by L. B. Dunbar
I cross into the lobby and stop short.
“Stephie?”
“Hey Hanky. Haven’t seen you around for a while. Then we crossed paths at the party. Thought I’d track you down. See if you were up for a hit.”
Shit. I don’t need this kind of thing here. Her here. Why can’t history leave me alone lately? “I don’t do that anymore.” I scrub at my scalp, forgetting about the oil on my fingers. Stephie’s nose scrunches as she takes in my dirty hands.
“Just one little hit. I’m good for it.” She steps closer, and my life flashes before me. Kit. Her needs. Her way of getting me to do things.
“I’m not on that path anymore.” My hands shake. Her face pinches again, but she reaches for my belt, curling her fingers inside the waist.
“Hanky, please,” she purrs. Her pouty lips are too red. Her eyelids layered in bright blue powder. I can’t even describe what she’s wearing because it hardly covers anything. Did I fall for this before? Did I fuck Stephie when she wanted drugs from me? When I had drugs in me? I tremble with the thought or, rather, lack of memory. Maybe?
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not into that anymore. I can’t even tell you who is.” This goes against my training. I should be helping her like I’d help some kid at the center, but Stephie is too close to me, to my history. Some people I can’t help. It took me a long time to realize that—in both others and myself.
“Not you, too?” she whines. “Look at Tommy. Now, you. Denton will be next. What happened to all of you?”
Mentioning our old mate, who refuses to speak to either of us, stabs my gut.
“Life,” Brut says from behind me. “Get your own.” He scowls at the washed-up, needy groupie, desperate for old times. Brut’s eerie eyes linger. He’s stronger than I am in so many ways, and his voice projects his strength at the moment.
“Get out of my garage,” he demands, and I relax a little. My big brother. Always fighting battles for me.
“And who are you, handsome?” she trills, turning her wasted seductive sound on Brut.
“No one you need to know. Now leave.”
The bell to the front door pings. Stephie turns to see who the next witness to this dog and pony show will be, and then swivels back to me. Her expression hardens as if a thought occurs to her, and she spins for the woman behind her.
“I know you,” she meows, swaying her hips as she sashays toward Midge, who holds a Styrofoam cup. “You did him in the bathroom. How’d you get to him to score? Blow job?”
Fucking bitch. Midge’s eyes open so wide, I’m positive they’ll pop out. Brut rounds me for Stephie, gripping her arm and dragging her to the door.
“All right, that’s enough. I see you again, and you’re leaving in cuffs.” He pushes the door with one hand while he yanks Stephie toward the lot. Midge silently stands to the side and stares after them through the front glass.
“Midge?” I choke, afraid to look at her, yet knowing I’ll crumple if she doesn’t look away from the scene outside.
Her voice shakes as she speaks. “I thought I’d bring you the coffee I owed you the other night. But I see that you’re busy.” Forget Stephie. Forget Kit. Midge is the one who will break me.
12
Sunday morning lessons
[Midge]
I stare at the woman wearing a cheetah print top and a leather miniskirt hiding nothing of her thin body. She can pull off the look, but her makeup hardly covers the years on her face. Her hair is an overheated example of too much product and evidence of her age—dry with brittle split ends. I’m not into body shaming. If she thinks she looks good, who am I to speak, but it’s sad to me. Then again, who am I? I’m standing here in a red cardigan with matching flats and ripped jeans. My hair twists in a messy blob at the back of my head. I was hoping for the not trying too hard look. My white tank billows instead of hugs my body, covering the slight bulge of bearing children that will never disappear. My ensemble reminds me of the arguments I had with myself after Hank left. He doesn’t want me. I scream mom bod compared to the woman outside, and my heart sinks.
“Previous fan of yours,” I tease with more heartbreak than humor. How could she not admire Hank? I do, or I thought I did. I step back as his brother re-enters the office.
“Do you know who I am?” Hank interjects, interrupting my observation of the woman, and the sick sensation she might have carnal knowledge of him. Why would she not? He’s a striking man. I have no idea what he refers to in his question, but his shaky tone shifts my eyes quickly to him and then away.
“I thought so, but now, I’m not so sure.” My eyes remain on the woman outside, dust kicking up as she stomps her feet to a rusty old vehicle.
“Big mystery man.” Brut coughs, mockingly.
“Why are you here?” Hank snaps at him, and I turn at the rough sound. Negative energy brews between them.
“Hey, I just saved your ass,” Brut barks, stepping into the space of his brother. They’re equal in height, though Hank has some pounds on his brother. Solid pounds, I recall, remembering Hank over me. My stomach flips at my stupidity.
“Shut up,” Hank quips, and I flinch at the sharpness of his voice. While the two quarrel like I’ve seen brothers do, I zone out a moment. I stare down at the hot coffee I hold in my hands, thinking it would be a sweet gesture of apology for Elston’s interruption the other night. I cried after Hank left, not certain what happened but knowing Elston’s return ruined it. Maybe his appearance reminded Hank I have kids, and he doesn’t want that baggage. I argued with myself over this concept a million times through the night, coming to the realization that a man who can’t handle my kids can’t handle me. We are a package deal. A gift, actually. I thought Hank would be accepting of it. At least, I hoped he would.
The phone starts ringing as I awkwardly stand in the waiting room of sorts. I’m a little surprised it’s still a landline. It’s excessively loud, adding to the noise of the drills in the background and the temper of Hank and his brother. It’s trilling on and on and on while these two sling accusations at each other that I don’t understand.
“Maybe...um...hello...the phone?” I try to interrupt. The organizer in me itches for someone to answer the damn thing.
Finally, I step around the generic, high counter cubicle desk and grab the handset.
“Restored Dreams, may I help you?”
“Who the hell are you?” snaps a surly older male voice.
“This is Midge. How can I help you?” I have no idea how I’ll help, but at least the phone stopped ringing, and the argument seems to quiet.
“Your voice is certainly more pleasant than the last girl,” the customer retorts, coughing after the comment.
“Thank you, sir. Your voice is pleasant, too,” I lie. “Now, what can we do for you?” My eyes flick up to find Hank still clenching fists, glaring at me, but his brother has stepped toward the counter, resting his arms on the surface as he watches me.
“Where’s that worthless Brut?”
“He’s busy at the moment, but I can take a message. Tell me what you need.” I hold Brut’s blue-gray eyes for a moment before looking for a pen and some paper on the mess of a desk.
“He’s holding my baby hostage.”
“Excuse me?” My head shoots back up, and I stare at Brut. He’s really good looking with his snow-white hair, soft blue eyes, and the same matching edge to his face as Hank.
“Maroon 1960 Bentley S2. Lucy.”
“You named your car?” I squeak as I swivel in the chair I took, searching through a window into the garage to see a large dusty red vehicle in the back of the shop.
“Looks like you rode her a little too hard, sir.”
The older gentleman chuckles. “That I did, girl. She back together yet?”
“Doesn’t look like it, sir. When were you expecting her?” I turn back to Brut, ignoring the negative vibe humming from Hank.
“Yesterday.”
“Now, Mr…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name
.”
“Mr. Pendelton.”
“Mr. Pendelton.” My brow shoots up as I hold Brut’s gaze. I swallow, recognizing the name of the account I was scheduled to work on—one of the biggest accounts Bigle Marketing hoped to obtain. “As yesterday is no longer an option, when’s the next best time?” I’m searching the desk for an invoice or a system of bookings.
“Today.”
I stop searching. “Now, sir. I sense you want her perfect. That doesn’t happen in one day.”
He chuckles. “I like you.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks flush.
“What did that fucker say?” Hank hisses, stepping toward the counter, but I shake my head, finding two wide-eyed men staring at me. “Mr. Pendelton, can I ask you something not related to your car?” He hesitates, but I plow forward. A determination fills me as I need sudden purpose. “I recently worked for Bigle Marketing, and I’m just curious what you thought of your last campaign.”
“I don’t see how that would be any of your business.” His tone tightens, and Brut waves two hands at me. “I noticed you said worked. Did they fire you?” He coughs again.
“I left. It was no longer an opportunity for me.” The thought settles hard in my chest. I liked Bigle Marketing once upon a time, but I remember what Hank said. Time to move on.
“Sir, let me rephrase. If I can guarantee you your Bentley in”—I look at Brut to confirm—“two weeks.” I drag out the words, holding Brut’s gaze for direction. He gives me a thumbs-up. “Then you give me a shot to pitch you a better marketing campaign than Bigle.”
He chortles. “Not much of a deal, girl.”
“You’re right. It’s a win-win for you. You get your car and a new branding campaign. And if you don’t like the campaign, you still get your car in two weeks.”
Brut smacks the top of the cubicle counter as he leans back, smiling broadly at me. Hank’s lips twist, fighting the curl, but his eyes gleam steely gray.
“You drive a hard bargain, but it’s a deal.”
“Two weeks, sir?”
“Two weeks,” he barks, and the line goes dead. I hang up and reach a hand up to Brut.
“Midge Everette. Sorry I answered your phone. You have two weeks to get Pendelton his Bentley so I can get a new job.”
Brut laughs as he shakes my hand. He has a nice smile. I see why Lily might be attracted to him. His hand is warm and firm like Hank’s, but it’s not as thick—not the hand I want on me.
“Work here,” Brut offers.
“What?” Hank grunts, and I have to agree.
“I know nothing about cars.” I giggle to cover the hurt that Hank wouldn’t want me here.
“You don’t need to. We need organization and a determination like yours.” Brut points at the phone. Hank grunts again, and once again, I agree. Old scheduling books and piles of paper line the desk sporting a coffee stain and an old mug which looks like it’s been here a while.
“I could use the money, but you can’t afford me.”
“In two weeks, you’ll have another job with a sales pitch like that. Work here to tie you over,” he encourages. Hank glares at his brother, boring a hole in his head.
“I don’t think so but thank you.” My voice lowers, and now Hank glares at me.
Brut continues. “Just take the job. Please. We could use you, and everyone could use a little extra money. Ask Hank, he knows all about that.”
“Fuck off,” Hank warns.
“Besides, you pretty up the place.” Brut winks, and Hank shoves him, forcing Brut to slip from his balance against the counter.
“You’re asking for it if you start sweet-talking my lady.” The growling voice surprises both Brut and me. My brows rise nearly to my hairline while Brut’s forehead wrinkles. He turns to me and then back to Hank. A long whistle follows.
“If she’s your lady, you better fix things, or I’m in line to take her from you.” Hank punches his brother’s arm like I’ve seen my boys do, only I imagine it hurts a bit more than the sting my kids produce. Brut rubs his upper arm, laughing at his younger sibling before turning to me. He winks. “I’ll be waiting for you, sugar, when he messes this one up.”
+ + +
Brut leaves the room, and the rough voice of Hank startles me.
“Could I speak with you?” He tips his head toward the office to the side of the waiting room we’ve been in, and I stand to follow him. Suddenly, I feel like last woman walking. I remind myself why I’m here—apology and answers—no matter what the result may be.
Hank enters the office and slumps onto the old leather couch, looking indifferent as he glances away from me. He sweeps a hand at the space next him, and I think it’s an offer to sit beside him, but as he rests his large arm on the back of the couch, I decide against sitting. It will be easier to escape if I’m already on my feet. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself, but I need to know some things.
“I think I misunderstood the other night. I mean, you asked me out on a date.” I swallow, blinking rapidly. If I cry, I’ve sealed my fate. Paul hated when I cried. Most men do, right? But I’m emotional today. “But maybe I misinterpreted…everything. And I just need you to tell it to me straight.” I’m unprepared to handle his rejection, but I’ll take whatever he has to say.
“Was the other night a one-night stand? Because I’ve never had one, even when I was single some eighteen years ago. And I just thought…I guess I—” I can’t finish because Hank suddenly crowds my space, cupping my cheeks. The overwhelming stench of gas coming off his fingers permeates the air around us.
“I just need to know if…” I’m swallowing back the lump in my throat when his mouth covers mine. Tender. Sweet. Taking his time. Hank kisses me as if I’m worth the wait. As if I’m an exploration and he’s going to savor every step he takes, memorizing each detail. I’m backed into the desk, but there’s no hint we’ll go where we went before. This is just kissing, and there will be more for the next few minutes.
Drawing back, Hank rubs my cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m making you all dirty.” The comment hints of innuendo.
“I seem to be back at this desk.” I shakily pat the edge, which I’ve been gripping to hold myself steady. My knees tremble from the linger of Hank’s mouth on me. “Maybe I want to get dirty with you.”
“Don’t say things like that.” He chuckles, eying the desk before peering down at me. “This desk is worse than my fingers, and I’ve got a Bentley to repair so my lady gets a job.”
I smile, liking the reference to being his.
“I don’t want to pressure you. This place is a hot mess, but if you need the money, take the job from Brut.”
“I’m fine.” I dismiss the offer with a wave. I don’t want some kind of pity job, but I can already see myself getting antsy just sitting around my house. Some days, I dream of returning to my stay-at-home mom days until I realize no kids are at home and it is only mom. I wallowed in a week of vacation mode bliss, but slowly, panic creeps in at the thought of keeping up private school tuition and Elston’s impending college. I’m too young to retire, especially since I don’t have the means.
“Don’t lie to me.” Hank huffs. “You’re a worrier by nature. I see the wheels spinning. We aren’t hardcore. You can search for jobs here while answering a phone call or two. Besides, after the way you handled Pendelton, Brut may never let you leave.”
I laugh, lowering my head to Hank’s chest. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just…you two were fighting, and the phone was so loud. I had to do something.”
Hank kisses the back of my head, lingering for a moment against mine. “I can’t work here if you don’t want me. I mean, want me to. I’ve already made things so awkward.”
Hank lifts my head, forcing me to look at him.
“My fault, little lady. I got in my head after your kid came in.”
“I’m sorry. He wasn’t supposed to be there. No one is home but me all week.” I sigh, biting my lip to keep from telling him I want him to
come back and stay the night. I want a repeat.
“It’s not his fault either. He just wanted his mom. Everything okay today?” I appreciate Hank asking. It warms me to think Elston still needs me at seventeen. However, his fight with his father is more about his dad than me.
“Long story but thank you. He went back to Paul’s today.” Hank nods and silence slips between us. I can’t hold back. “You said you got in your head. How? What happened?”
Hank’s hands lower, but I reach for his wrists, holding him in place. I want him touching me when he tells me things. When I see his eyes hesitate and his forehead wrinkling, I sense any admission is going to be difficult.
“The woman I mentioned...she didn’t always have time for me. She called me when she needed something, and the fool that I was, I jumped when she offered a high. She reeled me in, and I took the bait, only to be kicked to the curb when she was finished, especially when her kid had needs.”
Hank looks away from me. I would touch his chin to force his gaze back to me, but I’m afraid to release his wrists. I hold my tongue and wait.
“She wasn’t a bad person, just needy. Only she didn’t need me. I didn’t like the feeling, and I felt like that the other night.”
I gasp. “Hank, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way.” His mouth presses mine with a quick kiss like the one from our date.
“It wasn’t you. It was me.” He softens, lowering his eyes. “It was her.”
My heart breaks. He loved this woman, and she never loved him. Or maybe, she loved him in her own way, but he couldn’t see it. Either way, I’m sorry for him. Love is so complicated.
“She was embarrassed of me.”
“No, Hank. No.” I stammer in shock. I don’t believe a woman who calls him repeatedly is ashamed of him. But another thought occurs to me.
“Is she still around?” Oh, God. Does this mean if she called him tonight, he’d go to her? Was that woman—the one in the miniskirt and cheetah print—her?