Every Little Kiss (9 page)

“But there was a lot there?”

She shivered at the memory. “Yes. Plenty.”

Audrey squealed again. “Maybe that should be how you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Who gets to tackle your list. Between Abe and Dave Englund, you just pick whoever has the biggest—”

“Audrey! Stop!”

This time Audrey laughed so hard she
did
fall off the barstool. Only Casey couldn't help her because she was too busy holding on to the counter and trying not to topple over herself.

A
be sloshed his beer as he got to his feet, but it hardly mattered. He whooped as the Minnesota Wild took the ice. Next to him, Stu hollered and stomped.

“The Red Wings suck,” he said.

“The Red Wings definitely suck,” Abe agreed as the Detroit team skated out to more jeers than applause. Abe smiled. He loved that about hockey. It was raw and surly and just the right amount of bloody.

The brothers took their seats again when the first period officially started. They clinked plastic beer cups and toasted a Wild victory.

Abe settled in, his eyes on the goalie. It was the position he'd played in high school, well enough so that he'd gotten a scholarship to the University of Minnesota Duluth. His freshman year, a puck had come flying at him during a practice, cracking his nose in a few places and breaking it. At the time he'd laughed it off—he counted it as a kind of a badge of honor. These days, though, he sometimes wished for his old, straight nose. It might help him feel like less of a hulking gargoyle next to, say, certain brunettes who worked at Robot Lit.

Not that the ladies seemed to mind his appearance overall. Especially when he was such a good listener, using his seriousness as the sounding board against which they could bare everything. Especially when it led to the bedroom. That was where he could really shine, exploring and fine-tuning until he knew just where to press and lick and thrust. He might not be particularly outgoing or conventionally handsome, but he'd learned how to be masterful where it counted—and that had kept him exceptionally occupied.

It was a comforting thought. There had never been a shortage of women for him and there wouldn't be in the future—not unless he wanted there to be.

And he didn't.

Not exactly.

Sure, thinking about his date with Casey on Sunday—
tomorrow
—gave him an unexpected sear of excitement. And, fine, he hadn't really been able to stop picturing her since they'd made out last week. Her soft moans, her hands in his hair, and her jeans pressed against his had made it one of his hottest make-out sessions ever.

But there was always another make-out session to be had, he reminded himself. Especially if it went south with Casey.

Never mind that he respected the hell out of the way she hadn't panicked at the Robot Lit fire alarm. She'd helped get the kids out of the building and to safety. Plus she'd already installed smoke detectors and fire extinguishers in the basement. Without both, the blaze could have been something else entirely. Something else much worse.

He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, wondering if that had been the intent. The fire had just begun to blaze when he'd gotten to it. The smoke was thick, but not too hot. The blaze was conveniently located next to an old, dry wood post. It would have ignited easily if he hadn't gotten there. He hadn't smelled accelerant, but the pile of papers hadn't needed it. Not technically. A single match could get it going.

And yet, the whole thing was odd. Why burn a pile of paper if you were going to start a fire? It was hardly efficient. He had tried puzzling it out, but in the end that wasn't his role. Ty Brady would shake out all the details—eventually. He had only just begun his assessment.

Abe ground his teeth. If someone had tried to harm Robot Lit, he wanted Ty to find them, and he wanted them prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

“Clipping!” Stu shouted, jumping to his feet.

Abe blinked, realizing he'd been lost in thought and had missed much of the first period. The ref was sending one of the Red Wings players to the penalty box.

“See you in two minutes, meathead!” Stu yelled.

“Damn straight,” he said, trying to catch up.

Stu took his seat again. “Detroit plays dirty.”

As far as Abe could tell, each team had the same number of penalties so far. He didn't argue, though. “How's Arnie's?” he asked instead.

His brother worked at Arnie's Ski and Snow in the winter, and at the Birch River canoe livery in the summer.

“Same,” Stu said.

“You still working the register?”

“Yep.”

Abe's jaw clenched. Sometimes, getting Stu to talk about anything besides hockey and video games was a herculean challenge.

“Any chance you'll get into management this year? Maybe sales?”

Stu turned away from the game to focus on Abe. This close, Abe could see so much of his parents in his little brother. He had their mom's smile, big and wide. He had their dad's eyes, dark green and curious. And he had a mix of their hair color—a honey shade that was darker than Abe's blond, but not quite brown.

“Is this the part where you quiz me on my lifestyle choices?” Stu asked.

Apparently, his brother also got his parents' artistic temperament. Or at least the part that didn't want a regular day job.

“I don't want to lecture,” Abe answered honestly. “I just hate to see you pissing your talent away at that ski shop. And at the canoe livery.”

“I like both gigs.”

“You liked delivering pizzas.”

“What wasn't to love? Driving around. Meeting people. Free 'za at the end of the night.”

“You can do better.”

Stu crossed his arms. He was leaner than Abe, his limbs longer. “I don't know if I want to do better. I'm pretty happy.”

Abe studied his younger brother, wondering how happiness could come to Stu so easily. It didn't much matter what Stu did, he always seemed content. How was it that Abe had become the opposite, kicking against his own peace of mind for years?

He could almost feel the phantom pains in his chest. He debated telling Stu about them—about how it had been enough to make him ask Casey Tanner out on a date—but in the end he just swallowed more beer instead.

“Mom was asking about you, by the way,” Stu said. “When I saw her last week she showed me a new painting she did.”

“What's it like?”

“It's a Sasquatch with its head up its ass. She titled it
Stu's Older Brother
.”

“Very funny.”

“It's actually a rugged landscape. Lots of sharp rocks. You'll like it. And I'm glad she's making time to paint.”

Abe nodded. It was part of the reason he helped pay for his parents' rent at the White Pine Retirement Village. It meant they could have freedom and independence, which they liked, but support, too. Just in case they needed help getting groceries, for example, or if his dad left and forgot where he was going—which happened more and more these days as his dementia worsened.

The upside was that he was able to support his parents in a tangible way that felt good. The downside was that it put his Freiburg plans on hold for…well, a long time, anyway. Abe had wanted to take pictures of Freiburg's metamorphosis and bring them back for his parents to paint. His folks had met there when they were in college during a foreign exchange program. They hadn't been back since.

“Getting old sucks,” he said.

“The alternative is even worse,” Stu replied.

Fair enough. But it still made him grimace every time he thought about losing his dad in stages—like water wearing away stone until there was nothing left.

The Wild goalie blocked a slap shot, and Abe whooped. If he reached far enough back, he could remember his dad introducing him to the ice all those years ago. He had no idea where his dad had unearthed skates, but the fit wasn't half bad. Together, they'd walked over to Loon Lake, which had pond hockey rinks that anyone could use when the teams weren't practicing or playing.

“Just go slow, little man,” his dad had told him when Abe had first wobbled onto the ice. “Easy does it. Stay loose.”

Abe could remember asking if he'd fall. His dad had laughed and lit a cigarette. “Little man, we all fall. That's just part of it.”

If Abe was rigid in everyday life, on the ice he was just the opposite. It was so freeing; he was limber in a way he felt he couldn't be otherwise. He went back to the pond hockey rinks day after day. That year, his dad had painted him as a dark silhouette skating against a pale winter sky. The painting hung in his parents' apartment to this day.

“So you think we'll do Christmas Eve over at the retirement village, like last year?” Stu asked at the start of the third period. The Wild were ahead, two to one.

“It's probably easiest. But this time let's bring the food. The dinner they served in the main dining room last Christmas was awful.”

“God, yes. It tasted like Band-Aids.”

“It smelled like Band-Aids.”

“I'll bring the turkey,” Abe said, “if you want to bring the sides.”

“Deal.”

Abe could already picture his parents' apartment—the tiny, overstuffed kitchen, the living room with its smattering of macramé and newspapers, the little bedroom with the handmade quilt. His mom would probably brew mint tea. Abe would uncork a bottle of wine with dinner. They'd eat on the same plates they'd had growing up, and his mom would probably try to get him and Stu to curl up in sleeping bags on their cramped living room floor, like they were twelve again.

Hell, they might even do it.

Because who knew how many more Christmases they'd have together?

Abe frowned, hating how tentative everything seemed lately. And that his usual tactic of holding himself at arm's length from all of it wasn't working anymore. Briefly, he debated asking Stu about how to be happier, how to be more easygoing. Stu's apartment by the river might be cramped and damp, but he was content with it. And where Abe would keep one woman in his bed for ninety days max, Stu was always welcoming scores of women into his life for as long as they wanted to stay. To be fair, it was usually until they found out there were other ladies in Stu's mix, but, somehow, it all worked for his little brother.

The Wild scored again, and Abe leaped to his feet, cheering. All he wanted to do was focus on being here, rooting for his favorite team with his brother in tow. And of course there was the prospect of tomorrow, of seeing Casey Tanner for the tree lighting, which had his gut twisting in ways that he wasn't used to.

Briefly, he debated telling Stu about her, but a fight on the ice distracted him, and he lost track of it until the ride home. He almost opened his mouth as they headed out of Saint Paul, back to White Pine, but instead he asked his brother if he wanted to stop for burgers.

Casey Tanner was his secret—at least for now. He wasn't sure what to expect when he saw her tomorrow, and on the off chance it was terrible, he wouldn't have to explain to his brother what happened. He could just move on to seeing someone else.

Inside the A&W, when his brother asked him if he had someplace to be, Abe was surprised to find he'd been staring at his watch, counting the hours until the tree lighting.

“No, just trying to figure out if I missed a special airing of
The Bridge on the River Kwai
,” he said. Stu shrugged and tore into his second burger. Abe shifted his arm so he wouldn't see his watch face and start thinking about Casey all over again.

Casey smiled and tried not to stare at Dave Englund's dark hair and the toned muscles as he poured her and Audrey each a pint of his new seasonal winter ale. Audrey rounded out the introductions while Dave manned the tap.

“Casey lives in White Pine now, working down at Robot Lit, the tutoring place in town.”

“Nice,” he said. “It must be so rewarding working with the kids.”

“It is,” Casey answered, “though mostly I'm focused on spreadsheets. I'm an accountant.”

“Oh,” Dave said, sliding the glasses across the polished bar. A thick post hammered through the top of his left ear glinted in the light. “That's—well, that's cool, too.”

“Another new tattoo?” Audrey asked, grabbing Dave's forearm. Casey stared at the swirls and patterns into which were etched chef's knives and whisks and even an asparagus stalk.

“The pint glass. For the new ales,” Dave said.

Audrey smiled. “Dave's taken to expressing himself through body art and beer,” she said.

“So you made this?” Casey asked, lifting her pint and staring at the light-gold liquid.

“You bet. There's a little bit of orange in there, to brighten it up. See if you can taste it.”

She and Audrey clinked glasses and took their first sips while the jukebox cranked out “American Pie” by Don McLean. Casey was ready to love a beer that matched her favorite season, but the moment the first drop hit her tongue, she had to force herself to swallow it down.

“It's delicious!” Audrey said. “It tastes just like Christmas.”

Christmas in a wheat field
, Casey thought. The spicy cloves and the orange were great in theory, but the yeasty flavor of the beer was throwing everything off. She seemed to be the only one with that opinion, though. Just about everyone at the bar was drinking it, and her sister had guzzled nearly half the pint in her first sip.

Audrey elbowed her and she realized Dave was staring at her. No doubt waiting for her to say something. “I—that's—spicy,” she finally managed.

She wanted to kick herself. The winter ale, even if she didn't like it, was at least clever. And if Dave could be clever about beer, chances are he could be clever about other things, too. His tattoos and piercings made him unconventional anyway, and there was a chance that translated to being unconventional between the sheets.

Someone down the bar flagged him and Dave lifted his chin in response.“Excuse me while I take care of some other customers. Good to meet you, Casey. See you around, Audrey.”

Casey watched his muscled form, poured into an extra-hot form-fitting black T-shirt, retreat down the bar and tried to muster up a pang of regret. She'd just blown it with someone who could have ushered some fun into her life. Apparently Audrey thought so, too. She gave her a sideways kick at the bar.