Games of the Heart(19)

And habit woke him three times in the night and each time Dusty was pressed close.

She felt good there.

Audrey didn’t press close. She did in the beginning but as things turned bad, he retreated. She got pissy and they ended their relationship with a yard of space between them in their bed. His back turned to her, hers turned to him.

Fuck, their bed itself was an example of the reason why their marriage deteriorated. She’d bought a six thousand dollar bed and very shortly after he’d discovered it couldn’t be returned. So they had a huge-ass bed in which they could have a yard of space between them, her buying that damned bed being why the space was there.

Since he’d got quit of her, he’d taken a number of women to bed but not his bed.

Except for Vi.

He hadn’t even invited any of the women he’d seen to his home. Although some of them he’d seen more than once, one he’d dated for five months. And he’d spent the night at their places but none of them he’d let snuggle him while he slept.

He knew why this was. He was seeking distance. He was keeping them at arm’s length.

Audrey did a number on his head, striking a blow to his ability to trust. Then came Violet who didn’t mean to strike her blow but she did it all the same. This made him wary. He wasn’t going to get too close. Especially not too close too fast.

That was the mistake he made with Vi. He ignored the signs and allowed himself to start falling for her too damned soon. He knew he was in a game of hearts, his opponent her now husband and the father of her youngest daughter, Joe Callahan. Fuck, he even knew he had no hope of winning.

He still went for it anyway.

But that shit stung, losing her. He had her weeks and Audrey years and losing Vi marked him whereas getting quit of Audrey freed him.

So he told himself, not again.

But Dusty was something else. When he woke and found her pressed to him, he didn’t gently roll Dusty away. He left Dusty right where she was.

The phone stopped ringing and he turned in bed. Then he looked through the room seeing nothing. It was early, the room was dark.

Then he looked to the alarm clock.

It was ten after six.

He reached out an arm and turned on the light, his eyes going to the mirrored doors on the closet opposite the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was open, the room dark, no one inside.

He looked to the floor and saw his clothes tangled with Dusty’s jeans, tee and panties and the closed pizza box.

Fuck, it was ten after six. Where was she?

He pushed up in bed, his eyes going to his nightstand and he saw it. A piece of hotel note paper.

He reached out an arm and tagged it.

Bringing it to him, he read:





Gorgeous,

Off to procure the food of your people.

Back soon,

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

-D





He felt his lips curve as he stared at the note.

The food of his people. He hoped she meant Hilligoss donuts.

His eyes moved over the note and he felt his face go soft. This was because he knew she probably dashed it off but still, the fucking thing could be framed. Her penmanship was artistic and interesting. But it was the hugs and kisses with her initial that were stunning. The x’s and o’s were done on a slant with a bunch of flourishes that attached them to the elaborately drawn “-D”.

Staring at the note, he remembered another thing that was Dusty. As a kid, she was always busy. She might hang out in front of the TV but only when people she cared about were hanging out in front of the TV. All other times, she had an abundance of energy and creativity. When she did her chores, she sang and even danced, filling the house with her sweet, pure voice and her exuberant kid happy vibe. She was also often at the kitchen table or on her belly in her bed drawing. Her Mom put these pictures up on the fridge and rightfully bragged about them frequently. Others, Dusty hung on the wall on her side of the bedroom in a way that looked good but appeared haphazard.

Debbie hated it, thought it looked a mess and bitchily said it was a fire hazard when it wasn’t. But Mike, even as a teenage boy, could look at Dusty’s pictures for hours. They were of everything. Flowers, fantastical shit she imagined in her head, landscapes of their farm, sketches of her family and Mike. The detail, the skill, the imagination, it was captivating.

He wasn’t surprised she’d chosen to do something artistic for a living.

He was equally unsurprised she was good at it.

And he was further unsurprised that people spent a fortune on it.

The phone ringing again took him out of his thoughts and his eyes went from the note to Dusty’s cell next to his on the nightstand. He threw the note on the nightstand and picked up her phone, thinking, at this hour, it might be a member of her family.

But on the display there was a picture of a man and it said, “Beau Calling”.