Sweet Dreams by Kristen Ashley
I bit my lip and looked at the huge plastic bags holding my purchases.
“And you’re gonna sleep on those sheets,” she reminded me. “You already are! And he isn’t even home!”
“Um…” I mumbled.
“Love this!” Wendy shouted again then turned to clerk and shared, “She’s got a new man, he’s a good man and he’s hot, he’s totally into her and they’ve known each other, like, two months and they’re already playing house!”
“We’re not playing house,” I whispered.
“You so are,” Wendy didn’t whisper, she spoke so loud other people were staring (and smiling).
“Girlfriend, let me just say,” the clerk butted in, “don’t look so scared. He’s a good man, he’s hot, he’s into you, go with the flow. He’s used to bad sheets and an old comforter, you go girl and you buy him good sheets. A man appreciates good sheets. He ain’t gonna say it but he’s gonna think it and every time he slides between those sheets he’s gonna be glad you gave that to him. We girls, we gotta look after our men. You tell him early on you’re the type of woman who finds all sorts of ways to look after her man, it’s gonna suck him in deep and he ain’t even gonna know it.”
“Unh-hunh,” a woman in line behind us muttered. “You got that right.”
I looked between the clerk and the nodding, smiling woman behind us in line and I wondered how a trip to the mall to purchase sheets had turned into a lecture from a clerk at a home wares store telling me how to suck Tate in deep. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Tate was such a badass he could probably sleep on a bed of nails. I didn’t think he would even notice new sheets.
Or, at that point, I was kind of hoping he didn’t.
Even though I thought what I thought, to be nice, I said to her, “Thanks for the advice.”
“My pleasure,” she said as Wendy shoved my purchases into the cart and started motoring toward the exit.
Even with my misgivings, I put the new sheets and the comforter (and the shams) on the bed. Standing at the foot surveying it, I had to admit, with the bedroom floor cleared and vacuumed, the dresser and nightstands cleaned off, the entire place dusted, it didn’t look bad. The room was painted a utilitarian cream. Considering Tate was a man and a biker, I bought a dark denim comforter cover and shams and sheets in what I thought was an awesome light clay that contrasted great with the indigo blue denim. They gave the room some color and made it look homier. Tate’s house wasn’t a bachelor pad, it was a crash pad. This meant it also wasn’t a home. Those sheets gave it a stamp of “home”, a little one but a definite one.
Studying my handiwork, I decided on the one hand it freaked me out; on the other hand, I liked it. Tate needed a home, everyone did.
Buster sashayed in, jumped up on the bed and stopped dead. She gave the bed a look then gave me a look over her shoulder then she delicately dropped to her side, curled into a ball and went to sleep.
Well, at least I had Buster’s approval.
I let the sun shine down on me and sipped my coffee thinking about the sheets and the amount of stuff I brought up from the hotel, in other words, all of it. I’d checked out mainly because it was stupid to pay for a hotel room I wasn’t using but also because Ned and Betty were at the height of the summer biker season and could use the room and lastly because I liked to have choice and variability of wardrobe and I didn’t know how long Tate would be gone. It would be annoying to have to keep carting stuff back and forth and it wasn’t like I had a houseful of stuff. I had a car full of stuff. I left my unused clothes in suitcases and my boxes in Tate’s garage, the rest of it I lugged to his walk-in closet. I didn’t go so far as unpacking (except bathroom stuff). I knew that was definitely crossing a line, a line I wasn’t ready for and a line I didn’t want to know if Tate didn’t want me to cross.
I sighed and tipped my head back to the sun.
Weirdly enough, outside of fretting about cleaning Tate’s house, buying him sheets and semi-moving in, life felt normal. I hadn’t felt normal, not in a long time. Not during my wandering, not during the separation and divorce from Brad, not even before that, when I knew something was not right.
But now I had work that I liked. I had friends I could trust who I could go to the mall with. I came home to a house ensconced in the quiet, wooded hills sandwiched amongst Colorado’s mountains. I ate home-cooked dinners if I was working days. I made lunch in Tate’s kitchen if I was working nights. Every morning, I made myself breakfast and a cup of coffee in a real coffeemaker that sat on a kitchen counter.
Normal, all of it… normal.
I was back in a rhythm of life.
Unfortunately that rhythm seemed surrounded by Tate but held no Tate.
That wasn’t true. The two days we had together before Tate left obviously held Tate. He took me to work and worked my shifts with me, giving Bubba and Krystal a break. Surprisingly, nothing dramatic happened during these days except for the fact that Tate took an instant dislike to Twyla; then again Twyla was instantly dislikeable and didn’t mind that one bit considering she honed her instantly dislikeable personality to a razor sharp edge. I’d had to run interference but this wasn’t difficult because Tate seemed in a good mood so, unusually, outside of scowling at her a couple of times, he didn’t let Twyla’s antics get to him.
And Tate and I working together was different when I wasn’t holding a grudge. I had fun with him and he seemed to have fun with me. He liked being with me in the bar and I knew this because he laughed a lot and he smiled a lot too. In fact, I’d never seen him do either so much as in those two days after the Wood Incident.
As for me, I liked going to the bar and saying, “Need two Bud drafts,” and hearing him say softly, “Right, baby,” or, also softly, “You got it, Ace.”
Because of these responses, I found myself hanging at the bar more often, Tate across from me, both of us leaning in and chatting, me trying to be funny just to make him laugh or smile. Me getting a little curl of excitement when I succeeded.
I also found myself ending my orders with “honey”. “A Jack and Coke and a Dewar’s, honey,” or “Four Coors bottles and a Keystone Light, honey.” I found myself doing this because, when I did, I’d always get the smile so I went searching for it.
That smile didn’t give me a curl of excitement. It made me feel something else, something comfortable and settled but very sweet. Even though, if Twyla heard me call Tate “honey”, she’d give me a hard look or roll her eyes – I was guessing Twyla wasn’t a big fan of a waitress sleeping with the boss, that said, as far as I could tell, Twyla wasn’t a big fan of much.
After my shifts, Tate and I left work together and went to the hotel together where Tate would drop me off so I could have a swim and he’d go do stuff, like pick up groceries for dinner while I swam. Then he’d come back to get me. I’d pack more stuff and go to his house with him where he’d make me dinner and then we’d go to bed and make love and then we’d sleep somehow nuzzled together, him holding me or me curled into his back or, as the night progressed, both.
This felt good too. Comfortable. Settled. And definitely sweet.
On my day off, the day Tate had to go hunting, Tate had planned to take me for a ride. We were going to go out and stay out all day on the bike.
It was a bummer he’d been called away because I wanted to do that with him, have a day with him with nothing to do but ride. To be on the back of his bike and feel that freedom only Tate had given me, a freedom I’d only ever felt sitting on the back of his bike, letting go and thinking absolutely nothing at the same time feeling absolutely everything.
And I wanted to go back to work with him behind the bar.
I wanted him to come home.
I wanted him.
I heard the roar of pipes and my head righted and whipped to the end of the lane. A bike was coming up and I felt that curl of a thrill in my belly because Tate hadn’t said he was coming home last night when we talked but he’d surprised me before.
“Damn,” I whispered under my breath and watched Wood ride up the drive and stop at the front of the garage.
I got up and walked down the deck as he got off the bike. We met five feet into the deck from the stairs that led to it from the side of the garage.
“Wood,” I greeted hesitantly.
“Laurie,” he greeted back, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses so I couldn’t read them.
“Um…” I mumbled, unsure what to say because I was unsure of why he was there.
Wood wasn’t unsure.
“Neeta’s in town.”
I felt my body get tight.
“Sorry?”
He didn’t repeat himself. Instead he asked, “Deke still playin’ bodyguard?”
“No,” I answered, finding this an odd question. “Why?”
Wood looked at the house then looked at me. “When’s Tate due back?”
“Wood –”
He took a step toward me and, with effort, I held my ground.
He pulled his sunglasses off and shoved an arm in the collar of his t-shirt. When I saw them, I noticed his eyes, as they normally were, were gentle on me.
“Know that ship has sailed, baby,” he assured in his gentle voice. “Now, when’s Tate due back?”
“It’s uncertain,” I replied. “Why?” I repeated.
“She’s heard about you.”
“What?”
“Neeta. That’s why she’s back. She’s heard about you.” He looked at the house again then at me. “You here alone?”
“Wood –”
His hand came up and curled around my neck. “Laurie, I asked, you here alone?”
“Yes, but why –?”
I stopped talking when he quickly dropped his hand from my neck and with somewhat urgent movements dug his phone out of his back pocket. He flipped it open, hit some buttons and then put it to his ear. His eyes locked on mine as he listened to it ring.
Then he said, “Wood,” and he paused. “Don’t be an ass and listen. I’m at your house with Laurie.” Another pause then, “Fuck, Tate, goddamned relax. If you’d listen you’d know I’m doin’ you a fuckin’ favor here. Neeta’s in town.” Silence while Wood’s face got hard then, “Yeah, she knows about Laurie, man, why you think she’s in town? She heard and hightailed it up from CB like a fuckin’ rocket.” He was quiet then, “Yeah, Tate, that’s the gig. Same MO. She heard rumors, held tight, then heard Laurie was out of the hotel and in your house. Now she’s here, same as always.” More silence then quietly, “No, man, Jonas isn’t with her.”
Jonas? Who was Jonas?
Same as always?
And what was with all the drama?
“What’s with all the drama, Wood?” I asked, he lifted a hand, one finger up and then dropped his hand and bent his neck, listening to Tate on the phone.
This went on for several moments before he said, “Deke’s out?” Then a whispered, “Fuck.”
I watched his mouth get tight as I watched him lift his hand to the back of his neck and squeeze.
Then he said into the phone in a way that sounded like the words were dragged out of him, “Seems like all you got is me.” His neck straightened, his hand dropped and his body got as tight as his mouth before he went on, “Bubba’s useless and you and I know it. Deke’s out. Neeta is what Neeta is because of Pop so I’m not fuckin’ askin’ him and you’d be a fuckin’ fool to do it. So, way I see it, all you got is me.” He listened a moment then bit his lip in a scary way before he spoke again. “Unlike you, brother, your woman’s sleepin’ in your bed, I ain’t gonna make a move. I also ain’t gonna stand aside ‘cause you’re in fuckin’ Texas, Neeta’s in town and Laurie’s un-fuckin’-protected. You don’t like that, fuckin’ tough. You know her, Christ, Tate, you know her better ‘n anyone. You shoulda planned for this eventuality. She’s got that fuckin’ posse here who keep tabs on you and always have so you knew this was gonna happen. Now, tables are turned, man, and I’m takin’ care of your shit.”
He flipped the phone shut and turned to me and all I could think to say was, “Unprotected?”
I heard my cell phone ring in the house but I was too busy staring at Wood and hearing his conversation replay in my head to move.
“Neeta’s unpredictable,” Wood stated and looked at the house again before his eyes came back to me. “Baby, that’ll be Tate on the phone.”
I ignored him and repeated on a prompt, “Unpredictable?”
“Tate explain about Neeta?” he asked.
“Um… a little bit,” I answered as my phone stopped ringing.
“He explain about how she makes it clear he’s her property?”
I licked my lips.
Then I said, “No.”
“Well, she thinks he’s her property.”
“What does that mean?” I asked as my phone started ringing again.
Wood’s eyes went to the house again then to me and he urged gently, “Baby, get your phone.”
I turned on a foot and ran to the house. Tugging open the sliding glass door one-handed, I ran to the kitchen counter where my phone was. I put down my mug, touched the screen that said “Captain Calling” and put it to my ear.
“Tate?” I asked into the phone.
“Wood still there?” he asked back without saying hello.
“Yes, but he says –”
“Put him on the phone,” Tate ordered.
“But, honey –”
“Lauren, put him on the goddamned phone.”
Someone was not happy.
That was okay because I was not happy either.
“Maybe you might want to talk to me about what’s happening?” I suggested acidly.
Tate replied instantly, “What’s happening, Ace, is Neeta’s a fuckin’ nut. I may have only had three women on the back of my bike, that doesn’t mean I’ve only had three women. And one of the reasons I’ve only had three women that I put on my bike is because Neeta hears I got someone in my bed, and she hears I take them there more than once, she moves to stake her claim. She’s been married to a man for seven years but, make no mistake, the bitch claims me. She might be forty-two years old but she never stopped actin’ like a teenager. Not a lotta women like havin’ threatening letters shoved in their mailboxes, crazy, screamin’ women showin’ up at their work shouting obscenities or gettin’ in hair-pulling catfights at the diner. She’s in town it means she’s in town for a showdown with you.”
Oh my God!
“Tate –”
“And you grew up on a fuckin’ farm in Indiana and spent the rest of your life in suburbia. You and your sister might know all about attitude but even your considerable attitude, babe, ain’t gonna mean dick when you’re up against Neeta. I like your face just like it is, I don’t need her clawin’ it with her fingernails. Firstly because, like I said, I like your face as it is. Secondly because, that bitch lays a fuckin’ hand on you, I’m gonna take her ass down and I’m not big on takin’ out a woman. Now give the phone to Wood.”
I took the phone from my ear and held it out to Wood.
“He wants to talk to you,” I whispered and wondered if Wood could hear me over the beating of my heart.
Wood gave me a look, took the phone and put it to his ear.
“You got me,” he said into it then listened then said, “Yeah.” A pause. “Yeah man.” And finally, “No shit? Remember who you’re talkin’ to, yeah?” He listened again and finished with, “Right.” Then he held the phone to me.
Hesitantly, I took it and put it to my ear.
“Tate?”
“Wood takes you to work, he brings you home and he sleeps on the couch. You with me?”
“Tate –”
“Yes or no, Lauren.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’m in Lubbock, sittin’ outside a titty bar where my boy is havin’ himself a good time. He’s about to get a lap dance that isn’t gonna end too go
“Okay,” I said quietly then asked curiously, “He’s in a titty bar at 10:30 a.m.?”
“Ace, he ain’t a member of the Rotary,” Tate answered and I gave a short giggle.
Then I asked, “Titty bars are open at ten thirty?”
“This one is,” Tate replied.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“Question, babe,” he stated.
“Yeah?”
“When I’m pissed as shit at Neeta, why am I sittin’ in a borrowed SUV smilin’ every time I hear you say the words ‘titty bar’?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
I listened to a moment of silence.
“Shoulda never started it with you,” he muttered and I felt my breath stop coming.
I still managed to force out a, “What?”
“Not feelin’ happy vibes that my good girl is usin’ the words ‘titty bar’ ‘cause I’m sittin’ outside one and that she’s gotta count on Wood to keep her safe from my fuckin’ ex when I’m not there. High-class good girl like you should live a life untouched by that kinda shit and a man like me should know better than to bring it on her.”
“I lived a life untouched by that kinda shit, Tate, and I’d never been unhappier because there was worse shit in it and it had nothing to do with talking about titty bars,” I whispered.
He was silent a moment as if contemplating this.
Then he demanded, “You sleep in one of my tees.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Wood’s in the house while you’re in my bed. Only claim I can stake since I’m fuckin’ three states away and I’m stakin’ it. You sleep in one of my tees.”
“Tate, that’s unnecessary.”
“Babe. Sleep. In. One. Of. My. Tees,” he said slowly and with waning patience.
“Oh all right,” I muttered.
More silence then a soft and sweet, “There’s my good girl.”