“Honey, you gonna stare at my cock or you gonna make me breakfast?” Colt asked, I jumped and I could swear I felt my cheeks get warm. I was a forty-two year old woman. What was wrong with me?
“Right,” I mumbled and got the hell out of there.
Dad was standing by the pull out, stretching and wearing his boxers and a wife beater. Mom was up on her ass, her back to the back of the couch, pulling her hair out of her face.
I pressed my lips together when both of their eyes came to me.
“Forgot this feelin’,” Dad noted, “draggin’ your ass in the house after working ‘til the mornin’ hours.”
“Me too,” Mom replied throwing the covers back, “bone tired.”
“You owe us darlin’,” Dad told me.
I was happy to owe Dad. Reggie’s, beer and all that had happened with Colt last night and that morning would be worth whatever he wanted me to pay.
“Well take that times two because you’ll probably need to do it again tonight,” I said back and hit the kitchen.
I could have this conversation but I was on a mission. The shower was on in Colt’s master bath and I didn’t know how much time I had. Yesterday, Colt took no time at all getting ready. Today, he didn’t have anything pressing but Colt didn’t strike me as a man who primped. I could have only ten minutes.
“How’s that?” Dad asked.
“Colt and I are going to Costa’s,” I answered.
Again the same, old, stupid February. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“What?” Mom whispered and seeing as I was turning on the broiler of the oven, my head snapped up and around.
Mom was staring at me. Dad was staring down the hall.
I didn’t know what they thought when they came in last night and saw the couch empty but whatever they thought didn’t trouble them. Or maybe they were too tired to worry about it. Most likely they trusted Colt to take care of me.
Now, dawn was rising.
“I’ll explain later. Colt’s gotta get to work and I gotta make his frittata.”
“Frittata?” Mom whispered again and I sucked in breath at another display of my stupidity.
I was famous for my frittatas. When I was away, every time I came home Frittata Morning was always scratched on the schedule. Morrie, particularly, loved my frittatas. They were revered. They were like Christmas morning or a reservation at Costa’s. They were a special occasion even though they were easy to make. Still, they were good even I had to admit that.
“Mom, just… let me concentrate.”
“Sure thing, honey.”
I started the burner under the skillet that had pre-prepared raw, scissored bacon pieces in it, the eggs, chopped mushrooms and minced garlic would go in later. The shredded cheddar cheese I would toss on top before I slid it under the broiler.
I did this at the same time I started the toast. I was multitasking, on a mission, why this was so important to me; I wasn’t going to go there. It just was.
While I was cooking, Mom and Dad were taking turns in the hallway bathroom, Mom making the pull out, Dad pushing it back in, Mom returning the cushions.
I wasn’t wrong, Colt didn’t primp. Mom and Dad weren’t even dressed when he came out, jeans, belt, boots, shirt, hair wet, badge on belt, blazer and shoulder holster in his hand. He threw them on the dining table and hit the kitchen as I was sliding the frittata under the broiler to finish it off.
I wondered how this would play out, me and Colt after our colossal shift having breakfast with Mom and Dad in attendance.
Colt didn’t touch me as he went straight to the coffee and I tried not to be disappointed. Instead, I pulled out plates.
“Feb’s giving us an impromptu Frittata Morning,” Mom announced, hitting the kitchen and the coffeepot too, wearing her Mom nightgown that was cotton and had cap sleeves, little flowers embroidered around the neck. It hit her at her knees and made her look like the Mom she was.
“Yeah?” Colt answered and the far away way he said this made my eyes move from the cutlery drawer to him.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, one fist wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, this held up and forgotten. His other hand was out, his fingers poking at my jewelry. Something about him doing this, and the way he was, his neck twisted and bent, his eyes on my jewelry, his mind definitely elsewhere, made me stop and watch.
He pulled my choker free, carefully straightening it so it was flat on the counter top. He picked out my earrings, placing them together by the choker. Next came the rings, which he set in a row. He did this with what seemed like a strange reverence, fascinated by the process, his touch light on my jewelry and I felt it on each piece, as if his fingers were at my knuckles, my ears, my throat. It felt nice.