by Danes, Ellie
You force me do this, I wanted to shout at him, ever since that day I turned to the boss for help and now that I want out you won’t let me go! These words railed in my mind, but instead of letting any of them escape, I nodded my head and answered him.
“We protect,” I said, “and avenge.” My answer must have gotten his approval because he relinquished his hold on the envelope.
“Get out of my car and pick up your phone more often, it’s healthy,” he grunted.
I slammed the envelope into the front pocket of my pants and scrambled out of his car.
As I closed his passenger door, Hans Tyrell from 2C was coming out of the building. We nodded to each other as I walked up the entryway steps, the envelope Tommy had given me burning a hole in the crotch of my pants. I can’t keep doing this, I told myself. If I truly wanted to commit to a better path, I needed to make a way out of this. Especially if it had already affected Brittany. I could not accept that.
I made sure to watch Tommy drive off before going to finish the rest of my maintenance tasks.
Chapter 10
Brittany
My head had been drowning from the stress of my schoolwork all week, and my libido had not made it any easier on me. Every day before school I would pass Dalton working somewhere on the apartment complex, either in the courtyard as I took a morning stroll to wake up or in the hallway as I rushed off to campus, and he would always be intensely focused on some job he had to do. In the courtyard, he had been bent over with a flower in his coarse hands, gently feeling the leaves and making sure it had enough water. I imagined he was holding me, his hands massaging me and asking me how he could get me more wet. Every time I passed him before class he would remain on my mind throughout the day and interrupt my studies. I was doing fine in my grades. Luckily, I was smart enough to maintain my grades while being so distracted, yet I knew deep down that concerning myself with a such a man rather than my schoolwork was wrong and that I needed to stop.
I had idiotically agreed to go out to the harbor with Dalton on Friday, the day of a big test in my finance class, because even though he seemed intimidating and almost like he had been following me, I had also gotten to peek into a different side of him. His devil-may-care attitude seemed to hide a softer side, a more compassionate side.
When I had told Josephine that I had redacted my initial response to Dalton and agreed to go look at art with him on Friday, she had called me a gold-digger. I tried to explain that his money had nothing to do with it, and in actuality it was how he seemed to not need money or have any real material attachment in the world that anchored him down that influenced me to change my answer. Then Josephine accused me of agreeing to Dalton’s proposal because he was a bad boy my father would flip out about if he knew I was giving Dalton the time of day. I couldn’t argue with her there.
Throughout my finance test, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dalton’s arms and how he didn’t care how dirty he got when he was working. The paint from the piece he’d stowed under his arm that day had set my imagination ablaze. I fantasized about him coming over to my apartment to encourage my artistic endeavors. He’d bring paint he’d acquired at the hardware store nearby, and he would set the cans on my living room floor with a thud and instruct me to practice my painting with him as my only canvas. My fantasies swam through my head as I finished the last of my test and rushed out of the auditorium without saying goodbye to Josephine.
I wanted to get to the harbor first so that going out with Dalton didn’t feel so much like a date, and more like a meeting of two friendly neighbors. If I went home first and we walked there together, it would definitely feel like a date, and I was afraid my father would drive down the street and spot us. If that happened, he’d probably be tempted to ask his driver to swerve the car and take Dalton out.
Once I got to the harbor, I stopped in at my now not-so-secret coffee shop to fix my hair after walking many blocks in the wind. It was warm outside, so I had worn a thin button-up that hung loose at my waist, the fabric so thin you could just make out my bra underneath. I undid one more button to reveal more cleavage.
As I stepped back outside, drink in hand, I could see Dalton approaching from a few blocks away. I waved and caught his attention.
He nodded, stoically keeping his hands at his side, and gave me a tiny grin.
When he finally got within earshot, I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head at him. “Here comes Mister Professional.” I jokingly glanced at my watch. “I requested a 7:30 arrival time through the apartment portal, you do realize it’s 7:27. You, Mr. Jones, are way too early.”
Casually, without hesitation, he looked at his watch gripping tight to his thick wrist, and said, “I can go wait in that dark alleyway if Miss Tenant commands.”
I giggled, and then quickly stifled the laughter and zipped my straight face back on to stay in the character I had created.
“That would please me very much, but only if you remembered to water Mrs. Curtis on your way out of the estate this evening.” I made reference to Mrs. Curtis, who I’d gotten used to seeing near the entryway of our building and now saw consistently every day, as I kept up the play-acting.
“I completely forgot to water Mrs. Curtis!” Dalton exclaimed, then pretended to pivot on his heels and begin running back to the apartment. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and Dalton smirked boyishly as I did.
When my giggling had subsided, Dalton took a step toward me and extended the crook of his arm as if he were a gentleman of olden times here to escort a woman of high society to a ball. “Shall we, m’lady?”
He was acting in such a silly mood, and even though at first it felt very warm and open, I sensed that his comedy act was an armor he’d put up before coming here, almost like it was a mask, an attempt to truly uphold his professionalism and not treat this as a date or me like a conquest.
Josephine had warned me that all he wanted was to get into my pants, and then once that happened, everything at home would be ruined. If my father didn’t have a heart attack over the whole thing, he would kill me and then kill Dalton, and if that didn’t happen it would get very awkward around the building and I would need to find someplace new to live while going to school, and once again my father would kill me if that happened. I told myself that Dalton keeping his emotional distance was a good thing, and that I did not want to get invested. I told myself that…but my body rebelled against my mind as I slipped my hand through the crook of his bent arm and felt his hot skin against mine.
We walked along the harbor looking out at the boats as Dalton led me to the place he had chosen to show me. As we walked, he asked me how my test went. I had forgotten mentioning it to him, I must have only mentioned it in passing during the past few days since our last coffee shop interaction, but Dalton not only remember I had a test, but even remembered which class I had it in.
I told him how much finance class frustrated me, that I understood its importance but daydreamed the entire class about art. I didn’t mention how that art involved practicing my painting skills on his body, tracing the curves of his chest down to his abs and even lower down still.
He confessed how he hated thinking about finances too, how he would rather think about anything else in the world other than money. I wanted to press him on the matter, but my phone erupted in the large purse I’d carried my textbook and notes in today. I pulled it out to switch it into silent mode, and saw my father’s name, Allen Wellington, displayed on the contact identification. I had refused to put him in my phone as ‘father’ or ‘dad,’ since whenever he contacted me it was always about business or ‘my track in life.’
I subconsciously checked around the harbor to see if my father was around, fearing he could be calling due to the fact that he was at the harbor and could see Dalton and me at that very moment. I ignored the call and turned off my phone after confirming he was nowhere in sight. Dalton noticed my concern and looked around the harbor for himself.
“Someone following us?”<
br />
I chuckled. “You noticed that? No, it’s just my father; he only calls me to talk business or when he’s nearby and he doesn’t want to get my attention by calling out or god forbid approaching me in public. I was double checking to make sure it wasn’t the latter.”
Again, Dalton craned his neck to look around, this time appearing slightly nervous. “Did you see anybody?”
I shook my head, but Dalton still seemed to grow distant and he adjusted and dropped his arm to his side so that it was no longer locked with mine as we walked.
“Here we are—the Bizarre Bazaar.” Dalton raised his hands toward the art gallery sitting next to the dock. Three painters crouched underneath an awning provided by the store, furiously splattering paint over canvas and inevitably getting drops of green, blue, and silver in large streaks all over the walkway leading into the Bizarre Bazaar.
One of the male painters caught sight of Dalton and stood up. Rushing over, he barreled into Dalton, embracing him in an intense squeeze before Dalton could raise his arms to stop him.
I could tell Dalton did not enjoy hugs, but he endured it until the painter took a step back and abrasively smacked Dalton’s biceps. Paint residue stuck to them and the man gave them a rough squeeze while smiling.
“You work here, too?” Dalton managed to say, still in shock that a grown man had leapt up to wrap paint-stained arms around his thick frame. I could have watched that painter squeeze Dalton for hours.
“This is the best place to paint, my friend! And look at you now, you certainly look a bit less out of place this time than last, Mister Business, and I see you’ve brought quite the attractive partner with you this evening.” The artist turned to me with a wink, and I felt blood slam against my cheeks and forehead. I giggled in pleasure at the nickname the artist had coined for Dalton, and by Dalton’s frown, I could tell that he found no pleasure whatsoever in his new title.
“Do you know each other?” I asked.
“Not really,” Dalton started to say.
“Only professionally,” the artist chimed in. “Whenever an artist steals my work, I hire your man here to rub them out for me.” Obviously teasing, the artist cackled to himself.
Dalton immediately spoke out, saying that he would never do work like that, and I spoke over him, informing the artist that Dalton was certainly not my man and we were only here as friends.
The artist chuckled and nodded knowingly, asking, “And how is our baby, hanging prominently in your abode, I hope?” He raised a questioning eyebrow at Dalton.
“That’s why we’re here, actually. I put it up in the hallway at the building I manage. Brittany here is one of my tenants and she would like something similar.” Dalton had switched into a different mode, now all seriousness with a gruff, matter-of-fact tone to his voice. He reminded me of the few times I’d encountered his father in passing when he would visit my parents, and how stern he could sound. At first, it sounded forced and unnatural coming out of Dalton’s lips, and then Dalton sank his weight into his hip while leaning back and crossed his arms over his chest while changing his stern tone to one of aloofness. “Gimme something good, Marty.”
With wide eyes, the artist clapped his hands in joy. “Well I’ll be damned, I didn’t think you cared under that hard shell, big boy, but you actually remembered my name. I don’t even remember telling you! You’re good.” Marty, which I now understood to be the artist’s name, winked in Dalton’s direction.
Dalton grunted through a smirk, and although I could tell Marty’s affectionate nature was making Dalton uncomfortable, I knew Marty was also giving Dalton’s ego quite the boost.
“Careful Marty,” I teased, “or you’ll make him think he’s some godlike apartment manager and I’ll have to deal with his inflamed sense of authority around the building. I mean, he did hang up your painting crooked the first time. I had to get out my own hammer and fix his work.”
“Shame! All brownie points squandered.” Marty chuckled.
“It’s okay, Brittany, we all know your eyes are crooked.” Dalton shrugged, teasing me with a straight face.
“You’re the crooked one,” I shot back, whacking him in the arm. My hand landed against his hard muscle which barely gave way to the impact of my blow.
He turned a mischievous grin my way, and I hit him again, this time savoring the stiff resistance his muscles gave when I smacked them.
Marty brought us into the shop and showed us a few paintings. Dalton offered to buy me any painting I liked, saying it was ‘on the house, literally.’ I turned him down even though I knew he had more than enough to buy the entire store with all of his father’s money he must have stashed away. Eventually, I found a piece I enjoyed of a sailboat trapped on dry land.
Walking back home together around nine in the evening, Dalton asked me why I’d picked that one.
“It represents where I’m at in life right now, almost like a prison,” I said, walking close enough to Dalton that we occasionally brushed against each other, lightly slamming our bodies up against each other over and over again.
“I know that feeling. It’s one of the worst feelings in life, feeling like you’re not living, only surviving.”
I looked over at him. His gaze was lost in the street lamps overhead. I wanted to know what memories where bubbling up in that troubled head of his. Before I could ask and dig deeper past his bad boy façade, we turned the corner of the block for our building and I heard a sharp bark as someone called out my name.
My father stood on the steps of the entryway, looking as if he had just come from inside and was heading back to his car which his driver had parked next to the building. He stopped and waved for me to follow him, then turned on his heels and went back inside the building.
“Speaking of…” I sighed, internally panicking due to the fact that I was without a doubt going to get an earful now that my father had seen me with Dalton.
Dalton put his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, squeezing it. I took a deep breath and looked at him. I caught him looking down my cleavage, which had revealed itself more when I had raised my chest during my inhale. Instead of getting embarrassed or angry, it excited me to know I had snatched his attention.
“Don’t let Daddy catch you.” I winked, and he instantly blushed and removed his hand sheepishly.
He grunted, trying to save face, and winked back at me. “I don’t care who catches me. Now get in there, Daddy’s waiting.” He gestured for me to go in before him. I rolled my eyes in a way to ensure that he noticed, took another deep breath slow enough to let his wandering eyes get caught once again on my breasts, and then plunged into the building after my father.
He was waiting by my door, arms crossed and foot tapping, while he scrolled what I presumed to be emails on his phone. Without a word, he watched me remove my key and unlock my apartment, and I could feel his glare over my shoulder as Dalton came in after me. I glanced back at Dalton in time to witness him acknowledge my father with a nod before entering his own apartment.
Once inside, my father said in a quiet, cold voice, “I know I don’t have to say it out loud and that you understand what is expected of you if you want to continue being successful in school and continue to enjoy the privilege to live in this apartment complex. Don’t make either of us regret investing so much in this future of yours.”
“Stop. We just ran into each other a few blocks down the road. I was out with Josephine and when Dalton saw me walking alone, he offered to walk me the rest of the way home.” I lied, trying to diffuse my father’s anger. Thankfully it worked, and my father moved on to the real reason he had arrived unannounced at my doorstep.
“I wish you wouldn’t ignore my calls, I’m much too busy to come around whenever you don’t pick up. You do realize that successful businesswomen answer their phones, do you not?”
“Not when they’re busy and can’t answer.” I sighed, sitting down on my loveseat to get as comfortable as possible while listening to my father continue.
I opened my mouth in shock, but I didn’t have words.
My father pulled out his wallet and located a metallic business card. Setting it on one of my wood accent tables, he cleared his throat and looked around the room. “His information is there. Do not contact him, he will contact you first. Just make sure to pick up your phone when his number comes across your caller ID. I don’t think that painting matches your furniture, by the way.” He added the last bit at the end, pointing to the new addition I had deposited on the floor in the kitchen and then waving his finger at the rest of my apartment.
Impossible. My father was impossible. I remained silent.
“You should most likely hang it in your room,” he continued, “or somewhere no guest will ever see it, that way it won’t mess up your color scheme and the ambiance in here. I really enjoy how the furniture your mother helped pick out looks. Even though we haven’t gotten along since the divorce, Nadine still has great taste. Speaking of which, I’ve scheduled all three of us to have dinner with Reginald when he comes into town. I’ll send you over the details so you can arrange to be free that day.”
In typical fashion, he didn’t ask ahead of time how I felt about this. He just assumed I would go along with his plan.