by Fox, Logan
He still wore his work suit — all charcoal and pinstripes and oozing money. For a moment, he stared at her with narrowed eyes, as if she was a puzzle he was trying to decide to figure out, or pay someone to dissemble for him. Then he smiled; warmly, disarmingly, widely.
“You eat yet, babe?”
“What? No, of course not. I mean—” She cut herself off by taking a deep swig of her wine.
Sam lifted his chin toward the wine glass. “How many of those have you had?”
Elle blinked at him, managed a blustering, “I’m not drunk—”
And was again interrupted by the waiter materializing at her side.
“Evening, sir. What can I—”
“Double Jack. On the rocks.” Sam delivered this without taking his eyes off Elle.
He slid his hand onto the table, lifting the end of a fork and making it dance on its tines. All the while staring at her with that same wide, stretching smile of his.
Time for the script.
Just breathe, Elle.
Elle wriggled forward in the chair until she sat perched on the edge. She set her elbows down, gripped her hands together and took a deep, calming breath.
“Hate the food here,” Sam said. “You forget?”
Elle dipped her head, closing her mouth. Screw it, that statement didn’t even dignify a response. Another breath, longer this time. She tightened the grip on her fingers.
“Sam—”
“Been very distracted lately, babe.” Sam made the fork spin, light catching on its polished surface. “So how long’s it been going on?”
Elle’s skin flashed ice cold. Her breath became trapped somewhere in the bottom of her lungs, making her chest ache for its release. She stared across the table at Sam, her ears singing for a moment.
What?
“That… what’s his name?”
“Hector?” This came out more a wheeze than a word.
“That’s it. Makes sense: you remembering your fling’s name, but not that I can’t stand this place’s food.”
Sam let the fork fall. It struck a knife with sharp clang that made Elle release her stagnant breath in a whoosh.
“Look, babe, it’s been fun. But it’s obvious you’ve got commitment issues.”
Elle made a strangled sound that was supposed to be a protest — not at the statement, despite how absurd it was, but at the fact that Sam had somehow wrangled this conversation out of her control.
“Sir.” The waiter set Sam’s drink down, hesitated, and then added, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He didn’t mention whether it was for their order, or to bring them their check. He probably realized, judging from the tension in the air, that it would be the latter.
Sam took a slug of his drink. It was the perfect moment for her to open her damn mouth and just set him straight. Belt out line after line of that script she’d been working on for the past few hours.
Okay, for the past few weeks.
“I’m not cheating on you,” was all that came out.
Yes, because that had been in the script, Elle. Right under the line where you lose your cool and slap him.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, babe. Fortunately, I put precautions in place for exactly this scenario.” Sam leaned in, for all the world as if she hadn’t just refuted his ridiculous claims. “Remember that prenup?”
“Prenup?”
“I’ll have my lawyer send it to your hotel room later tonight.”
“Hotel room?”
Why the hell was she just repeating things?
“Yeah. The one I went to the trouble of booking for you. It’s just a block or two down from here, so you should find it easily enough, despite your navigational issues.”
He was dangling a key from his finger. When in the hell he’d taken it out, lifted it, she didn’t know.
A slow, brutal snow storm enveloped her. White noise rose and fell around her, everything other than that single, golden key blurring into obscurity.
“Take the night, have a good cry. You can come fetch your things in the morning.” Sam downed the rest of his drink, grimaced, and gave her that same, easy smile as before.
It was that smile that had made her slide into bed with him. His eyes, too. They’d been kind, back then. A lifetime ago. They weren’t anymore. And she’d watched them change — as slowly and irrevocably as a tree grew — over the years. Watched them grow hard and lifeless.
He was still speaking, but she couldn’t hear him over the ringing in her ears. She watched her hand reach for her wine glass, grip it, bring it to her lips. She felt the cool rim touch her lips as she tipped it back. Cool, sweet-sour liquid rushed over her tongue.
He was standing now, getting to his feet. The glitter of the key caught her eye, held it. He’d set it down beside the vase holding a single rose in the center of the table. And then he was walking away, pausing to tap the key, to murmur something unintelligible in her ear before he left.
I know you’ve been cheating, Sam. I saw the text on your phone. I wasn’t snooping, it just popped up. You were in the shower, I think. I asked you about her, even mentioned her name. Just lies. Lies and more lies. Not the first, either, right? Because I know, Sam. I know you can have children. That you just don’t want to have them with—
“Excuse me?” The waiter paused, in the act of placing the bill folder on the table.
Elle stared at it, then up at him. “I didn’t ask for the bill.” The waiter glanced at the folder, began to lift it. Elle slammed her hand down on the leather, making a nearby table turn to her in surprise. “Oh no, it’s obvious you want me out of here.”
She felt heat, pressure, building behind her eyes.
The waiter tried to slide the bill folder out from under her hand, but she turned her hand into a fist and kept it in place.
“Leave it.” She hardly recognized her own voice, stiff and throttled as it was.
“Ma’m, if there was—”
“Leave it!” Elle tossed back the rest of her wine. “Your food is terrible, anyway. I wouldn’t eat here if my life depended on it.”
Her stomach grew tight. It was a horrible statement to make, but if she didn’t lash out at something — anything — that pressure building inside her felt liable to rupture her organs. She dug in her handbag and slapped her credit card on the bill folder.
The waiter retreated, returning a few seconds later with a card machine. Elle tapped against the credit card, trying to urge the furious blush warming her cheeks to subside. She failed. The man hesitated, fingers hovering over the card until Elle withdrew her hand.
“Pin.”
Elle punched it in. Her fingers trembled hard enough to make the card machine waver over the table. She brought it down, watching the incongruous messages of something connecting to something else as a new wave of tears began pricking for release.
He thought she was cheating on him? With their twenty-six-year-old neighbor? She’d maybe waved at him like once. Twice, maybe.
The waiter took the machine from her as it began to spill out a slip of paper. He tore it off, slid it over the bill folder, and tapped at a word.
“Declined, ma’am. Can I try again?”
Elle blinked at that word, inhaled a stifling breath, and nodded.
A minute later, another slip of paper joined the first.
“Do you have another card, ma’am?”
“There’s—this one should—”
What was the point of arguing? She slid another card out. Handed it over. Watched the waiter’s face grow stony and unreadable. A third slip joined the others.
“Could you please come through to the office? My manager—”
“There’s nothing wrong with my credit cards.” Elle shoved a third one in the kid’s direction. “Here.”
“Ma’am…” The waiter shifted from foot to foot.
Elle dipped her head and glanced around from under her lashes. A few of the closest patrons were openly staring at her. One woman had a wine
glass frozen against her lips, eyes wide as she watched this spectacle unfurl.
“Yes, okay.” Elle got to her feet. The carpet felt too soft and springy under her heels. She had a death-grip on the strap of her handbag as the waiter led her across the restaurant toward a distant, dark doorway.
The waiter exchanged murmured words with a suit-and-tie while Elle did her best not to spontaneously combust from humiliation. The waiter held out an arm, and then disappeared as soon as Elle stepped inside the room.
Elle blinked rapidly. The manager held all three her credit cards in his fingers, tapping them against the desk behind him as he bit the corner of his lip.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to cut these up — they’ve been canceled.”
She watched him for a few seconds, waiting for him to add something that would turn his words into something that made sense. But he didn’t. He just watched her. Tapping those cards.
Swallowing hard, Elle leaned her weight onto her back foot. “I don’t understand. I used that one — the black one — less than an hour ago.”
The manager shrugged as he turned around and slid open a drawer. Elle’s spine stiffened when he drew out a pair of scissors.
“Hey!” She reached for the cards, but the manager knocked her arm aside with his elbow.
“Ma’am, please. It’s regulation—”
“You can’t do that!” She heard her own voice rebounding from the walls of the small office and took a small, unsteady step back. “You can’t… do that.”
But he did.
Then he told her she owed him twenty-eight dollars for the drinks.
So she laughed at him. Dragged her purse from her handbag. Stared at the notes neatly arranged inside. She’d drawn five hundred from the ATM; she didn’t like carrying cash around with her. She took out a twenty and shook it in his face.
“There. Take your Goddamn money.”
He did, seeming reluctant. “It’s twenty—”
But she didn’t stay to hear the rest.
Elle stormed out of the restaurant, wobbling on her heels over the thick carpeting all the while suppressing a sob so hard that her diaphragm convulsed with the effort.
II
Four-Hundred-Eighty
Blake
It was the shout that drew Blake from his office. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to abandon the slew of paperback he had to hack through every Friday — especially on Christmas Eve, but that shout did a damn fine job of it.
It was high-pitched, feminine, and as entitled as fuck.
He charged down the metal stairs leading into his workshop, his heavy boots making them rattle and clang in a cacophony of noise that almost drowned out the woman’s next yell.
“I never authorized this! Who gave you permission to—?”
“Is there a problem here?” Blake asked.
The woman — blond hair twisted into a knot that had begun to unravel slightly — spun to face him, blue eyes blazing. She stood beside a Mercedes Benz S-Class that had come in for a full service less than a week ago. She looked about to let loose on him, but then she pushed back her shoulders, drew a deep breath that did impressive things to her breasts, and slowly let out a long exhale.
“Are you the manager?” Her voice shook with the effort of civility.
“No.” Blake glanced past her at Fred — who’s pale face was a clear testament to the woman’s anger — and lifted his eyebrows. Fred backed away, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle as he sauntered to the far side of the wide workshop. Like him, Fred didn’t really have anywhere to be tonight. He’d split up with his old lady a couple months back, and it was her turn with the kids this Christmas. From what Blake could gather, Fred’s evening would consist of some takeout, a six pack of beer, and anything that wasn’t Christmas related playing on the box.
Sounded a lot like his evening.
“Well, I need to speak with the manager. Immediately.” Her voice had almost risen back to a shout.
“I’m the owner, so I guess I’ll have to do,” Blake said. He gestured toward the Merc. “What’s the issue here?”
“The issue?” The woman blinked at him as if, for a moment, she’d forgotten what the issue was. Her gaze fell to his chest and then flickered to his arms and back to his eyes an instant later.
Blake looked down at himself. Had he gotten coffee on his—
Right. No coffee — just grease. Lots and lots of grease.
It didn’t help wearing clean clothes to the workshop. It didn’t help cleaning the workshop. There was always a car to slide under, always a leaky gasket to drip oil on him as he pointed out a tricky issue to one of the junior mechanics on staff. So he wore one of two vests — both used to be white, neither of them were anymore — and his pair of fraying, torn jeans. There were overalls, but… he hated the things with a passion he usually reserved for restoring his classics at the dead of night.
This grease monkey was probably not what she expected the owner of anywhere to look like, even if it was a repair shop.
She looked like someone had dunked her in the river. Blake glanced past her — snow sifted down like confetti outside the garage’s open door. Had she been walking through the snow to have gotten so wet?
“The issue,” the woman said, tugging absently at the damp lapel of her beige power suit, “is that there were unauthorized repairs carried out on my car. I was expecting a substantially lower bill.” Her voice dropped at ‘substantially’ and Blake saw what he thought might have been the precursor to tears.
Dear God, don’t let the broad start crying. The last thing he needed on a Christmas Eve — takeout and warm beer be damned — was a crying customer. He didn’t get them often — he did good work — but he did get them. Especially when it turned out that the ‘clank’ they kept hearing was something more serious than a damaged CV joint. Jesus, and it was almost closing time.
Blake turned his wrist, glancing down at his watch.
“We’re closed, lady.” Blake’s eyes darted up, catching Fred trying to sneak into the back. “We’re closed, Fred!” It was probably a little harsher than the poor mechanic needed, but it did the job. Fred would stay in the garage with Blake some nights, working on the odd job until Blake couldn’t see straight from exhaustion and booted him out so he could get some sleep.
Fred threw him a dramatic shrug and scampered into the locker room, leaving Blake and the woman alone.
Her foot began to tap.
Blake stared down at it, irritation slowly blooming inside him. She wore beige heels — slightly muddy — that almost perfectly matched her wet, beige suit. The only splash of color was a pink ruffled shirt that peeked out between her colorless lapels.
That, and her eyes. A luminous, sapphire blue. Her makeup had smudged, and he had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with a walk in the snow.
“Look, lady—”
“Elle,” she cut in with a sniff.
“Look, ma’am.” Blake crossed his arms over his chest. “We authorize all additional repairs. We would have spoken—”
“No one called me.” Her voice was starting to shake again, those eyes beginning to brim. “My husband—” she cut off hurriedly. “I was told it would be five hundred for the service. So I brought five hundred—”
“We’ve got a card machine.” Blake turned and headed for his office. “If you’ll follow me?”
There was a murmured protest, and then the clack of heels following him. Blake glanced around as he made his way through the workshop. He caught a glimpse of Fred leaving.
Christ, this Elle chick must have reminded him too much of his ex — he hadn’t seen Fred that eager to leave in a long while.
“Hang on a sec, ma’am.” Blake detoured, ignoring the bleated, “Elle” that followed him.
He slapped his palm over the garage door’s mechanism, and watched to make sure it was closing before turning back.
He almost walked into Elle.
“What are you d
oing?” she whispered, sapphire eyes wide and frightened.
“You think the crooks around here take time off on Christmas? I don’t want someone looting the place while we’re busy.”
“Busy?” came the strangled protest.
Blake stared at her with a frown. “Busy paying, ma—” He cleared his throat. “Elle. Busy paying. My office is upstairs.”
He led her up the rattling stairs, glancing back in time to see her hurriedly avert her eyes from his back. Jesus, he looked rough, sure, but the chick didn’t have to stare like she’d never seen a man before.
The familiar smell of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee met him as he elbowed open his office door and stepped aside so the woman could enter. She blinked at him, seeming caught off guard by his chivalry before stepping inside and glancing around like a trapped rabbit hunting for an exit.
“Would you like a towel?”
“A… what?” Elle snapped her eyes away from the overflowing ashtray on his desk. Blake stepped in front of it, ripping a towel off the nearby basin’s rail. He’d converted the office from a kitchen, breaking down the wall between it and a small storage room when he’d moved premises a few years ago. It was still pokey, but it did the job.
“To-wel.” Blake enunciated the word carefully, in case the woman had gone deaf. “You’re dripping on my floor.”
“Probably the closest thing to a clean this place has ever seen,” the woman mumbled.
Blake narrowed his eyes at her, and she had the decency at least to blush a little. He turned and began hunting around his table.
“Last name?”
“Georgia.”
“So E. Georgia?”
There was a pause. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was hesitantly touching the edge of the towel to her hair as if scared she’d catch an infectious disease from it. It was clean, the prissy bitch.
“No… S. Georgia.”
“S?”
“My hus—ex husband.”
Blake let out a low whistle. “How’d you swing that, your ex paying for your car repairs?”
Elle hesitated, the hand holding the towel dropping to her side.