Page 58 of Dizzy

“Yup.” I scurry in, and as I pass him, he wallops my butt, bags swinging.

“That’s one,” he says. “Nine to go.”

Little shivers skitter all over my skin. It didn’t hurt at all. But I see he hasn’t forgotten.

Is he really gonna spank me again?

He did before, but I was out of my mind. If there was much pain, it didn’t really register. Afterwards, I was sore for a few hours, but there was so much else to worry about.

And I kind of liked the soreness. After I gave it up to Rylan Dorset in the field behind his house, three whole months after I let him get to first base, I ached for a day or two. He was in the wind; he’d gotten what he wanted, and I think he was pissed he’d had to work as hard he had for it.

I didn’t much care that he was done with me. It’s wasn’t love; it was curiosity. But I did like that ache between my legs. It made me feel different. Like I’d done something. Something had happened to me, and that meant I was real.

It was kind of the same with my sore bottom. I checked it out in the bathroom mirror when I was taking my shower. My butt cheeks were pink, but it was subtle. No one else would’ve been able to tell. But I could.

I admired my ass for minutes, from all angles. It felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. Like the rush when you slip a nail polish into your pocket at the pharmacy or pop a grape in your mouth at the grocery store.

I come from a line of women who make very dubious choices when it comes to men, but none of them would let a man spank ‘em willingly. My sisters would all think I’m sick to be looking forward to Dizzy maybe doing it again.

I want him to. I want to see what it’s like when I’m not upset.

“You rest a while if you want while I make dinner,” Dizzy hollers at me from the kitchen. I realize I’m standing in the foyer, one boot off, lost in thought. The kids already have that video game on downstairs.

“I’ll see about the laundry,” I call back. I go down, wade through the disaster, and put in the dark load. I restart the white load in the dryer.

At the laundromat in Dalton, if the load didn’t dry all the way during the first cycle, or if I got distracted and it somehow got cold and wrinkled in the machine, then that was that. But I’m seeing the upside of owning your own machine—and not being the one who pays the electric bill. You just turn the darn thing on again.

Rich people and their second chances. I shake my head and start refolding a basket of towels so they’re in thirds the way I like.

“Dinner!” Dizzy bellows down the stairs not much later.

Carson races into the laundry room and repeats, “Dinner!” Then he sprints away.

As I make my way up, Parker’s sulking on the sofa picking apart a Nerf ball. I ain’t cleaning that.

“You comin’?” I ask.

He gives a long-suffering sigh and drags his butt up the stairs behind me. Must be tough. Food on the table. Your own room. Hell, your own level of the house. Every toy you can imagine. Birthday parties. A dad.

We all sit at the table, same seats as last night, and the TV tuned to the same station. MMA this time instead of wrestling. And Dizzy’s set the table. There’s a bowl and spoon in front of everyone, and a stainless-steel pot of macaroni and cheese sitting on a dish towel in the middle.

We’re gettin’ fancy.

Even when times were the absolute toughest, if Mama was makin’ dinner, there were always serving dishes. Before we inherited Gram’s wedding china, we used a set Mama picked up at a yard sale. We all have our vanities, I guess.

“Carson—” Dizzy barks, but the boy’s already in the fridge, getting two beers and two pops.

Dizzy unscrews my top for me while the boys fight over the serving spoon. Soon enough, we’re all settled and chowing down.

The mac and cheese is even better than the kind you can make with milk. This is the kind where there’s cheese in a foil pouch. You don’t add anything.

It’s so creamy good.

I get anxious when Parker and Carson finish before me and go for seconds, but turns out, there’s a whole other pot on the stove. We all get as much as we can eat.

There’s no conversation. Parker’s still out of sorts, and Carson’s glued to the TV.

Dizzy’s watching me. My mouth. When I finish my beer, he has Carson get me a pop. Guess I’m cut off at one.

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