Rachel Gibson: Crazy On You

He replaced Pinky’s milk, then she followed him out of the kitchen and into the living room. A remote control sat on the coffee table he’d made from a salvaged old door. He’d sanded and varnished it until it was smooth as satin.

Tucker loved working with his hands. He loved taking a piece of old wood and making it into something beautiful. He reached for the remote and turned the big screen TV to a national news channel. Pinky jumped up onto the couch beside him as he leaned over and untied his tactical boots. A deep purr rattled her chest as she squeezed her little black body between his arm and chest. With his attention on the screen across the room and the latest news out of Afghanistan, he finished with one boot and started on the other. The picture of tanks and troops in camouflage brought back memories of restlessness, violence, and boredom. Of knocking down doors, shooting anything that moved, and watching his buddies die. Adrenaline, fear closing his throat, and blood.

Pinky bumped the top of her head against his chin and he moved his head from side to side to avoid her. The things he’d seen and done in the military had certainly affected him. Had changed him, but not like some of the guys he knew. Probably because he had his share of trauma and stress before signing up. By eighteen, he’d been a pro at handling whatever life threw his way. He knew how to shut it down and let it all roll right off.

He hadn’t come out of the military with PTSD like some of the guys. Oh, sure he’d been jumpy and on edge, but after a few months, he’d adjusted to civilian life. Perhaps because his whole life had been one adjustment after another.

Not anymore, though. “Jesus, Pink.” The cat’s purring and bumping got so annoying he picked her up and set her on the couch beside him. Of course she didn’t stay and crawled right back onto his lap. He sighed and scratched her back. Somehow he’d let an eight-pound black cat with a pink nose totally run his life. He wasn’t sure how that had even happened. He used to think cats were for old ladies or ugly chicks or gay men. The fact that he had a five-foot-square cat condo that he’d built himself, and a pantry stocked with cat treats, pretty much shot his old prejudice all to hell. He wasn’t an old lady or ugly or gay. He did draw the line at cat outfits, though.

He stripped down to his work pants and the cold-weather base layer he wore beneath his work shirt. He made himself a large breakfast of bacon and eggs and juice. As he rinsed the dishes, he heard the first thud of the neighbor’s basketball. It was eight thirty. The kid was at it earlier than usual. Tucker glanced out the window that faced the neighbor’s driveway. The kid’s blond hair stuck up in the back. He wore a silver Dallas Cowboys parka and a pair of red sweatpants.

When Tucker worked the night shift, he liked to be in bed before ten and up by four. He could wear earplugs, but he’d rather not. He didn’t like the idea of one of his senses being dulled while he slept. He pulled on his jogging shoes and a gray hooded sweatshirt. If he talked to the kid, maybe they could work something out.

He hit the garage door opener on his way out and moved into the driveway. The cold morning chilled his hands, and his breath hung in front of his face. He moved toward the boy, across a strip of frozen grass, as the steady bounce-bounce-bounce of the ball and the sound of it hitting the backboard filled his ears.

“Hey, buddy,” he said as he stopped in his neighbor’s drive. “It’s kind of cold to be playing so early.”

“I got to be the best,” he said, his breath streaming behind him as he tried for a layup and missed. The ball hit the rim and the kid caught it before it hit the ground. “I’m going to be the best at school.”

Tucker stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. “You’re going to freeze your nuts off, kid.”

The boy stopped and looked up at him. His clear brown eyes widened as he stuck the ball under one arm of his puffy coat. “Really?”

No. Not really. Tucker shrugged. “I wouldn’t risk it. I’d wait until around three or four when it warms up.”

The kid tried a jump shot that slid around the rim. “Can’t. It’s the weekend. I gotta practice as much as I can.”

Crap. Tucker bent down and grabbed the ball as it rolled by his foot. He supposed he could threaten to give the kid some sort of citation or scare him with the threat of arrest. But Tucker didn’t believe in empty threats or abusing his power over the powerless. He knew what that felt like. And telling the kid he was going to freeze his nuts off, didn’t count. That could really happen here in the Texas panhandle. Especially when the wind started blowing. “What’s your name?”

“Phillip Darlington, but everyone calls me Pippen.”

Tucker stuck out his free hand. “Tucker Matthews. How old are you Pippen?”

“Ten.”

Tucker was no expert, but the kid seemed tall for his age.

“My grandma says you named your cat Pinky. That’s a weird name.”

This from a kid named Pippen? Tucker bounced the ball a few times. “Whose your grandma?”

“Louella Brooks. She lives on the other side of me and my mom.” He pointed behind him with his thumb.

Ah. The older lady who talked nonstop and had given him a pecan pie. “We have a problem.”

“We do?” He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his red nose.

“Yeah. I’ve got to sleep and you bouncing this ball is keeping me awake.”

“Put a pillow over your head.” He tilted his chin to one side. “Or you could turn on the TV. My mom has to sleep with the TV on sometimes.”

Neither was an option. “I’ve got a better idea. We play a game of H-O-R-S-E. If I win, you wait until three to play. If you win, I’ll put a pillow over my head.”

Phillip shook his head. “You’re a grown-up. That’s not fair.”

Damn. “I’ll spot you the first three letters.”

The kid looked at his fingers and counted. “I only have to make two baskets?”

“Yep.” Tucker wasn’t worried. He’d been watching the kid for a couple of days and he sucked. He tossed the kid the ball. “I’ll even let you go first.”

“Okay.” Pippen caught the ball and moved to an invisible free-throw line. His breath hung in front of his face, his eyes narrowed, and he bounced the ball in front of him. He got into an awkward free-throw stance, shot, and totally wafted it. The ball missed the backboard and Tucker tried not to smile as he ran into his own driveway to retrieve it. He dribbled back and did a left-handed layup. “That’s an H,” he said and tossed the ball to Pippen. The boy tried his luck at a layup and missed.

Tucker hit a jump shot at the center key. “O.”

“Wow.” Pippen shook his head. “You’re good.”

He’d played a lot of b-ball on his downtime in the military, and it didn’t hurt that the kid’s hoop was lowered to about eight feet and there was no one playing defense.

The kid moved to the spot where Tucker had stood. Once again his eyes narrowed and he bounced the ball in front of him. He lined up the shot and Tucker sighed.

“Keep your elbows pointed straight,” he heard himself coach. God, he couldn’t believe he was giving the kid pointers. He wasn’t even sure he liked kids. He’d never really been around any since he’d been one himself, and most of those had been like him. Throwaways.

Pippen held the ball right in front of his face and pointed his elbows at the net.

“No.” Tucker moved behind the kid, lowered the ball a few inches, and moved his cold hands to the correct position. “Keep the ball lined up, bend your knees, and shoot.”

“Pippen!”

Both Tucker and the boy spun around at the same time. Lily Darlington stood behind them, wrapped up in a red wool coat and wearing white bunny slippers. Crisp morning light caught in her blond hair curled up in big Texas-size rollers. The chilled air caught in his lungs and turned her cheeks pink. She was pretty, even if her ice blue gaze cut Tucker to shreds. She stared at him as she spoke to her child. “I called your name twice.”