Ardent Strangers: An Ardent Strangers novel (Ardent Strangers series Book 1)

by Samantha Kately

  “I thought one of the other waitresses could do that while we have lunch.”

  “Oh?” We’re having lunch. Again, unexpected.

  “Have you eaten?”

  Somewhat stunned that he’d care to ask, I shake my head.

  “It’s a quarter-to-two. You must be famished.” He grunts. “I thought we could discuss our demo over lunch.”

  “Oh.” So that’s why he cares. The music. His dream. “Okay, I’ll go ask.”

  He frowns, then nods. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to interpret the vast repertoire of his frowns, nods, and grunts. I’m about to leave when he says, “Has that guy been bothering you?”

  “Which guy?”

  “The wank—the guy with the baby.”

  I shrug. “He hasn’t been offensive, if that’s what you mean?”

  “He’s been ogling you ever since I walked in.”

  “I’ll be back.” Biting my lip, I walk quickly between the tables. The guy hasn’t actually done anything wrong, but I’m tired and every small disturbance seems to upset me. What really upsets me is that Agent Randall has noticed, has gone into protective bodyguard mode. I’ve survived my whole life without protection. Agent Randall wasn’t there then, but now that he is, I’m sure he’d tell me to leave the café again. But I feel good here. The fact that it’s mums and bubs makes me feel safer. Most of the time. Except for moments like these, moments when guys watch or make their little insinuations. The café has quietened down in the past few minutes, and as Penny slams the till shut I hover in front of her. “Do you mind if I take lunch? My housemate’s here.”

  She looks over the café, and something catches her eye. “Can you fix the spill at table twenty before you do?”

  “Sure.” I put on a smile and hurry away. Harry smiles up at me and I repress a groan as I scrub blobs of puree from the table. The boy throws some sticks of sugar on the floor and I feel Harry’s eyes on me as I pick them up. While I’m down there, I start to clean up the splatter of puree. His chair leans back, brushing my shoulder. It’s then that I feel a draught on my lower back and realize my jeans are low. Help me. As I stand, I hitch up my jeans. I’m about to walk away when he asks, “Could I buy you a drink some time, Eve?”

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Hearing those words come from Aaron’s mouth, I almost laugh. His arms slide around me, then he makes a point of staring at Harry. “Don’t even think about looking at her ass like that again.”

  “Got it,” Harry says, turning back to his child and fiddling with his phone.

  I must look as stunned as I feel.

  “Shall we have lunch?” asks Aaron.

  “One moment.” I hold up the dirty cloths and run back to the counter to clean up. When I return to the booth I find Tasha sitting opposite Aaron. Hopefully, I’m not in for any surprises.

  “You’ve been withholding information from me. This…” she says, pointing to Aaron. “This is your new housemate?”

  Sighing, I sit beside her, but she pushes me off the bench.

  “You should keep up the boyfriend pretense,” she whispers.

  I groan.

  Aaron raises his eyebrows, but he moves along the booth to make room. I slide in beside him and his arm drops over my shoulder. It’s hard to relax. This is the closest I’ve been to a guy in my seven months of abstinence.

  Tasha laughs, then flicks her tongue ring between her teeth. “Seriously, can I ask?”

  I lean over the table. “What?”

  “Are you together?”

  “No,” Aaron answers. It’s a curt response, and I’m a little offended at how easily it came from his mouth.

  “So, you’ve got a guy to move in, just in case Jeremy comes by?” Tasha asks.

  Why does everyone think that?!

  “Who’s Jeremy?” he asks darkly.

  I throw my hands up into the air and try not to burst into tears.

  “You haven’t told him?” Tasha asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I thought because Aaron moved in that he’d already know.”

  I shake my head.

  “Can’t talk?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “Will somebody tell me who Jeremy is?” Aaron snaps.

  “You want me to tell him?” Tasha asks me.

  I nod, and she launches into the story—and I’m grateful that I never have to say a word. “It all started about a year ago when Eve’s landlord wanted to sell his apartments. There were very few rentals around, and the places were either pretty shabby or out of Eve’s price range. Jeremy, her boyfriend of almost a year, eventually said she could move in with him—”

  I cringe at the last part. Worst decision of my life. I don’t want Aaron to know that, but he will soon enough. It’s humiliating, especially as his arm is wrapped comfortably over my shoulders and his thumb is brushing my upper arm. He already pities me.

  “—It was alright for a while. I think?” She looks to me for confirmation. I shrug in a half-agreement before she continues on, “Then about three months in, Eve and I were walking into their apartment when we walked in on him. He was with another girl on the couch, naked, and you know… Then it all went downhill from there.”

  I fiddle with a serviette, unable to look across at Aaron.

  “How?” he asks.

  “Let’s just say that girl is now eight months pregnant. They’d been at it for a while before Eve found out.”

  Aaron swears under his breath. “And?”

  “Jeremy hasn’t had anything to do with that girl since the night Eve and I caught him. Tried to beg Eve to come back. Eve stayed at my place—I thought she’d be safer with my fiancé there—but Jeremy came around after Pete left for work and began harassing her. Then Eve moved in with Penny and Quinn. But Jeremy was relentless, calling all the time, coming here, knocking on Quinn’s door in the middle of the night. Jeremy even grabbed her a few times, left bruises on her arms and body as she tried to escape. We all called the police a ton of times, and eventually Eve got a restraining order.”

  Aaron grunts softly and his thumb stills on my arm, unsettling me for some reason. “There’s more to this story…” he prompts.

  “There is,” says Tasha. “Eve moved out, but within days Jeremy knew where she lived. He’d followed her home from work, got into the apartment and threatened her if she didn’t get back together with him.”

  Aaron hugs the top of my arm, and I’m ready to bury my head in my hands.

  “Did he hit you, Evangeline?” he asks.

  “Maybe.” I exhale deeply, then look at him. “I’d called the police as soon as he’d arrived, but by the time he’d gotten in he’d….” The words ‘punched the side of my face’ refuses to leave my lips. “The police arrived before he was about to do it again.”

  He squeezes my arm gently, and this time I don’t mentally complain. Now that he’s heard most of the story and Jeremy is painted in his true light, I’m beginning to see the past few months in a new perspective. Aaron’s concern feels natural. I’d avoided being the victim, but hearing the ordeal recounted so methodically I can see there was little I could do to prevent it happening. Jeremy was determined to find me, regardless.

  “Where’s Jeremy now?” Aaron asks.

  “We’re not up to that, yet,” Tasha answers. I share a sad smile with her and she grabs my hands on the table. “The bastard got out on bail.” Aaron sighs angrily as Tasha comes to the part I’ve been dreading. “Eve had to move house again—into the house you’re living in now. I’d started coming over after work ‘cause she didn’t want to be alone. We were having some wine and watching TV when there was a loud crash and the door began shaking. I grabbed Eve—who’d gone completely paralyzed, by the way—and I dragged her toward the back door just as he smashed a garden rock through her front window and punched his way through the glass. I don’t know how many back fences we jumped over until we made it to a friend’s place and finally called the cops,” she says, alm
ost panting, and I swear it’s as if we’re still running.

  I feel cold.

  “He’s been locked up for two months now,” she says more calmly. “That gives Eve another four or five months before she has to leave work and find a new place. Before that bastard gets out.”

  Aaron’s knuckles crack as he makes a fist. The sound is strangely terrifying and comforting. Even with my new-found perspective, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m ashamed of the mess I’ve gotten myself into, that I’ll still be running in several months’ time.

  “Babe,” she whispers. “You alright?”

  I sniff, determined to hold back tears. I turn a fraction and look over the play area covered in chalkboards and toys, at the laughing children, and I try to forget. I have never been more pleased to see a bowl of soup in my life as Wendy—my fellow waitress and fifty-four-year-old grandmother of three—places it in front of me. “Thanks, Wendy.”

  “Jeremy, again?”

  I nod. “Having a moment is all.”

  “Alright. But you know what I always say, he’s not worth crying for.” Wendy’s gaze fixes on the arm around my shoulder and then to Aaron. “Is this one any better?”

  “Huh?”

  I’m about to set her straight, that Aaron is my housemate when he introduces himself. “Aaron Randall.” He shakes her hand.

  She seems pleased by the gesture, and Wendy is rarely impressed. “You better treat her well, Mister, or you’ll have me to answer to,” she says, pointing a fork at him.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he says, and salutes her. The salute seems natural on him, well-practiced, and I remember the army tags around his neck after his shower.

  Giving him the all clear, she places his burger in front of him, then leaves to one of the three occupied tables. It’s so quiet that I can even hear the midday news playing from the television above the counter. Avoiding my table, I watch the screen with interest.

  “I’ll let you guys eat,” Tasha says, coming into my vision as she stands. She pats me lightly on the head, then returns to the kitchen.

  Aaron leans into me. “You should have told me about Jeremy.”

  “It’s not exactly easy to bring up.”

  “True.”

  “Sorry. If you want to move out, that’s fine. I—”

  He holds up his free hand to stop me. “Never apologize for what happened. Okay?”

  It takes me a moment to nod. “Okay.”

  “And after hearing that story, I’m never moving out unless you ask me to.”

  “I didn’t ask you to move in for a bodyguard, not that you aren’t intimidating in an impressive kind of way, but I’d like the company. I get kind of rattled on my own since…”

  “You don’t have to explain. I get it. And I’d like the company, too.”

  “Okay.” I sip my pea and ham soup and moan happily, earning a soft grunt from Aaron.

  “That sound could kill a man.”

  “Huh?”

  “You eating soup. It’s bloody sexy.”

  “Okay, that was far worse than anything Harry said.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t see the way he was checking you out.”

  I nudge him in the ribs. “Eat your burger.”

  His thumb brushes my arm one last time before his arm retreats and he takes a bite of his burger. As the last customers leave, Tasha squeals happily at the front counter and turns up the remote for the TV. “Eve, you gotta hear this!”

  I soon discover it’s the last thing I want to hear.

  A camera zooms in on Nathaniel seated at a press conference. Cameras are flashing everywhere. Nathaniel is dashing in his grey suit, his hair tied back smoothly. He looks too preened, not the lovable larrikin I met on the bridge. He is partway through a speech about his battles with depression and how Damien’s story affected him so deeply. Then he comes to the moment when he accidentally slipped from the rail, and how he was saved by a girl with long black hair in her twenties.

  Aaron must notice the writing running at the bottom of the screen the same time I do, because he drops his burger as I drop my spoon. The headlines are on repeat: ‘Broadcast live on every network. Nathaniel Blake pays for noon timeslots in search of mystery girl, Evangeline.’

  I’m glued to the television now, and when he says, “Evangeline,” it’s as if he’s speaking directly through the screen and right to me. “I’m not sure what happened at the hospital, why you stayed all night, then left, leaving no number, nothing.” He scratches the back of his head. For the first time, he looks uncomfortable. “I still owe you that dinner. My memory’s a bit hazy, but I do recall you promised me dinner.”

  “You promised him dinner?” Aaron snaps. “You didn’t even know him. For all you knew, he could have been a psychopath.”

  “He asked,” I say, my eyes fixed on Nathaniel. “At that time, I thought he was going to jump.”

  “He played on your good nature.”

  I shrug. “You can’t know that.”

  “Trust me, I know Nathaniel. I’ve known him for twenty-five years. He’s like a brother.”

  Twenty-five years! Holy crap. Not expecting that.

  Nathaniel’s final words echo around the cafe, “Evangeline. Call me. Please. I need to thank you for taking the risk to help a stranger in need. I’d like to see you again.”

  I’d like to see you again, too.

  Nathaniel nods, signaling that he’s finished and rises from his chair. He looks taller than I remember. Then he is gone and the news returns, cutting straight to Nathaniel’s interruption to television across the nation, followed by several organizations you could contact if you were suffering depression or suicidal thoughts, or to visit your local doctor for help. It appears that Nathaniel Blake has become the new poster boy for mental health and awareness.

  Avoiding Aaron, I look over the café. The staff are staring at me. I return to my soup, wondering if one of them is about to call that hotline and claim their ten thousand dollars.

  The Demo

  As I step out of the darkness and through my front door, I’m greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of roast meat and vegetables. Clattering comes from the kitchen. I peek around the corner and find Aaron bent over, retrieving something from the oven. Despite the annoyance I’d felt at Harry checking out my rear earlier, I can’t help but stare at Aaron’s muscular behind framed by dark jeans, as well as the fitted shirt that’s rolled up his forearms, revealing the tattoos on his left arm. I spy an old-style bi-plane in black ink. There’s some script, but I can never make out the words and numbers.

  “Hi,” I say.

  His eyes dart to where I’m hovering in the doorway. He looks far too masculine for someone wearing pink oven mitts and holding a roasting pan. “Hi.”

  “You cooked.”

  “I did.”

  I glance over the kitchen, amazed at how orderly everything has become under the influence of Agent Randall. Other than the chopping board and a few utensils, the kitchen counter is uncharacteristically bare. I begin to skirt around the counter when a chair obscures the way. Then I bump into a highly polished dining table, which is well and truly beyond what my pay-cheque could afford. A second sleek chair sits beside the piano and heater.

  I don’t believe it! He’s managed to squish in a table and chairs! Another sign that he’s making himself at home.

  Maybe this could work—be housemates.

  (Just don’t sleep with him.)

  I mentally slap myself for the ridiculous thought.

  We eat in compatible silence, metal music playing the background, and I’ve devoured his cooking in minutes. Minutes later, we are warming up for the demo and my hands are already shaking. We decide to record one of his songs and one of mine, then see which one plays back better. But no matter how many times I warm up, how many notes I sing, my voice feels choked up with emotion. Jeremy is back in my thoughts, thanks to my song choice.

  I run to the bathroom for the millionth time. The nerves have not
been kind to me today. I take a quick shower to freshen up and add some color to my lips and cheeks. When I arrive back at the sofa Aaron eyes me strangely. “You alright?”

  “A bit queasy, actually,” I say, rubbing my tummy.

  “Performance jitters or Nathaniel’s doing?”

  “Both,” I admit.

  “Let’s try and have a good time with it, hey?”

  “A good time?” I smile. My mind slips into all kinds of scenarios involving Aaron and this sofa, and not a guitar in sight.

  “You’ve got this look in your eyes…”

  Can he seriously tell what I’m thinking?

  “Look?” I say. “What look?”

  He smirks and shakes his head.

  I blush and smile and pray that I melt into the sofa at any second, because I’m a glass window to this man! My mood calms slightly once we begin my song, ‘Running Low.’

  Aaron strums as I beat my thumb against the body of the guitar and sing: “Don’t open up, don’t call. You’ve done this too many times before. No more, I won’t let you in.”

  He sings: “I’m outside in the night. I’m waiting…” His voices rises for the lead up to the chorus: “Through the window, I can see you.”

  “I’m running now, I’m running now,” I sing. “I’m running low. I’m running low.”

  “I will find you,” he sings below me in bold steps.

  My voice goes husky, but I push it out, “I can’t run anymore. I can only slam the door…. But it’s not enough. You will always find me,” my voice drops low, then raises as he sings, “I will always find you.”

  Aaron strums as I play a fast and sorrowful solo above him that I’d written for violin, then we end on a dying chord. I close my eyes and breathe, relieved that the demo didn’t require the second verse. The words are still burning in my heart, and I swear that Jeremy is haunting me from his cell.

  Aaron runs over to his new video recorder and turns it off, downloads it onto his laptop, edits, then crops the start and end. Our demo is done.

  He takes his spot on the sofa and leans into me. As we play back our demo I wish I’d taken the time to dress up a bit. My black hair is in a messy ponytail, and I’m wearing all black—black boots, black jeans, black sweater. Other than my pale face and bright blue eyes you can barely make out my body—I’m that dark on the screen. Meanwhile, Aaron seems to take up the whole video. His fine form is on display in his navy shirt. His hair dangles over his jaw, and his attention is mostly fixed on the guitar or me. He rarely looks at the camera, and when he does he smolders with his surly gaze and gritty voice that resonates through the room and my body simultaneously. It’s almost a physical presence, a dark shape playing out my life in words.