Slow Burn

by Roxie Noir

  “Kyle Pickett approached me today after the sermon,” he says, cutting a chunk of roasted chicken and stabbing it with his fork. The motion is technically polite and genteel, but there’s a force behind it that’s anything but.

  I rest my hands on the edge of the table as my stomach begins to twist inside me. Any time Kyle talks to my father it can’t be good for me.

  “Did he?” I ask, voice neutral, since he’s clearly waiting for a response.

  “He asked my permission to take you to Rosalie’s for dinner on Tuesday night,” he says, and puts the bite of chicken into his mouth.

  It feels like everyone at the entire table holds their breath as he chews.

  “I accepted on your behalf. Kyle’s a godly, upstanding man, the missteps of his youth aside,” he goes on, slipping into lecture mode. “He has many good qualities to recommend him, and I think he could be an excellent match for you.”

  I look down at my plate of food, cheeks flaming. Everyone here knows what my father really means, even if he won’t say it in front of everyone.

  When he says Kyle could be an excellent match, he means Kyle’s the only one willing to take you, and a woman of your age should be married.

  I force myself to smile and look my father in the eye. He can probably tell that it’s fake, but it’s the best I can do right now.

  “Thank you, father,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I’m so glad to have you looking out for me.”

  I don’t mean a single word of it, but I’m doing what I have to. There are options besides going on a date with Kyle, sure, and believe it or not they’re all much, much worse than suffering through nachos.

  I lift my hands to my plate again and keep eating mechanically. I’m not hungry at all, but I have to act normal right now, so I keep chewing and swallowing the suddenly-flavorless meal.

  My father changes the dinner topic to politics. Specifically, he and my brothers James, Jr. and Daniel discuss whether the U.S.’s most recent talks with Israel are likely to usher in the End of Days and the Rapture. They hope so. I don’t.

  As they talk, I glance over at Gabriel by accident, and his eyes flick to me for just a second. I wish I could tell him that I’m sorry about Kyle, that going on a date with him is the last thing I want. That I’m just doing this for survival and I’d just rather be with him on the dirt floor of a barn, but I’ve got no idea what Gabriel thinks about all this.

  For all I know, the kiss was a mistake and he doesn’t want to get involved in this mess. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t blame him.

  After dinner, I’m so preoccupied with Kyle that I almost forget that Gabriel has something for me, and I don’t know what. It’s not until I’m alone in the kitchen with my mother, doing the dishes and tidying for the morning, that I remember.

  And I have an idea. I straighten the tablecloth on the kitchen table, then put my hands on my hips, frowning theatrically at the vase of flowers sitting on it.

  I sigh. My mother finally looks over.

  “These are getting old,” I say, sounding as displeased as possible.

  She glances at them.

  “I’ll send Pearl to get fresh ones from the garden tomorrow,” she says.

  I grab the vase instead and examine the flowers like I’m a jeweler looking for imperfections.

  “I’ll go get new ones now,” I say. “These are dying, and they smell funny, and it’s a nice night. Besides, I could use some practice with arranging them.”

  My mother looks very, very skeptical, so I smile at her and hope it works.

  “You know, if I’m going to be going on dates with Kyle,” I say, hoping she picks up on my hint.

  Dates mean a relationship, an engagement, and — sooner rather than later — a marriage. And, above all else, my mother tends to blame my poor household management skills for my failed marriage.

  As if being able to arrange flowers well would have made Lucas less gay.

  Finally, she nods once and turns back to polishing the kitchen counters. I grab some shears and a basket, push the kitchen door open, greeted by the cool night air, and take a deep breath. It’s starting to smell like fall, just the barest hint of brittle leaves and wood smoke in the air.

  I toss the flowers into the compost, dump out the water, and then stroll into the garden. I don’t actually give a crap about whether the flowers were old or not, but it’s dark outside and Gabriel has already headed to the carriage house for the night.

  I saw him looking at me last night from his window, so I know he watches sometimes. Hopefully he’s paying attention now and he’ll come out, say hi, and we’ll have a perfectly dark-but-above-board conversation.

  Roses, snapdragons, marigolds, zinnias. A whole bunch of flowers I can never keep straight, except they’re mostly pretty, and my mother and sisters all seem to know how to make them look fantastic and I don’t.

  I turn the corner into the vegetable garden, around some tall-but-nearly-dead tomatoes, and I hear a door shut, so I kick the tomato trellis, making it shake a little.

  It works, because a few moments later, Gabriel’s standing at the end of the row, his hands in his pockets. He’s out of his work clothes, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt that says Great Smoky Mountains National Park on the front, his muscles practically bulging out of it.

  I swallow hard, fire suddenly snaking through my body, winding lower and lower. With everything that’s happened I’d somehow forgotten the sheer, total lust he unfailingly inspires in me. I’d somehow forgotten how hard it can be to talk to him alone without wanting him to push his hands up my skirt, his lips on my neck.

  “Lovely night,” I say, nervous again, but for a completely different reason this time. “Nice time to pick flowers, don’t you think?”

  He glances up at the house, searching the windows for activity, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few envelopes, steps closer to me, and holds them out.

  I can barely read the writing on them, but I can tell they’re from my stalker. The handwriting matches.

  “I already stole some,” I admit, not taking them.

  “Not these,” Gabriel says, his voice low and gravelly. “If you think it’s your father writing them, you haven’t read these.”

  He sounds so grave and serious that I believe him completely. I take the letters, glance back at the house, then lift my shirt slightly above the waist of my skirt.

  “Don’t watch,” I whisper, teasing. “I’m being indecent.”

  I push them into the top of my pantyhose, half an inch of my stomach exposed. Gabriel doesn’t look away, just grins, watching me.

  “You’re probably going to Hell now,” he deadpans.

  “If I am, this wasn’t the tipping point,” I say, smoothing my shirt back over the envelopes squashed against my skin. If I have to wear the uncomfortable, deeply unflattering combination of pantyhose and extra-large t-shirts, at least it’s a good outfit for hiding contraband letters.

  “The witchcraft was probably the tipping point,” he agrees, crossing his arms in front of him. “Or whatever you use white, translucent crystals for.”

  “They’re how I get men to lie to my father on my behalf, apparently,” I say. “The spells seem to be working.”

  I pause for a moment. Gabriel smiles.

  “Thanks, by the way,” I say.

  “I already told you, I’m not gonna make your life harder,” he says. “Though, Ruby, I should warn you. Those letters have some fucked up shit in them. Fucked up shit about you. I understand why your father doesn’t want you to read them, and I hate being the one to give them to you, but… you should. You deserve to know what’s happening.”

  I swallow.

  “That bad?” I ask.

  “Pretty bad,” he admits, his hands back in his pockets. “Ruby, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  He raises one eyebrow slightly, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “I’ll be as sorry as I want,” he says, and I laugh quietly.
r />   “This is where you make your big stand?” I tease. “On feeling bad that I’ve got a stalker?”

  Gabriel glances quickly at the big house, then back at me, still smirking.

  “I feel like a neutered housecat around here and it’s driving me crazy,” he says, his voice gone low and growly. “I’ve got to stand firm on something.”

  I raise both eyebrows.

  “Neutered?”

  The second that’s out of my mouth, my face heats up, and Gabriel grins.

  “Just metaphorically,” he says. “But you knew that.”

  I swallow, anxiety writhing in my chest, because as much as I like this and want him and have desires I’m not sure I completely understand, I don’t know what I’m doing. Flirting with men like this just isn’t in my repertoire.

  “I had suspected as—”

  I hear a door open, and we both turn our heads, my heart seizing. We’re not doing anything, just talking, but I know that nothing I do is above suspicion, ever.

  My mother comes out of the kitchen door, glances around, and finds me. She walks over.

  “Ruby!” She says, her usual smile perfectly in place, even as she takes in Gabriel’s muscled, t-shirt-clad form. “Will you make sure to get some camellias? I’m afraid they’ll stop blooming soon and they’re so lovely. Hello, Gabriel.”

  “I’ll make sure to get some,” I say, and I know I’m talking a little too fast, but I can’t help it. “Gabriel just saw that I was out here alone and wanted to make sure I was okay.”

  My mother’s smile tightens, just a bit.

  “You’re so sweet for your concern,” she says, honeyed sweetness dripping from every word. “But I’m sure Ruby is just fine.”

  Gabriel ducks his head.

  “Of course, ma’am. Have a good night Mrs. Burgess. Ruby.”

  “Good night,” my mother says.

  He turns and goes back to the carriage house. My mother turns to me, a hardness behind her features that I recognize a little too well.

  “Which flowers were you thinking, dear?” she asks.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gabriel

  I have a full day to wonder if giving Ruby the letters was a mistake. I see her, of course, but we don’t talk again until Tuesday. That gives me plenty of time to wonder whether she’s been caught with them, whether we’re now under suspicion because we were seen talking in the garden.

  I swear to God, this house is making me crazy. Before I started this gig I wouldn’t have believed the sheer level of scrutiny I’d be under here, from her family alone.

  But Ruby’s siblings, their friends, her father’s aides and employees all do a good job of keeping me paranoid. I don’t know if one of them might overhear something and tell her parents. I feel like I’m living in a very small police state.

  Monday afternoon I follow her into the laundry room. I know that Ruby’s probably desperate for a few minutes alone most of the time, so I don’t follow her every step: as long as I know where she is and that I can get to her in seconds, I’m fine. This house is well-secured already. She doesn’t need me three feet away at all times.

  When I enter, she looks up, then glances through the door behind me, still taking clothes from a laundry basket, shaking them, and pushing them into the washing machine.

  “There’s no one in the hallway,” I say, meaning no one saw me come in. “I just had a question about getting a stain out of a shirt.”

  “Just let me get this started and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she says, shaking a man’s shirt until the cuffs come unrolled, then shoving it in.

  “It’s a mud stain,” I say, just to keep talking. “You know that bright red clay they’ve got around here? That stuff stains like there’s no tomorrow.”

  She pours detergent into the tray of the washer, closes the lid, cranks the dial, and the machine starts.

  “It’s the bane of every gardener in the state,” she confirms, leaning against the washer and folding her arms. “What kind of fabric did you get it on?”

  The machine hums, half drowning out her last few words. Good to know I was right about talking in the laundry room.

  “You read them?”

  She swallows and looks at the wall in front of her, face stony.

  “I did,” she says. “You were right. They’re bad.”

  “I’m—”

  “Gabriel, I swear if you apologize again I’ll tell my father you’ve got the Satanic Bible hidden in your apartment.”

  “It was the one thing I had left, Ruby,” I tease. “Now I’m a broken shell of a man.”

  She glances at me, swiping me up and down with her eyes. I lean against the doorway, inviting her to look as long as she wants. She’s more than welcome.

  “I think you’ll be okay,” she says. “The letters are still in my room, though. I didn’t want to risk walking around with them stuffed into my undergarments all day.”

  I swallow.

  “And?”

  The washing machine pauses its hum for a moment, then kicks into the next part of the cycle, water swishing back and forth inside it.

  “And I think you’re right,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper. “I must have stolen the wrong ones last week, because they were way tamer — he called me a Jezebel and a harlot and all that, but they didn’t go any further. They didn’t threaten anything… specific.”

  “Ruby,” I say.

  She looks over at me, and I realize that her green eyes are shiny with tears. My stomach clenches, with sympathy, but also with rage. What kind of father is the Senator that him faking a stalker is a reasonable possibility?

  Before I know it, I’ve got Ruby in my arms, in front of the washing machine, her head against my collarbone, and I’m holding her tight.

  “Don’t,” she whispers, but she hooks one arm around me, her hand tentative on my back.

  “No one is going to hurt you,” I murmur into her hair. “I promise.”

  Ruby doesn’t say anything, just leans into a little harder, just for a moment.

  I know full well this is stupid, that I shouldn’t be holding her like this, here, in the laundry room. Anyone could walk in and I’d be permanently screwed out of a job, and she’d probably be sent off to some sort of boot camp for misbehaving women.

  But there are some things I can’t fucking do. I can’t see Ruby frightened and about to cry and not hold her, tell her everything will be okay.

  I protect people. It’s what I do, what I’ve always wanted to do, and right now I especially protect Ruby.

  She takes a deep breath. She squeezes me tight, with both arms, and then she pulls away from me, cold disappointment slithering through my veins.

  Footsteps sound in the hallway. The washing machine swishes and hums.

  “Go,” she says. “I’m fine.”

  I frown, because I don’t believe her, but she turns away, picks up another basket, and starts unloading the dryer, glancing over her shoulder at me.

  “Don’t do all that only to get me in trouble by standing there,” she says, almost playfully. “Go on. Get.”

  “Yes, Miss Burgess,” I tease, then walk out of the laundry room.

  Between the letters, the barn, and the laundry room, I nearly fucking forgot about Ruby’s date with Kyle. It’s probably because Kyle is completely forgettable, even as the guy who’s taking Ruby on a date.

  I’m reminded when her father calls me into his office Tuesday morning and informs me that I’ll be accompanying them, along with her sister Pearl. I’m Ruby’s bodyguard — obviously — and Pearl is their chaperone.

  “You’ll also be functioning as their chaperone, of course,” the Senator says, standing tall in front of his window, gazing out, hands locked behind himself. “Ruby is well aware of what’s expected of her, but there’s to be no touching above the wrist, no sultry talk of any kind, and no salacious mannerisms from either of them.”

  Somehow, I keep a straight face, even when he says sultry t
alk.

  It’s not going to be a fucking problem, I think.

  “Furthermore, Mr. Pickett and my daughter are not to be left alone. At least one of them should be within your range of vision at all times. If Ruby uses the ladies’ room and Kyle says he needs to use the men’s, you follow him. Also, you are to sit at a table, not a booth. No alcohol. No excessively spicy food.”

  I desperately want to ask him if booths are the seating arrangement preferred by Satan, but I bite my tongue.

  “Yes, sir,” I say instead.

  “They are to be home by 9:30 sharp, barring an act of God,” he says, and I’m positive he means that literally. “To put it bluntly, Gabriel, Ruby’s virtue is already quite suspect within the community due to her past, and it’s my job as her father to see that her reputation is pure.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, because every word he says just makes me angrier. I’m pretty fucking sure it’s Ruby’s job as an adult woman to see that her reputation is whatever the fuck she wants it to be, but I don’t say that.

  “Of course, sir,” I say.

  “Thank you, Gabriel,” he says, dismissing me.

  Even though I forgot about Ruby’s date with Kyle to begin with, by 6:05 pm I’m fucking pissed. Pearl and I are sitting downstairs, on opposite ends of a very fancy couch in the sitting room.

  Yes, this house has a sitting room.

  Kyle’s late. He was supposed to pick up Ruby at six, and it’s been five minutes. What kind of asshole is late for his first date with a girl?

  And what kind of asshole is late for his first date with Ruby?

  I’ve had the whole day to stew about this, the fact that some perverted prostitute-fucking unwanted-dick-pic-sending asshole gets to go on a date with Ruby, sanctioned by her father, and I have to chaperone.

  Meanwhile, if I make too much eye contact with her in public, it makes her whole family suspicious.

  I’m jealous. Not jealous of Kyle, really — he’s a dopey sad-sack who’s always going to be known as the guy with the cartoon porn, who I don’t think could find a woman to date without paying for her or arranging it through his father — but I’m jealous that he gets to do this.