We both angled into his car at the curb, and Ranger began to drive. I kept glancing sideways glances at him. I wasn't even aware that I was doing it, mostly. Finally, at a stop light, he caught me and said, "Cut it out."
He said it in a playful, non-threatening tone. I laughed. "Seriously, I can't help it."
He turned to me, smiled and then revved the engine as the light changed.
The Porsche angled into the parking lot of my apartment a few short moments later. "Do you feel up to looking for a house later?" Ranger asked.
"Huh?" I said and made a funny squinty-eyed face.
"Well, as a newly wed couple, we ought to think about moving into a house." He said. "This will give us a way to meet the people of the block. See their faces, see their reactions. And, we can get a feel for the married life."
"Very funny." I said, and got out of the car. I was still sore, and I grimaced slightly.
"Are you sure?" Ranger asked again. Damn, he'd seen.
"Nothing a Tylenol can't fix." I said through a smile.
He forced a smile and got out of his seat. He locked the car and assisted me up to my apartment safely. My apartment was awfully quiet, being as Rex was probably still in his parent's guest bedroom. The only thing that was disturbed was the dust on my kitchen counter. On it was a bouquet of flowers in my only vase. There was a note pushed between the pedals of the tallest flower.
I looked at Ranger, suggesting a question like, "Are these from you?"
He nodded his head "no." I took the note and opened it. It was folded into fourths, like a note you would pass in math class as a teenager.
"Cupcake, I am sorry. Maybe we can still make things work. I didn't have a choice. Give me a chance to explain. Please? Call me. Bob misses you. Love, Morelli."
I looked at it, re-read it, then tore it into four equal sized pieces. "I want restraining order against him." I said aloud to myself.
"I can arrange that…" Ranger said from behind me.
"Naw. I need to do it." I sighed, then retreated to my room.
I pulled open the door to my closet and looked in. I had a variety of shirts to wear. My closet was semi-sorted into categories. There were work shirts, which were all black and had Rangeman embroidered on the pocket. Then there were my mother-approved shirts. Not all of them, of course, were approved by my mother, but they were the shirts that I would be allowed to wear to dinner and not be ridiculed in. Lastly were my slut shirts. Okay, they weren't really slut shirts, but they ran pretty close. They were too short, stretched to tight over my chest, dipped to low, had holes in embarrassing spots, and were not to be worn in public.
I never heard him come up behind me, but he did, and he wrapped me in his big arms round the waist and rested his chin on the top of my head. I didn't think he was that much taller than me, but apparently he was.
He grabbed a shirt from my slut-side and held it out. It was red and shiny, and dipped so low in the back that I wouldn't be able to wear a bra. "I like this one." He stated.
"No." I made an attempt to grab it from him, but he still had me encased with one arm. "I'm going to try to make a good impression from these ladies."
I made another grab for the garment, and he pulled it away again. "You aren't helping. You're giving me a headache. Go." I said, and freed myself. I pointed my arm stiffly towards the door.
I choose the classic black shirt and blue jeans. Actually, I didn't choose. I didn't have a choice. The pant's were the only ones that would cover over the ACE bandage on my left ankle, and the black shirt sorta hid the bruises on my arms.
I stood in the shower for what seemed like a record-breaking short time. I was a little creeped out about having Ranger in the next room. I know he's the good guy, but I just wasn't feeling trustworthy right now.
I dressed in about the same time, spending a minimal amount of time on my hair and an extreme amount of time on my makeup, making a fruitless attempt to cover my bruises.
This time, I saw him coming. I saw his figure coming towards me in the mirror. "Just making sure you hadn't passed out or anything."
I got the fact that he was teasing me. "Sticks and stones, Ric."
I didn't mean to say it. It just sorta slipped. Ric came easier than Ranger. But, he had always been Ranger. I glanced at him. He didn't look dumbfounded. He just looked, amused.
"What?"
"The last time I was called Ric, my baby sister wanted a lick off my ice cream cone." He smiled.
I turned, finally done. I headed back through my bedroom, with Ranger by my side. "So, have you always been Ranger?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly, how?"
He looked at me, amused again. Like there was something he was about to say, but wasn't sure how to say it. "Since I was 14."
The amused smile was still in place. I felt brave enough to ask another question. "And before you we're 14?"
He stopped at the stairwell. "Everyone called me Tiger. Something my abuello started, and then everyone did. Then it just stuck."
That ended my little questioning session. I chewed on my new information for a while, while Ranger drove us to our new neighborhood.
"Remember, it's Carlos, Babe." Ranger said, pulling into a little housing development. It looked nice enough. Little yards were enclosed by little picket fences, all clean and white washed. Houses were kept neat, with neatly trimmed trees in front and very well-kept gardens pushed to the front wall. Occasionally there was a children's ball or bike in the driveway, but mostly there were top-dollar, gasoline-guzzling machines parked in front to be the envy of the neighbors.
The stencil American home.
We turned around a corner, and almost immediately came to a stop in front of a "For Sale" sign. A car was already in the drive and the door was opened a crack.
Ranger turned to me and was about to say something, but I opened up faster. "Let's go get um, Tiger."
"Smartass," Ranger said under his breath, and turned off the engine.