by Liz Talley
She walked to her chair and sank into it just as the phone rang. She stared a moment before lifting the receiver. “The Queen’s Box.”
“This is Monty Gale from the Gambit. I’d like to talk to Eleanor Theriot, please.”
“She’s not available.”
“I’ll leave a message.”
“She’s not taking messages,” Eleanor said, replacing the receiver. She shook her head as if doing so would make the past fifteen minutes disappear.
No good.
How many more people would call? Not that many people watched YouTube, did they? When they said videos or picture “go viral” that was fluffy stuff like barfing dogs or people tripping and landing in whipped cream or something. Why would someone care about some guy singing about making love to someone?
But she knew magic lay in Dez. She’d seen his face, the dampness in his eyes as he bared himself emotionally. He hadn’t looked at the camera but had lost himself in a private moment of revelation. The potent combination of such a beautiful, masculine man pouring forth tenderness was seduction in itself.
And then there was Tre with his phenomenal ability.
Add up those things and it was easy to see why people wanted a piece of that moment.
Flashbacks overwhelmed her. Once again a man had thrust her where she didn’t want to be—in the spotlight. She’d had no choice in the matter, no recourse. When people claimed a piece of Dez and his music, they took a chunk of her. As sure as they pried a clam apart and poked the creature within, so she, too, felt the point of their sticks.
The door open and Dez stood before her.
“Eleanor.”
She refused to allow tears. “Yes?”
“I know you’re pissed.”
“Do you?”
For a moment, he looked clueless. Proto-typical helpless male. It was a look she knew well because Skeeter had plied it with the craftsmanship of a professional moron. But Dez wasn’t a moron. “Wait, you’re not mad about the video thing?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re mad.”
“Along with hurt and embarrassed. I pretty much feel like a jackass.”
He shut the door. Clad in worn jeans and a faded long-sleeved shirt that fit him like second skin, Dez didn’t look like a man who’d used and abused their intimacy. On the contrary, he looked like a model on the cover of a magazine, and even pissed she could appreciate his magnificence. But those feelings were short-lived when she remembered he’d revealed to the world the most intimate details of their relationship.
The sigh in her kiss, alabaster curves in the moonlight… poetry in her arms, her thighs a new embrace, coming home to Eleanor.
Dear Lord.
He crossed his arms, legs akimbo. “Listen, I had no idea this would happen. Tom wanted to record the song because he knew a producer looking for new material.”
“That’s nice. So how did it end up on YouTube? In fact, how did I not know you were writing about me… about how good we screw?”
“That’s not what that song is about. Did you even listen to it?”
“Oh, yeah. I heard it.”
“It’s about more than sex.”
“Mm… so you say.”
“It is.” A frown gathered between his eyes. “Look, Tom called me several hours ago to explain. His teen daughter found the video on his phone and sent it to a few friends because she thought—well, that doesn’t matter. It steamrolled from that point. Just one of those things that happen.”
Eleanor felt the panic tear at her. She held no control over what had happened… she wasn’t even a bystander. She hadn’t known anything about the song, and that made her feel powerless.
“And it’s not all bad. A lot of good things could come from this accident,” he said.
“For you.”
“No, not for me. Wait, do you think I did this on purpose?”
“I would hope not. My daughter saw that video, Dez. She heard you talking about sliding into me. Can you see this from my side?”
“Of course, but Blakely’s grown. I’m not trying to capitalize off this mistake, but I’m smart enough to realize there’s nothing I can do about it. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did.”
“No, none of it was supposed to happen, was it?” Eleanor looked down at the calendar on her desk. March 9th was circled with a little sunshine on it. She’d written BEACH beneath little waves. She took a Sharpie and scribbled over the sunshine that mocked her. “This was all a big mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
She gazed up at him. “From the beginning I knew you and I were too different. This only proves it. We’re on different wavelengths.”
Dez sank onto the edge of the damask chair with the carved angels sitting vigil. “So what? You’re breaking up with me because of this video?”
“Maybe ending us is for the best.”
“Seriously? One rocky spot in the road and you’re out?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Don’t you get it? To you, it’s easy. You’ve spent your life moving on from one thing to the other. This is no big deal because you can profit from it. For me, I’m out to dry. On all levels.”
“That’s a pretty harsh accusation. I’m not moving from anything.”
“Don’t you dare imply I’m in the wrong. You allowed this to happen. You let him film this thinking you can get back what you once had, but you forgot there were other people involved. You forgot you dragged me along for the ride.” Anger burned in her. How dare he flip the tables and make her seem irrational? She hadn’t a hand in what had gone out to YouTube or wherever, but she did have enough sense to stop the bleeding.
’Cause that’s what she’d been doing… allowing her passions to leach out and cloud her judgment.
Eleanor Hastings Theriot wasn’t meant to be with a hot, young musician. That was the tempo beating out in her head.
Foolish, foolish woman—that’s what she was. Chasing after something she couldn’t have, trying to grab hold of a different Eleanor. She should have known she couldn’t handle Dez… couldn’t handle something so exciting and passionate.
Her only recourse was to protect herself. No one would blame her for calling in the troops and reforming behind battle lines.
Dez regarded her with such sadness. “I can’t believe you’re ready to toss everything over this. Are you that scared?”
“Don’t make this my fault, Dez. I’m saying what needs to be said. It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
His laugh was bitter. “Sensible? That’s gotta be the dirtiest word in the book of love.”
“Whoever said anything about love? We said from the beginning this would be good as long as we were both comfortable. I’m not so comfortable right now. So, yeah, I think it’s inevitable. We’re not forever, remember?”
“Who are you?” His voice vibrated with pain.
Her heart broke into a million, bajillion pieces. Never had she felt such utter devastation. Never had she not known what to do. Every cell in her body screamed to shut her damn mouth, drop to her knees and crawl to him, apologize for her weakness, but her brain, that rational part of herself that had gotten her through some hard years, overrode her impulses.
Dez studied her for a few moments, his eyes moving over her face as if he dissected her. It felt so familiar, yet so intrusive, she shuttered her expression, and tipped her head down to study the calendar again. March the 9th with its waves and blotted-out sun met her eyes yet again. Three days away. Maybe she’d go to Seaside after all.
Alone… with Nutella and lots of Oreos.
She needed time to process the past month, needed distance from her life here in New Orleans. This whole thing with Dez had happened too fast, and now things lay in ruin—her relationship with Blakely and her intentions to begin a new life of fun, frivolity and dating. She’d screwed everything up by falling for Dez.
And now everyone knew.
“I’m not a coward. I’m pragmatic. Being w
ith you has been good, but we got what we needed from one another, right? You’re writing again. My feet are wet.” She looked up at him, wanting him to understand the way she felt. It wasn’t as if he were in love with her. Better to end it now rather than have her fall even more deeply in love with him. Nothing good would come of their continuing. She had always known this.
For several moments, he didn’t say anything. For someone who wrote music, he was awfully uncommunicative.
“Are you going to say something?” she asked.
“Guess there’s nothing left to say except I’m sorry you aren’t strong enough to bear the scrutiny. We had something good and you’re throwing it away because you’re scared to let go of who you were. Very sad you choose a safe, empty life over me.”
“I’m not afraid. From the beginning you said you weren’t interested in anything serious. Remember? How has that changed? Don’t pretend we were going to end up together on a forever sort of basis.”
“So you lied the other night when you said you were falling for me? I thought we were headed somewhere more than the bedroom, Eleanor.” Dez hardened before her eyes. Gone was the tenderness, gone was the pity. Anger had grown in its stead. “Guess you got what you wanted—hot sex.”
“I believe it was mutually pleasing, and now you got what you wanted from me too – a song to put you back into the spotlight.”
“Jesus, Elle. When you get dirty, you go all the way.”
Her heart ripped into jagged throbbing pieces. “I learned from the best.”
For a moment they stared at one another.
Dez stood. “You’re so busy clinging to the rules, to the past, that you can’t imagine a life that doesn’t try to strangle you. I guess you’re not the woman I thought you were.” He grabbed the doorknob.
“Wait.” Things were happening too fast, and she wasn’t sure she meant the words she tossed at him. But she couldn’t seem to stop saying them. “We were a stop, not a destination.”
Dez paused, his hand still on the doorknob. “I shouldn’t have to tell you how I feel. I showed you every second I was with you that I wanted you. I never treated you like a stop.”
She spread her hands, shaking her head. “You know what my husband did to me. You know what I went through. How am I supposed to ignore what just happened, to ignore that you put me out there without my permission?”
“Did you even listen to the song, Eleanor?”
She thought back to the song she’d seen on the tiny screen moments before. She’d been so shocked by the suggestiveness, by her name, she hadn’t truly listened to the meaning behind the words. “Yeah, I heard my name in a song about sex, about you having sex with me. It was a bit hard to process the overall message involving what you found between my legs.”
Dez looked like she’s slapped him. Something moved inside her. Was she wrong to be so angry? Was she wrong about the song? About him? About effing everything?
“You know, don’t worry about the song. I won’t do anything with it, and people will move on to other videos, other news. But as for us, I’m done. I told you from the beginning. I don’t beg.”
And then he walked out.
Eleanor tried not to break down.
Done.
Dez had said they were over.
This was what she wanted, right? She had pushed against Dez and love as soon as she realized she’d fallen for him because love couldn’t exist between them. What she’d had with Dez was what she’d intended—an introduction back into a new world. One day she’d look back and feel relief, know she’d dodged a bullet. Being sensible wasn’t a dirty word… it made sense to let Dez go. To get back to who she’d always been.
Ending her relationship with Dez was smart… for the best.
Even as she acknowledged this, she knew he’d been right. Fear made her run, hide, and throw up defenses so she wouldn’t get hurt. The video had given her the reason she needed to end what she had with him.
And she also knew she’d tossed love back in Dez’s face like a child lashing out at a loved one in the throes of a nightmare. Eleanor was wrapped in fear…
And was nothing but a chicken shit.
She might hate herself more now than when she’d found out Skeeter had been screwing Shellee.
The door squeaked open and her heart leaped.
But it was Pansy. “You okay?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Watch the store for a few days?”
“Is everything okay? Dez looked—”
“No, it’s not okay,” Eleanor interrupted. “I’m either the savviest woman—able to anticipate forthcoming heartache—or I’m the biggest dumb ass in the world.”
Her friend’s eyes were as soft as the blue quilt hanging in the vintage linens section of the store. “Oh, Elle, hon. What have you done?”
“I’ve done what I’ve always done. I’ve protected myself.”
“I’d say something clever here, but you’d probably throw something at me, and I happen to know that Swingline stapler is heavy. So, I’ll just be your friend and run next door for muffins.”
Eleanor put her head on her desk and cried as the door clicked closed.
TRE STOOD IN front of the dilapidated housing project, and swallowed fear. Only a few units had remained after the storm hit seven and a half years ago, and the building where his mother had died was one of them.
For whatever reason, some politician thought this particular unit could be turned into a set of offices for the Housing Authority, but it had never happened. The other projects around the city had been torn down, and the office repurposing had gotten bogged down in red tape, so here the old unit sat, sad, decaying, but stalwart against the elements.
No one had lived in them since Katrina… other than the occasional vagrant who was rousted by patrols. Rusted padlocks refused outsiders entry, but there were always ways to get past locks when one lived in the streets.
Tre could easily get inside.
If he could make his feet move.
Maybe the old T-shirt hiding the things he’d taken would still be inside, hidden beneath moldering carpet in the floor of the old front closet. Or maybe some street person had already found the hidey-hole and added the stolen goods to his cart of cans and worn clothing.
Tre hadn’t a clue because every time he got within a block of the place, he started shaking so bad he could hardly move. Didn’t matter what he told himself—that the memories should be gone by now—he still shook like an addict detoxing.
Hard, cold fear sat like an iron ball in his gut, but after facing what he had over a week ago. After staring down death and knowing he could do more than run, he’d found the courage to face his past. He wanted to do it for the woman who’d cared enough to sit beside him at that police station and refused to allow him to go down for something he hadn’t done.
He’d feared her all these years, even after he’d gone to work for her. He still couldn’t figure out why he’d walked into her store that day months ago. He’d had no intention of applying for a job. No intention of engaging Eleanor in any way. But it had to have been a God thing—that’s what Big Mama would say.
And walking into the Queen’s Box for the second time had changed his world.
Now it was time to give back to her what he’d taken in desperation.
Because it was time to move on. He’d grabbed on to hope with both hands, and he wasn’t letting go of a future for himself.
Night was a cloak for activities no one wanted anyone to witness, but it was also a dangerous time on these particular streets. Years ago, Tre had worried about his bright T-shirt standing out in the darkness. This time a wiser Tre had worn dark clothes and old sneakers. He carried an empty sling backpack he’d scored at a health fair and Big Mama’s .38 special in the waistband of his jeans.
If he got picked up with a concealed weapon, his phone call would have to be to an attorney rather than Dez or Eleanor. Of co
urse his boss had been in Florida for the past several days…
Tre circled the abandoned building, his ear cocked for any weird sounds. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he slipped toward a bottom window that looked to have been jimmied and carefully camouflaged, likely by a homeless person, or maybe even some kids buying and selling drugs.
Tre pulled himself through the window, grimacing as it creaked, and cast a quick glance up at the flaking fire escape, which he’d climbed down years ago, holding Shorty D like a football, ignoring the gunfire above him.
He balanced for a moment, wincing as the metal window stop pressed into his stomach, before sliding into the building and landing with a thump on the warped subfloor.
“Shit,” he said, breathing in deep, but wishing he hadn’t. The room smelled musty with mildew, though he could see the place had been mostly gutted. Tufts of green shag carpet still clung to carpet strips along the wall and plaster hung from the ceiling. In one spot, he could see up to the second floor through a yawning hole, the splintered wood resembling fanglike teeth.
Not wanting to spend any more time than necessary, he pulled a small Maglite from his pocket, sprang to his feet and spotted the doorway leading out into the hall.
When he shone his light to the right, he breathed a sigh of relief.
The stairs were intact.
Even though he wanted to get the hell out, he took a moment to breathe, begging the panic to stay curled in a ball in the pit of his stomach. If he couldn’t control the anxiety, he might freak out.
As he approached the stairs, the memories slammed into him.
“Get your ass upstairs, Tre,” his mother shrieked, her voice full of suffering, full of fear.
Tre shook out the memories as he climbed toward the place that haunted his dreams each night.
“Run, bitch,” G-Slim’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“Go away,” Tre whispered to the ghosts, putting one foot in front of the other as he climbed toward the third floor.
But everything he’d tried so hard to suppress roared back. The screams, the cursing, the sound of the gun, but most of all, he heard his mother screaming for him to run.