Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  Yeah, I don’t do awkward well.

  When I get to my stop, I step off the bus and see my friend Willa, another teacher, exiting the school. Her straight black hair is swaying as she bounces down the steps.

  “Um, class is that way,” I tease.

  She smiles, handing me a small white bag. I glance inside at the doughnut she bought me.

  “I knew you’d be here soon. Someone just told me our local lawbreaker struck again over the weekend. Come with me to check it out.”

  The lawbreaker she’s talking about is the graffiti artist we’ve been following over the past year. I know graffiti is bad and technically illegal, but the art this person creates is remarkable. It’s not tags you can’t read or gang signs that only claim territory. This guy—or girl, for all I know—creates masterpieces out of mayhem.

  New York City is a mixture of good and bad. Most of it is beautiful with streets so nice with well-maintained buildings and brownstones, museums, restaurants, and stores. On other blocks, there are completely run-down buildings infested with rats and unsafe drinking water.

  I come from a working-class neighborhood in Queens with row houses that don’t seem like much, but they’re worth more than four-bedroom colonials in Southern states. The area is where people live and die because they love it so much, yet when I was younger, my father would have killed me if I’d hung out a few train stops away from our town.

  Unfortunately, the school I work at is one of those locations. The building is well cared for, but some of the buildings around it are lacking. I tried to rally the school, some of the parents, and even the city council to do something to fix it up, but I’m a microorganism in a huge ocean that no one seems to be concerned about.

  I break off a piece of the maple doughnut and place it in my mouth just as we turn the corner, and I stop dead in my tracks. In front of me is not just a graffiti piece; it’s a portrait of a couple in a graceful yet erotic embrace. The colors and shading look familiar—too familiar—and it makes my heart race.

  My reaction isn’t because I’ve been looking at this artist’s work for the past twelve months, and I know the style well. I’ve been more intrigued by the act of creating art than actually analyzing it.

  No, the thing that has my mind reeling are the words written across the figures.

  “You’re welcome? Huh? That’s weird,” Willa says with a twist to her mouth.

  “Yeah.” I nod and stare at the image with a questioning eye. “What do you think it means?”

  “Hell if I know. You’re welcome for a great night?” she guesses and continues, “You’re welcome for this awesome piece of art? You’re welcome for making this ugly building look halfway decent when you pass by?”

  She turns back toward the school, and yet here I stand, staring at the image.

  It’s as big as me. The person who made this took great care in capturing the way the man is holding the woman, like he cherishes her. He also thinks highly of her because her figure is the kind most women would kill for.

  “Everything okay, Harper?” Willa calls out.

  I turn slightly, waving my hand. “Yeah, I just …”

  I look at the colors of the painting. The red, black, and lavender. It’s all so coincidental, and yet—

  He found me.

  “I like this one,” I try to say as nonchalant as possible.

  I snap a picture of it on my iPhone and jog lightly to catch up with her. I try to walk into work like my world hasn’t just been turned upside down.

  And, if I thought my world was lopsided a second ago, it’s nothing compared to the feeling I have when I walk into my classroom. Standing in the middle of the linoleum is the last person I want to see right now.

  “How did you get in the building?” I ask Aaron, who’s standing by my desk, wearing a suit and a sullen expression.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend.” He reaches out for me, but I back up.

  “My ignoring your phone calls should have been a clue to the fact that I don’t want to be reached.”

  “I need to talk to you.” He places a hand over his heart as he says, “I love you.”

  I cross my arms and scowl. If he thinks a simple declaration of love is going to have me falling to my knees, he’s sorely mistaken. It didn’t work a month ago, and it’s not working now.

  Aaron runs a hand through his black hair and lets out a deep sigh. “What can I say or do to make you see I want you to come home? I want you back, and I want to make this relationship work.”

  I blink at him, and then I blink at him again. “I cried every day for weeks. I replayed our relationship over and over in my head, trying to figure out where it had gone wrong. I analyzed what I’d said or done that would make you cheat on me.”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  “What was it, Aaron?”

  “We were just fooling around. Just two friends who were … you know.” He struggles through his argument.

  “I don’t know. You were sleeping with her, our friend, a woman we’ve had over for dinner and whom we hung out with regularly.”

  “Nicole is still your friend.”

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t speak her name. She’s trash.”

  His hands fall to his hips in defense. “And what does that make me?”

  I clench my jaw. “The same.”

  He looks down at me with beady eyes. With his hands on his hips, pushing his jacket to the side, he looks like an investigator. “Who is he?”

  “Who?” I know exactly whom he’s referring to.

  “The long-haired freak you were all over at the bar.”

  I want to defend him. Tanner is not a freak. He’s a gorgeous, expressive, talented, soul-igniting man who set me on fire. I won’t say any of that. I won’t give Aaron the satisfaction of getting under my skin.

  “None of your business,” I spit.

  “You kissed him.”

  “Yes, and you fucked her.”

  The bell rings, signaling that my students will be up here any minute, escorted by the parent coordinator.

  “That was just sex. A man has needs. It’s primal. Whom we fuck has nothing to do with whom we love. I love you, Harper. I want you to come home.”

  He holds out his hand for me to take, but I refuse.

  “If that’s what love is, then I never want to experience it again.”

  “Come on, Pooh Bear.” He uses my nickname, and I cringe at the words.

  I used to think it was cute. Now, I recoil.

  With my shoulders pushed back, I declare, “I am worth more than your petty apology. I deserve more than your sad definition of love. Don’t call me ever again, and don’t dare come looking for me. It’s over, Aaron.”

  The students start walking through the door. They’re loud and boisterous, as they usually are on Monday mornings. They greet me as they enter, and a few comment on the “suit” in the classroom. I watch as his eyes glance over each of them in annoyance. When all the kids are in, I walk to the door and motion for Aaron to exit.

  With a shake of his head, he grabs his overcoat that was draped on my desk and walks out of the room. Before he exits completely, he turns to me with a warning. “Don’t come crawling back when you’re finished slumming around town.”

  “I’d rather crawl into the darkest alleys with a nobody than spend another day with you in your ivory tower.”

  With that, I close my classroom door on Aaron, on the past, and on all the hurt I’ve been feeling for way too long.

  8

  HARPER

  Aaron showing up this morning started my entire day off on the wrong foot. I dropped my folder of graded work on the floor and watched as loose-leaf papers scattered around the room. I tripped on a backpack and almost came out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to my ass. Thank God Willa was there to pull it off.

  As I have taught for eight years, my lesson plans haven’t changed much, so I teach on autopilot. While the students spend an entire h
our writing essays to compare and contrast the characters, settings, and events from the two books we’ve read so far this year, I sit at my desk and look at the graffiti art we saw this morning.

  Tanner would certainly be the type of guy to create such art. He’s mysterious with a little rebellion in him. I don’t know; maybe I’m romanticizing him. Maybe there’s a part of me that wants him to have made this … for me.

  Quinton, a student, asks me a question twice before I realize he’s talking to me. I look up at him like he’s speaking a foreign language when I snap out of it and get back to work.

  When the end-of-the-day bell rings, I’m happy to be done. I wasn’t as present as I should have been for the kids. They don’t deserve that. They should only get the best of me, and today was not my day.

  I have a staff meeting at three, and I focus on my boss as she discusses the new fundraiser we’ll be initiating over the upcoming weeks and the anti-bullying campaign we are excelling at.

  I grade the essays my students wrote today and go over my lesson plan for tomorrow. I also read the essays a few of my students have written to apply for scholarships and grants to attend private middle schools next year.

  The sun has set before I know it. Rolling my neck from side to side, I hear it creak.

  April has a dinner with clients tonight, so the bathroom is all mine. A hot bath and a bottle of wine sound like the perfect way to end this day.

  I button up my coat as I step outside. The sun sets earlier now, and the temperature drops ten degrees without a warning. I’m walking for a solid five minutes before I realize I’m not walking in the direction of the bus but rather the subway, which happens to be close to Tanner’s studio.

  As Freud says, there are no accidents.

  I blame my subconscious.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I totally walked this way on purpose.

  The neon lights of the bar across the street call out to me. There’s a glowing red image of a lion under the name of the bar, The Den.

  I was going to go home for wine, but I’m suddenly feeling like having a drink in the presence of strangers.

  The place is well lit and accentuated with old photos of Harlem from the 1960s. I’m settling on a picture of a man playing a trumpet on a street corner when the bartender approaches.

  “What can I get you?” he asks as he wipes down the counter with a rag. It’s such a bartender thing to do; it makes me smile.

  “A pinot noir, please.”

  “Coming right up,” he says as he walks over to the other end of the bar and grabs a bottle and a glass. He sets the glass in front of me and starts to pour. “Starting a tab?”

  “No. Just the glass, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Long day at the office?” he asks.

  “Kind of.” I raise my glass in salute and take a drink. I pull out my iPhone and check my e-mail. I don’t have any, so I start perusing through the news sites to catch up on the current events.

  “That’s what’s wrong with society today.”

  The bartender’s voice has me looking up from my phone and around the room. There’s no one near me, just a few couples in booths along the wall.

  “Are you talking to me?” I ask, confused.

  “When I opened this place, people used to sit at the bar and bullshit for hours. You’d have guys trying to recall events of the past and women talking about movies and music. If you didn’t know the answer to something, you kept talking, pulling the answer out of your brain with conversation. Now, everyone just sits here on their phones.”

  I nod at his point. “If I don’t know the answer to something, I just Google it,” I say.

  “Exactly,” he grunts. “A pretty girl like you should be sitting here with a smile on her face, not frowning at the phone. I can call you pretty, right? I don’t know with all these new rules.”

  I put him at ease. “You can call me pretty. And you’re right. These things”—I hold my phone in the air—“have dramatically changed the art of conversation.”

  He places a bowl of mixed nuts in front of me. “But don’t let an old man like me discourage you. You go back to your world and enjoy the night.”

  “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind the conversation actually. I’ve been in my own head all day.”

  He lays his hands on the bar and widens them as he looks back at me. “You came to the right place.”

  I stifle a giggle. “Is this where I tell you my life story and you try to fix me?”

  “Hell no. I’m a bartender, not a shrink. You want a dirty joke?”

  I shake my head with a laugh. “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll take that joke, Paul,” a man’s voice says from behind me.

  His deep vibrato has my heart beating wildly and my palms sweaty.

  I’ve always been a believer in things happening for a reason, so as I see Tanner Sexton take his leather coat off and sling it over the back of his barstool, I try not to lose my cool. Especially as he turns to me with those deep blue eyes and winks.

  Paul throws the rag over his shoulder. “A guy walks into a bar, holding a cat. He sits down on a stool and places the cat on the bar. He orders a beer and a can of tuna. Before he even takes a sip, the cat has already devoured the tuna.”

  I glance over at Tanner and admire his profile. His hair is pulled back into a tight bun, keeping his face on display, showcasing his high cheekbones and strong nose. I run a finger down my own, wondering if it’s as straight. His jaw is lined with scruff. It’s manicured and manly.

  “The bartender says, ‘What’s up with the cat?’

  “The guy explains, ‘A while ago, I was walking along the Hudson River when I saw a mermaid drowning. I rescued her, and as thanks, she granted me three wishes. My first wish was for a mansion. Now, I have an estate in the Hamptons with servants and tennis courts. I have more rooms than I know what to do with! My second wish was to be ridiculously wealthy, and so I have a bank account with more money than I can spend.’”

  Tanner catches me staring at him, so I focus my attention back on Paul and his joke.

  Paul continues, “‘Wow,’ the bartender says. ‘But how does that explain the cat?’

  “‘Well,’ the guy sighs. ‘For my third wish, I asked for an insatiable pussy, but I think she misunderstood.’”

  I look away in embarrassment at the crude joke.

  Tanner chuckles beside me. “You’re losing your touch, old man.”

  “Eh, what do you know? Whatcha having, kid?” Paul asks as he places a cocktail napkin and a pen in front of Tanner.

  “I’ll have a glass of Sullivans Cove and one for the lady.”

  The bartender smirks and then looks to me and back to Tanner. “You buying hers, too?”

  A small laugh escapes his lips. “Yeah, I’ll buy.”

  “I knew there was hope for this generation,” Paul mutters as he pours the drinks. “These guys come in here and hit on women without offering to buy them a drink. It’s a shame.” He shakes his head as he puts the whiskey away.

  I grin but try to hide my happiness that Tanner is sitting here, next to me. I sit up straight and thank the bartender.

  Tanner places an elbow on the oak and turns to me, speaking over his shoulder, “Tell me, Paul, if I were to approach a beautiful woman at a bar, what should I say to her?”

  Paul looks at Tanner like he’s impossible to deal with. “Come here often still works.”

  “I think I’ve heard that one before.” Tanner’s mouth quirks up as he asks me, “Come here often?”

  My eyes widen at the silly pick-up line. I used it on him the first night we met. I didn’t really care at the time. I just wanted to use him to get to Aaron. “First time.”

  He nods, taking a drink and looking around the bar.

  Okay, if we’re pretending we don’t know each other, then I guess I can play along.

  “What about you?” I swallow, feeling silly. “Come here often?” I ask with a small tug to my lips.

&nbs
p; “I’m a regular. See that building over there? I have a studio on the top floor.”

  I look around, taking the place in, and shrug. “Seems kind of laid-back. I’m more of a suit kind of girl.”

  He laughs lightly, keeping his elbow on the bar and bringing the glass up to his lips, taking the drink as he tries to hide his smile.

  “Yet there’s something about me you like. I bet it’s the hair,” he says nonchalantly.

  “No, actually, I’m not a huge fan.” I laugh slightly.

  His eyebrows rise. “Interesting. Most girls are.”

  “Well, that’s great that the girls like it, but maybe women like men who are more clean-cut,” I tease.

  He lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, do they now? So, you’re telling me you’re not like any other girls?” He reaches for my wineglass, moving it to the other side of him, and places the glass of Sullivans Cove in front of me. “Girls drink wine. Women handle whiskey.”

  I raise a brow. “Is that right?”

  Our eyes meet as he raises his glass and lets it hover by his mouth. I meet his challenge and raise my own. We clink glasses, and I keep a steady gaze as the amber liquid runs down my throat, leaving a smooth burn in its wake.

  His tongue peeks out and skims his lower lip.

  I lean in with a whisper. “Maybe I need a change of pace, and clean-cut is overrated.”

  His wet lips glide into a Cheshire cat smile. “Dangerously overrated.”

  “So, do I get your name? I want to thank you properly for the drink.”

  “Name’s Tanner. Tanner Sexton.” He holds out his hand.

  “Harper. Harper Doyle.” When my body melds with his, I feel that familiar zing through my body, knowing what that hand can do. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for this.” I hold up my glass, trying to hide the heat climbing up my face from being this close to him again.

  He reaches for his drink and nods. “Is that how adults are supposed to introduce themselves at a bar? I thought I was just supposed to walk up to you and steal a kiss.”

  “Oh, you’re right; the whole kiss-and-dash thing is definitely the more conventional way.”