Page 9 of Loving at 40

Jenna pushes at my chest, throwing me off balance at the sudden display of strength, and I release her, cursing under my breath as my left leg doesn’t flex as well as it once did. She quickly stands and knocks into my shoulder with her knee as she rounds my body. Reaching for Rosie still perched on the couch cushion where I placed her, Jenna lifts her child and wraps her arms around her daughter. Rosie slips her little legs around her mother’s waist. Squeezing Rosie tightly, Jenna pets her blond hair.

“Rosie, you know you should never, ever, ever touch a gun. What were you thinking?”

Rosie doesn’t answer. She’s crying into her mother’s shoulder, unaware of her own danger, or maybe frightened now because of her mother’s reaction.

Pressing Rosie back while still holding her, Jenna speaks to her daughter’s face.

“Never ever ever touch a gun, Rosie. Never.”

As Rosie cries harder, puckering her little face and leaning toward her mother, Jenna hugs her daughter again. Without a glance in my direction, she walks around the coffee table, stubbing her foot as she did the other night in the dark. Damn, she’s clumsy.

And pissed. So fucking pissed.

“’Locks,” I mutter at Jenna’s back as she heads for the bedroom she shares with her daughters. Whirling around like a spinning top, she glares at me.

“Just what the hell were you thinking?” she snaps. “Who leaves a fricking gun out in the fracking open like that when there are children around?”

I never go anywhere without my gun, but she doesn’t need to know that. Instead, I take her verbal beating even if I disagree with her current upset. She doesn’t want an argument from me about how she was safe or how I’d never hurt her child. How I’d never put either of them in harm’s way. She just wants to spew venom from those cock-worthy lips, which only turns me on more than it should.

But she was right. Leaving the gun on the table, where anyone could get to it, was a reckless thing to do. “I’m sorry.”

“And what were you watching?” Her head nods toward the television, and I glance at the blank screen.

“When?” I choke, not understanding.

“Last night. That . . . that.” She tips her head toward the set, and slowly, I recall the video I’d found.

“Were you listening?” My eyes squint back at her, mouth going dry. Does the real-life teacher want to live on the naughty side of life? Are there lessons she could teach me? I shake the inappropriate thoughts from my head.

“I wasn’t listening, you pervert. My daughters happened to turn on the television, and that . . . that was playing.” Her head nods once more in the direction of the set. Her hand presses her child’s back like she’s clutching a Bible to her chest. She can’t even say porn, just like she can’t say fuck.

“Were you jealous, babe?” I mock. I don’t know why I say it and instantly regret it, but I’m riled up just like she is. I’m quick to remind myself Jenna isn’t someone else. I don’t need to play jealousy games with her. And reminding myself of these facts pulls forth something else. Something deep within me wants to comfort and assure her that I’d never hurt her or her girls. I don’t want her to be envious either. Watching someone else go down on a guy will not dispel the sudden burn I feel within my belly when I look at her. Porn isn’t going to quell the strange ache in the middle of my chest when I see her holding her child in mama-bear mode.

The only reason I put in the DVD I’d found on the shelf below the old player was because I couldn’t rid this unrecognizable power the suddenly angry beauty seems to have over me. I needed something to relieve me, and a quick viewing of Naughty Teacher giving instructions on a blow job cleared my thoughts—for all of five minutes. Jenna haunted my dreams, wiping away the constant nightmares typically filling my head while I slept.

“I would never be jealous of that,” she spits, tipping her head again at the blank screen.

With a body like hers, she wouldn’t need to be, but where is her man and why he isn’t here taking care of her, satisfying that rocking body and protecting her from idiots like me.

I don’t have the chance to ask when she crosses the room with Rosie in her arms and the bedroom door slams, shutting me out, which is where I need to be.

Out of her head. Or her out of mine.

+ + +

“What are you doing in here?” Anna’s voice interrupts me as I stand in what used to be our parents’ bedroom. This wing was an addition to the main house, built when we were still young although I don’t remember the age.

“I need to put my gun in the safe.”

“You have a gun?” Anna squeaks, stepping up to me as I pop the picture frame on an old painting of the lake at sunset forward to reveal the safe.

“Yes, I have a gun,” I reply, matter-of-factly. I have no idea if Ben ever told my sister what kinds of things I did. He’d been a good guy. I liked him, and I trusted him to take care of my family as I wasn’t around much once he entered the scene. Guilt washes over me at the dark circles under my sister’s eyes. She’s endured too many losses in her young life. Our parents. Her husband.

“Are you into drugs?” Anna’s question reminds me of when my mother asked the same thing. Anna even sounds exactly like my mother with that accusatory tone. More guilt presses on me. I should have been a better son and come home more often. I even missed my parents’ funeral. Not on purpose, but I’d been on a mission. Only my father and Ben had a general idea of where I was at any given time. The message of my parents’ passing reached me too late. By the time I would have gained clearance to re-enter the States, I missed my chance to say a proper goodbye.

“How does having a gun equate to doing drugs?” I quickly enter the code for the safe but find it doesn’t open.

“Are you in trouble?” Concern fills my sister’s voice as she ignores my question.