Page 31 of Dizzy

I still feel guilty, though. But staying would have felt worse.

Dizzy, Parker, Carson, and I ride the next fifteen minutes in silence, the boys sullen, Dizzy seemingly lost in his thoughts when he isn’t checking me out from the corner of his eye.

House mouse. I guess that sounds as good as maid or babysitter. It rhymes, so there’s that.

I’ll give it a day or two. Maybe a week. If the two last names in the backseat simmer down, it could be a nice vacation. I’m not averse to dirty work. I did clean the restrooms at the Gas-and-Go for four years.

Of course, there’s the whole “free pussy” thing. Doesn’t feel free. Feels like I’m selling it.

I don’t want to trade sex for a roof over my head, but at the end of the day, work is work, isn’t it?

Could be worse. They could’ve sent me home with Jed or the angry one.

Dizzy’s resting his hand on the stick. I resettle in my seat, letting my knee fall and graze the knuckle of his pinky. His eyes flick down, and his jaw tightens.

He keeps his hand perfectly still. I leave my knee where it is. Little shivers dance whenever we hit a bump and my skin brushes his. The sensation competes with the pain of the thorn scratches until I’m not sure if I hurt or not.

The sun is setting when we turn down a country road, the kind with no line down the middle, and we pull into a long gravel driveway. There’s a split-level with white siding and an empty flower bed along the front. There’s an attached garage, and next to the house, there’s another garage with two bay doors.

There’s some kind of sports car with a black cover parked in front of the extra garage.

The grass is trimmed, but there’s not a single lawn ornament, only a deflated soccer ball in the middle of the yard.

Dizzy engages the parking brake, and the boys tumble out, racing to the door, hollering again.

I stay put. For some reason, excitement fizzes in my belly.

Dizzy clears his throat and says nothing. We both stare at the house through the windshield, glancing awkwardly at each other. I don’t know why he’s so nervous. He’s the big man who could crush me like a bug. He wasn’t uncertain when he was wailing on my ass earlier.

Eventually, he hops out, walks around, boots crunching on the gravel, and he opens my door.

Huh. Did he think I was waiting for him to do it? I wasn’t. Sheesh. My cheeks heat. I unbuckle, take his hand, and ease down. My ass is really smarting now. It twinges each time I take a step. Feels like sunburn. The scratches on my legs don’t feel too great either. Each cut on its own isn’t a huge deal, but together, they make my legs feel sore and raw.

We start for the house, and Dizzy keeps holding my hand.

I let him.

He leads me to the front door. The boys have left it wide open. Heating the neighborhood, Mama would say. Dizzy props it further open for me. His face is very stern. Guarded.

I step inside.

There’s a pile of muddy shoes and boots in the foyer, carpeted stairs leading up and down. I bend over to untie my boots. Behind me, Dizzy’s doing the same. I place mine neatly side-by-side, toes touching the wall. He leaves his where they fall.

“Kitchen’s upstairs,” he says.

There’s a crash and muffled shouts from the lower level. Dizzy doesn’t seem concerned.

I venture up.

This is not what I was expecting.

This is what would happen if someone gave my sister Dee a credit card with no limit and set her loose at a home décor discount store.

At the top of the stairs, there are white canvas panels that readLive, Laugh, Love. The theme is continued throughout the living room, expanded upon in stencils above the sofa.Live Every Moment. Laugh Every Day. Love Beyond Words. It’s stitched on an accent pillow and painted on metal hanging shelves holding fancy candles in jars. That can’t be safe, burning candles so close to the wall.

“To your right.” Dizzy urges me forward, hand on my lower back.

I feel wrong. Like I’m in someone else’s house.

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