Who knew our “famous” pasts would be so embarrassing to our pre-teen daughter? Anytime she catches a snippet of ‘Candy Jar’ on VH1 or an old episode of Ocean Ave., she cringes, covers her ears, and starts singing at the top of her lungs.
“I have a test to study for.” She waves at me before bounding up the stairs.
I wander through the house and out the back door leading to the patio and pool.
Even after all these years and everything we’ve been through, my breath catches the second my gaze lands on Mallory. Still as beautiful as the day we met.
Red toenails, long legs, red and white polka dot bikini. My brain catalogs every detail as I creep up next to her. I lean over and tug her headphones off. “You still take my breath away, woman.”
“Jesus!” She jumps about a mile and presses her hand to her chest.
“Chaser, you scared the shit out of me.”
Laughter rumbles out of me and I drop down on the edge of her chair, running my hand up one smooth, bare leg. “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen.”
She curls her fingers in my cut, pulling me down for a kiss.
“Missed you, little dove,” I murmur against her lips.
“I’m so happy you’re home.”
“How happy?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her and tip my head toward the pool house.
She takes my hand and lets me pull her up out of the chair. Together, we race over the patio.
“Do you miss when we didn’t have to hide from the kids?” she asks.
“Nah, it’s more fun this way.” I close the door and slip the lock into place—learned the hard way on that one. “Besides, they’ll both be leaving for college soon enough and we won’t know where to fuck first.”
When we bought the place, we thought we’d offer the little cottage out back to her father when he wanted to visit. He usually chooses to stay somewhere else, which hasn’t hurt my feelings one bit.
She fiddles with the collar of my cut. “How’d it go?”
“Good. They seem to have control of things up in Toronto now.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know.” I boost her up onto the small counter and keep my hands on her hips. “I’d like having you on more runs with me.”
“I’d like that too.” She cups my cheeks and rubs her thumb over my lips. “Make sure girls in every clubhouse know you’re taken.”
I flex my left hand in the narrow space between us. “If the ring doesn’t let them know. Your name does.” The tattoo around my finger kept fading so I’d had her name inked on the inside of my wrist in thick, bold script. I brush my fingers under her chin, tipping her head back. “You’re still the only woman who sets me on fire with one look.”
She curls her arms around my neck and leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine. “Prove it.”
Much later, when family dinner night with my dad is over, the kids are in bed and we’re tucked away upstairs, catching up on the last few days, Mallory reaches over and picks up the envelope from Alvin.
“What’s this?” She smiles when she sees Alvin’s name on the return address label. “Aw, I miss him.”
“He’ll be here for the summer run.” I lift my chin. “Open it.”
“Do you already know what’s inside?”
“Nope.”
“Hmmm.” She peels the envelope open and slides out a magazine. “Rolling Stone. Top One Hundred Rock Albums,” she reads the headline splashed over the front.
The photo’s a collage of cover art. She peers at it closely. “Oh! I see Kickstart!” She flips through the magazine, landing on the story.
“Oh, wow. Holy shit.” She taps her finger against the page. “In Your Hands is number ten.”
I run my hands through her hair and kiss her temple. “Well, shit. That’s pretty fuckin’ cool.”
“Listen, listen.” She taps my arm. “Some critics consider Kickstart’s In Your Hands one of the last great rock albums.”
“Last great rock album, huh? I’ll take that.”
She flips the page and giggles. “Vicious Vandals’ second album came in at number twelve.”
“How about that.”
On the next page, Alvin left a post-it-note.
Still relevant!
I huff out a laugh and pluck it off the page, crumpling it and tossing it on the nightstand.
“Do you miss it?” she asks.
“Nope.” I peer down at her. “You?”
“Hell, no.” She snuggles closer to me. “Can you imagine with the Internet now and all the online gossip sites how many more shitty things would’ve been posted about us?”
“True.” Every now and then some journalist tracks us down