Dancing on the Wind (33 page)

and so she clung to him—wondering what it would be like to be as he was.

The last ripple of her cunt around him subsided and he felt drained. He sagged

against her, his fangs retracting as his forehead fell to her shoulder. He was breathing

heavily, gasping for breath, and his hearing was muffled for the blood rushing through

his ears. Her arms were holding him fiercely but her lips were on his cheek, kissing him

over and over again—soft little busses that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Too long,” he managed to say.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Next time in a bed,” he said then lifted his head to lock gazes with her. “In your

bed. In your mother’s house.”

She opened her mouth to protest but then realized what he was doing. He was

laying to rest the ghost of Zack Breslin and Lily McCullough defiling her room, and she

nodded.

“Yes.”

She unhooked her ankles and slid her legs down his. His arms were still around

her, hers around him, and she pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the rapid

tattoo of his heart beneath the cotton of his black T-shirt.

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“I love you, lineman,” she said.

“I love you,
tarrishagh
,” he whispered.

The plane shook as it hit a bit of turbulence and they eased apart from one another.

They stood forehead to forehead for a moment then he squatted down to retrieve her

panties, held them for her to step into as her hand rested on his shoulders. After their

clothing was once more in place, he opened the door and they went to their seats, the

attendant pretending he hadn’t noticed their abrupt disappearance.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

She rounded a lazy curve and her mother’s house came into view.

“Shit!” Fallon whispered, bending down to look up through the windshield at the

immense red brick structure that set on a slight rise. The Early Classical Revival was

ablaze with sedate lighting in all the tall windows and the two long single-story wings

flanking the main portion of the house were bracketed by two large live oaks festooned

with twinkling lights. The curving driveway that passed in front of the house was lined

with copper-shaded path lights and upon the great expanse of lawn were accent lights

that shone up into the oaks and lit many of the shrubs that adorned lush floral islands

here and there.

“My mother likes plants,” Keenan mumbled, and turned the car onto another part

of the driveway that led to the back of the opulent structure.

“A six-car garage?” Fallon questioned as they neared the detached structure.

“That was for Daddy’s collection of antique cars,” she said. “His hobby was

restoring them.” She pointed to another wing jutting off the back of the house. “That’s

the regular garage.”

“With only four bays,” he snorted.

As they neared the garage, one of the doors slid up and Keenan pulled into the

brightly lit interior. An older Afro-American gentleman in a dove gray suit was waiting

as she parked and turned off the ignition.

“Jessie,” she said. “He’s as old as Methuselah but he can run rings around me

walking the perimeter of the property.”

Opening the door for her, the butler smiled warmly. “Welcome home, Miss Kiki,”

he said, holding out a hand to help her from the car. “It is so nice to have you with us

again.”

Keenan returned his smile and drew him into her arms. “How’ve you been, Jess?”

“Fair to middling,” he reported, patting her gently on the back. “Your mama didn’t

say how long you’ll be staying with us but I hope it will be awhile.”

“Just tonight,” Keenan said, and turned to Fallon as he joined them. “Jess, this is the

man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.” She took Fallon’s hand. “This is Misha

Fallon.”

“Welcome to Heartstone, Mr. Fallon,” Jessie said with a graceful bow of his white

head. “Mrs. McCullough failed to mention you had a guest with you, Miss Kiki.”

“That’s because I’m about as welcome to her as a case of the quick-steps, Jessie,”

Fallon told the older man. He held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

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Jessie’s lips quirked. “Ah, I see,” he said, taking the proffered hand. He looked at

Keenan with love. “I do believe I am going to like this young man of yours.”

“You will,” Keenan said. “He’s nothing like that other asshole I brought here.”

“I’m a lower class of asshole,” Fallon said, “but I’m harmless.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Keenan said. “He’s about as dangerous as they come.”

Jessie inclined his head. “I imagine he is.” He held out his hand for Keenan to

precede him. “I’ll get your bags for you.” One thick white brow shot up. “Shall I put

Mr. Fallon in the…”

“Misha,” Fallon corrected. “Not even my father was Mr. Fallon, and I’ll be bunking

with the tart here.”

Jessie laughed, his eyes dancing. “Well, I suppose that answered my question. His

bags will accompany yours into your old room.”

“Yep,” Keenan said with a decisive nod, and started for the door into the house.

Fallon glanced back at Jessie and winked. He liked the man and he had a feeling

Jessie more than likely had provided the brighter moments in Keenan’s troubled past.

The route Keenan took through the house landed them first in the kitchen where

she stopped to talk to the cook, a jovial Afro-American woman who had to weigh at

least three hundred pounds.

“Are you wanting some supper, young lady?” the woman whose name was

Peaches inquired.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keenan answered. “At lunch I told Fallon we had to save room for

supper because I knew you’d fix something heavenly.”

Peaches folded her arms over her massive chest and squinted angrily. “Well, your

mama didn’t tell me nothing about you being here to eat. If I’d known you was going to

be here, I’d have made all your favorites. As it is, leftovers is gonna have to do.”

“Your leftovers are better than any five-star restaurant I’ve ever been in,” Keenan

told her. “Just pile it on and I’ll be happy.”

“Miss Lily won’t be here so you can enjoy your food, sugar,” Peaches declared. “Eat

it however you see fit.”

“She has an engagement, huh?” Keenan asked. “Did this come up before or after

she told you I wasn’t alone?”

Peaches shot Fallon an apologetic look. “After.”

“I am wounded to the core,” Fallon said, hand to his heart. “She neglects to tell the

good Jess about me because I’m not worth wasting the breath over then she runs off so

she won’t have to eat with me. Could Lily love me any less?”

The black woman chuckled. “I got a feeling you give as good as you get, son. Now

shoo.” She waved her hands at them. “Get outta my kitchen and let me work.”

Leading him into the den, Keenan went to the bar. “What’s your poison tonight,

lineman?” she asked.

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“I’m a cheap date, McCullough. Give me whatever you’ve got the most of.” He sat

on one of four loveseats scattered about the spacious room.

Keenan smiled as she rooted among the bottles and found the most expensive

Scotch. She poured him two fingers of the rare vintage and poured herself a glass of

plum wine. She brought the libations over to him and kicked off her shoes before

joining him on the loveseat.

“Well, at least we won’t have to put up with Mama’s shit tonight,” she said.

“Don’t count on it,” he said, and nodded toward the doorway where a well-dressed

woman stood watching them.

“Keenan, I would like a word with you,” her mother said then looked pointedly at

Fallon. “In private.”

Keenan took a sip of the wine then licked her lips, enjoying the wince that action

brought to her mother. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Fallon.

We are after all partners.”

“Do you really want him to hear my private opinion of him, Keenan?” her mother

demanded.

“I imagine he already knows your opinion of him,” Keenan said. “And he doesn’t

give a rat’s ass about how you feel.”

“That’s true,” Fallon said happily. “I really don’t.” He grinned brutally. “And

thanks for making yourself scarce tonight, Lil.” He draped his arm behind Keenan and

squeezed her to him. “It might get a bit loud later on this evening.”

“You son of a bitch!” Lily shouted, eyes flaring. “I want you out of my house this

instant!”

“He’s not going anywhere, Mama,” Keenan said firmly. “This is my house more

than it is yours since Daddy left it to me. Whom I invite to my house is not your

concern. After supper, he and I are going up to my room and to bed…”

“You will not play the whore in your father’s house!” her mother practically

screamed. “That man will sleep in one of the guest rooms!”

“He’s sleeping with me.”

“The hell he is! He…”

“You didn’t have a problem with Zack Breslin sleeping in my bed,” Keenan

countered.

“Or you humping him in your daughter’s bed,” Fallon commented. “Don’t worry

though. You aren’t my type, so the only humping that’s gonna be done in that room

tonight will be between me and Keenan.”

Her mother’s mouth dropped open. “You
told
him?” When Keenan didn’t answer,

her mother pivoted on her heel and stormed from the room. The sound of doors

slamming followed in her wake.

“I think you hurt her feelings,
lhiannan
,” Fallon laughed.

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Keenan rubbed a hand over her face. “I hope she stays away all night. I know she’s

got a man she sees on the sly.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “A married man.”

“Ouch,” he said. “She’s into taking what’s not hers, isn’t she?”

“My mother is a barracuda,” she said, tucking her legs beneath her. “She’ll do

whatever it takes to get her way. There was a rumor the death of a woman with whom

she was having a brutal feud wasn’t an accident.”

“You think she’s capable of murder?” he asked, brows drawn together.

“I’ve learned not to put anything past my mother. I think she’s perfectly capable of

ordering someone to kill for her, yes. I’ve never wanted to know for sure.”

“Lovely,” he muttered.

“Y’all come on and get your supper now,” Peaches called to them from the kitchen.

“Miss Lily done pulled out of the garage.”

Keenan patted his leg. “Come on, lineman. You’re in for a real treat!”

* * * * *

After a truly delicious meal that had him yawning and rubbing his stomach like an

old man, Fallon trooped wearily up the stairs with Keenan after he’d made the

obligatory call to Bolivar. The call—rerouted through Regis Cove—was short and to the

point, and he had been as gruff as Robbie Marks would have been in a similar situation.

“Yeah, she’s okay,” he’d snapped. “Can’t keep her yap shut around the women

here but she’s okay.”

“I can’t believe this mausoleum was built for just three people,” he mused as he

stopped to look at a family portrait of Keenan, her mother and father. “How old were

you when this was taken?”

“Twelve,” she said.

“You be a cute little shit,” he said, sweeping his arm around her. “So innocent-

looking and sweet as a sugar cane.” He nuzzled her neck.

Keenan pushed him away playfully. “Actually, when Daddy built the house, he did

so with the idea of creating a dynasty of McCullough sons to follow in his footsteps.

When I was born, he was a bit disappointed, but he truly expected the next child to be a

boy.” He reached out to touch her father’s likeness. “There was no next child.”

“Lily couldn’t have another or what?”

“She had never wanted one in the first place,” she replied. “If she hadn’t been

convinced of that before she went into labor with me, twenty-nine hours of what she

terms excruciating agony settled the issue in her mind.”

“I take it she went on the Pill without your father knowing.”

“Oh no,” Keenan said. “There might be a mishap with the Pill. My mother tends to

be rather forgetful. She was afraid she might slip up and get knocked up again so she

went up to Atlanta and had her tubes tied when Daddy was on a business trip with

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Grandpa.” She dusted her hands together then started down the hall. “And that settled

that.”

“And he never knew?”

“No, I don’t think he did,” she replied as she stopped at a door, took a deep breath

then opened it. “Voila! Welcome to teenage heaven.”

And that was exactly what her room looked like. He moved past her to stand in the

center of the soft pink and light green confection that had been her room when she was

a girl.

“Man,” he said. The frills and lace and stuffed animals amused him. The posters of

the 80s heartthrobs that plastered the green gingham wallpaper amused him even more.

“I think of my room every time I see a bottle of Pepto-Bismol,” she said with a sigh.

“Don Johnson?” he questioned with a pained look. “Harry Hamlin and Richard

Grieco?”

“They were my men back in the day,” she defended her choice of movie stars.

“Obviously you didn’t see Harry in that Olympic gods movie.” She rolled her eyes and

fanned her face. “Lordy, lordy, lordy! That white toga and those tanned legs? Yum!”

He walked over to a large bulletin board that was obviously her trophy wall. There