Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  “Why did we come here?” I ask.

  She spins around quickly to face me in anger, then her jaw falls slack. She looks back to the house, shoulders slumped, mouth gaping.

  She walked to the wrong home.

  From between clenched teeth, she grits out, “Fuck!”

  Princess puts her back to me, refusing to admit she’s more drunk than she lets on. Refusing to show that she does need help tonight.

  I appreciate the feeling. The feeling of making yourself look so strong that there’s no one to turn to without feeling shame.

  How do I explain to her that Pops isn’t well? That it wasn’t the real him who visited Iris all those times? That I had no idea what was happening with my business when all these months I’ve been spewing the strength of my work ethic at her?

  Princess digs through her purse and grabs her phone. She taps on the Uber app and starts ordering a ride.

  “No,” I say. Probably a little too harshly, judging by her jump.

  She glares at me, but says nothing before returning to her task. I check my tone before trying again.

  “You’re not getting a ride with a stranger.”

  She dismisses my concern without a second thought. “You know there are several very successful companies based solely on strangers driving other strangers around. Millions, probably billions of people do it every day in cities all around the world.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Best reason to have someone else drive.”

  She’s infuriating. I twist the device out of her hand and shove it in my back pocket. If she wants it, she’ll have to reach in and get it. And she won’t dare touch me again. Not after what happened in her backyard.

  I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the sensation of her skin on mine.

  “Give me my phone.” Each word is punctuated with contempt. She holds her palm out, waiting for me to obey.

  Taking her phone is out of line, but I won’t give it back until she hears me out about Pops. Not until she knows he wasn’t in control of his actions and that I’m not an asshole.

  The problem is, I don’t know how to say it. I’m not sure how to tell her that her strength is tempting me to push my limits—something I’ve never done. Something I’ve never wanted to do.

  She takes my silence as defiance.

  “You insecure, little man. Why do you think women are so incapable of doing anything on their own?”

  I don’t think she’s incapable. Far from it, in fact. I’ve never met someone with more determination. But she’s foolhardy and reckless and that’s the problem. She’ll hurt herself by proving her worth.

  “What successful woman from your past makes you act this way?”

  Too close to home.

  If she would stop being angry for a moment, she would see that I’m trying to be nice. That I’m trying to protect her.

  I stare at her angry eyes, struggling to shape the words to begin the conversation. It’s useless. She won’t hear anything I say. I should ignore Pops’ comment that she comes with the place, just like she should ignore the business cards.

  “You know what?” I reach into my pocket and fish it out. “Suit yourself.”

  I grab her hand and slap the device into her open palm, knowing but not caring that it must sting. I storm up my front stairs, hopping all three in one leap. I spin, feeling her glare burning a hole through my back. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

  She stomps her way towards me, hands waving the phone and her papers in the air.

  “There are better ways to do it.” She climbs the stairs and we stand, heaving chest to heaving chest. “You don’t take someone’s power away and claim you’re doing it to be nice. You want to be a gentleman? Stop telling me what to do. Stop thinking you know me better than I know myself. And stop staring at my lips when I’m talking to you! Pretend I’m someone you could respect for a minute and look me in the eye.”

  I’m staring at her lips because kissing her might be my only option to shut her up. I’ve envisioned it often enough to fathom exactly how her lips would feel—tense at first while she tries to keep screaming into my mouth, then relaxing into it. Giving into the idea and softening, melting, when I pull her in closer and deepen the kiss. The only sounds after that will be her unhurried, yearning moans.

  I raise my eyes to hers before I act on that impulse.

  “And, stop ruining my dreams.” Her fist crashes into my chest and I release a gust of air at the unexpected force she drills into me.

  “What about my dreams?” I shoot back as all desire is quickly swept away.

  She has no idea what my dreams are and how hard I’ve worked to make this business successful. No idea what my family has gone through to get to this point. How Pops kept things running to honour Mum’s life and how I have to do the same for him. How I’m working to teach Tommy to be a respectful, contributing member of our community.

  She shakes her head, bewildered. “Owning my home isn’t a dream; it’s a goal. Demolishing it is a business decision.” She points next door in case I’ve forgotten how close we stand to the object of this heated conversation. “Living under that roof and between those walls—that’s my life. That’s the last connection to my family.” Her voice cracks and her resolve crumbles. The drink is making her behave this way. Under a more sober circumstance, she’d lock those tears away. “That’s all I have left of my parents and my grandparents.” Tears crawl down her face and she swipes them away. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  She doesn’t give me the chance to answer before spinning on her heels and flying down the stairs towards the curb. I don’t know why I chase her. We’ll never see eye-to-eye on the best use for her land. All I know is goals and dreams can be the same.

  I stand behind her while she orders her Uber, peering over her shoulder to make sure she’s not ordering a shared ride. Then I wait.

  And she waits.

  And we stand in charged silence with the stiff wind blowing, her crying, and me grinding my teeth into nubs.

  When she shivers violently enough to lose balance, I take off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. When the driver’s ETA goes from four minutes to six because he took a wrong turn, I slide around her and zip it. And when ten minutes pass and the driver cancels the order because he’s an idiot and can’t count avenues sequentially, I spin her around and wrap her in my arms. And I’m thankful that she’s not getting in a car with a stranger who’s an idiot.

  She stands rigid in my arms, refusing to give in. I refuse to give in also, and I don’t let her go. Eventually, she wraps her arms around me, laying her head on the same spot on my chest as the last time we hugged. Our heartbeats mingle once more, and this time, my heart pounds not out of fear for her life, but out of fear for me.

  “Please come inside,” I say. Her head shakes against my body. “I promise to be a gentleman.” She scoffs. It’s better than listening to her cry. “A real gentleman. Then I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

  She pulls away from me and looks me in the eye, deciding if I recognise what it truly means to be a gentleman. I do. I’m rough and my delivery needs work, but it’s all been for her wellbeing and safety.

  I wipe a tear off her cheek, showing her I can be compassionate. I hold her hand through the sleeve of my jacket, showing her I can be considerate. I help her up the stairs to the house and hold the door while she walks in, showing her I can be chivalrous.

  “Leave your shoes on.” There are likely nails and staples scattered around.

  “Okay,” she says meekly, and moves into the duplex.

  Princess places her papers and purse on the temporary kitchen counter. She doesn’t run her hands along the surfaces like she did in the other place because there are no finished surfaces yet. Instead, she takes it all in with her eyes. It’s a mirror image of the one next-door. Once again, I’m left trailing behind her, waiting for her to drop hints of approval for me to scrounge up. She reaches the back of
the house and looks towards the upper level that’s completely unknown to her.

  “This is going to be great, Owen. You create beautiful homes.” Her voice is soft and unexpectedly sincere.

  I’ve heard from other people that the quality of my workmanship is second-to-none; somehow, hearing it from her means so much more to me. If the cause of all my distress over the last several months can offer a compliment, then it must be real.

  “Would you like to see upstairs?” A blush creeps into her cheeks and we both smile. I put my hands up in surrender. “Perfect gentleman.”

  “I’d love to see upstairs.”

  I guide her to the first stair with my hand nestled into my spot on the small of her back, then let go to climb behind her. The sway of her hips as one foot rises, then the other, makes it hard to keep my promise. I want to sink my fingers into her fleshy bottom. I want to spread her open and feast on her pussy. Hear her scream my name in a tone she’s never used with me. A tone that sings me to sleep every night and rouses me every morning.

  The rooms are shells, so the tour is quick. Our last stop is my bedroom. Princess stands at the door peering in.

  “This is how you live?” Her voice cracks.

  “Sure. Why?”

  I have my king-sized bed, two nightstands and a lamp. Everything is tidy, and when it comes time to lay the flooring and paint, there’s little furniture to move.

  Sad eyes precede her quiet voice. “Nothing here says this belongs to you. This could be anyone’s room. Anyone’s home.” She sighs at the strange realisation of how I live.

  She’s right. This doesn’t belong to me. It isn’t my home.

  I don’t have a home.

  She’s also wrong. Princess assumes that my way of living goes against everything she stands for. Continuity, stability, succession. I rub my arms, reminding myself that I embody those things, even if they aren’t apparent to everyone.

  Izzy is perceptive. Her eyes fall to my arms and instinctively, I cross them over my chest, trying to hide as much as I can even though she’s already seen them and touched them with her delicate fingers. She’s reading my body in an effort to put the pieces of the puzzle together. What she doesn’t know is that none of the pieces belong in the same box. There’s no rhyme or reason to the tattoos. They’re glimpses of memories. Snippets of a lifetime to be remembered in another lifetime.

  Her eyes come to mine. She’s tired. Red circles rim her blue eyes. She leans on the door, saving the energy needed to stand upright.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say. She opens her mouth to argue and I shut her down with one head wag. “There’s a t-shirt in the nightstand that you can sleep in.”

  “I’m fine like this.” I follow her hands as they skim the curve of her hips.

  “Suit yourself.” I grab my things from the ensuite and head downstairs.

  “Thank you,” she calls after me, still sounding defeated.

  I’m exhausted too. I’ve said more to Izzy in the last hour than to anyone other than my dad in years.

  I drop on to the couch and unlace my boots, then tuck them under the coffee table. I silence my phone and place it facedown. Stretching out as much as possible along the short couch, I drape my jacket across myself and tuck my arms around my chest. I close my eyes, but it’s useless to think I’ll be able to settle my mind enough to fall asleep.

  Does her anguish stem from poor maintenance on her grandmother’s part, or from Black Ladder’s plan to buy her house? Perhaps I, more than Black Ladder or the crumbling structure next-door, am the reason she’s so sad. If she really believes what she said outside about me thinking she’s incapable, then she’s been misreading my actions all along. Thinking that I don’t believe she has the skills, when all I want is for her to be safe. That I’m petrified she’ll meet the same fate as Mum.

  I was so upset when Pops compared Izzy to Mum—yet here I am doing the same thing.

  How did I go from hating the woman upstairs to feeling something else entirely?

  Maybe I never hated her. Maybe I envied her all along. Coveted the memories she made with her grandparents, parents, and cousins in that tiny house next-door.

  I don’t have any of that.

  I know my father loved me. Loves me? It’s hard to tell when he doesn’t recognise me anymore. His love came through in how he taught me his trade. How he made sure I’m the best at what I do. How I’m proud of my work; only start something I can finish and always deliver more than I promise. Pops built his life on simple, humble principles.

  He loves me, but Mum was his passion. Much like she was his reason to keep going, he’s mine.

  Her accident sealed my fate. I’m destined to live with one foot in the past, always compensating for life’s imperfections. Pops atoned for her accident; now I’m accommodating for his disease.

  Who’s going to do it for me?

  I sit up and rub my eyes as though it will help me see in the dark. I listen for noise upstairs. The shift of her body on my mattress. The light padding of her bare feet tiptoeing around, even though I asked her to keep her shoes on.

  There’s nothing. Pitch black and utter silence.

  Using the flashlight on my phone, I find my boots and make my way into the kitchen for a glass of Scotch. Sitting on the edge of the plywood surface are her papers held by the weight of her purse. I can tell that they’re quotes and I’m itching to slide the top page aside to learn what’s underneath. I put the tumbler to my lips, reminding myself how I promised I would be a gentleman. Relying on the knowledge that there’s no business deal to be done here.

  And the fear that this is as close to something personal as I’ve ever experienced.

  Chapter 23

  Izzy

  I can’t sleep and it’s more than the alcohol spins that keep me awake. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in Owen’s house. In his bed. There’s little here that tells me more about him than I already know—solitary, unemotional, detached—but there’s no mistaking that this is his space and I’m an intruder.

  Unlike the rest of the place, which smells like fresh paint and drying grout, this room smells like him. It’s spicy with a sweet, vanilla-like undertone. Not too sharp nor too soft.

  I can’t get away from it.

  I roll over to the other pillow and inhale to see which side he sleeps on. It would be better if I slept where he doesn’t. Unless that would make it seem like I’m leaving room for him. He said he’d be a gentleman, but what if he changes his mind and comes peeking in here? What conclusions would he jump to based on how I lay in his bed?

  I can’t tell which side is his, anyway. The whole place smells like him. Leather and sawdust and nights of hot, hot sex.

  Fuck.

  I can’t have dirty thoughts about him while I lay between his sheets. It’s bad enough I do it in my bed, surrounded by my own smells and things.

  I pull the blanket to my chin and opt for the middle of the bed. Neutral territory.

  Too bad my mind can’t be neutral.

  It wants to know if he sleeps on his back, if he snores, if he sleeps in the nude. It wants to know if he prefers missionary or something more exotic.

  Never mind. He’s for sure a do-it-from-behind guy—that way no one can look into his eyes where he’d risk sharing anything that would distract from his public personality of business only.

  Sweat beads along my temples. It’s because I’m in bed wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and I had too much to drink—not because I’m thinking about having sex with Owen. All I need is water, then I’ll be able to close my eyes and sleep for a few hours. I’ll rise with the sun and be out of here before he’s awake.

  I scoot to the side of the bed and drop my feet to the floor, then reach for the lamp. I slip my shoes on for the short walk to the washroom, since I don’t want to make Owen’s dreams come true when I step on a nail and need to be taken to the hospital for stitches and a tetanus shot.

  He was right. I may have had too
much to drink. If I could ignore the need to slide my hand along the wall to make it to the washroom safely, I certainly can’t overlook how I came to the wrong house tonight.

  After dipping my head under the sink for several gulps of cool refreshment, cracking the bedroom window, undoing the top few buttons on my shirt and feeling no cooler, I give into his offer of sleeping in one of his shirts.

  Sliding his dark cotton t-shirt over my head feels weirdly intimate. I’d never use that word to describe Owen on an ordinary day. Certainly not in relation to me. It’s hard to suppress when I’m surrounded by him.

  I lie in bed, fighting the feeling of it tilting. Staring at the swirling dark ceiling despite the lack of light to offer contrast. Trying not to think about how much I’ll regret this in the morning. It’s impossible. I need a distraction. Better yet, I need to sober up and go home. I swing my legs over the side of the bed again and slip into my shoes once more. I’ll tiptoe into the kitchen and grab my phone so I can at least focus on something other than being in Owen’s den.

  As soon as I open the door, I’m met with the sound of movement downstairs. He’s obviously as keen on sleeping with me under his roof as I am. I creep to the top of the stairs, hoping to see what he’s doing without being caught. I only get down two stairs when he calls for me. I freeze.

  “I know you’re there, Princess.” I spin to run away when he says, “You might as well come down if you’re not sleeping either.” His voice is husky with sleeplessness that won’t relieve him of this day either.

  I get halfway down the stairs before descending into the dim light cast from the kitchen. Owen stills, hands moving to the countertop, taking one long, deep breath and holding on to it. His jaw tightens as his eyes slide over my body, making every inch of my skin tingle. I hug my arms around my waist to ward off the feeling of being stripped nude. It wouldn’t take much more than that look—I’m only wearing a shirt. His shirt.

  I should comment on his obvious perusal of my near naked state and how ungentlemanly it is, even if his shirt comes to mid-thigh. Instead, I watch him watch me, aware of how exposed I am—physically and emotionally. Conscious that he knows I don’t hate that he’s lingering on my bare legs.