Tapped (Totaled Book 2) (8 page)

            “Oh, don’t be so chicken shit ‘bout it. C’mon! I’ll introduce ya to Dot,” Mick ordered.

            I followed him over to a large garage structure to the far right edge of his property and watched him open the gate-like doors to reveal a huge green tractor.

            “This here’s Dot. She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” he demanded with pride.

            “You named your tractor?” I couldn’t help but laugh.

            “Yer damn right I did. You name anything you love. People name their boats. What’s the difference? Her name is Dot. D.O.T. for Dear Old Tractor. She’s never let me down. And I don’t appreciate your disrespect. She can hear you, ya know,” Mick teased.

            “I’m sure she can,” I mocked. “I’m sure she’s very nice, but I have no idea how to drive a tractor. I thought I was going to be cutting your grass.” I was sweating already just standing in the garage arguing with Mick over how to treat his beloved piece of grass cutting machinery.

            “You are, and no worries ‘bout not knowing how to drive her. Yer fixin’ to learn,” he declared.

            He climbed on and fired up the engine to back it out of the garage, then I helped him hook up a huge heavy-as-shit attachment to be dragged behind the tractor. Something called a bush hog. The task and the language were far beyond anything I’d ever experienced or been exposed to before, but I was trying to be helpful and not a pain in the ass for my host.

            I was a fast learner and grasped the concept quickly. Driving a tractor wasn’t all that different from driving anything else with a manual transmission. Managing the turns with the sixteen-feet-wide bush hog behind me was awkward at first, but I soon got the hang of it. Mowing the field was intimidating to say the least. It wasn’t
difficult
, but the late summer Florida heat and humidity was absolute hell. Within ten minutes, my shirt was soaked in sweat, so off it came.

            It took five and a half hours to completely mow the large pasture. When I pulled up to the edge of the field, Mick was ready to greet me with a cool, damp towel and a huge plastic jug of ice water, which I immediately began guzzling. I drank quite a bit and poured the rest over my head, chest, and back, feeling shocked but refreshed by the cold. 

            “Joan’s got lunch in there ready for you, but yer gonna hafta scarf it down quick. Yer appointment is in an hour and ya gotta drive to Jacksonville,” he informed me.

            “How far is that?” I had no idea, despite the fact that I had driven through Jacksonville every time I traveled to and from Mick’s house before.

            “Oh, ‘bout twenty minutes.”

            “Shit. All right then. I’m going to go shower and I’ll eat in the car on the way,” I barked, feeling frazzled already. “I mean…sorry. Will you please ask if Joan minds packing something up that I can eat while I drive? I appreciate it." I almost forgot my manners.

            Mick laughed. “You got it, son. Go on.”

***

            I was in and out of the house with my brown bag lunch in twenty minutes and headed to Jacksonville. I had no idea where I was going; the one thing I did remember about Jacksonville was that it was damned confusing when you got into downtown. The office was apparently in an area called Riverside—Mick insisted that I didn’t even have to go downtown. Joan was sweet enough to print me out directions from the computer, even though I had a GPS in my truck. She claimed that I couldn’t trust those things, an opinion I found cute and endearing.

            I parked with eight minutes to spare. It was surprising and uncomfortable just how nervous I felt walking in. I had no idea or frame of reference for what to expect, other than what I’d seen on television and in movies. I pictured the office as stuffy and pretentious, with a large mahogany desk in the corner and lots of bookshelves framing the walls of the room, filled with bigger books than I would or could ever read. I visualized a couch in my head.
The
couch on which I would be expected to bare my soul.

            All the nameplates on the wall of the business office were followed by a bunch of initials, none of which I knew the meaning of. I took a deep breath and exhaled, readying myself for whatever this was about to be.

            Inside the door was a small waiting area housing four chairs and a small side table with magazines. I thought there would be a receptionist, but there was just a sign asking you to ring the bell. I pushed the bell and didn’t hear any sound, but took a seat and hoped he would get the message that I’d arrived.

            Two or three minutes later, the office door opened and a gentleman greeted me with, “You must be Drew,” and an inviting smile. “I’m Frank Greiner. Come on in,” he offered, gesturing his hand into the next room.

            I rose from my chair and approached the door, unable to ignore the change in his facial expression when he assessed my size.

            The office wasn’t too far off from what I pictured, just homier. The couch was brown leather and looked worn, like it had been counseling people for fifty years. There was the desk, the walls of shelves with books upon books, but also a few plants, a ton of picture frames with people I assumed were his family, and to the far left, somewhat separated from the “official” business, a foosball table.

            He saw me eyeing it. “You play?”

            “Uh, no… I mean, I have before, but I don’t like, play a lot or competitively or anything.” Man, I sounded like a rambling idiot already.

            He chuckled. “Of course. Well, maybe we’ll have to play one day. I find that too much talking can be counterproductive. Anyway, have a seat and we can get started.”

            “On the couch?” I questioned.

            “Yes, please. If that’s where you’d be comfortable. That’s usually where everyone sits.”

            I sat, right in the middle of the three-cushion leather sofa, sinking down into a relaxed position. While he gathered a few things behind his desk, I observed him and tried to size him up. Early sixties, I guessed. He was taller than average with completely silver hair, cut short to his head. He appeared to spend quite a bit of time in the sun, judging by the olive tone of his skin and crow’s feet around his eyes. When he seated himself directly across from me in a leather armchair, holding a spiral notebook and a mechanical pencil, I finally noticed his eyes. Piercing crystal blue eyes. They made me think instantly of Bree. I missed her terribly.

            “So, what brings you to see me today, Drew?”

           
Here we go.

Chapter Eleven

BREE

            All of my laundry done…check. All of Liam’s and Dad’s laundry done…check. Dishes washed…check. Roast in the oven…check. Dishes that were dirtied from preparing the roast washed…check. Pantry organized and rid of all expired foods…check. Toilets and bathtubs scrubbed…check. Mirrors wiped down…check. Entire house vacuumed and swept…check. I even fluffed the couch pillows, for crying out loud. There was nothing left for me to do. I thought about mowing the lawn but I couldn’t put any sunscreen on my face with this eye slash glue still on it and I was too nervous about someone maybe seeing me anyway. That would’ve been a disaster. I couldn’t think of another single thing around the house to busy myself with. I was getting stir crazy and bored. And lonely. Idle hands made my mind wander to Drew; I was dying to talk to him. I just wanted him to know that I was okay. I needed him to hear me and be reassured that this was all going to be fine. Eventually.

            Just as I was turning on the television to see what kind of crap shows Liam had on the DVR, my cell phone rang. My heart instantly leapt into my throat and I ran—sprinted—down the hall to my room in hopes that my thoughts of him had somehow found their way through the universe into his thoughts, provoking him to contact me. I was disappointed when I saw Sue’s face.

            “Hey,” I answered, trying to fake excitement.

            “Hey, girl. What’re you up to?” she inquired nonchalantly.

            “I’m about to go berserk. I feel like a caged animal.” It was the perfect visual to illustrate my mood and behavior. A pissed off tiger, imprisoned in an inadequately-sized pen. No company. No challenge. Just pacing back and forth, trying to figure out my next move when, in fact, there wasn’t one. I was trapped. “I just can’t stand being cooped up here anymore. I’ve cleaned the entire house. It’s more spotless than ever. My schoolwork is done. Dinner is cooking. I was just about to actually try watching TV before you called,” I replied, astonishing even myself with that revelation.

            “What?
You
watch TV? Man, you
are
losing it. How does your face look?”

            “It’s much better, but nowhere near ready to be seen in public,” I growled, glancing over at the mirror above my dresser and scowling at the bruising that was turning an awful shade of greenish yellow, like a piece of fruit going bad.

            “Hmph. You want me to come over?” she offered. “We can do our nails and watch reality television together.”

            “I’ll pass on the reality TV, but you can come keep me company and we can mani/pedi it. Thanks for offering.” I was actually appreciative of her offer. The timing was perfect and I needed to make sure that everything between us was cool after the way we left things at Alan’s house. I probably came across as a Class A bitch. I certainly didn’t project how grateful I actually was for her help that night.

            “No problem. Need me to pick up anything at the store?” she questioned.

            “No, we’re good. I have a roast in the oven and plenty of it for all of us. Just bring some wine. I could
really
use a glass of wine.”

            “Now you’re speaking my language, girl.”

            “And Sue? I need to ask another favor of you,” I muttered apprehensively. I didn’t want to ask this of her, but I had no one else to ask and I couldn’t do it myself. I just couldn’t go out like this. “Is there any way you can stop by the superstore and pick something else up for me?”
Please, please, please say yes.

            “That’s like, fifteen minutes out of the way. What do you need there that I can’t get at the grocery store?” she confronted suspiciously.

            I might as well just get to it and deal with the aftermath later. I sighed. “I need you to get me a phone. One of those pre-paid minute disposable cheap ones. I just want to—”

            “Bree, NO!” she interrupted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Don’t even try to give me some bullshit lie about why you want it. I know exactly what you’re trying to do and you can’t. You just can’t do that. I won’t let you do it.” The panic in her voice was heartbreaking but I needed her to understand.

            “I wasn’t going to lie about anything. I need you to trust me. Please. I really need you to do this for me and I’ll explain everything later,” I pleaded.

            “I don’t think I can do this. Has your dad even seen your face yet? He’ll kill me if he finds out I got you a freaking burner phone to contact your boyfriend that beat you to near death and is supposed to be your ex-boyfriend now, on his orders. I seriously do not want to do this."

            I let myself fall back onto my bed, feeling defeated and resolved to just give it up. Maybe she was right. Though just the thought of hearing his voice had me momentarily hopeful and actually happy.

            “Bree? Are you there?” she screeched.

            “Yeah.” I sighed. “I’m here. Just come over. I’ll see you soon.”

            A few seconds of awkward silence passed and she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

            “I-it’s okay,” I faltered. “I’m sorry I asked you. It’s cool. Maybe you’re right.”

            “I’ll be there soon and I’ll cheer you up. I promise!” she insisted.

            I hung up and busied myself with organizing my closet into color coded sections until she arrived. It took her almost forty-five minutes to get to my house and she entered like a bat out of hell, bursting through the front door with multiple bags on each wrist.

            “Sorry it took me so long. I did end up going to the superstore and I got you lots of other goodies that will be sure to not piss anyone off,” she declared, so proud of herself.

            “Oh yeah? Like what?” This was sure to be interesting.

            “Ice cream. And enough candy to put us into a diabetic coma. And I also got some new nail polish with these super cute paint pens to make fun designs with, just like they do at the nail salon. If that doesn’t keep us occupied, I actually went to the craft section and got us both paint-by-number kits,” she confessed.

            Now I was laughing.

            “Seriously? I don’t have an artistic bone in my body,” I argued.

            “Yeah. Me neither. Hence the paint-by-numbers. Certainly we can follow directions. I mean, it’s not rocket surgery.”

            “You mean rocket science. Or brain surgery,” I hinted, giggling as I said it.

            “What?” she asked, completely clueless.

            It just never got old. “You said it’s not rocket surgery. That’s not the expression. It’s rocket science. Or brain surgery. But not rocket surgery. You can’t perform surgery on a rocket.”

            “Whatever,” she complained and swished past me into the living room, dropping all of the bags down with a crash.

            Once the bags were unloaded and the ice cream was put away in the freezer, I admired our painting kits. One was some sort of Pegasus unicorn flying over a rainbow and the other was an animated dolphin splashing out of a wave. Both had color schemes on the front reminiscent of a 1980s
Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper
design and I eyed Sue skeptically. She looked over and barked, “What?! The adult ones looked
way
too hard!”

            It felt good to have company, especially after we shared a laugh and eased right back into our normal banter. It felt nice to actually be having fun and not taking anything too seriously, even if it was fleeting. Painting by numbers was entertaining and extremely hilarious. Our pictures, despite the assurance on the package that they were “for ages 8 and up,” were both absolutely wretched. Downright embarrassing. We vowed to frame and hang them proudly in our rooms anyway, laughing at the ridiculousness of the promise. I was having a blast until Sue said, “Who cares, anyway? It’s not like either of us has anyone coming over to spend time with us in our rooms these days.”