“I’m not a slut. I’m twenty-three. Stop acting like that.”
“It’s a joke. I’m not surprised.” We fasten the ends, and I step back as she smooths the paddle down the wall again. “I’m sure you’ve had guys interested in you. It’s the other part I don’t believe. Who said you weren’t good at it?”
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, and she hesitates.
I poke her ribs. “Tell me.”
“Braxton Peterson.” It’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear it.
“Who?”
“It’s not anybody you know. It was a guy from Greenville, before I moved here.”
“Wait… You haven’t slept with anybody since you moved here? That was… five years ago. What the fuck?”
“I told you. I’m not good at it. It’s too embarrassing.” Her voice goes lower as the red in her cheeks flames higher.
“Nope. Not buying it.” Shaking my head, I hold her hand as she walks down the stool.
“I’m telling you. That’s what he said.” She picks up another piece of wallpaper and holds it up. “Last piece.”
I wait as she peels the backing off and climbs up again to catch the end. “So this dickhead Peterson had sex with you, and after he got his rocks off, he said you sucked at it?”
“Worse.” She starts smoothing the paddle down the wall. “He told his friends, and after it circulated around the school, the word got back to me.”
Now I’ve got fire in my belly. I’m seeing red. “Mother fucker. Where can I find this guy?”
She exhales a sad little laugh. “I have no idea, but I’ve never been so happy to leave anywhere as I was when I left that school.”
“And you haven’t done it with anybody since?”
Her lips press together, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got the answer.
She steps down the ladder and crosses her arms, and we both look around the bathroom. It looks pretty damn good.
“Tomorrow I’ll paint this wainscoting white, and then all I’ll have left is the plumber.”
Glancing towards the window, it’s dark out. We’ve been working several hours, and she leans her neck side to side.
“Here.” Stepping behind her, I put my hands on her narrow shoulders. She’s like a bird, and I press with my thumbs into her shoulder muscles, making small circles without being too forceful. I don’t want to break her.
“Mm…” Her head drops forward. “That feels good.”
I keep doing it, and she lets out a low moan that has my cock perking up. Sliding my hands lower, I massage the muscles along her spine, and she makes another sex noise. I clear my throat and take a step back. We’re venturing into dangerous territory again.
“I’d better take off, but I can help you paint tomorrow. If you want me to.”
“That’d be great. I could use the help.” Turning around, she blinks up at me, and her brown eyes are relaxed and happy.
I imagine her freshly fucked by me, flushed and sweaty. It’s hot.
And I’d better go.
She follows me down the stairs, but when we get to the back door, I can’t leave it that way. Stopping at the door, I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Listen.” She stops, her brow furrowing over her eyes as she looks up at me. “I’m a pretty good judge of potential performance, and I’ve kissed you twice now. If some dickhead said you were bad at it, either he has issues of his own or he didn’t do it right. With the way you’ve kissed me… I expect you’re very good at it.”
Her eyes blink faster with every word and that pink fills her cheeks. I lean down and kiss her forehead before heading out the door. This kind of talk is bound to lead to the bedroom, and I’m still not sure where that would end up.
I’m halfway down the back steps when she calls after me. “Thanks, Scout.”
I do a little wave and take off.
“Now every year on May 17, I lose my voice.”
Daisy’s sitting on the floor in the master bathroom painting the baseboards and trim white while I roll the bottom half of the walls. Her Spotify is playing the new Taylor Swift album, which I think is too sad, and it’s almost eleven-thirty. I’ve been here since nine. She had coffee waiting, and then we got started.
“How long does it last?”
“A day at least, sometimes longer. Aunt Regina says it’s just allergies, but a few years ago, I started tracking it in my calendar. It’s the same day every year.”
“May 17,” I repeat. “The day your mother left.”
“The very day.”
I finish my last roll and carry the tool to the pan of white paint on the floor. “It’s pretty strange. It makes me feel like I’m not mourning my mother right.”
She leans forward, using that wallpaper edger to keep the paint off the wood floors. “I’m sure you’re doing what’s right for you. I’ll tell you, though, it’s a pain in the ass. I think it happens because I wanted to beg her to stay, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t make my voice speak.”
“Damn, Daisy.” I’m starting the cleanup. “That’s pretty dark. Give me your brush.”
I pause beside her as she makes her final pass over the baseboard, then I hold out the pan of used brushes and rollers.
She stands and shrugs, brown eyes wide. “It’s just what I do.”
“I’m going to go wash these outside. Then I’m buying you lunch. Get changed.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting in Donzelle’s Diner off the road leading down to Oceanside Beach. Daisy’s studying the plastic menu, but I know what I want.
“I’ll have roast pork with green butter beans and fresh collards.” While the scowly waitress writes down my order, I scan her shirt for a nametag. Janeen.
Daisy reads off the sheet. “I’ll have the roast pork also with green butter beans and sweet potato soufflé.”
“That all?” Janeen snaps.
“And two iced teas.” I lean back, giving her a teasing grin. “Be sure to dip your little finger in mine to make it sweet. And skip the lemon.”
Her
