The island was also flanked by six stools running the edge, low backs, seriously deep seats, comfortable and covered in a paisley that brought all the colors into play. Rich colors. Warm colors. Rock ‘n’ roll colors. Jussy’s colors. Red, blue, brown, purple, black.
There were rugs on the floor (and finally one in her bedroom, even if it took him, Ty, Tate, Bubba and Chace to lift up her huge-ass bed while Jussy and Lauren rolled it out underneath). There were throws tossed around she told him were mohair. Sheepskins draped here and there. Soft, fluffy toss pillows in every shape imaginable all over the fucking place.
Not to mention, each room upstairs was furnished all the way down to bed linens and towels in the bathrooms. Up there, though, there were wall hangings.
Downstairs, Jussy had things of hers, her father’s and her grandfather’s that for the first, she was waiting on her mom or stepmom to send, the last, she was waiting for the nuisance shit that her half-brother was pulling to be over to get them so she could mount them where she wanted them when that happened.
She’d told him what they were. Framed concert posters. Gold and platinum records. Original album cover art. One-of-a-kind photos of her dad, grandad, aunt and uncle onstage or candid on tour and at home, with family.
This thought brought his eye to the only empty space left, the room she wanted her father’s collection in. The broken window had been replaced and Deke had adjusted the doorframe, this being the only thing left to finish since Max had had to custom order folding doors that worked with the space, Jussy’s vision of the place (which meant they were dead cool) and they wouldn’t be in for another two weeks.
He’d also had the boys build a double platform in there, that platform running along the entire back of the space. And he’d ordered illuminated bookshelves fitted wall to wall, floor to ceiling on either side, putting in the ceiling lighting himself of small spots that would highlight the guitars when they were where they were supposed to be. All of this so she could display those guitars and her grandfather and father’s awards that she and Dana had divvied up that were in her father’s possession.
Deke stopped at her brushed stainless steel fridge and gave the entire space a sweep.
It was Jussy, end to end, top to bottom.
It was huge.
It screamed money.
And outside his trailer, he’d never felt more relaxed in a space in his entire life.
It didn’t feel like it was hers. Since his hands touched nearly every inch of it, each sweep of paint, every nail and floorboard—with the addition of the fact that not a stick of furniture, even a goddamned toss pillow, was chosen without his approval—it felt like it was theirs.
His mother had never owned a home. Not even when his father was alive. They’d rented, saving meagerly to buy when they had the chance, this savings the only reason she was able to keep a roof over his head for the months it took her to grieve at the same time find a job.
Now he felt like he was home.
He hadn’t sunk a penny into Jussy’s place, but his energy and sweat put it together.
It wasn’t even that.
It was Jussy, almost from the first—before they got their shit together to be together—making him feel like this was his space, a part of him as it was a part of her.
Deke felt this in a way he knew, when they got back from the road to settle in for winter, he’d go to his lake. He’d fish. He’d take his woman to the trailer to have her with him, fuck her there, let her put her stamp on it with shit they collected along the way, sticking her part of his history that was now starting to be their history on the ceiling, the walls.
But this would be where they would be so Jussy could have her father close to her through his guitars and all his other shit and Deke could be in the place he gave her—not offering it up with money—piecing it together because that was his job.
And that was the way he could give her what she needed.
He shook himself out of his thoughts, as good as they were, because he needed to make his woman coffee.
He had it brewing, had pulled out the Bisquick, eggs and milk and was reaching for a mixing bowl out of a drawer when he heard someone driving down her lane.
He looked to the front door, knowing it could be anybody. Even though those anybodies were all invited to her place that night, that didn’t mean one (or several of them) wouldn’t be at her door for whatever reason they had need of Jussy.
This had just become the way. Jussy was a part of Carnal now and when the folks of Carnal accepted you that happened.
Deke left the shit on the island, moved around the marble and made his way to the door.
He had it open and stood in it. The sun was bright in the sky. The snow that had stuck, stayed through the chill of Wednesday, then disappeared by afternoon Thursday after warm rushed back in meant his woman’s pumpkins were again out.
There was a shiny black Escalade in the drive.
Out of it stepped a woman, long legs, great ass, big head of auburn hair, a profile that was a mirror of Jussy’s.
She turned to him full face with sunglasses on. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he still knew she was Joss.
She slammed the door, and on high-heeled boots, her rounded hips incased in faded denim, a feminine-cut sheepskin jacket that looked torn off the likes of Carly Simon and transported straight from the 70’s on her shoulders, huge shades covering her eyes, shades locked to him, she moved across the gravel like she was gliding gracefully along ice.
When he sensed movement, Deke’s attention shifted to the man rounding the hood of the SUV. Tall, seriously lean, his head a mass of long, tangled, spiked-out-at-the-top, dirty-blond hair. He was wearing a black leather jacket that was a lot of zippers and snaps with a dangling belt at the bottom, black jeans, motorcycle boots with rings at the sides, wraparound black shades covering his eyes.