by JA Huss
“Oh,” I say. “OK. Well, I guess we should fix that.”
“Got it covered,” Law says. “He’s gonna take a look at everything while we have lunch up on your rooftop terrace.” That’s when I notice he’s got a bag in his hand that says Capitol Hill Bagels on it. “Can he have your keycard so he can do a thorough evaluation?”
“Um… sure.” I walk over to my purse on the couch, dig through it until I find the keycard, and hand it over.
“Gracias,” Eduardo says. Then turns back to the elevator, gets inside, and disappears when the doors close.
“I told you it was horrible,” Law says. “But he’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. By the end of the week that shit will be locked up tight. Now how do we get to the roof?”
I’m a little stunned. Not because it’s presumptuous of Lawton to take it upon himself to deal with my lackadaisical elevator security, but because… his whole persona is one of power. He took away my ability to make this decision on my own.
He… handled things.
Just what I asked for before he appeared.
And it feels good.
CHAPTER TWLEVE - LAWTON
She points to the stairs and says, “Up there,” to indicate how we get to the rooftop terrace. So I follow her, smiling the entire time because she’s wearing the outfit I chose.
Last night was… wow. So many words to describe last night. Unexpected comes first. Because I had no intention of fucking her when I woke up yesterday morning. She’d made it pretty clear that this game was not about sex and I took her word on that.
But she was drunk.
And that makes me feel very guilty. Like I took advantage of her somehow.
“So hey,” I say, once we reach the catwalk and she heads down it towards a bedroom. “I’d just like to apologize about last night.”
She laughs. “Why? It was pretty fun.”
“So you remember it?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, you were pretty buzzed.”
“Oh,” she says. “Right.” Heading into the bedroom.
I realize it’s her room. The one I fucked her in last night. The sheets are a mess. Like, totally hanging off the bed. The comforter is just a pile of white bunched up in the middle and most of the pillows are on the floor.
“Excuse the mess,” she says, stepping over a pillow as she makes her way towards her bedroom terrace. “I’m not one of those make-your-bed-daily kinda people.”
No, she isn’t. She’s one of those mess-it-up-nightly kinda people, I think.
“The elevator actually goes all the way up to the roof too. That’s how people get up there when I throw parties. But there’s a ladder that leads up there from this terrace and since Eduardo Whats-his-name is monopolizing my elevator today, the bedroom terrace ladder will have to do.”
“Jesus, Oaklee,” I say.
“What?”
“That is so not secure!”
She shrugs. “I’m six floors up. Who cares?”
“Well, when people can ride your elevator up to the roof and climb down the ladder that leads to your bedroom, I care!”
“You’re kinda bossy, Lawton.” And then she flips her hair, pushes a hand past the sheer white curtains to find the door handle—which isn’t even locked!—opens the French doors, and disappears behind the now blowing-in-the-wind fabric.
I follow. And by the time I get outside she’s already climbing up the ladder and I have a great view of her ass in those jeans I picked out.
When she gets to the top and turns around I’m still gawking at her. “Throw the bag up.”
I do that and climb after her. When I get up on the roof I just stop. Stand still for a moment looking at the mountains with nothing obstructing them. Then I turn in place and take in the rest of the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. “Holy shit.” That’s pretty much all I have to say.
“Yeah.” Oaklee sighs. “My dad made this place when I was still a little girl.” Then she turns and points to a painted-white wooden picnic table underneath the water tower. “He used to hang mosquito netting on all sides of the tower and drape white garden lights on the legs for my birthdays. He threw me a private party up here every year.”
I picture it in my head and smile. “Sounds real nice, Oaks.”
“It was,” she says, smiling back, but sadly. “It really was. And one day, when I finally settle down and have my own kids, I hope I can do that for them too.”
I take the bag of food from her hand, grab her other hand with my empty one, and lead her over to the table. “Well, I feel kinda proud of myself for coming up with this idea. I don’t think much can surprise me about this city anymore.”
We both take a seat. Me on one bench, her on the other.
“I mean, I know Denver. I have sold more than two hundred houses since I got my real-estate license eight years ago, in every neighborhood you can think of, but mostly downtown. So I kinda feel like I’ve seen all this place has to offer. And then you bring me up here and show me how much I’ve missed. How much more I have to see.”
“You live right over there, Lawton,” she says, pointing at my building down the alley. “It’s not that different.”
But I disagree. “My view kinda sucks. No, really sucks compared to yours. There’s nothing special about a penthouse view of an alley.”
“Not true,” she says, opening up the paper bag and pulling out the two bacon, egg, and cheese bagels. She sniffs them, smiles and says, “Bacon. One of my four food groups.”
Which makes me laugh. “What are the other three?”
“Beer, butter, and beef.”
And now I laugh again. “A woman after my heart.”
She blushes a little, which delights me for some reason. Then she says, “Your view is of my water tower, Law. That’s kinda special, right?”
I nod. Because she’s not wrong. And now that I know what this place over here really is—a slice of the romantic side of Denver, mountains stretching the entire front range from north to south, the hum of people and cars down below like a song caught in the softly blowing wind, and the city skyscape just over her shoulder—well, the whole thing is like a fantastical Hollywood backdrop if you ask me. “I bet it’s outrageously beautiful up here at night.”
“It is,” she says, opening up her bagel and taking a bite. She looks around for a few moments as she chews. “I’ll bring you up here at night if we have time.”
“We can make time,” I say. And it comes out slightly…seductive. Like I’m planning to fuck her up here. Which I’m not. I’m pretty sure what we did last night was a mistake. This whole arrangement, from top to bottom, is a business deal. And I should’ve stopped myself last night. Should’ve kept it professional. Because now she’s probably thinking I’m a giant douchebag for taking advantage of her while she was drunk.
That’s how I’d feel if I were her.
“You know,” I say, unwrapping my bagel too, “you’re not as crazy as I thought you were.”
She winks at me. And that wink says, You don’t know me yet.
“Seriously,” I say. “When I got home this morning I looked you up online.”
“Why?” She laughs, almost spitting out her food.
“Because I had this vision of you as some hot-headed wild woman, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I got that impression.”
“Hmmm. So what did you find online?”
“Well,” I say. “You’ve pulled a lot of stunts over the years. I’m surprised the only one I ever caught wind of was that whole ‘save the mansions’ campaign.”
“Got examples?” she asks. Winking again.
“Lots.”
“Was it the wet jeans contest I threw? That was up here. I was on the news that night.”
“Found that one, yes.” I laugh. “And a bunch more of those. But the best one was when you made pot beer for an April Fool’s joke.”
She almost snorts. “Oh, my God. That was awesome. My dad laughed for days.
We filmed a commercial showing people getting high on a pot stout beer called Rocky Mountain High and it went viral. Three million views on YouTube in two days! And it was so real the Denver cops came and arrested us!”
I can’t help, I laugh too. Because I read that online. Her and her father got arrested for illegally selling pot and had to stay in jail over the entire weekend. Monday morning there was a protest outside the capitol building with thousands of people holding signs saying ‘Free Oaklee!’
“How did I never meet you before this?” I ask.
She shrugs and chews her bagel. “You’re a boring guy, I guess.”
“And you truly are wild.”
“Guilty.”
“But you’re taking all this Hanna Harlow stuff pretty well if you ask me. Because you haven’t pulled anything crazy on her yet. I mean, all morning I’ve been asking myself why that is. So… why is that?”
She frowns now, then shakes her head. “It’s not fun anymore. Not since my dad died. He’s the one who made me wild. He’s the one who was always pulling pranks and being crazy when I was growing up. He’s the one I was always trying to make smile with my antics. Not anyone else. Just him. And now that he’s gone… I just don’t feel the same. I don’t think about fun stuff like that anymore. I haven’t pulled an April Fool’s joke since the year he died.”
“But you have a plan for Hanna Harlow, right?”
“Not really.” She shrugs. “I just thought… I dunno. I could bait her into stealing my boyfriend and that would prove something. But it’s a dumb idea, isn’t it?”
Part of me hopes she thinks it’s a dumb idea because she likes me. Wants to date me for real. Wants to give this a try. Because I kinda like this woman.
But there’s another part of me that hopes she comes up with something really cool to get back at that chick. Because while this boyfriend experience stuff might be fake—Hanna Harlow really did steal her beer recipe and pass it off as her own. And she should pay for that.
So I say, “No. It’s not dumb. I don’t know if it’ll work. But it’s not dumb to want people to pay when they’ve wronged you.”
“Exactly,” she says. “That’s what I really want. I want her to pay. I want her to know I know and I want everyone else to know too. I want her to feel shame. Because she’s a lying, cheating, backstabbing bitch. And it’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not,” I say. “So how about we go over to Shrike Bikes and turn me into your boyfriend.”
We walk over because Five Points really is just a few blocks away and the Shrike Bikes store is in a building right across the road from Coors Field. It’s actually quite a big building. I’ve seen this place plenty of times. There’s a diner down the road called Cookies that has the best burgers in town. I go there every once in a while. But I’ve never stopped into this showroom. Other ones, yeah. They have them all over Colorado. And when I was a kid—back in my wild days—I had a Shrike Bike once. It was payment for some fight money a guy owed me and the jacket Oaklee took home last night came with it. I wrecked the bike pretty quick because… well, I was sixteen. It wasn’t even legal for me to ride that bike so I had no clue what I was doing.
But I had no fear either. Nothing to lose back then. That was before Elias Bricman found me and changed my life.
I was glad to leave that part of me behind. In fact, just walking towards the building gives me a weird feeling in my stomach. Reminds me of all those days I did nothing but stupid things.
And not stupid things like Oaklee does. Really stupid things.
“Jesus,” I say, once we walk through the door. “How big is this place?”
There’s like fifty bikes on the showroom floor, a bar off to the left, and the buzzing coming from the back—not to mention the pink neon sign that says Sick Girlz Ink—tells me there’s a tattoo shop in here too. There’s even a shooting gallery—fake, like the kind you see at a carnival, taking up one whole wall to my right. The whole place smells like summer. Popcorn, and cotton candy, and leather. There’s also a clothing store in the front, and that’s where we’re standing now.
I study the wall of boots, then look at the racks filled with customized, hand-painted leather jackets.
“Big,” Oaklee says. “I forgot that coming here is an experience. You need boots and a jacket for sure. But get whatever you want. I’m buying.”
“You’re not buying,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”
But she’s already over in the women’s section, browsing through the skirts.
A guy comes over wearing a red and black bowling shirt with an embroidered patch over the left side of his chest that says ‘Chuck’ in fancy retro cursive writing. “Looking for something in particular?” he asks me.
“Boots,” I say.
“For going out? For riding the bike?”
“Bike,” I guess, figuring Oaklee wants me to look like a biker, even if I don’t actually own one.
“Engineer? Or harness?”
“Show me both,” I say. Because I remember wanting a pair of these back in the day. Back when I was poor as dirt. So wild, homeless would not be an inaccurate way to describe my living status. God, how bad I wanted a pair of these boots. And why I never got myself a pair after the money started rolling in… I don’t know.
“Brown or black?” he asks.
“Black,” I say. Even though I like brown better. I can’t wear black biker boots to the office… but brown ones, I could maybe pull that off with jeans. “Black,” I say again. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about what Oaklee needs me to be. “Size eleven.”
“You got it, bro,” Chuck says. “Be right back.”
I browse the jackets while I wait, wondering if Chuck is his real name or that’s just the name that comes with the shirt.
Now these jackets are serious pieces of art. They start at four hundred dollars and go up from there because I hear that the Shrike family paints them custom somewhere up in Fort Collins. And… I lift up the sleeve, peek inside, and feel a sense of satisfaction that I knew where to find it. Each one is individually signed by whoever painted it. This one says Spencer. The guy who owns this whole company. It’s got three zeros on the price tag.
But the art is magnificent. Not gaudy, either. Not some lame eagle posing in front of an American flag.
No, this is two ravens sitting in front of the iconic Shrike skull. And it’s subtle. Like, most of it is painted in metallic blue-black and you can’t really see it until the light hits it just the right way.
I slip it on, just to see if it fits. It does. And I’m just about to take it off when Chuck returns with two wooden boot crates branded with the Shrike logo burned into the wood. Whoever does the marketing for this place really has an eye for detail.
He sets the boxes down near an overstuffed leather chair and says, “Take your time, bro. I gotta go take care of some folks over there real quick.”
“Sure,” I say, glancing over in the direction he was nodding. There’s like half a dozen people holding cameras. The kind you use for news broadcasts or filming.
Huh. Wonder what that’s all about.
But I turn back to the boots because all those people disappear into a back room and there’s nothing more to see.
“That jacket is great,” Oaklee says, coming up behind me. “I love it. You’re getting it, right?”
“Sure,” I say, then jerk my arm away when she goes to reach for the price tag. “You’re not buying this.” I laugh. “So just buck off, Oaks.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “These your boot choices?”
“Yup,” I say, opening the first crate and taking out one boot.
“Oh, that’s pretty,” she says, leaning over my shoulder to pet the leather. “Try them on, I want to see you.”
So I slip my shoes off, slide the boots on and realize… “Shit. My pants are too straight.”
“Oh, I’ll go find you some jeans. One sec.”
She’s gone before I can stop her. Not that
I could stop her. So I just put the other boot on, ignoring how stupid I look wearing them with straight-leg pants, and walk around, trying them out.
You know you’re wearing a pair of quality boots when they feel like they were made custom for your feet.
I try on the engineers next. Which have the same feel, but the not classic biker vibe the harness ones give off, so I pack them back up and decide on the first pair.
“Here,” Oaklee says, handing me a stack of jeans. “I didn’t know your size, so I guessed. Go try them on.”
I sigh, take the stack, and walk off to the dressing rooms.
“Looking hot isn’t torture, Lawton Ayers! It’s fun!” she calls after me.
“Whatever you want, Oaklee,” I mumble back.
There are three sizes in different styles, but all of them are faded and ripped. They’re a lot like the ones I chose for Oaklee today. Soft, the wash so light, they’re almost baby blue. And filled with strategically placed holes that don’t look manufactured. When I glance down at the price I get the feeling they aren’t manufactured. That each hole was carefully made by hand by some seamstress.
I pick my size, strip out of my own pants, then pull them on.
A black leather belt comes flying over the top of the dressing-room door, the buckles slapping against the wooden louvers. “Put that on too,” Oak calls from the other side. “And let me see you before you take it off, OK?”
“Sure,” I grumble. “Whatever you want, Oaklee.”
“Was that sarcasm?” I can sorta see her through the louvers. She’s got her eye pressed up against the door trying to get a peek.
“Go away, you weirdo. I’ll be out in a second.”
But she doesn’t go away. I can see her boot tapping on the carpet through the opening at the bottom of the door.
Fuck it. I change, pull my boots back on, and open the door to let her gawk at me.
She covers her mouth with her hand when I walk out, trying to hide her smile. Then she says, “Oh, wait,” as she comes towards me, slipping the jacket down my arms. “I actually love the look you have today, but take this off so I can see how it looks with just the t-shirt.”