Come Alive (The Cityscape Series)

by Jessica Hawkins

  He sighed and nodded his head toward the green light. “This might be one of our last warm days,” he commented once we were walking again.

  I wanted to laugh. The things left unsaid were almost palpable between us. But it was better that way; so instead, we would talk about the weather. “That’s fine by me,” I said. “I love Chicago in autumn.”

  “Me too,” he said with a smile. “What’s your favorite thing about it?”

  “Probably the way there’s something electric in the air just as it starts to cool down. Also, that I get to wear boots again.”

  He laughed and rolled his eyes toward the sky. “Typical.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I take my sister’s kid to pick apples a couple hours away. That’s my favorite thing. That and the weekend mornings when you wake up and your bed is so warm and you have nowhere to be . . . .”

  My face fell as the fantasy of waking up in his arms, pressed against his hot, hard body flashed through my mind. So much for a safe topic.

  When I glanced up, he wore a roguish smile. “And who doesn’t love the foliage?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I agreed immediately. “The foliage is just beautiful in the fall.”

  His shoulders shook with a silent laugh, and I looked away quickly.

  “When my sister and I were kids,” he continued, “one of our chores was to rake leaves. She hated it, but I didn’t mind. It gave me a sense of order. It agitated me when they were strewn all over the lawn.”

  I pictured David as a young man, his posture straight and his movements concentrated as he worked.

  “I guess you didn’t really have that problem in Dallas.”

  I shook my head. “Not at my house, no.”

  “Did you like growing up there?”

  “It was all right.” I shrugged and took a large bite before sucking chocolate cookie off my fingers.

  “How’s that ice cream, Olivia?”

  I tried not to squirm at the way he said my name. “Delicious.”

  “I like watching you eat it.”

  I arched an eyebrow at him.

  “I mean because you look like you’re enjoying it.”

  I nodded and licked my lips.

  “I would buy you an ice cream every day just to watch you eat it.”

  I captured a deep breath. His low and manly voice made enjoying my ice cream sandwich sound sinful. And then I imagined dripping vanilla ice cream onto his abs and cleaning it off with a long, drawn out lick.

  “Besides, you could use the nourishment.”

  I jolted back to reality. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re too skinny.”

  “Oh, David,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Would you drop it?”

  His voice deepened into a chastisement. “I meant what I said about your health. I don’t know why you’re not eating, but it stops now.”

  “Of course I eat,” I replied cheerily. “If I didn’t, I’d be dead.”

  His eyebrows met in the middle as he studied me, seemingly not amused. “What does he say about this? And your friends?”

  “They know that I’m an adult with the ability to gauge my level of hunger.” I crossed one arm over my stomach, and our steps slowed to a stop as we approached my office.

  He turned so we were facing. “I overheard Gretchen say at breakfast yesterday that you’re depressed.”

  I blinked up and pressed my lips together. I imagined punching Gretchen in the arm. “I suppose maybe they think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do they think that or why am I depressed?”

  “Are you depressed?”

  I wrapped my arm tighter and refrained from pinching myself. “They think I am because of . . . Davena. She’s the woman who – ”

  “I know who she is. You didn’t seem very pleased with Lucy’s toast.”

  “It was silly of me. Melodramatic.” I balled up the wrapper and ran the back of my hand over my mouth.

  He leaned closer. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?”

  I took a step back and wondered why my heart was suddenly pounding.

  “These past few months,” he continued, “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I have to get back to work.”

  “Olivia – ”

  “Thanks for the ice cream.” I spun around before he could say anything else and booked it up to the fourteenth floor.

  ~

  With a soft sigh, I flipped some hair over my shoulder. The computer screen blazed bright, but the entire floor was dark. I could almost feel myself burning out from another long day.

  With a deadline in the morning, I couldn’t leave until I’d hammered out the last few paragraphs in front of me. But it had been impossible to concentrate all day. Butterflies were perched in my chest, threatening to explode into a million fluttering wings if I let my mind wander. It was the reason I was the only person left in the office: I couldn’t stop daydreaming.

  How was it that Bill left the apartment in a suit every day, yet I barely noticed? David, in all his charcoal pinstripe glory, was far more distinguished than the rest of us plebeians who walked the planet. He was perfection in a suit. And somehow, I had his attention. His heavy brows joined when he watched words fall from my mouth, as though he might have to reach out and catch one.

  Our short walk was a like a bookmark in the dark chapter I’d been living; a moment to come up for air when I’d been stuck just beneath the surface. It was like a dream that had never happened, except that it had.

  I bit the inside of my cheek and leaned over to the bottom drawer of my desk. I rifled through it until I saw the issue of Chicago M. With a short breath, I opened it and flipped through the pages until I found what I was looking for.

  Chicago Metropolitan Magazine

  Most Eligible Bachelor #3:

  David Dylan

  Senior Architect, Pierson/Greer

  Age: 34

  Lives in: River North

  David Dylan is the epitome of cool. From his made-for-Hollywood name to his devilish good looks, he holds more clout than a varsity quarterback dating the homecoming queen. To complete the package, he comes from a perfect family of four, owns a sailboat and has a vacation home in Spain. This highly sought-after architect, who was recently profiled for Architectural Digest, spends what little free time he has in the water – no small feat for an Illinois native. From surfing to swimming to sailing, it’s no wonder his friends nicknamed him Fish years ago.

  Looking for: Someone to settle down with. His well-known father’s greatest accomplishment, he says, is marrying the woman he fell in love with almost forty years ago. Oh, and big, green eyes. “Eyes truly are the windows to a woman’s soul. Business has taught me to be tough, but when ‘the one’ bats her eyelashes at me just the right way, I will be putty in her hands.”

  Topic of interest: The Revelin – he is the lead designer on the resort that is set to open at the end of this year.

  Oh, he is good. I wondered how Chicago-ettes would recover after reading that. After some consideration, I decided that my pity was for the male population. They’d have a hard time stacking up to someone like David Dylan. David Dylan and his affinity for big, green eyes. At the time of publication, he hadn’t yet met Dani. I knew it was narcissistic, but I couldn’t help clinging to the thought that maybe he had added that part for me.

  I expelled a wisp of breath and texted Bill that I wouldn’t be making it home for dinner. As I refocused on my project, I automatically swiped my finger across the phone’s screen when it pinged.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:19 PM

  Good thing for the ice cream then.

  My heart leaped with panic. I scrolled my eyes over the screen to find that I had texted David instead of Bill.

  “Shit,” I said, slamming the phone down. That is so embarrassing! I felt myself turning various shades of red. Quickly, I sent the same text to Bill and tapped my way back to David.

  Sep 4, 201
2 7:22 PM

  So sorry. Wrong person!

  Sep 4, 2012 7:23 PM

  I believe that counts as a Freudian slip.

  I was at a loss for words. Now it appeared as though I was actively looking for trouble. He would either think I had done it on purpose, or that I’d been thinking about him when I’d sent it. Which would be the truth.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:25 PM

  Didn’t mean it. Embarrassed. Working late & a little tired.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:26 PM

  Mrs. Germaine, it’s not advisable to alert predators of your whereabouts late at night.

  My heart stilled as I melted into a puddle of desire. A memory of a dream wedged itself into my thoughts. I’d had it shortly after David and I had stopped contact, only once, but I hadn’t forgotten it. We would meet accidentally in the same alley where Mark Alvarez had attacked me.

  When my phone chimed again, I was already panting.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:29 PM

  That is, unless you’re looking to get caught.

  I slid a tentative hand under my dress and into my damp panties. I relaxed back in my chair and remembered the dream, filling in the details where necessary.

  I peer down the dark alleyway and am struck with fear when I see the silhouette of a big man. As he approaches, slow and cat-like, I turn to run the way I came but am met with a brick wall. He’s bearing down on me now, filling the small alley so I can’t escape. He looks incredibly strong.

  It’s David, I realize, but my sigh of relief catches in my throat. I’m afraid of him. He slowly reaches out and snaps me to him by my waist, as though I were a flower to be plucked from the ground.

  His lips are on mine, hard and unrelenting, and he won’t budge when I push him.

  “Don’t fight,” he says when we’ve parted.

  He scares me, but I obey. I let him move my arms like a puppet master and fix them above my head so I am helpless in his grip.

  “Say it,” he prompts, as he shifts both wrists into one hand.

  I fret because I don’t know what he wants me to say. When I look down again, I’m naked. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and pulls them down.

  I panic and look over the exquisite face that is now hard and unrecognizable, a David I don’t know. Even his brown eyes are obsidian black to match his hair.

  “Say it.”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, chewing the inside of my cheek.

  He pulls my leg around him and positions himself against me. When he plunges into me, I cry his name, a word that is a mixture of fear and pleasure leaving my tongue.

  He pins me against the wall over and over, and I am lost. I whip my eyes open. “I know what you want me to say!”

  But he doesn’t stop, and suddenly I have forgotten it again, but I don’t care because I am falling . . . and coming . . . and coming . . . .

  I came to, winded and slumped in my chair. I pulled my hand out from between my legs and glanced around the dark office shamefully. I’d written the dream off as anxiety following Alvarez’s attack, but I had often wished it would return.

  Say it. The words frequently ran through my mind. They were his last words to me the morning I had left. Tell me you can forget, he had demanded. Say it, Olivia! Say it say it say it . . . .

  An alert told me Bill had responded.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:36 PM

  K. Jury prob out for a few days, going to OP house tmrw if you want to come.

  Sep 4, 2012 7:44 PM

  Why?

  Sep 4, 2012 7:46 PM

  Meeting David there. I can pick you up.

  I closed my eyes for a long moment as the information permeated my slightly fuzzy brain. Bill and David, alone together? I wanted to scream. I wanted to blame David, but it wasn’t his fault, so I blamed Bill, but it also wasn’t his fault. I was only left with myself. With unsteady fingers, I told Bill I would come along. What choice did I have? I couldn’t forbid it, and I couldn’t not be there. The two of them alone, talking, laughing, sharing. The thought of not being able to monitor their conversation made me want to pull my hair out.

  I groaned to myself and put the phone away, ignoring David’s last text.

  CHAPTER 9

  FIDGETING WITH THE COLLAR of my purple silk blouse, I craned my neck to watch for Bill’s car. According to Bill, we had to see the house before David left for New York in the evening. I didn’t know what else to expect; whether David even knew I was coming or how long this hell would last.

  Bill pulled up and screeched to a halt at the curb.

  “We’re late,” I commented.

  “Tell that to Specter,” he said.

  “Which one? Specter or Specter?”

  “Ha.”

  “Are we picking David up?”

  “He’s meeting us there.”

  I worked my lower lip between my teeth in anxiety and excitement. Just a week prior, I knew I’d never see David again. And now this. I half-rolled my eyes out to the window.

  “Look, whatever happens will be for the best.”

  “What?”

  “With the house. If it’s too far gone, we’ll find something else. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said, looking back out the window. At least, it didn’t make it into the top three of my current concerns.

  When we pulled up, David was talking intently with an older, portly man. David gestured to the house, and when the man spoke, he listened attentively, his arms crossed and his thick eyebrows knit in concentration. His back was straight as a board and his shoulders taut. The small glimpses I’d seen of David in architect mode were especially disarming – there was something arousing about watching him do what he loved.

  He looked up then and gaited toward us with calm confidence. I couldn’t tell if he’d expected me because he was almost too collected. While I was near senseless with anxiety, his wide smile and sturdy handshake were signs that he was a schmoozer, a player, a charmer to the core.

  “This place is a find,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  “I know it’s not like the other houses,” I said, “but that’s why I like it.”

  “It certainly isn’t, thank God for that,” he replied, looking down the street.

  Bill grumbled under his breath as he stole a look at the house behind us. “You must be the appraiser,” he said to the other man, extending his hand.

  “I’ve already been around the neighborhood and the outside of the house,” the man said. “If you have the keys, I’ll just take a look inside.”

  They took off for the front door, leaving David and I behind. I glanced up at him from the corner of my eye and gave him a half-smile, to which he responded with a friendly wink.

  “What do you really think?” I asked.

  “This is a prairie-style home, you can tell by the horizontal lines and overhanging eaves. They’re reflective of a sweeping prairie,” he explained, gliding his hand through the air to demonstrate. “It’s a fairly popular style in Oak Park because of Frank Lloyd Wright’s influence – he designed several homes around here. You’re right that it does seem out of place on this street, but I meant what I said. It is a find.”

  I followed him through the door into the front room, where his eyes went to the ceiling and worked their way down. “Open floor plan,” he commented. “Me favorite option if the space permits. You could really do something unique with the interior.”

  My mouth warped skeptically. “I don’t think Bill would like that. He’s pretty traditional.”

  “This isn’t a traditional home, Olivia. It would be an injustice to turn it into one.”

  I flushed, feeling somewhat as though I’d been reprimanded. “It seems like a lot of work.”

  “Right off the bat, yes, you’re looking at a long renovation period. Maybe up to a year, depending on what you want to do.” I followed his gaze down. “These floorboards have to go,” he continued, “but the hearth is big and central – I wouldn’t even to
uch it.” He walked toward the wall of windows and peered into the backyard. “Bonus for great lighting. Wright loved nature, and this house reflects that. The landscaping needs work, but once it’s scaled back, it could have a woodsy, earthen feel. Romantic even. I’d run with that, maybe incorporate water somehow – a pond or fountain. Reminds me of my place in New York a little bit.”

  It was maybe the most I’d ever heard him talk, and I was hanging on his every word. He was even more devastating when he was passionate, and I fell in love with the house as he spoke.

  Bill returned then, and it took a great deal of effort to peel my eyes from David. When I decided that their conversation was benign enough, I left the three men and headed upstairs to explore further. As I walked between rooms, I was overwhelmed by the amount of necessary work. I couldn’t help but feel a little selfish for expecting Bill to go through with it. He’d just seemed so pleased with the idea, and now, I didn’t want to give it up . . . .

  “Hey,” Bill said from the doorway, panting slightly. “The fucking jury is already back. I have to run, like five minutes ago.”

  “Oh,” I said. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Actually can you stay with these guys?”

  “No, Bill, please, I have to get back to work.”

  “Just a few minutes longer. I talked to the appraiser already, and David has an estimate, but they haven’t hit the second floor yet. I wouldn’t feel right leaving the two of them alone since David is doing us a favor.”

  “He has an estimate? How much?”