by Amity Cross
If there was one thing I was good at, it was giving women closure. First, the con artist ring girl, then Lori, and now Callie. She could say what she needed to say, and then move on with her life.
So I opened a message, typed in some words, and pressed send.
Storm R: I hear you’re looking for me.
Like she was already there waiting for me to message her, three little bouncing dots appeared at the bottom of the screen, signaling she was typing a reply.
Callie: What color was I painting the storeroom?
Storm R: What?
Callie: I’ve had a lot of morons trying to dupe me. So… What color was the paint?
Storm R: Light blue. The can had tipped over, and it was all over the floor.
There was a long pause, and I began to doubt my memory, but finally, the three dots appeared again.
Callie: Is it really you?
Storm R: Yeah.
Callie: Really?
Storm R: Last time I looked. I don’t leap into raging infernos for just anyone.
Callie: Is that actually your name?
Storm R: Yes and no.
Storm R: Are you okay?
Callie: I’m fine. I bumped my head and inhaled a lot of smoke, but I’m okay now.
Storm R: Good. I’m glad.
Callie: It was an accident. The fire. The police said it was faulty wiring.
Storm R: The police?
Callie: My insurance company says I should sue my landlord.
Storm R: You should. It sounds like it was their fault.
Callie: Thank you. For saving me.
Callie: It was the ultimate, you know? Risking yourself for a stranger.
Glancing up at The Underground, I frowned. I’d wanted a scrap of kindness, and now that Callie was throwing me a bone, it made me feel uncomfortable. Like I didn’t deserve it. I’d saved her life, but I was still in the black where karma was concerned. When would I stop feeling like a total asshole?
Callie: Can I see you in person? Please?
I hesitated. No. It was completely out of the question. She couldn’t know me. Then why the fuck did you message her?
Callie: I know you’re still there. Please meet me.
Callie: Please.
Callie: I can’t explain it. I feel connected to you somehow. Maybe it was just the fire and the way we met, but I have to know…
Storm R: Know what?
Callie: If it’s real.
My fingers tightened around my phone. Maybe this was my chance at real. Maybe Callie could help me redeem myself. Maybe she was the one who would finally be able to see the real me.
Fuck, I was desperate for someone to be glad to see me. Someone who wouldn’t scowl and change direction when they saw me coming. I didn’t want someone to try to fix me. I wanted someone to listen. I could do with a little kindness. A drop. I would take any little scrap.
Storm R: Okay. Let’s meet.
7
Callie
I sat in a bar on Brunswick Street, my second gin and tonic on the table before me.
Two blocks away was the boarded-up remains of The Fitzroy Cake Company. Luckily, I didn’t have to pass it on my way here. Otherwise, I would be an even bigger ball of nerves.
When my handsome stranger had sent me a message, I’d almost dropped dead on the spot. And that was saying something considering it had almost happened to me for real. After a slew of trolls and random dudes sending me photos of their limp dicks, Storm R had answered the question correctly. What color was I painting the storeroom?
It was a simple question, and anyone could’ve guessed it, but when he’d mentioned how the can had tipped over, I knew it was him. I knew it. Anyway, he was due to meet me tonight, and when I laid eyes on him, there would be no denying it.
A blast of cool air tickled my cheeks as the door opened. My heart twisted in anticipation, but the man who walked in was blond and was leaning down to kiss a woman who was far more glamorous than I was. Resisting the urge to curl my lip at them, I sipped my gin and tonic.
Was the fire only four nights ago? It felt like an eternity had passed waiting to meet the man who had saved my life.
Checking the time on my phone, I saw he was fifteen minutes late, and I shook off the feeling of foreboding that was growing in the pit of my stomach.
The door opened again, and I glanced up, my heart deflating when I saw it was only a woman. She crossed the bar and greeted her friends, smiling all the way. I watched her with a pang of jealousy as she sat down and immediately launched into conversation. Life was so easy for some people. Confidence was never my strong suit, which was why I liked sharing my cakes on the Internet. Even with its trolls and perverts, I didn’t have to put on a pretense twenty-four seven. I could totally hit the delete button.
Nursing my gin and tonic, I took a sip to pretend I was doing something other than waiting for a guy who had obviously stood me up. No one came to a bar alone unless they were a raging alcoholic, right?
I glanced at my phone for what felt like the millionth time, but there were no messages from the mysterious Storm R. What if he was just another crackpot and this was an elaborate scheme to humiliate me. The world was fucked up like that, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Shaming was a lot of people’s first port of call when they found something to be outraged or jealous over. Modern living at its finest.
Listening to the bustle around me—music and happy conversation—I sank deeper and deeper into depression. He’d probably stood outside, saw me through the window, decided I wasn’t pretty or thin enough, and legged it. Either that or Macy was right. He wanted to remain anonymous and had second thoughts about meeting me.
Checking the time, I sighed. Now he was half an hour late. Safe to say he wasn’t coming. Great, just fucking great.
Draining the last of my gin and tonic, I picked up my handbag and rose to my feet.
“Callie?”
Glancing up at the sound of a male voice, I froze when my gaze connected with a pair of familiar chestnut-colored eyes. My fingers went limp, and the handle of my bag slipped from my grasp. It landed by my feet, but I didn’t bend to retrieve it. I was trapped in the vortex that was my mystery savior.
It was him. There was no doubt about it.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” I said.
“Sorry I’m late,” he replied, his voice washing over me the same way it had the night of the fire. He glanced at the empty glass on the table. “Can I get you another?”
“Uh…” I shrugged. “Gin and tonic.”
He nodded and stepped over to the bar. Sinking back down onto my chair, I kicked my handbag between my feet and sucked in a sharp breath. Holy smokes.
Staring at him as he gave his order to the bartender, I gave him the once-over. I hadn’t had a chance the other night since I was suffocating and everything, but now I was free to study every little detail while his back was turned. And what a back it was.
His haircut was rough like he’d kept it shaved and it had grown out a little too long. He’d dressed nicely, a gray shirt and dark-colored jeans, and those same boots were on his feet. The ones with the scuffed toes and loose laces. His arms were well defined, and his shoulders were broad. His ass was perfection. Complete perfection.
The bartender placed a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Storm, and he handed the guy some money, then returned to the table.
He set the glass in front of me, and I took it, desperate to ply myself with a little liquid courage. Our fingers grazed, and at his touch, I almost dropped the lot into my lap.
He sat opposite and rested his elbows on the tabletop.
“Callie,” he said, trying to start some kind of conversation. “Is that short for something?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s just Callie.”
We fell into an uneasy silence. I’d stewed over what I would say to him all day. I’d even taken notes to try to clear my mind, but now he was actually
here in front of me, the easy conversation I’d dreamed of was non-existent. He didn’t seem to want to talk at all, or he was waiting for me to say the words I’d been so desperate to tell him. Thank you.
It was easy. Two little words. Just say it, Callie. I was crashing and burning, and where I should’ve been relaying gratitude, I was allowing my nervous energy to swallow me whole.
It was just…he was so handsome and brooding, and I was little Callie with her little smoldering mess of a cake shop. He was ripped—I could see the biceps on the guy, which meant the likelihood of a six-pack was rather high—so anything more than a ‘thanks for saving my life’ conversation was a long shot to hell.
I was soft around the edges. Guys like him didn’t go for squishy girls like me.
“Listen, I um… I thought about all these things I wanted to say, but now you’re here, I don’t have a clue,” I said, arming myself with the truth. “My post must’ve… Well, it must’ve been a whole bag of crazy. I’m surprised you wanted to meet me.”
“I almost didn’t come.”
My gaze met his. I knew it.
“Then why did you?” I asked, my fingers wiping at the condensation on the outside of my glass. “You almost got away with it.”
He didn’t reply. He just frowned broodingly.
“What’s your name? It’s not really Storm, right?”
He started picking at the label on his beer.
I wasn’t quite sure what I’d been expecting from tonight, but it wasn’t this. Evasive had nothing on his behavior right now. I felt like I was interrogating the guy. He’d said it himself. He almost didn’t come. Maybe he hadn’t had a clear view of my ass through the window, and that was why he stepped through the door.
Picking up my bag, I shoved down the disappointment that was beginning to overtake my tear ducts.
“You’re right,” I said. “This wasn’t a good idea.” He perked up, his eyes following my every move. “Thank you, Mr…”—I waved my hand at him with a scowl—“Storm, for saving my life. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” I rose to my feet.
“Mark,” he said. I froze, and he stared up at me, the sadness I’d seen in his gaze the night of the fire coming back to the surface. “My name is Mark.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there and waited. Did he want me to stay? Was he actually going to talk? Did he want to know me? I wanted him to. I wanted things to flow both ways. The handsome stranger who saved my life. Mark.
“Please, sit down,” he said.
Returning my ass to the chair, I set my bag down for the third time that night.
“I, uh…” It was his turn to stumble over his words. “I live in the neighborhood,” he finally offered.
“You live around here?” I asked. “The rent must be killer.”
His eyes darted to the side. “It’s nothing special.”
“Was that how…” I glanced at my hands.
“I was on my way home,” he said. “I don’t know why I did it… Why I went in there.”
“I’m glad you did.” I raised my head and met his gaze. I could melt in those eyes.
“You bake cakes?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“You’ve always wanted to do that?”
“Always. There’s something about mixing all those ingredients, you know? Creating something new, something tasty. Cakes are a celebration. They make people happy.”
“You seem driven,” he commented. “That’s a good thing.”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t think so?” He started picking at the label on his beer again.
“I’ve sacrificed a lot,” I replied, watching his fingers. “It takes time and capital to open a shop, especially in the food business. There’s a lot of red tape. I’ve let a lot of things fall by the wayside. Travel, friends…relationships.”
His lips quirked, and I bit the inside of my cheek. That was the first hint of a smile he’d given me, and man, oh man…
“So, no boyfriend?” he asked, making my insides flutter.
I shook my head, and his smile widened even further. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I leapt headfirst into the biggest one of all. Did he…like me?
“You?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.” He glanced away, the shutters slamming shut—not that they were open very far in the first place.
“What do you do…for, uh, work?” I asked lamely.
“Nothing special.” He shrugged and wrapped his hand around his beer. I watched as he lifted the bottle to his lips and sipped. When he set the bottle down, he studied my features, his gaze lingering on my lips. Or at least, I thought that was what happened.
Was it my imagination running wild again? Something passed between us, and it was almost heavy enough for me to reach out and grasp it.
He checked his watch, and I squashed down a pang of jealousy. Totally my imagination.
He had a whole life outside of me, the woman who was still a stranger to him. He had people and friends and a job, not to mention the string of women he was probably dating. He’d said he was single, but that didn’t mean he didn’t already have half of Melbourne on speed dial.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” I asked a little too sharply.
His eyebrow quirked. “I have a commitment I need to honor.”
I scowled and reached for my drink. Rather than question him further, I downed the rest of my gin and tonic. He probably had a hole he needed to honor with his cock.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Northcote,” I replied. “I can get the tram pretty much all the way.”
“I can wait with you if you like.”
“Yeah,” I said with a smile, my jealousy toning down some. “I’d like that.”
Gathering my handbag, we left the bar, Mark holding the door open for me. We crossed the street between the cars that were banked up in traffic and walked down the block to the tram stop.
Standing side by side, we fell into another awkward silence. There was so much I wanted to say, but I couldn’t find the words. I wasn’t even sure if he would listen let alone give a stuff. He’d haunted every moment since the night of the fire, and now it was becoming increasingly like a first date from hell. There was a wall—that I suspected was of his making—and I hated it.
I could see the tram in the distance, rolling along the tracks at a snail’s pace behind the wall of traffic.
There was something there. I could feel it vibrating through my nerve endings. It couldn’t be one-sided. It just couldn’t.
“Can I see you again?” I asked, glancing at him.
Mark tensed slightly, hesitation written all over his face.
“Listen, Callie—” he began, but I shook my head.
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just say ‘It was nice to meet you, and I’ll see you around.’ Just say that, okay?”
His brow creased, and his gaze fell. “It was nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.”
The sound of the tram door squealing open was my signal. Turning, I hightailed it out of there, knowing the chances of seeing him again were slim to none. It didn’t bode well for me because the mystery surrounding his sad eyes had only deepened. Then there was the matter of my heart. My stupid, fickle heart.
Swiping my card against the reader, I moved down the tram and found a seat by the window. As the doors shut and we began to move, I didn’t have the courage to look up to see if he’d waited to see me off or had left the moment I’d turned around.
I didn’t have the strength to take another blow like that.
Sinking back into my seat, I knew when I got home, I was going to dream about him again. And this time, it would be dirty as hell.
8
Storm
I watched the tram begin to move, carrying Callie with it.
I shouldn’t have gone, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d watched her through the window of the bar as she’d waited, checking her phone over and over, her hopeful gaze lifting to the door every time it opened. I’d watched, battling with myself. Should I go in, or should I leave her there?
After a while, the pull of her mysterious green eyes had reeled me in, and it was all I could do not to beg her forgiveness there and then. It was all pre-emptive, after all.
Callie Winslow with her cake shop. Single, pretty Callie Winslow with her flushed cheeks and pink lips.
She was beautiful, intelligent, curious, and her awkwardness was enamoring after the kind of women I’d been with before her. She was nothing like the bitches who hung around The Underground looking to bag themselves a fighter. She’d asked questions and fought back, not afraid to walk away when I was a complete dick to her. She wasn’t dying to impress me so she could get a free ride. She’d worked hard for her dreams, and it sounded like she’d sacrificed a lot to get to where she was.
Turning, I strode down the side street and made my way back to my apartment. The same apartment I’d paid for with money I’d won from illegal cage fights. I didn’t rent here. I owned.
A row of lock-up garages sat below the warehouse styled building, and I pressed the fob in my jeans pocket. The door closest to me began to rise, revealing my motorcycle. It was a Yamaha V Star Custom that I’d won in a bet with a guy at The Underground six months ago. The bet being, if I could put down the guy in my next fight in less than two minutes, I would get the bike. If not, I had to help him out with ‘a problem.’
