Love in Smoke

by Holly Hall

  That gate is the only interruption in a fence line that disappears into the distance; the kind tall enough to keep deer or other wild game in. When the car in front of me pulls off of the gravel to park, I follow suit, gasping audibly when I look up and discover just where I’ve ended up.

  The house just beyond the sprawling, well-kept front yard is no trailer. Strategic up-lighting gives me a dramatic first impression of a low-slung, modern construction consisting of concrete and smooth wood. Gardens border the flagstone walk out front; plots of gravel and xeriscaping more reminiscent of Scottsdale, Arizona, not rural Tennessee. It’s the last kind of dwelling I would’ve associated with the Cross family, and it makes me wonder why Dane would ever choose to spend his Saturday at my place. I also remind myself to ask Lynn why she didn’t better prepare me for this. No wonder she looked so pleased with herself.

  Without any better ideas, I follow the couple that stepped out of the vehicle in front of me, too distracted to dwell on their expensive attire and the fact that I look like the groundskeeper in comparison. With each step I take, my fear dissolves, and the intrinsic pull inside me grows stronger. The need to figure out what’s going on, how this all adds up.

  My eyes travel up the solid expanse of the home, a place that, upon closer inspection, looks more like a fortress. I’m not the most economically savvy person, but even I can tell there’s no way someone who owns a secluded auto shop would be able to afford a place like this without a side job or three. The strangeness of the whole situation rises around me like water in a tank, apprehension lapping at my heels. If I turn around now, I can go home, change into pajamas, and crawl into bed. Just me and my loneliness. And the sound of my past echoing in the empty rooms around me.

  But I keep walking because curiosity grows bigger than my caution. It is as tangible as two physical hands, pushing me in the small of my back, urging me toward the answers I hope I’ll find, and as I walk inside the towering set of solid-wood front doors, my subconscious eggs me on.

  Go ahead, Raven. Let me show you a reason to give this guy the boot and you an excuse to shut everyone out again.

  The words provoke me, and I shove down the urge to assume the negative. I’m in an entry hall with smooth maple floors and mostly bare, cream walls. The couple in front of me has disappeared, just the sound of their retreating footsteps to let me know they were even around in the first place. The wall opposite me is one I would reach in just a few strides. Less a wall and more a window, made up of solid glass. I can see the yard sloping beyond and the glow from the house reflecting off smooth water—a pool. Though my reflection is mostly distorted in the window, lit from above by a chandelier of twisted, silver metal, I can see the nerves written plainly across my shadowed face. Taking a moment, I arrange my expression into one that looks less out of place, but I can’t do anything about my outfit choice at this point.

  To my left, the hall only extends about thirty more feet or so, but music and voices filter from the right, where the hall continues even further. It sounds like a party or a gathering of some sort. My suspicion mounts as I continue toward the noise, traveling slowly past enormous paintings—modern things with muted colors slashed across them—and alcoves in the walls housing sculptures that look like they could be obscene if I could only tell what they were. I try to envision Trey or Dane in a place like this and find it difficult. I wouldn’t have guessed that either of them were curators of modern art, but then I remember there is one last Cross I know nothing about.

  I approach a sunken living room—more walls of glass, low, leather furniture, pale wood tables with more art or expensive-looking books atop them, and a gleaming piano near the back of the room. At this point, it’s no longer the furniture or the features of the house that hold my attention. It’s the people. There are around two dozen in attendance—both male and female, though it seems like the latter outnumber the former—and most are dressed in a way that leads me to believe they aren’t from around here. Or at least, I haven’t seen anyone like them since I arrived. There are tight dresses and shiny shoes, large flashy watches and jewelry winking in the dim lighting.

  A few here and there are more inconspicuously dressed—dark clothing that would fit in on any city street—scrawls of ink across their skin and gazes flitting, less at ease than their more upscale companions. But no matter where I look, I don’t see Dane. I cast my eyes down so I won’t draw attention, but every now and then I’ll try to glance at the face that belongs to the pair of legs before me to see if I recognize anyone. I’m mostly ignored until I meet the eyes of Trey Cross near the bar to my right, and he stares right back at me with instant recognition and a little bit of what the hell are you doing here? My inner commentary goes a little something like this: Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

  Before I can spin around and retreat the way I came, he’s pushed away from the countertop and the busty brunette he’s chatting up, and he crosses the room in two deliberate strides, catching me by the elbow just outside the kitchen.

  “What the fuck?” he says. An angry statement posed as a question.

  “Yeah, whaaat the fuck.” I snap my mouth closed, cursing my brain’s inability to think of anything witty when I need it most.

  “What are you doing here?” He drops my arm and shoves his hand into his pocket. I didn’t notice before, at the shop, how expensively styled his hair was. Nor was he wearing the watch now gleaming at his wrist. The man looming before me now would look right at home in that Mercedes.

  Meanwhile, the guests go on around us, as if whispered confrontations are standard in settings like this. What is this, exactly?

  “I’m looking for Dane,” I say, my tone hardening into one that’s more authoritative.

  “That may be the case. But why are you here? He had a phone, last time I checked.” Trey appears casual, leaning against the wall beside one of the paintings, but I get the sense he’s luring me into a false sense of security. I recognize the predatory gleam in his eyes.

  “Couldn’t get a hold of him,” I respond lamely, like I don’t know Dane’s avoiding me.

  “Hmm.” He takes a sip of something that smells oaky. Bourbon, I would guess. “Did you come here with someone?” He’s sizing me up with his eyes, all but putting his hands on me and feeling my pulse to check for lies. A sudden cackle makes me jump, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

  Everything I’ve learned thus far tells me this is not a family who swallows excuses and shits out praise. No. I think honesty would work better in this situation.

  “I followed someone in. Didn’t even know this shindig was happening.” I circle my finger around the room for good measure, pasting a bemused expression on my face. “I really just wanted to find Dane. Have you seen him?”

  Trey sneers. “My little brother is a party pooper these days. You’ll probably find him pouting somewhere.” I could’ve snorted with laughter hearing a grown man say the words “party pooper,” but he is all seriousness. He lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug. “But hey, you’re a guest. First time, right? Let me make you a drink.”

  I swallow my retort. I was on the verge of giving up and leaving, but something tells me that if I persist, I’ll soon gain some freedom to roam the house and find whom it is I’m looking for. And maybe discover what the hell these people are doing while I’m at it.

  Noticing my reluctance, he says, “Come on. Most of these girls have been dying for me to do the same thing.” As if to prove his point, a girl passing by reaches out a hand and runs it down his back, over his ass, and is pulled stumbling away by her more sober companion.

  “I would love one,” I lie.

  I’m led through the kitchen—all concrete countertops and sleek stainless appliances—to the bar, and I stop short when we reach the expanse of liquor bottles displayed on glass shelves. I can’t even tell what most of them are.

  I scan my surroundings to occupy my time while Trey mixes something in a glass, hoping Dane will show up and whisk me the hell out
of here. At first it’s just a curious glance from one girl, then two, and soon I’m getting all the looks from females and males alike, ranging from confusion to nastiness. I’ve just put myself on their radar without meaning to. No worries, ladies. He’s all yours.

  “Some party,” I say, ignoring the hyenas. “What’s the occasion?” I want to find out more, and I hope it’s not obvious.

  “Just a little networking,” Trey says leisurely. He hands me a crystal glass, which I regard warily.

  “What is this?”

  “I didn’t roofie it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His off-center grin reveals a sharp canine.

  I take a sip. I’m not a big drinker, aside from the odd pinot binge, but I am at a party. I haven’t been drinking, I’m not dressed for this setting, and I don’t want to do anything else that might raise suspicion.

  “Thank you,” I say as the carbonation fizzes on my tongue. Gin and tonic.

  “Sure.” Then, in response to my wandering eyes, he says, “Guest house,” and tilts his head toward the hallway he just caught me in. I nod like I know exactly what that means and waste no time fleeing from the kitchen.

  By the time I arrive back at the wall of glass, I’ve drained half my drink already. I see that there’s an open sliver on one side, muted conversation and just a hint of the sweet smell of the outdoors drifting through it. What I thought was a wall now appears to be a door. I place a hand on the glass and push, and the entire pane rotates, swiveling on a set of hidden hinges until an opening forms that’s large enough for me to pass through. I land on pale stone, a terrace of some sort surrounding the pool. Where the patio area ends, the backyard slopes downward, ending at a shadowy line of oaks and pines. Just before the trees, I spot squares of hazy light—windows. I can just make out a squat, single-story structure I didn’t notice before, about twenty yards away. The guest house, I assume.

  I press onward, breezing past an outdoor kitchen featuring a stainless grill. I can imagine that if it were summer, the party would be spilling outdoors. Currently, there are only a handful of people laughing and speaking in low voices, the ends of their cigarettes—or whatever it is they’re smoking—aglow in the darkness. I keep my eyes ahead and trudge to the guest house.

  A wedge of light slices across the lawn from the crack in the front door, open just a sliver like someone walked in and didn’t kick it shut hard enough. I push inward slowly, not sure what I’ll find. An extension of the party? A twenty-person orgy that’ll leave me scrambling for bleach and hand sanitizer?

  It doesn’t occur to me to knock until after I’ve pushed it the rest of the way open. There’s a game being noisily announced on TV, but other voices attract my attention. A woman—tight dress, shoes off—is leaning her hip against the counter of a small kitchenette, as relaxed as if she belongs here. But they haven’t noticed me yet because her back is to me, and just past her is an outline I recognize. Dane’s facing away from me, standing over a stove, murmuring his assent to whatever it is she’s saying.

  “I told her Trey wouldn’t want her here, and she didn’t listen to me, did she? Nobody does. She’ll learn, though, just as soon as one of them pops off like they always do and Trey tells ’em to kick rocks,” she’s saying, flipping dramatic brunette curls over her shoulder.

  I’ve come to a stop just inside the door, hand clutched around the perspiring glass of liquor, when Dane turns around with a skillet in hand and spots me over the girl’s shoulder. He barely responds, just sets the pan down on an oven mitt and braces his forearms atop the counter, watching me. The brunette turns, her own eyebrows raising to her hairline. Her expression and general appearance give me Sarah Michelle Gellar circa Cruel Intentions vibes.

  “Hi,” I manage to say. Then, for lack of anything else, “Surprise.”

  She smiles at me, all underhanded and demeaning. “Ohhh, keeping the bench stocked. I see. Come find me when you’re finished, Dane,” she says, grabbing her stilettos out of an armchair and walking past me, so close that I get a whiff of her cheap perfume. That cloying scent of roses lingers even after she’s out the door.

  Dane’s enamoring voice cuts through the silence. “You in my house. Imagine that.” He’s not angry, per se. Just contemplative. Resolute. I approach slowly, setting my empty glass beside the sink.

  “I followed someone through the gate.”

  “Mhmm.” He’s looking at me like I’m something he can’t read, a book in a different language. It’s not totally unfamiliar; Jenson used that look often. I suspect he’s fishing for words, and right now, the gin is going straight to my head and all I feel like doing is talking. That, on the other hand, is unfamiliar.

  I track him to the door with my eyes as he glances through the blinds on the side window before locking it. The hollow click of the bolt seems to echo with meaning. It’s then that I realize my mistake. I’ve walked right into a place where he has the clear advantage—as if he needed another—and now I’ve allowed him to come between me and my only way out. I don’t know him, I don’t know if the things I’ve heard are true, and the last time I spoke to him, I likely offended him. The problem is, I’m not as daunted as I probably should be.

  TEN

  Dane returns to the kitchen, his strides steady, and I grip the edge of the countertop behind me to stabilize myself. I need to say something, anything, to cut the tension.

  “I just wanted to stop by. You know, after our conversation.” Yikes. I sound like every scorned woman in history. Except that I rejected him. He should be the scorned one.

  He reaches across me, and I stiffen, but he just picks up my glass and sniffs the contents, then rinses it out. He’s still waiting for me to explain myself further, I think. His patience is a little maddening.

  “I just feel like we left things in a weird place . . . What are you doing out here, by the way?” I look around, just now noticing the rest of the bungalow is dark, and the only noise is coming from the basketball game on TV.

  There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Probably because of the scatterbrained, one-sided conversation. I feel off-balance and wholly out of my element.

  “I’m making dinner.”

  “For that . . . girl?” I jab my thumb over my shoulder before I can stop myself. “Did I just interrupt your date?”

  “No, not for that girl. For me. Game’s on.” He angles his head toward the TV, and I nod to myself. I’m not accustomed to his new dismissive demeanor. “What are you doing here, Raven?”

  The words are clipped, but the sight of him in low-slung shorts and bare feet soothes the sting. Makes him less intimidating somehow. Emboldened by the gin in my system, I say, “Should I not have come? Was there some kind of dress code I didn’t live up to? Do I not add much to the slut quota of your party?”

  His eyes cut to me, and I see the first sign of fire there. His normally tranquil irises are incinerating.

  “No, you shouldn’t have come. I think we both know that.” I bite my lip, a terrible habit that’s impossible to get rid of. I’m about to crack back at him when he interjects. “You’d look fantastic in anything, not that I’d complain about seeing you in a dress like that.” Dane nods his head in the direction Sarah Michelle Gellar disappeared in. “And a lot of those girls are just trying to find their way in the world, kind of like you and me. Doesn’t make them sluts.”

  I’m formulating a retort before I stop myself. Who am I to judge? I know nothing about them, and I’m sure my nastiness is just a diversion from my own discomfort. “I didn’t mean that, I just—”

  “There’s probably enough for both of us,” he says, glazing right over my words. At my puzzled expression, he gestures between him and I, then over at the food. “You and me, that is.”

  “I don’t want to impose. I wasn’t even invited.”

  “I won’t starve,” he says firmly.

  I bite my lip again, the taste of iron on my tongue. His lack of words has left me scrambling. I’m not used to this, filling i
n the gaps. I’m used to Jenson and his philosophizing about life—trying to make sense of my silence, not trying to lure me out from behind my fortress with his own.

  I crane my neck, scanning the skillets and other cooking utensils, avoiding his eyes. He hit the nail on the head the other day when he said I didn’t want to get to know him. More importantly, I didn’t want him to know me. I came here for one purpose, so why has my apology suddenly been knocked further down my list of priorities?

  “What did you cook?” I finally ask. I didn’t think I could eat with everything on my mind, but the delectable smells are making my mouth water.

  “Steak. It’s better on the grill, but—” he waves his hand toward the house, and I think I understand. He’s hiding. But why? “Brussels sprouts with mushrooms, and pasta with white wine sauce.”

  My head retracts sharply. “What the hell?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s just a hint of a smile on his face as he cuts through the steak, dividing it into two halves, and grabs another plate from the shelf behind him. He slides a portion of meat onto it, dishes out the vegetables and pasta, and still, I stare at him in open-mouthed awe.

  “You really made all this for yourself? What kind of guy makes Brussels sprouts if he’s not trying to get laid?”

  “Who said I wasn’t trying to get laid?” There’s that suppressed grin again. The one that thins his lips and looks like trouble.

  I point to myself. “Girl who rejected you.” Then I point toward the general direction the brunette disappeared in and say, “Girl you blew off, who probably jumped out of her panties the minute she saw you in here cooking.”

  “I enjoy cooking, and I need to feed myself.” He shrugs, like that explains the white wine sauce . . . and the Brussels sprouts. Jesus. Not even close.