by P. Dangelico
Fifteen minutes later, I see him eating up ground as he walks over to the Range Rover I’m standing next to. He’s wearing a Titans hoody and sweatpants and…oh dear, it doesn’t look like he’s wearing underwear again. And now my eyes want to go ahead and double-check to be sure.
In the front seat, I force myself to stare at the road. Eyes ahead, eyes ahead, damn it! Have you ever tried that? Yeah, it never works. With my eyes roaming everywhere other than to the man on my left, I briefly catch sight of the gate doors closing in the side mirror of the Rover.
“Rotten eggs.”
“What?” I say, startled at the intrusion of his voice.
“Someone threw rotten eggs at the gate.” I remain quiet for fear that my voice will crack and give me away as the vandal. “Probably a disgruntled fan,” he adds casually.
“That sucks.” My voice is weirdly high and loud. Holy hell, did I just say ‘sucks’? I don’t dare face him in spite of the fact that I can feel him watching me. My pits start to sweat in an unladylike manner. I need to get some air circulating under there, can’t show up for work stinking like a goat.
“Is it hot in here?”
“No. What time does your shift end?”
I hazard a look and find him staring ahead. For the first time, I notice his profile is finely drawn, his nose straight and slender. Who knows what the rest looks like since it’s buried under all that facial hair––other than a vague memory I have from pictures.
“One.”
Even if it is for his benefit, as he so rudely informed me, I have to give him credit for going through the trouble of driving me. It’s a serious inconvenience for him. And honestly, the thought of freezing my butt off waiting for the bus when there’s still snow on the ground is far from appealing.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No, no, absolutely not.” He still doesn’t look at me. And he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. The silence in the car is tense. Neither one of us does or says anything to change that until he pulls up to the employee entrance of the club.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward. I mean, here’s a guy I can barely stand to be around, the feeling clearly mutual, and suddenly he’s chauffeuring me to work? Still looking straight ahead, he nods. These small nods seem to be his preferred choice of communication. Any who. I’m out the door and in the club a minute later, an unsettled feeling pecking at me.
“He did what?” Amber’s eyes are huge, swallowing up her delicate features.
“He drove me here.” I grab another glass from behind the bar and wipe it down. “Not like it was for my benefit. He’s protecting his investment.”
“He said that?” Ambers voice is filled with disgust. She moves around quickly and efficiently, setting up the bar for service.
“Yup.”
“What a douche. So, did Ange get her panties in a bunch over a gently bred young lady such as yourself living with a confirmed bachelor?” The overly dramatic British accent she uses makes me chuckle.
“She sure did. However, Tom was visibly relieved to get his money back, hence I’ll take whatever Angelina is ready to dish out.” My curiosity is suddenly piqued. “Is he?”
“Is he what?”
“A confirmed bachelor.”
“According to TMZ he is.” At my eye roll, she adds, “What? I had time to kill between auditions. Apparently the divorce was nasty.”
She has my undivided attention. “And?”
“What happened to the eye roll and the self-righteous look ya just gave me?”
“Amber,” I growl.
“No kids, the divorce was contentious, dragged on for two years. Which is no surprise since there was a hundred million at stake. They settled out of a court for an undisclosed amount.”
“How long was he married?”
“Eight years.” I know he’s thirty-three because I remember watching SportsCenter when the analysts were arguing the merits of the Titans offering him another five year contract. Shaw married young––like me.
The rest of the night goes smoothly. I’m so busy I don’t spare Shaw another thought. With a number of professional athletes and music industry moguls in the house, the tips steadily pour in. By midnight, most of my tables have closed out their tabs and the crowd is thinning.
I’m behind the bar, closing out a number of my checks, when a tall rangy guy approaches the bar in a loose-limbed walk. He’s movie star quality handsome––and young. Twenty-three at the most. His thick, brown hair is cut short and disheveled in a way that looks carefully thought out. He smiles at me, and the white grin that stretches across his face produces two dimples. Yeah, I’m not affected at all.
“Hey gorgeous,” he says with a southern accent I can’t place. And now I’m affected, instantly annoyed. The cringe skates up my backbone. There’s nothing I hate more than pet names from strangers. God help him if he calls me sweetie, sweetheart, or anything else in the confectionery family.
“What can I get you?” I’m all business.
“You can help me settle a bet,” he says, staring at my boobs. They’re hardly on display. I’m wearing a black, stretchy turtleneck with my black jeans; the dress code for everyone at One Maple. But it is tight, outlining my Ds perfectly. I stare back blankly, no amusement on my face to invite him to continue. Though this obtuse pretty boy obviously lacks wits because he barrels ahead. “Puerto Rican, right?” I look around his shoulder and notice his friends looking back at me expectantly.
“No.”
“Dimples, you drinking, or is your pretty ass just taking up space at my bar?” Amber shouts from a few feet down the bar. She places two cosmos in front of a group of thirty something, expensively clad women that look like they’re celebrating a promotion, dries her hands on a towel, and lifts her chin at him. Everyone turns to stare at Dimples.
I bite my bottom lip, fighting the urge to laugh at his expression. He’s clearly taken back, and has no idea what to make of this sharp tongued, fiery little blond. Welcome to New York, Dimples. The group of women snicker as they watch pink creep into Dimples’ cheeks.
“Another round,” he finally mumbles.
“Great. Why don’t you take those sweet, tight buns of yours back to your table, and I’ll be right over with your order.” His chocolate brown eyes flicker to me and after a slow two-finger salute, he walks away.
One of the thirty something women shouts, “Come back, sweet buns, we’ll entertain you,” and the rest of them break out in drunken fits of laughter.
For the next hour, we work quickly, cleaning the bar and our stations. I have to admit that keeping busy seems to do the trick. I haven’t had a panic attack since the scene at my house, and memories of Matt are easily kept at bay when I’m running around and physically spent. Sidling up to me, Amber asks, “Taking the bus home?”
I nod and she tells me to get going, that she’ll finish the rest. Without argument, I get ready to leave since I have to be up by seven to make Sam’s breakfast. I see it as soon as I step out the door of the club. White Range Rover, black tinted windows, black hubcaps. The driver side window slides down as I walk up with my hands stuffed in the pockets of my down jacket.
“You ready?” His voice is toneless, his expression bored. It crawls right under my skin.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long. It’s cold, get in.” I’m sensing this cold thing is a big deal for him. By the time I’m buckling up, he’s already speeding up Sixth Avenue.
“I’m sensing this cold thing is a big deal for you.” This displeases him, my idiocy so egregious it doesn’t even warrant a reply. Instead, he pins me in place with one his signature icy glares. “You can’t keep doing this. I intend to keep working there, and you can’t drive me in every week.” Again, I get nothing. The silence rolls on. “Don’t you have a life? A girlfriend to take shopping or make a sex tape with or whatever it is you people do––” My words are cut short by a sharp, annoyed exhale.
&nb
sp; “Don’t you ever shut up?”
Okay, maybe I went a little too far. But his inability to take a ‘no thanks’ from me is making me nuts. We ride the rest of the way in complete silence. Only a few feet separate us, though we may as well be on different planets. Or more precisely, I wish we were.
Chapter Seven
“Who would want to fuck a werewolf?” My eyes are glued to the latest episode of Penny Dreadful. “Ugh, can you imagine the smell? Hold on, don’t go anywhere,” I tell Amber, and rearrange my cell phone on the other shoulder so I can dig into my comfort tub of Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream.
“I would, that’s who. I would definitely fuck a werewolf if he looked liked Josh Hartnett.”
Leaning against the tufted headboard of my king size bed, correction Shaw’s guest bed, I give her words careful consideration. “Long hair or short?” Always in synch, we both add, “Long hair.”
“I’d fuck a bear too while we’re at it––at least one of those shape shifter type bears,” she continues after a thoughtful pause.
“What about vampires?”
“Sure, why the hell not. How about you?”
“That’s a definite yes. They’re beautiful, sensual and ancient. They gotta have some serious moves in bed. Don’t you think?” In tandem, we say, “Alexander Skarsgård.”
“Did I mention that he has every available channel on the planet? That alone makes up for the verbal abuse.”
“Just mickey his water bottle with a few eye drops,” the lunatic also known as my best friend suggests.
“Sure, inmate 2267. Not only is that a myth, but you can actually kill someone that way.”
“Really? Bummer,” Amber adds with a sigh.
My stomach gets a little queasy and I know I’ve officially crossed the line. There is such a thing as too much B&J ice cream. “Ambs, gotta go, dairy emergency.”
After hanging up, I make my way down to the kitchen to put the rest of the ice cream back in the freezer. All I’m wearing is my thin lounge pants and a white tank top with no bra but it’s past eleven and Duck Dynasty usually retires to his room around eight thirty. On Friday night, I found him out front waiting for me. He drove me in––we said nothing. He drove me home––we said nothing. I’ve come to accept that arguing with him is pointless because in the end he always does what he wants anyway.
As I pass by Sam’s room, I peek in and find him sleeping soundly. Every time he gets ready for bed, something in his expression tells me that wasn’t always the case, that he’s had too many sleepless nights for a boy his age, and I can’t help but be mad at his mother. Where his father is, is a mystery I have yet to solve.
I continue down the stairs and into the spacious and well laid out kitchen. It’s a real chef’s kitchen and my favorite part of the house. Ivory custom cabinetry, calacatta oro marble countertop. There’s a massive island in the middle with a sink and cooktop on one side, opposite the gas stove, and seats up to four people on the other. Did I mention how much I love the kitchen?
I’m already well inside, practically standing next to the island, when I notice that the door of the SubZero refrigerator is wide open and one tall man is standing behind it.
My footsteps come to a screeching halt. Very quietly and very, very slowly, I start…retracing…my steps, backing out the same way I entered. I reeeeally don’t want to be in the same room with him if I can help it. Everything about him makes me uncomfortable. From the pale emotionless stare he usually directs at me, to his gruff demeanor. All of it makes me self-conscious. And quite frankly I haven’t gotten over the whole cow thing yet. I don’t know why it bothers me, why I give a shit what he thinks, but it does. Which aggravates me to no end.
Just a few more steps and I’m safe. All of a sudden, the door closes and I see he’s holding the left over pasta primavera I made for dinner.
Wait a cotton pickin’ minute…
He shovels a fork full of cold pasta, my pasta, into his mouth and closes his eyes. The look on his face is positively orgasmic. I don’t know what’s more fascinating, the fact that the man I’ve come to know as having only a single emotion, anger, or none at all looks like he’s high off of a dish of cold pasta, or that I just caught him cheating on the “anti-inflammation” diet when I’ve seen him openly turn up his nose at the food I cook as if somebody took a shit and forgot to flush. Then I remember all the food I’ve been missing––the food I thought he had thrown out because the smell bothered him.
His whole body stiffens with awareness. And all at once it dawns on me that he’s only wearing a pair of threadbare, stretched out boxer briefs.
Dear God, please don’t let his junk be hanging out. I’ll be good, I promise.
He turns slowly to face me, blinks twice, and sighs. It’s the most defeated, pathetic sigh I’ve ever heard in my life and I have to curl my lips between my teeth not to burst out in laughter. His eyes flicker down to my braless tank top and my amusement fades, drops right off my face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking––cow. I’m almost one hundred percent certain he dates women that peel the skin off their grapes and measure their protein intake with a thimble. Needles rake up my neck as I see my body from his judgy perspective. His body, by the way, is frigging perfect––according to anyone’s definition.
Watching me intently, he puts the bowl down on the counter. “Go ahead.”
Huh? Did I miss something? “Excuse me?”
“Your victory dance. You caught me.”
I realize then that he’s truly embarrassed, and as sweet as revenge sounds right about now, being a jerk doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to him. I will only feel worse afterward.
Moving very quickly, I walk by him and put the ice cream back in the freezer. I don’t need to look to know his eyes are glued on me; I can feel them giving me a third degree burn.
“Do you want me to heat that up for you? If you’re going to blow your diet, you might as well do it right.”
Jezus Christ, did I just say ‘blow’?
Without a reply, he very tentatively hands me the bowl. His hands are not only large, but the fingers are long and his knuckles even, the nails clean and short. He has beautiful hands. Then I notice he can’t straighten his pinky all the way.
I turn the gas burner on low and pull a flat pan out of the cupboard. After dumping the pasta in, I cover it. Braving a look, I find him leaning that spectacular six foot four frame back against the edge of the marble countertop with his fingers curled around the edge. He and modesty are not on friendly terms. He doesn’t seem to care a lick that he’s basically naked. Those tissue thin boxers are not concealing much from what I can tell in the periphery of my vision.
I will not look. I will not look. I will not look. So of course, I look.
“What happened to your finger?”
He holds up the pinky and flexes it. “Broke it––didn’t have it set right away and it healed like this.” My gaze lifts to his and I’m surprised to find it open and warm, the corner of his lips slightly lifted.
“Is that your throwing hand?”
“Nope,” he answers, his head shaking slowly.
“Why didn’t you have it set right away?” I check the pasta and turn the heat off, the scent of butter and cream infusing the room. After pouring it into a dish, I turn to hand it to him and am met by his intense, unblinking gaze. I’m already uncomfortable around him and this level of scrutiny makes me want to curl up like an armadillo to protect what’s left of my already shredded ego. That ice cream is not sitting well in my stomach right about now.
“No money.” He’s moved to sit at the counter and is heartily digging into his midnight meal.
“What does that mean?” The question rolls off my tongue inadvertently. At present, he doesn’t seem to mind, so I go with it.
“I broke it in college, couldn’t afford to go to the emergency room. I didn’t have a dollar to my name until I was drafted. ” He watches me intently while I absorb this infor
mation. I know he was drafted second over all. That money must’ve been a windfall for a penniless young man. “I’ve also broken four ribs, lacerated a kidney, torn an mcl, and had two concussions that I know of. And that’s not counting the day to day bumps and bruises.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “Sounds like you’ve been to war. Ever consider retiring?”
He scowls as if I just called his mother a whore. “They’ll have to carry my dead body off the field.”
The thought is a jarring one. I feel the beginnings of a panic attack creep up on me. “Don’t say that, not even as a joke.” Taking the now empty dish from him, I turn and begin to wash it and the pan in the sink, scrubbing aggressively while I struggle to tame my racing heart. A large, warm hand lands on the exposed skin of my shoulder blade and my breath stutters. I stiffen and the warmth is gone just as quickly.
“I didn’t mean––”
“It’s all right,” I interrupt, suddenly anxious to end this conversation. “I know you didn’t, Mr. Shaw.”
“Enough of that.”
Drying my hands on a paper towel, I turn and take him in… a mere few feet separating us. He’s standing against the counter again with his arms crossed, pects bulging over his forearms. I try like hell to keep my eyes from wandering.
“What are you proposing?” I ask, mustering a weak smile, my spirits lifting at the change of topic.
“That you call me Cal…what should I call you?”
Cow? Yes, that’s right. That’s the first word that pops into my mind as I’m standing there staring into the clear gray eyes of a man that, before this evening, never had a nice word to say to me. And I swear on all that’s holy that he knows exactly what I am thinking because I see the edges of his mouth wanting to lift. Standing in the presence of all that…whatever that is that’s coming off of him…manliness? Manthing? I feel a pressing need to clear my throat.
“Umm, Cam or Camilla. Definitely not Camillia.”
“Well, Cam, thank you for the delicious meal,” he says quietly. Then he walks around the island and moves toward the stairs. “Y’all have a good night.”