“We work out at the same gym,” he explains.
“Oh,” Macy replies, stunned. “You’re a fighter like Mike?”
Usalv rolls his eyes before flashing a wicked smile. “Something like that.”
“Oh,” she replies.
Damn. There aren’t too many people that can leave Macy speechless. It’s kind of refreshing.
“Louise, I couldn’t help overhear…sorry about that.” Usalv tells me with undetectable remorse. “But I own a four-unit duplex with a one bedroom I’m getting ready to rent.” He shrugs, glancing over at Macy before looking back at me. “Let me know if you’re interested. It’ll save me from finding a tenant.”
“I’ll take it,” I blurt out.
“What?” Macy explodes. “Just like that?”
“Not exactly. I’ve known Usalv for a little while now.” Memories of our locker room encounter flash through my mind. “He’s a good guy, Macy. Besides, I don’t have too many options at the moment.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk with Mike first?” Macy asks.
“She doesn’t have a lot of time or leeway,” Usalv interjects. “You’ve made that very clear.”
“Take a look around,” Macy snaps back. “How the hell are three people and major medical equipment supposed to squeeze in here?”
“They’re not. Obviously.” Usalv’s voice rings with that calm certainty of presence. “But Louise needs to find another place and fast. The reasons why don’t make it easier for her to do it, just more critical that it gets done.” He shrugs. “Renting from me solves everybody’s problems.”
The loudness of the dryer buzzer interrupts their verbal sparring.
“Let me get your jacket, Usalv,” I interject before leading him back toward the hall where the dryer sits.
The thought of them not getting along horrifies me, and I’m overcome with a mixture of disappointment and frustration as I hurry him out before round two starts.
The dryer door opens with a click, and a rush of hot air hits my face as his jacket tumbles out. The dryer heat only makes the woodsy-bergamot smell stronger. I’d like to slip it on, but resist with Usalv standing next to me.
“Here—it’s dry.” I extend my arms to hand it to him, but he hesitates for a moment. There’s a lot to discuss, but not while Macy’s within earshot.
“Thanks.” He takes the jacket and starts to turn away, but I grasp his forearm, restraining him gently.
He looks down at me, and I glance behind him before whispering, “Can I move in next weekend?”
“Next weekend?” His voice rises before looking back over his shoulder. “Maybe you should see it first.”
“Why? Are you some kind of a slum lord?” I ask.
“Fuck that. Of course not.” He sounds offended.
“Perfect. How about next weekend then?”
He blows out a long slow breath. “That’s too soon. The plumbing won’t be finished.” He pauses, then pins me with a direct look. “But you can move into my downstairs bedroom if you want.”
“Your downstairs bedroom?” I repeat. “As in your apartment?”
He nods. “It’s on the first floor.” His eyes watch me. “Mine’s upstairs.”
“Yours?”
“Bedroom. I sleep upstairs.”
“Oh.” I’m speechless.
“We’d share the kitchen, laundry, living room, and entry way.” His voice is calm and certain. “But you’d have your own bathroom, closet, and some garage storage.”
I hesitate. “Um…how long until the one bedroom is ready?”
“Another month. My uncle needs to send a crew over but won’t if I’m not there. And I’ve been busy.”
Wow. Living in the same building as Usalv is one thing, but the same apartment? That’s unexpected to say the least. But what else can I do? Macy’s a wreck over this apartment thing, and my own search hasn’t turned up anything.
“Think about it and let me know.” His words interrupt my thoughts.
“No.”
“No?” He sounds disappointed.
“No, I don’t need to think about it. I need to move. Like now.” I sigh. “Besides, one month isn’t so long. And it does solve all our problems. I get a place, you get a tenant. Macy and Paul get their apartment back, and I don’t have to deal with Mike—not in that capacity, anyway.” I smile up at him, but he doesn’t smile back.
“Louise, I’m just trying to help, not pressure you. If this doesn’t feel right, then…”
I squeeze his arm and his stops speaking. “Actually, it does feel like the right thing to do. And it helps me out a lot.” With my other hand, I gesture toward the hall and lead him to the tiny foyer.
We turn the corner and stop near the front door.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him.
He smiles back. “Let me know what time next weekend. See you at the gym?”
I nod.
“Good.” He opens the door and steps into the hall without a backward glance. I leave the door a bit ajar to watch him walk down the hall before shutting it with a gentle click.
When I turn back around, Macy stands in the hallway just outside the kitchen, her face a mixture of shock and amusement.
“What?” I ask.
She gives me a worried smile and shakes her head. “That”—she points over my shoulder—“is one super-sized jar of man-candy. Lou, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
11
I lie naked in bed, my clean clothes still downstairs in the dryer.
Old habits die hard.
“Louise?” When only stillness answers, my gaze shifts to the bedside clock.
She moved in four days ago and her jacked up schedule still confuses me. If I’m not up by the time she’s home, the kitchen commotion wakes me.
I slide out of bed and walk to the staircase.
“Louise?” I descend the stairs and make my way to the laundry machine, past the hallway clock that says seven-thirty. Morning light streams in through the cutout windows of the heavy wooden front door.
Sweet Lou should be here soon.
My kitchen is a long narrow room with a stackable laundry machine behind plantation shutter doors that rest against the far wall. I rip open what looks like a pantry and reach into the dryer.
What the hell…where are my clothes?
I pull out a bunch of Sweet Lou’s things. A healthy handful of cotton lace underwear, and a big fancy flowery towel decorated with a lace border spill out onto floor. I stuff them back in and look around for the load of shorts and shirts that were in here a few days ago.
I pause as the sound of city noise becomes louder, and then distant again as the front door shuts.
Sweet Lou is home.
She usually heads straight for the kitchen. Famished after her twelve-hour graveyard shift, she offers to share her food with me if I’m here. Hanging around in the buff, given our fragile circumstances, might leave give her the impression she’s been ambushed.
Shit.
I pull out her fancy towel again and knot it around my naked waist, then lean over the counter, hoping she won’t notice my improvised pink paisley man-skirt. My lungs breathe in and out, slow and deep, awaiting her appearance.
Only…it doesn’t happen.
A few moments pass. Then the glass liquor cabinet doors resonate as they shut, followed by the glug, glug of liquid being poured. Lots of it, accompanied by muffled sobs.
Something’s wrong.
I tighten my towel around me and venture out into the living room.
Sweet Lou’s lithe frame is stretched out on the charcoal colored couch under the bay window that overlooks the street. A large tumbler of amber liquid rests on her thigh, cradled between her palms.
A single tear runs down her cheek as she looks out the window in stony silence.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She startles at my voice, then fixates on the flowery towel. I look down and notice the paisley bouquet perfectly ac
centuates the package. Perfectly, as in fuck, I hope she doesn’t think it was deliberate.
“I had to borrow your towel.” I explain. “Couldn’t find my clothes…have you seen them?”
She shoots me a puzzled look. “I left them outside your bathroom door in my wicker basket. I couldn’t find any of your laundry baskets. You didn’t see it?”
“Laundry basket? I wondered what that was. Probably should get one instead of leaving things in the dryer?”
She nods, detached, then wipes the tear from her cheek.
“Hey, what is it?” I ask.
“It’s been a shit day.” She looks out the window.
“That I can see.”
She takes a gulp of her drink. “I lost a patient.”
“Lost as in—”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t considered what life at her day job was like.
“The woman-child looked the wrong way down a one-way street and got hit by a commuter bus. Forever Nineteen at six forty-two a.m.” She raises her glass, then takes a gulp of amber liquid.
“Fuck. I’m…sorry.”
“Me too.” Sweet Lou swallows another gulp.
“Does this sort of thing happen a lot?”
“Sure does.” She gives me a defensive shrug. “We lose about half our patients in trauma-ICU.”
“That many?” Damn. That’s a lot of dead people.
“The patients we treat are in dire straits when they arrive. It’s the nature of the work.” Her voice sounds regretful. “But I’d be lying if I said some didn’t touch me more than others.”
I approach her and pause to pick up a bottle of whiskey next to the couch. Bushmills. She drains the tumbler in her hand and I refill it before she makes space for me to sit down next to her.
“Is there something I can do?” I squeeze her knee gently.
“Not really. The old timers tell me that as I age, the shock of losing someone younger erodes. Until then, bottoms up.” She raises the glass to her lips.
“You do this a lot?” I nod toward the glass.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she answers. “Don’t you ever have a drink after work?”
“Once in a while. But not fifty percent of the time.”
“Me neither,” she huffs. “What I really need is to go for a run, but I’ve got another shift tonight.” She leans back and the nape of her neck hits my arm where it rests.
Louise’s caramel curls brush my forearm as she tucks one leg beneath her. I gaze down at her other leg stretched out on the coffee table. As it brushes against mine, I admire the lean, dense muscle through the thin fabric of her scrubs.
“None of this is your fault.” Her face is draped across my arm. “You know that, right?”
“I know that. Here.” She slaps her temple. “But here and here”—she strikes her stomach and heart—“it takes a while. She was just so goddamn young.”
Distress clouds those amber colored eyes, and I pull her body close to me. Tears stream down my naked chest like a trail of hot lava. I stroke the skin of her smooth creamy cheek to wipe them away, but their heat burns my fingers and I resist the urge to suck them.
When her sobs subside, Sweet Lou uncurls herself and pours another scotch. This time, she offers the glass to me.
“Fuck it.” My fingers graze hers as I take the glass and drain it in a single gulp.
She looks surprised, then takes it back, refilling the tumbler and draining the bottle of Bushmills.
“Right before he died, my dad said that he knew I’d be okay, that he was really proud of how I’d turned out. And that he’d miss me.” She rests her forehead against my shoulder as the whiskey catches up with her. “I wonder what he’d say if he could see me now.”
“I’m sure he’d feel the same. You’re an extraordinary woman,” I assure her. “What happened to your dad?” This is the second time he’s come up while she’s stressed out.
Louise takes another gulp, and closes her eyes while her body shudders. “A RAM 2500 t-boned my dad’s door on the double yellow of an s-shaped curve.” She squeezes my waist. “We didn’t stand a chance in our Forester.”
“We?” I repeat. “Were you in the accident too?”
“Dislocated my shoulder.” Her voice cracks. “Just as well. It was right after my first year of college, and my knowledge of nursing could fit in a thimble. I would have been an even bigger mess if I’d tried to treat him and failed.”
“It’s not your fault.” My lips whisper soft kisses into her hair.
“I hugged him with my good arm, and talked to him until help arrived.” Hot tears trickle down my abdomen as she chokes the words out. “In the end it didn’t matter. The other driver died of his heart attack and Dad died from internal hemorrhaging.”
I tuck her under my shoulder. “When was this?”
“About seven years ago now.”
It makes sense now. “So you were the same age as the girl that died today?” I smooth tear soaked strands of curly hair away from her face.
Sweet Lou’s eyes widen. “Yeah.”
“When did you decide to become a nurse?” I ask.
“My mom’s a nurse too. I’ve wanted to be one since I was a kid.” A faraway look enters her eyes. “But it wasn’t until after…after Dad that I decided to be a trauma nurse.”
“Then maybe this is more about a bad memory instead of a bad day?” I hug her head close to me. “Just saying…”
“Maybe.” Her expression is thoughtful and distant.
Against my torso, her shoulders relax. She lies across me with her temple pressed against my heart. A few minutes later, the still air rings with the sound of her steady breathing, a deep forceful wheeze fueled by a mixture of exhaustion and alcohol.
I blow out a breath and hesitate before laying my cramped arm in the cradle of Sweet Lou’s hip. She’s got me pinned in more ways than one.
What the fuck have I done?
My phone roars to life as “Professional Griefers” by Deadmaus5 blasts from the console table in the foyer. The clock by the fireplace says nine-twenty. It’s probably Drew, wondering what the hell happened to our nine o’clock work out.
When I decided to be late today, it wasn’t supposed to be this late.
Another minute with Louise curled up on top of me isn’t going to be good for anyone. I inch my arms around the back of her knees and shoulders, lift us both off the couch and head down the hall.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is groggy against my shoulder.
“Putting you to bed.” My back pushes against her bedroom door.
She sits up in my arms with her eyes wide open. “What?”
“Relax.” My voice is calm. “I’m putting you to bed, not taking you to bed.”
Since the night we first met, I haven’t been out with anyone, let alone had sex.
Her head shoots off my chest. “Oh… Just so we’re clear…what’s the difference?”
“I’d never take any woman to bed in your condition.” As soon as the words are spoken, I know that the next woman I’m with will be Louise, wide awake and willing.
“Damn,” she replies.
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Her speech slurs. “It just means you’re a good guy,” she explains. “And that I’m not getting special treatment. Which is good. Only it’s not.” She pauses then settles herself back against my chest. “Am I making sense?”
“Tell me, when you’re drunk, how much of what you say do you recall?”
“Zippo. Alcohol tends to hit me fast, because of my athletic metabolism. Me-ta-ob-lism,” she repeats. “But it also wears off fast. Especially if I can sleep it off. So basically, conversations don’t really stick.”
“Good to know.”
Sweet Lou’s bedroom lies adjacent to the kitchen behind the stairs. Back in the day, it was probably used for a nanny or elderly parent. It’s long and narrow, about eight by twelve. Her daybed is wedged between the shorter
walls with a small side table.
Unextended, it’s about the same width as a twin bed. Thank God, because the urge to crawl in there with her is way too strong, despite the ass-chewing I’m due from Drew when we meet up.
“Ride’s over. Sleep it off, beautiful.” I lay her down on top of the lilac comforter. With my knee next to her, I reach across the bed to remove several small pillows to make more room.
I draw a sharp breath as her hand inches up my leg. Louise’s eyes are shut tight, her brows lined with troubled furrows. Her hand slides to the top of the towel, then burrows under the fold and against the skin of my hip.
“Louise…don’t.” My voice sounds hollow and lacks conviction.
“Usalv,” she rasps.
“What is it?”
When she doesn’t answer, I pull her hand away from my hip, dislodging the towel. I kneel to try and catch it, which brings my face inches from hers.
“I’m sorry…for being such a pain in the ass…and…and—thank you.” She lifts her lips to mine.
Her soft kiss lingers like a gentle temptation. My body swells, and I force myself to focus on the taste of whiskey rather than the caress of her lips on my mouth and tongue.
“Goodnight.” Her tired voice is abrupt. All at once her lips and hands release me and she rolls away. Several seconds pass while I listen to her steady breathing.
“Goodnight.” I whisper and leave the rumpled towel on the bedroom floor and close the door on my way out.
12
I pull the brim of my baseball cap down until it hits the frames of my copper-mirrored Clubmaster sunglasses. I hesitate at the gym’s main doors, reluctant to enter.
“Hey, Louise.” Two men call as they exit through the front.
“Hey, guys.” One of them holds the door for me as he leaves. “Thanks.”
At the door of the main gym, I pull up my hoodie and scope out the scene. Not far from the entryway, one of the MMA guys paces up and down the path in front of the free weights.
“Hey, Drew.” I rest my Clubmasters on the brim of my cap. “Have you seen Usalv?”
Drew stops and looks up at me. His brown eyes soften and his full lips suppress a smile. “He’s in the cage.” Drew nods toward the back of the gym. “Probably be there a while.”
Fighting Hearts (Hearts So Fine Book 1) Page 8