When The Rain Falls

11. Something Furry

11 SOMETHING FURRY

FINN

The muscles in every part of my body are burning as I grip the barbell tightly, put a slight bend in my knees, and squat. I grunt as I shoot back up. I heave the bar onto the rack and enjoy the clanging sound it makes as it comes to rest. I wipe sweat from my brow and take a breather.

This workout is my evening routine. My solace. My safe space and escape from the world. After I bring Vivian home from soccer and on nights when I don't have to work late, I run my body through a series of pullups, rows, and squats until it can't take any more.

It's chilly in the garage, but I'm already sweating buckets. Realizing I still have one more set to go, I pull off my shirt, use it to wipe my forehead, and toss it to the corner onto a stack of firewood.

I hear the front door open, followed by footsteps stomping in the entryway. Ruby must be home after spending the afternoon at Julie's. I think Aimee took them shopping for homecoming dresses. I say think because she never responded to any of my texts, which is something I'll have to chat with her about.

"Dinner in fifteen," I shout through the open garage door. No one answers. Typical.

I jump up to grip the bar and pull my chest up. I do it again and again, counting out my reps. One. Two. Three. Until I feel a presence in the open door frame.

Still dangling from the bar, I turn my head to see the outline of a feminine body. It's her. Fucking her. Aimee. What the fuck is she doing in my house? Her weight shifts as she leans against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of her chest casually. She's openly staring at me, her gaze a mix between gawking and amusement. I feel her eyes scan my bare torso, like little finger tips trailing down my body.

I drop to the ground and try to brush the sweat off my body. When I take a step towards her, I try to act casual. Like I’m not half naked.

"Hey.” I reach for my shirt, but she beats me to it. She snatches it just out of reach before I can even brush the fabric.

"You don't need this." She dangles my shirt from a finger. Her face full of mischief.

"Give me the shirt," I order in my most scary dad voice. Which, turns out, is not very scary when you’re half naked and dripping in sweat.

"No. I don't think I will," she says calmly. "Please, don't let me interrupt. Go on and finish your set." She gestures to the squat rack with one hand as she twirls my shirt around the pointer finger of her other.

"I just finished," I lie. I reach out for the shirt, but she pulls it away from me. Aimee's playing games with me. And I don't think I like this one.

"You only did two," she says, using every bit of her smart-ass mouth. "You can have this back," she dangles the shirt in front of me, "when you finish." I want to point out that it's my shirt. Mine. And she has no right to keep it from me. But I can't find a way of saying it that doesn't sound childish.

"I did three ," I argue. Which I guess isn’t a whole lot better.

"Keep going," she orders, still taunting me by flinging my shirt around.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're bossy?" I mutter at her, hands on my hips.

"I prefer inspirational ." She quirks a corner of her mouth. And I want to fuck the quirk right off her face. Bend her over and thrust right into her. Over and over as I spread her apart. Until her mouth is too busy moaning to quirk at me like that anymore.

Holy fuck.

Where did that come from?

Finn, goddammit. You asshole. I bring my mind back to reality. Which is Aimee twirling my shirt and demanding that I give her pullups.

Fuck it. If she wants pullups, I’ll give her pullups. I’ll give her a goddamn show. I pull my shoulders back and stroll back to the pullup bar. I pump out six more pullups. I make them slow and calculated as sweat beads along the surface of my skin and rolls down the contours of my body. The entire time, I feel Aimee's gaze roaming over me. It feels like she’s devouring me.

When I'm done, my arms and back are burning. And god-fucking-damn. That was worth it. Because when I jump down from the bar and turn to Aimee, her eyes are wide, her face is flushed, and she’s possibly panting.

“Try to keep your tongue in your mouth,” I tease as I swipe my shirt out of her dazed hands. Aimee blinks a couple times and brushes her hair over her shoulder.

“No tattoos?” she finally asks, trying to hide her obvious admiration. And I’m enjoying this far, far too much. “Would have been hotter with tattoos.”

"Maybe they're where you can't see them," I taunt. Fuck. Is this flirting? Why am I flirting? What's wrong with me? But I already know the answer to that. Aimee. I haven’t been right since I met her.

"Ooh. Promising." Her face falls to my joggers. "A big thigh tat? I mean, I personally prefer a nice chest tattoo. But a thigh tat could be sexy."

"I guess you’ll never know,” I say casually. “Sorry to disappoint." I have no tattoos. But I don’t mind if she thinks that I do.

"Oh, trust me. There's nothing disappointing happening here." Aimee beams her shit-eating grin into the entire fucking garage like some kind of spotlight as she gestures over my body. Which reminds me that I'm still gripping my shirt in my fist. I'm about to stuff an arm through a sleeve when an obnoxious beeping sound fills the room. The smoke alarm.

"Fuck." I slide past Aimee and run to the kitchen. Smoke is puffing from vents in the oven. When I open the oven door, I’m consumed by a pillar of smoke. I slide my hand into an oven mitt and pull out the dish. I burnt the top of the casserole. Again. My tired arms fumble and the hot dish sears me against my bare skin. I flinch instinctively and drop the dish. It clatters against the counter, sending hot marinara sauce splashing against my torso. I grab a paper towel and wipe it off.

"You missed a spot," Aimee says from behind me. She looks amused. "Right there." She indicates to a spot on my shoulder. I glare at her, but I wipe it.

"No," she says. "Here." She grabs the towel and steps up closer behind me. She swipes the skin across my shoulder. I can feel the palm of her hand. Warm and soft. When I shiver against her touch, she leans in closer. I feel her long hair falling across my back. I can’t like this , I tell myself. I won’t like this. I have rules. To avoid a repeat of what happened with Nicole. And there are walls. Walls around my heart to protect what little I have left of myself.

"I got it," I tell her, turning around and snapping the towel from her hands. She shrugs and hops onto the counter. Her ass is literally on the space where I prepare food. It's unsanitary. And fucking hot. She crosses her legs at the ankles and leans back on her wrists.

"Make yourself at home," I tell her sarcastically as I wipe down my shoulders again.

"Thanks. I will." She smiles playfully as she kicks her legs back and forth.

"Don't you have something better to do?" I ask her.

"Actually, no. I'm bored. That's why we brought Chase over."

"Who's Chase?"

A stomping sound booms from the floor above us. Then a chorus of giggles and screams. I raise an eyebrow and look at Aimee.

"Chase," she says, like the single word just explains everything. But I'm still confused. A flurry of feet come down the stairs. Aimee hops off the counter and jogs into the hallway, reaching down to scoop something up in her hands. Vivian appears at the bottom of the steps and watches Aimee. When Aimee turns around, she has something orange and furry in her arms.

Furry. There's something furry.

In.

My.

House.

"What in the hell is that?" I point at the fluff ball.

"It's called a cat," she declares sarcastically. "You know, small, fluffy critters that like to sit in boxes and push things off tables. They are very adorable. Just like me. So you'd probably hate them, too."

I ignore the last remark. I don’t hate her. But it’s better if she thinks I hate her.

“I know it's a cat. Why is it in my house?" My hands settle on my hips. My shirt’s forgotten, bunched up into a ball in my fist. Vivian appears over Aimee's shoulder. "Hi, Chase. Cutie patootie kitty," she coos, giving the cat a kiss on the top of its head.

"I brought him over to show Vivian," Aimee explains.

"We're not keeping it. Don't get attached," I tell Vivian. She scoops the ball of fluff out of Aimee's hand and walks back down the hall. She mentions something about making a box fort, which I'm going to have to stop ASAP.

"No kidding you're not keeping him. He's mine," Aimee scolds me. "Well, I think it's a him. I'm not really sure yet."

"Good. Now take it home," I command, pointing to the door.

"Awww, what's wrong, Papa bear?” Aimee brings her voice low and seductive. She presses her lips together in a pout. “Afraid of a little pussy?" I slap my forehead and run my hand down my face. She's seriously going to kill me. I look over Aimee's shoulder to make sure Vivian is out of earshot.

"Don't use that word in this house.”

Aimee chuckles. "Pussy? What's wrong with pussy? It means cat. What were you thinking about?" I shake my head at her. I can’t tell her what I was thinking about. It’s entirely inappropriate. So, instead of thinking about that , I focus on her tight jeans and white v-neck t-shirt. And the rich brown eyes that are the star of her face. Big, warm, and bold. Like a mug of hot coffee on a cold day.

"Alicia doesn't have a cat," I tell her. "Where did it come from?"

"He was a stray. We saved him from the streets."

"You just brought a street cat into my house?" I feel my eyes going wide as my eyebrows shoot up my forehead.

"Street cat?" She chuckles again, covering her mouth with both hands. "It's not like it's in a gang," she says. "Hey, I'm Chase, the street cat. Just busted out of the pen. Wanna buy some catnip?" Aimee doubles over laughing at her own joke. "Relax. I was only doing time for some light cat burglaries."

Relax? Relax?

Why does everyone fucking tell me to relax?

I'm about to respond when Julie and Ruby charge down the stairs with the volume of a fifty-person marching band. When my gaze catches Ruby, I realize the intensity of her stair stomping is the least of my problems. Because Ruby is wearing a monstrosity. A shirt. But it's only half a shirt. It stops several inches above her belly button, revealing the curve of her waist and hips. I can feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets. This is not going to end well.

Ruby takes one glance at me, crosses her arms, and squares her shoulders. She's bracing. She better brace good. Real fucking good.

"Did you wear that to school?" My voice is dangerous and low as I try to keep calm. But the chamber of my chest is filling up with bullets of anger. And I'm feeling trigger happy.

"No. I bought it this afternoon when Aimee took us dress shopping," she says. There's a defiance in her voice. One that pisses me off. My head swivels in Aimee's direction. There might as well be a giant red target on her face. Because I'm ready to fire.

"Explain," I bark.

"The concept of shopping?"

"Explain whatever that is." I gesture to Ruby.

"Oh," she says. "You want me to explain the concept of a shirt?" She looks over my bare torso. "I can see it's something you struggle with." That's when I remember that I'm still shirtless myself. Fucking Christ. This woman.

"You call that a shirt?" I yell at her, running my fingers through my hair. "I'm afraid to see her dress!"

"It's not a big deal," Aimee tries to reassure me.

"You don't see the problem here?"

"Oh I see the problem," she says. "You're completely over-reacting."

My fists clench. I look back to Ruby. Her chin is jutted out defiantly. "Go upstairs and put on some real clothes," I bark at her. Ruby doesn't move. But Julie takes a step backward, taking cover behind Ruby's protesting body.

"It's the style, Dad," Ruby declares.

"It's true," Aimee retorts.

I look to Ruby, and Julie, and then back to Aimee. They're ganging up on me. Time to divide and conquer.

"You." I point to Aimee. "In the kitchen." I turn and stalk down the hallway, expecting her to follow.

"If I don't come back in five minutes, someone call the cops," I hear Aimee whisper. "Or maybe Jack.” Jack? Who the fuck is Jack?

I round the corner in front of the pantry and run a shaking hand through my hair. I can be calm about this. I think. When I turn to lean against the kitchen counter, Aimee is standing in front of me. She's bouncy and light. Like she's standing in line for an amusement park ride, not like she's about to be lectured. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. She still thinks this is some kind of fucking joke. I take a step closer to her, aiming my eyes directly into hers.

I prepare to unleash only half of hell on her. "Don’t undermine me in front of my kids," I command. But she’s staring at my chest. Which I forgot was still bare. And the woman does not look ok. Her eyes are a bit glazed. I lean to the left and her eyes track my chest. I lean to the right, with the same result. I sigh but she only seems to enjoy the way my chest rises. Fucking hell. I snap a finger in front of her face.

She blinks. “Did you say something?”

I slip my shirt over my head and Aimee’s eyes return to normal. "I said, don’t undermine me in front of my kids.”

"You're being too rigid," she responds dismissively.

I open my mouth but she continues. "Ruby is a teenager. She can decide what she feels comfortable wearing. It will teach her to respect herself." I can't believe my fucking ears. She's trying to teach me about parenting? I exhale a hot breath in her direction. I must be breathing more heavily than I thought because little wisps of her hair flutter around her face in response.

"And wearing half a shirt is supposed to teach her to respect herself?" I ask. "I can tell you that no guy is going to be thinking about how respectful she looks."

"You're just shocked your daughter looks so grown up," Aimee says. "Men have no right to tell women what they can wear." No right? I'm her father, for fuck’s sake.

"Aimee, I know you're trying to help." I try to lighten my tone, but I’m not sure it’s working. "But you're not a parent."

"But I was a teenager," she says. "I know that when the rules are too rigid, kids just sneak around and break them. You want her to start hiding things from you?" I imagine that Aimee knows this from experience.

"What's the point of rules then?" I snap. What would Laurel say if she saw her wide-eyed, goofy-grinned daughter dressed like that?

"I don't know. But there has to be some common ground. Give and take."

"Well, I didn't ask for your opinion." I cross my arms. "You need to butt the hell out."

Aimee pauses for a moment. Her voice loses a bit of its defiance. "Yes, Daddy,” she says seductively.

"Don't call me that," I growl at her.

“Papa bear?”

I growl again. I can’t be sure, but teeth may have been bared.

“Ok then, bear it is.” She laughs.

And then she grows serious. Her smile softens and she puts a hand on my shoulder. The gesture catches me by surprise and I flinch.

Aimee tilts her head up to look me straight in the eyes. The eye contact grows heavy. Too heavy. I look down at my feet. Because my feet don’t have rich chocolatey irises that threaten to pull me under.

"Ruby is going to be eighteen in three years,” she says softly. “You want to send her out into the world without any experience navigating it?" She gives me a gentle squeeze.

I sigh. I don’t want to think about things like that. I just want things to be simple. Like they used to be. When Ruby wanted to be a fairy princess and not the object of the high school football team's desires.

“I’m trying my goddamn hardest with them,” I confess. “It’s not easy.”

"You're doing great," she says. "I just spent all afternoon with Ruby. She's an awesome kid. Funny. Smart. Everything will be ok."

Everything will be ok? I can't remember the last time someone told me that. And I realize that’s what I’ve been needing to hear. For days. For months. Maybe even for years. Who’d have thought that this much needed assurance would come from the maniacal temptress across the street?

Aimee walks away, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen even more confused than when I entered. I rub my hands across my face and turn and stare at the burnt mess on the counter.

"Yeah, I'm doing real great," I mumble to myself. "Everything's perfect," I say. "Dinner is burnt and my daughter's halfway to a hooker."

I take a couple moments to collect myself. When I walk back into the living room, Ruby and Julie have retreated upstairs. I'll have to sort out my thoughts on that later.

Vivian bounds up to me, holding the cat. "Isn't he cute, Dad?" She rubs it against her cheek. The thing probably has fleas. And now Vivian probably has fleas. I’m sure my whole house is infested. I’m going to have to steam the carpets and clean the couch cushions.

"Sure," I say, eyeing it suspiciously. My throat is starting to feel thick and my eyes are starting to water. But I can't figure out why.

"Want to pet him?" Vivian asks.

"I'm good." I sneeze. My eyes itch now.

"He's so soft."

"Pet him, Finn," Aimee coos. "So soft." She bites her lip and stifles a laugh. I know there's a dirty joke rolling around in her head.

"Enough from you."

The sounds of a revving motorcycle filters into the living room. The sound sends Chase leaping from Vivian's arms onto the couch. It skitters across all the cushions, then leaps onto the ottoman, then onto the mantle, and onto the curtains.

"Catch it," I bark at Vivian.

My nose begins to flare and tickle. I breathe in a lungful of air and stop a second sneeze. But then it erupts violently from my face.

"Finn?" Aimee eyes me. "Are you allergic to..." Aimee draws out her sentence with a wicked grin. I know exactly what word she's not saying.

"Don't!" I yell at Aimee sternly and sneeze again.

The motorcycle revving grows louder. Aimee's eyes light up. "Oh! Jack."

"Who's Jack?" I sneeze again.

"A guy," she says. "I met him at the mall today." Aimee grabs the cat by the scruff and carries it outside.

I follow her out. I follow her out because I need to fill my nose with fresh air. Not because I want to size up this guy Aimee met. A motorcycle pulls up in front of Alicia's house. The rider is wearing black jeans and a black helmet. He twists his wrists to rev the engine.

I roll my eyes. "Do women really fall for that?"

"Yeah," she says, calling back to me. "It's kind of hot."

"You're not going to ride on that, are you?"

"Since when do you care what I ride?" she retorts. Unfortunately, I care. Against my better judgment, I fucking care.

"I don't," I protest, probably too strongly. "It's your ass if you get hurt."

Aimee walks toward the motorcycle, but gives me one more glance over her shoulder. She tosses me a smug, arrogant smile.

I want to roll my eyes, but I sneeze into my elbow instead. Great, Finn. Sneezing uncontrollably over a tiny fur ball. Real badass , I think as I watch Aimee and whats-his-face over the top of my shiny, aluminum-colored minivan. I can't compete with a motorcycle. Forget leagues, I'm not even playing the same sport.