Darker Water

by Lauren Stewart

  “What do you want?” I put him on speaker while I cut some veneer to use on an Edwardian writing desk that was in terrible shape.

  “I ran out of cash, and I need a drink.”

  “Liar.” But in a non-hurtful way, which was a nice change from all the other liars I’d met.

  “I’m not lying. I need a drink. A big one. Or multiple smaller ones.”

  “I’m at work, Carson.”

  “Great. Do you have liquor there?”

  “You don’t even drink, do you?”

  “I drink all the time, but not in public. I stick to closet drinking—it’s easier to hide my shame that way.”

  I laughed. “Fine, I’ll take you out for a drink.” It would take me at least twenty minutes to clean up. “But I’m a mess.”

  “Then we should probably go to my place instead. You can take off your clothes and get cleaned up.”

  I groaned when he so obviously forgot to mention me putting my clothes back on. I gave him the address of my shop. “There’s a pub down the street. They won’t care how dirty I am.”

  “But I care very much how dirty you are.”

  “Twenty minutes, Carson. Think you can handle it?”

  “I think I’m already halfway there.”

  I’d just finished rinsing the last brush when I heard an impatient knock on the metal door.

  “Lane! Are you alright in there? Should I call the police?”

  What was he talking about? “I’m coming!”

  He was leaning against the doorframe looking around the area, grimacing. “This is not at all what I was expecting.”

  “When I said I work in the Warehouse District, you didn’t know there would be warehouses?”

  “I thought you were joking. Only Dexter works in a place like this. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  I ignored him, going back to put my tools away and make sure all the jars and cans were tightly closed.

  “Hey, Lane? You know all your furniture’s broken, right?” He opened and shut the drawer of the writing desk.

  “Be careful with that! Really careful.”

  “Did you make it?”

  “It’s over one-hundred years old.”

  “Wow. I figured you for your early twenties. You’re holding up really well for an old lady. I’m down with the cougar thing, though, don’t worry.”

  “I’m fixing it. That’s how I make a living—repairing and selling antique furniture.” I nodded towards a coffee table I’d built from debris and reclaimed wood. “I made that one. It’s about three years old.”

  “When you told me you sold furniture, I pictured a store full of cheap mattresses and bedroom sets imported from China.”

  “Nope. That’s what I’m working up to.” I held up my crossed fingers. “Every girl needs a dream.”

  “I want it.” He looked up from the coffee table and reached for his wallet. “Do you take credit cards?”

  “You don’t even know how much it costs.”

  “Okay, how much does it cost?”

  “Sticker price on my website is fifteen-hundred dollars.”

  “Great. Do you take credit cards?”

  I expected him to at least pause, if not completely reconsider. I was so used to everyone thinking my art was ‘sweet’ or ‘interesting,’ I wasn’t sure how to react to someone taking it seriously. Taking me seriously. Even my parents didn’t think I could do it. They hadn’t said anything outright, but I could tell they still thought it was my ‘little hobby.’ That’s why I left San Diego and came up north—well, that and to be with Kevin, my last frog. I wanted to be around more people who understood. Unfortunately, there were about twenty artists to every art buyer and fifty to every gallery owner, so I still wasn’t even close to proving my parents wrong.

  Carson didn’t seem like an art collector, other than his tats. And somehow, buying one of my pieces to humor me seemed even worse than if he’d just ignored it. But I wasn’t in a position to refuse money, either.

  “Do you really want it?” I asked. “Because I have no qualms about taking your money.”

  “Then you should answer my question.”

  “Yes, I take credit cards.”

  “Do you deliver? If so, can you do it naked?”

  I took his card. “That would be an additional charge, and it would be way over your limit.”

  “What’s a limit?”

  I knew he was joking, but I also knew his family had gobs of money, so it wasn’t that big a joke.

  “Honestly, I don’t think it’s right for your place,” I said, pretending to hand him back his card. “I mean, it’s not made to withstand strippers dancing on it.”

  “No problem. I already have enough that are. Anyway, it’s way too nice for my place—stripper-strong or not. I’m going to donate it to the auction.”

  “The auction for your foundation?” I held out his card. “Take this back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going to charge you fifteen-hundred dollars for something that will raise money for sick kids.”

  “But you were okay with price gouging if I was going to put it in my living room?”

  “Just take it.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.” He walked away without his credit card. “Right after I compensate you for your time and I’m assuming a fair amount of nails and wood and things. Hopefully under fifteen-hundred dollars’ worth or you’re a terrible business woman.” He knelt down and ran his hand across the top.

  “I made it years ago and nobody wants to buy it. If you don’t auction it off, it’s just going to sit there.”

  “Gorgeous.” He wasn’t looking at the table. “Anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.”

  I suddenly felt very exposed, my arms wrapping around myself to stop a shiver not brought on by the cold. “Yeah, well, it’s art. And art doesn’t sell. Especially by unknown artists with lame websites.”

  “Take my money and use it to get a better website. It’s really beautiful, Lane.”

  “It’s okay. If I could do—”

  “I said it’s beautiful.” He looked at me with a raised brow.

  “Thank you.” I leaned back on my worktable. “I have a lot more pieces sitting around here getting dusty, so if you take it, at least I’d know this one is sitting around not getting dusty in some rich person’s house instead.”

  “Thank you, Lane,” he said with a small bow. “So why didn’t you ever tell me you were an artist?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel like one most of the time.” Uncomfortable with the way he was staring at me, I started sweeping.

  “I’ll have someone pick up the table and get some pictures taken for the auction catalogue.”

  “Eric!”

  “Huh?”

  “Eric’s my roommate’s boyfriend. He’s a photographer, a really good one. He could take some pictures and send them to whoever you want.” It only seemed right—Eric would do it for free and would love the exposure. I was paying it forward and helping a good cause.

  “Great.” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “You don’t fix broken drawers by any chance, do you? On young furniture? My dresser—”

  “Yes, Carson. I’ll fix your drawer.” I grabbed my bag and put the basics in it. “And it will only cost you $999.”

  “That seems totally fair,” he said, following me out. “Do you take credit cards?”

  Ten minutes later we were in front of his apartment, somewhere that, thus far, I’d been able to avoid. “This was just a ploy to get me up to your place, wasn’t it?”

  “Furniture! Damn it, of course! What better way to get a woman up here? That drawer has been broken for months. So many wasted opportunities. I wouldn’t have had to resort to picking up women in cafés if only I’d thought of it earlier.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said as soon as we went inside. It was unbelievable. “It’s like a Barbie Dreamhouse, but not pink and with way more electronics.” It als
o screamed Danger Zone, but I would ignore that.

  “That’s a terrifying description and, thankfully, not one I’ve ever heard before.”

  “I just mean it’s so…” Perfect. Beautiful. “Spacious.”

  After a quick, male tour—meaning he told me where the bed, the beer, and the bathroom were—he showed me the dresser that needed my help.

  Shaking the drawer pull, he said, “It doesn’t do the forward and backward thing. Not sure why.”

  It took me about three minutes and four finishing nails to fix. “You’ve got to be the least handy man I’ve ever met.”

  “And that’s why I need you, Lane. Well, that’s one of the reasons I need you. The others are because I really enjoy staring at your breasts and after you finish laughing, you get this breathiness in your voice that’s a big turn-on, and I can’t stop imagining how your—”

  I held up my hammer. “Stop before I accidentally hurt you.”

  Chapter 7 - Laney

  Almost every day, I would find Carson in what I now, sadly, referred to as ‘our corner’ of the café. I would slide into the chair opposite him and pick up the cup of coffee in front of me. Since he didn’t want me to get the wrong idea, he never bought it for me. Instead he insisted he’d bought both of them for himself but just this once, I could have it. Then we’d sit and drink and talk comfortably for a really long time, except for all the moments that were uncomfortable because the images of us wrapped around each other never seemed to leave my mind for longer than a few minutes.

  After my first sip of coffee, I smacked my lips together. “Hmm…”

  “Hmm, what?” he asked.

  “It’s almost perfect. I like a lot of cream.”

  “Stop teasing, Lane.”

  I gasped. “I meant the—” He knew exactly what I meant.

  He still hadn’t mastered the exact proportions of cream to sugar to coffee, but he was getting pretty damn close. Somehow that seemed more significant than I would’ve imagined it would be. A sign of the amount of time we were spending together or the amount of effort he was putting in to getting to know me.

  Coffee was not a symbol of intimacy, for god’s sake. Get a grip. Grow up. Stop emoting all over yourself. Damn it, I was still a love struck fool, even when I wasn’t in love.

  When the realization it was happening slugged me in the gut, I jumped up. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t be around him and still be who I wanted to be. It was stupid to think I could. Stupid to think I wouldn’t screw this up.

  “I need to go.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, dumbfounded by my obvious loss of sanity.

  “It’s… I was feeling very girlie for a second there.” Was that a big enough hint? Enough to scare him off? “Emotionally girlie.”

  “Girlie.” He nodded slowly. “Would it stop you from ever feeling girlie again if I told you the only reason I’m still hanging out with you is because I want to put my tongue in your”—his eyes darted to the two little girls sitting with their mom two tables away—“belly button?”

  “Yes, but I’d also know you were lying.”

  Only one corner of his mouth curled. “There may be a couple other reasons, but I promise, none of them are anything to get girlie over.” He stood, gathering his stuff. “You stay, I’ll go.” His voice dropped to a whisper when he got close enough. “Was that the first time?”

  “That I felt girlie about you? I think so.”

  “Good. I like you, Lane. But that needs to be the first and last time you get girlie on me, because that would fuck everything up. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded. “Do you ever think us spending time with each other is one big, drawn out lapse of good judgment?”

  “All the fucking time,” he muttered, his lips grazing my forehead before he walked away. “By the way, you’re in charge of making your own coffee from now on. Evidently it touches on some weird emotional erogenous zone for you.”

  I smiled for about a second before panic set in. Carson had stopped in front of Eric, Hillary’s boyfriend, who was standing in front of the door. His eyes were about two sizes larger than normal.

  “Hey. Can I—?” Carson glanced towards me, then to Eric, then back to me. When he smirked, I stopped breathing, knowing whatever he said next would be horribly inappropriate. “Do you think I slept with his wife?” he asked me, but it was loud enough for Eric to hear.

  “Oh my god, who says stuff like that?” I stepped forward just as Eric stopped gaping and started laughing.

  “Apparently, he does,” Eric said. “Of course, I wouldn’t have found it so amusing if it were true. Or if I was married.” When he pointed backwards, I knew I was in trouble—any second now Hillary would walk through that door and want to be introduced to Carson. “Are you two…?”

  “No, Eric!” I shouted. “No. He…um…he’s a guy…” I’d deliberately not told Hillary anything about Carson because I knew what her reaction would’ve been. I didn’t want to deal with it, now or ever. “He’s a guy who was just leaving. Where’s Hillary?”

  “Hillary, your roommate?” Carson asked. “That means you’re Hillary’s…”

  “Boyfriend,” Eric said.

  “Right. And Lane’s photographer friend. So the”—he imitated the wide-eyed silent stare Eric had done—“makes sense then. But I swear, anything bad Lane told you about me is completely accurate.”

  “She didn’t actually tell me—”

  “You were leaving, right?” I asked Carson. “Right?”

  He looked so amused, he probably wanted to stay, which was exactly why I wanted him to leave. I pushed him towards the exit on the other end of the café.

  “Bye, Carson.” I shoved him in the chest.

  He grabbed one of my hands and pulled me towards him until his lips grazed my ear. “I think little Lane is hiding things—meaning me—from her friends. How badly would he freak out if I kissed your beautiful little mouth right now?”

  “Not nearly as badly as I would,” I whispered back.

  “As if I needed more temptation.”

  “Please, Carson. Just go.”

  After one more, slow inhalation and a slow exhalation that came with a quiet groan of disappointment, he stepped back. “Thanks for the coffee…” He smiled wickedly as I pushed him out the door. “What was your name again?” he mimicked. “It’s so awkward when you call someone by the wrong name, isn’t it?” Lucky for him, I didn’t have enough time to hurt him.

  Less than a half second later, Hillary came in, her smile quickly morphing into a mask of confusion, her gaze darting back and forth from Eric to me to the door Carson had just walked out of.

  “What did I miss?” Hillary said slowly. I shook my head, silently begging Eric not to say anything. Hillary would throw a party if she thought I was dating again.

  “Laney’s date.”

  “Traitor,” I grumbled. “He’s not my date.”

  “I thought you were done with love and relationships,” Hillary said.

  “I am. He’s a friend.”

  “Sure he is.”

  “We’re not dating, Hillary.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re not. We just hang out and drink lots of coffee.”

  Hillary turned towards Eric. “Why’d you think it was a date, honey?”

  “Because when a guy who seemed pretty cool and was—not that I noticed—really attractive, looked like he would’ve sold a kidney to kiss a very cool, single woman who is—not that I’ve ever noticed—really attractive, it usually involves more than just drinking lots of coffee.” Curse Eric and his honesty. “But if Laney says he’s just a friend, I guess he’s just a friend.”

  “He is.”

  “You don’t actually believe her, do you?” Hillary asked him.

  “I’m telling the truth!”

  “Uh huh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to ignore the fact that people don’t usually hide relationships with people they are just friends with, especially
from their so-called best friend.” She held up her hand when I opened my mouth to explain. “I said I’m going to ignore it. Because I know you’ve been through a lot of crap this year. I’m just glad you’re done with that whole ‘all men are frogs’ thing.”

  Eric looked hurt. “You thought all men—”

  “Not you, baby.” Hillary wrapped her arm around his waist. “You’re a prince…who only ribbits occasionally.”

  As we laughed, Eric grumbled, pulling away and heading for the counter. “I need something to drink. I’m parched from all the ribbitting.”

  Hillary came over and hooked her arm through mine. “I want to get to know this friend you’re not dating. Let’s all go out sometime. Me, Eric, you, and your friend.”

  “I swear, we’re not dating, Hillary. He just wants to sleep with me. That’s it. He has no interest in dating me at all.”

  “Then he’s a moron.”

  “No, he’s not. He doesn’t date. Just like I don’t date.”

  “Are you guys sleeping together?”

  “No! We’re just two people who hang out and have no desire to date each other or anyone else.”

  She studied me for a second, looking for any sign I was lying, I guess. “Bummer. In addition to wanting you to break out of this man-hating phase you’re in, I like having another couple to do stuff with. Like say…go out for drinks after the opening of that new gallery on Third.”

  “I wish.” Aside from it being humungous, the gallery would focus exclusively on art using recycled or repurposed materials. “You need an impossible-to-get invitation to go to the opening.”

  “Do you?” Hillary asked with feigned surprise. “Well then, aren’t I lucky that Eric just happened to get four of them?”

  “Seriously?” Hillary knew I couldn’t wait to see it, and it wasn’t open to the public for another two weeks. Since you had to be really well known to show there, I didn’t bother dreaming about that. But aside from seeing the gallery itself, getting even one of those buyers to look at my stuff could catapult my entire career. I grabbed her by the arms. “Oh my god, Hills, I’ll be the best third wheel you’ve ever had.”