by Susan Ward
Five-star still wasn’t in her wheelhouse.
She preferred neighborhood haunts inhabited by Capitol Hill locals.
She stayed up late working rather than playing.
People still adored her.
The only change in her I could tell in those weeks was while she’s still breezy, open Willow with those she’s known for a long time, she’s standoffish with strangers, especially men.
That last is a jagged knife that cuts both ways. It keeps the field clear for me if I decide to go in that direction and it makes harder what I’ve come here to do. Confirmed in spades when Ivy filled me in on the parts that I couldn’t glean from observation.
After I place my order, my phone trills.
Ivy: How’d it go?
Me: Everything’s moved. Thanks for the spare key to Mel’s. You’re right. There’s a lot to do. She needs help. I’ll work at night after the bar closes. Should have it done within a week.
Ivy: That’s not what I’m asking.
Me: I didn’t get into things about me if that’s what you’re wondering. The time wasn’t right. Having me in the apartment rattled her for some reason.
I stare down at the text, then delete the last sentence before hitting send because I know Ivy well enough to know she’d want me to explain. Only I can’t. Something is going on with Willow; I’m just not sure what. At times it felt like that woman aware of a man in a good way thing, and at others something completely different.
If I went by my cock-meter, it was the former. But I’m not trusting him.
Ivy: It’s not an amends to help her out and not tell her why. Doing the apartment renovation for her is a nice gesture, but what she needs more is a renovation of her heart. That starts with an apology from you.
Me: I know. Let me do this my way.
Ivy: Don’t make me regret helping you.
Me: Don’t make me regret trusting you.
I’m surprised that last comment doesn’t earn me a lightning-fast snarky reply. I’d deserve it since Ivy’s become a good friend, but the pushing me to get on with it really needs to end. I’ve got a handle on how I want to proceed, finally.
“Your order’s almost up, EJ,” I hear a voice say, and shoving my cell back into my pocket, I look up to find one of the counter girls smiling at me. Valerie’s always so kind to me when I come in here. She reminds me a bit of Willow at the same age. The girl’s young, pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes, and I pretend not to notice the check-me-out glance she’s giving me.
She looks up from the bag she’s filled. “How come I never see you in here with a girl?”
I shrug. “Maybe I haven’t found a girl attracted to my particular brand of unique lifestyle yet.”
She laughs. “Don’t give me that. I’m sure you’ve got tons of girls trying to hit on you every day while you sing. You’re becoming a fixture here. Whenever I’m on your block you’ve got quite a circle around you. I see you flirting with them. I bet you get numbers in that case from time to time with the money.”
I have gotten a surprising number of notes containing an interesting variety of invitations. It blows my mind that even bearded and dressed like a penniless drifter, girls are still attracted to me and at times chase me.
I used to think it was just because I was famous and had money that they were always rubbing up against me. That fucked with my head a bit—not ever believing anyone was truly into me because of me, and I think subconsciously it played a part in my never telling Willow the truth about me seven years ago. But I’m no one now, with nothing going for me, and I’ve still got it with women.
Yet my body doesn’t have the desire to be with anyone but Willow, not since we reconnected, even though it’s been over a year since I’ve been with a woman and pursuing her is probably the worst move I could make.
“I’m off work in twenty minutes,” Valerie suggests, setting my bucket on the pickup counter and leaning forward to give me a nice view of her large breasts in the snug Frank’s t-shirt.
I pick up my order. “Sorry, I’ve got plans tonight.”
She pouts then rebounds quickly into a smile. “Another time, then. I’m going to keep asking until you say yes.”
She’s cute, in that makes me think of Willow way, and I shake my head. “Give it up, Valerie. Go find a guy your own age who won’t scare the hell out of your father.”
Her laughter follows me out the door, and there’s a nice spring to my step as I hustle down the cold street toward Volunteer Park. Hank’s last text this afternoon informed me the doctor planned to admit him to the hospital, and I’m hoping no one has staked claim to my camping spot since my backpacking buddy won’t be there holding it for me.
Cutting through the bushes, I prepare myself to be shit out of luck with my favorite sleeping place when my gaze falls on Hank already set up for the night, sitting in a folding chair with his extra blanket wrapped around him. And, Christ, he built a fire. That’s going to bring trouble if I don’t kick it out soon.
“What are you doing here?”
“No room at county hospital for me,” he grumbles. “They were going to put me in a shelter so I high-tailed it back here. It’s healthier on the street than in those germ dens.”
Damn. I’d have come back to the park early and found him someplace to stay if I’d known he was here. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “Figured you’d find out on your own when you got back. It’s no big deal. Your plant’s not going to die. Stop worrying about me. A couple more doses of my antibiotics and I’ll be right as rain again.”
“What’d the doc say you have?”
“Nothing that serious. Bronchitis. I used to get it all the time as a kid. It’s not going to keep me from eating.” He makes a loud cluck cluck sound. “Is that Frank’s I smell?”
“Yep, I bring nothing but the best for dinner.” I set the tub in his lap, then drop my pack, pull out my bedroll, and arrange it on the dirt so I have somewhere to sit while we eat. “You shouldn’t have built a fire.”
“Calm down. I was a Boy Scout and made a pit with rocks. It’s a small fire and it’s not like I’m going to burn down the park. I’ll douse it after we eat.”
“Where’d you get the chair?”
“My find for the day. Someone left it by the wading pond.” Hank’s brows jerk up once he’s gotten the foil and the lid off the bucket. “Holy shit. It looks like a whole chicken in here. You must have made some bucks crooning for the masses today. Or did you get this haul flirting with Valerie again?”
I laugh at how he says that. “I did all right. There’s fries, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn on the cob in the bag. Dig in. Don’t wait for me.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He pulls out a drumstick and attacks it.
“There are napkins, too. Even plates and forks, you barbarian.”
The edges of his lips go downward as he tosses a look at me. “Keep them for yourself, my liege. I haven’t eaten all day.”
I frown as I settle cross-legged on my blanket. “You need to eat to build up your strength. You should have gone to the rec center for the free lunch.”
“Didn’t feel up for that much walking today. I came back here after the clinic.”
I pause to give him a once-over. He’s wrapped tight in that blanket, but he’s shivering. With the sun down, the chill’s creeping back into the air, but it’s not give-you-the-shivers kind of cold.
My brows lower. “You don’t look good, Hank. Are you sure it’s just bronchitis? You’re not keeping something from me, are you?”
He makes a face at me because I know he considers how I watch over him to be excessive at times. But I feel responsible since he probably wouldn’t be living on the streets if not for me.
“Nothing that a few warm days won’t fix, EJ. It ain’t right that it’s this cold in June.”
I fill up my plate with food, but I’m not completely convinc
ed that Hank’s fine or letting him continue tagging along with me is the right thing. Maybe it’s time to shake off my shadow and send him on his way. Now that I have a plan for my amends—thanks to Willow’s apartment needing a makeover—in a few more weeks I’ll be heading back home, and I won’t be here to look after him.
As I chomp on my food, I study him. He finishes eating after the drumstick. No, he’s not well, no matter what he says. Hank’s got an appetite like a horse usually.
Given how he looks, I’d say he needs off the streets as soon as possible. Damn doctor shouldn’t have discharged him. I bet they wouldn’t have if he had insurance to bill.
I make a rapid assessment of my options. I do have a thick roll of bills hidden in the zipper pocket in the inner lining of my jacket. Every dime I’ve earned that I haven’t needed for my basic needs has gone into the nest egg I’m building to pay back Willow what I owe her with interest.
Sure, I could have written her a check the day I got out of rehab and crossed her off my list of screwed over by Eric instead of playing music for change from strangers to pay back the debt. But her family had worked hard for what she laid out for me seven years ago, and it didn’t seem right to replace it any other way than working hard to do it.
The money I’ve saved is more than a wad of cash to me; it’s my most important step toward being the man I want to be after rehab. The man who can go home and deserves to be with his daughter. A man standing on his own feet and climbing out of the abyss by myself as my dad advised.
It’d pissed me off the day my dad had said that, but I get it now, why Alan left me at the mountain camp to make my own way after being released from rehab. In fact, I can honestly say I’m a better man because Dad walked out that door.
I’ve worked my ass off toward righting the wrong I’d done Willow, and in the process have done a hell of a lot of work on me. The touchstone that keeps me going on the streets—sober, determined, and working the steps—is that envelope I feel against my heart whenever I wear my jacket. The envelope I wrote Willow’s name on before I began filling it.
I haven’t taken a single bill from it to make my life easier and I’m going to need every cent to turn that apartment into something good for her, but seeing Hank looking so lousy makes spending part of my savings on him something I think I should do. A few bucks to help my friend is a worthy cause to dip into the till.
Christ, he’s got no color in his face.
“I’ve been thinking, Hank. Why don’t I get you a bus ticket to go home to your family in Portland? I don’t think this life agrees with you, brother.”
“Buy me a ticket to Portland?”
“Yeah. I think it’s time you head home.”
He digests that for a moment, then his eyes flare wide and he tosses down his blanket near me. “If you want me out of your hair, say so. I’ll pack up and find someplace else to camp.”
Like that, he starts shoving his shit into his pack, and for the life of me I don’t know what I said to cause this. His reaction throws me for a loop. “Will you stop packing up your stuff, you touchy bastard? I’m only trying to help you. You’ve had that cough for weeks. I think it’s more than bronchitis and that fucking doctor didn’t care enough to give you a thorough check. You’re not well.”
He glares at me. “It’s bronchitis. Nothing more.”
“Don’t be stubborn. Take the ticket. You can pay me back later, or not. I’m fine with it either way. Why are you getting pissed off over this?”
His mouth scrunches up as his gaze narrows on me. I’m not sure what I’m seeing on his face, then the light bulb turns on inside my head.
Oh fuck. How did I not realize this before? Hank doesn’t have a family. He’s got no one to go home to.
I toss my plate in the trash then wrap up the remaining chicken in the foil. Instead of climbing into my sleeping bag, I commence to shove my stuff back in my pack.
“Hand me your pack, Hank. I’m carrying it. And instead of buying you a bus ticket, what do ya say we get a hotel room for the night? You could use sleeping in a warm room, and I could use a bath.”
“I don’t need a hotel room,” he protests.
Anything more than sharing my meals with him, the dude gets prideful, and from his expression I can see more protests coming about him not wanting to take money from me.
“You’re right, Hank. You don’t need a room, but I do. You can stay here or come with me. But I’m heading out. I need a good night’s sleep and someplace to clean up. I’ve got a date in the morning.”
“A date?” That turns him alert and wipes the annoyance from his expression.
“Yep. And don’t ask for details. I’m not giving any. You coming?”
He slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder instead of handing it to me. As he ambles behind me, he asks, “It’s the gorgeous brunette with the legs that don’t end, isn’t it?”
I bite back a groan. Hank’s sharp eyes picked up instantly on my preoccupation with Willow when we first got to Capitol Hill.
“You finally found the courage to talk to her,” he prods.
I cut across the dirt toward the park exit.
“Come on, EJ. You’ve got to tell me something. Neither of us have had a woman so much as breathe on us since rehab. How’d you get in with a stunner like that?”
Get in. Not yet, but, boy, do I want to in more ways than one. “Date might have been a little strong. It’s just friends having breakfast.” I say that more as a reminder to me.
Hank falls in beside me as we turn down the street toward the business district. “Friends is good. It’s nice to be conversational with someone before you go to bed with them.”
“Whoa. Who said anything about sex? I’m not looking for that.”
“Bullshit.” He grins. “It’s been a long time and she’s the kind of woman that gets a guy stiff by being in the same room with him—”
I toss him a harsh glance over my shoulder. “It’s not like that.”
Hank laughs. “Dream on. It’s always like that.”
“Not with Willow.”
“That’s probably for the best. At this stage, you should keep to the sweaty, body slapping, meaningless sex with a woman until after you’ve passed the one-year clean mark. You’ve got eight more days before you get there. Getting tangled up with a woman isn’t smart. My four trips to rehab, every time I relapsed started over a woman.”
Points worth hearing. But that doesn’t change that I’m too far gone for sensible advice. Winning Willow back is the direction my body and heart want to take me. I’m not sure I can stop myself, and worse, Hank’s right. It’s wrong to try for more than friendship with her, but not for the reasons he thinks.
Chapter Six
Eric
I TAP MY FINGERS in annoyance beside the two bills I laid on the imitation wood counter. The desk clerk has been gone twenty minutes. Not a good sign.
It’s plain wrong how hard it’s been finding a place for Hank and me to sleep tonight. Every establishment I’ve tried acts like I’m the only guy who’s ever wanted to rent a hotel room without a driver’s license or a major credit card. There’s gotta be people who use only cash…
A door squeaks as it opens and—ah, there—my desk clerk in her stark navy suit. Her expression isn’t encouraging but I flash my megawatt Manzone smile anyway. No smile back. Yes, this isn’t going to go my way.
“All good?” I ask overly enthusiastic. It can’t hurt trying that positive attitude junk to get what I want. Heck, I’ve tried everything else.
She arches a brow and slowly pushes my cash back toward me. “I’m sorry. We can’t accommodate you. We’re booked for the night.”
I gape at her in disbelief. Twenty minutes she had me waiting out here when I’m pretty sure she intended to tell me no vacancy at the inn all along. Fuck no. Not taking this.
“All booked for everyone or just all booked for me?” I shoot back, not grabbing th
e money off the counter. “I’d like to speak to a manager, please.”
“I am the manager.”
Oh, she is? Then what the fuck was the holdup? I glance around the lobby. “Then can you explain why you don’t have a room? It doesn’t look exactly packed here.”
She meets me stare for stare. “Reservations and all.”
“Here?” I scoff. “You expecting a flood of late arrivals?”
“Something like that.” She smirks.
I lean in to check her name tag and she visibly eases back from me. “Claire. We both know what’s going on here. You don’t think I’m Holiday Stay Express kind of people. And you’re right about that. In the ordinary course of things, I wouldn’t stay in a dump like this, but I’m tired and I need a room. So reach into the drawer, get a card, and give me something to sign.”
“Like I said, sir, we haven’t any rooms. You don’t want to make me call security.”
Security? Is she fucking for real?
“I wish you would. I’d love to videotape that, then send it viral.” And I would, as Eric Manzone. After having spent a year off the grid, this would be a worthy reason to come out of the shadow: Claire and the Holiday Stay Express. Yep, I’d love it, every brutal, ugly social media tweet and post swarming their way.
She crosses her stout arms. “There’s a Bargain 8 across the street. I’m sure they have something available.”
A host of ugly comments ping-pong through my head, but I manage not to say any of them. There’s no point. Some people can’t see beyond what their eyes view. Claire the frumpy manager is one of them. That Bargain 8 comment is below the belt. “Well, it’s got to be an upgrade from this.” I swipe my two hundred from the counter.
I stride toward the lobby exit thinking fuck this shit with every step. Living on the streets, I’ve learned nine out of ten people are good people, but that ten percent of assholes pretty much ruins the world.
