Wild Man (Dream Man #2)(36)
And last, Brock’s furnishings were, at a glance, approximately two point seven five steps up from the overall feel of his apartment complex. But at least the place appeared clean if not tidy and when I say “not tidy” I say this in the sense that it also reflected that Brock was a single man with a Harley Fat Boy and a beat up pickup truck that Martha was right about, it needed to be traded up and that trade up should have happened around a decade ago.
“Uh… hey,” I greeted.
“We’re a surprise, we know. We were on our way back from junior football league practice and we thought we’d stop by,” Fern said, coming further into the room and I saw she was holding a dishtowel. “We brought KFC because the kids had to eat. We didn’t know Slim was expecting company.”
“Um… okay,” I told her then added stupidly. “Cool.”
She made it to me and held out her hand. I took it and her fingers closed around mine then her other hand came up and closed around our clasped hands. As she did this, she looked into my eyes and did a Mom Scan which left me feeling mildly ill-at-ease considering the fact that I was pretty sure her blue eyes read all the words written on my soul and she knew I’d lied to my mother when I was ten and told her I didn’t try to shave my legs (when the nicks on them proved this to be false) and that I let Jimmy Moriarty get to second base at the homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school.
Then she released me from The Scan, let go of my hand, stepped back and luckily didn’t announce to the room I was a floozy who lied to her mother.
“They’re about to leave,” Brock stated to which Princess Ellie shouted, “No we’re not!
We’re watching Tangled! ”
And to this, Dylan (or Grady, it had not been pointed out which was which), shouted in return, “We’re not watching Tangled! We watched Tangled this weekend five times.” He swung his head to Laura and whined, “Mooooooom! I’m sick of Tangled! ”
“I’m not sick of Tangled, that movie is awesome,” I found my mouth (again) stupidly muttering.
“See! ” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her popsicle off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled! ”
I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear. In fact, lots of fifty-five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear.
Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that popsicle.”
“Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we? ” Dylan (or Grady) whined.
“Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”
“I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.
At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ!
What’s the commotion?”
“Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.
I was rooted to the spot looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”
For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.
“Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.
Uh-oh.
“Mom –” Brock started.
“Slim, tell me… he… is not… here, ” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.
Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze, my head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never f**kin’ home.”
Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.
“Heya, Laurie, honey, heya, Slim, heya Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.
“Hey Grandpa,” Grady returned.
“Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.
Brock’s father’s look became cautious when he muttered, “Hey Fern.”
“Cob,” she bit off, clearly deciding not to go with the option of leaping forward and scratching out his eyes as this would scar her grandchildren for life but I could tell she was hanging onto that control by a thread.
Then Brock’s father’s gaze hit me, his head tipped to the side and his eyes flashed back and forth between his son and me about seven times before said, “Uh… hey there, little lady.”
“Dad, this is Tess,” Brock introduced.
“She’s Uncle Slim’s girlfriend!” Ellie shouted, her fingers curled into Cob Lucas’s pants, her back arched at an impossible angle, her grape popsicle-stained mouth smiling huge up at her grandfather.