Mine 'Til Monday Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ruby Laska
his feet up in the office and take a nap.
There’d been other kids who helped in the shop after school over the years. Nice kids, mostly—Mud still heard from them from time to time. But Tony was special.
“Any calls?” he asked, fishing around under the counter for the box of register tape rolls. A cloud of dust drifted up from the stores of office supplies and other junk stored haphazardly there.
“Yeah, I wrote ‘em all down. Uh, Sheila Ruiz called. She said to tell you ye-e-s.” Tony sing-songed the last word in a falsetto, then let a beat go by. “She’s pretty hot, you know, for a mature lady.”
“Out of your league, boy, at any age,” Mud growled, grinning a little despite himself. Getting a call from Sheila was a coup—but not because he hoped to date the gorgeous news anchor. “Well, make sure you put her on the list.”
“Done, boss.”
“What are we up to?”
“Lessee...” The boy deftly swiped a notebook from the murky under-counter depths and ran a finger down the page. “Sheila makes eighteen.”
“Okay,” Mud nodded. Not bad. His goal was twenty-five celebrities, twenty-five big names to auction off for the golf tournament. People would pay all kinds of cash to go a round with the likes of Sheila, and it went to a great cause: with luck the town would soon have enough money to start work on the Vietnam War Memorial. It had been Mud’s dream for years, and now it seemed as though it might finally be realized.
“What’s this,” Mud demanded, noting the gaming magazine the boy had folded up beside the register. “Are you done with your homework?”
He could sense more than see the boy stiffen up. Tension arced between them.
“Who are you, my father?”
For a moment the lightness of the banter evaporated, and a dark cloud passed over Tony’s face. Mud knew that look well, had seen it on so many of the kids he’d recruited from the troubled high school on the west side of town.
He held the boy’s gaze, refusing to look away. They both knew Tony had never had a father, not since the man disappeared when Tony was an infant. Mud kept his voice even, but when he repeated his words there was a note of hardness in it. “I said, are you done with your homework?”
The boy dropped his gaze. “Yeah, just about,” he said quietly, sliding the magazine aside and reaching for his battered backpack.
“I’ll let you go early so you can get over to the lab, if you want,” Mud offered. Tony practically lived in the school’s computer lab, when he wasn’t at the shop. The boy would do okay—if he could just stay focused.
If Mud had anything to do with it, he would.
Mud let his hand graze the boy’s shoulder as he headed back to the office. Focus. Now, that was ironic. Far be it for Mud to give anyone a hard time when he could hardly manage to put one foot in front of the other. On the way home from the driving range he’d run a red light, not even noticing until he was in the middle of the intersection and a blaring horn snapped him back to attention.
Dorothy couldn’t swing a club to save her life. But that wasn’t what worried him. No, it was the way her narrow waist sloped gently to her hips, making a perfect spot for his forearm to rest as he guided her swing. It was the way her scent dizzied him when the breeze lifted it in his direction, something complicated, not the least bit flowery. Like...water, somehow, and leaves. Clean and dusky all at once, so that he wanted to inhale deeply and shut his eyes and figure it out.
But he couldn’t. He was supposed to be turning her into a golfer. So for four hours he’d repositioned her hands on the club, bending those stubborn thumbs and fingers while he tried to keep his own hands steady. She was unmoved, it was clear, never a tremor even as ball after ball dribbled lamely off at a forty-five degree angle down the slope.
He couldn’t blame her. They’d been kids together. Of course she didn’t think of him that
There’d been other kids who helped in the shop after school over the years. Nice kids, mostly—Mud still heard from them from time to time. But Tony was special.
“Any calls?” he asked, fishing around under the counter for the box of register tape rolls. A cloud of dust drifted up from the stores of office supplies and other junk stored haphazardly there.
“Yeah, I wrote ‘em all down. Uh, Sheila Ruiz called. She said to tell you ye-e-s.” Tony sing-songed the last word in a falsetto, then let a beat go by. “She’s pretty hot, you know, for a mature lady.”
“Out of your league, boy, at any age,” Mud growled, grinning a little despite himself. Getting a call from Sheila was a coup—but not because he hoped to date the gorgeous news anchor. “Well, make sure you put her on the list.”
“Done, boss.”
“What are we up to?”
“Lessee...” The boy deftly swiped a notebook from the murky under-counter depths and ran a finger down the page. “Sheila makes eighteen.”
“Okay,” Mud nodded. Not bad. His goal was twenty-five celebrities, twenty-five big names to auction off for the golf tournament. People would pay all kinds of cash to go a round with the likes of Sheila, and it went to a great cause: with luck the town would soon have enough money to start work on the Vietnam War Memorial. It had been Mud’s dream for years, and now it seemed as though it might finally be realized.
“What’s this,” Mud demanded, noting the gaming magazine the boy had folded up beside the register. “Are you done with your homework?”
He could sense more than see the boy stiffen up. Tension arced between them.
“Who are you, my father?”
For a moment the lightness of the banter evaporated, and a dark cloud passed over Tony’s face. Mud knew that look well, had seen it on so many of the kids he’d recruited from the troubled high school on the west side of town.
He held the boy’s gaze, refusing to look away. They both knew Tony had never had a father, not since the man disappeared when Tony was an infant. Mud kept his voice even, but when he repeated his words there was a note of hardness in it. “I said, are you done with your homework?”
The boy dropped his gaze. “Yeah, just about,” he said quietly, sliding the magazine aside and reaching for his battered backpack.
“I’ll let you go early so you can get over to the lab, if you want,” Mud offered. Tony practically lived in the school’s computer lab, when he wasn’t at the shop. The boy would do okay—if he could just stay focused.
If Mud had anything to do with it, he would.
Mud let his hand graze the boy’s shoulder as he headed back to the office. Focus. Now, that was ironic. Far be it for Mud to give anyone a hard time when he could hardly manage to put one foot in front of the other. On the way home from the driving range he’d run a red light, not even noticing until he was in the middle of the intersection and a blaring horn snapped him back to attention.
Dorothy couldn’t swing a club to save her life. But that wasn’t what worried him. No, it was the way her narrow waist sloped gently to her hips, making a perfect spot for his forearm to rest as he guided her swing. It was the way her scent dizzied him when the breeze lifted it in his direction, something complicated, not the least bit flowery. Like...water, somehow, and leaves. Clean and dusky all at once, so that he wanted to inhale deeply and shut his eyes and figure it out.
But he couldn’t. He was supposed to be turning her into a golfer. So for four hours he’d repositioned her hands on the club, bending those stubborn thumbs and fingers while he tried to keep his own hands steady. She was unmoved, it was clear, never a tremor even as ball after ball dribbled lamely off at a forty-five degree angle down the slope.
He couldn’t blame her. They’d been kids together. Of course she didn’t think of him that