by Ciara Knight
Old records stacked along the wall whispered from the past of classic music and happy times. I collapsed to my knees. It had been ten years since I’d listened to a record. Mötley Crüe, Twisted Sister, and Ratt were on top. Holding Mötley Crüe to my chest, I imagined the evenings my mother and I had spent together dancing around the living room, blocking out the noises of life. She’d always known what to do to help me through my attacks.
I shuffled through several more great eighties hair bands and chuckled. Drake didn’t seem the type. He was more heavy metal meets pop punk, with his swagger, formfitting jeans, and T-shirts. Oh, and that tattoo. What was it? I’d only caught a glimpse of a black point. I imagined it being some fierce tribal type of tattoo, one that had deep meaning. Ugh. Hopefully it wasn’t some chick-longing tattoo, especially not for that Margo girl.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, so I abandoned my snooping and returned to my food. The moment my butt hit the firm leather chair the door creaked open.
“I’ve got some cash for you. It’s not much, but it should get you through for a bit.” He eyed the records. Shoot, one had tumbled over.
I stood, but stepped on the broken lace of my trashed Converse and stumbled, knocking a picture over on his desk with a loud crash. I steadied myself, but my hands still shot to shoulder level before I suppressed the desire to cup my ears against the sound and lowered them back to my sides. “Geesh, I’m sorry.” Curling my fingers underneath the smooth frame, I inspected the glass front. “It’s not broken.”
He wrapped his arms around me and steadied me on my feet. His heat against my side. “You all right?” he asked, his breath caressing my ear.
“Fine, just a klutz.”
His finger tucked my purple streak behind my ear and he tipped my chin until I looked up at him. “You sure?”
His scent, his pulse, his touch caused me to shimmy out of his hold. Before my heart pounded out of my chest.
In the picture, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood next to a younger Drake. He’d filled out over the years, but even then he was sexy. “You look happy here.”
He propped his right butt cheek on top of the desk and rested his forearm on his thigh, his upper body leaning toward me. “What? I don’t look happy now?” His fingers wrapped around mine, sending lightning sparks up my arm. After the shock settled, the penetrating fear of personal contact with someone didn’t drill deep into my center. The prickly sensation that normally bored through my bones into the marrow and past every cell in my body to that inexplicable place deep inside didn’t happen.
Instead of jumping back from him, I paused, relishing the moment of contact with another person.
“What is it?”
I let out a long breath, and still his touch didn’t make me want to scream in panic. With a reluctant step backward, I tugged my hand from his. “Nothing.” I wiped my sweaty palm on my skinny jeans. “Who is she?”
“That’s my grandmother. She’s part of the reason I own this place. When my parents died, I inherited this place. She encouraged me to pursue my dreams instead of playing it safe, so on my twenty-fourth birthday, I took my fancy degree and decided to run this place.” His voice plunged into a black hole of regret, into that what if place where so many souls seemed to wander lost forever. “I had dreams of finding talent and giving them a place to entertain people with their gifts. Not too bright, huh? A year later, and this place is almost bankrupt.” He lowered the frame gingerly to the desk.
“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your parents. Well, parent anyway.” What the hell was I doing, telling him about my life? He didn’t need a resume; he wasn’t offering me a job.
He nudged forward until his knee touched my thigh. His finger grazed my jeans before he lifted a hand to my face. Brushing his thumb across my cheek, he whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss, too.”
My breath pinballed, bouncing everywhere but out. I stepped back. Part of me wanted more of this, to touch and be touched without the bone-gnawing pain that usually came with it. But that would lead somewhere quick, a place I wouldn’t return from. “Yeah, well, we’ve all lost someone.”
“You don’t like to talk about it?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not the sharing type.”
He stood to his over six-foot height of magnificent perfection and closed the gap between us. “I’m not really the talking type, either, but sometimes when you find people that you have something in common with, it feels good to share. Like they know what you’re going through or something.”
“You sound like a shrink,” I mumbled while redirecting my attention to the food on the side table. Dang it, my stomach was too busy doing an obnoxious line dance to pay attention, and I couldn’t imagine swallowing another greasy fry, but I needed sustenance before my skinny ass disappeared entirely.
He set one foot on top of the scarred coffee table. “I’ve been called many things. A shrink isn’t one of them. You’re so different from the women I know. Where’d you come from?”
I lowered the fry back to the plate. “What do you mean? I’m not some alien or anything.”
He waved his hands in front of him. “No, I mean, have you lived in Atlanta long? When did you lose your parents?”
“Parent. I lost her when I was nine. The sperm donor didn’t stick around. He was the artist type and needed to be free, or something.” I rolled my eyes. “I just moved to Atlanta last week.”
“Where from?” He sat at the chair by my side.
“Listen, if you want to know personal shit about me, I’ll write it on an application. If you’re not offering me a job, then we’re done here.” I shoved from the chair, knocking food all over the floor. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I fell to my knees and scooped the food back onto the plate.
“Hey, it’s no big deal. In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t exactly a classy joint.” He snagged my wrists and held them still. My heart did some tympanic symphony so loud I was sure he could hear it. My ears still rang from the loud music, but now the beat of my pulse joined in. His hands wrapped completely around my small wrists and before I could discern the feeling, one of his hands moved to tip my chin up. “You okay? You know I won’t hurt you, right?”
I swallowed, one of those hard swallows you feel all the way to your toes. Despite the haze of all that was Drake, I lifted my head a little higher. “I can take care of myself. I’m not scared of anyone. I’m just a klutz.”
“Listen, it’s late. I’ll grab a bag of food for you to take and I’ll see you home. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be here working on some paperwork and billing. Stop by and I’ll let you know if I can work something out for you. There might be a job. It won’t be glamorous, but it’ll pay and provide free food.”
“I don’t need charity or an escort, but I’ll be back tomorrow for that job.” I shoved from the chair and headed for the door. He sidestepped and blocked my path with his large frame. My forehead barely reached his chest.
His fingers found my shoulders, and my body blazed from his touch, a scorching heat that caused sweat to pool at the nape of my neck.
“I don’t know where you’re from, but this is downtown Atlanta. It can get rough at night. A girl as beautiful as you shouldn’t be walking the streets at this hour. Let me grab my keys and I’ll take you home.”
He released me, and I fought my shaking knees to remain upright. No way I’d be able to sit in a small box by his side for even five minutes without stomping on my promise to remain abstinent. And the job would be forever gone. No, I needed to get away from him and his strange ways of making me feel all tangled up inside.
I grabbed the cash he’d left on his desk and hotfooted it to the door. “I’m from the streets of New York. You should worry about the other guy.” I took off down the stairs, out the back door, and through the alleyway.
“Scarlet, wait!” he called, as if ensnaring me once more in his web of charm, but the last man I’d met with a gentle touch and comforting voice had driv
en me to a back alley overdose.
Chapter Six
The night was a never-ending sea of blackness. I usually loved dark nights, but this one continued down a Twilight Zone highway and I could almost hear Alfred Hitchcock’s voice narrating in the background.
I switched on my dying flashlight for the hundredth time to see my watch. Seven in the morning. My stomach roared with complaint, and my mouth watered at the memory of the uneaten cheeseburger. It would have been the biggest meal I’d had in days.
I rolled onto my side and stretched the kinks from my neck. A rat, on one of the broken wooden shelves, squeaked his agreement to vacate and find food. With the pity cash Drake gave me last night, I could grab some coffee and a bagel or something even after I bought a lantern and batteries. Despite the still warm temps of early fall in Atlanta, I donned the army jacket I’d scored from a thrift store the first night here. A hood was my best friend in the world of Atlanta noise pollution. I tightened my fingers around the pipe and stepped onto one of the metal brackets that secured it to the wall. I reached the bottom floor and dismounted into the dim morning light.
The smell of wet asphalt wasn’t the greeting I had hoped for, but I pulled the hood over my head and trudged through the puddles. Car horns blared, so I slipped my defensive earphones from my pocket. Thank God I’d charged my iPod behind the bar last night. Cranking Beethoven’s “Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major” to the point of drowning external stimuli, I chuckled at the fitting rising intro. The spirit of the melody matched the rushing cars. Beethoven got me. He had to be a distant relative or something, not so much for his music, but his humor. The day I heard his final words, “Friends applaud, the Comedy is over,” I knew we were kindred spirits.
I rounded the street corner and headed toward the path to Bands. A few hundred meters and two turns later a curvy purple sign with the word Coffee stood out among the brick buildings. I inhaled the welcoming aroma, an improvement over the damp, musty air in my temporary home. Not that I was complaining. Of course, the warehouse didn’t have a shower, but I’d been able to sneak in a few times to the YMCA up the block. Unfortunately, I’d made the mistake of entering during the soccer-mom-only hour. I learned my lesson when one threatened me with a long pointed nail and a curling iron. After that, I timed my visits during Zumba class, saving myself from women showing off their new boobs, listening to them complain about their husbands, and passing out Prozac. They called themselves SAHM. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I guessed Stoned Angry Homicidal Moms.
With a sidestep through the crowd, I tugged the long cuffs of my hoodie sleeves over my hands and wrenched the door open. With money in my pocket, I could splurge. A latte would certainly brighten the rainy, dismal day.
Hawaiian stood in the corner, waving. His plump arm wiggled as if speaking to me. “Hey, Einstein.”
I did the head bob in acknowledgement then snatched the wad of cash from my pocket. “Latte, please.”
The girl behind the counter scribbled something on the cup. “Name?”
A smile crept up the corners of my lips. “Einstein.”
She scribbled on the back of the cup, the gauges in her ears sparkling under the light with the movement of her smile. “Sure. Coming right up.”
A vine tattoo wrapped around her wrist like a boa constrictor. Its tongue ended with an X. I’d always thought the X tattoo was more a Ton initiation than a real Straight Edge thing. This part of town welcomed me with a mischievous wink of social acceptance. Perhaps she’d hook me up with some other Straight Edge people…or not. No need to complicate my life. Yet, Ton’s nagging persisted, even at this distance. I needed to call him, if only to tell him I survived the hundred-plus-hour bus ride from New York. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that long, but the little old lady next to me who smelled of Bengay and stuffy perfume had trapped me in an infinite loop of torture.
I scooted around the corner and dared a glance at Hawaiian again. He squeezed into a booth with some other people, all different types, but too many for my comfort level. One with green hair and black-rimmed glasses, another wearing a short white dress with mesh hose, and a guy in a suit.
“Hey, come join us.” His smile shot as if from some invisible adorable gun and pierced my body, tugging me toward his table.
“It’s good to see you.” I dug my nails into the cuffs of my sleeves. Please don’t shake my hand.
Too late. Green-haired girl with glasses abandoned her coffee cake, wiped her hands on the front of her skinny green-and-black pants, and offered her hand. I managed to keep my sleeve mostly over my palm, but her skin still touched mine with a crumbly, leftover-coffee-cake texture.
With a steadying breath, I reciprocated the next two societal expectations of hand shaking. Keeping my eyes moving to avoid being caught in a painful vice of awkwardness, I noticed a black tattoo of some sort of symbol extending from under Suit Guy’s jacket sleeve. “Like your ink.” There. That made up for no eye contact, right?
He rotated his arm as if to discover the markings for the first time. “A youthful indiscretion. I hope to have a tattoo artist alter it somehow. I doubt my congregation will follow me if they see the image of a demonic creature on my arm.”
Hawaiian smacked the man’s shoulder so hard he nudged the table, sloshing beverages about. Ugh, mint tea, black coffee, and some caramel concoction blended into bad horror movie blood, and the odor merged into a perfect chaos of competing smells. “I see you found our coffee oasis. Best coffee in twenty blocks.”
“Einstein,” the barista called.
Thank you, God. I shuffled backward. “It was nice to meet you all.”
“Ha, my name for you stuck.” Hawaiian clapped his hands together once. “I’ll see you at Bands tonight, right? Drake said you’d be working something out with him today.”
I snatched my coffee from the counter. With hands wrapped around the cup, I lifted it to my nose as a shield. The rich aroma provided an escape from the wayward odors of the other patrons. “Yep, I’m going to head there in a bit. I need to make a call first, though. Is there a payphone around?”
“You don’t have a cell?” Hawaiian rounded the table and joined me at the counter. “Here, use mine.”
I held up one hand while keeping the coffee close to my nose with the other. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“No bother.”
I took the phone and forced my gaze to his. “Thanks.” I was rewarded with a huge smile that could con a nun into a night of passion.
Hawaiian took a step back and crossed his arms over a lime green floral print shirt. “Drake’s right.”
I looked down my front, trying to see what he was looking at. “About what?”
“You do have the most beautiful eye color. What is that? Purple?”
Heat flooded my neck, cheeks, and ears. “No, it’s just abnormal. One of my foster sisters said I looked like a mutt from the pound. It’s probably just reflecting the purple highlights I have in my hair.”
“Mutt? She must have liked you. Mutts are the best. They’re loving, friendly, and don’t bite. They’re always loyal, smarter than any purebred, and a man’s best friend.”
An espresso machine revved for a few seconds then quieted.
“I never thought of it that way.” Toeing the floor, I managed to keep from looking at the mirror on the sidewall to analyze my eye color. Not that I ever liked looking in a mirror. Sure, I had pale skin, but it was soft and looked more appropriate for a lady from the 1800s than a pasty sick person. My eyes were a little different, true, and my hair was full and soft. But mirrors still made me uncomfortable, like I was being judged.
I dialed Ton’s number while searching for a private corner away from noise.
It rang several times until voicemail picked up. “This is Ton. I’m out right now, searching for a young woman that ducked out on me in the middle of the night. If this is her, please tell me you’re alive so I can find and strangle you. If you are not said girl, leave a message at the
tone, and I’ll think about returning your call.”
It beeped and I stood silent for a moment, glad he didn’t answer, but unsure of what to say. “Hey, it’s the girl who ran out on you in the middle of the night. I’m fine. If you promise not to strangle me, I’ll try to call you again. For now, I’m good, and I’m managing on my own.” I stood there for a second, thinking of a thousand things I should say, but none formed on my lips. “I’m sorry, Ton. I needed to do this on my own, not with you holding my hand the entire time. Bye.” I hit end and let out the deep boulder of heavy air lodged in my lungs.
“Problem?” Hawaiian appeared at my side. “I’m a big guy. I can handle whoever is on the other end of that call. Don’t you worry.”
His offer touched me in some strange brother-sisterly way. Of course, Ton was a beast. But what Hawaiian had in girth, Ton had in muscle. “Everything’s fine. Thanks for the phone loan. Now I can go beg your boss for a job.”
“Cut him some slack. Drake’s a good guy, just got some issues he’s trying to work through.”
“What kind of issues? Being tragically handsome?” I held up a hand. “Never mind. That’s none of my business.”
The front door of the coffee shop opened and some guys in those weird-looking biker shorts, wearing bicycle helmets, raced to the front register. The hint of sweat and cologne infiltrated the espresso bean aroma.
“Maybe not, but if you take that job don’t be so hard on him. Although, you can give him grief once in a while. I liked that drink you made him.” He hip-bumped me, sending my small frame stumbling into the counter.
“Well, I guess we all have our issues to deal with. I just think if he spent less time with that Barbie doll and more time on his business, things might be going a little better.”
“Ah, you met Margo.”
“Yep, I’ve had the pleasure.” One of the helmet-wearing men nudged into my side and I jumped. Hawaiian eyed me suspiciously but didn’t say anything.