Zipper Fall (27 page)

“Puissy!” I heard him cry out behind me, excited. He picked up the gray cat with reverence. “That’s what’s happened to him! I was afraid he got thrown out by accident. Celia had been threatening me with hiding him in the garbage for quite a while.”

I looked at the depressed cat. His whiskers were broken, his tail hung limp—only his eyes laughed at me, frozen in time. “Yours?”

“Yeah….”

“You keeping it?”

“Of course!” Jack shot me a look laden with suspicion. “I’ll have you know we went through a lot together, he and I. He’s my buddy, my pal. Puissy, meet Wyatt. Wyatt, meet Puissy.”

I gave Jack a sideways glance. “So… how did he end up with a name like that?”

“Very funny, Wyatt. Nobody will ever give me a break over his name. It just happens to be short for ‘Puissant,’ so you can get your mind out of the gutter right now.”

“Puissant?”

“It means powerful, mighty, potent, good stuff like that.”

“Oh,” I said, trying in vain to suppress my giggle. “Potent. I see. Well right now he looks like he’s going to fall apart if you look at him with a crooked eye.”

“Yeah. I need to find someone who knows how to fix old toys.”

I nodded. “You already know someone.”

“Who, you?” Jack’s eyes filled with hope.

“Actually… I hate to bring him up, but Dr. Hinge has always excelled in the needleworking arts.”

“Paul? Really?” I couldn’t believe Jack was so worked up over an old toy. I watched him pick up the phone and shoot out a quick text.

Soon, his phone rang. “Paul? It’s Jack. Yeah… got a minute?”

I wandered into the kitchen, warmed up a glass of milk in the microwave, and added some chocolate syrup. A sense of jealousy seized me over the stupid toy. I wished it were me who was uncommonly talented in needlework, fantasizing about fixing Puissy, handing the no longer dilapidated cat back to Jack in exchange for his devastating, full-power smile.

Just like Jack felt jealous of Paul’s medical skill….

It seemed we were doomed, Jack and I. We were doomed to keep calling Dr. Paul Hinge’s number every time one of us got shot or sprained an ankle, every time one of us ripped a zipper or lost a button. He was the go-to guy. He could patch up anything. Despite my irritation, the thought made me smile. By the time I returned to the living room, Jack was off the phone and I shared my analysis of Dr. Paul Hinge in our lives with him.

The patch-up guy.

The cut man.

The seamstress.

He only grinned. “I bet those old baby quilts used to be mine and Celia’s, and I bet you’ll find a giant white stuffed cockroach in there somewhere.

I did.

He tossed the quilts. He kept the cockroach.

I dug a bit deeper into the box. Under a twisted mass of dusty, brocade curtains ten decades out of fashion, my fingertips slid over the smooth surface of cool metal. Metal covered with chalk dust. A bit of rope… and some plastic buckles. “Jack. Jack, I think we got it.”

He dove toward me. The harness that emerged was still attached to a coil of semielastic climbing rope, accompanied by several carabiners and two self-belay devices.

We lifted our heads and looked at each other. Jack was as white as a sheet, his good mood having sublimated like dry ice on a hot day. He swayed a bit from side to side before catching his balance on the arm of the leather sofa.

I edged all the way toward him. My knees pressed into the blue carpet next to his as I hugged him around the waist. He embraced my shoulders with his long arms. His chin fell into my hair, and I heard him struggle for breath. We rocked from side to side together, the way I saw Susan rock little Michelle to sleep. He was squeezing me mighty tight for a while. His head dropped to the side of my head, and I felt his chest expand in his struggle for air, making my cheek and the side of my neck warm and moist.

I didn’t turn to look at him; he didn’t need me to witness his tears.

Time passed as we sat there, both of us silent and contemplative about what this piece of physical evidence might mean.

“I feel a bit wiped out,” Jack said apologetically. “We should probably turn in.”

“It’s alright. Really. Just… take your shower, and I’ll clean up in here.”

He just stood there, watching me place assorted objects in their categories.

I sighed and stood up, facing him. “Jack. Go. Now.” I used my no-nonsense voice, and to my surprise, it worked. He turned around like an automaton and ambled into his room to shed his dusty clothes. By the time the rest of the boxes were disposed of and I had vacuumed the much-abused carpet, Jack emerged from his room wearing pajamas.

I’d never seen him wear pajamas before.

“I’m having a scotch,” he said. “You want any?”

“Yeah. On the rocks.” I’d have to skip my pain meds tonight.

Jack selected two cut crystal tumblers from the back of the kitchen cabinet, put ice in them, and poured a good measure of single malt scotch into each. He handed one to me and raised a toast. “To Celia. She was one hell of a broad, an awesome sister, and she deserved better than that.”

“To Celia.” We sipped, still standing.

Jack hugged my shoulders with his free arm and pulled me in and kissed my temple. “Good night, Wyatt.” Then he returned to his room and closed the door.

I showered and slipped into a clean pair of black silk boxers that I “borrowed” from Jack’s underwear drawer earlier that day; they threatened to slide off my hips. I pulled on the climbing shirt with the logo of Mt. Whitney Celia had given to Jack, which he let me wear. My window was cracked open and the autumn breeze played with the edges of the curtains. I settled in the middle of my bed and hugged a pillow to my chest. I wanted to sleep—exhaustion deprived me of rational thought—yet I was still unable to stop ruminating on various tasks that might help reveal the truth about how Celia died. I had lists of things to do galloping through my head, complete with my spider diagram visual. The words and phrases spilled off the jagged branches, calling for attention. Schematic diagrams of the GriGri, an assisted braking device Celia had, popped up before my wide-open eyes. Friction coefficients of various types of ropes with their various diameters cluttered the space behind my ears.

I had finished my scotch and wasn’t in the mood for another.

I tossed. I turned. I felt too hot; I kicked my sheet and comforter away. Then I became too cold and had to sit up and hunt for them again.

There was a faint knock on my door. “Come in,” I said, keeping my voice low.

A tall, dark figure slipped in; the door closed. My mattress dipped under the extra weight and arms enveloped me and held me tight. Jack sighed.

I stroked his shoulder, his arm, his back. He inhaled again and held his breath. I felt his back pop and he sighed in relief. As he molded himself against me, I felt his body transition from a tense mass that resembled hard concrete, to a pliable puddle of goo. I smiled—the fact that Jack was able to relax just because he was with me really stroked my ego.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he mumbled, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “You popped my back again.” Within two minutes, he was asleep.

“I
ZZY
S
ILVERSTEIN
will be stopping by. You think you can stay here for him?” Jack asked over a hot cup of coffee, taking me by surprise.

“I had plans.”

“You can work from my home office. And you have your laptop.”

I shrugged, pouring more cereal. “I was hoping to unkink my back after all that bending yesterday. Maybe get some exercise.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and gave me a measuring look. “You’re not going climbing, are you?”

I stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, not saying a word.

“You think you’ll be okay doing that? How’s your butt?”

Slowly, I felt the tension drain from me. “Fine… I don’t have to do much. Just get back in shape. There’s this guy, Carlos, who might know what was going on last year and all. I need to compile a timeline, and if I go during the day, Haus will be downstairs, working.”

Jack ran his long fingers through his playfully disobedient chestnut hair. “Well… call him then so you can coordinate your schedules. If you get too tired climbing, take a cab home. I don’t want you passing out on the bus.”

A small, well-hidden part of me stirred as he said that. There he was again, all gruff and sweet and concerned.

Sometime later, Jack kissed me good-bye and shut the door on his way out. His absence gave me space to think about the feelings that woke up as a result of his concern. I felt an immediate need to push it all away and bury myself in work, which was a sure signal there was something important going on.

I wanted to push Jack away.

There. It was as simple as that. I wanted him in my life, I yearned to spoil him and make his days more pleasant, yet as soon as Jack showed what could be construed as feelings for me, I was sorely tempted to back off.

As I did the morning dishes and microwaved the last cup of coffee, I realized I was scared shitless. I was afraid because now that I had something of value, I could lose it. If Jack changed his mind and left, I would be utterly devastated, and after my history of personal relationships and their sorry ends, I didn’t want to ever feel like that again.

I was afraid I’d do something to drive Jack away. Pushing him away would have been a preemptive strike of sorts, a way to control the emotional fallout. Finding a bit of insight about my own motivations filled me with both relief and apprehension.

Relief, because suddenly I saw why and how the relationships in my life seemed to be falling apart. Once Mom died, I made sure nobody ever left me again. I was the one who always managed to walk out the door.

Apprehension, because even though I was now aware of a thought pattern, I had absolutely no idea how to harness all that insight.

I
WOKE
up next to Jack. That fact alone was mildly surprising. He was still asleep, his hair a spill of warmth against my pale ivory sheets. He was sprawled as though he owned the bed, which he didn’t, pushing me to the side. I shoved back a bit in a bid to reclaim some real estate. My gesture provoked a mild, sleepy grumble. He grabbed the blanket and turned on his side, away from me.

Jack Azurri is a blanket thief.

I guess I deserved my fate, considering I am a real thief and a burglar. What goes around, comes around. The cool morning air felt a bit too brisk with the window having been open overnight; I shivered and rolled out of bed to use the bathroom. Then I returned and spooned Jack from behind, trying to get some coverage under the edge of my dark blue comforter.

“What?” Groaned a sleepy voice.

“Can I have some blanket?”

He flopped the other way, engulfing me under a cozy tent of fabric and sleepy, warm flesh. I burrowed my nose into his shoulder and inhaled his warm, musky scent.

He smells better than after his shower.

My action didn’t pass unnoticed.

“Mmm?”

I inhaled again and ran my hand over his modest, pinstriped pajamas.

“Wyatt?” No longer drowsy, he leaned into me, nosing my hair to the side. I felt warm, soft lips on my neck. “What time is it?”

“Early,” I groaned. “You almost pushed me off the bed, and then you stole the covers.”

“So sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Maybe I can make it up to you?”

“Maybe.” I whispered, hoping my morning breath wasn’t too terrible. I felt his hand skim up my bent leg and across my hip, turning me onto my back, exposing me.

His fingers played over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “I may be the blanket thief, but you seem to keep taking my underwear, Wyatt.” His hand moved the silk around. The tender caress just about ripped an involuntary gasp from my lungs. “Maybe I should take it back.” Clever fingers drew a fire trail along the top of the boxers; the tingle of sudden heat surprised a whimper out of me. “What, Wyatt? Were you going to say something?”

I widened my eyes, looking at him, ready to open my mouth. Whatever I was going to say was wiped from my mind as his hand slipped under the sinuous silk and his delicate fingers teased my curls.

“Jack!” Any pretense at dignity went out the window as I gave a needy whine, bucking up into his touch in search of more contact.

He let go of me, divested me of the silk boxer shorts I had stolen from him, and tucked the wad of silk up his sleeve. “Mine,” he said, his eyes now alert and full of mischief. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

“Jack!” My voice said it all.

“What? I’ll be back… eventually.” He disappeared into the bathroom and did his business, and when he came out, he was nude and gorgeous; his half-hard alter ego stirred to greet me as he took in the sight of me, sprawled wantonly across my bed, wanting, waiting.

He pounced.

I moved to roll him under me, but he had the advantage of both size and surprise. Once again he was perched on my chest, twirling an overgrown strand of hair, smiling.