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KARL SLAMMED A hand down on his cell, trying to turn the damn thing off. It couldn’t be morning already. He peeled one eye open and checked. Six a.m. Fuck. He rubbed his eyes, grunted as he stretched, and then stumbled to his feet. The heated flooring came as a welcome surprise.
Paul, already suited up, was biting into a slice of toast at the counter as Karl zombied his way into the kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee wafted over to him from the percolator coughing and spluttering behind Paul. Delicious. The coffee that was. Paul too, actually, in a dark gray suit and lighter gray tie.
“Morning.” Paul eyed his rushed dressing. Karl double-checked his T-shirt was on the right way. “Sleep all right?” Paul’s voice sounded chipper. Ugh. Frigging morning people. He suppressed the urge to scowl and gave an affirmative grunt instead.
“I’ll be off in about ten.” Paul turned and poured himself a cup. Karl stumbled onto a breakfast bar stool. “Want one?”
Karl swatted the sleepiness from his eyes once more and glanced again at Paul. He’d either forgotten about last night or forgiven him for bringing up his dead wife. Karl cleared his throat, swallowing his ‘A bear shit in the woods?’ retort. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Right. Milk? Sugar?”
“This early, both.” Karl wasn’t quite sure what to make of Paul’s show of friendliness. It’d been hinted at with extending a dinner invitation to him last night, but then he’d thought it’d been with the purpose of getting to know who would be looking after his boy. But maybe this was the real Paul. A friendly, easy-going guy.
He took the coffee handed to him, murmuring a thank you. Wrapping his large hands around the mug, Karl brought it to his lips. Ahhhh, caffeinated goodness. Paul took a sip of his own, and eyed his hair over the rim. A small dimple suggested he was smiling.
Karl rested the coffee and attempted to flatten his bed hair.
“So,” Paul said, reaching across the counter and dragging some paper towards him, “Charlie’s clothes are already set out for you.” He picked up a blue square post-it and passed it over. “These are the directions to the pre-school. I informed them you’d be dropping him off and picking him up. Take ID. And here’s the keys to the Volvo.” He said the last bit with a grin. Bastard.
“Super.”
“Also, there’s my cell number, in case you need to contact me regarding Charlie.” He pointed to a short list of numbers stuck to the fridge. “And, if you can’t get through to me, there are some emergency contacts—Charlie’s grandparents.”
Karl nodded, but even in his still-sleepy state, he didn’t miss that Paul had said ‘Charlie’s grandparents’ and not ‘my parents.’
Paul moved the cuff of his shirt and checked the time. He gulped down the rest of his coffee. “Okay, I’ve gotta run.”
Karl noticed his suit jacket draped carefully over the chair just behind him. He lifted it gingerly and gave it to him. Paul shucked it on and straightened his tie. Picked up a suitcase, and fiddled with his tie again.
“It’s good,” Karl said. Oh yeah.
As Paul left, Karl shook his head, and moved into the kitchen with his mug for a much needed refill.
* * *
After waking, chasing, half-dressing, and some more chasing, Karl finally managed to get Charlie into his clothes. At this rate, he wouldn’t need to join a gym at all. Over breakfast, the boy calmed down a fraction. Karl eyed the Chocolate Cherrios. Shit, it wouldn’t last long. He grabbed the keys and directions to the kid’s pre-school and hurried him out the door.
All buckled in, they headed across town. Charlie kept kicking the back of the passenger seat. Good thing the boy wasn’t behind him. He slowed at an orange light.
“She-sha! She-sha!” he cried.
Karl frowned. What was he saying? He turned, and the kid was pointing out the front window. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“She-sha.”
“My wand. When I want something to happen. She-sha!” The light turned green. “See, it works.”
Kids.
Karl checked the directions. Oak Street, where are you? He slowed to read the next street sign. In the rear-view mirror, a car swerved out of a park, accelerating, and nearly rammed into the back of him. “Idiot,” he spat, shaking his head.
The car did the same as he approached the next lights. “Stupid fu—” Karl just managed to contain the rest of the outburst. But damn, he had a mind to show that driver his thoughts. Couldn’t he see the ‘baby on board’ sign? Fucker.
Finally, he made it to the kid’s school. He’d never been so aware of how dangerous the roads were. He was sweating!
“All right, out, squirt. Time to go play with your pals.”
* * *
After spending half the day in town, scouting the different food markets for all the ingredients he’d need for dinner, Karl finally made it back to the apartment. He prepared himself to tackle the weekly cleaning. Get it out the way, then he wouldn’t have to think about it until next week. Good plan.
Four hours of cleaning later, he dropped the screwed up newspaper he’d been using to polish the glass. Stupid freaking windows. Did they need quite so much of a view? Surely one room was enough. Karl peeled off his sweat soaked T-shirt, the hem catching on his watch. As he untangled it, he glanced at the time. “Shit.”
Racing to his room, he found a clean shirt and his keys. Less than three minutes later, he was piling himself into the Volvo. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned. The car grunted in response, then spluttered and—“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
He tried twice more in vain. The stupid thing had a flat battery. Shitabrick.
How was he supposed to pick up Charlie now? The bus would take forever. And attaching jumpers and giving this thing life again, even longer.
Karl hit the steering wheel. He glanced out the window down the row of cars to his Lamborghini. He gritted his teeth, locked the Volvo and marched over to the million-dollar car. Just this once.
Charlie squealed when he picked him up, jumping up and down and darting from room to room, beckoning Karl to follow while he showed off all his day’s doings. After they’d walked into the third room, Karl shook his head. He was parked in a five minute zone, pick-up and drop-off only. “So, you want to learn about being safe in the kitchen?”
“Yeah!”
“Then skip outside, we’re going to go home and we’re going to prepare chicken breast filets with a cashew nut pesto and a sweet potato puree.”
Charlie’s nose squished up like he’d heard something disgusting, but his raised brow suggested he wasn’t sure whether he should like the sound of dinner or not. “Will there be sour cream?”
“Absolutely not.” Karl almost shuddered at the thought. He needed to teach this kid taste and soon. Sour cream might be acceptable with wedges, on occasion, but just no—No.
Charlie pouted. “I won’t eat it then.”
Okay, how could he make this enticing for a kid? Although Karl was sure as soon as the boy tasted the fluffy puree with its fine hint of lime, he’d just love it. Until then, maybe a white lie would suffice. He threw up his hands. “Fine. You win, there’ll be sour cream. A special sour cream that Karl will make really nice for you, okay?”
“Special sour cream?”
“Yeah, we can call it Charlie’s special, if you like?” That had the boy grinning from ear to ear.
Karl loaded him into the passenger seat. Shoot, how old was legal for a kid to be up front? Didn’t matter, it was just this once. Karl jumped in next to him. He eyed the kid’s hands. And hoped like hell they’d been washed recently. Not greasy and—“’You know what’s a cool game?”
“What?”
“Keeping your hands on your lap. No matter what, so they can’t lift up even for a second.”
“What do I win?”
“What do you want?”
“Five million chocolate-chip cookies!” Charlie’s hands waved dangerously close to the dashboard.
Karl laughed. “That’d make you a bit sick, and you won’t have any room left for Charlie’s special sour cream. How about two really large cookies?”
“Okay!” He stuffed his hands between his legs and jammed them together.
Karl grinned and started his baby up. The gullible monkey. Excellent.
“By the way, if you see any police cars, duck your head.”
They made it to the apartment just after five. The kid ran straight to the pantry and pointed to the cookie tin. Karl gave him the two largest as promised, but Charlie insisted on lining them all up on the table to double check.
While Karl started to work on dinner, he set Charlie up with his can of shaving cream. He figured the kid could smear it around the table and it would wipe up easily. Plus, it kept the surfaces clean. The boy had so much fun with the foam, Karl was nearly at the end of cooking dinner before he’d had enough.
As he’d thought, it was a quick clean.
He lifted Charlie onto a breakfast bar stool and continued on dinner.
The boy reached over a large knife and pointed to the pan. Karl hurriedly moved the sharp utensil out the way. God, the kitchen was a death trap.
“Where does the chicken come from?”
“It’s chicken, buurk-buurk, where do you think it comes from?”
“It’s the same chicken?”
“Yep.”
“But where are all the feathers? And the rest of it?”
“This is just part of the chicken. First it got plucked and then—” Karl stopped at the appalled look on Charlie’s face. His eyes were so wide they looked at risk of falling out. He rested the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and looked at the boy. Now his eyes were all watery. Oh no. No crying. That was so not his job. Dammit, Paul. Why couldn’t he have told the boy where his meat comes from already?
Ahhhh? “It’s the way of life. Animals are farmed, and we use them to make food. You like hamburgers, right?”
Charlie nodded.
“That’s cow. And bacon, that’s pig.” Charlie’s bottom lip wobbled. Oh fuck. He was doing this all wrong. The hole was only getting deeper and the dirt mounds were sure to fall in and smother him.
“Like Piglet?”
Karl wiped his hands on the apron he’d found in the bottom drawer of the oven. How could he get out of this conversation? “Um . . . no, not like Piglet. That’s Pooh’s friend. Hey,” he grabbed two plates, a white china one for Paul, and a sturdier plastic one for the boy, “put those on the table.”
Charlie slid off the stool and took them to the table, carefully setting them opposite each other. Thank God for short attention spans, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be telling him.
Now if only Paul would get back and take over. He checked his watch for the tenth time. Quarter past seven. Probably held up with something important. Maybe he’d better start feeding the kid.
Grabbing a plate for himself—why not?—he dished out two portions. Another watch check. Seven-thirty. “All right, eat up.”
Charlie eyed his dinner plate. “What about Papa?”
“He’ll be here soon.” Karl decided to help himself, and started with a taste of pesto. Not bad, maybe needed a bit more parmesan, but okay.
Something wet and slimy hit his face. What the—
Charlie giggled, dropping the incriminating spoon still half covered in sweet potato puree.
The rascal! “You don’t want to do that,” Karl said in a level tone—doing his best to not to laugh.
“Why?”
“It’s naughty.”
“It’s fun.”
Charlie flicked more puree. Nope, so not happening. Karl grabbed the spoon off him, and the boy started to pout. He tried to think of something a parent might say. “It’s not how to act at the dinner table.” Unless there are siblings annoying the crap out of you.
The glob of puree Charlie had managed to land on his forehead slid down over his eye. Charlie started to laugh. Karl picked up the spoon, nice and calm did it. “You know another reason you shouldn’t do it?”
He aimed at him and grinned. “It’s not nice if it happens back to you.”
Charlie jumped up as the puree hit him. “Ew. Ick. It’s slimy. It’s in my hair. Get it out. Get it out.”
Karl cracked up, grabbing the boy and chucking him over his shoulder, ready to head for the bathroom. “She-sha! She-sha!”
Exactly that moment, Paul came into the room. Karl’s laughter died. “Didn’t hear the front door.”
Great, first day and he not only had to deal with a food fight. He’d participated. He gave Paul an embarrassed smile and dropped Charlie to the floor.
“Papa! My magic works!”
Paul tousled his hair as Charlie threw his arms around him, but his gaze roamed the dining table and came back to Karl’s face. He cocked a brow. Damn.
“Yeah, we got a little carried away.”
* * *
While Paul put Charlie to bed, Karl stacked the dishwasher and wiped up the remainder of the puree play from under the table. He righted himself out of a crouch and aimed the cloth at the sink.
“Shot.”
Paul’s voice startled him. Karl glanced at him standing in the doorway. No, strike that, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, his tie and jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up. How long had he been there? Shit, he was watching how well he cleaned up. Jesus. Anal retentive, much?
Karl moved toward the hall. Paul stepped forward at the same time, unintentionally blocking him. Maybe. “I’ll be right out of your way,” Karl said, stepping to the side.
At the same time as Paul.
They looked at each other. The side of Paul’s lip quirked into a grin. “You don’t have to disappear for my sake, you know. In fact, before you go anywhere, how was the day with Charlie?”
Paul’s eyes seemed to glitter in amusement. What had the boy told him? Karl shrugged and gave his boss a run-down of the day. During which, Paul snuck into the kitchen and pulled a couple of beers from the fridge. He handed him one.
Before he knew it, they were both flopped on the sofa, bantering in the living room. However it’d transitioned to that, he was grateful. It sure beat spending an evening alone in his room. Or worse, going out into the city on his lonesome. Shit, he really needed to make some friends.
“You want another?”
Paul grabbed Karl’s empty bottle as he nodded. “Sure.”
While Paul was gone, Karl sprung up out of the sofa and admired the night view of the city. He tried to make out where exactly he’d dropped Charlie off this morning. Before he found it, he noticed Paul standing a bit behind him, reflected in the window. He couldn’t be a hundred percent sure exactly what he was looking at, but he continued to stare without making a sound.
Karl watched Paul’s ghost in the window. When he moved slightly to the left, the quality was better. Broad shoulders tapered into a thin mid-section, and his shirt had, sometime in the last half-hour, become untucked. If the guy turned just a bit, he’d get a nice profile of his ass. Karl’s mouth suddenly felt dry. And there was a definite explanatory twitch below that came with it. He bit the inside of his mouth and re-focused on the city.
In control again, Karl rubbed the back of his neck, giving Paul some indication he was about to turn.
Paul hastened toward the sofa, beer bottles clinking, reddening as if he’d been busted.
Taking one of the beers, Karl resumed his spot on the sofa. Instead of sitting next to him like before, Paul lounged himself on the leather three-seater at right angles to him, the coffee table a yard of buffer zone between them.
“So, I’ve been told,” Karl started, feeling a little mischievous and genuinely curious, “you’re quite the ladies man.”
Paul dropped into the back of the sofa, visibly relaxing. He shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”
“From what I hear, you go out with one once or twice a week. That’s . . . something.”
Paul snorted. “Twice a week is an exaggeration.”
Karl raised a brow.
Paul, realizing his admission, hurried into an explanation, “I’m not a player or anything. I don’t ever promise them anything—I make that clear right from the start.”
“It’s okay, man. I’m not judging.”
There was a short pause, then, “Not judging because you’re a player, or . . . ?”
Karl blew out his breath, making the top of the bottle whistle. “I’m not into casual sex if that’s what you mean. And”—He placed his bottle on the coffee table—“I’ve been too busy to date much anyway.” Karl kept his gaze on the bottle, watching it jump as he shut one eye and then the other.
Paul’s knee started to bounce as he, thankfully, changed subject. “So, why’d you move to the city?”
“Needed a job, there isn’t much back home.”
“Okay, Karl, I have to ask, why do you need a job so desperately? That Lamborghini of yours makes me think you come from some pretty serious money.”
“Used to come from, before the folks cut me off . . . The car’s all I’ve got.”
“They disowned you? Cold.” Paul hesitated. “Why? No, never mind. Shouldn’t have asked that.”
They both swigged at the same time, then caught each other’s eye. Paul quickly dropped it again. “You know,” he said, “you could—”
“Nope. Not selling the car.”
Paul looked puzzled at this. Karl guessed he couldn’t blame him. He let out a heavy breath. “Look, it’s the only thing I have left of my grandpa.”
Karl felt his anger rise, remembering how his parents had taken all of pop’s ashes, refusing him any access. His hand gripped the bottle, and he wanted to squeeze so hard it’d break.
Paul stood up, plucked it from him, and rested it next to his own on the coffee table. He sat next to him, perhaps a half-yard apart, swiveled in his direction. With a quick jerk, Paul shoved a wrist into his view. “I get that you wouldn’t want to sell it. This watch was the last thing my wife gave me. I’m going to be buried in this. And possibly one of my Armani suits, because damn they’re comfy.”
Karl forced a laugh at his attempt to humor him. Somewhere along the way, it became genuine. Weren’t they just a couple of screwed up men, eh? He met Paul’s gaze directly. Thanks for that.
The dishwasher beeped in the background. Back to the present. Karl went to stand up, but Paul stopped him, a hand at his shoulder. “You don’t have to do all the cleaning. I’m able to put away some dishes. Flick on the TV, relax. I’ll bring out another beer when I’m done.”
And that was that. The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Karl chuckled and lunged for the remote.