by Lisa Sorbe
Bitch.
I glare at it. “Does that thing live here?” If he says yes – please don’t say yes – I might have to accidentally leave the front door open one day.
Lucy’s tail flicks back and forth, her eyes narrowing. Like she can read my mind or, at the very least, sense my intent. I purse my lips and arch a brow. Bring it on, bitch.
“Sort of.” Miles runs his hand down her back and she bumps her head into his chest before turning her piercing gaze back to me. “I’m kind of in between homes right now, I guess you could say. So, she’s staying here until I can get…” He clears his throat, frowns. “Let’s just it’ll be awhile. Although I try and keep her in the apartment upstairs. But she has a habit of sneaking out every once in a while.”
“Obviously.” I take a step toward Miles, eliciting another hiss from Lucy. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“No,” Miles chuckles. “I don’t suppose she does. Lucy’s not really a fan of women. Probably see you as a threat or something.” He shifts the cat in his arms and scratches under her chin. “But she’s not,” he croons to her, shaking his head. “Jenny’s not a threat. No, she isn’t.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a dork.” And then I frown, because I realize he might as well be describing me.
Miles holds her out in front of him, looks back and forth between us, and adds further insult to injury. “And what do you know? You two even look alike. Black hair, blue eyes. Resting bitch face.”
I ignore him. “Is that thing going to be around all the time? It tried to kill me. You are aware of that, right?”
“And… you’re both drama queens.” Miles moves toward the door to the shop, Lucy tucked snugly back in his arms. “C’mon. I need coffee.” He tilts his head, indicating I should follow.
We pass through the shop, sand and grit crunching under my sneakers, and head for a door in the back corner. Miles opens it, flips a switch on the wall, and takes a left up a narrow staircase that would no doubt give me claustrophobia if I suffered from that debilitating fear. At the top, we come to a boxy landing and Miles opens another door, stepping aside to let me enter first.
The loft is huge – a big open space with a smooth concrete floor that runs the length of the building. Whitewashed brick rises up to meet the high ceiling, with dark wood beams and exposed ductwork accenting the corrugated metal roof. Six large, arched windows – three street facing and the other three overlooking the parking lot – let in the late morning light, giving the room a warm glow. The space is sparsely furnished, the décor clean and simple. A box spring and mattress set covered in a dark navy comforter sit on the floor and an old boxy dresser flanked by a metal clothes rack filled with t-shirts and flannels hug the wall next to it. A plump leather loveseat and a scratched sideboard with a sleek record player resting on top of it are arranged in a corner near the windows that face the street. A giant blue Monaco rug stretches out underneath it all, adding a bit of coziness to the otherwise vacant feel. A few steps from us is a galley-style kitchen with white laminate counter tops, black appliances, and a small island. The two metal bar stools butting up to it tell me it doubles as the kitchen table.
The contrast between the simple ambience up here compared to the cluttered shop below is so striking I have to comment. “So you live up here?”
“Yep.” Miles kneels, nudging Lucy from his arms. When her paws meet the ground, she stretches before slinking away toward a bowl by the kitchen. She rounds the empty dish, looks back at us, and meows.
“Demanding, isn’t she?”
Miles heads into the kitchen and I follow, watching as he pulls a bag of cat food from a cupboard under the sink. “She is,” he agrees. He scoops some kibble into the bowl and pumps a few squirts from a white bottle on top of it. For a second, a fishy odor fills the air. When Miles sees me wrinkle my nose, he smirks. “Seems I have a knack for attracting high maintenance women.”
“Again with your charming wit.” I stroll over to one of the metal stools, hop up, and plop my chin in my palm. Twirl a strand of hair that’s come out of my bun. I’ve been cleaning for the last two hours and I look like it. My jeans are streaked with dirt and my yellow tank top is damp with sweat. I reach up, tweak the bandana that’s tying my hair away from my face, and smooth the piece back in. “Well, I’m hardly high maintenance now, am I?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Miles grabs a coffee filter from a drawer and opens the lid of a crunchy looking old pot. He stuffs it in the strainer and fills the thin paper with four heaping scoops of coffee grinds. He looks back at me over his shoulder. “Something tells me you’d still be high maintenance covered in mud and wearing a burlap sack.”
I snort. “Judgmental much?”
Miles shrugs. “Just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” He pulls the pot out of the brewer, dumps the old coffee down the sink, and refills it to the brim. “Let me guess, you take yours with copious amounts of cream and sugar. Am I right, Princess?”
“Hardly. I’ll have it black.” My smile is sweet as his eyes meet mine. “Casanova,” I whisper, my voice taunting.
His face is deadpan. “So, you like your coffee black. Like your heart.”
I push my lips together in a sneer. “Are you this nice to George?”
“I don’t even have to try to be nice to George.”
The coffee drips into the pot, the smell filtering through the air and making my mouth water. “So,” I muse, cocking my head. “You have to actually try to be nice to me?”
He grabs two mugs from the cupboard and slides one in front of me. It’s a white ceramic moose head, with the antler as the handle. The word Talkeetna is scrawled along the back side. Leaning back against the counter, he watches me as I study it and grins. “Every damn time I see you.”
“Whatever.” I hold up the mug. For some reason, I feel like needling him. “This is classy.” I glance at his and note it’s just as ridiculous; Dolly Parton’s face smiles up from the ceramic and, well, you can guess what the handle is. “Nice tits. What does George think of your taste in coffee mugs?”
Miles grabs the coffee pot and sits down on the stool across from me. He makes a motion with it toward my cup, the dark liquid swishing with the movement, but then circles back to fill his first. He waits to answer me, filling my cup slowly and then bringing his up for a quick sip. “George,” he says, “loves my taste.” His grin is mischievous, the double entendre falling from his lips in a teasing breath.
Whoa.
And now my mind is moving in a direction it shouldn’t be.
“Hmm.” I blow on my coffee before taking a drink. Close my eyes and pretend I’m enjoying the taste. Anything to avoid letting him know I’m thinking about how he would taste.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s freaking Miles for crying out loud!
“How long have you been living up here?” I ask, doing my best to appear like I don’t care if he answers one way or another.
“About a year and a half.”
“You said you were between homes. What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means exactly what it means.” Miles takes another sip, licks his lips.
He has nice lips. Not that I care or anything.
“No, it doesn’t. It’s the kind of statement that suggests there’s more to it than what you’re actually saying.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re nosy.”
“I’m curious. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right. There isn’t, really. Instead I ask another question. “Where did you live before?”
He sighs, his voice thick with sarcasm. “A house.”
“Did you live by yourself?” For some reason, I want to know. I want to know if he’s been in love, had his heart broken. Or maybe he was the one doing the breaking.
Usually I could care less about other people. Getting to know their pasts, their desires, what makes them tick. It’s all the same, any
way. It’s all incessant chatter that sucks me dry. Like Boring Braden, for example. Listening to him talk about his affinity for jigsaw puzzles was a major yawn. In fact, just thinking about it makes me want to yawn right now…
I barely have time to slap my hand over my mouth before said yawn rips my jaw wide open.
Miles raises his brows. “Don’t tell me I’m boring you?”
“No,” I snap back. “I just didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all.”
He cocks his head and smirks. “And why is that?”
I shrug, not about to tell him I spent half of the evening stalking my ex-husband’s social media pages and then, after I was done, couldn’t get to sleep because I was too jealous of the life he was living without me. I google Julian one damn time and now I can’t get him out of my head. “I don’t know. Just because.”
He takes a sip, studies me over the rim of his mug. “Just because isn’t an answer.”
I glare at him. “Um, yeah. It is.”
“It’s a statement that suggests there’s more to it than what you’re actually saying,” he says, using my own words against me.
I frown. “Fine. I didn’t really want to know about your personal life, anyway.” I sip more of my coffee. “I was just trying to make conversation.”
Miles grins. “Oh, okay,” he says, nodding. He sets his mug down but keeps his fingers wrapped around the tits. “You know, Jenny, we don’t have to talk. Maybe,” he says, his eyes boring into mine, “I don’t want to talk to you at all. Maybe I –”
“Look, I know you don’t particularly like me,” I interrupt, waggling my finger between us. “And believe me, the feeling is mutual. But you don’t have to be such an ass about it.”
He chuckles. “Well, cheers to your honesty. And no, I don’t particularly like you.” He raises a brow and swallows the last of his coffee. “But I do think you’re more bark than bite.”
Humph. I raise my mug. “Well, cheers to your honesty.”
He reaches for the pot and refills his cup. When he doesn’t offer to refill mine, I do it myself.
“What I meant, though, is sometimes not talking is better than filling up the empty space with superficial questions you could care less about. Silence, Jenny. Silence is underrated.” His gaze drifts over my face, like he’s memorizing every feature and tucking it all away in his memory so he’ll be able to recall even the finest detail when we’re not together.
Julian used to look at me like this. It’s been so long since anyone has looked at me like this.
When his eyes meet mine, I hold his stare. Bite my lip to keep from talking. From ruining the moment. Because I think he’s trying to prove a point right now. And fuck it all if – for some reason I’m not even sure of myself – I want to let him.
I don’t know how long we sit in silence, our eyes locked – not in battle, but in surrender. My breathing stills, shallow breaths that tickle my lips like the kiss from a butterfly’s wing. My chest feels like it’s swelling, opening up, up up. And that stupid lump is back in my throat.
And Miles… Miles doesn’t look like Miles anymore.
He smiles. And when he finally speaks, his voice is husky.
“There you are.”
Julian never came right out and said he didn’t want me to work.
But as he belittled every single job I had during our relationship, it was pretty obvious he didn’t want me punching a time clock.
He wanted all of my focus on him.
Of course, back then I just assumed he was looking out for me. Being older and more set in the art world, I immediately trusted his assessment of my employers, forgoing my gut instinct for his approval.
There was the assistant job at Phantom Gallery, an up and coming establishment that took a chance on me right after graduation. It was a quirky place, the pieces dark and moody. But they were also beautiful, and sort of dreamy in a brooding way. They weren’t really my style, but I loved the man I worked for.
Scott was around Julian’s age at the time, an appraiser of fine art and opening the gallery was his dream. He used to joke that while he couldn’t make art, he could damn well get it out in the world so others could appreciate it. I learned a lot in the two months I worked for him; the pieces we secured gave me a whole new perspective - visually, emotionally. The melancholy paintings invoked in me emotions I’d never felt before. My entire life had been lived without the sort of pain that turns you inside out, the kind that changes the very fiber of your being, your soul. I’d never wanted for anything. I was a privileged little white girl with a doctor for a father and a teacher for a mother, and back then I couldn’t fathom a world that didn’t bend to my every whim.
My short time spent at Phantom inspired more feeling in my own art - whenever I got a chance to do it, that is. Without even knowing it, I’d become one of those girls whose boyfriend took up my every waking minute. The ones I used to sneer at back in high school and college and adamantly insist I’d never become.
Julian only came to the gallery once, and later that night he told me with a sneer that it was a pathetic little place and the only thing it was good for was a laugh. Something in me moved when he said that, rippled through my chest and swam through my stomach. It was my pride, my ego. I was Scott’s first assistant, and we were learning the ways of the art world together. And I honestly thought what we accomplished so far was pretty damn great. But after seeing Julian’s reaction, I balked. I let his words worm their way into my brain, tainting my thoughts and tarnishing my motivation. Julian treated my job like a joke, and I began to see that - as long as I worked there – he would think of me as a joke.
And I couldn’t be a joke. Not to him.
I quit two weeks later.
After a few more jobs (none as good as working for Scott and some which were truly debasing), I stopped trying. When I expressed frustration, Julian took my hand, pulled me close, and whispered into my hair that the only job I needed was the one I already had: his muse.
So that’s what I became. One hundred percent.
And I lost myself. Entirely.
“I told you, I can’t play.”
I press my hip into the counter and cross my arms. There’s no way I’m getting talked into this. Today has been the longest first day in the history of first days, and I have no desire to end it by sitting at some softball game watching people I don’t know run around a field in ninety-degree heat.
“And I already told you. You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.” Miles sounds like he’s talking to a skittish squirrel. His demeanor sort of makes me want to laugh; it’s so different from the way he normally behaves around me. I press my lips together, because my insides feel like they’re being tickled and I’m scared I won’t be able to contain the bubble of amusement brewing inside.
The last thing I want Miles to know is he’s – sorta, maybe – cracking me.
So many of the things he does makes me want to laugh. Like earlier today, when I went into the shop to ask him for the password to the computer (which I nicknamed Bane, because in the short time I’ve worked here the piece of shit is literally the bane of my existence), and I found him dancing to an old Twisted Sister song. It took me a whole minute to get his attention, and then he refused to answer my question until I did a little jig along with him.
But I’m not a person who laughs. At least not from joy. My laughs are laced with sarcasm and usually directed at someone else’s misfortune.
“If you don’t need me to play, then what’s the point?”
“Um, to support the team?” Miles spreads his long arms out, hands open wide. “Don’t you want the place you work at to be known as this year’s winner of the Cedar Hills Slow Pitch Beer Runners Tournament? We’re seriously this close” – he holds his thumb and his forefinger up, a few centimeters of space between them – “to making it into the final round. If we win tonight’s game, we move on to the playoffs next weekend.”
I raise a brow, not convinced. “
If you’ve done so well up until now, it shouldn’t matter if I’m there or not. So…”
“When you’re this close to the big win, it doesn’t hurt to have all the help you can get. And a large cheering section can really pump us up. Plus, we need a good luck charm.” He points at me. “And that could be you.”
His words trigger something, an anger it takes a few seconds to place. And then it hits me, remembering the way Julian used me as nothing more than an object for his of inspiration. In fact, that’s all I’ve ever been to anyone, really. Jason, Clark, Victoria… Just an object dangling on an arm, an image enhancer for those who can’t be enough without me. Can’t be enough on their own.
All this time I’ve felt so high and mighty, the epitome of perfection and the envy of all those pathetic losers who couldn’t get their shit together. But when it comes down it, I’m nothing more than a goddamn accessory.
And I am not a fucking accessory.
“I’m not going just because you feel like you need some good luck charm,” I say, unable to keep the heat out of my voice.
“Save the fire for the game, Princess.” But his voice is gentle. He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. Looks me in the eye. “Truth be told, you’re my first employee. Ever. And even though our little arrangement is based purely on you, uh, needing to be here as opposed to wanting to be here, I,” he holds his hand to his chest, “would really like you to come.” He bends down and rummages under the counter, pulling out the bag I saw him bring in after he got back from lunch today. At the time, I was annoyed. I’d just cleaned that spot and here he was, adding more junk to it. When he holds it out, I hesitate, scrutinizing the thing like it’s a poisonous snake rather than a cheap plastic bag with the words Morton Designs inked across the front. When he sees my reluctance, he rolls his eyes and tosses it at me.
I fumble with the bag. “What’s this?”
“It’s a plastic bag. You use it to carry stuff.” When I don’t budge, he raises his brows and makes a come-on motion with his hand. “And this is the part when you look inside…”