by Keri Lake
I change quickly, throwing on a sweater and jeans, then head out the back door. The lights are still on in the apartment as I climb the staircase and knock on the door. My palms are sweating right now, and my heart feels like its pounding against my stomach, stirring up nausea. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had issues asking for cash. I once donated plasma just to avoid asking my dad for gas money. Not that he wouldn’t have given it to me, but the thought of asking just felt degrading, for some reason. This is why Denny lived essentially rent free for months before I worked up the balls to hound him about the bills, and that was only because I was seriously sinking beneath the surface in those days before his death.
The door swings open to reveal the most muscular chest I’ve ever seen in my life, chiseled with lean, cut muscle and a few scattered tattoos. Like looking at a real-life sculpture standing before me.
And tucked in the crook of one massive bicep is a tiny black kitten.
Mouth gaping, I tip my head and point to the small creature. “Um. Cats. Cats aren’t allowed up here. Pretty sure I said no pets.” I can’t even look at his face after ogling his body.
“You said no prostitutes.”
“Pets, or prostitutes.”
“You never said pets.”
I finally lift my gaze to his, only to offer a scowl at his annoying banter. “Well, I meant to.”
The slight bit of amusement in his eyes is frustrating, given the circumstances.
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’m just feeding him, and I’ll be sending him on his way first thing in the morning.”
“You … you can’t just feed a cat and let it go. They come back! And they tell other cats that you’re a supplier, and then we have a yard full of cats that won’t leave. They’re like … a really shitty cold you can’t kick.”
“Are you suggesting I starve the cat?”
“No. I’m not. I’m just saying …”
“I should kick it?”
“Yes. I mean, no! You should call the humane society.”
“To have him properly euthanized?”
With a huff, I cross my arms and glance away to keep my anger from exploding to the surface. “They’d try to adopt him first. I’m sure he’ll end up in a good home.”
“And if he doesn’t, you’re okay with his death on your shoulders?”
“Why are you giving me a hard time?”
He tips his head just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the snake tattooed across his neck. “I’m sorry. Did you need something, Star Wars?”
Star Wars. I’m never going to live the T-shirt thing down with this guy.
“Yes. I do.” And yet, suddenly I can’t bring myself to mouth the words. I can’t even think to ask him for money right now, and I can feel my cheeks getting hotter by the second, at the prospect of asking.
The worst. The. Worst. Landlord in history. “To let you know I’m leaving … and … well, that’s it.”
“You plan to tell me every time you leave the house?”
“No. I just …. I’d feel a lot better about you staying here, if you could maybe give me a reference, or something. Just someone who can attest that you don’t kill people for a living.”
“My background check didn’t put you at ease?”
“A little, but … my son comes back tomorrow morning, and I just want to make sure I’m not doing something stupid.”
“Jackson.”
“What?”
“My colleague’s name is Jackson Faust.”
As he reels off a number, I tug my cellphone and open the notes app, jotting it down before I forget it. “Okay. I’ll wait until morning to call.”
“What if I kill you before then?”
I frown. “Not funny.”
“My apologies. And I’ll also apologize in advance for subjecting you to Jackson.”
“I’m sure he’s not that bad.”
“I’m sure you’ll change your mind after speaking with him. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to bathe this cat before I kick him.”
“I didn’t say … kick him. He’s cute.” I reach out to pet the kitten, whose little paws wrap around my fingers, pulling it to his teeth. “Ouch!”
“Probably still a little hungry.” Voss snatches my hand, as I draw it back, and examines my fingertip. His palms are warm and calloused and strong enough to crush my fingers. “Might want to wash that. I don’t know where this cat’s been.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Sneering, I push past him into the apartment and make my way to the kitchen, taking in the scent of cologne that’s officially overpowered the mold inside.
“A smartass, too, huh?”
Pumping soap onto my finger, I scrub the small scratch clean of blood and dry it with a piece of paper towel I stocked before he moved in. “Only to those I don’t know anything about.”
“Well, what would you like to know, Nola?”
“Do you have kids?”
“No.” He scratches behind the cat’s ears, letting it chew on his big fingers that probably don’t feel any pain. “And no wife, in case you were curious.”
“I wasn’t. But while we’re on the topic of curiosity, what are the tattoos about?”
With a sigh, he twists his arm and shows off the skulls inked on his bicep, once again drawing my eyes to his muscles. “Four years in the Army. Too much alcohol. Stupid decisions, mostly.”
“And you don’t drink excessively?”
“Define excessive.”
“Passed out on a park bench, with no recollection of how you got there.”
“I prefer to sleep in a bed. So, no, I guess not.”
“Okay, well. That’s a start.” I toss the used paper towel into the nearby trashcan and cross my arms.
“What about you?” he asks, and the way he cradles the cat like a baby, playing with it, makes for an adorable distraction.
“I prefer to sleep in a bed, too.”
“I meant, what is your tattoo all about?”
“When did you—” I scratch the back of my head, remembering he must’ve seen it on my back when I showed him the apartment. Too many painful memories associated with the rose tattooed there, though. “Maybe some other time.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, I’ll let you get back to your kitty bath. Have a good night.”
His eyes lift to mine, and for a split second, he looks like something out of a magazine. Dark, alluring, far too sexy to be living in the same place my Nan lived out her final days. “Goodnight Nola.”
I arrive at the bar, really not wanting to venture inside, but I don’t have much of a choice, unless I’m cool with watching Dale blow up his tab. It’s crowded on a Saturday night, and loud, and smells like pennies. Everything I didn’t want my Saturday night to be, but it boils my blood, the way some people can be so predatory toward decent people. Dale has always been good to his wait-staff, always looking out for us whenever a customer gets belligerent, or we’ve got personal shit going on. I’d have never gotten through Denny’s death without Dale’s patience, so it pisses me off that someone like Beth would take advantage of him that way.
My being here is solely based on principle—and the fact that Beth and Harv are already on my shit-list, for the note.
I plow through the crowd toward the two twisted lovebirds, who sit laughing with Dale, Simon, and another waitress from the diner, Shayna.
Simon is the oddball of the group, but I’m less concerned with him, the moment I catch sight of Dale. Steps slowing as I approach, I take in my boss’s condition: eyes alert, not wobbling like he’s trashed, or looking the least bit troubled that he supposedly just offered drinks on the house.
“What’s going on?”
All eyes turn to me, and the moment Dale shakes his head, I know I’ve been duped.
“She showed up! Ha! Ten bucks, Shay!” Bethany does some stupid little dance that leaves me frowning, as I try to piece the scene together. “Pay up, bitch.”
At thi
s point, my fingers are already balled into tight fists, ready to throw a punch. “You said Dale was trashed off his ass.”
Dale’s expression is half remorseful and half amused, and wholly irritating the shit out of me. “Sorry, Nola. Beth said it was the only way to get you to come out tonight. But your drinks are on me. For your trouble.”
“I’ll pass. Assholes.” The anger is more intense than I’m letting on, but rather than go postal over it, I spin around to leave, but feel a tight grip on my arm. A quick glance back shows Bethany actually looking a slight bit rueful, though it’s hard to tell under the layers of black eyeliner around her lids.
“Wait, Nola. You never hang with us anymore. Just have one drink, yeah?”
Shaking my head, I grit my teeth to keep from biting her and attempt to pry my arm loose, but she tightens her hold. “I have things to do tonight,” I grit out.
“What? Watch TV until you fall asleep on the couch? When was the last time you had fun? Like, real fun?”
The words of my former psychologist come rushing to mind, and I drop my gaze so she doesn’t get the impression I’m actually pondering her question.
“You need this, Nola. I didn’t call you out because I wanted to piss you off. I knew you wouldn’t come. But I also know, deep down, you miss the laughs. Remember those deep belly laughs, when we’d work late shift and swear we were half drunk on exhaustion?”
I stifle the urge to chuckle right then, pursing my lips together at the memory.
“One drink isn’t going to take that long. And Oliver doesn’t come back until tomorrow, so you still have lots of time to yourself, am I right?”
It’s the time to myself that bothers me most. That’s when I do too much thinking and worrying. That’s when the memories take over, and I’m reminded of how lonely it is to be a single, widowed mom.
Maybe she’s right, as horrible as that may be.
“One drink. Then you assholes leave me alone and let me leave in peace.”
“Deal.” Bethany wraps her arm around me. “Dale! Get this woman a drink!”
Deal. Why do I feel like the deal I just made is with the devil?
As Dale makes his way toward the bar, I stuff my hands in my pockets, feeling wildly out of place here. Bars used to be where Denny and I hung out all the time, before Oli was born. We practically lived at the piano bar downtown, but now they’re crowded and loud, and far too stuffy for my comfort.
“Come sit here, Nola.” Shay waves me over to an empty space between her and Simon, who looks about as out of place as I feel. By the time I take a seat, Dale’s back, setting down a Long Island iced tea, evident in the gradient of browns and the lime stuck to the rim of the glass.
“You had to pick a drink with all kinds of alcohol?”
“If you’re gonna have one, might as well make it a good one, right? Enjoy.” He takes a seat in the chair across from me, and lifts his bottle of beer for a toast before clinking the side of my glass.
Enjoy. I stare at the drink I used to love, back in my party days, trying to remember the last time I ordered one myself. Maybe six years ago. I take a sip, and my mouth is instantly delighted by the flavor, as if my taste buds have waited years for this moment. It’s smooth, without the sting of all the alcohol I know goes into them. The sign of a talented bartender. Easing back into my seat, I watch Beth drag Shay out onto the dancefloor, and shake my head when she reaches back for me.
“Baby steps,” I say after her.
“Fine. But I’m getting your ass on the dancefloor again soon. Mark my words, Tensley.”
She and Shay hustle toward the jukebox, and I sip more of my drink.
“I don’t get the need for attention,” Simon says beside me. “It’s a foreign concept to me.”
“You’re not the only one.” I snort, using my straw to move around the large chunks of ice in my drink. “Give me a quiet night at home with a book, or a movie, and I’m in heaven.”
“That’s refreshing to hear. Feels like everyone I meet is some kind of … party animal.”
“Party animal or haughty little snob who won’t give you the time of day,” Dale adds before taking another swig of beer. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” He pushes out of his chair, heading toward the bar again. Guy might end up having to remortgage his home after all, if he doesn’t slow down.
Another sip of my drink, and I can feel my muscles growing warm, the room feeling less intimidating, bigger and lively. “Those days are gone for me. I’m just an old maid in dire need of a cat,” I say to Simon, who still sits beside me.
My mind instantly flips to earlier in the evening, when Voss stood in the doorway, shirtless, holding the tiny kitten. How, for a split second, I almost wished I was that cat nuzzled into his chiseled chest.
“You like cats?”
I shrug and set the straw to my lips, noticing my drink is half gone already. Slow down, Nola. “The stuffed variety.”
In my periphery, I catch Simon’s head snapping in my direction, and I slap a hand to my mouth to keep from spewing my last sip, as I snort a laugh. “As in, my son’s toys. I can’t really deal with too many live things. Plants. Animals. Other people.”
“Plants and animals aren’t so bad. It’s the people I have trouble with. Socializing doesn’t really come natural for me.”
“Me, either.” Glancing to the side, I offer Simon a smile. “It’s nice meeting a fellow hermit.”
He lifts his glass, which looks to be a soft drink. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.
My head is spinning as I sit in the booth, squished between Simon and Shayna, who talk to each other through me, as if I’m not even here. Their words are a jumbled mess, bouncing around in my brain. I’m three drinks in and officially buzzing. Or maybe I’m trashed and just don’t realize it yet.
My whole body feels warm and fuzzy, muscles completely relaxed.
Simon lifts his drink, wiping down the condensation left on the table with his napkin, and sips his Coke like it’s Grand Marnier, or something.
I find the act mesmerizing, consuming my attention as though it’s the most riveting thing I’ve seen, and it’s not.
A hot, muscled man holding a kitten pretty much trumps everything.
And now I’m perving on my tenant again.
Without warning, I push to my feet, interrupting Simon and Shayna, and feel a gentle grip of my hand.
“Everything okay, Nola?” Simon asks, his face somewhat of a blur.
“Yeah … I just …” I stumble backward, the room spinning way too fast in my periphery. “I just need some air.”
“Want me to come with you, hun?” Shay tips back the last of her beer and signals the waitress for another.
“No. No, I just need a minute to get some fresh air. You two stay. Talk.”
Eyes focused on the exit sign ahead, I make my way toward it on legs that feel like wet noodles, until I finally push through to the back alley. The stench of the dumpster and stale water assault my nose, taunting my gag reflex, but I hold it back and fish through my coat pockets for my cigarettes. The buzz of nicotine only adds to my dizziness as I light up, and I don’t immediately notice someone’s joined me, until arms wrap tight around my torso.
“Found ya!” Harv stinks like the onion rings he was eating earlier, and I wrench his fingers apart to set me loose.
“Get off of me.”
He does, laughing as he lights up one of his own cigarettes. “Shouldn’t come out here by y’self.” His words are slurred and forced. “Buncha freaks ‘n this par’of th’city.”
I may be buzzing myself, but even I can see he’s straight up shitfaced, his eyes falling to half-mast as he wavers on his feet. “I’m fine.”
“You are fine. And I wish y’were mine.” The song in his voice stirs the bile I tried to hold down from before. He shakes his head, his right sleepy eye twitching. “Why’n’t we jus’ fuck? Jus’ ge’it over and fuck already?”
&nbs
p; “Because I have self-respect. And you have a wife.”
“You’re too good f’me? ‘S’at it, Nolo?”
It’s not even worth correcting him again, especially when he only butchers my name to piss me off.
Flicking my cigarette away, I take a step toward the door, but he blocks me. “I’m going back in now. Please get out of my way.”
“Touch m’dick firs’.” Thumb tucked in the waistband of his jeans, he holds his pants open in invitation. “Th’I’ll let you back in.”
“Fuck you.” I step to the right, and when he follows suit, I quickly skirt to the left, but he catches me, even in his drunken state, pulling me into him.
Jeans still pulled away from his body, he tightens his grip around me and presses me against the wall. “C’mon, Lola. Touch m’dick. Jus’ once. One little stroke.”
Struggling against him, I push away, trying to create a wider gap for escape, but he has the advantage between his body and the wall. “Get the fuck off of me!”
“Y’know you want to touch. Jus’ squeeze it, and I’ll let y’go.”
“Fuck off! Help!”
He abandons his waistband and slaps his hand over my mouth. “Shhhh. I’m jus’ playin’, baby. ‘Sall fun.” His lips only brush across my cheek, before his body is hefted backward, his grip faltering.
Standing beside me is Simon, brows angled to a pissed-off frown.
Wiping sweaty hands against my jeans, I straighten myself, dumbfounded for a moment, trying to process how someone as small as Simon managed to throw off someone as heavy as Harv.
“Th’fuck? Who th’fuck d’you think …?” Harv lurches again, but one solid punch to his stomach sends him stumbling back onto his ass. Idiot looks like a stuck turtle trying to turn himself over. “Whassa problem? I was jus’ playin’ wi’ her.”
“Are you okay?” Simon’s eyes are warm and sympathetic, as if he’s apologizing for all of the male species at once.
“Yeah. I’m … just a little … tipsy, is all.”
“If you’d like, I can give you a ride home. I haven’t consumed any alcohol tonight, just soda.”