by R. C. Martin
“What?” she asks with another shrug. “It was only a couple of blocks away. I felt like a stroll. The guy gave me the creeps. The bar was great, though. I’d never been before. You should check it out sometime. Now, actually. Now would be a great idea. Nightcap. I’ll even tell Clay where it is on my way out.”
I cough out a sigh. Shaking my head, I toss my jacket across the edge of my desk as I tell her, “Maybe another time.”
“What time did you tell her?”
My eyes catch hers, and she raises her brow at me while folding her arms across her chest.
“Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Governor. What time did you tell Veronica that you’d be home?”
“Before midnight,” I admit with a scowl.
“All right. So, let’s think about this logically. If you’re to keep your promise, you have an hour and a half before you need to be on the road. You’ve been in the office since before seven. You had a late lunch, but I didn’t feed you dinner, so I’m guessing you didn’t eat—which means your mind is basically mush.”
“I had a protein bar,” I argue, hiding a smirk.
“Mmmhmm,” she chuckles. “Like I said, I didn’t feed you dinner, so you’ve done nothing but consume numbers you can’t crack because it’s been a long day. Not to mention, you’re not a financial analyst. You’re smart—brilliant, even—but you’re a politician at heart. So get up. Go have a drink. Relax for a minute, and start again tomorrow.”
“Heidi, I appreciate—”
“All due respect, sir? I know about the bottle of bourbon you keep in the bottom left drawer of your desk. A gift from the Mayor on your first day in office. Don’t tell me you can’t appreciate a nightcap.”
Leaning back in my chair once more, I fold my arms across my chest, mimicking her stance as I counter, “If you know about the bottle of bourbon, you know it’s not been opened.”
“Of course not. You’re too honorable to drink while you’re at work. Which is why I’m suggesting you try out the swanky bar I’ve just come from.” Backing her way toward the door, she goes on to say, “I’d join you, if only to be sure that you took my advice, but something tells me that tomorrow’s going to be a long day. My boss is kind of a stubbornly determined hard-ass on a mission, so I should head home and get some sleep.”
“Tell your boss to lighten up on you. You work too hard,” I mutter, lifting my chin at her—only half teasing. The fact that she walked here from this bar she keeps talking about is proof that she works too hard. Furrowing my brow once more, I call out, “Grab an Uber. It’s late. Too late for you to be walking around downtown Denver by yourself. We’ll make an intern go pick up your car tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” She salutes me before making her exit. As she steps over the threshold, she shuts out my overhead light, leaving only the light in the next room for me to see. “Prohibition Lounge, Governor. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I free a heavy sigh, peering through the darkness at the pages before me that I can no longer see. Heidi is right. I could use some food. More than that, I could use a minute to take a breath. It’s been a long day. If I don’t step away for a minute, tomorrow will be even longer. Grabbing my jacket, I fold it over my arm and make my way into the next room. Clay is sitting on the couch in the reception area, messing with his phone. When he sees me, he stands to his feet, sliding his device into his pocket.
“Ever been to the Prohibition Lounge?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither have I. Let’s go.”
Blaine
I step outside, looking one way and then the other, feeling more disappointed than surprised when I don’t see him. I check my phone again, but it’s just as silent as it has been all night. Well aware of the time, I feel no guilt when I find his number in my list of saved favorite contacts and push a call through. I listen to it ring until I’m dropped into his voicemail, and I mutter a curse under my breath before I end the call. I don’t bother leaving a message.
“Hey, need a ride?”
I whip my head around as Dodger walks through the door. Having clocked out for the morning, he’s in only his black slacks and a gray beater, his black button-up now draped over his shoulder. I offer him a half-hearted smile, my eyes admiring his bare arms in a fleeting glance. He’s covered in ink, three-quarter-length sleeves decorating each arm. It suits him; though, the patrons who frequent the bar are none the wiser. Short sleeves aren’t exactly part of the dress code around here.
“He comin’?” he asks, stopping beside me before gently nudging me with his elbow.
“He’s not answering,” I mutter, lifting my phone before dropping it into my bag.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and then juts out his elbow, signaling for me to take it. I flash him another half smile as I loop my arm through his. We don’t speak as we make our way along the quiet street, headed for his car. I appreciate his silence. More than that, I appreciate his lack of judgment. That’s always been Dodger. Hard on the outside, rough around the edges, but warm, kind, and gooey on the inside. This isn’t the first time he’s offered to take me home after our late shift. Not the first. Not the second. And as much as I want to proclaim that it’ll be the last, I’m sure it won’t be.
If it wasn’t so late, I’d walk to the Light Rail, which drops me a couple of blocks away from the loft—but it is late, and I’ve missed the last train.
“You scheduled for tomorrow?” he asks after we’ve both climbed into his blue, ’99 Mustang.
I lean my head back against the seat rest and sigh. “Yeah. Same shift. Six to close. You?”
“Not until Thursday,” he replies, adjusting the volume on his stereo.
“Lucky you. What are you going to get into?”
Shifting his eyes off the road for a moment, he grins over at me before he says, “Takin’ Hope to see Bruno Mars tonight. It’s a surprise.”
“Seriously?” I ask, remembering how much his girlfriend loves Bruno.
He chuckles, offering me a slow nod.
“You deserve a high five for that,” I insist, holding up my hand.
“Damn right, I do,” he says, slapping his palm against mine.
“Now I know why you needed the next two nights off,” I say teasingly.
Smiling at the windshield, he asks, “Why’s that?”
“You are totally getting laid.”
His smile stretches into a grin before he holds up his hand again. Laughing, I clap my palm against his in another high five.
“She’s lucky to have you, Dodge. I mean it.”
Glancing over at me, I notice his smile slip before he mutters, “That fucker’s lucky to have you, too, B.”
I press my lips together, turning to look out the passenger-side window. I don’t come to Mateo’s defense like I usually do. Not this morning. I’m too tired. Too fed up. Too disappointed to plead his case. It’s always the same.
He’s just a little eccentric. He’s an artist. He’s passionate. He gets lost sometimes—but he loves me.
Dodger and I don’t say anything else to each other for the duration of our short trip, both of us content to let his music fill the silence. When he pulls up in front of my building, I throw the strap of my bag over my shoulder, turning to face him as I reach back for the door handle.
“Thanks, Dodger. I really appreciate the ride.”
“I got your back, Blaine.”
“Enjoy Bruno.”
“No doubt,” he says with a chin lift.
Offering one final wave, I hop out of his car before hurrying inside. I race my way to the fifth floor, anxious to get inside and get ready for bed. That’s all I want right now is sleep. More than fighting with Mateo, more then demanding an explanation as to why he didn’t pick me up like he promised he would, again—I just want sleep.
I pause when I reach my door, hearing his loud music through the barrier that separates us. Pressing my forehead against the
cool surface, I force in a deep breath and let out a sigh before inserting my key. When I step inside, it takes all of two seconds for me to see him, standing with his back to me.
My loft—our loft—is really just one, big open room. It has a closed off bathroom, a laundry nook, and a couple closets on the far end of the space, with a kitchen/living room/dining room area beyond the front door—above which is a small loft that houses the bed. The view of downtown Denver, seen through the four tall, arched windows across from me, is killer. Inside, it’s lots of concrete and brick with wood flooring, which is how I fell in love with it; and over the last couple of years, I’ve worked really hard to make it homey and inviting. When Mateo moved in, about six months ago, he decorated the walls with a few old pieces he had laying around that never sold. Outside of the television he had mounted on the wall, along with his art, and all of his supplies that live in the space I used to consider my dining area, he hasn’t contributed much.
I look over at him now. His arms are folded across his chest, his focus glued to the canvas in front of him, and he doesn’t hear me—not even when I slam the door shut behind me. It isn’t until I turn the music off that he spins around to look my way. He smiles, as if he’s happy to see me, but it only lasts a moment. I don’t know if it’s the blank expression on my face, or simply my presence that triggers his memory, but I don’t care.
Dropping my bag on the kitchen counter, I speak not a word before I start for the bathroom, in order to begin my nightly routine. I only make it halfway there. Mateo’s arms stop me as he pulls me back against his chest, squeezing me tightly.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I—”
“You forgot. Again,” I mutter, shoving at his arms in an attempt to get him to let me go.
He buries his face in my hair, between my neck and my shoulder, holding me closer. “I lost track of time. You know how it is. I was working. I—”
“Mateo, I really don’t want to hear it right now,” I insist, pushing his arms once more.
He lets me go this time, and I spin around to face him. His shirt is covered in speckles of paint, and there’s a smear of yellow on his light brown skin, just above his eyebrow. His shaggy, dark hair is pulled back into a tiny, disheveled ponytail at his nape; and for a moment, I remember. I remember how easy it used to be to get lost in his rich, brown eyes surrounded by his incredibly long, thick lashes. I remember how I used to think it was cute how he couldn’t work on a piece without getting paint on his face. I remember how one simple I’m sorry accompanied by his arms wrapped tightly around me used to stir my desire for him. Yet, as much as I love him, none of that means anything right now.
“I don’t mind you borrowing my car,” I remind him. “You know that I don’t. But when you say you’ll pick me up from work, it’s fucking disrespectful when you don’t. I called you, and you didn’t answer.”
“I’m sorry, Blaine. I didn’t hear—”
“You never do,” I grumble, turning to continue toward the bathroom.
He stops me again, wrapping his arms around me once more. Only this time, he slides one of his hands up over my left breast, slipping the fingers of his opposite hand under the waistband of my slacks.
That used to get me, too—his seemingly bottomless appetite for all things me.
“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers into my ear.
“Yeah,” I bite out, yanking his hand off of my chest. “Because sex will make it all better.”
“Come on, baby. You’ve had a long night. I can—”
“Get your hands off me, Mateo. I just want to go to bed. Besides, you have no idea what kind of night I’ve had. You didn’t bother to ask.”
“Fuck, Blaine,” he grunts, finally stepping away from me. “I’m trying to apologize. Don’t be a bitch.”
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause saying no to your dick makes me a bitch?” I argue, spinning around to scowl at him.
“I said I was sorry.”
“You always say that you’re sorry. It’s getting old, Mat. I swear to god,” I groan, reaching up to bury my fingers in my hair. “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills or put groceries in the fridge or put gas in my car.”
“Now this is about money?” he barks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
I puff out a breath of air, dropping my hands to my sides as I declare, “All I’m saying is, I’m the one bringing in the consistent income. The least you can do is pick me up from work when you say you’re going to!”
“Whatever,” he mumbles, turning away from me.
I jerk my head back, appalled by his flippant response. As if there’s no relevancy to what I’ve said. As if I’m not completely in the right. As if he’s not sorry at all!
After glaring at his back for a full sixty seconds, I realize that he’s got me so upset, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep now. Not here, at least. Knowing that I need to get some rest so that I can be a functioning human being for my shift later tonight, I don’t think twice before going to the closet to grab my overnight bag.
I have it packed in less than five minutes.
I’m in the kitchen, hooking my oversized purse over my shoulder when he finally notices what I’m doing.
“What the fuck, Blaine? Where are you going?”
“Someplace where I can sleep!” I answer, searching for my car keys. I find them discarded on the small table I keep beside the door and snatch them up without delay.
“Blaine!” he bellows.
I whirl around, giving him my best glare as I mutter, “This? This fight? I’m not doing this right now. I’m so sick and tired of having this argument, Mateo. All I want to do is go to bed. I don’t want to yell until the sun comes up. I don’t want to fuck until you’ve gotten off and feel better for being a dick and forgetting me—a-fucking-gain—I just want to sleep.”
I open the door and step over the threshold into the hallway, calling back over my shoulder, “I won’t be home before work.”
“Real mature, baby! Just walk away!” he yells after I’ve shut the door.
I huff out an irritated breath.
The gall on that one! Like he didn’t turn his back on the conversation first.
I pull in a deep breath, close my eyes, and will myself to calm down. I know better than to get behind the wheel angry as a raging bitch. By the time I’ve made it to the parking lot, I’m collected enough to think with a straight head. When I start my Chevy Cruse and glance at the gas gage, I tell myself that I’m not going to cry. All the way to the gas station, I try to remember that Mateo loves me. That he’s not using me. That he’s not some starving-artist-free-loader. That we’ve been together for almost two years, and this is just a season. It’ll pass.
All seasons must come to an end.
I WAKE UP in my old bed all alone, missing the warmth of Mateo beside me. Then I remember the argument we had in the wee hours of the morning—the argument that drove me to leave the loft—the argument that had me driving thirty minutes across town to my father’s house—and I relish my solitude.
Flopping onto my back, I reach for my phone, plugged in and resting on the nightstand next to me. I roll my eyes at the ten missed text messages I got while I was sleeping, all from Mateo. Ignoring them for now, I note the time. Three o’clock. I’ll have to leave for work in a couple of hours; but if I’ve slept through the entire morning, that means—
“Lulu? I’m home. You up? Like to know why my baby girl showed up in the middle of the night,” dad calls from downstairs.
I smile, picturing him standing at the foot of the stairwell, yelling up at me—his voice floating down the hallway, just like old times.
“Give me a minute, dad!” I cry in return.
“All right,” he grumbles, no doubt making his way to the kitchen.
Dad and I are on opposite schedules. It’s been like that since I started working at the Lounge. I crashed this morning somewhere around three, but I know without a doubt that he was up and getting ready for his day
a half an hour later. He’s a Budweiser distributer. Has been for the last seventeen years. He spends his mornings stocking up grocery stores, and the early part of the afternoons hitting the liquor stores on his route. That basically leaves us a window of three hours during the day, plus the weekends I have off, to see each other. I don’t see him as often as I’d like, but I do my best to drop by at least once a week.
As convenient and consistent as his schedule may be, I worry about him all the time. He’s not as young as he once was, and I know his long days aren’t good for his aging back. He’d never abandon the company, I’m sure of that. He’s always quick to remind people of his loyalty to them after they showed him such kindness and flexibility when mom got sick. Of course, every time I bring up the idea of inquiring about an internal desk job, he huffs and puffs like I’m questioning his manhood or something. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
Sure that if I don’t get my ass out of bed he’ll come hollering for me again, I slip from beneath the sheets and gather what I need for a quick shower. I’m in and out in less than ten minutes. After I towel dry my wavy locks, I dress in a pair of black, cotton shorts and a loose fitting, pale gray, graphic tank. The bold, black letters across the front read: Whatever Sprinkles Your Donuts; and the bright pink sports bra I have on underneath is visible beneath my arms.
I’m on my way out of the bathroom when I hear dad holler, “Lulu! My patience ain’t as good as it used to be.”
Laughing, I hurry down the short hallway, rounding the corner of the railing that leads to the narrow, wooden stairs. My bare feet carry me down quickly, and I stop on the second to last step, making me level with my father. He’s got one arm leaning against the railing, his other hand curled into a fist that is propped against his hip, and he quirks an eyebrow at me when I smile at him. Leaning over his round belly so that I can reach his face, I kiss his scruffy cheek before I finish my descent.
“Hey, dad. Are you hungry? I’m starving. Want me to make you something?” I ask him, not waiting for an answer before I start past the living room to the kitchen.