by Barefoot, LW
“It doesn’t matter and I haven’t tried to keep it from you,” he whispers.
He won’t let me out of his grasp.
“So much of our lives have overlapped. I hoped you and I would end up together. As much as I want you, I won’t risk losing you. You’re too important to me. I’m with Kate and I like her, but you, you will always be home to me,” he confesses.
I let him place a kiss on my lips. He tries to push for more, testing me, until he feels my reluctance and pulls back. The last peck is innocent in its finality.
He shakes his head and pulls me back into another hug. It feels like an apology. Holding me to him for a time, not letting go until he’s had his fill. Jamie releases me. I’m the one to take a step back, needing to put distance between us.
“Evan’s a good guy. He has no reason to exploit your true identity to the public or to anyone for that matter. There’s a lot of people out there who would take advantage of you in that way. Evan would also do anything to protect someone he cares about, however ruthless. But if he hurts you, Harper, I’ll fucking kill him.”
He hooks Ru’s leash to his collar and picks up his mug. My thoughts swirl as they walk out of the room.
I move to pick up the torn tissue paper to throw it away. Avoiding the jumbled pieces of myself that changed with Jamie’s confession. A note is attached to the tags hanging from the dress.
‘Harper, I admit I like tearing clothes off you and I’m only getting started. Accept the shirt as an apology for last night. I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening at 8. Wear the dress, but I make no promises about keeping it intact at the end of the night.’
I stare at the note. A cruel joke. Reading those words scrawled in his elegant handwriting, my pulse races. His attention to detail is unnerving. It’s not a coincidence he knew what dress to buy. Conflicting feelings gurgle up. I weigh the risk of uncovering what this thing is between us.
I have a decision to make. Until this moment I haven’t wanted to change. I feared it. I thought I was okay going on with my life the way it was. Evan has awakened parts of me I thought no longer existed. Emotions and reactions the Sculptor took without asking. When I woke up from my nightmare with him, I thought those parts of me were long gone. Killed, even though my dark heart still chugged and my tortured lungs continued to pump.
Harper
No matter how hard I try to focus on work, nothing helps. Not even my favorite music lulls me into a creative state. My gaze keeps flickering out to the balcony and replaying last night’s events. The taste of caramel lingers in my regular nonfat latte. The feel of Evan’s lips warm me all over. The grip of his hands as they molded around my body and kneaded into my anxious muscles.
I can’t stand here and paint when all I can think about is sensual touches, heated promises, and embarrassing overreactions.
I look out the double doors and need the rain to cool me down. I slip on my running shoes and work at pounding the pavement, weaving through my usual route, forcing my heart to work overtime through healthy exhaustion, instead of memories of how Evan felt pressed up against me in delicious temptation.
Once exhausted, I start wandering through the Quarter. I’m not ready to go back home, yet.
I find myself seated on an empty iron bench in Jackson Square. The weather keeps foot traffic to a minimum. I like it best like this. The near empty space is usually crowded with tourists and vendors, street performers and tarot card readers.
Water reflects slick on the slate stones and cools my overheated skin. A lone saxophonist plays his mournful blues, leaning against a building, sheltered from the lazy rainfall.
One second I’m calm and thinking about my upcoming paintings and then the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
The many bums that litter the Square no longer frighten me. Their presence is not what sends alarm bells ringing in my ears and churning in my gut.
I scan the Place d’Armes, but I don’t notice anyone watching me. I stand up from the bench and move to run the short trip back home.
My heart races for no apparent reason. I’m too busy focusing around me that I don’t see the woman I bump in to.
“Oh my, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” words fly out of my mouth as I try to steady her from falling.
She lifts sunglasses off her face and stares at me with blind orbs of solid shining white in eerie contrast to her midnight skin.
“And I don’t see at all, but somehow I see you,” she says. Her voice steady and confident. The tone only acquired over time and it’s at odds with her wild, unkempt appearance.
“What do you mean you see me?” I ask flustered.
I look down and notice the bags in her hands. A fortune teller’s set up to lure in tourists, but on a day like this her efforts are wasted. She might not see the grey sky, but the same cool rain sprinkles across our shoulders and soaks through our clothes. The cold wind coming off the river blows our hair around with its force.
“A wolf in sheep’s clothes will howl at your door and scratch until he gets in. But my darling by all means don’t open that door. Don’t let him sink his claws in you,” she says.
I start shaking as the chill from the rain soaks deeper into my skin. My rapid heart feels like it might break and I remind myself it’s already torn. I’ve been running from that fucking wolf for years and his scratches dug too deep. I shake off her words, because that’s how these gypsies win you over.
“I’m sorry I ran into you, do you need help getting somewhere?” I ask, not sure why.
“You’re the one who needs help, Casey,” blind eyes devoid of color bore through me and with her haunting words, I take off in a dead sprint.
She knew my name, she knew my name, pounds in tune with my pumping, burning legs. I look over my shoulder as I round corners. Those eyes stay on me and lick across my awareness the short minutes it takes me to run back home.
I haven’t heard my real name in years. In my practical mind, it must have been a lucky guess or pure coincidence. But the witch’s words struck a very tender cord.
I don’t mention it to Jamie when I return. He thinks nothing of my frantic fingers punching in the alarm code when I close and lock the front door.
Jamie asks if I’m okay and I brush it off as I explain I’m out of breath from my run. He tries to push the issue, but I excuse myself.
I catch sight of the purple arrangement Evan sent as an apology. I pick it up after I grab a protein bar and Rufus follows me up the stairs.
I hope I’m able to release my confusion and shake off the chilling effects and the ominous warning of my run in. Through eggplant tones, razor sharp thorns, and wide, unforgivable brush strokes.
Harper
After working well into the night, I allow myself to sleep in. A quick trip to the coffee shop and the day slips away from me.
I’m more nervous than I anticipated about seeing Evan again. Attempting to put on mascara as my hand shakes. I manage the task without black smudges where there shouldn’t be.
With a glass of wine, I pace back and forth in the kitchen, waiting for the clock to tick down to Evan’s arrival. I reach up between steps and nervously check to make sure my massive waves are still neat and tucked into the chignon at the back of my head. Then continue to swirl the almost clear liquid around and around. Too many thoughts spin out of control, mimicking the spinning poison circling my glass.
I turn and gasp when I see Evan standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He overpowers the room with his presence.
“Jamie let me in. I hope that’s okay?” Evan says.
“Of course.”
He saunters over and takes the glass from my hands, lifts it to his nose and inhales. A distasteful look crosses over his face as he pours the wine out and it splashes in the sink.
“I think we can do better than that,” he smirks.
My earlier thoughts and insecurities dissolve. His warm eyes are teasing.
“Then I think you should buy me wine t
hat’s up to your standards,” I suggest.
“I was planning on it. You look gorgeous, Harper.”
“Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
His arms capture me and hold me captive. He pulls back and his fingers tease the hem of my dress. Tugging to check the elasticity of the fabric. I push his hands away.
“The note made my intentions more than clear,” his tone is light, but his gaze darkens. “However, it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good dress,” he whispers the promise in my ear.
The question of how he knew I liked this dress hangs on the tip on my tongue and I forget it completely as his knuckles brush over the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, before he snaps out of his trance, and takes a step away from me. He pretends to be proper while his eyes travel down my legs and studies the boots I chose to wear with the dress. I like to pair overly feminine with rugged details.
“Are your shoes comfortable?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You okay with walking? Your street’s blocked off for a second line.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
A bride and groom are proud as they follow booming tunes from a marching brass band. Evan and I weave through the growing crowd of onlookers. White handkerchiefs twirl in outstretched hands from the cheerful wedding reception, which follows behind the newly married couple. I catch myself observing the jiving group of people, or more accurately, the happy couple. What I wouldn’t give to be capable of blissful freedom, to dance down a street hand in hand with someone I could spend the rest of my life with, while flash photography captures us. This is New Orleans’ way of shouting your union for everyone to hear and join in the celebration.
Evan stops and wraps his hand over mine and squeezes, pulling me from my nonsensical thoughts. I catch the hard look in his gaze and the tick in his jaw before it disappears. His smile never reaches his eyes.
We walk through the Quarter. Decorations have already started for the Mardi Gras season. Vibrant shades of gold, green, and purple grace wreaths, banners, and balconies.
It’s a short walk from my house to the Mexican restaurant across the street from the French Market.
“Is this okay with you?” he asks before we walk in.
“Better than okay in my opinion,” I say.
I’m relieved it’s casual and nothing like the restaurant we went to the other night. Forget about the wine he promised, this place serves top shelf margaritas that could make even the shittiest day one of the best.
The small restaurant is almost empty when Evan holds the door open for me. A ruddy cheeked man smiles and addresses him as Señor Hawthorne.
“Come, come. Patio is okay, yes?” the man asks.
“Are the heaters on?”
“Si. Si,” he answers, looking over his shoulder to make sure we follow him.
The small patio only has room for a few tables and they are all empty. Propane heaters are set up and glowing, warming the space. Iron chairs wobble on uneven brick pavers when we sit in them.
The mixture of the space heaters, the blush that won’t leave my cheeks, and the magical concoction of margaritas keep the cool night at bay. We playfully steal bites from each other’s plates. After devouring our favorite dishes, I remind myself this isn’t a normal date. Evan doesn’t want me for that, he’s already said as much. It’s easy to forget all of that as he becomes someone I can easily talk to.
“Why ask me out on another date Evan, when you were more than clear about your intentions?”
He takes a long drink from a glass of ice water, as if it’s going to be enough to help him collect his thoughts.
“After the way our date ended, I couldn’t handle it,” his eyes are sympathetic and he smooths over my massive breakdown by leaving it at that. “You and I were both left wanting,” he delivers with a sly grin, but even though he’s correct, he didn’t answer my question.
I sit back in my seat and bring the tantalizing tequila mixture with me. My troubled thoughts must show through my expression, because Evan stops me before I can gather myself to speak.
“We’re both seeking an escape from ourselves, our lives.”
He summed up the root of this better than I could.
“Am I wrong?” he asks, all humor gone.
“No, but I’m not sure how we could assist each other in that regard,” I state, pretending to be strong.
The second the word assist left my lips, his eyes changed. Instant heat courses through the short distance between us. I’m tempted to look away, but something about the way he watches me makes the thought vanish. He commands my undivided attention.
“I can think of endless ways we could ‘assist’ each other,” he smirks.
“Then my meltdown didn’t have the effect it should have.”
“You’re not the only one with secrets you would rather keep to yourself, Harper. And I’m always up for a challenge.”
The way my name falls off his tongue exhibits how false it really is. There is no way he could possibly know my real one. Regardless of how close he and Jamie are, Jamie wouldn’t betray me by revealing that information to him. He didn’t even tell Kate.
“What is it you want, Evan?”
“I’ve been fantasizing about you in a Saint’s jersey watching football in my suite at the Superdome.”
But that’s in the fall and a long way from now. It’s not even spring, yet.
“Seriously, Evan.”
I already know his answer, but I need him spell it out for me. His smile sends a chill down my spine.
“I want you anyway I can have you,” he confesses.
The words I was prepared to speak vanish. I stare across the table at him and school my features. I won’t show the last thread of my self-control because I want to fall for his silver tongue and buy whatever he tells me.
“What if it’s too much for me? What if I have another moment like I did the other night?”
I ask because I can only imagine what it would be like to be consumed by the intense fire that is this man. I squirm a little as he weighs his answer.
“All you have to say is stop and I’ll stop. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s actually rather simple. I want you and as much as you want to fight it, you want me too,” his words fade into a whisper as he leans in and his lips claim mine.
The salty citrus of his drink mixes with the spicy heat from mine as our tongues meet. Discovery becomes necessity as I drink him in and savor the feeling of being in his arms. His lips rule and mine willingly comply.
When he pulls back, it’s too soon, because I was just getting started, and I haven’t had nearly enough time tasting him. He pulls back before the door to the patio pushes open and our waiter brings the check.
Evan and I leave hand in hand, just like we arrived. But now I gave him permission. I said yes.
I’m thankful we had to walk instead of drive to the restaurant. It gives me more time to consider what was exchanged at dinner. The breeze cools my warm face.
A large tour group blocks the side of the street we’re on. I move off the curb to walk around them, but Evan tugs on my hand to stay by his side.
“What are we doing?” I whisper as the tour guide tells a haunting tale of the building the group stares up at. No one notices us watching them.
“I find it amusing how the stories and histories change every time I hear them,” he whispers.
The building is dark and has been empty forever. Strict protection goes with the preservation of the historical buildings. I’ve noticed what Evan refers to, but I’m sure growing up here you get sick of people distorting and stretching the truth. The tour guide’s top hat and cane only make him seem more charlatan than historian. He rambles on in a deep voice of the resident ghost and the many stories that he swears are true. He even reels his audience in with pictures.
Evan pulls me into the circle of his arms as he leans in and says, “Do you believe in the things that haunt the night, like this man he
re?”
I want to say yes. I want to spill my twisted true story. But I bite my tongue and shake my head.
“Yes, but my beliefs are based on fact and ghosts that do more than just scare you,” I stop myself before I say too much.
Evan’s grip is tight and I’m pulled into him even closer. The look in his eyes give away something I can’t detect, but it feels as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
We all have secrets.
We pull away from the tour group. His arm stays tight around me. His palm possessive on my lower back and steadies my uneasy steps.
It’s only a few minutes before we walk back through the courtyard to my front door. His shadow engulfs me as I move in front of him to unlock the door. He blocks the faint light I need to see the key hole. I turn around to tease him to get out of the way so I can see what I’m doing. He stares down at me as prey and he the predator. He takes a step toward me and on instinct I step back, the door blocks my retreat.
Evan crowds me in the doorway, taking all the oxygen in it. He feeds it back to me when his lips claim mine. Both of his hands press on either side of my head, caging me in. My grip moves to his chest and I struggle between pushing him away and pulling him tighter against me. His hands cradle my head and his thumbs trace the sensitive skin on my neck and trail lower, across my collarbone and down toward my cleavage, as his lips move and manipulate mine. The high neckline of the dress comes under his fingertips and it’s even more sensual with the fabric separating us than skin on skin. I want to rip it off, rip it away from our contact, because I suddenly need it.
His fingers trail down lower, down the center of my body. My stomach quivers as his touch skims over embroidered silk and drops when it brushes over ugly reminders. He does it intentionally.
“Stop,” I mutter.
It’s a curse word as it escapes my mouth. I hate that I want something so badly and I have to stop before it drives me insane.
Evan stops the instant it leaves my lips. He didn’t even get an article of clothing off and I’m already dosing him in ice water with my weak refusal.