Читать книгу Call On Me - Roni Loren, Roni Loren - Страница 11

“Mom … Mom … MOM!”

Oakley jolted awake, almost rolling off the couch, and blinked in the bright lamplight. “Huh, what?”

Wispy threads of her dream clung to her brain like spiderwebs—something where Pike was sweaty and shirtless, like that photo of him drumming but with no drums involved.

“Why are you sleeping?” Reagan asked. Oakley’s vision cleared and she stared up at Reagan’s big, worried eyes. “It’s only six thirty. Are you sick?”

Oakley yawned and sat up. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, baby. I’m fine. I guess that show was just really boring.”

Little frown lines appeared around Reagan’s mouth—her thinking face. Reagan didn’t like when things didn’t go according to her expected schedule. A few years ago, something like Mom falling asleep before bedtime would’ve probably freaked Reagan out enough for a tantrum. But thankfully, they’d moved past the tantrums with age and the help of Reagan’s therapists. Her little girl was learning to cope in quieter, more effective ways. High-functioning. That’s what went on all the reports now.

Oakley thanked the universe every day for those simple words. It was far beyond what she’d hoped for when she’d brought her mute three-year-old into a clinic and they’d given her the autism diagnosis. At twenty, Oakley had barely been keeping her head above water with single motherhood. The word autism had felt like a death sentence for them both. How was she going to handle something that big on her own?

But she had. They had. Her and Rae together. Day by day. Hour by hour. Sometimes in the worst times, minute by minute. Now she had her smart, quirky, beautiful eleven-year-old girl to show for it. They’d both learned how to work with each other and how to accommodate the needs Reagan still had. Not every day was a good day, but they far outweighed the bad now.

“What have you got there?” Oakley asked, noticing the papers clutched in Reagan’s hand.

“Did you write these?” She held the pages up like an accusation.

Oakley rubbed her eyes and leaned closer. The handwritten title “Dandelion” stared back at her. Crap. “Where’d you find those?”

“In the garage. I was looking for some paint for a project and found a box of papers and sheet music.”

“You’re not supposed to be digging through stuff in the garage without my permission.”

She cocked her head in that way Oakley knew would only grow more sarcastic as she closed in on the teen years. “You were sleeping. How could I have asked permission?”

Oakley sighed. Reagan was going to be a demon on the debate team one day. “Then you wake me up or wait. Did you dig through any other boxes?”

“No. They were labeled with boring stuff.”

Thank God. She’d managed to keep her past tucked away from Reagan this long, she didn’t need it coming out now. Good thing she hadn’t labeled any of the boxes “Remnants of a Failed Teen Pop Star.” One day she’d tell her the story of how Mommy was kind of famous once upon a time. But not now. She wasn’t ready for the questions that Reagan would have yet.

“So are these yours?” she asked again.

Oakley took the pages from her. “Yes, I liked to write songs when I was younger.”

She still did. Her feelings tended to come out in lyrics, and she couldn’t turn that nozzle off. But now they were messy words scrawled on sticky notes or in her journal. Words that had nowhere to go except into the silence of ink on paper.

“Could we use some of these for the Bluebonnet songs? I like the one about wishes. How does it sound on the guitar?”

Oakley smiled. “Wait, Ms. Punk Chick likes ‘Dandelion’?”

Reagan lifted her bony shoulder, a little sheepish. “I like that part about people’s wishes floating in the air. That seems kind of cool. And the other girls will probably like it because it’s about flowers. Even though it’s really about wishes and not flowers.”

“What about the boys?”

“Who cares what they like?”

Oakley laughed. “You’ll probably care one day.”

“Not today.”

Oakley reached out and ruffled Reagan’s pixie hair—a cut Rae had insisted on despite it drawing some teasing from the other girls at school. Short hair was a no-no in tween land, apparently, but Reagan wasn’t one to take polls of popular opinion—a blessing and a curse. “Go and get my guitar, and I’ll try to remember how this one goes so you can decide if you really like it.”

Reagan’s face lit up and she ran off to get the guitar. Oakley reached for the watered down Coke she’d left sweating on the side table and swigged it for the caffeine more than the taste. She was going to have to find a way to grab some more sleep. Last night, her regular eight o’clock Wednesday caller, Edward, had been more than a little put out by the fact that she hadn’t been able to talk to him at the scheduled time. He said he’d called first and had gotten redirected to the wrong number and then when he’d called a second time, she hadn’t been able to talk yet.

She’d almost died on the spot when the phone had rung in front of Pike. On Wednesdays, her brother kept Reagan overnight to give Rae a chance to visit with her cousin Lucas and to give Oakley a night to herself. But instead of relaxing, she typically used it to log more hours on the line and earn extra money. So she had her account set to sign in automatically at eight. And Edward was used to getting his call at that time every week.

She’d apologized profusely, not wanting to lose one of her most steady and decent customers, and had agreed to give him time off the clock late last night after she was done with her other calls. So he’d taken full advantage of that time. He liked to talk to her like she was his girlfriend. So though it always led to sex stuff in the end, he first had conversations with her about life, things going on in the news, the weather. She had to make up things about her job and life, keeping everything confidential, but he seemed to enjoy the relationship-y parts as much as the hot stuff. It was the behavior of a lonely guy, but he wasn’t demeaning and he talked to her like she was a normal person.

She’d gladly take ten Edward calls a night than the rest of the stuff. Talking about the weather felt decadent after a night of being called a dirty little slut for the hundredth time.

Her phone buzzed from the coffee table and she grabbed it. Unknown Caller. It was too early for any calls to be forwarded from the service. She put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“I have two pizzas, a free night, and a lot of ideas. But I need your address in order to deliver these wondrous gifts.”

“Who is this?”

“Well, someone has a lot of guys calling her and offering free food.”

“Ryland.”

“Give the lady a prize. So what do you say?”

“Pike, it’s a weeknight and Reagan’s here and—”

“This is strictly business. We didn’t get to finish up last night and I’m booked up this weekend, so I figured we could squeeze in some planning tonight. Plus, what kid doesn’t like pizza?”

“She’s already eaten. And I didn’t say we could have meetings at my house.”

“Come on. I figured that’d be easiest on you since you wouldn’t need to get a babysitter. And I really am harmless. Ask Tessa. You think your boss would let me work around the kids if she thought there was anything to worry about?”

Oakley blew out a breath. Of course Tessa wouldn’t. The background check process was extensive. Oakley had almost backed out of the job when she’d realized she’d have to reveal the truth about her past to Tessa in order to get hired. But Tessa had thankfully been very understanding and hadn’t brought up anything since.

Regardless, did Oakley want Pike at her house? She only had a little while before she’d need to put Reagan to bed and get on the phone. Last night had already been too close of a call.

However, the work had to get done and if he was going to be gone all weekend, they’d be even more behind next week when she had to report progress to Tessa. “Fine. But you can only stay a little while.”

“Deal.”

She rattled off her address, hung up, and glanced down at what she was wearing—a worn-out Mickey Mouse T-shirt and yoga pants. Very sexy. She ignored the ridiculous instinct to rush to her room and put something more flattering on. If he wanted to stop by last-minute, then he could deal with the true-to-life version of herself. Plus, she could use all the armor available to her. This outfit said loud and clear that this was not anything more than a planning session.

Now if she could just convince her racing heart of that.

When Pike walked up to the door of Oakley’s small clap board house, music drifted through the slightly open window. He tilted his head, recognizing the dulcet tones of Oakley’s voice singing along with a guitar. Nice. He closed his eyes, straining to pick out the words.

Take my wish, pluck it from the air, plant it with your hands, and let it bloom …

The song was upbeat but had a yearning to it that made it almost sad. Wistful.

Blow it away, blow me away. Watch us fade away.

Pike hummed along with the chorus, picking up the pattern of notes quickly, and inserting a matching drumbeat in his head. Huh, the song was a catchy little thing. Sweet and raw. Like a Jewel tune with an updated rhythm.

He hated to knock and interrupt, but the next-door neighbor had stepped onto her porch and was sending him an evaluating glare. He was used to that look. He’d gotten it as a kid when he’d walk through his friend Foster’s gated neighborhood. The blond kid with the thrift store clothes and the punk rock hair did not belong. He resisted the urge to lift the pizza boxes to neighbor lady and let her know he wasn’t there to steal or pillage anything but to deliver gifts.

The music stopped and Oakley answered the door a minute later. Her dark hair was piled on her head in a haphazard bun and her T-shirt looked liked it’d seen better days—probably in the nineties. But she looked ten times sexier than she had in that boring work outfit. Now he could see the details of the tempting curves beneath the thin shirt and yoga pants—all woman. All the way down to the bright pink polish on her toes.

“I didn’t realize I was supposed to dress for a slumber party,” he said, allowing himself another head to toenail perusal. “I would’ve brought my footed pajamas.”

“You come to my house after seven. This is what you get.”

“Well, lucky, lucky me.”

She shook her head. “I swear, you could flirt with a tree stump.”

He handed her the pizzas. “Why do that when I can have fun annoying you?”

With a sigh, she opened the door wider and let him come inside. He shut it behind him while Oakley handed Reagan the pizza boxes. “Baby, you remember Mr. Ryland?”

Reagan nodded and shifted her weight to the other foot. “Hi, Mr. Ryland.”

Her gaze was so serious, so … adult. Those old soul eyes made him forget how uncomfortable he was around kids. “If it’s okay with your mom, you can call me Pike.”

Reagan looked up at her mother and Oakley nodded. “That’s fine.”

“Why are you bringing us pizza, Mr. Pike?” Reagan asked. All bluntness.

He didn’t bother correcting her that he’d meant she could drop the mister. “To get on you and your mom’s good side.”

Reagan’s lips twitched into a little smile. “You’d have to bring dessert for that.”

He laughed. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Can I eat another dinner, Mom?” Reagan asked, clutching the pizzas like she was afraid she’d have to give them back.

“Sure. Why don’t you bring them in the kitchen and get out some paper plates? We’ll be there in a minute.”

Reagan hurried off, and Oakley grabbed her guitar to slip it into the case.

The living room was small and lived in, the furniture and carpet worn but not in disrepair. Nothing fancy, but Oakley’s place had a cozy, welcoming feel to it.

“I heard you playing when I walked up. Great song.”

She latched the case. “Thanks.”

“Who’s it by? I haven’t heard that one before.”

She glanced over at him, wariness putting lines around her mouth. “No one. It’s just a thing I tinkered with a long time ago. Reagan found the lyrics and wanted me to play it.”

“Wait, you wrote that?” He moved closer without realizing he was doing it. That was her song? “What’s it called?”

“‘Dandelion.’ It was just a stupid teenage thing I scribbled down.” She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “Reagan wanted to change some of it around and maybe use it as a starting point for one of the songs for the group.”

“Oh, hell no.”

She set down the guitar case next to the TV and peered back over her shoulder. “What?”

His mind was already working, grabbing onto thoughts and running with them. “I only heard a little bit of it, but that’s not a kid’s song. Too much yearning in it for that. And that’s a one-voice song. Besides adding in some drums and a bass track, it didn’t sound like it needed to be messed around with. Maybe you could play the whole thing for me?”

She crossed her arms. “We’re here to work, not to waste time serenading you with my teenage ballads. Plus, I don’t play my own stuff for other people. I only did it because Reagan asked.”

“Hold up. You have more stuff?”

A smile finally broke through at that. She tilted her head. “What’s with you? You look like a beagle who just got offered a rack of ribs.”

What was with him was that he had been trying his hand at producing for the last year, and he hadn’t had a song hit him with that kind of gut-level force since he’d heard Keats. He was still new to this producing thing, but his instincts on what was good hadn’t let him down yet. “Fine. We’ll eat pizza and work. But before I leave, you’re going to play that song for me.”

“I will n—”

He raised a finger. “Remember, I am selflessly donating this Thursday night for the good of children, Oakley. I provided dinner. And I am mostly keeping my eyes to myself even though you are parading around in that enticing ensemble. All I’m asking in return is a song.”

She snorted and looked down at her shirt. “Mickey Mouse does it for you, huh?”

“His ears are very strategically placed. Not that I’ve noticed.”

She narrowed her eyes in playful warning. “Okay. I’ll think about it. One song. But only if we get this plan hammered out before ten.”

“I will accept this deal.” But there she went with the time limit again, which had his mind chasing that bunny trail from last night.

After their dinner the night before, he’d gone home and had tried to talk himself out of his crazy theories about the phone calls. He’d ruled out the most ridiculous one first. No way was Oakley a call girl or escort. She had a kid and wouldn’t be able to get away that much. Plus, during their conversations about the bathroom, she’d blushed. A hooker doesn’t blush.

So there were only a few other possibilities he could think of. One was that she was seeing a guy who liked to role-play. Pike liked those kinds of games himself, so he’d been down that road of false names and such. But Oakley had said she wasn’t seeing anyone and he believed her. Then he’d thought it could be an online relationship thing—pretending to be someone else and hooking up via the Internet. But really, why would Oakley need to catfish anyone? The woman was hot.

So then he’d landed on the last theory. That she was some kind of phone-sex operator. That would explain the guy mentioning minutes.

But maybe he’d heard it all wrong and was chasing crazy ideas. First, did people still call those old-school lines when every porntastic thing imaginable could be found on the Internet? And secondly, after replaying the scene, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that she’d said Sasha to the caller when she’d walked away. Maybe he’d heard wrong. The music had been loud in the restaurant.

And as he followed Oakley into the kitchen to share a pizza with her kid, he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that this doting mother who worked at a non-profit could flip the switch and play filthy phone-sex girl at night. He’d called those lines when he was a teenager. He’d lift credit card numbers from his mom’s boyfriend and charge the calls that way. And he’d gotten quite an education when he’d found there was no limit to what those women would talk about. He had a hard time picturing Oakley saying “fuck” much less describing sex acts in explicit detail.

However, once they were in the kitchen, Oakley turned to him and asked him what he wanted to drink, and that voice hit him again right where it counted. That tone, dropping half an octave, and pressed close to the phone? It could probably make a guy hard before a dirty word was ever spoken. It’d be lethal.

He liked Oakley a lot already but had accepted yesterday during dinner that he was too far from her type to get anywhere. She wasn’t looking to sow some bad-boy oats. She’d moved beyond that phase of life. But if the lovely Ms. Easton wasn’t as buttoned-up and conservative as she was portraying, if she was up to some naughty, secretive business behind closed doors, that put a whole new shine on things. Because nothing was hotter to him than a woman who had her shit together during the day but who could also let loose and play dirty at night.

Maybe that had been part of what had gotten him in trouble with his teacher. She’d been strict in the classroom, so put together. But one day he’d walked up on her in between classes. She’d been bending over to get something on the floor and had stumbled, giving him the glorious sight of her lacy red thong before she could right herself. After that, he’d lost hours in that class imagining what she was like outside of school, picturing what happened when she took the pins out of her hair and stripped off that stern expression. And one day when he’d run into her in town on a weekend, he’d found out.

But that had been his young infatuation and a raging libido at work there. He’d been dumb and eager. She’d been lonely and recovering from an abusive relationship. Looking back, he’d been the epitome of non-threatening, which is why she’d probably crossed lines that should’ve never been crossed. He hadn’t known what to do with that kind of situation then.

But now the thought of discovering a woman who had that ability to play both sides of the line had his mouth watering. The girls he usually hooked up with wore their sexuality on the surface. One-dimensional. Like the one he’d kicked out the other night. Physically, she probably would’ve been game for whatever he suggested. But it often lost its punch when a girl was doing something simply to impress him—to win the I’m-the-hottest-girl game. To play the porn star to his rock star.

So much of it was pure bullshit.

But a woman who wanted to do things because it would make her feel good, because she craved it? Well, that’d be an altogether different rodeo.

“You look lost in thought over there,” Oakley said, sliding a glass of tea his way.

He took a long sip from the glass.

“Nickel for your thoughts?” Reagan said, mouth half full of pizza. “And if you say them, Mom actually pays you a nickel. I’ve got a big jar of them. I have lots of thoughts.”

He nearly choked on his drink. His thoughts were so not kid-friendly, and he had a feeling it was showing on his face. He needed to pull it together. Here he was sitting in a kitchen with Oakley and her daughter in the middle of suburbia eating pizza and spinning some bent fantasy that the woman in the Disney shirt was secretly a phone-sex operator. He was an idiot. “I was thinking you should tell me what kind of music you like.”

Reagan’s face brightened like this was her favorite topic in the world. “Have you ever heard of punk rock?”

He laughed. “A time or two.”

Oakley slid onto a stool and grabbed a slice of cheese pizza. “Reagan is very into the eighties.”

“Is that right?” he asked, directing the question to Reagan. “How’d that happen?”

“Because Mom’s a whore.”

“Reagan!” Oakley said.

Pike spit out his drink.

Reagan’s eyes went wide as she looked between the two of them. “What’s wrong?”

Oakley looked like she’d swallowed a porcupine but managed to lower her voice, replacing it with a terse but calm one. “Where’d you learn that word? That’s not a nice word.”

“Whore?” she asked, all innocence and doe eyes. “On TV. How is it bad? It just means you like to keep a lot of stuff. That’s how I found all those records and magazines from the eighties.”

Pike bit his lips together, trying not to laugh as Oakley pressed her fingers between her eyes and rubbed. “It’s hoarder, baby. Hoarder. That’s the correct word. The other one means something different.”

Reagan seemed undeterred. “What does the other one mean then?”

“It’s an ugly word. We’ll talk about it another day. Finish your pizza. You need to be in the bathtub in fifteen minutes.”

Reagan didn’t look as if she wanted to let it go. But after a few seconds she rolled her eyes, muttering a “whatever,” and went back to her meal.

Pike had grabbed a paper towel and was dabbing at the spray of tea he’d sent flying. He cut Oakley an amused look.

She shook her head in kill-me-now chagrin, but the humor in her eyes warmed him right to his toes. Vixen or not, this woman was beautiful.

She pointed a finger his way. “Not a word from you.”

He raised his hands. “I didn’t say a thing.”

But boy was he thinking them.

Many, many things.