“With my voice. ‘Mom and Dad, this is Jones. Jones these are my parents, Grant and Sunny.”
“Your mom’s name is Sunny Day? Not possible.” Luke laughed.
“It’s true. Says the firstborn of Tom Jones. Anyway, we kid my dad that she married him just for his name. She lives up to her name too. I think I’ve heard her swear once, and even then it was when she was quoting someone else. Hands down, I have the most optimistic, laid-back mom in the world. She’s walking zen.”
“So you didn’t get her zen genes?”
Jessica laughed. “Astute observation, Dr. Jones. No, I have my father’s personality—a total firecracker. He doesn’t do anything in the middle. When he’s mad it’s a raging inferno and when he’s happy it’s like glitter exploded everywhere. When we work on cars and motorcycles in his garage he’s either singing his favorite song like the next American Idol contestant, or if something’s not going right he’s slinging wrenches and cussing up a storm. You’ll like him, just don’t mention that you drink imported beer. He exclusively drinks locally brewed beer.”
They gave the waiter their orders, including another glass of wine and another imported Heineken.
“My roommate in college committed suicide.” Luke stared at his beer as he rolled the empty green bottle back and forth in his hands. “He was born in Amsterdam and he exclusively drank Heineken, which I’m sure he considered a local beer.” Luke’s smile looked pained. “Anyway, after he died I started drinking Heineken. It makes me think of him when I drink it, like a silent toast to him wherever he is.”
That had to be what Luke’s dad started to tell Jessica. She knew it was a small piece and there had to be more to the story. A painful more.
“Well then I toasted your roommate over and over last night before you showed up and tied me to my bed. Of course I navigated to the Heineken because of you.”
Luke nodded, taking an extra few seconds to resurface from his past before locking eyes with her again. “So tell me about Jude. Is he a firecracker too?”
Jessica laughed so fast she snorted. “Jetta boy? No. He’s a very unique breed. He’s a hair trigger when it comes to self-defense type situations, and he’s kinda paranoid—the conspiracy theory type—but he’s definitely Sunny’s boy too.
She sipped her wine. A smile tugged at her lips. “When he’s in his element, aka in front of a computer or preying on every woman in the Bay area, he’s Cool Joe, laid back, ‘I don’t need pot to be this chillin’.’ And the women fall at his feet like he’s a god. The truth is he’s such a man whore, but the weird part is he doesn’t have a following of disgruntled women. It’s as if they know they’re only going to get one night with him, but they still line up to willingly drop their panties and spread their legs. Pathetic.”
“Thank God my sisters don’t live around here.”
“They’d be safe. Jude likes older women—smart, older women. He said it’s hard to fuck a woman’s brain out if she doesn’t actually have a brain.”
Luke smirked.
Jessica quirked a brow. “His words not mine.”
They enjoyed a sunset dinner by the bay, revealing bits of each other one tragic or funny story at a time. Hand-in-hand they strolled toward the GTO parked in a lot with a backdrop of sailboat masts and the sunlight on the water’s surface, reflecting diamond-studded whitecaps. Contentment settled upon them like they’d done it for years.
“I want to take you to my place. I have a surprise for you.” Luke leaned over and kissed her as they waited at a stop light.
“What is it?”
“Do I need to define the word surprise?”
“Ugh … fine, but give me a hint. I like this game.”
Luke laughed. “Contumacious.”
“I’m not being stubbornly disobedient. Okay, maybe a little stubborn, but not disobedient. Thank you once again for the dog reference.”
“Well there you have it.”
Jessica looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Have what?”
“You’ll see.”
“It’s an apron isn’t it? I bet you’re going to have me dress up in a kinky little French maid’s outfit to clean your place tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Luke adjusted in his seat a bit. “Um … no that’s not the surprise, but I’m not going to lie, I like your idea.”
“I love that, Jones. The hard-ass, no humor doctor role you play has appeared in many of my fantasies, argyle socks and all. But you in this car, getting turned on by the thought of me in a French maid’s outfit—reminding me that you are all guy—it’s the absolute-nothing-else-compares best.” She leaned her head back on the head rest, closed her eyes, and smiled in total contentment.
“So now wouldn’t be the best time to wake you from your dream state and confess that I’m gay?”