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When I’m back in the house, I sit down at the table again and start a new journal entry.
December 17, 10:32 a.m.: Hendrix is coming to dinner tonight. So is my dad. I’m so excited about it that I know today will drag by.
I tap the pen against my chin and glance at my watch. I have more to say. I could write for hours about Hendrix and what he might represent to my future, but I can’t be late for work.
I toss the pen in the journal and close it.
CHAPTER 17
Hendrix
I pull up to the back alley of Stevie’s house, smiling to see her dad is already there. I park behind his truck, the bed loaded with several boxes.
Stevie’s still at work, and we’re both three hours earlier than when she’s scheduled to arrive to start dinner. John and I did some secret planning last night at the bar. I’d waited for Stevie to go to the bathroom and then I took my shot.
I approached John, who looked irritated I’d dare trespass on his conversation with Rory. I didn’t have time to give him shit about it, though, looking back at where Stevie had just disappeared into the restroom. “I have an idea,” I said quickly, “but I need your help to pull it off.”
The man listened, asked only one question, and then said he was in.
I exit out of my vehicle and approach Stevie’s father. I slap my hands together and rub them gleefully. “Ready for some breaking and entering?”
John snorts and slaps at one of the boxes in the back of his truck. “I bought more stuff.”
“You don’t even know what we have to work with, and yet you bought more?”
“Can you have too many fucking Christmas lights?” he growls.
I shrug. “Suppose not. Let’s do this.”
For the next three hours, we bust ass and decorate the hell out of Stevie’s house. When I had asked her last week why she didn’t have a tree up, she simply said she didn’t have the time. She made some half-hearted commitment that she would put it up last week, but it never happened. And because my girl is too busy with running her business and then making time for me, I decided the best thing I could do was bring the Christmas cheer directly to her.
John knew she had the basics she’d bought her first year in this house, including an artificial tree with lights and decorations, a wreath for the front door, and some garland for the staircase. All that was tucked away in her garage, and we got it up without a hitch. We also used the lights John bought to decorate the outside of the house, along with the bushes. He manned the ladder and the staple gun, and I fed him string after string until we got every angle and joint covered in multicolored baubles.
Just as we’re putting away the ladder and storing the cardboard boxes in the garage, Stevie texts that she’s on her way.
“That gives us about five minutes,” I say to her dad as we walk back inside. “Let’s get a beer and wait for her on the front porch.”
He grunts his assent and with brews in hand, we each take a rocking chair. It’s getting dark outside, so all the lights glow, and our work looks fucking amazing. It’s cold as hell, but we’re both sweaty from the exertion. Besides, we don’t want to miss Stevie’s reaction.
“Thank you for doing this,” John says as we keep our eyes trained down the street in the direction his daughter will be driving.
“You did fifty percent of it,” I reply.
“The idea was yours, so thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
We sit in silence and wait. John Kisner isn’t an easy man to talk to. Well, according to Rory, he is, as she went on and on about him last night, but he’s more than a little intimidating coming from the perspective of his daughter’s boyfriend.
Still, I take the jab. “I want to get a tattoo, and I’d really like for you to do it.”
John’s head turns my way, and he studies me a moment. “What were you thinking?”
I hold out my arm, point to my biceps with the hand holding my beer. “A Porsche logo… right here.”
Despite his face being covered in hair, I can actually see his lip curl in disgust, and I have to fight not to laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“No, sir. It’s my favorite car. Used to have one, as a matter of fact, before it got wrecked.”
John scoffs in disdain. “Stevie will kick you to the curb if you get that pussy tattoo.”
The struggle to keep a straight face is almost too much to bear. “What’s wrong with a Porsche? I know it’s no Harley between your legs, which signifies you’re a real man, but it’s legit.”
