Burn for You

It took a long time for me to recover from that. “But . . .” I looked at my mother. “I gave you a stroke.”

She sighed like she was disappointed she’d given birth to such an idiot.

Exasperated, my father trumpeted, “You can’t take credit for that, boy! Your mother’s been on a blood thinner for twenty years because she’d had a minor stroke before you were born and the doctors were tryin’ to prevent another one! Sticky blood runs in her side of the family! Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, what nonsense! And this is why you stayed away?”

My temper snapped. I stood, shoving back my chair. “I stayed away because you loved Linc more than you ever loved me!”

My mother gasped. My father gaped at me. The servant silently excused himself from the room and disappeared.

“Jackson Walker Boudreaux,” said my mother in a halting, horrified whisper. She was white as a sheet. Her eyes filled with tears. “That is a terrible thing to say, and untrue!”

My father said crossly, “Well now you’ve done it. Congratulations, boy. You’ve made your mother cry.”

He went to her, took her hand and held it, crooned soothing words to her as she wept and I looked on, convinced I was in a state of shock so severe I’d had a mental break with reality.

Finally when he’d calmed her down, he pulled himself to his full height, straightened his shoulders, and let me have it.

“Now you listen to me real good, son, because I’m only gonna say this once. We love you. We love you now, we loved you then, we’ll love you until we die. You’re our son. We know we weren’t perfect parents, but you were a handful. Maybe we didn’t always know the right way to deal with you, but we never loved you less than your brother. Never. And we never blamed you for his death, either, even though I know you think we did.”

When I blinked in shock, he nodded. “That’s right. I’m not stupid. You got my blood in your veins, you think I don’t know what you’re thinkin’? But you’re a stubborn SOB—just like me. Once you get your mind set, that’s it.”

My mother made a placating noise, and he heaved a great sigh. “But it was my fault for leavin’ it alone for so long. I shoulda . . . done something. I don’t know. Made you talk to me. But gettin’ you to talk is like pullin’ teeth.”

He waved a hand in the air like he wanted to dismiss that last part. “Anyway. The bottom line is that the past is past. We’re gonna have a new daughter-in-law. It’s time we started actin’ like a family again. By the way, we love Bianca. What a firecracker. Hopefully we’ll have another grandbaby or two by this time next year.”

I stared at him. I stared at my mother. I opened my mouth and found I had no words.

“Well, look at that, Clemmy,” said my father. “Ha! I’ve left him speechless. Score one for the old man.”

I sank into the chair and put my head into my hands.

The servant reappeared, set a Bloody Dixie on the table in front of me, and murmured, “I hope you still like these, sir. Thought you might need it. Welcome home.”

When he disappeared again it was to the sound of my soft, disbelieving laughter.

BLOODY DIXIE

Makes 4 servings

1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice

2 ounces vodka

1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared)

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 tablespoon hot sauce

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

dash of celery salt

dash of pepper

4 slices cooked bacon

4 ribs celery

Preparation

Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle.

Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously.

Add ice to 4 highball glasses.

Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste).

Add tomato juice mix to fill.

Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.

THIRTY-FOUR

BIANCA

I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in.

“Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.”

He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him.

Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest.

Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind?

Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I’ll have you know I won a talent contest once with my excellent rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

Jackson shook his head, spraying water droplets from his dark hair, and smiled down at me. He turned me around and started soaping my shoulders and back, gently digging his thumbs into the muscles. I groaned in pleasure. He said, “Really? How old were you? Seven?”

“Eight.” I pouted. “Jerk.”

He chuckled. “You don’t think I’m a jerk.” He bent down to kiss my ear. It brought his warm, wet skin in velvety contact with mine. He whispered, “In fact I think you like me.” He slid an arm around my waist, pinning me against the wall of his hard body.

I trashed my previous position that heaven was a library with every book ever written. No. Heaven was showering with a big, naked, soapy man who had a husky voice and a gentle sense of humor and an erection that should have its own zip code. I relaxed into his embrace with a happy sigh.

“Maybe,” I said, almost purring as he massaged my neck. “The jury’s still out.”

His big hand slid from my neck to my shoulder, then down my arm. He curved his fingers around my rib cage, reverently tracing each rib like it was a love story in braille, then palmed my breast.

He murmured, “You said you wouldn’t lie to me, sweetheart,” and tweaked my hard nipple with his thumb.

When I gasped and jumped like I’d had a mild electric shock, he chuckled again. “Any other lies you want to tell?”

“Um. I felt nothing when you did that?”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” he whispered, thumbing back and forth over my nipple as I shivered in delight. “You must be shivering because it’s so cold in here.”

Hot steam billowed all around us. I couldn’t help myself, and laughed. “Definitely.”

He gently bit my neck, which I was quickly realizing was one of my favorite things in the world. He was never rough, no matter where he pressed his teeth. It was like he was testing the firmness of my flesh, like he found me so delicious he wanted to eat me. Savor me, bite by bite. Hold my flavor on his tongue and enjoy it, like one would with bourbon or a fine wine.

My head resting on his shoulder, I reached up and wound my arms around his neck. That gave him access to all the girly real estate on my body, which he immediately claimed.

His lips still on my neck, he ran his hands down my sides, armpits to hips, his grip firm and possessive. His erection dug into my bottom. He flattened his hands over my stomach.