One Shot (The Anti-Heroes) Read online

  With the help of Babka, I came to the conclusion self-loathing was way overrated, so I learned to love my s-turns and have developed a pretty mean twerk if I do say so myself.

  “Whatever you’re cooking smells ahmazing!” I shout, hearing a reply, but I still can’t make it out as I put the dogs down and their toenails click as they dance in circles on the worn wooden floor.

  I peel off my grimy lime-green Wiggins Nursery t-shirt, then tuck my thumbs into the waistband of my mud-spattered leggings and strip those off inside out, shoving them into the hamper on top of my shirt as I spin in my white bra and faded red granny panties through the doorway to the dining room.

  I’ve sweaty and a little stinky and after I tell her about the waterlilies, I need to head for the shower. “What did you say?” I ask, barreling through the swinging kitchen door as I tug at the elastic under my left butt cheek, dislodging the semi-wedgie it’s been giving me all day, reminding me I need to learn to get rid of things that irritate me...then, I stop dead.

  Holy shit.

  I forget the barking dogs jumping and scratching my legs as the sensation of being spun into the liquid vortex of grayish-blue, deep-set eyes takes hold. Whoever this magnificent and somewhat frightening man sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table is, he’s got a grip on my girly-bits with barely a glance.

  His facial angles are pure caveman masculinity, like they’ve been carved from a block of Neolithic stone. I watch as his dark brows draw together and his pupils dilate, his sightline tracing from my face down to my toes then back up and I shiver in the warmth of the kitchen, my nipples puckering up tighter than a snare drum.

  A deep, ragged scar cuts right through his left brow, and I think about how much that must have hurt…

  I never much considered if I found bald heads attractive, but fuck yes I do.

  The top of his head gleams in the summer sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and I draw a sharp breath at the sudden urge to reach out and touch the sleek, shaved skin.

  Goosebumps cover my arms as he glances down at his hands, fists I should say, clenched on top of my grandma’s mid-century blue-and-gold Formica table, but then his eyes dart to my crotch, where I’m sure he’s getting a good solid look at a killer camel toe. I say a silent little prayer, begging that my embarrassment is not topped off with a wet spot but I’m sure it’s too late.

  “Fugk…Babka!” I half-shout as I put my palms over my bra, trying to cover my attention-seeking nipples, but that just seems to intensify his stare and my cheeks flame “Why didn’t you tell me someone was here?”

  She’s looking amused, holding a wooden spoon dripping with gravy. “I was trying to tell you, dear. I can’t help it you’re hard of hearing.” She turns back to the stove and I want to tell whoever he is that I’m not hard of hearing but before I can she continues. “This is Jacob West, he’s a friend of your grandpa’s. Jacob, this is Maggie, my granddaughter and unintentional exhibitionist.”

  He grunts something unintelligible as I try to work out a self-esteem redeeming retreat back through the kitchen door.

  He’s obscenely large. He looks like he’s sitting at a child’s play table waiting for a tea party to start and I wonder what else he’s packing that’s obscenely large. A flutter twirls in my belly and I’m clenching my Kegels so hard they burn.

  Solid slabs of muscle move beneath his dark hoodie as he shifts in the chair.

  “H—hi?” I stutter. “Sorry, I usually…” I look down where I’m holding my hands over my bra, knees pressed together. I tug my lips back and forth thinking of what else to say as Babka turns and looks at my feet.

  “Nice socks,” she adds on a little snort and I look down, and the horror multiplies. I’m wearing a pair of dirty athletic socks but that’s not the worst of it. High on my calves are my grandfather’s elastic sock garters because I lose my mind when my socks droop inside my rubber work boots. “Maggie, go get cleaned up and put some clothes on for fuck’s sake, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. And get those damned dogs out of my kitchen.”

  I dare to look up and see Jacob’s eyes locked on me. He doesn’t look amused, more like he’s in pain, and when he finally drops his gaze, I seize the opportunity and fling myself back through the swinging kitchen door, muttering a string of curse words all the way down the hall and up the stairs.

  I lunge into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me as I pant and lean my back against the cool wood. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I slow my breathing as I mutter the single curse word over and over but it’s no longer an expletive.

  Instead, it’s a verb. Something I’d like to be doing. With someone sitting in my Grandmother’s kitchen.

  Fuck. Oh, hell yes.

  Fuck.

  I tug at the front of my blouse where the straining buttons are ready to pop. It took me three changes of clothes to decide what to wear and now I can’t believe I settled on a red plaid flannel shirt that’s two sizes too small and jean shorts. Short, tight jean shorts.

  I’m channeling my inner Daisy Duke.

  I consciously try to avoid eye contact with Jacob as he sits across the table, but every time I lose the battle, he’s already looking at me. He hasn’t said a word, and I wonder if seeing me in my underwear and old man garters has horrified him into silence or if he’s just naturally reticent when it comes to conversation.

  I figure since he’s a friend of my grandfather, they must have met in prison. It feels rude to ask so I distract myself and tell my babka all about my free haul of plants today and she in turn tells Jacob about my koi pond, my pride and joy.

  “Tell him how it started,” she says as she pours more gravy over her potatoes then more Lambrusco into her crystal wine glass.

  I shake my head, my cheeks blazing every time he looks my way. “He doesn’t want to hear that, Babka.”

  “Of course he does. You want to hear about it, don’t you, Jacob?”

  He grunts something of an affirmative, spearing his steak with his fork and attacking it with his knife, and I notice the skin on his knuckles is thick with scars and a few newish-looking cuts and bruises. He’s dangerously gorgeous even wearing an old, faded navy hoodie. It’s unzipped just enough to make my pussy cry out for a better view of the smooth skin underneath.

  If I saw him on the street, especially in this neighborhood, I’d turn the other way, but sitting this close, my girly bits have developed their own sort of wishlist of activities they want to try and no matter how hard I clench my inner muscles, it won’t go away.

  “Well?” Babka fixes me with her gaze. “Go on, Magdalena, tell the story.”

  I swallow the saliva that’s gathering under my tongue. “Well, it’s not much of a story, really. I used to spend a lot of time with Babka—I mean, Oma and Thomas, my grandpa in the summers, when I was growing up. They always took me to the St. Mary’s Church fair. One time there was one of those toss the ping-pong ball into the little round jar games. You know, where each one has a goldfish?” His eyes meet mine and my words catch in my throat.

  “I know the ones,” he says still chewing a bite of steak, and I think they’re the first intelligible words he’s said since I barreled half-naked into the kitchen. His voice is deep and rumbling, like thunder rolling through the mountains.

  “I’m sure you don’t know, most common goldfish are really koi.” The words spring out in an overly-excited burst like I’m giving a frickin’ Ted Talk on goldfish. I pause, trying to steady my shaking voice. “What I mean, is most people don’t know that most of them are actually koi carp. They grow really fast if you feed them enough and give them space. We kept having to get bigger and bigger bowls, then aquariums, then grandpa built a pond in the backyard garden and we got some more fish to join Toto, my first goldfish, when the neighbors had some of their own that they didn’t want anymore—”

  “Toto?” He locks his eyes on me, putting his fork and knife down and the spinning feeling I’ve had since I sat down speeds up, ma
king me dizzy. “Isn’t that a dog’s name?”

  I look down at my dinner, pushing mashed potatoes around on my plate. “I always wanted a dog like Toto from the Wizard of Oz but my dad wouldn’t let me have pets,” I say, trying to keep the sadness from my voice. Whenever I think of or mention my parents, my eyes burn and that odd pressure starts to build in my ears as I fight back the tears.

  He grits his teeth on another grunt of approval. It’s deep and indulgent and it makes my insides twist up in a way I’ve never felt before. When I look at him, I see the slightest upward turn on the left side of his lips and there’s a new sort of gleam in his dark eyes.

  “Cute,” he says, as the blush on my cheeks creeps down my neck and bursts into Fourth of July fireworks all over my chest.

  “W—what do you do for a living?” I ask, in a rushed effort to change the subject then realize my question is idiotic and probably embarrassing since he’s more than likely been a guest of the Macomb Correctional Facility with my grandfather.

  “Nothing at the moment. I just got out of prison. Today actually,” he answers, matter-of-fact, no shame, no secrets. “That’s how I know your grandpa. He lined me up with your grandma and also with someone called Dan at a construction company. Should have some work for me. So, we will see what I do for a living, just don’t know yet.”

  I nod. “I know Dan. His father and Thomas were friends.”

  “And I know,” Babka says, dabbing the white linen napkin to her red lips before finishing, “that construction isn’t all they do there.” She holds up a hand, shaking her head. “It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life. But there are rules here, and if you’re going to be in my house, you need to follow them. Number one, is my house doesn’t get dirty.” I give him a little shrug, raising my eyebrows at the memory of stripping before I walked in earlier. “And I don’t just mean tracking in mud on your boots. Anything you do outside here is your business, but none of that better follow you back here, we clear?”

  Jacob nods. “Crystal.”

  “Good. Number two, we eat dinner together every night except Saturday, which is when I have bingo, unless work means you can’t be home in time. In which case you let me know. I will cook whatever you want, but you and Maggie do the dishes. We will use the fine china, crystal glasses, the whole she-bang, like we are tonight. Life’s too short to save things for special occasions.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Number three, no drugs, heavy drinking or strangers in the house. You introduce me to anyone that comes in here and you vouch for them, you got it?”

  Jacob glances at me, and I try to stifle a grin but lose, instead looking at my plate as he makes a sound that could be a chuckle. “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Yes. You call me Oma.” She pushes her half-eaten plate of food forward, folding her hands in front of her. “And we defend our own here. You’ve already shown me you have no hesitation in taking on trouble, but what happened today… Most think I’m just some old woman, but if it comes to it, I’ll defend myself.” She reaches down and runs her crooked fingers over her steak knife as I furrow my brow on a squint.

  “What?” I ask. “What are you talking about ‘what happened today’?” I meet my babka’s eyes.

  She gives me a dismissive wave of her hand, her nails painted the same rose-red as her lips. “Derrick and Dwight. Their poor manners were showing today, but Jacob set them right.”

  I look across at him as he stares at his empty plate.

  “It wasn’t anything,” he says. “They just needed a little lesson in respect.” He sits up, clearing his throat before taking a deep breath making his chest expand, nodding at Oma. “That was delicious. It’s been a long fucking time since I ate food this good.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. You’re a young man, you need to eat well, especially if you’re going to be working construction. As for the Schuman boys, they weren’t so bad not long ago. Feels like everything is changing.” Her lips form a thin smile and she looks my way, the pearls around her neck shifting as she swallows a sip of her wine.

  “Yeah, well they’re not good anymore,” I mutter, poking at my steak. “And don’t make excuses for them. We’ve all grown up in this neighborhood and we haven’t turned out like them. I’m going to call Anola, see if she knows anything about what happened.”

  “Yes, well, respect for your elders isn’t what it used to be.” Babka looks at me, then down at my plate. “You’ve barely touched your dinner. You always clean your plate, usually get seconds.” Babka looks at Jacob. “She’s always had a healthy appetite even when she was a baby. I’ll show you some pictures—”

  “Babka.” I half snort. “Please, no pictures.”

  She throws her hands up. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  I grit back another blow to my ego as she grabs a silver frame off the sideboard.

  “Just one.” She gives me a wink.

  Glancing at Jacob, his intense stare is locked onto me then he looks away, as if he’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The way he shifts his shoulders back, adjusting himself in his chair, dropping one hand into his lap like he’s adjusting something else and a shiver shakes me right down into my toes.

  “See?” Babka comes to stand next to him, her shoulders nearly level with his, even though he’s seated, and hands him the photo. “There she is, five months old, a perfect little cherub, isn’t she?”

  Jacob takes the frame, staring down at the picture, then runs his tongue across his bottom lip and I clench my thighs together. “Yes ma’am. She is. Perfect.”

  3

  Jacob

  “It’s almost eight o’clock.” Oma starts to push back her chair. “Time for my Zoom call with my book club. It was Sylvia’s book choice this time. She likes some dark stuff. We’re reading a book called Den of Vipers. It’s something..”

  She and Maggie have been doing most of the talking for the last half hour, which is fine because I’m so fucking distracted every time I open my mouth I sound like a fucking idiot. My social skills are rusty at best and with her sitting across from me, now, they’re non-existent because I have no fucking blood left in my brain. It’s all in my dick.

  Oma dabs the corners of her mouth and I stand, hoping like hell neither of them look at my crotch to see the fucking Space Shuttle ready to launch behind my zipper. I step over and pull her chair out the rest of the way.

  Maggie’s eyes are on me as Oma looks up with an appreciative smile. Her teeth are crooked, yellow with age, but her smile is bright, a twinkle in her milky-blue eyes. “Your father must have taught you well.”

  I ignore the comment, my ability to turn off any sort of emotion is honed to a sharpness that would rival a samurai’s blade.

  She shuffles off down the hall, leaving me standing with an epic hard-on and a table full of dirty dishes.

  But, it’s not just the dishes that are dirty. Since she came through that door in the kitchen in her underwear every thought I have is cut from pure filth. She is full in all the right places like Mae West with a sweet face like china doll.

  Her curves were made for my mouth to explore, her strawberry-blonde hair begging for my fingers to twist into, dragging her around me behind me as I grunt and growl. I may be a virgin, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining the hundred and one positions I want to fuck her in.

  I’m practically drooling, wondering what she tastes like between those thick thighs and it makes my dick twitch.

  I’ve never known the touch of a woman. I’ve lusted before but the way life rolled out for me, the shit I saw with my mom and dad, in my foster homes, the fucked-up way guys treated girls when I was a teenager, then it was prison for twelve years…it all conspired to make me and my right hand the best relationship I thought I would ever have.

  But fucking Maggie, Jesus H. Christ, standing here next to me in those little jean shorts, her hair still damp around her cherub-perfect face, remembering the flesh of her soft belly, the way she
held her luscious thighs together and those crazy fucking socks…for the first time, I know what it’s like to want someone. Someone very fucking specific.

  And the wanting is pushing my already-limited control to the border of my sanity.

  “Shall we?” Maggie starts gathering plates and silverware, and watching her clear the table is the simplest but sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and the way she bites into her bottom lip, either she’s teasing me or she’s sickened by me. Could go either way.

  I watch her ripe, round ass in those too fucking short-shorts as she sashays into the kitchen carrying a pile of the china plates and I do my best to gather up the crystal glasses and not turn them into shards.

  I’ve never imagined there was someone like her. Strong, secure, sweet, sharp, sexy and she smells like fucking heaven. She’s making me feel. It feels fucking dangerous but at the same time, I want it more than I wanted to walk out of prison this morning.

  I want to give her things, things I know I can’t right now, but maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m willing to try.

  “Just set them there.” She looks up at me from under her lashes, pointing at the counter next to the white porcelain sink where she turns on the water and it feels like there’s a hand around my throat.

  The water from the faucet only makes me think of her wet pussy. Fuck, I want her to be wet, I want her gushing like the fucking faucet as my cock throbs and I imagine how it will feel the first time her slick walls clamp around my dick and welcome me home.

  Because I’ve already decided. She’s mine. My head may be fucked up, but I know what I know even if I’m not sure how I’m going to convince a girl ten miles up the food chain from me how things are going to play out. But, those are details I’ll settle as we go.

  I retreat back into the dining room, taking a long look over my shoulder, looking at the bottom of her ass cheeks peeking out. She’s obviously dumped the waist-high red panties she was wearing earlier, and I doubt there’s anything between that denim and her pussy.