by Kat Bastion
Halfway down, I heard a muffled thump, like an inside door closing.
“This is ridiculous,” I grumbled, feeling like a stalker as I skulked in the shadows of her building at night. I tugged my phone out of my back pocket, then texted her.
Answer your door.
By the time I walked back around the corner to the front, metal lightly scraped as she unlocked the door. A narrow shaft of light spilled through the crack as she opened it.
“Darren?”
I pushed through, stepping past her.
She gaped at me. “Gee, come in.”
“Thanks.” Moisture lingered in the air, along with a faint scent of vanilla. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Depends. What’s for dinner?” She relocked the door, then turned and crossed her arms.
“Whatever kind of Chinese you like.” I held up my giant brown bag.
“What did you do, rob the place?”
“Nope. Just ordered one of every special they had. Figured one of ’em had to be your favorite.”
Her lips pressed into a line as she fought a smile. “That confident?”
“Yep.”
She stared at me a beat longer, then turned. “Okay. C’mon, then.”
In near-darkness, I followed her through her maze of metal sculptures. We passed the sitting area, with its couches draped in clothes. We walked by her worktable, covered in an array of unopened envelopes.
She led me to the metal staircase that connected to her overhead loft.
As we climbed the stairs, the soft curls of her hair glistened whenever we stepped into the occasional beams of light from above. She wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt and cotton-flannel pajama bottoms. The muffled clank with every step she took came from a pair of green-and-blue plaid slippers, their sheepskin trim peeking out each time she took the next step up.
“You’re not sick?” No sniffles. She looked great, complexion full of color.
“No.”
Okay. “But no run today?”
“No, I ran.”
“Just not with me.” I suspected it had to do with the other night, yet we ran on Thursday. And that seemed to go okay. Mostly.
“I just needed time to think. Alone.”
When we got to the top, she opened the door and stepped in.
The inside of her loft looked nothing like the stark metal outside. Soft colors on the walls and furnishings made the space a cozy home. The kitchen in front had a good amount of cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and a square butcher-block island with two barstools. Beside it sat a modern dining set with a pale gray lacquered top and four white wooden chairs. Under our feet spanned polished wooden floors.
As I looked toward the open bedroom area that was only a few feet away, she took the bag from me.
“The floor’s not real wood. It’s tile.”
“Really? Fooled me.” It looked like authentic tongue and groove, varying grains and all.
“Cheaper and more durable.” The crinkle of the bag sounded out from the kitchen.
Suddenly, a brown furry head popped out from behind her light blue bed pillows. Its eyes blinked heavily.
“And the bed?” I admired the dark curving headboard while I patted the bedding. Chipmunky bounded out from his hiding place, then stalked my hand before crouching down in the center.
“Reclaimed mahogany.”
Its low-slung style was simple, almost Asian.
I lifted the end of the comforter and slid my hand under it, then swept it quickly back and forth once. Chipmunky’s eyes darkened. He dropped lower, back twitching. I arced my hand slowly to the right. He tracked my movements, then pounced, landing on it for a solid second, before jumping away and crouching down again.
“You’re big into reusing items.” Made sense with how she repurposed items to create her art and the decorating she’d done at Loading Zone.
“I am.” Additional bag-crinkling stole the kitten’s attention and my hand was abandoned. I followed the bounding cat into the kitchen.
Kiki pointed a fork toward the space above the dining table. “Salvaged the chandelier from a hotel demolition. The bathroom’s sliding barn door came from a local farm. Cabinets from an old church. Corkboard on the walls for sound.”
“Where’d the cork come from?”
“A tree?” Her lips twitched into a smirk.
Ahhh…smartass. Well, it was a helluva lot better than the recent silent-and-avoid treatment. Since she’d already arranged the takeout boxes in the center of the table, I took a seat.
She tossed the large paper bag into the air over open floor space. The instant the bag settled, Chipmunky darted into it. Then one section of the bag punched outward. Seconds later, another punch in a different spot deformed the bag and it collapsed.
She opened her fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
“A fork? Chopsticks?”
“Fork.”
She brought two bottles over, dropped one in front of me, then stabbed two forks into a couple of random containers. The Styrofoam soup cup already had a spoon sticking out of it.
“So…you’re not avoiding me.” I grabbed the nearest fork, then bit a sweet and sour pork chunk off of it.
“Oh, I am.” She leaned over, surveying the cartons, then forked up some almond chicken.
I chewed, then swallowed. “You suck at it.”
“Apparently.” She dug into a different carton, popped another forkful into her mouth.
“Why?” I knew what had pushed her, just didn’t understand it.
“I don’t do well with…commitment.”
“Hence the one-night stands.”
She pointed her fork at me with a nod. “He catches on quick.”
“But why? Who hurt you?” It was the only explanation.
“Not talkin’ about it.” She laid her fork down, lifted the spoon from its cup, blew on the steaming liquid’s surface, then slurped it down. She followed with a couple more spoonfuls before moving on to another container, another forkful.
She didn’t look up from the food. Silent again.
“Okay.” I had experience with protective walls with Logan. You didn’t push too hard with emotional shit. You waited until they were ready.
“What about you?”
“Me?” I glanced up from digging into the nearest container to find her staring intently at me.
“Why no girlfriend?” She scooped up a forkful of shrimp fried rice into her mouth.
I grabbed a spring roll, dipped into the mustard then the sweet and sour before taking a bite. “It’s…”
“Complicated,” she completed. “I remember.”
“Yeah. Lot to do with Logan.”
“Hey. No need to explain.”
Good. Because the reasons had begun to fade. And things had gotten a whole lot more complicated. All to do with the girl sitting in front of me.
“So, which is it?” I arched a brow at her.
The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Which Chinese dish?”
I nodded, then I stuffed a spoonful of beef and broccoli into my mouth.
“I dunnooo…” She surveyed the spread. “You sure you got one of everything?”
Blinking, I stared from box to box. “Moo goo gai pan. Egg foo yong. Egg drop soup. Sweet and sour pork. Chicken dumplings.”
She twirled her fork into the shrimp lo mein. “Sure you didn’t miss anything?”
“Okay. I didn’t get everything. But I got the most common dishes. I figured you weren’t a chow mein girl. And anything with lobster sauce seemed like overkill.”
With an amused expression, she stuffed the fork-load of lo mein noodles into her mouth. Not a timid little bite—a huge mouthful of food.
After she chewed, swallowed, then took a long draw of her beer, she dropped her fork and pushed her hands against the edge of the table before settling back in her chair.
“Well?” I arched my brows, stabbing my fork into the fried rice container.
&n
bsp; She swept another glance across the Chinese takeout buffet. “Undecided.”
“Fair enough.” Wasn’t why I’d come tonight. “You got a place to play music?”
Her face scrunched into an adorable confused expression. Then she got up and began folding closed the few cartons that had leftovers. I stood, then cradled the boxes in my hands before helping her load them into the refrigerator. The shelves inside were neatly organized, glass containers of food with plastic lids stacked on every shelf.
“You know, a music plugin?” I pulled my phone from my back pocket, then held it up, shaking it back and forth.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened slightly.
Okay. She was still spooked.
“Listen, about the other night, I—”
“No. I’m good. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”
aka: I don’t want to talk about it.
Tough shit.
She reached for my phone, but I pulled it back at the last second.
Unable to stop her forward momentum, she crashed against my chest. Her breaths quickened as her hands spread wide. Then she slowly glanced up.
Fear shone in her eyes. Desire too.
I brushed a damp lock from in front of her eyes, then tucked it behind her ear. Damn, she was beautiful. No makeup, hair messy, cheeks pinked, and looking at me like she wanted me—but was terrified to go after what she wanted.
“It was a big deal. And I’m sorry.” I’d crossed an unmarked line. I knew that now.
She sucked in a hard breath, tears welling in her eyes. Then she scrunched her brows, blinked several times, and swiped the phone out of my hand while she pushed out of my reach.
“Thanks,” she said softly as she took backward steps away from me. “And apology accepted.”
She smiled, holding up my stolen phone as if she’d won her prize, had escaped my grasp.
I twisted my lips into a smirk as I watched her back away.
Go ahead, Kiki. Run.
When I really catch you…I’m never letting go.
Kiki…
Darren stared at me with heat in his gaze. His breaths slowed, intensified.
I backed up, caught too deep in a danger zone I hadn’t seen coming.
Girls can’t have guy friends. I’d heard people say it. But had never believed it. Mase was my friend. So was Ben. Stood to reason I could be friends with Darren too.
Only I couldn’t. Because Darren was…well, Darren.
Unable to form any useful plan to get me out of my uncomfortable predicament, I spun around and walked the last few steps to my nightstand. Without turning, I answered his question about music. “Bose SoundDock.”
“Will it fit?” The sound of his voice had grown closer.
Not sexual. His comment was not sexual. My heart picked up speed anyway. I blew out a steadying breath, forcing my body to chill.
With laser-beam focus, I studied the phone, examining the port on the bottom. “Not sure. We both have iPhones, but mine’s older.” After I popped open the rubber cap at the bottom of his cover, I shook my head. “Your receiver is too small.”
“Did the Bose come with any adapter cords?” He pressed in, watching over my shoulder.
The heat of him being right behind me fried my brain. I inhaled a slow breath through my nose, savoring his masculine scent. Then I blinked, shocked at how easily I fell prey to him.
I yanked open the nightstand drawer. “Help yourself.”
Stuffed inside was a tangle of power cords. To everything. Laptop. Tablet. Phone. If there was one for the Bose, it’d be there. Thankfully, my vibrator was in the other nightstand.
Darren stared into the drawer, brows drawn slightly in concentration, as if unaffected by the mess. He plucked the end of one up, shook his head, then tried again. “Got it.”
As he worked to untangle the cord, I kicked off my slippers before settling on the far side of the bed. He organized the remaining cords: pulled them out one by one, rolled each around his four fingers into a bundle, then tucked the ends and replaced it before grabbing the next.
I watched him, captivated by the focus etched into his face: the stern brow, the pursed lips. He was strikingly handsome in the dimmest portion of my room, shadows defining his dark features, emphasizing his strong jaw and high cheek bones.
My private observation time vanished once he shut the drawer and plugged in his phone. He scrolled across the screen a few times, then pressed the control button.
“This one should be familiar.”
The song that had played at his house—when he’d been thumping a rhythm on my back—streamed its deep haunting bass through the speaker. “‘Jungle’ by…” I paused, unable to remember the artist.
“X Ambassadors. And it’s my way of apologizing. Again. I didn’t mean to make it sexual.”
But it had gone there nonetheless. And so much more. From my end, anyway. I stared into his eyes, searching for a clue. It was there in the softening of his eyes. The intimate moment had been much more for him too. Whether or not he wanted to admit it. It made me wonder if it was the real reason why he’d come tonight.
“Don’t. It’s cool.” And it was. For now. At least what I kept trying to believe. I’d made myself safe for the moment anyway: me on the far side of the bed, body turned upside down with my ass just below one pillow and my head near the middle.
He swept his gaze from my head up to my planted feet on the wall. “Uhhh…this how you listen to music?”
“Is tonight.” I didn’t elaborate, merely stared at my bent legs as I slid my socked feet farther up the wall. Nothing sexual…or more…could happen that way. I intended to make certain of it.
He pressed his lips together, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Okay.”
I watched as he toed off his shoes, sat on the edge, then in one motion, swung his body around to mirror mine. Of course, with his long legs, his feet reached a good foot higher than mine, white socks pressed against my cork wall.
Unthinking, I stared at his large feet and blurted, “What size shoe do you wear?”
He bent his legs slightly. “Thirteen. You?”
My face flamed, but he appeared oblivious to my faux pas. He simply bent his legs further, pressing his feet flat on the wall and lowering them. I lined my heel up with his, trying my damnedest not to think about his broad forearms, large feet, and various other body parts that were bound to be correspondingly sized.
“Six and a half.”
The song shifted. He began to drum his thumbs and pinky fingers onto his thighs. Every strike he made gave a muffled thump on the faded denim.
“This is a great example of drag rhythm,” he explained, diving right into the topic of music. As if we hadn’t been comparing body parts. As if my mind hadn’t guttered.
Several other songs played. With each, he gave a blow-by-blow commentary of the rhythms and where they dragged.
A long pause happened after the most recent song ended. His quiet voice filled the sudden silence. “You know, you don’t have to be afraid of us. Of you and me.”
“I don’t?” I pressed my hands up my pajama pants as “The Trouble With Love Is” by Kelly Clarkson began to play.
“No.”
“What makes you think I am?” Had the word CHICKEN been stamped on my forehead?
“I don’t think anything.”
“Oh.” My heart began to thump harder. I took a deep breath, trying to calm it.
“I know.” He turned his head toward me.
I didn’t reply. Couldn’t really refute the truth. Instead I met his penetrating stare, searched his eyes for some sign that he really was a good guy. I felt he was. I sensed a girl could surrender, become engrossed in him—yet never truly lose herself. And still, I hid behind the enormous protective wall I’d erected years ago.
I glanced back up at the cork wall above us. At my striped socks and his athletic ones. I thought about how we’d met at a nightclub, were brought together by Invitation Only business, then ha
d grown closer through a sport I’d decided to pursue.
His excuse about why we had to be “just friends” popped into my head. It’s complicated.
“Do you miss your mom…think about her a lot?” The question came from nowhere, but it seemed like the right one to ask. And after being in his house, and our closeness while side by side on my bed, it felt like we’d gotten to the point where we could be random and it would be okay.
“Yeah.” His tone quieted. “I hide it. Helps to stay busy. Gotta be strong for Logan.” His voice started to crack and he cleared his throat.
I turned my head a little, watching as he stared up at the metal rafters above us. As the soulful music played, I thought about the words. About loss and love. “What’s your favorite memory?”
The tiniest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted to tuck his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles, one heel still touching the wall. “Thanksgiving.”
When he was silent after that, I arced toward him, nudging his shoulder. “Tell me about it.”
He let out a slow breath, like the memory was cherished and he didn’t want to rush it. “All we could afford were turkey sandwiches. But Mom got the good deli meat, cranberry sauce to slather on, and crusty rolls from the bakery. The best part? We were together.”
After a long pause, he continued, “Was the only day of the year we got to spend the whole day just us. Logan would clang pots if we weren’t up in time for the parade. The two of us kids would make a giant mess in the kitchen with our feeble attempt at pancakes while Mom sat on the couch. She’d hold her cup of coffee and coach from the family room.”
“It sounds like a fantastic memory. Only Thanksgiving together? Not Christmas? What did your mom do?”
“She worked at a grocery store, but it was more like a convenience store. And Thanksgiving was the only day they closed for a full day. She worked weekend days, most weekdays, and took a double shift every chance she got.”
Wow. My privileged life had been nothing like his family’s struggle. “No dad?”
The song changed and heavier rock streamed from the speakers again.
He shrugged. “Not really. We have the same father, but he was a traveling salesman: never married her, home only long enough to knock her up but never long enough for me to remember him well or miss him. When I was seven, and Lo was just a baby, I realized he beat my mom.” He let out a heavy breath. “One day he left and never came back.”