Chapter 12

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked, moving back down the stairs, which gave Chrissie a clear view of the best set of buns this side of the Atlantic...either side of the Atlantic, actually, she amended as she watched them flex and strain against that stretchy fabric.  

She really wished she could remember him.  She had a feeling he was one unforgettable male.

Chrissie cleared her throat.  "I just wanted to apologize for...well, for everything."

He turned as he snatched a towel off of the back of a chair and wiped down his chest.  Chrissie sighed with pleasure.  Man, he had a great body.  Not overly big or bulging with bulbous muscles, but what he had was sure a delectable sight to behold.  And that wasn't all she noticed.  He had no body hair.  None.  Not on his chest, not his corded legs, not even in his armpits.  Just the rumpled, sweaty waves on his head and two lush eyebrows the same deep color as his hair.  It made her wonder about the rest of him...where else was he smooth of skin?

"Chrissie, you're staring," Race said, his mouth twitching in an amused smile.  She jerked her eyes back up to his face and felt a flood of warmth in her cheeks.

"Sorry," she mumbled.  "Um...would you put on a shirt?"

His grin slipped a fraction, then bloomed on his lips, and only then did he reach for a t-shirt out of an opened suitcase.  "Better?" he asked as he stuffed his arms and head through the holes of the shirt.

"Yes, thank you."

"Now...you were apologizing?"

"Right!  I was apologizing," she replied hastily.  "About earlier...about everything..."  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat suddenly became dry.  "I shouldn't have tried to get you arrested or...or pulverize you with the coffee cups..."

He exhaled wearily and sat gingerly into the chair next to a small computer desk.  Chrissie stared at it, and then stared at the rest of the basement.  This was the difference she'd been wondering about.  

In her memory, she only used the basement as her laundry room and to store Christmas decorations.  The owners before her renovated the large space to be used as a family room or an apartment space.  When she bought the house -- at least, her memory of the purchase -- she considered leasing the basement out to a college student or some other single person, since it had its own exterior door up another set of stairs in the back.  She had an old sleeper sofa from her first apartment and some sparse furniture to outfit the room.  It had its own kitchenette and pea-sized bathroom, and Dena resided down here for a few months while she waited for some exterminators take care of a termite problem in her condo complex.  

And all that was the same, but she noticed quite a few additions.  The computer desk being one, along with the stationary bike and screen.  Then there was the wall of hanging race bikes, the entertainment system and equipment she loathed, and a double-wide recliner...not to mention the concert posters depicting AC/DC, Bon Jovi, The Who, and Aerosmith.  She even spied a signed photo of Race and Steven Tyler together and smiling broadly.

She couldn't believe it.

Race grunted behind the towel he rubbed over his drenched head, making the hair stand up on end in a very sensuous way.  "Chrissie, you don't have to apologize for anything," he said, raising his eyes to her, but she'd already forgotten about all that.

"You've met Steven Tyler?"  She moved over to the framed photo.

"Yeah," he answered slowly, standing to join her.  "That was taken at a charity event."

Chrissie turned her gaze to him.  "When?"

"Before we met," he said.

"Oh," she said, feeling a little better about the photo now.  She'd be pretty pissed if he met Steven Tyler during their marriage, and she couldn't remember it.  If she'd been introduced to Aerosmith's legendary singer and didn't remember it, then she'd be more than pissed...she'd be livid.

"Who else have you met?" she asked, facing him.

He smiled, his dimples flashing and walked over to a low wall shelf, plucking a shoebox from it's cluttered depths.  "My mementos," he said, thrusting the box at her.

Chrissie took the box from his hands and sat down on the edge of the sofa to open it.  Peeking at Race for a moment, she steadied her hands and her breath.  The first photo was a Polaroid of Gene Simmons backstage at a concert, still in full make-up.  Then she withdrew a picture of James Hetfield from a Metallica concert with flames shooting up behind him, a faded photo of two members of The Ozark Mountain Daredevils as they climbed out of a limousine in some far away metropolis, and a series of images of Race and Jack Nicholson sitting at a round table with a bunch of other people as they all held up glasses of champagne or whiskey and obviously having a grand old time.

Chrissie put those back and looked up at Race.  "Am I in any of these photos?"

He curled his fingers around his hips loosely and shifted his weight.  "A few," he admitted softly.

She couldn't look.  Who had she met and didn't remember?  Oh, God...if she'd come in close contact with Lita Ford or Mel Gibson and she didn't own that memory...then she swore she was going to throw something...again.

However, her mouth had no such fortitude.  "Who?"

He smiled gently and bent to dig through the box.  Chrissie got a whiff of him.  He smelled sweaty and hot and good.  She held her breath, and he glanced briefly at her before handing her a couple of photos.  She stood next to Keanu Reeves in one, Bruce Springsteen in another and the Dixie Chicks in the last.  Race was in that one, too.

Okay, it wasn't so bad.  She could live without those particular memories.  She'd never been overly fond of Country music, so the Dixie Chicks' photo surprised her a little.  Race studied her reaction, probably thinking she was about to go psycho on him again.  "When were these taken?" she inquired calmly.

"Well...the Dixie Chicks one was from last summer during a music festival."  He scrunched up his brow.  "I think we met Keanu Reeves at a movie premiere, and Bruce...hell, even I don't remember that one."

Chrissie reared back at his words.  He seemed to perceive what he just said.  "I'm sorry...I didn't mean..."

She nodded with understanding.  "I know you didn't.  It's okay, really.  I didn't realize how social your line of work is.  Do you meet a lot of famous people?"

He took the box out of her hands and placed it back on the shelf.  "Chrissie, is this really what you want to talk about?  I can tell you every incident, accident and venture from the last two years, but it really won't help you right now.  Can't we just discuss how we're going to solve this problem?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.  "You could walk away, Race -- right now -- and never look back, and no one would think any less of you.  Just think...you could be single again.  No ball and chain, no noose around your neck, free to go about your life as you choose.  I can get on with the life I remember and you can get on with yours...no judgement, no blame, no more problem."

Before her eyes, she watched him go from calm and congenial to nearly bursting with contained rage.  Every muscle in his body stiffened and trembled, his jaw locked down, and his blue eyes burned with the febrile fires of Hell.

"Is that what you want?" he asked in a tight voice, barely unhinging his jaw to speak.

"Honestly?" Chrissie laughed half-heartedily.  "I don't know what I want anymore.  This morning, I just wanted you gone, but now..."  She stared into his torrid eyes.  "Race...is that a nickname of some sort?"

He blinked and the storm passed.  "What?"

"Did your parents really name you Race, or is it because you race bikes, or what?"

"It's short for Horace," he offered with a grudging twist of his lips.  

"Horace?"

He let out a long breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair.  "Yeah, Horace Jackson Willard."

"Why didn't you choose to be called Jackson, or Jack?"

"My brother's name is Jack.  It would have been confusing growing up," he said dropping down into his recliner.  He rolled his shoulders and winced.

"You have a brother?  Named Jack?"

"Yeah," he laughed.  "Same middle named, after our grandfather."  He twisted his head around, as though to ease some soreness in his neck.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine...just still sore from my race this weekend."  He continued his meager ministrations to his muscles, but eventually just sighed and flopped back, closing his eyes.

Chrissie almost stood up to go to him and help alleviate his pain, but that would mean touching him, and she didn't know if she could do that.  "So...what's your brother's first name?  Is it as bad as Horace?"

He cracked an eyelid and scowled at her through his lashes.  "I know you don't remember how you promised to never make fun of my name, so this is me reminding you.  Jack's first name is Eugene."

Chrissie covered her mouth as she giggled.  "No wonder he goes by Jack.  I take it he's older than you, so he got first choice at it?"

Race grinned as he shrugged his shoulders...and groaned from the action.  Chrissie's heart leapt.  He really was hurting...or he was playing her.  "My parents were a strange mix of love-child hippies and old-fashioned mentality.  Eugene means 'noble' or 'well-born.  Mom and Dad were into the Jesus Movement when Jack was born, and named him so as to signify that he was of 'noble' birth like Jesus Christ was."  He snorted, and Chrissie giggled again.

"And you?" she asked, inching up from the sofa.  "How did you get the name Horace?  Does it mean 'lord of the land' or something?"  She crept across the floor to stand behind his recliner.

He tilted his head up to look at her.  "It means 'guardian,' but Mom and Dad named me that because they were on pot and it sounded funny to them in their enlightened state."

"See, now you're just pulling my leg," she scoffed.

He grinned.  "And what a nice leg it is."

"Ha, ha."

He faced forward again and sighed with frustration as his muscles clammed up on him.  He started rubbing his neck and shoulders again, and Chrissie couldn't stand it.  "Would you...um, can I help you with that?"

His hands froze, and he sat there for a solid minute, not answering.  Then he said, "Thank you, but no.  I'll be fine.  I don't want to put you into a weird position."

"But--"

"No, Chrissie," he denied her protest.  "I'll just take a shower and hop into the hot tub outside and I'll be fine."

"We have a hot tub?"

Now, he chuckled because her voice clearly showed some excitement at that prospect.  He rose up from the recliner, and she gasped when he stumbled.  "I'm okay," he said quickly, limping over to the miniature bathroom.

"No, you're not okay!  What did you do?"

"It's just a cramp.  They happen," he replied nonchalantly.  Chrissie grabbed his arm and turned him to face her.  Pain flared across his features.

"Dammit, Race," she scorned him.  "Lie down.  I'll...I'll give you a massage."

"It's fine, Chris.  I'm fine."

She glared hotly at him.  "I said, 'Lie down.'"  And she pointed at the sofa.  His gaze scoured her face, and she could tell that he searched for any fear or panic in her expression.  She kept her face completely solid and still.  And he limped over to the sofa.

Lying down on his stomach, he stretched out over the cushions, and Chrissie knelt beside him.  Chewing on her lip because she still wasn't sure this was smart, she placed her hands on his shoulders and started molding his tense flesh around in her fingers...ignoring the shiver of delight that fled up her nerve endings.