Rm W/a Vu (9 page)

Apologizing to me first, Greyston picks up his phone. “Hey, Callie,” he answers, looking at me briefly before standing up and heading for the patio. “No, no. Now’s fine. How was your day?”

Once he’s outside, he closes the door, and I’m left standing by the sink, watching him through the window as he laughs into the phone with some woman named “Callie.”

Chapter 7

“
O
f course he has a girlfriend,” I mumble to myself as jealousy needles its way under my skin, my eyes never leaving him through the window above the sink.

I imagine her to be a total knockout. I mean, there’s no way someone who looks and acts the way Greyston does could possibly be with anyone less than gorgeous. My vision of this Callie person is ethereal.

She’s tall, because Greyston is, and she’s got curves that a woman should be proud of. And while my body isn’t terrible, I know it’s not nearly as voluptuous as I imagine hers to be. Because of her terrific body, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that she’s a rock star in bed. And me? Well, I drove away the only sexual partner I’ve ever had because I didn’t like it enough to want it. Add being the last female a gay guy dated before coming out of the closet, and my track record is pretty friggin’ stellar. She’ll be really nice too, not some cold as ice bitch who thinks she walks on water, because I don’t think Greyston would put up with that. Not even for rock star sex.

The more I think about Greyston’s perfect girlfriend, the more frustrated and stupid I feel for ever thinking he was flirting with me. The way he stuck up for me with Ben, the winking… Clearly, I was reading way too much into what were obviously very innocent and
friendly
gestures. As usual.

Grumbling some more, I wipe my damp hands roughly on the dishtowel I’m holding when the door slides open and Greyston walks in.

“Sorry about that.” He takes in my agitated state and frowns. “Are you all right?”

Blushing, I drop my gaze from him and tuck my hair behind my ear with my free hand. “Yeah, I should really just get going. Let you get on with your night and all that,” I tell him, tossing the towel onto the counter and snatching up my phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear notes of jealousy in my voice. I sure as hell do.

He follows me from the kitchen, his long stride allowing him to beat me to the door. “You don’t have to, you know. I actually don’t have any plans for the night. Feel free to stay and make yourself at home.” I’m right back to feeling confused.

“Thanks, but my parents are expecting me,” I say, offering him an uncertain smile. “I’ll bring the rest of my things by…if that’s okay?”

Greyston smiles, eyes glimmering. “Don’t be silly. Of course it’s all right. You’ll call if you need any help?”

I nod. “I’ll talk to you soon. Thanks again for everything this afternoon. It really meant a lot.”

Still grinning, Greyston opens the door for me. “I’m just glad I could help. You’ll drive safe?”

“Always do,” I assure him before waving and making my way down the steps.

Like last time, he stands in the doorway until I drive away—and who knows, maybe he stays there for a while after I’m out of sight.
Unlikely,
I deduce.

I arrive home without dwelling too much on the new information I’ve learned about Greyston’s availability, only to find my dad in the kitchen, cleaning his guns. He’s got the table covered in canvas, and his various guns and cleaning supplies are spread out in front of him.

“Hey, Daddy,” I greet, walking to the fridge and grabbing myself a bottle of water and a beer for him. “Where’s Mom?”

“Thanks, kid,” he says when I set the beer on the table and pull up a chair beside him. “She went to meet your aunt for coffee. How was dinner with your new landlord?” I can hear the tension in his voice just mentioning Greyston—even if it isn’t by name.

“It was good. He said he’s more than willing to meet with you. Told me I should set it up,” I inform him.

“He know I’m a cop?” He stops cleaning his shotgun just long enough to glance up at me without moving his head, one of his eyebrows arching menacingly.

“He does, so your scare tactics won’t work on him,” I’m sure to point out.

Smirking wickedly, Dad stares down the barrel of his unloaded weapon. “We’ll see about that.”

Having seen this over-protective side of my father before, I just laugh and shake my head. “Besides,” I continue, ceasing my laughter, “it’s not like I’m dating him, or even plan to.”

Dad remains silent, setting his gun aside and reaching for his Glock. There’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s still afraid of not being able to keep me safe. It’s silly, considering I lived in the dorms all last year and nothing bad happened. This won’t be much different.

Except for the being alone in a big house with just one person and no one around to hear me scream…

Okay, so maybe I can see where he’s coming from.

Instead of freaking myself out entirely, I decide that I need to remind him that he taught how to take care of myself. I set my water down and wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans. “Do you need a hand?”

Smiling, my father hands me the still-assembled gun, hand grip first, and grabs another for himself.

As though it’s second nature—which, it kind of is—I keep my finger off the trigger and eject the magazine before I pull the slide back and check the chamber and magazine well for any cartridges. I do this several times because with this particular type of Glock I’ll need to engage the trigger to dismantle it. And I can’t be blowing holes in the walls or floors all willy-nilly. To be doubly safe, I remove all ammunition from the room and put it with all the rest on the also-canvas-covered dining room table.

With Dad watching on, I dismantle the gun. First, I de-cock the striker, pull the take down tabs, and then pull back toward the rear of the frame. The slide then moves freely off the front of the handgun.

I do this all in under twenty seconds, and Dad chuckles proudly. “Glad to see you remember all of this.”

“Of course I do. Gun safety is important,” I tell him, parroting words he’s spoken my entire life.

While I set the broken-down firearm out in front of me, I think back to a time when I was little. Fresh home from work, my dad would always,
always
unload his guns, being sure to put the ammo out of reach. It was ingrained into me from the minute I could understand that we were to respect the rules of gun safety.

Every time he would set up to clean them, I would sit at the table and watch him, propping my face in my tiny hands. It was fascinating to me as a child, especially when he would explain what he was doing as he did it and why. I learned a lot just watching him.

I was sixteen when he and my mother felt I was old enough to let me learn how to disassemble a gun. Always a responsible gun owner, he had checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded and the safety was on before handing it over and tutoring me.

It was later that day that he took me to the shooting range and taught me how to use it. I won’t lie; I thought it was going to be easy. I mean, I had shot a bow and arrow in archery class for gym before and had to wonder how much harder aiming a gun could be. Well, bows don’t have a kickback, and I missed the targets time and time again.

Eventually, I got the hang of it, and I very rarely miss my intended target these days.

I’ve got the gun’s parts laid out in front of me in the order I’ll be cleaning them: frame, slide, barrel, and, finally, the guide rod and recoil spring. I look up to see that Dad is already wiping the parts to his backup firearm—a Smith and Wesson Airweight Revolver—down, and I reach for an extra rag.

Since Dad doesn’t fire his gun often—a blessing, to be sure—there’s not a lot of carbon build up to be removed. After wiping all of the parts down, I apply the solvent and let it sit for a few minutes before scrubbing the whole gun and wiping it clean with a lint-free cloth—inside and out.

Finally, I oil the inside of the barrel and the rest of the necessary parts thoroughly. Satisfied with how clean it is, I reassemble the gun and check that all the parts slide properly before wiping it down to remove any excess oil.

“There you go,” I say, handing the gun over to Dad for one final inspection.

He sets his revolver down and looks over my work. I’m not offended; I need to know that it’s operational so that it doesn’t misfire when he might need it most.

“You did good, Jules,” he praises. “Maybe I was a little premature to think you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

“Well, to be fair, I only cleaned the gun.” I smirk mischievously. “Though, if you’d like to take me to the range to see if my aim is still better than yours, old man…”

Just then, the door opens and Mom calls out for us.

Dad smiles. “You’re lucky your mother’s home.”

With a scoff, I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “You mean
you’re
lucky,” I correct him cockily.

“Pot
ay
to, pot
ah
to.” He sets his finished revolver down and pushes away from the table to greet my mom as she enters the kitchen. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Mom giggles as Dad wraps his arms around her and kisses her. It doesn’t take long before they forget I’m here, and I loudly scrape my chair across the tile before standing up. “Okay, well I can see the two of you are in need of some adult time.” Mom and Dad don’t let go of each other, but they do acknowledge me by turning their heads.

Backing out of the kitchen, I point over my shoulder. “I’ll, uh, be up in my room. Music blaring. Dad, I’ll call Greyston and see if dinner tomorrow sounds good?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn around and book it up the stairs. “Cool! Later!”

Up in my room, I close my door and turn on my stereo. It’s not too loud, and I can hear the murmured voices of my parents below me. If I listen really close—not that I’m doing it on purpose, believe me—it sounds like they’re on separate ends of the kitchen and not…you know…
together.

I’m able to relax a little knowing that I’m not going to hear them in the throes of passion, and I pull my phone from my pocket, flopping down on the edge of my bed. My fingers move swiftly over the touch screen until I locate Greyston’s contact info.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey. Miss me already?” Obviously he doesn’t realize who’s calling him; maybe he thinks it’s that girl…
Callie.

Nervously, I bite my lip and try to hide the disappointment in my voice. “Hi, um, this is Juliette?” I don’t know why I sound like I’m questioning my own identity, but I do.

“I know that…” Greyston chuckles.  “But
you
sound a little unsure.”

“Sorry. I just thought that maybe you thought I was…someone else.”

Greyston’s quiet for a minute, and I find myself wondering what it is I interrupted him doing. I start imagining him in a lot of naked at-home activities. Laundry, cooking, cleaning…

Okay, so I guess they’re not really
supposed
to be naked activities, but that’s apparently how my foggy brain likes to think Greyston spends a majority of his time when he’s at home. Naked.

“So what’s up?” Greyston asks, interrupting my perverted thoughts. Again.

I shake my head clear and try to remember why I’m calling him. “Oh, sorry. I talked to my dad, and he thinks tomorrow would be a good night for you to come over for dinner. You know, before I move in full time… Unless you have something already planned?”

“Nothing that can’t be re-scheduled.”

His response shocks me. He hardly knows me, and he’s willing to rearrange all of his plans just to meet my parents? “You’re sure? I don’t want to interfere with work or anything.”

“Trust me, it’s fine,” he assures me. “What time should I come over?”

Thinking for a minute, I try to remember what time Dad will be home from work; I want to make sure I have enough time to prepare Greyston for some of Dad’s usual interrogation techniques. “I have class until four, so maybe around five? That way we have time to talk before my father monopolizes most of your time with his nonsense.”

“Juliette…” Greyston’s tone sounds almost chastising. “His wanting to keep you safe isn’t nonsense. Cut the guy some slack.”

I laugh. “Keep that frame of mind and you’ll have no problems winning him over,” I tell him. “And if all else fails, you’ve still got that sports agent card to play.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Greyston agrees with a laugh, and I find myself remembering how his smile makes the outer corners of his eyes crinkle. “But I think your father and I will be able to find common ground on the issue of providing you with a safe place to live.”

All thoughts of Callie disappear in an instant when he says that. I know I’m likely hearing something in his tone that’s not really there, but I can’t help but let him dazzle me just once more.

Chapter 8