“Between you and me, I never did like that Mistah Hickenbatter of Honey’s. I mean, yes the man is richer than Midas, but there’s more to a relationship than money. And baby, I’m the last girl to turn her nose up at the almighty dollar.” I scan him up and down with a wary look that makes him giggle like a teenager—one with a deep tenor. “Truth be told, I don’t trust either Francis or this Muffy woman. No, no, no, not one little bit. I think this party is Honey’s way of putting up a brave front, bless the child.”
So that’s what all of this is about, some break up…or love triangle…or…what the hell ever.
In other words, nothing I want to get wrapped up in.
A new group of drag queens dances in, each carrying a bottle of something alcoholic, momentarily distracting his attention away from me. I take that as my cue to quickly finish my champagne and sneak out behind them as they enter, each casting looks my way that tell me I’m leaving just in time.
“She’ll be here all night if you change your mind,” Rose says, catching me before I can fully escape. She leans against the door and hits me with a sardonic smile.
“I doubt that will happen.”
“Ainsi soit-il.” She smiles, closes her eyes, and shrugs one shoulder. “So be it.”
The door closes and I stare at it for a moment listening to the faded sounds of the song that has just started, “Lovefool.” I refuse to reflect on how the hell I know the title.
The music doesn’t sound nearly as loud now, so I suppose I at least served my intended purpose.
My hand comes up to pinch my forehead and I swivel around to stalk back to my own door, walking in and firmly closing it behind me. I fall back against it just to take a breath. My eyes fall to the pink sticky note still on the kitchen counter.
My instinct is to ball it up and toss it into the trash.
I leave it there instead.
Chapter Ten
Honey
It’s morning, or what passes as such a thing for some people.
The party didn’t go nearly as long as I expected.
Jheri’s friends bringing more alcohol certainly livened things up, but that only encouraged them to suggest heading to an all-night karaoke place they know some time around one o’clock in the morning.
I took a pass on the adventure and stayed behind to at least tidy up a bit before the exhaustion set in. I eventually removed my shoes and the feathers from my hair and dozed off on the sofa.
Waking up, I see that I’m still in my Marchesa dress, which surprisingly doesn’t look the worse for wear.
I check the time on the microwave and see that it’s a little before five o’clock. This time of year the sun won’t be up for almost another two hours, but I’m feeling particularly chipper after that brief bit of sleep. I should at least gather up the bottles to take to the recycling chute.
No need to change out of this gorgeous Marchesa just to take out the trash; the same dress Francis bought me to escort him to a fancy gala.
There’s a metaphor there somewhere, one I probably shouldn’t ruminate over too heavily.
As I look around the room, I smile as I reminisce how much fun the party was. If last night proved anything, it’s that my friends are what truly make me happy, not fancy dresses, or luxury apartments, or even pink champagne.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I had more fun in the days when we all bought bottom-shelf vodka to mix with Kool-Aid and squeezed everyone into a five-hundred square foot apartment.
It’s a nice reminder that money doesn’t necessarily equal happiness.
I put the music on as I collect anything made of plastic, glass, or metal. The first song is “Sunday Kind of Love” by Etta James. I briefly think about scanning to something more upbeat to energize me.
Then, I come to my senses.
It may not be Sunday, but I’d like to think love is still in the air no matter what day of the week.
Besides, I have an almost religious reverence for famous female performers, especially the chanteuses. Etta’s mesmerizing voice also gives me a chance to think.
The party last night was a success in that it at least took my mind off Francis. Now, I can’t help but think of him again, wondering how he spent his evening. A turbulent ripple of irritation seizes me at the thought that maybe he spent it with Little Miss Muffy.
I frown as I shove a bottle of champagne into the already full cardboard box to take to the recycle room down the hall. I heave it up in my arms and march barefoot to the door.
It’s a struggle to deal with the handle and as I swing it open the whole box topples, spilling the bottles into the hallway.
One of them breaks…
…splattering my neighbor across the hall with the remnants of champagne left inside.
“Oh!” I exclaim, falling back against the open door. Behind me, Etta croons about wanting someone to keep her warm when Mondays and Tuesdays grow cold.
Jesse certainly looks heated enough.
Not that I need any warming up just looking at him.
I’ve only ever seen him in business suits, which I’ll admit is enough to have me fearful I’ve reached early menopause with the hot flashes they send through my system.
In the wee hours of the morning, his choice of uniform is a black fitted t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants, both of which do him quite the service. He’s obviously on his way to the gym. Whatever he does there, it’s definitely working based on the muscles I can see through the cotton of both articles of clothing.
Not to mention a part of his anatomy that definitely requires no strength training.
Lord have mercy!
I lower my eyes further down his gray sweats and see the splatter of champagne. All thoughts of the rest of him are lost in the mess I’ve created.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, rushing over.
“Careful!” he warns—too late for me to heed it.
I hiss, both from the locked door of my apartment closing behind me and, to a much greater extent, the shock of pain that shoots up from my foot, which has just stepped on one of the shards of glass.
Jesse rushes in to catch me before I crumple to the floor, his arm coming around to scoop me into an upright position.
I reflexively throw one arm around his neck as I bunch up my skirt with my free hand, and lift the injured foot.
Looking at the shard sticking out from the deep incision has me going dizzy with pain. My eyes fall to my closed door and I make a small disheartened noise.
“I’ve locked myself out.”
“I don’t think that’s your biggest concern right now,” Jesse replies, staring down at my leg, which I now realize is exposed all the way to mid-thigh from my hitched skirt.
Despite the pain, I smile at the look of intense concentration in his eyes behind those glasses, as though he’s forcing himself to be perfectly clinical about all of this.
“Do you have a first aid kit? I’m afraid all I have are bandaids. I don’t think that will do the trick here.”
“Of course,” he says, as though I’ve asked him if he has a refrigerator.
I do love a man who’s prepared for all eventualities.
“I think I can walk if I just—”
“Nonsense,” he says before taking my breath away—literally!—by picking me up as though I weighed nothing.
I feel like Lois Lane being swept up into the sky by Superman himself.
“I’d rather you didn’t track blood into my place,” he points out, ruining the moment.
That releases my lungs and I give him a slightly bemused look. “You’re quite the romantic aren’t you?”
He blinks and gives me a bewildered look. He does that a lot I’ve noticed, as though he’s perfectly clueless as to what others are so obviously hinting at. For some reason, despite his utter lack of tact, it endears him to me even more.
I throw my other arm around his neck, and I feel his throat convulse as he swallows hard.
“My keys are in my right poc
ket, could you…?” he manages to eke out.
“Your wish is my command,” I purr in a deliberately breathy voice, causing him to swallow even harder. Despite the throbbing pain in my foot, I feel practically giddy over all of this.
I free my arm and awkwardly feel my way across his (rippling) stomach and (firm) waist, then dig into the pocket. While there I get a nice taste of the corded muscles of his thigh before I pluck the keys out.
Lord have mercy, indeed!
“Ta-da!” I announce, raising them in the air.
Jesse remains unimpressed.
I laugh and reach down to unlock the door and turn the handle to push it in. My curiosity takes over, wondering what his place looks like.
It’s very…utilitarian.
That’s the nicest thing I can say about it.
The primary color seems to be navy, with hints of gray. Quite possibly the two dullest colors to surround oneself with. What little furniture there is seems to be very high quality, I can say that much. A couch, a desk and chair, and a small dining table for two. He doesn’t even have artwork on the walls.
“Charming,” I hum.
“It serves its intended purpose,” Jesse says with just enough sarcasm to divert my attention right back to him. He simply raises one eyebrow defensively as he carries me to the couch.
So he’s not a complete robot at least.
I laugh, finding amusement there.
“An odd reaction to what looks like a nasty cut,” he says as he stands back up and eyes my foot, straining to avoid the length of bare leg still exposed above it. I demurely push my skirt down to a modest length, which I notice has him swallowing even harder.
It only proves my theory that something left to the imagination is far sexier than showing it all.
But his words have brought my attention back to my reason for being here, and my foot begins to sizzle with pain.
While he escapes to wherever to get his first aid kit, I bend my leg to get a better look. The glass is still buried in the ball of my foot, which is quite possibly the worst location.
So much for wearing heels anytime soon.
And just before Valentine’s Day weekend! Darn it to hell!
Oddly enough, it isn’t Francis I’m thinking of, it’s my occupation. I doubt I’ll be healed well enough to perform. I work the shard, trying to pull it out. The pain that seizes me only reinforces the idea that the rest of the week I’ll be on sick leave.
“Not so fast.” My attention is drawn back to Jesse, quickly walking toward me with the red box in his hand.
Hel-looo, nurse.
Jesse is like McDreamy and McSteamy wrapped into one very serious package. He even has that stern, no-nonsense, doctor’s orders look on his face.
And I for one am ready for my physical.
I’m sitting perfectly at eye level with one part of him in particular that he’s obviously trying to obscure with that box. It barely conceals what my eyes connected with earlier, now slightly more…tumescent.
Superman indeed.
I instantly think about Francis, but surprisingly he’s quickly snuffed out by the sudden flame Jesse has lit in me. Especially when he falls to his knees to attend to my injury.
To be fair, when one thinks about it, it’s Francis’ fault, really. Had he not changed our relationship status to “It’s Complicated,” I would have never thrown the party, then had to toss out the bottles this morning, one of which dropped and shattered through no fault of my own and…well, here we are!
“Isn’t this a pretty picture,” I say, giving Jesse a pert smile as he hunches over, looking even more supplicant, to riffle through the box for something to take care of my foot. “I feel like the Queen of Sheba.”
Jesse’s eyes dart back up to mine, then make a surreptitious detour along the length of my body. He exhales and quickly diverts them back to his first aid kit, snatching out the gauze and alcohol pads, then slamming the lid shut.
If I’d known it was this easy to unsettle him, I would have started a lot sooner.
I love watching men squirm.
It’s the first step to them overcoming their inhibitions.
And Jesse most definitely has more than his fair share of inhibitions. All anyone has to do is spend ten minutes with the man to figure that much out.
Despite his obvious frustration and sour demeanor, I’m surprised at the tenderness with which he takes hold of my foot. His large, strong hand palms the top and gently flexes it back so he has a better view of the injury.
Now that he has something to focus his attention on, I observe how his face relaxes, studiously analyzing the cut to ascertain the best course of action. I would have just yanked the thing out and swaddled my foot in miles of toilet paper then used it as an excuse to lounge all day and binge-watch Midsomer Murders.
“It’s pretty deep but it doesn’t look like it hit anything major, especially since it’s not bleeding too badly.”
“Dr. Castiglione,” I tease. “Did you go to med school?”
“I come from a big family. You learn how to tend to yourself when Mom’s triaging the worst cases,” he says, his eyes still on my foot. I’m shocked to see an amused look soften his features as he reminisces. “Having three older brothers didn’t help.”
“Well fry me up and slather me with honey butter, is that a bona fide smile on your face?” I lean in and meet him with a smile of my own. “You should do it more often, it makes you even more handsome.”
The smile disintegrates under the weight of self-reproach that now seems to consume him. That crease in his brow furrows deeper than ever and he frowns even harder as he focuses on my foot again.
Being that my care is in his hands, I refrain from exhaling the laugh that bubbles up my throat.
“I’m going to pull it out. It might hurt a bit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not—ow!” Although he was quick and as gentle as could be, the sting still shoots up my leg in protest.
“Sorry,” he mutters, entirely focused on my cut.
“I’m still alive,” I say through clenched teeth.
“No, not too much bleeding,” he says, gently dabbing at it with a piece of gauze.
“So how big is your family?” I ask, mostly to take my mind off my throbbing foot.
Jesse tears open an alcohol pad, briefly flashes his eyes to me before focusing on my foot again. “Four brothers and three sisters.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. “And here I thought my family was big with two brothers and two sisters.”
Once again his eyes pop back up to meet mine, this time lingering with interest. I’m blown over once again when a small smile appears on his face again.
He loves his family. That much is evident by the sentimentality in his eyes.
“It is an experience, isn’t it? Growing up with a family that large?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say, falling back against the couch with a laugh. “Still, I can’t wait to have a big family myself one day.”
Something in his gaze sharpens, hitting me like a bolt of lightning before he tears it away to focus on my foot again.
“This is definitely going to hurt. I apologize ahead of time.”
Before I can react, he swabs at the cut with the alcohol pad.
I screech in pain, my leg reflexively flinching so hard I knee him in the face, forcing him back on his heels amid a stream of curses.
“Oh, Jesse!” I cry out, momentarily forgetting about the pain to beat all previous pain that my foot is clouded in.
I sit up, leaning over to inspect the spot on his cheekbone where my knee made impact. It’s already turning an alarming shade of red against his olive skin tone. I reach out and gingerly dance my fingertips across the spot.
“Yeah, that’s going to leave a bruise.”
His cheek goes taut underneath my touch, his entire face hardening with discomfort as his intense eyes fall on me.
“It’s fine,” he grumbles, pulling a
way.
I smile at the predictable temperance he shows when around me.
“At least you can tell everyone you got it coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress,” I tease.
He swallows hard again, his finely cut jaw more taunt than anything.
At this rate, the poor boy is going to swallow himself to death.
I know I have an effect on men, but Jesse makes me feel like Mata Hari herself. I wonder what secrets I could pry out of him via the art of seduction. Looking at him in that t-shirt and sweatpants, I wouldn’t mind taking a stab at it.
Francis be dammed.
At least until he decides he wants to be with me—and only me!—again.
“I should probably see about the mess in the hall before our neighbors catch it. Hold this gauze in place to curb the minimal bleeding before I wrap it.”
Before I can even respond, Jesse shoots up and stalks to the door, heading out into the hallway. He makes sure to leave the door ajar so he doesn’t lock himself out.
Always thinking ahead, that Jesse.
“My hero once again,” I whisper to myself with a smile.
Chapter Eleven
Giuseppe
In the hallway, I grab the fallen box—the same one that I carried up to Honey’s place yesterday morning—and quickly grab up the empty bottles to toss inside.
The broken bottle shattered into mostly large pieces that are easily plucked up and thrown inside as well. There’s a tiny splatter of liquid that is barely noticeable against the dark industrial carpet.
As I work, I think about what just transpired in my apartment. The ache in my cheek fights a losing battle with the feel of Honey’s fingertips that still lingers against my skin.
Once again, I feel that surge course through my body, sending the blood rushing to the one area I wish I could somehow create a permanent detour from—at least when it comes to all things Honey Dewberry.
Even now, I can’t explain why I put up this mental block when I’m around her, tempering every part of my body’s natural instinct, from the begrudging smile she usually brings out in me to the fierce desire that the more base part of me succumbs to.
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