paused, wringing the hem of her skirt in her hands. “Too many nightmares waiting for me when I fall asleep.”

I closed my hand over her knee. “Okay, then we’ll head to my place. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman, and you can even call and invite your brothers to stay with us if you don’t believe me.” I meant it, but I really hoped she didn’t take me up on this offer.

She let out a breath that was long and tortured, like there was no other outcome than a lose-lose situation here.

“I feel helpless right now, Emma,” I admitted. “It’s not something I’m used to. Let me do something to help you. Please.”

She examined me for a moment, like she was making one of the most critical decisions of her life. “Okay. Take me to your place.”

“So you live in Maverick’s Point. How appropriate,” Emma said as we cruised down the last few blocks before we’d be at my place.

I was still convinced I was dreaming. She’d willingly agreed, after a push of encouragement from me, to come to my place. To spend the night.

I didn’t care if we wound up on opposite ends of the house; we’d be under the same roof. I didn’t care that she’d only agreed to come here because she didn’t have any other option, and I didn’t care that she wasn’t my girlfriend, and I didn’t care that I swore I’d be on my most gentlemanly behavior, which wouldn’t result in a long, desperate kiss on the balcony that we’d both wake up to regret, her for one reason and me for another. I only cared she was coming. She was here right now. With me.

“And since I’m getting to know you so well, I’d wager the twenty dollar bill in my wallet that’s got to get me through two more weeks that you live in an oceanfront mansion with a butler to go with every room, a pinball machine in the foyer, and a Slurpee dispenser in both the kitchen and your full sized theatre room.” She looked over at me, a smug line curved into her mouth.

“Actually, smarty-pants,” I said, turning onto my block. “Only one of your outlandish assumptions is correct.” Although in another week there would be a Slurpee machine in my kitchen. At present, it was sugary slush of heaven free.

I pulled in the driveway and killed the engine. Even with the windows up, the sound of the waves thundering against the shore below made it seem we were only steps away from them. Which we pretty much were.

“Oceanfront,” she stated, shaking her head.

“It’s not because it’s the best,” I said, guessing at her thoughts. “It’s because it’s what I like.”

“Yeah, you and every one of the other six billion people of the world,” she replied, tossing her door open. “But there’s a reason the world’s population doesn’t live at the beach.”

“Sand in your shoes isn’t for everyone,” I said, keeping a straight face as I closed my door and came around the front of the car to her.

Giving me a stern look, she said, “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, leading her up the walkway. Turning my head over my shoulder, I said, “I’m funnier.”

She sighed, one of those never-ending ones that moms do a lot when they’re not sure what to do with their misbehaving toddler.

“Wilkommen, fraulein,” I said, swinging the front door open for her. “Minha casa es tu casa.”

“Wow, did you just welcome an unsuspecting, innocent young woman into your bachelor pad with a half German, half Spanish greeting?” she asked, shoving my stomach when she passed by. “I don’t think that’s been done in the history of mustache twirling men attempting to lure a doe-eyed virgin to their lair.”

Of course I would hear one word in her rather lengthy insult. “Virgin?” My voice cracked. It cracked. It hadn’t even cracked during puberty.

She froze to a stop. “Figuratively speaking,” she finally replied, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder.

I flicked on the lights, only because I knew this was included in the gentleman-like behavior clause I’d verbally signed a half hour ago.

Doing a full spin in place, she looked up, down, and all around. “I guess it’s all right. Although it’s a downgrade from my super posh dorm room.”

I tossed my keys into the bowl sitting beside the door, undoing the top couple buttons of my shirt. “My apologies, Miss. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.”

Her eyes narrowed at me, a hand creeping over her hip. Probably had to do with the sing-song voice in which I’d delivered that last comment.

“And by comfortable,” I said, keeping my tone innuendo free, “I mean fresh towels, one thousand thread count sheets, and a mint on your pillow. I do not, and I emphasize, do not mean comfortable as in me dressing down to my speedo and massaging you with hot scented oils,”—another hand joined the other on her hips—“or dipping succulent strawberries in a vat of molten chocolate and lifting it to your lips while James Brown plays in the background.”

I was grinning like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and knew no amount of apologies would get him out of trouble. “That is, unless that’s what you’ve got in mind. I’ve got the speedo on right now, in fact,” I said, untucking my shirt and making a move for my fly.

I would have stopped the act before any zippers moved south, but my internal radar suddenly detected an unidentified flying object coming straight for my . . . ahem . . . fly area.

I caught it, no problem, but I didn’t catch the words that slipped from my mouth when I processed the trial sized bottle of baby oil in my hand.

“Hot damn,” I mumbled, stupefied for one of the few times in my life.

Emma burst into laughter, her body curving around the laugh it hit so deep. “You should see your face right now,” she managed between the laughter explosion. “Gosh I’m so glad I keep that in my purse.”

I shook my head, but that didn’t work. So I tried again, with more success. “You keep baby oil in your purse?” I said, turning the bottle over in my hands like it was a sacred artifact.