The Odd Ballerz
Page 22
#
“Good work today,” he said when she was done and gathering up the equipment, waiting until her gaze found his. “So, Jones, I’m going to take you up on your offer to help me. If you’re still offering,” he said, clearing his throat, as Memphis had folded her arms under her chest, causing it to lift just so. It was a distraction on a good day, and what he wouldn’t do to get his hands on those perfect grapefruit-shaped breasts of hers. He could fall into the space between them and never find his way out. Okay, what was he doing now? He wondered, moving his gaze up to her face. If she noticed anything odd about his staring, she didn’t let on.
“So, I’m opening up a shop, a store front, grand opening scheduled for July twenty-ninth, to coincide with the town’s local art festival. It’s a place I own up in Bastrop. Purchased it not that long after I bought my home. It was too big of a space for me, so I’ve split it down at the middle. I’m renting half of it to a friend, and the other half will be a place for me to sell my work.”
“Oh,” she said, not sure where this was going. “What do you want me to do exactly?”
“Plan the opening for me.”
“Opening to what?”
“My shop.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I didn’t mean something so… when I offered, I meant more organizing at your home, or something like it. This?”
“Is too much for you to handle?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what?” he asked, smiling his barely-there smile.
“Nothing. Are you sure you want me?”
“I am. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Are you sure?”
“If you are,” she said, eyeing him skeptically while she pulled out her phone, tapping on the key that brought up her calendar. “I know, phones have no place during training, so don’t give me grief about it. Plus we’re done here anyway,” she said pointing to the ladders. “That gives us about six weeks or so,” she said, looking at her dates and back to the subject of his opening.
“Yes,” he said, watching her, pleased by the word us for some reason.
“Where is your shop exactly?”
“Downtown Bastrop, in the old historic part of it. I thought we could drive up and see it tomorrow afternoon, after I’ve finished with class and you with my office, unless you have something else to do.”
“Nope, after class I can do.”
“See you in the morning then?” he said, before he turned away, headed to his home.
“Yep,” she said to his retreating back. She collected the ladders and on rubbery legs walked to the utility building to put them away. It was home to her tub and then to bed, and space to give her images of him in the nude that one time free rein, and him staring at her chest earlier, and what was that about? What was this? Wasn’t it kind of a big deal to let someone plan your opening? Maybe she meant more to him than she thought, and just like that, her crush came roaring back to life.
#
Saturday morning
Eight fifteen the following morning, Memphis pulled up to Z’s gate. It was locked again. She was earlier than usual; that could be one explanation for its locked status, or he was with Meredith. Whatever, it was none of her business. She only wanted to finish up, more so now that he’d given her a new assignment.
She had a few containers to haul in—she had purchased more to pack up the rest of what she’d designated for storage—and it was a shorter walk to haul them in from the back door. Almost done; all that was left was attacking those three-year-old unopened boxes, which she hoped would be a quick look, see, and toss. She pulled out her phone, where she’d placed the combination into her notes, and went to unlock the gate.
She parked outside the back door, in between his truck and Meredith’s, and used the same combination to access the key to the back door. She stepped inside minutes later, listening for sounds that would indicate someone was awake. She could smell the scent of coffee, but otherwise it was quiet.
She closed the door behind her and headed to the office, the soles of her tennis-clad feet, keeping her trek inside silent. She entered his office and turned on the lights before she made her way over to his desk, now clean of anything paper, as was most of his office. She’d had done a good job, she thought, patting herself on the back.
“What the hell,” she said aloud, jumping at the sound of someone’s scream. Okay, it wasn’t that kind of scream, not like running across a zombie or something. No, this was a different type of scream, more of a high-pitched moan.
She’d moved closer to the wall, to what she thought was the likely source: Z’s bedroom or his bath; both were located on the other side of this wall. She placed her ear to it and listened. She could make out faint sounds of a female, and was she moaning? She heard laughter next, followed the low rumble of a male’s voice, and then it stopped, replaced by a long, loud, and heartfelt moan.
She stood leaning against the wall, listening as the moans increased in number and in volume, followed by more rumblings of Z’s voice again. Who else could it be? She couldn’t make out words. More moans, short staccato ones, all female, apparently reaching a peak; a crescendo of sound was what it was, breaking, and then silence. She should go. She would go, she thought, no way did she want to be found in his office with her ear pressed against the wall listening as he made love to someone other than her, but where to go? Outside. She had those storage containers to bring and now was the perfect time to do so.
She reached for her purse, found her phone and her earbuds, and plugged them in, found a playlist and turned up the volume, drowning out anything but her music. She laughed at herself, mixed in with wondering what the hell kind of trick had he used to pull that response from a woman, followed by where could she find one like him for herself, as he was so clearly occupied. It had been too long, she thought, as she opened his back door. Yes, she could stand a little bit of whatever that was, relegating her crush back into the closet.
#
Memphis pulled out of her parking space behind Z’s home later on that afternoon. His class was over and she was done for the morning too. She’d gotten into her first set of moving boxes. One more weekend and she would be finished. There had been no invitation to lunch today from Z, just a shower and then he was standing by the door asking if she were ready to leave for Bastrop. They were headed there now to see his storefront, the first step in planning the opening for it and him.
She waved one final time to Meredith, who was laid out by the pool, bare-backed and browning under the Texas sun. Tired, she guessed. Z must be a lot, she thought, watching his truck speed off down the highway in front of her. In a hurry he was. He drove one of those the hulking monster trucks, the kind that scared her a little when she encountered them at night, speeding up to her bumper, all in a hurry, loaded down with those big-assed bars in the front and an extended cab, seating for the whole family, with those side view mirrors that could see around all of that bigness.
His was white, and he drove it impatiently fast. She followed along behind much more slowly. She sold insurance and knew firsthand the outcome that came from impatiently fast. He would disappear out in front of her for a while, until it must have occurred to him that she was no longer trailing him, at which time he slowed down until she caught up, and it took a few times of this dance before he eventually got the message or gave up, whatever; but he slowed down, and she was able to keep up with him from then on.
Bastrop was a nice small town, not that far from Austin. Thirty minutes or more would take you from the south side of downtown, up Highway 71 east, down past the new airport. The old Bergstrom air force base had been turned into the city’s main airport and it was so much better than when it was actually located in the heart of the city, ’cause depending on where you lived, you couldn’t hear yourself think as the airplanes flew overhead.
Bastrop was known for its agribusiness ties, farm and ranching supplies, and of co
urse oil and gas. It wouldn’t be Texas without the oil and gas, and now shale, the new oil and gas. Quaint, she thought, of the town, turning on to Highway 21, noticing the old bridge that ran alongside the highway, used for walking—or perhaps strolling would be a more apt word choice for what people did—enjoying the sights of the Colorado River.
She drove past the two cool buildings sitting on the banks, with their kayaks ready for rental by those that wanted an up-close and personal meeting with the river. She’d been here before but not often. Her dealings had been west of here, between Bastrop and the smaller town of Elgin, which were where most of the wildfires had occurred.
She made the turn onto Main Street, driving behind him still, and into the historic part of the city. Brick, red and worn, adorned the façades of most of the buildings that belonged to this area, with its no parking allowed on the streets signs.
It was another five minutes of looking for parking before eventually finding a lot nearby.
“You’re a slow driver,” he said, standing beside her car, waiting for her to get out.
“I’m a cautious driver,” she said.
They made their way across the street and one block over, quiet between them, before they arrived at what must be his shop. It was wedged in between a bank to the left and a coffee shop to the right.
“This is your place?” she asked.
“Yep, my half. The coffee shop is my friend’s half,” he said, holding the door open for her. BEANS AND THINGS read the sign, painted in red, that hung above the door and was the name for this rectangular-shaped, one-story room, with tall ceilings, large front windows, and a wooden bench out front. Comfy and folksy, Memphis thought of the building’s external façade, so like the rest of the buildings on the block.
Cement for the floor, red brick for the walls, worn in places in both cement and walls was the inside, which looked a lot like the outside, she thought. There were tables, square-shaped, with chairs around them, mostly empty. “Coffee bar and small kitchen are located at the rear,” he whispered into her ear. His voice this close to her did so many wonderful things to her insides.
A tall woman stood behind the counter watching them, or it was more like she was watching Z She had done a quick cursory scan of Memphis before moving back over to Z. She was pretty and slim, his type she concluded, an exact duplicate of Meredith.
“You must be Jones,” the young woman said, walking over to meet them.
“I am, although it’s Memphis Jones. My friends call me Memphis,” she said.
“Good to know. I’m Marisa,” she said before turning her gaze to Z. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“Thanks for offering to help me and Z. Lord knows I don’t have time to organize a party,” she said, her gaze returning to Memphis as she wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist.
“No problem,” Memphis said, darting her eyes to Z. So she would be working with Marisa and not on her own, as she’d thought, or as he’d allowed her think. Not that it would change anything. She would still help him.
“Marisa’s a very busy woman, so we both appreciate the help,” he said, as if reading her mind. His face was blank, of course. “She organized something similar for her shop when she opened here, and knows most of the folk in this town. I asked her to help me, and now you’re here, volunteering to help her,” Z said.
“Right,” Memphis said.
“So, do you have time now to talk? It’s good for me. After you see Z’s place, of course,” Marisa said.
“Today is good,” Memphis said.
“Good. I’ll let you finish your tour then. The future home of Sloan Glassworks,” she said, her gaze tied up with Z’s again.
#
They were standing outside of his place a few minutes later, and she was watching him unlock the front door.
“It’s identical to Marisa’s place,” he said. He turned on the lights and remained standing near the front door, watching the back of Memphis as she looked around.
“Except yours is empty,” she said, scanning the room, taking in the same red brick walls and cement flooring as next door.
“Shelves will go here. The counter, checkout area are in the back, along with the restrooms,” Z said, moving toward her then in full-out tour guide mode, pointing as he talked. There was a small room to the left of the main room, a little past the counter. “This will be a small office, with shelves along the back wall to hold a small amount of inventory,” he said.
“Nice,” she said, standing beside him at the back of his shop, looking around the space. “Why the shop?”
“A number of reasons. I needed a place to sell my work, one where I retained most of the control, and I wanted to be a part of a larger community. I grew up with that. A small commune was what it was, but one of the things I liked about it was a sense that we were available to help each other,” he said, surprised that he’d shared that part about his childhood. He almost never did. “There are local art tours that I’d like to participate in, and here is a much better place than my home to accommodate those,” he said.
“So you want me to work with Marisa, to plan an opening for you? I don’t know why I thought I’d be going it alone, but it makes sense, given that I don’t really know you or what you like, and you don’t really know me. It’s a lot to put into the hands of a stranger.”
“You can ask me whatever you need to know, and Marisa really does need the help.”
They spent another five minutes inside, and then the tour was over. He was in his truck going wherever, and she went back over to discuss details with Marisa.
FOURTEEN
Memphis entered Beans and Things again and found Marisa sliding a towel over the counter.
“You’re back?” she said, smiling.
“I am.”
“Let me grab my tablet from the back and then I’ll join you. Sit wherever you want,” she said over her shoulder, smiling as she walked away.
“Sure,” Memphis said, looking around the space, deciding on a table close to the counter. Interesting she thought of the framed pictures on the wall of Bastrop through the ages.
“You want anything to drink?” Marisa asked, standing beside the table.
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“So,” Marisa said, pulling out the chair beside her. “So,” she said again, smiling, “Z, huh?”
“Z,” Memphis said.
“You’re here to help me help him. He wants to organize a party, and not just any party, his grand opening. You have experience at this?”
“I’ve hosted something similar. I manage an insurance agency. I’m an insurance agent,” Memphis said.
“I see,” Marisa said, hitting the button to bring her tablet to life and leaving Memphis with no clue as to what that meant.
“Well, Jones, here is my card, with my business vitals on it. Here is the list I put together of things that need to get done, a few suggestions for companies that could work for us, and the target dates we need to hit so that Z’s opening goes off without a hitch. Give me your email address,” Marisa asked, and typed it in as Memphis recited it. “Isn’t that what Z calls you?”
“What, Jones?” Memphis asked, pulling out her business card and sliding it across the table to Marisa.
“Yes… Thanks,” she said, pulling it closer, her eyes moving between it and her tablet. “Do you know why he calls you that?”
“It’s a coaching thing, I think, and since he’s the coach, and I’m the trainee, I guess it’s appropriate. He calls everyone by their last name; or he did in camp.”
“Sure, makes sense,” Marisa said. Memphis smiled. No idea what to do with that answer either. “He and I watch out for each other, you know. One can never be too sure with people and their motives. We’ve both learned the hard way to be cautious,” she said.
“I’m only here to help so you can be sure of mine. It’s payback for training. There’s no other motivation besides that,” Memphis said.
“Right, so I’m to find invitations, and locate a caterer and music, is that correct?” Memphis said, reading from the email she’d received from Marisa, hoping to steer the conversation back to business.
“Yes, the E-vites have been sent to those customers and friends with email addresses. But Z knows his share of people who live off the grid so he’ll have to give you that information and you can make sure those get mailed. These are the invites for them, once you get those addresses from him,” she said, sliding a stack of envelopes toward her. “All you need to add are addresses and these are ready to mail.”
“Okay, thanks,” Memphis said.
“So that’s everything for now. You can email me progress updates or call if you hit a snag. Make the target dates and you won’t have a problem with either of us,” she said, smiling that bouncy, perky smile again.
“What kind of music and food does Z like?”
“Ask him.”
“I thought that was the point of working with you.”
“That’s part of the reason. But not all of it.”
“Right,” Memphis said, and smiled. Not going to ask what that comment meant either.
“I’m busy, so you’re helping me, and indirectly helping him. I have my own studio and work in between it and this place, so I don’t have much time either. So thanks in advance for your help.”
“You might want to wait to see how it turns out before you thank me.”