Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  In many ways, retail constantly reinvents itself. It takes basic needs and successful sellers, and reimagines them, rising like a phoenix from the ashes after something forces it to crash and burn. In that respect, it's a lot like books that continually take popular tropes and rework them in a different way, over and over, so that they're reborn in someone else's vision. There's something poetic about the recycling and reinvention.

  Checking my watch, I realize it's already close to six. Just enough time to grab the two small bags, along with my coat, and wave goodnight, making my escape.

  Crisp air elicits a small shiver as the October night settles around me, and I gather my coat tighter around my shoulders. Horns and headlights punctuate the dusk where I wait near the employee exit for Simon to arrive, checking messages on my phone and tapping out a quick email before I forget to reply.

  A deep woof startles me from the window of a silver Jeep gliding to the curb, and I recognize Brutus whining and straining to get through the window, nails scrabbling against the glass in eagerness to greet me.

  "Hey, baby," I croon as the window slides down slightly and a snout wiggles to fit through a crack that's much too small, while Simon hops out of the driver's side to greet me.

  "It's so hot when you call me baby." Leaning down to kiss my cheek as if it's an everyday occurrence, he grabs the bags and throws them in the trunk. Trying to inch the passenger door open without allowing Brutus to escape, I ignore his words and the warmth that lingers from his lips.

  "Brutus, Daddy is acting like a baby and trying to steal your kisses. Don't let him get away with that."

  Sloppy kisses land in my hair as Brutus tries to lick my nose, interrupted only when Simon finally slams his door shut and pushes Brutus firmly down into the back seat, allowing me to get settled.

  "Enough, mate. You'll make her think you don't have any manners. She's got us minding our Ps and Qs now."

  "What does that mean?

  "Well, you've been keeping me at arms length, haven't you? Making sure you're guarded at all times. Don't think I haven't noticed. Afraid you can't keep your hands off me?"

  "No! I know how to keep my hands to myself. I'm not avoiding you. I've just been busy getting ready for Quill next weekend."

  "Sure you are, but that's just an excuse. Anyway, Brutus here has been feeling neglected. He insisted we come meet you."

  "So you're not really making a spotted dick?”

  "Sure I am. The fact that it gives me an excuse to see you just makes it tastier."

  "You know, it hasn't escaped me that maybe you should be asking Mark for help with all of this instead."

  "Nah," Simon says, beeping at the car ahead of us to encourage them to move. "I think he's a bit over his head right now, yeah? Sounds like they've got him right twisted."

  "What do you mean? From what I gathered, everything has been moving smoothly. He told me they agreed to pretty much everything he asked for. Did you hear something different?"

  "I'm sure you're right then, luv. You would know better now, wouldn't you? Anyway, I need your help."

  "I thought that's what I just did. Although, Maria only guessed at what you might still need from your last order. Is all this really necessary?" I gesture to the two bags in the back seat, and Brutus woofs as if to answer.

  Reaching between the seats, I massage his ears and kiss the snout nuzzling against my neck.

  Simon's deep sigh pulls my attention from Brutus back to him as he drives underground into the garage beneath his building, parking in a numbered spot.

  "Hey, I never asked, is this your Jeep? I was surprised you weren't driving Mark's car."

  "Brutus wanted something larger. Mark didn't mind, but Brutus' nails were getting a bit stabby on the leather. Besides, we're used to being able to drive with the top down."

  "Brutus sounds quite spoiled. How did his last visit go with Heath?" Grabbing Brutus' leash from Simon, I snap it to his collar as Simon grabs the bags from the backseat before opening my door for me.

  "Seems right again. Cliff said he'd do another check in a few weeks."

  Brutus jumps out after me as we head across the garage to the elevator, and I realize that I've never been to Simon's apartment before. I'm not quite certain how I landed here now, or why I'm following him, but it seems silly to change direction or object to being here.

  Even so, it's weird to go up and stop at the fourteenth floor instead of heading to Mark's. Realizing I now possess a key, I wonder if I should sneak upstairs later and surprise him after work.

  At the ping of the elevator, the doors slide open, and I follow Simon down the corridor, grabbing a bag so that he can unlock the door. Brutus' weight forces the door open with a single jump, and I step into a space that seems completely out of character for Simon.

  Almost completely unfurnished, the open floor plan is smaller than Mark's. It must be an interior apartment, since there's only one wall of windows which face toward the city, although there's a pretty view of the park in the distance.

  The same industrial brick walls are visible, but instead of the more spacious dining room and living room layout of Mark's apartment, one central room dominates, filled mostly with a desk, computer, and musical equipment. A bass guitar, speakers, and an electronic keyboard take up half the space, while a recliner, love seat, and flat screen TV adorn the rest of the room. The only dining area is a small high top table in the kitchen and the countertop, which divides the kitchen from the living area with some extra bar stools.

  It's contractor-grade bland. Where is the fire and color of Simon's personality? Where are the comfortable touches that invite you to relax and stay a while? It's as if the original white, post-construction walls have never been touched or altered in any way. Even the kitchen looks bland, although the shiny red stand mixer that I sold Simon last time gleams from a counter top. No high end appliances or fixtures. No colorful dinnerware or linens. It's almost as if it's waiting for someone to breathe some character or personality into it.

  The most colorful counterpoint to the space is the squeaky toys and rope pulls littering the floor.

  "Simon, how long have you been living here?"

  "About four months. Why?" Cabinets open and close as he empties the bags, storing everything.

  "It just seems a little…empty. Not that it isn't nice, but it doesn't really match your personality. You don't strike me as an eggshell kind of guy." I gesture to his tight black jeans, tee, and boots, accented by a belt with a fat silver buckle.

  "They're just walls. I guess it's been a while since I stayed anywhere permanently or bothered to buy things I wanted to keep. I'm used to hotel rooms and being on the road, so it doesn't bother me."

  When you put it that way, I realize he's right—it's bland in the way that hotel rooms are. They're pretty much a waiting room that you can sleep in. A way station that's not meant to cause any strong reactions one way or the other. Maybe it's different in a luxury resort, but I've never been in one to know. Simon's apartment embodies the feel of transience—someone waiting for the call to move on.

  "When are you going home, Simon?"

  "What do you mean? I am home."

  "Then why haven't you decorated or added any personal items here? I can't believe this doesn't make you crazy."

  Looking around at the room, the lines around Simon's eyes and mouth tighten, as if seeing what I'm seeing for the first time. It's like I've burst some imperceptible cloak of illusion that he's been hiding behind, shining a light on just how sterile of an environment he's living in. What I don't know is why he's chosen to surround himself in this fashion, as if trying to scrub the essence of his personality away. Brutus is the only warmth in the room, the only thing that seems to bring any sense of energy.

  "I was already crazy. This is easier. There's no memories attached to this." Walking to the keyboard in the corner, he begins to pick out a tune. The notes float in the air, sad, haunting, languid, before accelerating into an aggressive rhythm that
's a stark counterpoint to what came before. It's anger stomping out sadness, until the sad keys take over once more, finally lingering in the air for seconds after the music stops.

  "Do you want to talk about it? Have you talked to the guys about it? Because I have to tell you, this," I gesture around the room, "disturbs me. Clearly, you've been hiding whatever's going on with you. I know I put you in the friend zone, but friends help each other. Right now, it looks like you have something pretty big weighing on your mind."

  The tightening of his lips make me wonder if I've crossed some invisible line. Maybe flirting is all we have, and I've overestimated my appeal. Leaning down, I pause to pet Brutus where he's dropped a stuffed squirrel at my feet, before choosing my words carefully.

  "I'm sorry, it's none of my business. But, Simon, I really think you should talk to the guys. I know there's some mysterious bro-code that you all use as shorthand to avoid actually talking about life, but I also know that they're better than that. They can rise to the occasion if you ask."

  "Are you giving up on me so quickly, then?"

  "No, of course not. I'm here for whatever you need."

  "You sure about that?"

  As I reach for Brutus' stuffed squirrel, Simon unexpectedly grabs the other end so that we're playing our own tug of war.

  "Of course."

  "Good." Warm lips swiftly meet my own as the stuffed squirrel drops between us, Brutus grabbing it immediately to generate a large squeak to match my own.

  I couldn't have said it better myself.

  Chapter 32

  Once Again With Feeling

  Allowing myself one long inhale, I breathe in the pure scent of Simon before pulling my lips away and stepping back quickly. My heart pounds as I realize how easy it would have been to settle into that kiss and ruin everything.

  "What are you doing?" My voice is mild compared to my racing thoughts. Be cool, Josie. Let's not make this more than it is. What if we want it to be more?

  Sighing wearily, Simon scrubs his hand across his face and through his hair, retreating to the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of scotch.

  "Neat or rocks?" he asks as I shake my head mutely, declining the need for either. At the gesture, he twists the cap off, tipping the bottle directly to his lips and taking a large swig, before recapping and putting it back in the cabinet.

  "Simon?"

  "Trying to feel something. Anything. Good job, luv. That's the closest I've come in months." Taking the bottle back out of the cabinet, he takes the top off, then puts it back on again as if reconsidering.

  "This…just takes the edge off."

  "Are you sleeping?" I ask, even more concerned by the thought of him drinking alone. Looking around the apartment with fresh eyes, I search for signs of drugs, or maybe the remnants of something darker. Simon lived the rock star life for years, and rumors of drug use were hinted at among Driveshaft’s members, although I don't recall any stories about Simon specifically.

  "Not much."

  "Are you playing?" I gesture to the instruments around the room as his eyes darken almost angrily.

  "Not really. I've been trying to write some new material, but nothing's hitting the right notes."

  "Writing? What? Lyrics?" At his nod, I feel like I'm on surer ground. Writer's block is something I fully understand. "I know how that feels. Sometimes I get so blocked, it's like I want to scratch it out of my head. Like an itch that's buried so far under you can feel it, but not get close enough to relieve it."

  "That's it. It won't let me sleep, because I can't reach it. Probably because I can't feel it. I can't feel anything. Except Brutus. And when I'm around you."

  Flinching, I feel guilty all over again.

  "Me? Come on, all flirting aside, we've never even touched, not really. Except for that kiss. Help me understand."

  "You make me feel lonely."

  Aghast, I stare at him as tears begin to well in my eyes.

  "Simon, that's an awful thing to say. I would never deliberately do that to anyone. Why didn't you tell me? I would have stayed away if I'd known that being around me made you feel that way."

  "It's ok, luv. Feeling lonely is better than not feeling anything. Although, I'd take more if you were offering."

  Frozen, I'm afraid to move, as if one small gesture will convey more than I can promise. As if one small move will make me a liar.

  "No? Well, I like seeing you, even if I can't touch. Friends, yeah?"

  "No! That's completely fucked up. You know that, right? I really like you, Simon. If the situation was different…but you know why it can't be more than that. Heath, Mark, I can't take a chance on screwing things up. Would you honestly want to put me in that position? Could you live with the aftermath when it all blows up in our face?"

  "Settle down, Josie. I'm not trying to scuttle your world. I was just trying to explain. I thought you'd get it." Looking at the bare room and blah furnishings, he gestures into the emptiness. "I haven't found a reason to stay yet. The thing I thought could tempt me to stay belongs to someone else. I'm tired of sharing. I need something of my own these days. I'd rather be lonely."

  Brutus follows my steps as I pace back and forth, needing to relieve the sadness welling inside me as Simon watches me carefully.

  "Don't fret, luv. For better or worse, right now, you're my muse. Maybe I need that more."

  "Simon, I'm really not following. I don't know what you want from me."

  "I need some inspiration. Here, sit." Walking to the love seat, Simon throws himself down, patting the cushion next to him in invitation.

  Folding myself into the small space, I'm intensely aware of the feel of my knee pressing against his thigh as I turn sideways.

  "Writing has been shit for the last couple months. My mind was numb, nothing was flowing. When you came along, I started to wake up. When I see you, I feel something. I figured since you're a writer, too, maybe we could vibe. I'm used to having mates to bounce ideas back and forth."

  "You want me to write a song with you?"

  "No, I just want you in the room for creative energy, maybe some feedback—the way you helped Mark. I thought maybe we can work on our words together. Kind of a buddy system."

  Ninety pounds of weight suddenly collapse across my feet as Brutus throws himself across them, sighing heavily as he relaxes into sleep.

  "See, even old Brute sleeps better when you're around."

  "That's it? You want a writing buddy?"

  "Well, you've already said you weren't offering any side specials."

  "I'm not," I chide. "I'm just clarifying for everyone in the room."

  "Consider it clear. Shall we give it a go?"

  Chewing on my lip, I consider if I'm making a deal with the devil. It's certainly very possible that I'm setting myself up to be burned.

  "I guess, although now we'll probably have to wait until after Quill."

  "Believe it or not, I have the patience of a saint."

  "Really? Why do I think you have the motives of a sinner?"

  "Because you see me in ways no one else does, luv. Isn't that a kicker?"

  "More like temporary insanity. Ok, let's give it a shot. Maybe it will help us both. I really need to finish my story."

  "And I need to start one. I always was good at sad love songs."

  So much for happily ever after.

  * * *

  "Josie, the swag came in! I'm bringing it over." Emma's voice radiates with excitement. "You're going to love it!"

  "Yay! Hurry! I'll order. Pizza or Thai?"

  "Thai me up, baby!" An image of Mark's kitchen flashes in my head, and I laugh at the memory of our last escapade involving an apron.

  "BYOR."

  "BYOR?"

  "Bring your own damn rope."

  "Girl, I will make a convert of you yet! See you soon."

  I'm surprised by how much the anticipation makes me jittery. It seems so stupid to get excited over paper and scraps of lace, but it's fun to be able to see ev
erything I've worked for finally take form.

  You can't hold a digital book in your hand and smell the paper. Or sign a copy. I still think Emma is wrong about the postcards. I've never been the type of person who understood standing in line for autographs. What's the appeal of a name scrawled on a random piece of paper?

  Now, a signed book? That's something I'll pay for. Glancing at my bookshelves, I search for my favorite signed treasures among the rest of my stacks. I tend to keep them together on one shelf, in a place of honor. One day, I'm going to add a paperback of my own there. Even if I'm the only one to own one. I crave a visceral connection to my book the way a toddler craves sugar.

  Maybe Lady Sydney's book will be the one that finally allows me to indulge that private exercise in vanity. It's too bad The Duke's Rose never made enough for me to justify the expense.

  The light tapping on my door is punctuated by Emma's muffled voice.

  "Josie, let me in! This box is heavy."

  "Geez, I'm coming!" Daisy darts away from my feet as I rush toward the door, wondering how heavy a few postcards and bookmarks could be.

  "What are you carrying—" I stop, dumbfounded at the large box in her hand.

  "Wait till you see them. They're even better than I hoped."

  "What are they? We ordered postcards and bookmarks. Where did the rest of this come from?"

  "I got a deal online. They had fifty percent off banners. People need to be able to find you. And I got a tablecloth. And some t-shirts."

  "Emmmmm…why? You know I can't afford all that." My eyes round in concern as the box hits the end table with a substantial thud.

  "Consider it my investment in your greatness. If it bothers you that much, you can pay me back at bonus time at the end of the year. Really, I got a great deal. I only bought a dozen t-shirts for raffles. We need something to create some interaction at your table."