I thought it was a blast, so joining in with the kids would be totally fun for me, too. Later, when our communal painting dried, I could hang the length of it on my wall. That way, in the morning, when their parents came for brunch, they could ooh and ah over the clever artistry.
Next out was the roll of newsprint I’d bought for a song when I first moved here. No matter how much the kids and I used from the roll, it never seemed to grow smaller in circumference.
I dragged it over to my dining room table, where I put down four layers to protect the wood underneath. Taping the corners to keep everything neatly in place, I put the paints in the middle.
Art could be our starter and could be ongoing, then snacks, movies, stories, and bed. And I could easily do that with Little Guy in my arms with Striker’s help.
Oh! Art shirts to keep the kids’ clothes clean.
Striker came in and found me dragging the bag of old extra-large T-shirts out. “Hey there,” I called over my shoulder.
He saw my cheek immediately. Nothing ever missed his scrutiny. That’s why he was stellar at his job. “What happened?” He came to a halt beside me, stabbing his hands onto his hips.
“Three guys wanted to kidnap a woman.” I stood. Grabbing the bag's handles, I walked the shirts into the dining room and set them on the chair.
“And you stepped in instead of calling the police.” He strode after me, closing the distance until he stood at my side, eyes scanning my length just like Reaper had done.
“I called the police. The police came and arrested the men. I shadow walked out of there. The police didn’t see me.”
He gently pinched my chin between his fingers and thumb, tilting my head back, turning it this way and that. “Not right away, you didn’t. You tangled with them, or you wouldn’t have that shiner on your cheek.”
“It got a little rough, but that’s the worst of it.”
“You can’t take anymore strikes to the head, Chica.” He crossed his arms over his expansive chest and rocked back on his heels, ticked. “You’re not made of steel. Did you go by the hospital?”
“No, but I talked to Reaper.”
Striker canted his head.
“Look, I took a Lyft home, and on the way, I called Dr. Carlon. She was booked through next week, except for emergencies.”
“And you didn’t count this as an emergency?”
“I made an appointment to see her. And if you can let me finish before you get too upset with me, Reaper has an appointment this afternoon with Dr. Carlon. I’m taking his appointment, and he’s taking mine since the first I could get was Monday.” I smiled. “See how responsible I was?”
“The responsible thing to do was to leave the crime to the police.”
“Three men were going to drag a waitress into their car. You know what would happen to her.”
“I get why you would do it.” He looked down at his boots for a very long moment. “I’m so proud you would do it. I hate every second that you put yourself in danger’s way.”
“Same here. That’s exactly how I feel about you jumping out of helicopters in the Gulf of Aden, swimming up to the pirate boats, and rescuing hostages. Do you honestly think that it doesn’t impact me?”
He stepped forward and gathered me gently into his arms, dropping a kiss into my hair and again onto my lips as I tipped my head back.
“I got a job at the diner,” I said. “So that’ll be a bonus for getting to know the woman the FBI is focused on.”
“But it’s a rough neighborhood?”
“Not that bad. I spent a lot of time there as a teen.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“Dad died in a car accident. The guy who caused the crash was charged with DUI and something else—murder, manslaughter…but all the charges were dropped because he had diplomatic credentials. Spyder told me I couldn’t take direct retribution, but Spyder didn’t stop me when I tried to stop my dad’s murderer.”
“I’m not following.”
“The diplomat liked to get drunk at a bar in that area.”
“Seems strange for a diplomat to go into a dangerous area for a drink.”
“He came from a country that prohibits alcohol. Shame maybe? That’s what I thought at the time. Anyway, I was watching him and disabling his car so he couldn’t drive drunk and hurt another family.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“No. It wasn’t. The guy is dead now, so no need to be thinking about it. Memories are bubbling up, is all. It’s because I was in the neighborhood.”
I felt my parents’ presence as I said that; there was an eagerness, a Yes! Yes! Pay attention! to the sensation.
Striker nodded. With a delicate touch, he petted over my bruise with the pad of his thumb. “How bad was the punch?”
“His knuckle grazed me as I spun.”
Striker didn’t answer. I know he tried hard not to smother me. It was a balancing act of being loving and concerned and knowing that I was a magnet for crap.
Mmmm, I should stop using that phrase as it applies to me.
Spyder would tell me that what we put out in the world comes back to us. I didn’t feel like my external life over the past five years was a reflection of my internal thoughts.
In this instance, I knew from Spyder’s spiritual convictions and basic psychology that if I think it, I’ll bring it into being.
Believing that I’m a magnet for crap means that I will consistently find crap to
