Page 15 of Roads Behind Us
He dropped a pair of black boxer-briefs, and I rolled my eyes.
“You’ve already asked for my help once. What’s the harm in askin’ again?”
“Uh.” He turned a little, his cheeks reddening in chagrin. “You know, male pride and all that. I’ve been on my own a long time now. It frustrates me to no end not to be able to do the simplest shit for myself. Plus, I didn’t think you’d wanna touch my underwear.”
“Please. They’re clean, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down.”
He did it. Didn’t argue this time as he pivoted on his foot and lowered himself into a dining chair. He looked the picture of male pride, but it didn’t make sense to me, because if his wife were still alive, surely he would’ve let her fetch clean laundry.
Looking at his shirt, I noticed wrinkles, and was that dog hair clinging to it? Cow hair? I knew the cattle were close. I smelled the dirty buggers, but I hadn’t seen a dog anywhere.
But male pride aside, I remembered how it felt to be thirteen and depended on like I had been thirty. It wasn’t fun, and that made the decision for me. I called into the living room and up the stairs. “Athena, are you in the shower?”
“About to be,” she yelled back. “Why?”
“Don’t come downstairs for a few minutes. I’m gonna help your dad change his clothes, okay?”
“Umm… Yeah, okay, I think?”
“Good. Thank you!” Bending in front of him, I grabbed the jeans Bax had been failing to pick up off the floor, but there was no way the thick cast on his right leg would allow itself to be covered by denim, not even boot-cut denim. “How did you plan to get these over your cast, and how the hell did you manage the ones you’re wearin’?”
“Aw, shit. I forgot. My sister’s future mother-in-law fixed the jeans I have on. She sewed these wide panels in the leg so they’d fit over the cast.” He touched the side of his leg, and I finally noticed what he was talking about. “But I’ve only got the one pair, and they’re dirty as fuck. I’ve been wearin’ ’em for two days.”
“Yeah, your T-shirt ain’t much better. Got sweats?”
“Uh, yeah. There should be some in the basket.” He watched as I dug through the pile of clothes until I found a pair of heather-gray sweatpants. They looked roomy enough to fit over his cast, and I lifted the boxers he’d dropped in my other hand.
“Strip.”
“Okay.” He puffed out his cheeks and released the breath slowly. “Guess we’re really doin’ this.”
“Please. You think I’ve never seen a pee-pee before?” I rolled my eyes. “But I won’t look. I know you can do this on your own, but how long would it take you, and can you promise me you won’t fall over in the process? Your daughter might kill me if you break your arm too.”
More color rushed into his cheeks. He smirked, and in a low, rasping voice that reminded me of the night we’d met, he said, “Probably not.”
I set the boxers and sweats on the kitchen table as he unzipped his zipper and popped open his fly, then shoved the denim as far down his thighs as the chair would allow, and I whipped my head away. Just that one little motion, the sound of the fabric snapping open, and the way he looked right in my eyes when he’d pushed it down his legs— Oh, Bea. You’re in trouble. The small glimpse I’d gotten of his strong, uncasted and hair-dusted thigh was enough to make me salivate.
I hadn’t seen a man’s thighs in two years, since my last deeply disappointing one-night stand before I landed in Sheridan. The sex had been adequate, but the happy ending I’d had to give myself when I got home let the sting of disappointment linger. Girls got blue balls too.
Blue ovaries?
Bax cleared his throat. “What’d you say?”
“Nothin’. You ready?”
His chair creaked, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he slid his boxers down with his jeans. He made no move to cover himself with the many articles of clothing at his disposal.
He coughed awkwardly. “Yeah. Help?” he said, but there was teasing in his voice.
I took a deep breath, turned back to him, and crouched in front of him, refusing to allow my eyes to focus on bare skin. I tugged at the leg of his jeans, working it over his cast. It took a minute, but I finally managed to get it almost down to his ankle, and then I slipped the other leg down, catching his boxers with the jeans.
He grabbed a clean tee from the laundry basket, set it in his lap, and lifted the dirty one he’d been wearing and pulled it over his head. It messed up his hair, and I wanted to run my hand over it to calm it down, and maybe feel it slide between my fingers. It looked downy and soft.
He tossed the dirty shirt next to the basket and lifted the clean one, working his arms through the arm holes so that the rest of the fabric stretched tightly across his chest.
