The Beau & The Belle

by R.S. Grey

  “He showed up unannounced. He told me you bought the house across the street from my parents. I saw it had sold and was wondering if you’d finally purchased it. That’s amazing.”

  His eyes narrow. “Preston took a trip to see you to talk about real estate?”

  “Well…he sort of twisted it, like you were buying it as some kind of social climber master plan. Obviously, I know that’s not true.”

  He sneers, disgusted. “No, it’s not. I bought the house for my mom. It’s her dream to live there, not mine.”

  I’ve never heard him sound so clipped.

  I’m stunned, and feel even worse than I did before.

  “I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. It’s no one’s business.”

  He shakes his head, still confused.

  “What else did he have to say?”

  He wants me to twist the knife.

  I look down at my feet. “I guess he kinda warned me to stay away from you?” I cringe at how it sounds. “He thinks you’re using me for my name and claimed the house is proof.” My words are rushed, as if that will help lessen the blow. “I wanted to tell him he was crazy, that he was being ridiculous, but we were alone and he was scaring me!”

  It sounds so silly, even now, but there it is—the truth, all of it—but Beau doesn’t take it well. His fingers drag through his hair and he shakes his head. Maybe he thinks I’m actually going to listen to Preston, so I step forward and catch his arm with my hand, trying to turn him around to face me.

  “I don’t believe him—you know that.”

  “I don’t care. He’s still interested in you.”

  I want to lie so badly, but I can’t. I’ve seen how mad he gets and I won’t do it again, even if it is for his own good. So, I nod, just once.

  “And how many times have I told you to stay away from him? To cut him off? By my count, I started 10 years ago!”

  “I know, and—”

  “The funniest thing is that he’s so obviously guilty of what he’s accusing me of. He never wanted you for you,” he sneers.

  “I know. It’s all so ridiculous, Beau! Don’t let him get to you.”

  “You lied to protect him.”

  What?!

  “No! I was trying to salvage the evening.” I throw my hands up. “A lot of good that did!”

  “This isn’t my fault, Lauren. The evening went to shit the second you lied to me for him.”

  How is he turning this around on me? I made one tiny error in judgment. I lied, sure—Preston wasn’t at NOLA to look at the place—but who wouldn’t have done the same to keep the peace?

  “What did you want me to do?! You and Preston have been at each other’s throats for weeks. Do you think it would have been smart for me to just lay it all out right then? Oh, yes, hi Beau. Preston was just talking mad shit about you. I thought you should know. Maybe then I could have pranced around with a sign that read ROUND ONE and let y’all destroy my gallery!”

  He frowns harder.

  “Preston put me in a shitty position showing up like that, and you’re putting me in one now. Be better than him.”

  My words ring through the air as if I’ve just slapped him across the face.

  Our eyes lock, and for a minute, I think he’s going to react. All bets will be off. This anger will morph into lust and we’ll be bumping into walls and clawing at one another. Teeth will bite and clothes will rip and maybe all this anger isn’t really about Preston at all­—but I’ll never know, because Beau doesn’t touch me.

  He steps back and shakes his head.

  “Go home.”

  WHEN I WALKED into NOLA and found Lauren and Preston standing a foot away from each other, I let my temper get the better of me. Lauren turned to me in shock and the first words out of her mouth were false. I overreacted. I spent the next few hours working myself up, wondering why her first instinct would be to lie to me. I contemplated the fact that she and Preston have a history together. She loved him once. As a teenager, she couldn’t get enough of him, and I convinced myself that there might still be feelings there. The thing is, there are—on his end.

  I’ve never been one to let problems fester, so the morning after House of Blues, I pay Preston a visit at work. I have no idea if he’ll be in today, but I didn’t want to call ahead. I want to catch him off guard just like he caught me off guard yesterday. I want to skip the conversation altogether. I want to drag him outside and resort to violence. He’s all smiles and good to see you mans to my face then poisons Lauren’s mind against me behind my back? It’s time for him to face the harsh fucking light of day.

  Preston doesn’t have a private office yet. He’s an associate with the company and he’s been relegated to a small cubicle on the first floor in front of the interior design department. I’m directed back there by the petite gray-haired office manager, who smiles at me kindly. She’s heard of me, of some of the work I’ve done around town. She read the feature the Times-Picayune did on me a few weeks ago, and she’s impressed that I’m here now.

  “Are you thinking of working with us on a project?” she asks excitedly, handing me a business card.

  “Not at present.” I shake my head and tell her I’m here on personal business.

  I told her Preston was expecting me when I first arrived, said it would be no big deal if I waited for him at his desk. I used the term “old friends”, because it’s almost true.

  “Can I get you a water or anything?” she says, smiling wide. “Preston’s project meeting won’t wrap up for another 10 minutes or so.”

  “I’m all set. Thank you for your help.”

  When I’m left alone in Preston’s cubicle, I stand back and survey his space. It’s a mess, stained coffee mugs and fast food breakfast wrappers. His office phone is covered in a crusty grime. My attention snags on a photo of him and Lauren on a bulletin board behind his computer. She’s one of many: Preston with a blonde, a redhead, two brunettes. He has the photos pinned up as if to say, Look at all these friends—cough, hot women—I know. There are tacky details added to a few. Someone’s slapped on a sticky note with a penis. Crude words. I reach forward and yank the photo of Lauren off the board.

  An older, mustached man passes by and observes me over the brim of his coffee cup. He sees the photo in my hand, looks away, and keeps walking. I wonder if Preston has anyone here other than security willing to stick up for him. I’d be surprised if he did. I take a seat on the edge of the desk and wait for him. The meeting wraps up quicker than anticipated. Employees filter out of a conference room and I watch Preston cross the floor with his attention on his phone. He’s tapping away with a smug smile on his face.

  He doesn’t see me until he’s only feet away. He glances up, back down at his phone, and then does a double take.

  I smile and stay sitting on the desk.

  He picks up his pace, scanning around him to make sure no one else has seen me.

  “Morning Preston. I thought we should talk.”

  “You have the balls to come in here?” He lowers his voice so it doesn’t carry over to other cubicles. “This is my place of business.”

  “Kinda catches you off guard, huh? Having someone show up unannounced at the place where you work,” I say, lowering my voice sarcastically. “Between you and me, it’s a bit of a dick move.”

  He tosses his phone onto his desk, notices the missing picture of Lauren, and then I point to the shreds in the trash.

  His face turns red. “Okay tough guy, say what you need to and then get the fuck out of my office.”

  I tilt my head. “Does this count as an office? Maybe you’d prefer somewhere with walls.”

  His cubicle-mate clears her throat, stands, and meets my eyes over the short partition. The tiny smile she tries to suppress before scurrying away with her coffee cup makes it clear she’s on my side. I wonder how bad it is having to work this close to such a prick.

  “I’m happy to take this somewhere else,” he says with false, hushed bravado
.

  I stand and approach him. He steps back and glances over my shoulder. There are people watching us, no doubt. He’s embarrassed about this display, and maybe later, he’ll have to go into Mr. LeBlanc’s office with an HR representative and discuss what exactly went down. He’ll be a weasel and put the blame on me, but Mr. LeBlanc is a smart man and knows Preston’s true colors. I’m not worried.

  “Actually, I’m comfortable here. I have a theory, Preston, and I’d like to get your opinion on it.”

  His eyes are daggers trying to dice me up.

  “You know those congressmen who spend their careers shouting about how gay people are ruining the world, only to be caught cheating on their wives with a man?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hisses.

  “It’s called reaction formation. These men feel angry and ashamed, so they project their guilt on others then lash out against them.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “You don’t have feelings for Lauren, Preston. You don’t have feelings for her any more than you have feelings for any of those women whose pictures you hang up on the wall to show off to your buddies. To you, she’s a trophy, someone your parents approve of. You want to marry her and put her on a shelf so you can get back to what it is you do best: thinking about yourself.”

  He opens his mouth and I hold up my hand. If he argues with me now, there’s no guarantee that I won’t punch his fucking face. Even now, I’m having a hard time resisting. “Stop calling her. Stop bothering her. You’ve shown you can’t resist slandering me any time you cross paths with her and…well, you see, Preston, that makes you my problem. I’ve worked hard for my name. Maybe it’s time you start doing the same.”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  I smile. He gets it, but I want to hear him say it.

  “I don’t like leaving problems unsolved. I need you to tell me you understand.”

  I’m not touching him, but the effect is the same. My knee is on his spine. My hand is digging into his neck, cutting off air. His face is smashed against the carpet and he’s croaking for mercy. It’s hard submitting. I’ve only ever done it a few times in my life, and never once as an adult man. I don’t envy him, but then again, he put himself in this situation. It’s time he learned his lesson.

  “Preston.”

  “I get it,” he bites out, barely above a whisper.

  I clap my hand on his shoulder and nod, smiling. “Good. I’m glad to hear it, man.”

  LAUREN IS STILL upset with me about how I treated her at the concert. It’s been two days and she hasn’t let me walk her home; when I arrive at NOLA, she’s already gone.

  My phone calls go unanswered, but sometimes she replies to my texts.

  BEAU: I’m ready to eat crow.

  BEAU: Also prepared to eat humble pie. Your choice.

  BEAU: Lauren…

  LAUREN: I’m good at holding a grudge. Go away. I’m watching Seinfeld reruns.

  BEAU: I like The Office better.

  LAUREN: One more reason to hate you.

  BEAU: Come get a beignet with me tomorrow.

  LAUREN: Humble pie isn’t supposed to taste good.

  BEAU: I’ll sit there and watch you eat. I won’t ask for a single bite.

  LAUREN: Watching me eat is a privilege, not a punishment.

  BEAU: Manny’s sent a king cake to the office this morning. I saved some for you.

  10 minutes pass before she replies.

  LAUREN: Leave it outside NOLA in the morning.

  I do one better. The next morning, I’m outside holding a dozen red roses and a quarter of the king cake in Tupperware. Lauren turns the corner and spots me right away, leaning against the front door. Her pace slows for a moment, but then her gaze falls to the cake and she speeds up again. I’m not proud of myself for bribing her, but at least it’s working.

  Clearly, our fight hasn’t affected her. She’s a breath of fresh air—pink cheeks, full lips, wild curls. Her jeans hug her hips and her boots add a few inches so if I wanted to kiss her (and I do), I’d hardly have to bend down.

  She reaches me and I smile. Her eyes narrow and she plucks the Tupperware from my hand without laying a single finger on me.

  She nods to the flowers as she unlocks her door. “Nice weeds. Who are they for?”

  I hold them out, but she doesn’t accept them. Instead, she pushes the door open and I follow her inside. She flips on lights and fiddles with the thermostat. I search in the cabinets beside the espresso machine and find an empty glass pitcher. I add water and the roses then place them in the center of the counter.

  “My dad told me you dropped in on Preston at work the other day.”

  “I did.”

  “He said Preston stomped and sulked around the office the rest of the afternoon, threatening to call the police.”

  “I can’t imagine why. We had a conversation. I didn’t break any laws, even if I wanted to break his jaw.”

  Lauren shakes her head. “My dad said the entire office was talking about it. Apparently, they were placing bets on who would win in a fight.” Her eyes meet mine. “A lot of his coworkers were rooting for you.”

  “I wasn’t there to fight him.”

  “Well fight or no fight, he sent me a text in shouty caps with an ultimatum. I need to decide, either you or him.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  She picks up the roses, smells them, and then scoots them a little to the left so they’re in the sunlight. “I didn’t pick him, if that’s what you’re asking. Where’d I drop that Tupperware?”

  “It’s over near the espresso machine.”

  She finds a fork, pops the lid, and rounds the bar. She sits and I stand. We watch each other in silence while she scoops bites of cake into her mouth. She licks the fork clean every time, like she can’t stand the idea of wasting a single morsel.

  I smile. “You’re right, it is a privilege.”

  She pushes the cake aside and swallows. “I’ve been thinking the last few days…”

  I nod for her to continue.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing we had this fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighs heavily, glances out the window, and stalls for a few seconds. I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then her mouth opens and the most unexpected answer falls out of it.

  “You’ve probably noticed I’m not really what you might refer to as a sexual creature.”

  I have to stifle a laugh. Where the hell does she get this stuff?

  “Come again?”

  She’s still facing the window. “I’ve had sex. I mean, obviously. Duh. I didn’t save my virginity for you all these years—oh my god, could you imagine?”

  Yes. I could imagine.

  “When was your first time?”

  If the name Preston comes out of her mouth, I’m going back to his office and the cops will be called.

  She waves away my question. “Oh, it was in college. Clunky. The guy sprinkled cheap rose petals all over the bedspread and they stained everything. It hurt and I hated every second. Anyway, I’ve had good sex since then. I mean, decent, solid, middle-of-the-road coitus. It’s been okay.”

  “It sounds like you haven’t been with the right men, but I’m confused—where is this going?”

  “Right. Where is it going?” She laughs and pokes me hard in the center of my chest. “It’s going to you.” She shivers. “You intimidate me, and I’m trying to figure out why. I think it’s your age, or your size, or maybe your confidence. You’re too much for me to handle. I think maybe I’m better off with someone…I don’t know, simple? Containable?”

  She pauses for a moment, and I wait for her to continue.

  “Maybe I need a guy with soft hands? My old boyfriend Clark always put moisturizer on his hands. They were softer than mine, and he never made me feel intimidated. Maybe I’ll give him a call.

  “Anyway, even though you came out on top of this stupid ultimatum thi
ng, I think you and I had better just stay friends, or maybe we should just put this on ice for another 10 years. That way I can stop worrying so much about how I’m not enough for you and I can go back to eating solid foods and sleeping through the night.”

  “No.”

  She doesn’t hear me.

  “I mean for crying out loud,” she groans, “I’ve been researching sexual positions to get myself up to speed with what you’re probably accustomed to. No doubt you’ve spent the last few years with beautiful women who swing from the rafters like some sort of R-rated Cirque du Soleil shit. I don’t want to compete with that—my health insurance isn’t that good.”

  Now I do laugh, because it’s all too ridiculous. “You’ve been researching sex positions?”

  She doesn’t even blush. It’s like we’re talking about the weather. “I ran out of printer ink compiling a dirty dossier of sorts. It’s in a binder under my bed. I used tabs, Beau—tabs and dividers.”

  “Why did you feel like you needed to do research? I’ve reassured you before that you’re seductive without even trying.”

  “Oh, well, yeah. It’s simple.” She folds her hands on her lap and finally turns to face me. “That day in your office when I came to visit…you probably don’t remember it—”

  “When you straddled me at my desk?”

  Her brows and her voice both spike a little. “That’s the one. So, yeah, we were, umm…”

  “Making out.”

  “Yes, and then our lunch arrived and you told me you had to get back to work. I mean, my legs didn’t work. I couldn’t walk. I had to hold on to the wall in the elevator to keep from collapsing. When I made it out onto the street, I asked a mom if I could sit in her stroller if I held her baby.”

  I laugh. “Okay, okay, so you really enjoyed it. What was the problem exactly?”

  “Well you were able to just flip a switch and go right back into work mode. You were barely affected.”

  “Are you kidding me? Couldn’t you feel how turned on I was?”

  Her cheeks flush.