by Kendall Ryan
She was new to the city, I knew that much, but I’d never thought to ask where she’d come from. Or why she’d come here at all.
Totally the norm for me, but I realized now with a start how strange it was and how much I suddenly wanted to know the answers to those unasked questions.
When I reached the squat, brick building, I passed a man in a uniform leaning against the entryway pillars and smoking something that did not smell like a cigarette. Nodding to him, I stepped into the building and glanced around for a place to have her ring me up. Only there wasn’t one. Instead, there was just a set of elevators and two stairwell doors flanking an empty mailroom and desk. Blinking, I let myself into the elevator and leaned back against the rail.
Was this how she lived? Anyone could just roll up to her apartment door. There was no security of any kind.
I didn’t like that one fucking bit.
The doors dinged, and I stepped into a hallway that smelled just like the guy out front. I glanced both ways until I saw the door marked number eight at the end of the hall.
Holding the white bakery box in one hand, I knocked and then waited for the sound of footsteps. It wasn’t until I heard them that I realized I’d been holding my breath.
The footsteps slowed to a stop in front of the door, and without a pause, the door swung open to reveal Piper with a towel on her head, blinking up at me in shock.
“Hey. Uh, what are you doing here?” she asked, raising a hand to her towel as her cheeks turned pink.
“I should ask you the same thing. This place is a fucking death trap.”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes—one lined with makeup and one without—narrowed.
“I just walked up here, and you didn’t even check to see who it was before swinging the door open. I bet it wasn’t even locked. And what the fuck with no buzzer or anything?”
“I’m sorry, is this some employee safety inspection I wasn’t aware of?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me.
She looked cute as fuck in her towel turban and bare toes, but I wasn’t going to let that sway me. This was serious.
“Look, I know you’re a sweet and trusting soul, but this isn’t whatever backcountry town you came from. You have to watch yourself.”
“You mean Chicago?” she shot back.
I paused. Okay, so maybe not backcountry, but that only pissed me off more. She should know better. “That doesn’t change my point. There is literally no security here.”
“There’s a doorman,” she said. “He was probably just outside smoking.”
“Well, someone needs to fire him, then, or get him to do his job.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped back with an impatient wave of her hand. “Did you want to come in, or was your plan to stand on my doorstep and yell at me?”
I took a step inside and offered her the box of pastries. “I got one of everything. Wasn’t sure what your favorite was.”
“Cheese Danish,” she said, taking the box and carrying it over to the island on the far side of the room.
The place was a loft so small I wondered for a moment what exactly I was paying her, but then she interrupted my thoughts. “What brings you here on your Saturday with no call and no warning?”
“I called twice,” I said.
She popped open the box, and her eyes lit up as she scanned its contents.
“And when I didn’t answer you figured you’d come over and…what? Ransack the place?” she chirped, suddenly seeming more cheerful than a few seconds before.
Okay, so apparently showing up bearing baked goods had earned me some brownie points, even though she was mad. I made a quick mental note.
Buy lots of Danish.
She selected a treat from the box and took a monster-sized bite. I followed her lead, taking a chocolate croissant from the box and examining it.
“I thought you might like to see the city. It’s a beautiful day, and you’re new around here, so I thought…”
She grinned. “You’re getting soft, boss. I kind of like it.”
She licked a fleck of glaze from her bottom lip, and I resisted the urge to show her exactly how soft I wasn’t. I’d been irritated all morning because I wanted to get to know her a little better. Lying in bed all day, as awesome as that might be, wasn’t going to scratch this particular itch.
“Anyway,” I pressed on. “You’re only trying to distract me from the fact that you live in the gateway to hell. This neighborhood isn’t safe. You should let me find you a place in one of the buildings I own. Something with cameras and 24-hour security. And buzzers.”
“It’d be nice to have packages delivered someplace they wouldn’t get stolen,” she acknowledged, glancing around with a satisfied grin. “But to be honest, I sort of like this place. It has character.”
I surveyed the old wooden framework around her windows and scrubbed a hand over my jaw in irritation. “That’s one word for it.”
“I’m not talking any more about this. I want to hear all about your big plans for today.” She took another bite of her Danish. “Where are you taking me?”
I sure as shit wasn’t just going to drop it, but I wasn’t going to let it ruin our day, either.
I tucked it away to chew on later that night and turned my attention away from the dingy windows back to her.
“I don’t really have any, exactly. I don’t really know what you like to do.” I glanced around her apartment again, looking for some sign or hint of where to start. There was no video game system, and while there were a few paintings hanging on the walls, the place was mostly covered in family photos. I walked toward one of them and pressed my finger to the glass as I examined a girl who looked almost exactly like Piper.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“My sister,” she said. “She’s the one who set up the, uh, dating profile.”
“Right,” I laughed. “So, tell me, what do you want to learn about our fine city?”
“How to get Hamilton tickets?” she asked cheekily, eyebrows raised.
“Try again,” I said dryly. “I’m pretty spectacular, but I’m not magic.”
“How about we hit the streets and just see what we see, huh?”
“You? Miss organization and plan-every-second-of-the-day-out wants to wing it?” I considered for a moment and then gave her a solemn nod. “Okay.”
I was careful to make sure she locked all her doors and windows before we started on our journey. As we passed the doorman, he was still leaning against the wall outside. Piper grinned at him.
“Hey, Lou.”
“’Sup, Pipes?” he asked as she kept going, not noticing—or, more likely, choosing to ignore—my grimace of displeasure.
“He’s not going to do his job if you act like what he’s doing is okay,” I said.
“Lucky for me and him both, I’m not his boss.” She winked. “Now come on. Did you come to fight with me all day or to show me around the city?”
“A little hard to show you around the city when I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with your favorite place?” she offered.
I thought about it and then nodded.
“Yeah, okay. Come with me.” And without even thinking about it, I grabbed her hand and led her off into the heart of the city, feeling better than I could remember feeling in months.
Chapter Thirteen
Piper
I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe that he’d whisk me away to some underground jazz club or to his favorite tailored suit shop. Maybe just to some hole-in-the-wall burger joint that nobody had ever heard of. With a guy like Jackson, I could never be sure.
But, as we sailed down the avenue, I had a few guesses.
“The M&M store in Times Square?” I asked, grinning at him.
“Nope,” he said, squeezing my hand.
“What about, um, the Ferris wheel in the Toys ‘R’ Us?”
“Not there either,” he said.
“I’m running out of gue
sses,” I complained.
“Good news for me.”
“Hey!” I popped him lightly on the shoulder, but he pressed on, turning the corner and trying to hide his ever-widening grin.
“So no place touristy?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that either.”
“You haven’t said much of anything. At all.”
It was true—from the moment we’d left my apartment, he’d barely uttered more than a few words, though most had been in answer to my never-ending questions about where exactly he was taking me. But as much as I was peppering him with constant questions, I was walking on air.
He’d come to my apartment building, and not only was he concerned for my safety, he’d whisked me off on a date.
A real, relationship-style date, complete with the breakfast of champions and handholding. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I hadn’t had this kind of male attention in a long while, and while screaming orgasms were nice, I had missed this casual comradery more than I had been aware.
“I want it to be a surprise.”
We turned a corner and walked past booths of street vendors selling pottery and scarves. Jackson barely looked at them, but I paused, my eyes wide, and inspected the cute creations.
“Come on,” he said.
“Fine, fine, I’m coming.”
In front of us stretched the vast, wide steps of the Museum of Modern Art, though the street in front of it was flanked by vendors and lines of tourists.
“We’re here.”
“What do you mean?” I looked around. “The food trucks? We’re going to wait in this line for an hour.” The food did smell delicious, but I’d just scarfed down a plate-sized Danish and was hardly ready for lunch yet.
He shook his head and then gestured to the huge, pillared museum. “You told me to take you to my favorite place in the city. Here it is.”
“The Art Museum?” I blinked at the building and the flood of families coming and going through the wide-open doors. Of all the places I’d expected him to choose, this wasn’t even on the list.
Keeping me on my toes, aren’t you, Jackson?
He considered me for a minute and then said, “Let’s go inside.”
Placing his hand on the small of my back, he led me up the wide marble steps until we reached the atrium. On a sunny Saturday like this, it felt like almost every person in the city was trying to get inside the place, and we waited as the queue in front of us thinned and people took up their walking-tour headphones and joined still more groups. To the side, a bunch of kids were assembling for what looked like a church field trip, and I grinned as one of the little boys lightly pulled a girl’s pigtails.
I almost pointed them out to Jackson, but then his hand found mine and he was giving me a small blue button to pin to my shirt.
“Thanks,” I murmured and affixed the little circle to my clothes before stepping into the first room.
I had to admit, it was a good showing from Jackson. For the next ten minutes, I strolled around the room in awe, marveling at the paintings and sculptures.
“So this is your favorite place in the city,” I said again, and Jackson gave me a solemn nod.
“What’s your favorite part?”
“There are so many.” He shrugged. “The exhibits change all the time, and then there’s the exhibit with the old sixties and seventies furniture that looks impossible as a functional piece in someone’s house. There was an Andy Warhol exhibit I liked here once.”
“Andy Warhol? Really?” I raised my eyebrows.
He nodded.
“Affinity for Campbell’s soup?”
“Just the tomato,” he shot back.
Taking my hand again, he led me toward the newer exhibits, expertly weaving through each of the rooms like he really had been here many, many times before. He knew the place by heart.
Finally, we reached a room filled with huge canvases with swathes of colors. Some faded from one color to another while others were blocks of colors that seemed to exist independent of the rest of the canvas. They were so simple, but the simplicity in and of itself was oddly intriguing, and I found myself moving a little closer, taking in the brushstrokes and the sheer craftsmanship.
“A favorite of yours?” I asked.
“Rothko. He’s a classic.”
I nodded. “I can see why. His stuff is…”
“Incredible,” he filled in, and no part of me wanted to argue. “You like art,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I do. It was my major in college.”
“College wasn’t on your résumé,” he said, his head cocked in my direction.
“No, well…it wouldn’t be. Didn’t graduate.” I shrugged.
“Why not?” he asked.
I glanced at him from over my shoulder, lifting one eyebrow. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Why won’t you tell me for real why you love this place so much?”
I was going on pure instinct, but something told me there was more to his affinity for art than he was letting on.
He hedged again and then glanced around, almost as if he was making sure nobody could overhear us. “I used to come here a lot growing up.”
I didn’t say anything and waited for the rest. With the look he had on his face—full of uncertainty totally at odds with his usual personality—I wasn’t about to press him. Not right then, anyway.
“So, uh, I grew up in the system. Not many people know that,” he added, his gaze locked on the painting in front of us. “Some houses weren’t so bad, but a lot of my foster parents just had me around for the government check. During the day, I was left to my own devices, and more often than not, I found myself here.”
My heart squeezed, and I had to fight the desire to close the gap between us and squeeze him until the sadness in his eyes faded away.
“Why here?” I asked softly.
“Because it was free. For school-age kids back then, anyway. I used to look at the paintings and imagine a day when I could have my own house to put up something so beautiful. Or, to be completely honest, to have enough money to spend it on something as frivolous as art. Even if it was a print from a big box store, that was more money than I ever had back then. But, you know, as time went on, I got a little more enterprising. There was an architecture exhibit, and I thought, well, I couldn’t paint, but I knew how to use a hammer and nails.”
“So you did,” I said, fighting a mix of sad tears and a deep, soul-aching pride in him and the man he’d become, despite such terrible odds.
He nodded. “So that’s what I did. When I was eighteen, I moved to the shittiest area I could find outside the city and used all my saved money to buy the worst house in town. I flipped it and used the money to buy two more houses. Then four.”
“Then you built an empire.”
He grinned. “Empire is one way of putting it.”
“I didn’t know. They should put you in some sort of magazine. You could inspire kids like you.”
His face darkened. “It’s not exactly something I like to talk about. Those are the highlights, but growing up in the foster care system, at least back then, isn’t something I care to think about or relive. Your turn now.”
I wanted to ask him why, to understand the ripple of pain that passed over his expression, but the tone of his voice was clear—the time for discussion was over. Now it was my turn to spill.
“I didn’t go to college right away. When I got out of high school, I traveled around to find myself.”
“Ah, one of those girls.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Yep, that’s me.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, when I got home, I decided the place for me to go was school. It was always something that had mattered to me. I was a straight-A student—”
“I had no doubt,” he said.
“And I had a knack for learning, so I threw myself in. Then, you know, I met this guy, and he wanted to run away with me, so I dropped out and he…dropped me.” Shame bubbled beneath
the surface, and I tried to push it aside. “I still decided to run away. Just, this time, it was by myself.”
“And that’s how you ended up here,” he concluded.
“That’s it in a nutshell.” I nodded.
“Could have been worse,” he said, and though I knew this was his way of trying to soothe me, I couldn’t help but poke at his logic.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Well, you could have married him or had his baby and then had him walk away. That would’ve been worse.”
“I guess so, yeah.” I shrugged.
“Or worse, you could have never met me.” The mischievous glint returned to his eyes, and I gave him a playful punch on the arm before taking his hand in mine again. I let out a breath, relieved to have things on a lighter note but also somehow soothed that we’d shared some of our darkest times with one another. I finally was starting to feel like I was seeing the whole man instead of just one piece of him. And I liked it.
A lot.
“Come on, Mr. Modesty. Show me your other favorites. I’m interested now.”
Next, he took me to another room filled with paintings of single words like love, honesty, and respect. He studied each of them closely, mentioning the font and pointing out the brush strokes. In the next room, he showed me things he’d noticed about oil painting, explained the difference between the mediums, and then took me to the room full of old sixties’ vacuum cleaners and wildly shaped coffee tables.
“I can see why you’d find this place inspiring. I want to write the great American novel just walking around this place,” I said.
“Me too. Bad news is that I’m a terrible writer.” He took me by the crook of the arm and led me back out to the vendors outside, stopping to grab me a cupcake from one of them before we leaned back on the steps and watched the hordes of people coming and going.