Captured(41)

You don’t argue with a man like Hank. “Thanks, then.”

“I’ll call Linda in the morning,” Ida says.

I head back to the barn. Sleep is getting a little easier. The nightmares still wake me up most nights, but they’re starting to fade. They never lose their potency, but I’m learning to deal with them. Wake up, breathe. Do pushups, sit-ups, squats, lunges. I get back to sleep eventually.

I spend the earliest hours of the next morning replacing the ladder up to the hayloft. Ida finds me in the barn and calls out to me. I descend, wiping the sweat off my face.

She hands me an envelope. “This is the gift certificate. It’s for a haircut and color, a manicure and pedicure, and a facial. She’ll enjoy it, I think. I know I would.” She smiles at me, pats the top of my hand. “This is a sweet gesture, Derek.”

“She deserves a day off,” is all I can think to say.

“She sure does.”





*





It’s late evening before I finish the various projects I’ve got going. I’m washing up at the pump when I hear Reagan behind me.

“Would you eat with us? Tommy and me? I made lasagne.”

I swallow hard. Shrug. “Sure.”

Dinner is a weird thing. I don’t know what to say, or how to act around Reagan. Tommy provides most of the conversation, chattering at me and smearing lasagne everywhere. I allow myself one small half-glass of red wine, which makes me feel warm and loose. Tommy nods off right onto his plate, making us both laugh. Reagan wipes his hands and face, and then carries him up to bed.

While she’s gone, I clean up. Cover the leftovers with foil, wash the plates in the sink. Dry them, put them in the cupboard.

Reagan comes back into the kitchen. “You didn’t have to clean up.”

I shrug, drying the forks. “You cooked. You shouldn’t have to clean up, too.”

She sits at the table, sideways on the chair, facing me. “So, I was wondering if tomorrow you’d mind helping me in Tommy’s room? It’s still decorated for a baby, and I want to paint it. Update it a little for him.”

I pivot and put my backside to the sink, pull the envelope containing the gift certificate out of my back pocket. “I’ll handle that tomorrow myself. In fact, I’ll take care of the rest, too.”

She’s confused. “What? Why?”

I hand her the envelope. “’Cause you won’t be here.”

She opens it, reads the gift certificate. “What is this? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a day off, Reagan. Sleep in late. Head into Brenham and spend the day at the salon. Sit in the park and read a book. Whatever it is you feel like doing.” I’m nervous, talking too fast.

She doesn’t say anything for a long minute. “Derek, you didn’t have to—I don’t need—”

“The gift certificate and day off was my idea, but Ida and Hank…Ida’s friend Linda’s daughter owns the salon.” I rub my upper lip and try to sound casual. “You deserve a day off. Hell, you deserve a f*ckuva lot more than that, but this is what I could make happen. You work too hard. And you deserve something just for you.”

She won’t look at me, staring down at the gift certificate, at her feet. “Derek, I don’t even know what to say.” She glances at me, then away, clearly struggling against emotion. “It’s too much. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself for a whole day.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” I point at the envelope. “I don’t know if it says so on there, but Ida told me that’ll get you your hair cut and colored, plus your fingernails and toenails done. And something else. For your face. A facial, maybe? Just have fun. Relax a bit.”

She’s still for another moment, and then she launches herself at me. Arms around my neck, body flush against mine. We both hold on to each other, a tense, passionate hug. And then she sinks against me, the tension bleeding out of the embrace. And now I’m just holding her. She’s soft, warm, smells of hay and horse and feminine sweat. I inhale her scent, memorize the feel of her in my arms.

She pulls back just slightly, staring into my eyes. Her palm splays across the back of my head, her other hand clutching my neck. A moment passes, another. And then she tilts her face, presses her mouth to mine and leans into me. Her boobs are crushed against my chest, her hands pulling me closer and closer to her, as if she can’t get close enough. At first I manage to keep my arms across her waist, in the safe zone. But then she parts my lips with her tongue, and one of my hands slips down, cupping the swell of her ass.

She moans, a murmured outbreath, and my other hand joins the first, and I’ve got the firm, perfect feel of her round ass in my hands. I’ve dreamed of this ass—dreamed of feeling it in my hands. I’ve woken up hard and aching and wishing for this perfect ass. Somehow I’m exploring the fullness of it, squeezing, kneading. I’m amazed that she’s letting me do this, here in her kitchen. Her palms slide down my shoulders, down my chest. Our kiss breaks, and she lets out a sigh, curling her fingers into fists in the fabric of my shirt, either to hold me in place as if I’ll try to get away, or to maintain her own balance.

“I only meant to kiss you to say thank you,” she whispers, her breath huffing on my lips. “But now I can’t stop.”