Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(124)

I watched it go, moving my body as the boot sailed by me. When I turned back, he did the same with the other boot.

“What about my apartment?” I asked.

“We’l talk about it later,” he replied.

He started to pul off his sweater but I grabbed his arms and stopped him.

He looked at me.

I felt something strange and unpleasant crawl along my skin.

“Don’t you want me to move to Denver?” I asked quietly.

“Yeah, I want you to move to Denver.”

I blinked at him again, confused. “Then, what about my apartment?” I repeated my question.

“Roxanne, we’l talk about it later.”

Then, it hit me. “As in, we’l have a ‘conversation’?” I asked, thinking about what Jet said earlier about Eddie’s chats and the fact that she’d moved in with him, making them the fastest relationship in history.

Hank stared at me as if he was considering checking my forehead to see if I had a fever.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Two people talking is the same as two people having a conversation.”

“Do you mean, a Hank Conversation? The kind with a capital ‘H’ and a capital ‘C’?”

His brows drew together. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t been drinking!”

He sighed and straightened, giving me his ful attention.

“Maybe you should tel me what’s on your mind.” I didn’t actual y have anything on my mind other than what was on his.

“Nothing’s on my mind,” I admitted. “Except, when we have this conversation, we aren’t having it in bed.” After I made my declaration, he watched me for a beat then shook his head. “Jesus, you’re a nut,” he muttered, pul ing off his sweater.

“I’m not a nut!”

He tossed his sweater in the direction of his boots, then his arm came around my waist and he pul ed me to him again.

He bent his head to mine and, with his lips twitching he said, “I mean that in good way.”

“How is cal ing someone a nut good?” I flashed.

“Sweetheart, are you done in the bathroom?” he asked patiently.

“Yes,” I grumbled.

He kissed my forehead, let me go, walked in the bathroom and shut the door.

I turned, straightened his boots and folded his sweater and put it on the bed.

“Your Dad is a nut if anyone’s a nut, he thinks my parents are interesting. Interesting! That’s just plain crazy,” I told Shamus who sat by the bed, staring at me and wagging his tail. “He hasn’t cal ed them nuts and they are nuts.” I put on my underwear and then spritzed with Boucheron and carried on talking to Shamus. “As soon as Bil y’s caught, I’m taking you out to play Frisbee. If you don’t know how, I’l teach you. I’m good with Frisbees. Gil and I used to play in the front yard al the time. We’l go and buy like, ten of them just in case they get lost in trees or something. You and me wil be Frisbee freaks. We’l enter competitions.

They’l do documentaries about how good you are with Frisbees. You’l be the Frisbee Dog King.” I figured Shamus was in to the Frisbee gig as he got up on al fours and his body started shaking with his tail, his excitement was so great.

I leaned over him and gave him a ful body doggie rub.

“I’d take you tomorrow, but Bil y’s stil out there and I don’t think Luke would like the whole Frisbee idea. He doesn’t seem the Frisbee type,” I told Shamus.

I heard a noise and turned my head to see Hank standing in the bathroom doorway, shoulder leaned against the jamb, belt undone, jeans mostly undone, socks gone, watching me.

“Frisbee Dog King?” Hank asked.

Oh shit.

Okay, so maybe I was a nut.

I straightened, looked to Hank and Shamus sat on my feet.

“Come here,” Hank said softly.

“No,” I told him. “I have a feeling you’re going to ruin my hair.”

“Come here,” Hank repeated.

“No, Hank. It took me forever to do my hair.”

“Sunshine…”

“Oh, al right.”

I had to go to the other bathroom to fix my hair.

* * * * *

Once I finished fixing my hair, I helped Dad tie his new bow tie to his new tux. This took me six tries. These six tries were interrupted by Mom slapping my hands away and trying to tie it six times herself. Then, I slapped her hands away and tied it on the second go of my second attempt. “Don’t know why I need to own a tux,” Dad grumbled, pul ing at his col ar.

“Herb, we talked about this,” Mom said.

“We didn’t talk about it,” Dad returned. “You just upped and bought it. I’ve worn a tux twice. To my senior prom, and you were my f**kin’ date, and to our wedding, and you were my f**kin’ date to that too. I’m fifty-eight years old and, counting today, I’ve worn a tux three times in my life. I don’t need to own one.”

My Dad was as cheap as they come. He’d pinch the last drop of blood out of a penny (if a penny had blood).

Unfortunately for him, my Mom spent money like it grew on trees. I knew that day shopping had been pure torture for him. The tux was just plain cruel.