Push(72)

“Both,” he says with a small grin.
“I don’t mind one bit. Just surprised to see you here, that’s all,” I say. He looks up at me and shrugs. “That’s a damn lot of money you’ve got there,” I add as I walk into the kitchen to get something to drink.
“Yep, it sure is. It’s not all mine, though. In fact, most of it is someone else’s. Like a tenth of this is actually mine.”
“Still...” I say, my voice trailing off in suggestion.
“Yeah, well, I usually get a bigger cut. But not this time.”
“Why’s that?” I ask from the kitchen.
“Just one of those times when someone else has to get paid before I do,” he says as I am walking out of the kitchen holding a pair of water bottles. I hand one to him and watch as he finishes counting the last pile of bills. When he’s done, he packs them all into a metal box, puts the pad and pencil on top, and closes the lid. The box has a combination lock, and I watch as he twists the dial and tests the lid to be sure it won’t open.
“That little lock isn’t going to keep your money safe from me, sir,” I say in jest. “Picking locks is one of my surprise talents.” I am leaning on the wall now, my shoulder flush against the frame of the kitchen doorway. He raises his eyebrows.
“Any other surprise talents I need to know about?” he asks.
“I’ve got lots,” I say with a smile, “but if I tell you, then you won’t be surprised.”
“True,” he says, “and so far all of your talents have been very interesting.” He stands up from the table and walks over to me, putting his palm against the door frame and leaning in to give me a kiss. It is hard and sweet. And it leaves me feeling a little woozy. When he pulls back, he strokes his thumb back and forth over the crest of my cheek. Instinctively, I drop my eyes toward the floor and lean my face into his hand.
“Your skin is warm,” he says, slowly moving his hand from my face down the side of my neck.
“Yeah, well, a kiss like that tends to do such things to a girl,” I say weakly. I sound like a meek little kid when I say it.
David steps back from me and looks down at his shoes just as I raise my eyes to look at him. I’m not sure why, but I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. I thought that he would take my comment as a challenge. I thought he would have whisked me off to the bedroom by now. But instead, he is backing away from me, shuffling his feet back toward the sofa, with his eyes still on the ground.
A moment later he lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. Why on earth would David be sorry? I don’t understand. Does he think I don’t like feeling this way?
“No need to be sorry,” I say with a look of confusion. “Why would you be sorry? I like what you do to me. I like it when you make me feel like that.” He is looking at me as if he doesn’t believe it. “David, pretty much everything you do makes me feel like that.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, walking over to him and taking a hold of his waist. “And it’s a good thing. Really.” Vulnerable David is here, and I’m not sure how to feel about him.
I decide to change the subject. “I want to eat something. I’m starving. Wanna spend some of that dough you got on a pizza for your girl?”
“Of course,” he says, planting a quick, chaste kiss on my mouth and pulling his phone from his back pocket.
* * *

After the pizza delivery guy comes, we sit at the table and eat. I tell David about the articles I found online regarding the case against TruTimber Imports and Michael’s death, sharing with him all the details discussed in the stories. But he seems the most surprised when I tell him about my phone call with Ricky. He can’t believe I actually called him. He seems almost angry about it, and he chides me for making the call when he wasn’t around. Vulnerable David has vanished and protective David is back. I try my best to assure him that the conversation was brief and that Ricky was nothing more than his usual * self.
David surprises me by telling me that he will drive me the six hours to go to the funeral on Friday if I want. Fuck that. I tell him the same thing I told Ricky: “There is no f*cking way that’s happening.” He chuckles and tells me he only brought it up because he thought that going might provide me with some closure.
“The kind of closure that comes from a funeral is for pathetic fools,” I say sharply. His face immediately stills—I can’t believe how angry the words sound coming out of my mouth. Especially since what happened at my mother’s funeral was the one of the brightest moments of my adult life. “Just knowing that the motherf*cker is dead is closure enough for me.”
“Okay,” he says, chastised. “I get it. I won’t mention it again.” He stands, carrying the plates into the kitchen and tossing the pizza box into the trash can on his way back out. I regret pouncing on him, and I wish I could take it back. I am deciding how to apologize when he comes back to the table and stands behind me. His fingers work their way down to the pendant suspended between my breasts. As he touches the raven, his other hand sweeps my hair to the side, and he lowers his face to the back of my neck. His mouth is warm as his lips and tongue slide across the skin at my nape. I feel a shiver move across my body.
“I know you’re only trying to help.” I say in apology. “I’m just not used to being helped, that’s all. I don’t know how to behave.”
“I’ll tell you how to behave,” he says softly, his lips still against my neck and his voice full of innuendo.