Chapter 6

Priscilla

T he moment we enter the boutique, the woman behind the counter lights up, “Rage, where have you been hiding your sexy self?”

The last sentence was said while side-eyeing me. I know my face falls because I realize this is what hanging out with Rage is going to be like, every beautiful female falling all over him, flirting her ass off and trying to hook up with him. I have no right to feel any kind of way about this situation, yet I do.

I physically turn away, spotting a chair nearby and make my way to it to let them flirt in peace. Rage stays right by my side and the moment I sit down he pops a squat beside me, his face smiling and happy. He leans over and whispers in my ear. “She’s not trying to make you uncomfortable.” Jerking his chin to the left, he adds, “She’s trying her best to make him jealous.”

I glance over to find a skinny man with beady eyes and a pencil protector in his shirt pocket flipping through a rack of clothing. He sneaks a quick glance at the woman and becomes visibly alarmed to see her standing in the middle of the floor staring at him. He jerks back, turns on his heel and literally goes running out the door. It’s seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.

The woman makes her way back over to us and the first words out of Rage’s mouth are “Why do you always pick the really strange ones to fall in love with? If I didn’t know better, Frankie, I’d almost think you didn’t like yourself very much.”

She just shrugs irritably and replies, “Socially awkward men need love too, he’s really sweet when you get to know him.” I see her eyes turn to look out the window. The strange man is literally standing in the store’s big picture window, looking at her.

I get that they think the guy’s socially awkward, but I’m thinking he’s serial killer weird. After being married to Conrad and knowing his dysfunctional family, I’m good at picking up the maladaptive kind of weird. I don’t say that, though. It would be rude to yuck another woman’s yum.

When the guy smiles oddly and goes running off again, Francesca turns back to us. “What can I get for you today, Rage? It’s not like you to come in here.” The flirtatiousness is gone from her voice and she’s all business.

Rage comes to his feet. “My friend just got out of the hospital. She needs the works.”

The woman’s eyes light up for a second before she frowns. “Can do, we’re quiet today, but maybe next time call first? Our masseuse isn’t here today, so it won’t be the full works.”

Rage’s voice falters for a second. “I don’t make a habit of collecting injured women, this is a one-off special I told you, she just got out of the hospital. The last thing she needs is a masseuse.”

I speak up, “I’m not sure how good I’ll be at trying on clothing. I’m still a bit sore.”

Francesca gives me a broad smile, “Don’t worry sweetheart, I can help with that, or even try on stuff if you want? We’re a similar size. But what say, we start with your hair? I know how good a new hairstyle can make a woman feel.”

My hand goes up to smooth my pale blonde hair back. It’s gotten to be dull and lifeless in the last few years, likely from stress. It’s just another reminder that I’m not presenting at my best when I most want to look nice.

When my hand drops to my side, Rage takes hold of it and tugs me to my feet. Before I know it, we’re in an adjoining room on the far end of the boutique. It’s a small, posh three-seat beauty salon. I slide into the seat as Francesca talks to the hair stylist. The three of us talk a little bit about what I want my hair to look like as Rage drops down into one of the spare seats. It looks like it’s a slow day for the salon because we’re the only customers.

The stylist makes short work of cutting, coloring, and styling my hair. By the time she’s finished, I look more like my old self. The shoulder-length honey blonde is that hint of warmth my complexion needs to not look so washed out.

Next, I take a turn getting my nails done. Since my nails are long, they just need shaped and painted. The nail tech is finished in about fifteen minutes. Next is a small counter with a famous brand of makeup for sale. Francesca’s skills really shine when it comes to customizing a color palette. By the time she’s finished, I look better than I have in years, and she gathers my products and puts them into a little bag along with perfume samples.

I glance over to find Rage has turned into a thumb warrior on his phone. He looks so handsome when he’s deep in concentration. To think I could have been with him this whole time if only I hadn’t let my parents manipulate me into thinking he was dead. I was young and foolish.

I have to admit that I’m kind of running out of steam when it comes to picking clothing and I might have to take up Francesca’s offer of having her model the outfits for me. Rage is suddenly interested and comes to sit beside me. I ask for dress clothes that I can go to an interview in, and Francesca comes back moments later in a cute little pink suit. It looks adorable on her, but I shake my head and ask, “Do you have it in black.”

“If course, it’s our best seller.”

When she comes back out, I love the look. Rage can tell. He says, “Bag it and let’s see a couple more outfits.”

Before long we’ve picked out four work outfits that I can mix and match. Then out comes the jeans, sweaters, and casual tops. By the time all’s said and done I have ten outfits and underthings.

All-in-all, it’s been a fantastic haul and despite my misgivings this morning, it hasn’t been too tiring. At the end of our excursion, Rage slips Francesca his credit card and I can’t tell how much the whole thing costs because she doesn’t tell him, and he distracts me before the total comes up on the register. He carries all the bags in one hand and places the other around my waist to keep me steady.

He carefully places all my bags behind the passenger side seat, helps me into the seat and buckles me in, careful to place the strap above my wound.

We pull out of the parking lot and head towards town, rather than to pick up Mia from Meli’s place. I’m dreading going into another store but realize that’s not what he has in mind when he pulls into the pick-up space at our local big box electronic store. Rage texts on his cellphone and someone runs out moments later with several bags.

After that we finally head back to pick Mia up. Rage is so chatty that I somehow manage to stay awake the whole way. My daughter jumps into the back seat and begins pawing through my bags excitedly.

Mia comments, “Oh, you got electronics too.”

“Out of your mother’s bags, Mia. You’re too curious for your own good.”

She just laughs at his mild rebuke. “You’re right. I have to know everything about everything.”

***

Once we got to Rage’s house I was overcome with tiredness, so he led me to a room, and I pretty much instantly fell asleep fully clothed. I wake up in what is obviously Rage’s second guest bedroom. He described his house as a small cottage, but this room is rather large. How long I’ve been sleeping is unclear in my mind, but I vaguely remember Rage waking me up to take my meds at some point. My head hurts. It feels like a caffeine withdrawal headache. Suddenly, I want nothing more than a good, hot cup of coffee.

I get out of bed and change out of my creased clothes and pull on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt from one of my shopping bags. I’d really love a shower, but coffee and something to eat are a higher priority. Slipping out of my room, I begin looking for the kitchen. I only have to follow my nose because I can smell bacon and fresh coffee. When I get close, I can hear that Rage and Mia are talking about cookies.

“No, you’re not supposed to smash them down with a fork. You’re supposed to roll them into a fist size ball and then tear the ball in two and put it on the cookie sheet rough side up.”

“That’s sounds like one hell of a cookie, kid.”

“Meli said we have to lower the oven temperature to three hundred or they won’t cook all the way through.”

“Well as Meli is the world’s best cookie baker, so I’m sure she’s giving you good advice.”

“Damn straight she is, “Mia says enthusiastically. “The cookies we made were the best damn cookies I’ve ever tasted.”

“You know something, Mia. I don’t think your mom would approve of your cursing when she’s not around.”

“You’re supposed to be my role model, and you curse, like all the time. It can’t be bad if you do it.”

Rage chokes out, “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t curse if you don’t. Then your mom doesn’t have to feel bad having you around a bad influence like me. How does that sound?”

Mia hesitates, “Yeah, that’s good. But you really think my mom feels bad when we curse?”

“Look, kid. I don’t know. I’ve never lived with a little girl before, so I’m just winging it here, but I know your mom won’t be thanking me if you end up cussing like a sailor.”

I walk into the room and answer the question they seem to be agonizing over. “I would feel bad if you grew up thinking it was okay for kids to curse. That’s not okay. When you’re all grown up, you get to decide a lot of things for yourself. One is whether or not you want to curse. Until then, let’s keep our language PG, okay?”

Mia is sitting at the table with a drawing pad and a huge pencil with pretty pink feathers attached to the top. She nods, “Okay Mommy. I don’t want you to feel bad over the things I do.”

“Well, I’m responsible for how I feel, so don’t worry about that. Just try your best to be a good person and let everything else take care of itself.”

“I poured you coffee, Prissy. How do you take your morning brew?”

“One sugar and two creamers. I’ll get it though. I can see you have your hands full this morning.”

“Thanks. Beware of Boots. He’s old and cranky in the morning.”

I glance up to where he’s gesturing to see a black and white tuxedo cat sitting in a kitchen chair beside Mia. He meows, but the sound is ragged and loud, like he’s angry.

Mia reaches over and eases a small saucer of fancy cat food to his face. He leans over and begins to eat.

“Do you always feed him at the table?” I ask.

“He’s always sat in that particular seat to eat his food. Don’t blame me. Gerald got him started with that when he was young. Now, he won’t eat anywhere else.”

Mia adds gleefully, “Look Mommy, he has a special chair.”

Rage explains, “Gerald hand built it to be the perfect size for Boots to reach his food bowl.”

“I see. You inherited Boots with the house.”

Mia points out, “He’s called Boots because the fur on his legs looks like he’s wearing boots. Though he prefers to be called Mister Boots, apparently, he’s an old man and I have to be polite,” she grins at Rage.

“Aww, isn’t that the cutest thing ever,” I say as I sit across from Mia.

“No,” Rage comments pointing a spatula at me. “I’m the cutest thing ever and don’t you girls forget it.”

I smile behind my coffee cup, but Mia shakes her head at Rage. “You’re not cute. You’re a big scary biker with tattoos.

Rage puffs out his chest proudly and responds, “Damn straight I am, kid.”

She frowns at him. “You said that word.”

He grumbles, “We’re gonna need to start a swear jar or something, I’ve been cursing my whole damn life. It’s a da- hecking hard habit to break.”

While I’m thinking about starting a swear jar for Rage, he wanders over with a huge platter of bacon, eggs, and huge round biscuits.

I look up at him with new eyes. “You make homemade biscuits?”

By this time he’s stepped across to pull out some plates and flatware. He comes back grinning from ear to ear. “It was old man Gerald. He said cathead biscuit making was a dying art and insisted I learn. He didn’t have to push too hard because I fell in love with catheads.”

Mia stops drawing and asks, “Why are they called cathead biscuits. They don’t have little pointy cat ears sticking up.”

Rage sits down and hands us each a plate. “That’s a good observation. I asked Gerald that very same question, he said it’s because they’re the size of a cat’s head.” He reaches over and holds a biscuit beside Mister Boots’ head. It’s about the same size.

About that time, his cat got mean. He swipes one paw with his claws out and grabs at the biscuit. Rage grumbles, “I was gonna give you one, no need to claw and grab, you cranky old man.”

Instead of eating it, his cat bats it down into the chair and curls up around it. I guess using it for a heating pad.

Rage begins putting food on our plates, “Ignore Boots. He’s got cat dementia.”

I pick up a piece of bacon and took a bite off the end. There was something about this scene that seems so right. Me and Mia sitting at the table with Rage laughing and joking like a real family. My mind went back to what Meli had said yesterday. Looking between Rage and my daughter both giggling and joking about something, they seemed like twins.

But it couldn’t be.