31. Remington

THIRTY-ONE

REMINGTON

"Scar?"

"In the kitchen!"

"Shit…" I mutter, looking down at Winnie. "Why'd you leave your mamma alone in the kitchen? Do you not remember what she did to my Le Creuset? And the Caraway pan before that?"

Whining and hanging her head, I scratch between her ears and soothe, "It's okay, sweet girl. I'll eat yours for you. She's tryin' and we don't want to hurt her feelings. But I promise, I'll be sure there's prepped meals in the fridge for y'all whenever I'm on the road without you."

Picking Winnie up, I carry her up the stairs, depositing her at the top where she quickly decides it's every man and dog for themselves and sprints as fast as she can from the kitchen.

"See if I make you your own Thanksgiving now," I hiss.

Coming into the kitchen, I'm greeted by the sight of my girl at the sink, hair knotted and off center on the top of her head, hips swaying to the music flowing from the sound system. On her back is my name and number boldly stamped in gold—the championship t-shirt from several years ago now fully in her ownership amongst several other t-shirts and sweatshirts of mine—the black hem long enough that I can't tell if she has anything on under it. And stretching up her legs and over her knees are those damn knitted socks with the velvet bows on the back that drive me crazy every time she wears them.

Her voice is endearingly offkey—not that mine is any better—and she's a good line and a half behind the lyrics. It doesn't stop her though as she belts out the words as if she's singing for a sold out arena.

"Gonna wear that dress you like, skin-tight

Do my hair up real, real nice

And syncopate my skin to how you're breathing"

Stepping up behind her, I put my hands on her hips and draw her back into me, moving with her and the music.

"Whatcha doin', baby girl?"

Kissing me over her shoulder as her head bobs through the rapped verse, she answers what I can already see, my cookware and I breathing a sigh of relief.

"Washing the dishes. You were up so early doing all the baking and prep-work for tomorrow, I figured it was the least I could do. Especially since dad and Roman are no more skilled in the kitchen than I am. Aside from eating, cleanup is all we're good for." Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she turns around—my shirt rising up her thighs as she wraps her arms behind my neck and revealing that all she has on underneath are boy shorts in her signature shade of pink—and with a cute frown, mumbles, "I really am sorry about your oven thingy. I ordered a new one for you but with the holiday I don't think it'll be here until Monday, maybe Tuesday. But seriously, Remi, why were you letting me use your $400 cookware?"

"First, it's a dutch oven. Second, it's okay." I assure her, kissing her nose. "We can try somethin' else next time."

"Let's face it, a domestic goddess I will never be. Whenever I'm not on road stretches with the team I'm just going to have to rely on the lovely Publix employees who make all the salads, soups, and sandwiches. And drive-thru, gotta sneak in my waffle fries, chicken nuggets, and Dr. Pepper.

"And when we have kids, you'll either need to retire so someone can cook and do laundry for us all or we hire our own Mary Anne to be our Girl Friday and just raise them in the dugout like I was."

"Doesn't sound like too bad a life," I muse. "Though I don't know how I feel about the possibility of some horny ball player absconding with our daughter and doing truly depraved things to her."

Rubbing at my scruff, she smiles, "I don't know… I think it's worked out pretty well for me so far."

"Definitely," I agree, lifting her left hand to my lips and kissing just below her ring. Bringing it back down to her side, I trace my fingers over the letters between her breasts and say, "Don't change. I should only be about two hours, maybe less, and then I have plans for you."

"Or," she draws out, lifting the shirt and turning around to reveal the back of her panties, "you could show me your plans now and save my car for later."

"Oh fuck me…" I groan, taking in my last name in Nighthawks green on one cheek and my number on the other.

"You like?"

"Very much."

"I was so excited when this idea for next season's collection was initially pitched to me a few weeks ago and ordered a sample pair. Though I have to admit, as cute as they are and as much of a hit as they'll be, I don't think I'm going to like the idea of my husband's name on some other woman's ass."

Squatting down and cupping her firm cheeks, I bite her right over the first T in my name, one of those adorable squeaks leaving her, and fixate on two little words.

"Your husband?"

"Mhmm," she softly moans, rising up on her toes as I trace my tongue along the underside of her muscle. "My husband… my name… mine ."

"I like the sound of that," I draw out, kissing her inner thighs. "And of you gettin' possessive."

Turning back around, Scarlet hoists herself onto the counter beside the sink, opening her legs to tempt me with the darkening wet spot in the center of her panties and offers, "You should come take advantage of it then."

"I would…" I respond, walking back so I'm out of her legs' reach before standing. "But I need to finish servicing your car. It's supposed to get icy this weekend and I don't want you out there on the roads without new tires since you're insisting on participating in the madness that is Black Friday."

"It's tradition. Dad and I always shop the holiday weekend sales." Looking forlornly at the dishes in the sink, she sighs, "Fine. But after?—"

"Oh, after I'm bending you over this counter and fuckin' you with my name and number on your back and those panties trapped around your knees."

As I start to head for the front door, she calls, "Remi?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For the car I mean. And my family."

Coming back, I cup both sides of her face, fingers threading through her tied back hair, and kiss her. It's firm and fast but says everything I need it to. Still, when I let her go, her lips softly tilting up, I say, "You don't ever have to thank me for having your family here, baby girl. Nor do you have to thank me for making sure you're safe in your car. Nonetheless, I appreciate it."

"I just feel bad. Us Joneses seem to be taking over your space and entire life."

"Our space, Scar. Ours. And as for the takeover, I wouldn't have it any other way if it means I get you."

"Hopefully you still feel that way after the weekend. Because I'll be honest, you'll have to pry this ring from my cold, dead hand if you want to end things."

Kissing her once more and dancing out of her reach as she tries to trap me between her thighs, I smile, "Not somethin' you ever have to worry about. Now for real, I need to go finish your car otherwise I won't have time to slip between those sweet thighs of yours before the entire clan descends upon our sex den without Colt walkin' in on us doing things that will surely see Knox moving from backup to starting and widow you before you even say 'I do.'"

Outside, traitorous sidekick in tow now that she's officially marked safe from Scar offering up her cooking, I head over to the side of the house and our seldom used garage. Punching in the code to open the door, all three lift open, revealing the giant bay I had designed for all the work my ma's old Bronco requires these days. I eventually parted with most of her things after I finally woke up and dealt with her passing, realizing that holding on to every sweater, blanket, and dish she owned wasn't going to help me better hold on to the memory of her. The old SUV, however, I couldn't let go.

Growing up, my ma instilled four calibers of measuring success in me: the quality of the love in your life, not the quantity; the security of the roof over your head, not it's location or cost; the ability to go into a grocery store and buy a week's worth of food without having to count your pennies or put things back; and having your own mode of reliable transportation. It was that fourth one that, when she achieved it, became a core memory that forever defined me.

I was only three, maybe four, when it happened, so really I only remember being told the story. But after saving every spare cent and dollar she could since finding out she was pregnant and would be doing it all alone, she'd been able to afford not only the car itself but the associated and recurring costs after the fact. Even though it was ten years old when she bought it with—if I had to guess—at least 80,000 miles on it, it was her second baby, her pride and joy, a tangible representation that while things were tight more often than they weren't, she was wholly independent and no longer had to rely on anyone but herself for anything. She loved that damn thing and what it represented so much that it remained the only car she ever owned. So even with the need to let go and move on, I kept it. And until it had refused to give me so much as a sputter one day after practice, I had been driving it as my primary vehicle since she died.

Patting the open hood of the car while directing Winnie with a whistle and a point to the lifted bed I added in here for her several weeks back, I comment, "Don't worry, Lucky. I'm gonna finish your engine and clutch. My girl's car needed servicing and winter proofing, otherwise you'd be getting all my attention."

Dropping my phone in the dock and hitting shuffle—"Fiddle in the Band" filling my speakers—I drag my work cart over to where Scar's Rover is lifted up, stack her new tires that arrived yesterday afternoon, and roll my neck until it pops. Then stuffing a rag into the pocket of my worn, stained jeans, I get on the slide board and wheel under to finish up what I started yesterday.