Ash to Steele

by Stewart, Karen-Anne

  Jess has dismissed last night as some major hormonal time of the month ordeal and waves it off without talking about it while she pours me a drink. She’s getting the beers ready to take to the grunge band that’s playing tonight when a couple of guys start shoving and yelling at the bar. Jess jerks her head towards Jason, who slides over the counter and steps in between the two just in time to catch a fist full of knuckles.

  “Shit!” Jess leaves the tray on the bar and tries to demand the men to knock it off, but a beer bottle is thrown, smashing a few inches away from me at the bar, the dark liquid and glass splashing me.

  The fight quickly spreads into an affray of arms, fists, and bodies being thrust left and right. Jess heads towards the door to get Gavin from outside. I’ve seen a couple of fights between some of Justin’s jock friends who had too much to drink at parties back home, but this is insane. The crowded space in front of the bar has turned into a wrestling and boxing match, and I scoot back to avoid more shattered glass when I slam into a sharp elbow sending me stumbling forward. Panic ensues as I hit the ground and am knocked back and forth, keeping me from scrambling to my feet. A pair of large, strong hands wrap around my waist, sweeping me off the ground and landing me on top of the counter.

  “Get behind the bar and stay there,” Breck demands gruffly, directly before grabbing the tattooed fist of a shaved headed man whose intent was to send his fist into the crew cut military looking Goliath.

  Breck twists the man’s arm behind his back, slamming his face against the bar. No gratitude is bestowed by Goliath as he throws a punch at Breck, who ducks, landing his elbow against the man’s ribs, then administering a sharp jab and an upward thrust of his forearm into Goliath’s nose. Blood streams as he falls backwards. The scene in front of me passes in a minute but it seems like it’s playing in slow motion as I watch Breck single handedly defusing a large part of the melee, dodging fists and elbows as he lands perfectly precise blows too many times for me to keep count.

  I’m in a state of stunned awe, horrified, mesmerized, and more than a little ashamed at how I’m completely turned on watching Breck’s toned body twist and turn, his shirt pressing tight against the outline of his chiseled muscles when he takes down man after man. Gavin reaches the bar and flashes an exuberant grin as he joins in the brawl. The difference between the two is staggering. Gavin seems to be thoroughly enjoying the violent chaos, while Breck’s eyes are hard and calculated as he seems to find no amusement in the serious damage he’s causing.

  Jess climbs over the top of the bar with me and grabs my arm, pulling me flush with her to the opposite counter. Her eyes bounce between Jason, Gavin, and Breck, not fazed in the least. She grabs a pitcher of water and throws the whole thing at a long-haired, pierced broad shouldered man who is gaining the upper hand on Jason. A few more faces are bloodied before the fight is contained.

  Breck’s chest rises and falls from his exertion. His brow has a sheen of sweat and the veins on his neck are pulsating. I watch how eerily calm he is as he glances around the room, his fists still tightly coiled and ready to strike.

  Jess hauls herself on the bar, pushing to her feet, “If you are still in one piece, then count yourself as one lucky sonofabitch and have a beer on the house, but if you’re one of the bleeding assholes, get the hell out of my bar and don’t even think about dragging your ass back until you sleep it off, or you won’t be able to walk out of here next time.”

  Gavin slaps the back of Breck’s shoulder, absolutely beaming, “Oh hell, yeah. Now, that’s what I call a good night.”

  Seemingly satisfied that all the potential threats have been neutralized, Breck’s gaze lands on mine, and I’m amazed that he went through all of what I just had a front row seat to untouched. I check out the small cut above Gavin’s eye, just shy of his temple, before cringing when I see Jason. His eye and nose are busted and bleeding. Breck shows no signs of what happened, other than looking as if he finished a heavy workout.

  Jess grabs Jason’s chin, inspecting his bloodied face before pushing her thumb against the side of his nose.

  “Damn, Jess, cut it out,” he snaps, knocking her hand away.

  She laughs, “Not broken this time.”

  Jason must see the residual shock registered on my face because he clicks his chin up when he looks at me, “You alright, Em?”

  Jess slides back over the bar top, plopping down in front of me and wrapping my arm in hers, grinning, “This is her first party; she’ll be just fine, won’t you?”

  Shaking it off, I scan the crowd that is now back to normal, drinking and talking like what just happened is a perfectly normal occurrence. “This happen a lot? Broken noses, bloody floors, and all that?”

  Breck’s gaze turns hard again as he barks, “Oh, that’s right. You’re of the philosophy of turning the other cheek.”

  Indignation rises, tinting my cheeks at his scoffing tone, “No. I – um- I mean-” not sure what I’m trying to say, I shut up, trying to match his admonishing stare but it comes out more like a twisted awed curiosity, “how did you do that?”

  Gavin’s hand soundly slaps Breck’s back again, “Our boy here can kick some serious ass, go all the way to the pros, if he’d just embrace what he’s got.”

  Breck shrugs Gavin’s hand away as Jess’ glare to shut up seems to mute Gavin. With one quick glimpse, Breck inspects me, “Were you hurt?” The words are gruff but there’s the tiniest flash of concern in his eyes.

  “No – sorry,” I state hurriedly, realizing that I didn’t thank him for getting me out of the stampede before I did get hurt, “thank you for moving me.”

  That strong, lightly specked jaw is still wound tight when he gives a sharp nod, “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

  Wanting to be a smartass, I refrain from saluting at his order and let it go as he turns to leave.

  “You just got here,” Gavin blurts, “throw him a beer, Jess.”

  “Not tonight,” he mumbles before walking away.

  I watch how the crowd thins, moving out of Breck’s way as he walks by. His reputation seems to include more than just being a god and Casanova; apparently, he’s also feared.

  ͠

  My lunch hour zooms by, not surprisingly; it’s always the fastest hour of the day, but time has seemed to have sped up through the entire morning. Usually, I welcome a quick work day; they don’t occur often, but not today. Time can drag for as long as it wants until 6:00 p.m. I’d even welcome Mr. Harris demanding I stay late, but no such luck since he’s out of the office at a conference until Monday.

  Trying to distract myself from the upcoming meeting with Breck, I think back to my phone call with Jess this morning, still worried about whatever happened. She sounded fine, just like always. After her assuring me that everything’s good and telling me that we’ll talk more this weekend, my worry subsided.

  Justin calls and, foolishly, I answer, knowing I have to talk to him at some point, especially since I haven’t returned his call from Saturday.

  “I was worried about you, Emma!” he lectures, “I’ve been calling for six days.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.”

  His voice holds less of an edge when he asks, “Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

  Dreading the repercussion, I decide to go ahead and get it over with, “I can’t make it. I have to work the next day and there’s an important exhibit at the gallery the following Saturday.”

  A painful silence tugs at my heart.

  “Does your dad know?”

  “Yeah, I told him a few days ago. He understands,” I state, wishing I had enough courage to tell him that he should, too.

  “Tyler’s getting married next month.”

  “Give your brother my congratulations,” I state, meaning it; I like Tyler, Justin’s older brother, he has always been nice to me.

  “Now’s probably not the time to give him your well wishes. Lucy’s pregnant.”

  “Oh,” is all I can manage
to say, knowing that Justin’s family is extremely traditional. I hope Tyler and Lucy are in love and aren’t being pressured into something because of the situation. “Is Tyler happy about getting married?”

  “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “They don’t have to marry,” I state the obvious.

  “Your father’s a preacher, how can you even say that? You’re the one who insisted we wait because we weren’t married,” Justin scolds.

  Hearing his calm admonition reaffirms that leaving was the right thing. He never yelled at me, never swore when he was mad, which always somehow made me feel worse when I knew he was angry but wouldn’t show it. Not that I want to be yelled at, but some form of emotion would have possibly sparked at least a little passion between us. It’s hard to know what someone really feels if they are always being polite. I guess that’s why he was shocked when I told him I was leaving. I was just as polite as he was.

  “I just mean that they don’t have to jump into marriage because of the baby. Tyler would do his part and be there for the child without having to give his life to someone if they aren’t in love.”

  “He should’ve thought of that before being stupid.”

  I can tell this isn’t going anywhere so I change the subject, “How is your job going?”

  Justin’s voice becomes less melancholy as he announces, “I got a promotion last week.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I tell him excitedly. I know how hard he worked for the engineering position. “I’m proud of you.”

  “With the raise, I’m thinking of building a house on the piece of land you love so much.”

  My chest tightens.

  His voice is strained, “We used to talk about us building a house near the pond.”

  He talked about us building a house. I listened.

  “I have a meeting with the owner of a gallery in a couple of weeks,” I make my own announcement, trying to change the subject as my stomach ties in knots just thinking about it.

  “Will you at least be home for Christmas?”

  A hollow ache fills me when he says nothing about my paintings or the meeting. “Yes.” I don’t want to. I want to see Dad, but I don’t want to go home.

  “Great. I can show you the house plans if you want.”

  “Congratulations on your promotion and the house, Justin,” I state, avoiding the offer, “I have to go, my break’s almost over.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Emma.”

  “Okay,” I tell him instead of what I want to say. Why can’t I just tell him goodbye, for good?

  Feeling defeated, I throw away the empty sandwich wrapper and head towards my desk.

  “You look like someone just took your candy?” Braden teases.

  “Just a bit distracted,” I smile, not wanting my personal life to trickle into my professional. My meeting with Breck tonight intrudes my mind; I guess it’s a little too late for that.

  Dur Acier is a beautiful piece of architecture constructed in the sixties and built on to over the years. As I enter the building, I admire the contemporary touches of the original era, especially the use of windows optimizing the natural light, mixed with more modern styles that incorporate an air of openness to new ideas while maintaining the integrity of the older set of values. I would like to meet Harrison Steele. Research on his company provided me with the feeling that he is very much like how he planned his building.

  My stomach lurches as I step on the elevator. Absently smoothing my blouse, I wonder if I’m dressed appropriately. Taking a quick peek in the reflection on the shiny metal wall, I scrutinize my caramel and white plaid scarf, the light blue cotton button-up underneath that is cut just low enough to be a little seducing while remaining professional, and brown wool dress slacks. Dark toffee heeled boots finish the look. Not having a nice jacket, I left my comfortable, toasty one in the car. Deciding to leave my hair down, I took the time to straighten it, not realizing the forecast is calling for rain until I heard that bit of irritating news on the car radio. This was the longest I took to get ready, ever, and I rationalize the extra time on my hair and wardrobe, telling myself that I’m just being professional.

  As soon as I step into the lobby of Breck’s office, I’m greeted warmly by the receptionist, “So, you’re the country bumpkin?” Pushing up stylish square frames, he extends his hand to me with a wide, friendly grin.

  I immediately like him.

  “I’m Prayton.”

  “Emma. Nice to meet you,” I return his smile as I shake his hand.

  “Mr. Steele is in a meeting, but he shouldn’t be too much longer. Would you like a coffee or tea while you wait?” Prayton gestures to a plush seat in the corner as he grabs his own coffee cup that has a picture of an owl wearing the same style of frames.

  “I’m good, but thank you.” Glancing around the reception area, I’m impressed with the vibrant colors.

  Prayton makes himself a cup of coffee that makes me rethink my decision as I smell the wonderful hazelnut aroma. The scent further beckons as he takes a seat next to me. “My partner decorated the lobby and the offices. Mr. Steele may be a genius with a myriad of palatable dishes, but he sucks at color schemes.” He wrinkles his nose and winks before taking a sip of his coffee. “Sam about had a coronary the first time he saw where I worked. Thankfully, Mr. Steele took my advice and let him spice things up a bit.”

  “He did an amazing job,” I offer sincerely, wondering about how much Breck’s grandfather must trust him in order to allow him to make major decisions on his behalf.

  Prayton scoots closer to me, nodding his head to the closed door, “He does have a heart buried under his smug ass exterior. Just thought you should know.”

  A smile curves my lips and I nod gratefully at Prayton, who rewards me with another friendly grin as I tease, “I guess he sucks at showing that, too.”

  Prayton lets out a hearty laugh, “Yeah, but, from what I hear, those are the only two areas where the man is lacking in anything.” His playful gaze turns inquisitive as he studies me.

  My cheeks flame from the silent interrogation before I feverishly shake my head, “I wouldn’t know.”

  Kind green eyes search me before Prayton lets out another loud laugh, “I had you pegged as a smart girl.”

  The door opens and a mixture of male voices pulls me away from the conversation.

  “Here’s your man,” Prayton winks.

  “He’s – he’s not my man. He’s not my anything,” I stumble, my cheeks glowing again.

  “Sure, honey, anything you say,” Prayton smiles knowingly before taking my hand and helping me stand. “I’ve seen that look before.”

  Self-loathing bursts through my veins. I want to protest any form of interest in Breck, even if it would be a lie.

  “Don’t worry, you’re not like the others. You seem to have class and a healthy dose of self-respect. Be forewarned, though, you may be smart, but your head does jackshit to protect your heart. I just hope your heart can handle his.”

  Prayton’s words swim in my head, making me a little unsteady as Breck takes a step towards me, his tall stature and hard business demeanor intimidating, “Have you eaten yet, Ms. Jones?”

  Ms. Jones? So, it is possible for him to be appropriate, even if it is just for show. “No, I was going to eat after our meeting, Mr. Steele,” I give a little smirk when saying his name.

  Brecks steps closer, intentionally invading my personal space. Giving a narcissistic smirk of his own, he takes my arm, just above the elbow, and pulls me a little closer, the light dancing in his eyes showing just how much he’s enjoying my discomfort. “Good. You can eat now; I’ve moved our meeting to Menton. You’ll ride with me.”

  Something in his voice warns me to run. I don’t. Instead, I dutifully follow him while fuming silently. I quickly try to calculate how much money I have left after rent and the electric bill that are due tomorrow. It doesn’t take long to come to the conclusion that I don’t have much, especially not enough to
be spending at one of the fanciest restaurants in Boston. Too bad he didn’t make reservations at a fast food joint.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” Breck’s words are polite, but his tone is cold, as his eyes peruse the length of me while we wait outside for his car to be brought to the front of the building.

  “Prayton kept me company,” I reply causally, refusing to let his demeanor affect me. Inwardly, I smile at the approving glint in his eyes at my choice of wardrobe. “We were discussing the décor.”

  “Ah, yes. Sam, Prayton’s partner, is an interior decorator.” Breck leans against the brick wall, his dark gray blazer opening further, showing off his toned abdomen beneath a thin white dress shirt and gray tie. Trying to focus on his lack of colorful choices instead of the sinew outline of his muscles, and a bigger outline evident lower, I give up on the hopeless attempt of distraction. Who am I kidding? Breck makes gray and white look like a classical piece of art.

  Folding his arms, his eyes narrow as he studies me. A tilted smile spreads across full lips that seem to have the power to control my intake of air. “Sam is a man.”

  “Yes, Prayton mentioned that,” I state, slightly breathless.

  “He’s Prayton’s partner, as in life partner, not business partner.” His smirk is infuriating.

  “I gathered that,” I respond calmly, pulling myself together.

  “I see, and what exactly do you think of that, preacher’s girl?” Breck smiles tauntingly.

  Stepping closer to Breck, I fix my gaze steadily on his, “What I think is, no matter what someone’s beliefs may be, they should not treat anyone differently because of his or her life and/or religious choice. There are too many battles waged over differences when everyone deserves be treated with respect. We are all different.”

  Breck glares at me. I can feel his anger; it saturates the air. “You make it so damn hard to dislike you!” he yells, pushing away from the wall. Raking his hand angrily through his hair, he steps closer, his gaze ruthless, punishing.

  The wind blows wildly, causing my hair to sweep across my face. Wishing I brought my jacket, I brush the wayward strands away, trying to tame the confusion and all the other unpleasant emotions rioting in me. Part of me wishes I could read what’s going on behind Breck’s animosity, but, when he steps even closer, his stance beyond intimidating, I change my mind. Nudging out my jaw, I ask, “That’s a bad thing?”