Making Faces (27 page)

Fern closed the store at midnight, just as
she always did, Monday through Friday night. She had never had
reason to feel nervous or even think twice about locking the store
at midnight and riding home on her bike that she left chained by
the employee entrance. She didn't even look sideways as she pushed
through the heavy exit door and locked it, her mind already on her
ride home and the manuscript that waited.

“Fern?” his voice came from her left and Fern
had no chance to react before she was being pushed back against the
side of the building. Her head banged against the block wall and
she winced as her eyes flew to her assailant’s face.

The parking lot was poorly lit out front, but
the lighting on the employee side of the building was non-existent.
Fern had never even thought to complain. What little moonlight
there was did little to illuminate her surroundings, but she could
make out Ambrose’s broad shoulders and shadowed face.

“Ambrose?”

His hands cupped the back of her head, his
fingers soothing the hurt he'd caused when her head had connected
with the wall behind her. Her head barely reached his shoulder and
she pressed her head back into his hands, lifting her chin to try
to discern his expression. But the darkness kept his motives
hidden, and Fern wondered briefly if Ambrose was dangerous and if
his injuries were more than skin deep. But the thought had no time
to simmer as Ambrose bent his head and lightly touched his lips to
Fern's.

Shock and surprise bloomed in her chest,
crowding out the brief moment of fear, and Fern's attention
narrowed instantly to the sensation of the brush of Ambrose's mouth
against her own. She catalogued the prickle of stubble on his left
cheek, the whisper of his exhale, the warmth of smooth lips and the
hint of cinnamon and sugar, as if he had sampled something he’d
baked. He was hesitant, his gentleness at odds with his aggressive
display. Maybe he thought she would push him away. When she didn't,
she felt his sigh tickle her lips and the hands that held her head
relaxed and slid to her shoulders, pulling her into him as he
pressed his lips more firmly against hers.

Something unfurled itself low in Fern's
belly, a shaky heat that curled and twisted its way through her
stunned limbs and clenched hands. She recognized it immediately. It
was desire. Longing. Lust? She had never experienced lust. She'd
read about it enough. But feeling it firsthand was a whole new
experience. She stretched up and held Ambrose's face between her
palms, holding him to her, hoping he wouldn't come to his senses
any time soon. She registered the contrast between his left cheek
and his right, but the ridges and bumps that marked the right side
of his face were of little consequence when his beautiful mouth was
exploring her own.

He stopped abruptly, pulling his face from
her palms and manacling her wrists with his big hands. Fern
searched his face in the darkness.

“There. That was much better than the first
one,” he murmured, his hands still locked around hers.

Fern was dizzy from the contact, drunk on
sensation, and at a complete loss for words. Ambrose released her
wrists and he stepped back and walked to the bakery entrance
without so much as a see you later. Fern watched him go, saw the
door swing shut behind him, and felt her heart skip along after him
like a lovesick puppy. One kiss wasn't going to be nearly
enough.

The very next night, Bailey Sheen rolled into
the bakery at midnight like he owned the place. Fern had obviously
let him in, but she wasn't tagging along behind him. Ambrose told
himself he wasn't disappointed. Bailey did have a cat though. It
scampered along beside him like a co-owner.

“You can't have an animal in here,
Sheen.”

“I'm in wheelchair, man. You gonna tell me I
can't have my seeing-eye cat with me? Actually, it can be your
seeing-eye cat, since you're blind and all. One of the perks to
being a pathetic figure is that I tend to get what I want. Did you
hear that, Dan Gable? He called you an animal. Go get him, boy. Sic
him!”

The cat sniffed at one of the tall metal
shelves, ignoring Bailey.

“You named your cat Dan Gable?”

“Yep. Dan Gable Sheen. Had him ever since I
was thirteen. My mom took us to this farm for my birthday and Fern
and I each got to pick one from the litter. I named mine Dan Gable
and Fern named hers Nora Roberts.”

“Nora Roberts?”

“Yep. Apparently she's some writer. Fern
loves her. Unfortunately for Nora Roberts, she got knocked up and
died giving birth.”

“The writer?”

“No! The cat. Fern's never had very good luck
with animals. She smothers them with affection and care and they
thank her by croaking. Fern hasn't figured out how to play hard to
get.”

Ambrose liked that about her. There wasn't
any pretense with Fern. But he wasn't going to tell Bailey
that.

“I've been trying to teach Dan Gable a few
wrestling moves, in honor of his namesake, but so far all he can do
is sprawl. But hey, sprawling is one of the basics–and it's more
than I can do,” Bailey said with a chuckle.

Dan Gable was a wrestler who had won an
Olympic gold medal. In fact, he didn't surrender a single point
during the whole Olympic games. He graduated from Iowa State with
only one loss, coached the Iowa Hawkeyes, and was a legend in the
sport. But Ambrose didn't think he would be especially honored to
know a cat had been named for him.

Dan Gable, the cat, rubbed himself against
Ambrose's leg but abandoned him immediately when Bailey patted his
knees with the tips of his fingers. The cat jumped up on Bailey's
lap and was rewarded with stroking and praise.

“Animals are supposed to be good therapy.
Actually, I was supposed to get a puppy. You know, man's best
friend, a dog to love only me, the kid who couldn't walk. Cue the
violins. But Mom said no. She sat down at the kitchen table and
cried when I asked her.”

“Why?” Ambrose asked, surprised. Angie Sheen
was a damn good mom, as far as he could tell. It seemed a little
out of character for her to refuse a dog to the kid who couldn't
walk, who needed a loyal companion . . . cue the soft lighting and
the farmhouse on Christmas morning.

“Do you know that I can't wipe my own ass?”
Bailey said, looking Ambrose straight in the eye. He wasn't
smiling.

“Um. Okay,” Ambrose said uncomfortably.

“Do you know that if I lean down too far to
get something, I can't sit back up? I got caught once for a half
hour just hanging limp over my knees until my mom came back from
running errands and sat me back up again.”

Ambrose was silent.

“Do you know that my 120 pound mother can
pick me up under the arms and move me into the chair in my shower?
She washes me, dresses me, brushes my teeth, combs my hair. All of
it. At night, she and my dad take shifts coming in and turning me
throughout the night because I can't roll over, and I get sore if I
lay in one spot. They've done that since I was about fourteen,
night after night.”

Ambrose felt a lump forming in his throat,
but Bailey carried on.

“So when I said I wanted a puppy, I think
something kind of broke in her. She just couldn't take care of
anyone else. So we compromised. Cats are low maintenance, you know?
There's cat food and a litter box in the garage. Most the time Fern
is the one who feeds Dan Gable and changes his litter. I think she
made a deal with my mom when we got the kittens, though I can't pin
either one of them down on it.”

“Shit.” Ambrose ran his hands over his bald
head, agitated and distraught. He didn't know what to say.

“When are you going to start wrestling again,
Brosey?” Bailey used the name the guys had called him. Ambrose had
a feeling he did it on purpose. “I want to see you wrestle again.
Having a cat named Dan Gable just doesn't cut it.” Dan Gable meowed
and hopped off Bailey's lap as if he didn’t appreciate Bailey’s
comments.

“And just like that, he abandons the
cripple.” Bailey sighed tragically.

“I can't hear or see on my right side,
Bailey. I can't see anyone coming! Hell, my legs would be tied up
so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. Add to that, my balance sucks.
The hearing loss has thrown it all out of whack, and I would really
rather not have an entire arena of people looking at me.”

“So you're just going to make cupcakes?”

Ambrose glared at Bailey, and Bailey grinned
back.

“How much can you bench, Brosey?”

“Will you quit calling me that?”

Bailey looked genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because it . . . it . . . just . . . call me
Ambrose.”

“So 400, 500 pounds? How much?”

Ambrose was glaring again.

“You can't tell me you haven't been lifting,”
Bailey said. “I can tell. You may have a naturally good physique,
but you're shredded. You've got serious size and you're hardened
down.”

This coming from a kid who'd never lifted a
weight in his life, Ambrose thought, shaking his head and pushing
another tray of cupcakes into the oven. Yeah, cupcakes.

“So what's the point? I mean, you've got this
amazing body–big, strong. You just going to keep it to yourself?
You gotta share it with the world, man.”

“If I didn't know better, I would think you
were hitting on me,” Ambrose said.

“Do you stand naked in front of the mirror
and flex every night? I mean, really, at least go into the adult
film industry. At least it won't go completely to waste.”

“There you go again . . . talking about
things you know nothing about,” Ambrose said. “Fern reads romance
novels and you are suddenly Hugh Hefner. I don't think either of
you has room to lecture me about anything.”

“Fern's been lecturing?” Bailey sounded
surprised and not at all offended that Ambrose had basically told
him he didn't know jack crap because he was in a wheelchair.

“Fern's been leaving inspirational quotes,”
Ambrose said.

“Ahhh. That sounds more like Fern. Like what?
Just Believe? Dream big? Marry me?”

Ambrose choked and then found himself
laughing, in spite of everything.

“Come on, Bros–Ambrose,” Bailey amended, his
tone conciliatory, his face serious. “Don't you even think about
it? Coming back? My dad unlocks the wrestling room for open use in
the summer. He would work with you. Hell, he'd wet himself if you
told him you wanted to drill some shots. You think all this hasn't
been hard on him? He loved you guys! When he heard the news . . .
Jesse, Beans, Grant . . . Paulie. They were his too. They weren't
just yours, man. They were his boys. He loved them too!
I
loved them too,” Bailey said, vehemence making his voice shake.
“Did you ever think about that? You aren't the only one who lost
them.”

“Don't you think I know that? I get it!”
Ambrose said, incredulous. “That's the problem, Sheen. If I was the
only one who had lost . . . if I was the only one in pain, it would
be easier. . . “

“But we didn't just lose them!” Bailey
interrupted. “We lost you! Don't you think this whole damn town
mourns for you?”

“They mourn for the superstar. Hercules. I'm
not him. I don't think I can wrestle anymore, Bailey. They want the
guy that wins every match and has Olympic prospects. They don't
want the bald freak that can't hear the damn whistle being blown if
it's on his bad side.”

“I just explained to you how I can't go to
bathroom by myself. I have to depend on my mother to pull down my
pants, blow my freakin' nose, put deodorant on my armpits. And to
make matters worse, when I went to school, I had to rely on someone
to help me there too, with almost every damn thing. It was
embarrassing. It was frustrating. But it was necessary!

“I have no pride left, Ambrose!” Bailey said.
“No pride. But it was my pride or my life. I had to choose. So do
you. You can have your pride and sit here and make cupcakes and get
old and fat and nobody will give a damn after a while. Or you can
trade that pride in for a little humility and take your life
back.”