The Chartreuse Door

by Lisa Gray

  With no table in the hallway, Keir set the cooler and the welcome packet on a crate near the door. A framed photo lay at the base of the crate, an inviting image smiling up at him. Keir released a heavy sigh. What a beautiful young man—just the type who’d be the new guy’s boyfriend. Any budding fantasies of finding a potential lover withered. No surprise there. But maybe friendship was still possible.

  Keir took two steps farther and stopped when his foot connected with another frame, this one lying face down. Unable to resist, he picked up the photo. A second beautiful young man. Keir studied the portrait. The looks were nearly identical to the first one, but it wasn’t the same person. So, his new neighbor had a type. One that Keir, with his skinny body and blotched face, would never satisfy.

  With eyes now adjusted to the gloom, he saw a whole collection of photos strewn in a jumble across the hall. Just how many boyfriends did this guy have? And how could anyone be so cavalier about dumping their pictures on the floor? Keir’s eyes followed the trail of seductive images to the bottom of the staircase.

  Sprawled on the bottom steps was the new neighbor.

  In an instant, the blood drained from Keir’s face. Cringing at how pathetic it was to get caught snooping before he’d even introduced himself, he lay the photo on the floor with care and struggled to dredge up an apology. But the words stalled in his throat. The man on the stairs was asleep. Thank God. A chance to avoid being judged a total idiot, at least not quite so soon.

  He paused to indulge in a few moments of watching the handsome man’s quiet, even breathing. The magnificent body was just as beautiful as it had appeared from across the street. But close up, the “god” looked a lot more human with deep lines of exhaustion marring his face.

  An urge to soothe those lines seized Keir. If nothing else, the chicken tandoori offering should be welcome. Anyone too tired to even close his front door should appreciate a hot, home-cooked meal.

  He cleared his throat, hoping to catch the man’s attention without startling him.

  It worked. Those eyes—oh, yes, a brilliant shade of blue even the shadows couldn’t diminish—opened and struggled to focus.

  With as friendly a smile as he could manage, Keir took a step forward and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m here to talk to you about—”

  “It’s about damned time you got here,” the man growled.

  Reacting on instinct to that gruff voice, Keir jerked back his hand and froze. Had the man expected to be welcomed the moment the moving van left? “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Sorry? Damned straight you’re sorry! Did you bring the paperwork?”

  How did the guy know about that? Wondering if he’d be allowed to complete a sentence on his third try, Keir gestured to the welcome packet on the crate. “Everything you need is over there.”

  “Good. Now take this piece of shit and get out.”

  Keir leaped backward as the seated man shoved a hand truck clattering across the floor, coming close to hitting him. Was the guy attacking? He bit his lower lip as he tried to decide what to do. Okay, the crazy person wanted him to take the hand truck. And do what with it? That question almost escaped Keir’s lips, but the hard look in the eyes of the scary new neighbor didn’t invite discussion. Fearful of re-igniting that temper in such an intimidating man, Keir chose discretion over valor.

  Keeping watchful eyes on the irate man, Keir grasped the hand truck by its handle, backed up until he reached the door, and without another word, made his escape. After he leaned the hand truck against the hedge next to the steps, he hurried across the street. Brusque? That’s what Mrs. Prendergast had called this guy? How about irrational? Unpredictable? Or maybe just plain nuts?

  If that woman ever asked him to do the welcome wagon thing again, he vowed he’d be permanently unavailable.

  His shoulders tensed as he fumbled with the doorknob and hurried to let himself into his condo. Feeling foolish for giving in to his paranoia, he nonetheless slammed the door shut, engaged the lock, and shot home the bolt. The danger warnings in his head calmed as he patted the locks and reassured himself he was secure.

  Leaning against the door, he reviewed what had just happened. That guy was a loon! The poster child for not judging a book by its way-too-attractive cover. All of Keir’s giddy fantasies melted away, leaving him scolding himself for his foolishness.

  Well, at least the assignment for the property owners’ board had been fulfilled. He’d survived it. So, time to move on.

  A glance at the clock revealed it was a little early for lunch. He groaned. No more excuses to put off reading the student journals and commenting on them. Maybe he’d slog through half of them, then reward himself with the other helping of tandoori chicken he’d labored over earlier.

  His thoughts took a quick detour back to his new neighbor. Would the jerk appreciate the free meal? Of course not. Living in the world of beautiful and privileged people, the man probably thought he deserved to be catered to.

  Keir went to the kitchen to pour a glass of iced tea, then settled at the dining room table with the stack of journals. An hour later, he was squirming with boredom. These were fourteen-year-olds writing their inner thoughts. They must have actual thoughts, right? And dreams? Shouldn’t there be an inkling of the mystery and excitement the future would offer?

  Apparently not.

  For the most part, the journals contained a dull litany of who said what on which social media site, which songs should be played, which movies should be avoided. Granted, it was just a writing exercise: three hundred words a day, no restrictions on content. But still, he’d hoped for a little creativity, a depth of thought, or maybe even a peek into their souls. Those boys, with the social and financial opportunities they’d been born into, would no doubt grow into powerful men in society.

  He picked up the next journal and looked at the name: Ethan Bradford. A quiet kid, but from what Keir had gleaned in class, a smart and thoughtful one. His brow furrowed as he remembered the odd reluctance Ethan had shown when parting with the journal. Keir had almost had to yank it from the boy’s hands. There must be something significant in it.

  After a few blessedly brief pages discussing lunch menus, dentist appointments, and homework reminders, Ethan had finally begun to write about the upcoming spring break. Something big was expected during the school vacation, and Ethan was worried. No, not worried—scared. Despite the boy’s words making light of his fears, the sentences got more and more convoluted, and the imprint of the pen dug deeper into the paper.

  Keir turned to the final page and struggled to decipher the cramped writing until he found the words that chilled him.

  Conversion therapy.

  Memories, in all their sensory glory, flooded his mind. All the fear and hatred he’d thought was long extinguished flared to detailed brilliance. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his fingers went cold. This was the closest he’d come to a panic attack in years. With a trembling hand, he reached for his glass and drained it as he admonished himself to calm down. Nothing but a memory. Not real. Not now.

  After a few minutes of controlled breathing, he reread the last journal entry. Ethan had come out to his parents. They’d reacted by enrolling him in a church conversion therapy program to “pray the gay” out of him over spring break.

  Someone needed to do something.

  Someone needed to stop this.

  Chapter 4

  Riley sputtered awake as water filled his nostrils. Coughing and choking, he pushed himself up in the tub of butt-numbing cold water. He’d fallen asleep again, damn it. He released the drain plug and waited for the tub to empty. Then with the help of his cane, he levered himself to one side and snagged his T-shirt off the floor. Using it as a towel, he dried off and tried to rub some warmth into his icy limbs.

  Next issue was food. Just at the thought, his stomach bellowed a reminder he hadn’t eaten all day. Didn’t matter—there wasn’t any food in the house. He’d have to find a place that delivered. He looke
d at his phone lying next to the tub. Shit. It was after one in the morning. Too late for take-out and maybe even too late to order a cab. He’d either have to find strength to walk on his injured leg to the nearest all-night grocery store or go hungry until morning. The angry pain shooting into his thigh as he stood suggested he’d be going with Plan B.

  At least the long soak had helped ease some of the ache. After a few more hours of sleep, in a bed, not the tub, he’d be ready to face unpacking and convincing himself this mausoleum was his new home.

  Having no clue which packing box contained his limited wardrobe, he worked his way down the stairs, naked and shivering, to find where to turn on the heat. He was ashamed to admit, but the last few years spent in desert countries had turned him into a wimp when it came to the cold. This nasty spring weather was kicking his ass.

  At the bottom of the steps, he flicked on the light and shoved his bare feet into the boots he’d left there. Sweeping up the broken glass would be high on his to-do list for the morning.

  He located the thermostat and slid the lever to the furnace ON position.

  Nothing.

  He pried open the thermostat cover. Batteries. Dead, leaking batteries. Wonderful.

  Hanging his head in defeat, he noticed the crate where the moving company paperwork had been left. With nothing else to occupy him, he might as well read over the claim form. Reaching for the folder, he realized it was sitting on top of a cooler.

  What the hell?

  A sense of foreboding had his neck prickling. He looked closer and saw the cover of the folder was embossed in elegant, flowing script. No way would Mean Jake use something so feminine for his moving company. Reluctant to confirm what he suspected, he cautiously spun the folder around so he could read it: Welcome to Huntington Hills Condominium Association.

  Well, shit. Rolling his eyes, he remembered what a prick he’d been to that apparently innocent guy who’d appeared in his hallway. Barking orders in an effort to maintain the upper hand, Riley hadn’t even let the man finish a sentence. No way to treat someone who’d come to welcome him.

  In spite of his embarrassment, a thread of relief wove through his thoughts. Believing he’d been talking to Mean Jake, Riley had clamped down on his instinctive interest in the man. Now, Riley was free to consider just how intriguing the guy had looked. The exotic mix of Asian and European features had started Riley drooling. True, the absurdly thick glasses were off-putting at first glance, but they made those soft, dark eyes appear huge. And that birthmark—an elegant filigree caressing the pale, porcelain cheek. Ordinary port-wine stains looked like the unfortunate person had been slapped with a dirty rag. Not this one. This one was intricate, like a tribal tattoo. Altogether fascinating.

  His stomach interrupted his thoughts by roaring out a demand he check that cooler for food.

  Ah, brilliant. He tucked the folder under his arm and, with cane in one hand and cooler in the other, headed for the living room. Praying it didn’t work on batteries, too, he flicked the switch on the gas fireplace and was rewarded with a comforting whoosh as the flame lit. Now that was luxury—no hunkering over a pile of dried dung in a stiff wind, trying to strike a flint. Maybe there were some perks to this new life after all.

  He settled into the huge recliner and raised the footstool. Mentally crossing his fingers, he unzipped the cooler.

  Oh, God! Tandoori chicken and saffron rice. Even cold, the aroma of ginger and garlic and char-grilled meat engulfed him. He dove into it. Moaning with delight, he scooped up the rice with his fingers, savoring each grain of the perfectly spiced dish. He finished minutes later with the dessert of escalloped Fuji apples rich with cloves and cinnamon. He sighed in satisfaction, belched, and relaxed in the chair. Best meal he’d had in years. Maybe ever. And it hadn’t come from any restaurant. It was home-cooked for sure. The new neighbor was a man Riley just had to get to know.

  Eager for a clue to the identity of the guy who’d prepared the fabulous dinner, Riley licked his fingers clean and made a quick perusal of the welcome packet. There were several brochures from local shops and a form letter signed by that overbearing Prendergast woman he’d met at the Realtor’s office. The only other item was a thick list of rules, regulations, and suggestions for getting along in the condo community, all of which he intended to ignore. Useless.

  Or maybe not. He took a closer look at the brochures and saw each of them had a comment on the front in neat, precise handwriting. The bakery brochure was marked “Excellent scones!” The organic food store was summed up with “The toffee is worth the price, but try Calvelli’s on 3rd or local farmer’s market on Weds for produce.” The flower shop merited a comment of “Nice people—ask for Irene.” And the French restaurant received a short review of “Snooty, but delicious; wear a tie.” Riley compared the handwriting in the comments to Mrs. Prendergast’s ornate, spidery signature on the form letter. Not the same. Must have been the new neighbor writing his opinions of the local wares for Riley’s benefit.

  So who was this guy? Riley lay back and reviewed what he knew about the man. A sweet tooth, at least for toffee. Someone who valued good food, either from a restaurant or his own kitchen. Someone who didn’t waste money and who appreciated courteous service. Thinking about the morning’s incident, he realized he hadn’t heard or seen a vehicle. Good—the man must live close by. All Riley had to do was keep watch and, sooner or later, he’d find the guy, learn his name and where he lived.

  The need to explain the misunderstanding, as well as to thank him for the life-saving dinner, would serve as the perfect excuse to make contact. He’d start on that project tomorrow, first thing. But for the moment, the room was toasty from the fireplace, his belly was full, and his body demanded sleep. He drifted off, smiling as he imagined his second meeting with the provocative stranger.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Riley was up early unpacking, while keeping an eye out the window for the mystery man. About 8:30, he spotted his quarry coming out of the condo right across the street. How convenient! The face was turned away from him, but it was the guy. Same slender build, same rich black hair that glinted almost blue in the sun, only now he was dressed in a conservative suit and tie and carried a briefcase. So, the man must have a job in an office of some kind. And he either worked within walking distance or used public transportation. Riley had a momentary twinge of guilt about the mental dossier he was compiling. After all, the man was a potential friend or lover, not a target of an exposé. He shrugged—had to start somewhere, didn’t he?

  After a dull day of tidying the condo, organizing what few possessions he owned, and making a trip to the grocery store—Calvelli’s on 3rd—by cab, Riley settled in his spare bedroom, which offered a good view of the condo across the street. An empty crate stationed beneath the window served just fine as a chair. He opened a beer and sat ready with his camera. Around five o’clock he was rewarded with a sighting of the neighbor walking along the street.

  The man’s head was lowered, and his whole body language said “depressed and disheartened.” Well, maybe finding out his new neighbor wasn’t a total asshole would help lift the guy’s mood. Riley snapped a few photos, but got no good facial views.

  Waiting until the man had entered the condo, Riley negotiated the stairs with care, having given in to his masculine ego’s advice to leave his cane at home for this all-important second meeting. He considered returning the man’s cooler to him, but decided not to bring it. If the conversation went well, the cooler would be a flimsy but adequate excuse to invite the guy over for a take-out dinner. It could work.

  Filled with confidence, Riley headed out his boring gray front door. He frowned as he scanned the street, realizing all the doors were boring gray, and all the condos looked exactly the same. How had he missed that before?

  He dismissed the thought and walked across the street. After knocking, he waited, mentally shuffling through the various openings he’d practiced during the day. He’d be polished, fri
endly, and apologetic. In short, he’d be irresistible.

  Riley had never had any problems attracting men—he always made a good first impression. Well, at least he had before his leg got fucked up. With a sudden flash of insecurity, Riley realized this was the test to see if his physical condition would affect how a man reacted to him. In particular, one who already had a horrible opinion of him. Uh-oh. This could be bad.

  He heard the lock turning and let a smile flood his face, prepared to charm the guy with his smooth, engaging speech.

  The door opened, and the intriguing man’s eyes widened behind those glasses as he recognized Riley.

  Riley stared at the ugly goo smeared from forehead to chin and let fly the first words that entered his head. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  Oh, shit. He’d hadn’t really said that, had he?

  The resounding slam supplied the answer. In fact, the door seemed to be vibrating with the outrage of the man behind it. Riley considered knocking a second time, but unless the guy was a saint or a masochist, no way was that door going to open again.

  After a few moments of jaw-dropping disbelief at how he’d screwed up, Riley slunk away, trying and failing to make excuses for his behavior. How could he have known the man would show up wearing that bizarre—whatever it was—bronzer, maybe? Riley had been taken off guard. He’d been overeager to study the complex birthmark up close. Seeing that crap smeared over the beautiful skin had been a shock. Yeah, that’s what did it: shock.

  Or more likely, he’d just lost his damned mind.

  After dragging himself back to his condo, Riley collapsed in his recliner. Well, that pretty much put paid to the idea of furthering his acquaintance with his neighbor. Damn it. The whole idea of making a conquest had lifted his spirits a bit and given him a goal. Now he’d fucked everything up.

  His phone rang, and the caller ID read “M. Prendergast.” Damn. He was so not in the mood to deal with that woman. He was about to hit IGNORE when a thought struck him. If there was some problem with the sale, maybe he could get out of it and go live somewhere else where he hadn’t yet made a total fool of himself.