She drew two glasses of tap water and gathered plastic silverware. They soon sat across from each other at the small dining room table. Her gaze fixed on him from his first bite. “Something on your mind?” he asked.
She scooped her peas, blue-eyed and inquisitive. “Do you really settle arguments with your women in bed?”
He swallowed his smile. “Fight with me and find out.”
“I don't like confrontation.”
“Sex eases the tension.”
Dayne didn't look convinced.
She had every right not to believe him. He'd mentioned sex earlier to see how far he could push her. Girl on top would have lasted as long as it took her to climb on; then he'd have flipped her.
His first time with a woman, he wanted her to forget her name and remember his. He liked to control her orgasm.
“Do you bring your dates here?” Her curiosity made her chatty.
“Never have,” he admitted. “The mobile home's rundown. I doubt I could talk a woman through the door.”
“You'd have to talk fast.” Her smile revealed straight white teeth and a tiny dimple in her cheek.
“The trailer's a temporary roof over my head,” he stated. “I'll be here a year, no longer.”
“You're transient?” She sounded sympathetic.
He'd signed a seven-year deal with the Rogues, and planned to put down roots in Richmond. Dayne, however, saw him as unemployed and penniless. That was fine by him. The less she knew about him, the better.
“Don't worry about me.” He blew her off. “I survive.”
“I'm not as concerned about you as I am about Cimarron.”
“Does he look like he's missed a meal?” Kason grunted.
Dayne twisted on her chair to look at the Dobie. Cim was solid and still growing. He now gnawed his butcher's bone in utter contentment.
“Cimarron liked the mac and cheese,” she noted.
“So did I.” He swallowed his last bite.
Dusk soon shadowed the woods visible through the back window. The window without drapes. Deep burgundy and muted orange scored the sky as night crept up fast.
Kason caught Dayne's long looks through the glass followed by her heavy sigh. She set down her fork and absently rubbed the Tomorrow tattoo on her wrist.
“Tell me about your tat,” he said, drawing her gaze from the window.
She pursed her lips, turned thoughtful. “My tattoo's connected to my watch.” She raised the cracked face and worn band for his inspection. “The watch belonged to my dad, the aging rocker. He played bass for Wicked Riot. It took years before the band was recognized beyond a local neighborhood tavern. He taught me to appreciate rock and concert T-shirts. When fame hit, my dad split.”
Her voice slowed. “I caught him sneaking out the back door of our apartment on Christmas Eve when I was thirteen. He winked, told me that he was going to the convenience store for a gallon of milk. Dad insisted Santa needed milk with his sugar cookies. Cookies my mom hadn't baked.”
“I didn't believe him for a second. Who went for milk carrying a duffel bag and guitar case? I begged to go with him, but Dad refused. He took off his watch, handed it to me. He told me to time him, that he'd be back in thirty minutes. A half hour passed, then an hour. Soon it was midnight.”
Her shoulders slumped. “My dad didn't return for Christmas or for New Year's. My mother sat in a rocking chair by the tree and cried for a week. I fixed her peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and microwave popcorn for dinner. I returned to school after the holidays.”
“Times were tough and money was tight. My dad never paid a dime in child support. Somehow we kept it together. Mom got a job and bought food in bulk—it was cheaper and lasted longer. She always told me that in a bad situation, I should breathe in, breathe out, and move on, and that tomorrow would always be better. Thus the tattoo.”
“Ever see your dad again?” Kason asked.
“Not a phone call, not a letter. He chose single and the spotlight over marriage and a kid. His band opened for lead artists, but never cut an album. Six years on the road, and drugs took his life.”
“Your mom?”
Dayne sighed. “She died shortly after my dad. Her heart grew tired of waiting for him to return.”
“Sorry.” It might not be enough, but it was all he had.
Silence wrapped up their meal. Dayne soon rose and removed their paper plates so they had a clear shot at dessert.
Kason's first bite of butterscotch pudding made him feel sixteen. For instant pudding, it went down smooth and easy. He wished there had been seconds.
He watched as Dayne rocked back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head. She had a lean line to her body. He'd hoped to catch another glimpse of the butterfly at her navel, but her top didn't ride beyond her hips. The ribbed white cotton did, however, pull across her breasts, showcasing her as ample, firm, and braless.
He liked a woman who set her tits free.
Catching his stare, Dayne lowered her arms and protectively crossed them over her chest. “No television, no radio—what do you do in the evening?” She wanted to know. “I keep my own company.”
She gave him a small smile. “I like being alone too.”
Kason's nights passed quickly. He often worked out, was prone to read the newspaper or buy a book. Once a week he met with his architect to go over the plans for his home. He was always available to the Dream Foundation when it came to charity work for the Rogues. He was a busy man, but chose not to share his activities with the woman who would pack her food at dawn.
He rolled his shoulder. Hours after the Rogues scrimmage, his right rotator cuff had tightened up. He'd spent enough time at the table. He needed to ice down.
Kason scooted back his chair and hit his feet. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his jeans, scrounged for a five spot, passed it to Dayne. “Can I buy a second bag of peas?”
“For your eye?” she asked.
He hesitated, hating to show weakness. “For my shoulder.”
Dayne Sheridan stared at the man towering over her. His earlier fight had left more than one injury. She took the money. Five dollars was five dollars. “Ace bandage?” She had one to sell. For the right price.
He shook his head. “I have a shoulder wrap.” Which he retrieved from his bedroom. Back in the kitchen, he shrugged off his T-shirt, packed peas over his shoulder, then fit on the elastic brace. His body heat melted the veggies faster than a microwave.