by Tara Sivec
I take a deep breath when I finish rereading Baker’s email.
“And how much is he offering to pay again for you to interview him personally?” Brooklyn asks.
I look away from the email to glance at my best friend’s face on my phone screen.
“Five times what I would normally make for this job, on top of what I’m already making for it, because he’d still need me to type everything up,” I remind her, my happiness starting to come back to me, when it was in the toilet at the start of this phone call.
Brooklyn FaceTimed me to tell me she’s pregnant. My best friend and my brother are going to have a baby. And I live over a thousand miles away and can’t afford to go home constantly to touch her belly as it grows, and make fun of her in person when she bitches about being miserable, and be there for her when she has this baby.
But I could with the money I’d make from this job.
Baker’s email showed up right when I was getting ready to hang up with Brooklyn so I could cry about the unfairness of everything in peace. Like a creepy stalker angel from heaven, he made me laugh, and he magically provided me with an answer to my problems.
“And he wants you to meet him in the middle of the day, in a super public place in the city, right?” Brooklyn asks.
“He said the Starbucks at Navy Pier this Sunday at eleven. It will definitely be swamped with people then,” I explain, my excitement growing.
For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve never been to the pier. Brandon always promised to take Lincoln and me, and of course the plans always fell through. I’m a little nervous to take the train and then a bus there by myself, but fuck it. I need to get out of this damn house and live a little. And I realize I own a car, but I drove into downtown Chicago once, right after we first moved here. Never again. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, people honking at you if you don’t take off like a NASCAR driver as soon as the light turns green, streets suddenly turning one-way as you’re driving on them, only being able to turn right when you need to turn left, which means it takes an additional hour to just go around the block with all that traffic, to turn the way you needed to initially. I’d rather take public transportation, especially on the weekend, thank you very much.
“Fine. I approve. You have to do this. Now open up the fucking picture he attached already before I reach through the phone and shank you,” Brooklyn demands.
I look away from her to stare at the attachment to Baker’s email that’s been taunting me since I got it. Before finally biting the bullet and clicking on it, I reread his explanation at the closing of the email one more time.
“I’m attaching a picture of myself just so we’re a little more even, and you can at least SEE who I am. Inflating my ego with compliments is always welcome. Please pay close attention to my rock-hard abs.”
Biting my bottom lip, I squeeze my eyes closed as I quickly double-click my mouse. I don’t know why I’m being such a chicken shit about seeing a picture of him. It’s not like it matters if he’s hideous or looks exactly like the giant, oily beefcake I’ve been picturing in my head. It doesn’t matter that my opinion of what he looks like changed a little bit after I heard his sinfully sexy voice that did tingly things to me. This is just a job. There will be no tingling of anything. He has a hot voice and a great sense of humor, and who gives a shit what he looks like?
“Jesus Christ, open your eyes, or turn the fucking screen around so I can see him!” Brooklyn shouts through the phone, making me slowly peel my eyes open.
And burst out laughing at what I see.
After turning my laptop around a few seconds later so Brooklyn can see what I’m looking at, she leans in close to the screen, and lets out her own laugh after a few seconds.
“Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.” Brooklyn continues to chuckle as I bring the screen back around to look at the picture he attached again.
It’s a photo of a woman who looks close to my age, with wavy, chin-length, pale pink hair and pretty blue eyes. She’s holding an old, framed photo in her hand of an adorable little boy with spikey dark hair who’s squatting over a barbell with huge, circular weights on the end of it. His face is all scrunched up with exertion as he tries to lift it, and his cute little toddler belly is puffed out with the effort. In the upper left-hand corner of the picture, I can just make out someone’s faded, scribbled handwriting that says Baker, age 4. In the woman’s other hand is a handwritten note with an arrow pointing to the framed photo she’s holding that says, Hi, I’m Blake, Baker’s older, wiser, and much better looking sister. This is Baker when he was little. His muscles are still just as puny, and he still makes that face when he poops. He really lives in Chicago and owns a gym. He’s the decrepit, old age of thirty-five. He is not a stalker, and he will not murder you. But he will annoy the shit out of you, and he’s a sore loser when you kick his ass in basketball. Temper tantrums have been thrown. It’s not pretty. But I guess he’s all right.
Brooklyn spends the rest of our phone call giving me orders. I’m supposed to send her a picture of Baker’s driver’s license as soon as I sit down with him. Text her as soon as I’m leaving Starbucks. And FaceTime her as soon as I get home, after I’m completely certain I wasn’t followed. It’s overkill, but I get it. I’m a single woman going into the city by myself to meet a guy I sort of met online, whose last name I still don’t know. Precautions must be taken.
After I end our call, I pull my laptop onto my lap and scooch back into the couch to get comfy, smiling to myself as I type.
To: [email protected]
From: Ember Hastings
Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription
So, what you’re saying is, you don’t have a teardrop tattoo under your eye? You’ve never been strip-searched? You’ve never made wine out of prison toilet water? Your thighs don’t rip the seams of every pair of pants you put on? Well, this just got awkward. You have literally no redeeming qualities now. This article about you really will be a shit show. You can make it up to me by having Nana Grand Funk needlepoint me something that says, Shut your whore mouth.
You can also thank your sister that I’m agreeing to help you out with this important bind you’ve gotten yourself into. She’s super pretty, and I like her hair. I think she can probably take you in a fight, which means I’m confident I can probably kick your ass if you get out of hand.
Just so you know, I’m also only agreeing to do this, because you’re paying me a shit-ton of money. It’s not because you make me laugh, or you make me want to do something other than sit around feeling sorry for myself or anything like that. You’re honestly kind of a snoozefest. (YAWN)
See you Sunday, Baker. If you don’t tell me your last name as soon as I sit down so I can immediately google you, I will knock you out with my slick karate moves and harvest your kidneys.
Just kidding! Maybe.
Ember “I Haven’t Harvested a Kidney in at Least Five Years” Hastings
CHAPTER 8
BAKER
Huh
I see Ember before she sees me. I would know her anywhere, even in a crowded coffee shop, and with only a back view photo to go on.
Fine, so she did a complete circle looking around for me and I recognized that great ass. Whatever. I’m a guy. Tits and ass will always be my first focus.
I don’t realize I’m sitting here staring with my mouth open until a little coffee from the cup still held up by my mouth drips down my chin. With a muttered curse, I set the cup down and wipe my chin with the back of my hand, my eyes never leaving the blonde over by the door as she continues to slowly scan the crowd.
Her long, wavy blonde hair is the same as in the picture, hanging loose around her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing a tiny pair of black shorts, and I now realize the jeans she had on in her profile picture hid some amazing legs underneath them. She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt that hangs loose off one bare, sexy shoulder, and I smile to myself when she turns around again. I get another look at that perfect
ass, and it’s good to have confirmation it really wasn’t Ember’s mom in that profile photo. And her face? Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful. Tiny features, with big, bright eyes and full, pink lips. She looks like fucking Tinkerbell, standing over by the windows in a ray of sunshine. The goddamn dust particles floating around her head look like fairy dust.
Blake has a four-year-old daughter. I’ve seen some fairy dust shit.
I wonder what exactly she’s looking for? A guy with a paunch and a baby face that’s scrunched up like he’s constipated?
I can’t believe I let Blake talk me into sending Ember a picture of her holding that damn photo she keeps in a frame on the desk at the gym.
She’s probably looking for the bulked-up meathead who has to turn sideways to get through a doorway.
What are the odds? What are the goddamn odds that someone with my same ridiculous sense of humor would randomly live where I do, and she’s so fucking gorgeous I want to point and laugh at all the men looking over at her right now, wondering if they’ve got a shot?
Mine.
Something resembling a growl comes out of my mouth when Ember’s eyes lock on mine. I don’t even know this woman, and I already want to punch every guy in here in the fucking throat for looking at her. I’ve spoken to her a handful of times. Over email. Just because she makes me laugh, doesn’t mean she won’t boil a bunny or two. She mentioned going through some shit, and sitting around feeling sorry for herself. A hot pair of legs walking toward me in high-heeled ankle boots doesn’t mean she won’t have a nasally, Janice from Friends voice that will make my ears bleed, while she cries at the drop of a hat about the shit she’s going through.
“Good thing I didn’t bring any oranges. I’d never get freshly squeezed juice out of those puny arms.”
Jesus Christ, my dick is hard.
That is definitely not a Janice voice. Ember’s voice is smoky and hot as fuck. Like Miley Cyrus without the twang.
Again, four-year-old niece, who just discovered Hanna Montana. Fuck off.
I don’t even know when I stood up from my chair, but here I stand, towering over sexy Tinkerbell, wrapping my hand around the one she holds out to me. Her eyes never leave mine, and when the fuck did I forget how to speak?
“I wouldn’t talk too much smack. You’re so tiny I could fit you in my pocket,” I finally manage to get out with a smirk.
And let you do dirty things to me while you’re in there.
She rolls her eyes at me, which I can now see are a gorgeous bright green. I drop her soft, warm hand, even though I want to grab back onto it and yank her against me.
Christ, I need to get it together.
“Full name is Baker Jackson Matthews,” I tell her, sliding my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. “My gym is called The Barracks, because I want the people who use it to think of it as their home away from home, just like the barracks when you’re in the military. It’s a few blocks away from here, and I live in the loft above the gym, because it’s convenient. Not because I use it as a murder lair and do murdery things up there after the gym closes. I was injured during my last tour with the Army nine years ago, and I was honorably discharged. The Barracks is just for wounded veterans, so they can feel human again, and not like a patient. It’s where they’ll have some control, and not feel like they’re an invalid surrounded by hospital equipment and the smell of antiseptic in the air. I want to expand. I don’t have the money to expand. I’ve been offered the money, but only if I promote The Barracks more, to bring in more donations. Which is the reason for the magazine article and the interview.”
I cut off my explanation with a sigh, giving her everything she needs to know that I didn’t want to give her in an email, so she can feel a little more comfortable being here with me. I hold my breath and wait for the look of pity, sadness, hero-worship, the quick scan of my body looking for injuries, or whatever the fuck else is bound to cross her face, and the reason why I might be second-guessing this meet-up right now. I liked that she didn’t know who I was and treated me like any other guy. I liked that she was different from all the rest.
“Huh.”
That’s all she says. Huh. And she just stands there in front of me, with her head tipped back, studying my face without any bit of emotion showing.
“So, you don’t have a murder lair. I apologize for my assumptions.” Ember shrugs.
She fucking shrugs. I want to kiss that goddamn feigned look of boredom right off her face.
Someone walking by in the crowded Starbucks bumps into the back of Ember. It sends her tripping forward, smacking right up against me. Her hand flies between us and she quickly grabs a fistful of my T-shirt right over my ribs to hold herself steady. Wrapping one arm around her, I hold her against me as I turn us both to the side to let more people go through.
I’m looking down at her, and she’s still got her head tipped back looking up at me. We’re getting jostled as more and more people try to make their way up to the counter, and I don’t even give a shit. She smells like goddamn pumpkin pie. Like cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla, and I lick my lips, willing my dick not to poke her in the stomach as I stand here wondering if she’ll taste just as good as she smells.
All of a sudden, Ember jerks away from me, dropping her hold on my shirt and crossing her arms in front of her, looking anywhere but at me.
Sure, she probably doesn’t think you’re going to murder her anymore, but I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate you trying to tickle her belly button with your hard-on, asshole.
“We probably shouldn’t be standing in the middle of an aisle. And it looks like someone took your table.”
Ember nods to the table I vacated when she walked over here, and I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, two women have taken over, pushing my half-empty coffee cup out of their way.
“I could walk you over to see the gym. It’s just a few blocks from here. We can use the office,” I suggest.
She finally looks up at me again, and I watch her bite down on her full bottom lip, thinking about it for a minute.
She never looked at me with pity. She didn’t thank me for my service. She didn’t gush all over me and call me a hero for what I’m doing.
I’m proud of the work I do and the gym I’ve built; I just don’t like the spotlight, and don’t think I deserve praise for doing something that’s right. For the first time in a long time, I want to show someone what I’ve done and brag about it. I want to impress her.
“Okay. Let’s go to this gym of yours. But I swear to God, if you try and show me how much you can bench press, or I see even a trace of baby oil in your office, I’m out,” she informs me as we both turn and start making our way toward the exit.
“Aren’t you going to google me while we walk? Make sure I am who I say I am and I’m not really a serial killer?” I ask her when we get to the door and I pause to hold it open for her.
“I don’t really think a serial killer would use the word murdery in a sentence.” She laughs softly.
When we’re outside in the sun and away from crowds of people, we’re able to pick up the pace and walk a little faster. My goddamn knee locked up after sitting in there for a half hour before she showed up, and I wince a little as we walk, my slight limp a little more pronounced that normal.
Ember slows down her walking a bit and looks up at me.
“Sorry, I’m a speed walker by nature. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m vertically challenged. I have to walk twice as fast just to keep up with a newborn baby,” Ember explains.
She doesn’t ask why I’m limping. She doesn’t stare at my leg. She apologizes for herself instead of for whatever is wrong with me. Where in the fuck did this woman come from?
“You can ask me about my leg,” I tell her, even though I don’t want to fucking talk about my leg ever, but it doesn’t seem so bad talking about it with her.
“Will I need to carry you?” she asks, her arm brushing against mine as we walk next to each other at a slower p
ace.
I laugh and shake my head at her.
“No. Shot full of shrapnel, total knee replacement. It bothers me sometimes, but I can carry myself.”
Ember nods before looking away from me to stare out at the water next to where we’re walking.
“Okay, good. I’m small. Lifting you up would literally kill me. As long as your leg won’t kill me, I really don’t give a shit about it. No offense.” She shrugs.
Goddammit, am I screwed. I wonder how long I can drag out these in-person interviews. Like, maybe forever.
CHAPTER 9
Ember
Boner Killer
Is it hot out here, or is it just me?
It’s April, in Chicago. It must be the weather that’s been unseasonably warm. It has absolutely nothing to do with the guy walking next to me with the hot face, and the hot body, and the hot voice, wearing hot-guy cologne.
As soon as our eyes locked back at Starbucks, I knew it was him. I don’t even know how. I just felt it. Which sounds stupid as shit when I say it in my head. But God, the way he was looking at me. Like he recognized me instantly, appreciated what he saw, and would chew off the arm of any man who tried to talk to me.
It was possessive and hot. Something that should have had me running in the opposite direction, considering it was coming from some guy whose last name I didn’t even know, who I met online. I didn’t run away. I walked right toward him like he was a magnet pulling me in.
I take another peek at Baker’s profile as we step off the pier and take a left to start walking the few blocks to his gym. He’s probably right around six feet tall, maybe. Who the hell knows? He towers over me just like everyone else in the world. He definitely doesn’t have tree trunk arms that could squash my head like a nut, but sweet Jesus, the muscles he does have are things of beauty. I want to write a thank you letter to whoever made the navy blue T-shirt he’s wearing, which isn’t grossly skin-tight, but just fitted enough that I want to titter like Skanky Giggler and say something stupid like, “You must work out a lot, huh?”
