by Kim Karr
He takes a quick look in his rearview mirror, then maneuvers through the traffic with ease. “That is what it was called,” he hisses in the dark.
Minutes pass without another word spoken. Feeling uncomfortable, I start rambling on about where I live. “I’m in a building on Prentis Street. It’s called the Brentwood.”
Jasper seems impatient as he weaves in and out of traffic and still says nothing.
“It’s next to the Bronx Bar,” I add.
Driving fast, he doesn’t look over at me. “I know where it is,” he snaps.
Nervously, my fingers wrap around a piece of hair. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if you knew exactly where my building is. It’s small.”
Jasper’s hands are gripping the wheel, and his gaze bounces between the window and the gauges in front of him and then back. “Why are you living up there anyway? It’s a punk neighborhood.”
Clearly he isn’t familiar with the gentrification that has taken place. “Honestly, Jasper, it’s not that bad. It’s affordable and newly remodeled. Besides, most of the abandoned buildings have been demolished and all that’s left are four blocks of practically barren land, a few bars, and not that many apartment buildings. And once the new stadium goes up, I’m sure that will change.”
His snort is laced with bitterness. “It’s still seedy, Charlotte. Regardless of what you might think, it isn’t safe, and the stadium is years off.”
Windshield wipers move back and forth faster and faster as the rain beats down harder and harder. I find myself watching their movement until I can’t stand it anymore. “Did I say something to upset you?”
Almost as soon as I ask the question, the tension in Jasper’s body eases. He pulls in a breath and then turns to look at me. His hard gaze softens. “No, no you didn’t. It’s just that I know the area very well. My mother moved us to Cass Corridor when I was ten. I grew up in what is now called Cass Park Village, and it was no picnic. It was rough. I got beat up all the time. Bullied. If it weren’t for Will, Jake, and Drew, I don’t know if I’d be around today. I was an angry kid who loved confrontation and growing up in a place like that, I found confrontation on every corner.”
I close my eyes for a brief moment, unable to stand the pain I see in his. It’s a familiar kind of pain, not that different from my own. “I’m really sorry.”
The car seems to be moving incredibly fast. “You can’t change the past, and besides, it made me who I am,” he whispers.
Some words are just words and some are words to remember. He is right and his statement couldn’t be truer—you can’t change the past.
Jasper’s eyes dart to the car’s speed flashing in neon green on the glass in front of him. It reads 69, and just as it hits 70 he slows.
I find myself clutching the handle beside me.
Ten minutes later he’s on my street. The apartments don’t have a garage and the street is the only place to park. Jasper already must know this, because he begins looking for a spot way before my building. This time of night I always have to park far away, because the Bronx Bar draws a huge evening crowd. Most of whom enter sober and almost all of whom exit drunk. I try to avoid leaving my apartment late at night because of this. The crowd is a little too rowdy. The men are a little too boisterous, and they seem to think being drunk gives them a pass to touch whoever they please.
There’s nowhere to park before we reach my place. “You can just drop me off.”
“I’ll walk you in, Charlotte,” he says with a sigh.
I notice the way he says my name this time. Like I’m an inconvenience. “You don’t have to.”
Narrowed eyes land on me.
“Okay, you can walk me in,” I say.
It’s not until the very end of the street that Jasper manages to find a spot that he can just barely maneuver into.
My wariness disappears when a smile appears on his lips at his accomplishment.
Boys and their toys.
With a shake of my head, I move to open my door.
“I’ll get that.”
I smile as I sit and wait for him to walk around the car. The door opens and I get out. It’s quiet and dark.
Jasper looks up. “How long have the streetlights been out?”
I shrug. “They haven’t worked since I moved in.”
“The city was supposed to have replaced all the burned-out bulbs six months ago. I’ll see to it that these get replaced ASAP.”
My belly flips at the concern in his voice and the strength in his resolve. “What kind of influence do you have here? Don’t you live downtown?”
He pauses for a second. Thinking. “Off the record?”
Shocked that he would think anything different, I hurry forward and turn to face him. “Jasper, I already told you I wasn’t here to hurt you, and I meant it. Besides, I’m no longer employed by The Detroit Scene.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t plan to blog on your own and air all of my secrets.”
I lift my chin. “First off, I would never write about someone’s dirty secret.”
“I believe you.”
“And secondly, just so you know, I hope one day I can have a voice that matters, but if I do, it wouldn’t be to drag anyone’s name through the mud, I can promise you that,” I say and then look at him.
He looks around as if to avoid my gaze before he carefully takes my arm. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
That tingling feeling starts at the tips of my toes and courses through my veins all the way up to my head. Sparks. It’s the only way I can describe it. And then it happens again—the air between us fills with tension. I start walking faster just to keep up with him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
We pass a pair of dumpsters in front of an old abandoned building. There are some homeless people camped out between them. Jasper bobs his head in their direction. “It’s almost hard to believe there was a time when the city of Detroit was a teeming metropolis of 1.8 million people. Now it is a rotting, decaying hellhole of about seven hundred thousand that the rest of the world jokes about.”
Every step we take makes me more and more hypersensitive to the feel of his hand on my upper arm. “I’m aware of Detroit’s shrinking population and its dire financial state, but what does that have to do with you?”
We approach my four-story brick building from the opposite side of the Bronx Bar, but still the music blares loud in our ears. Jasper looks at it, then all around the surrounding area, before he lets go of my arm. I immediately miss the connection. I feel safe next to him.
I shouldn’t want to feel that way.
Almost ceremoniously, Jasper sits on the small block of cement stairs outside my building and folds his hands together.
I casually sit beside him.
“After the city underwent the largest municipal bankruptcy in the history of the United States,” he begins, “a group of people was assembled to report to the mayor on rebuilding priorities. These people aren’t from wealthy families. They’re people like me who grew up on the streets. I’m on this board and I represent midtown. The board is determined to turn Detroit around. We want to remove the unwritten messages to visitors that say enter at your own risk. Last year we directed our efforts to getting the soup kitchens back up and running, obtaining funding for the after-school programs in the poorer communities, and making sure the kids that fell below the poverty line were being properly fed. This year our focus is on safety. Relighting the forty percent of streetlights that haven’t been working for three years, reopening police stations that have been closed or are only open for eight hours a day, and getting more ambulances and fire engines back on the road.”
Moved by so much emotion, words get stuck in my throat. “That’s really something to be proud of, Jasper.”
A hardness sharpens his features. “I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s not about pride, it’s about action.”
The atmosphere between us feels fraught, but I don’t struggle with what to say. �
�I do understand. And I don’t care what you say—fighting for what you believe in is something to be proud of.”
His expression softens. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Now come on, let’s get you inside.”
Fumbling in my purse, I find my key and stand up. He’s already at the door and I have to brush past him to unlock it. Our bodies touch for one second and a feeling like tiny butterflies bouncing in my belly surprises me. It’s something I’ve never felt before. Nervously, I start to put the key in the lock. I can feel his eyes on me and those wings seem to be multiplying. Before I can put the key in the hole, he pulls on the door and it opens.
I look at him. “I guess the lock is broken again.”
With a look that says I told you this neighborhood isn’t safe, he holds the door open, then puts some much needed space between us.
The lobby is small, just a room of mailboxes, an elevator with an out of order sign on it that’s there most of the time, and staircases to both the right and left. Veering toward the right, I lead the way. Step after step, I’m intensely aware of his presence behind me. When we reach the fourth floor, we’re both a little breathless.
My apartment is at the end of the long hallway. I look over my shoulder as I unlock the door and ask, “Do you want to come inside? I could make us that cup of coffee you were asking about.”
There’s a hesitation in his nod, but I can tell he’s curious. I know that he wants to see where I live. Why I chose this area. It’s simple—it was all I could afford. “Sure. I won’t stay long, though. It’s getting late,” he says.
His attempt to get the door for me has him stepping in front of me, and my shoulder presses into his chest as I pass. This isn’t a slight touch like before. I can feel the hardness of his body and the energy he emits. His breath catches. I can hear it. My pulse races and I swear I can hear that too. Quickly I put some distance between us and step all the way inside.
The apartment isn’t anything special and although it is new and clean, it’s also definitely on the small side. The door opens right in the center. There’s a built-in desk between two closets all the way to the left. The very small living area has a window, under which an even smaller couch fits. There’s a credenza that holds my television and a small coffee table. The hardwood floors are light colored and the counter across from the door accommodates a single stool. The kitchen is equally small but opens to the living space, which makes it appear larger. In it there’s a half fridge, a stove, and a sink. A bathroom separates the kitchen from the bedroom. In total it’s about 700 square feet and plenty of space for me.
“It’s nice,” Jasper says in surprise.
My grin is wide. “I told you it wasn’t that bad.”
Jasper shoves his hands in his pockets. “I still don’t think the area is safe.”
I try not to roll my eyes but can’t stop myself. “Let me get changed out of these clothes, they’re still a little wet, and then I’ll make us some coffee.”
“I saw that.”
“What?”
“Your eye roll!”
With a shrug, I set my things on the sofa and then walk toward him. “I carry pepper spray and I don’t really go out that much at night.”
He doesn’t seem appeased but says nothing else about it as his eyes continue to wander my small space. “You live here alone?”
With a nod, I head down the hallway. “I do. I’m pretty much on my own.”
“No boyfriend?”
I laugh as I enter my bedroom. The walls are thin so he can hear me just fine. “No. I’m not exactly girlfriend material.”
To that he says nothing.
There’s a strange, pungent smoke-like scent lingering in the room and I wonder where it came from. When I open my drawers to pull out a pair of black leggings and an oversized T-shirt, I freeze. My things have been rifled through. I open another drawer and another, each one the same. Disorganized and in disarray.
Someone has been in here—again.
I change quickly and go out into the kitchen. I don’t want to appear overly alarmed, so as I check the sink for signs of the constant drip from my faucet, I start to make the coffee.
Sure enough, as suspected, there is no water in the sink—the drip is gone, which means the faucet has been repaired. The maintenance man was here while I was gone. Last time he was in here I caught him looking through my medicine cabinet. He said it had opened accidentally and that everything spilled out. I let his lie pass that time. This time I’m going to report him to the building supervisor, because there is no chance he opened my underwear drawers on accident.
“What did you mean when you said you weren’t exactly girlfriend material?” Jasper asks, bringing my attention back to him as he takes a seat at the small counter across from me.
It’s late. Drinking coffee now will only keep me up, but I’m not ready for Jasper to leave. So I fill the fancy pot with water, add beans, flip the machine on, and then turn around to answer his question. “Remember that eight-year-old girl who used to beg you to sneak over to her house almost every night so she wouldn’t be alone?”
His grin is slight, but it’s there. “She’s someone I could never forget. She was vicious. Used to threaten to hide all my Matchbox cars if I didn’t show up.”
Feeling triumphant, I ask, “Vicious? Really? Is that how you remember her?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “To be honest, you were more like a cat with claws that weren’t very sharp, but I did like to see you get feisty.”
I grab the milk from the refrigerator and look over at him. “A cat? Really? And here I thought I had some kind of power over you.”
His laughter fills the small space. “You did. I hated it when you cried.”
Those bad memories I locked away long ago begin to surface and I shove them away. “Hold on. So first I wasn’t the lion I thought I was and now you’re telling me I wasn’t even like a cat, but more like a kitten. Way to shatter my memories.”
Seriousness overtakes him. “We used to have fun together.”
The machine spits and hisses, pumping out black liquid. That fancy coffeemaker is the only thing I have that I consider a luxury. It was my favorite part of the kitchen in the bed-and-breakfast, so after my aunt died and I sold the place, I took it with me. Now every time I hear the sounds it makes it reminds me of her, and I smile. She was the only person I ever had in my life who cared about me. I turn away and pour two cups of coffee as I think of her and then when I’m able, I address Jasper’s statement. “We did have fun. And putting the whole kitten-versus-lion issue aside, I haven’t changed much, so let’s just say the few guys I’ve dated never stuck around long enough to be considered true boyfriends.”
Our fingers touch when I hand him the china cup. It’s small and dainty, and his hand practically spans the entire circumference. For a moment I don’t pull my hand away.
I like this feeling more than I should.
Jasper’s eyes dart to mine and he’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel hot all the way to my core.
Out of nowhere those full lips tilt up again. “What? Why? They didn’t like playing in the dirt?”
Dirty thoughts pop into my mind and my head tips back with laughter, so much laughter that my eyes start to water.
Jasper is also laughing.
Once I contain my own laughter, I step back to grab the other cup of coffee and compose myself. “No, I think any of them might have been okay with that. It’s my neediness none of them could deal with.”
Well, nothing like being honest.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing someone, Charlotte. If a few assholes out there couldn’t understand you, then you’re better off without any of them.”
I give him a weak smile, ready to drop the subject of my nonexistent love life, especially with a man who I know enjoys a very healthy, very active sex life.
Talk about embarrassing.
Jasper seems to feel the same, because he says no more about it. Inst
ead he casually stretches his legs out under the counter.
As I put the creamer and sugar in front of him my bare toes touch his shoe. And with just that slight touch his energy consumes me. I want to feel more of it.
I shouldn’t be thinking that way.
He shakes his head no, and I almost forgot I was offering him cream and sugar for his coffee. “I’ll take some whisky in it, though, if you have any.”
“As a matter of fact . . .” I turn around and reach into the cabinet beside the sink way up high and pull out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. That, along with a bottle of vodka and another of gin, are a few of the other items I took into custody after the sale of the bed-and-breakfast. I set the bottle in front of him and grab the cream.
He splashes his cup with a more-than-liberal dose and takes a sip.
I’m watching him. The way he holds his cup, the way he drinks his coffee, the way he swallows the hot liquid. It’s crazy how I find everything he does so sexy.
“Want some?” He wags the bottle in front of me.
“I don’t think so.”
He leans forward. “It really helps calm the nerves.”
I could use that. I take a quick sip of my coffee and then hold my cup out. “Just a little.”
His sly grin is back and he gives me more than a little. I take another sip. The coffee tastes stronger now and I feel a burning sensation as it goes down my throat. My belly fills with heat, but I’m not sure if it’s from the coffee or the way Jasper is looking at me.
Sip after sip we make small talk, both a little buzzed from the whisky. When our cups are empty I know the night is coming to an end, even though I really don’t want it to. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
Jasper raises his brows.
“I’m not breaking any of your rules for the night. I promise.”
“As long as you promise.” He gives me a look that is coy, cunning, almost flirty, and it surprises me. It must be the alcohol talking, although I doubt he had enough to be truly impacted.
I round the counter and lead him to my small couch. With a quick step up, I stand on the cushion and unlock the window before I push it open and step barefoot outside onto the fire escape.