by Dee Palmer
She looks so damn pretty when she smiles.
We fall into a comfortable silence while she cleans the wounds and picks the splinters from my skin. Some are really deep, and she has to gouge at the flesh. She keeps apologising, but it isn’t her who’s an idiot with anger issues.
“I’m twenty nine years old this year and I haven’t been outside this house in ten years, Tia.” I break the silence, and what I chose to break it with surprises me much more than her. To her credit, her jaw doesn’t drop or anything comical like that. She just tips her chin and replies in the softest voice.
“I know.” She holds my gaze, her green eyes sparkling as they fill with tears. I’ve never done this with anyone, and I’m pretty sure she knows this.
“I mean, I’ve never wanted to, either. I haven’t even been near the back door the whole time I’ve lived like this, and the front one you’ve seen how I’ve had it modified so it opens automatically. Any deliveries are just put straight inside the house. I never test myself because I know the goddamn answer, and I’m just angry that I tried today. That’s all.”
“Oh. ” She pulls her lips inside her mouth until they disappear, and a tell-tale thin line is all that’s left. She’s literally biting back what she wants to say, and I don’t blame her. I made it perfectly clear if she asked questions, she’d find herself sleeping on the street before the words left her mouth.
“You can ask me one question, but I’m not promising I’ll answer it. I just won’t kick you out, either.” I smile but I can already feel the tension rising inside me. My shoulders stiffen, and my jaw clamps like a vise. She takes her time, and I can see the effort she’s exerting to contain her excitement. Her breathing elevates, and her eyes get a little wider. I’ve never given her this option, and too late, I’m challenging that wisdom.
“Why?” She grins.
“I bet you think you’re really smart don’t you?” I sniff and let out a flat laugh, because as open-ended as that question is, she’s only getting one answer.
“A li’l bit.” She holds up her thumb and finger with the smallest gap. I open my mouth to speak, only to hesitate and then fall silent. She finishes wrapping gauze and a bandage around my knuckles. I still haven’t said a thing.
“You don’t have to tell me if its hard, Logan. We don’t have to share all of our darkness.” She places her hand lightly over mine but doesn’t squeeze. The comfort and warmth just seeps in from her touch, her very presence.
“I want to tell you.”
“Then you will, when you’re ready. There’s no rush, Logan. I’m not going anywhere, and you can tell me anytime you’re comfortable. Right now, though, I think you’re still angry and in pain. It’s probably not the best time for a trip down memory lane. I know I’d definitely need alcohol for that journey if it was me, and it’s way too early to be hitting the bottle. Besides, I’m working tonight so maybe a rain-check is best.”
She offers a get-out without hesitation, and I know she must be dying to know why I’m like this. I drop my head to one side and stretch, letting out a loud crack first on one side and then on the other side of my neck, as the air pops and releases some of the tension.
“Another time, then.”
“Yeah, Logan, another time.” She leans forward and kisses my cheek. Her eyes lock with mine for a moment, and I get that hit to my chest again, tight and warm. “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich or something before I head off?” She clears the debris and puts the first aid box back in the cupboard.
“What time do you leave? I thought you were working nights.” I nod toward the kitchen clock and her eyes follow mine. “It’s still morning, T.” She screws up her face in a cute grin and snickers.
“Yeah, I am working nights, but I have to take Maria’s picture to get it framed, and I need to get some more supplies.” She starts to rinse the dishes, and I can’t keep my eyes off the way her arse jiggles as she rubs the plates clean. I cough to clear my throat and step in front of the chair as I push it under the table, mostly using it to hide my ever-present hard-on.
“I can get you those supplies online,” I offer, shifting and cupping myself to ease the ache that has been building since she leaned forward in that skimpy top and started tending to my hand.
“No, I’m good. I like browsing, and the art shop is right next to the vintage bookstore. It’s a musty old world utopia for a bookworm like me. I can lose days in there.”
She flashes me the widest grin, and I stifle a groan. Damn, she makes my balls ache with that sexy little smile. She barely draws a breath. “I was going to head out around two, so if you want me to fix you something—I’m not cooking,” she clarifies with a flash of panic on her face that makes me laugh. “Just a sandwich Logan; I wouldn’t want you to risk more injury,” she quips.
“You’re so thoughtful,” I retort, and she flicks some soapy suds my way.
“I like to think so.”
“No sandwich, I’ll get a takeout delivered later. We can share the leftovers for breakfast when you get back.”
“Well, get Chinese then because cold curry is gross.”
“And cold chow mien is better?” I scoff.
“You know it.” She wrinkles her nose and blows me a sassy kiss.
“Thanks for this.” I lift my bandaged hand, but she isn’t looking.
“What?”
“Playing nursemaid.” She just shrugs it off, so I add, “I might have to get you a uniform.”
“Oh, you’d like that, I bet.” She barks out a dirty laugh, and I turn to leave.
Under my breath I let the words fall. “You have no idea.”
“Just maybe use the punching bag in the basement gym next time, less blood and mess,” she calls out after me, and I stop just at the threshold to the hall.
“Right.” I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, taking a moment before I leave. “Thank you for staying, Tia.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be, Logan.” Her eyes meet mine, and I know she’s so nearly mine…so damn close I can taste it. The only thing harder than waiting for her to come to her senses and let us happen is knowing what made her this way.
“I’m heading out now, Logan,” I call from the bottom of the stairs, my hand just about to pull the front door open.
“Wait! Come here before you leave.” His deep voice booms from above me, and I let out a sigh, muttering something about lazy arse, and maybe how a please here and there wouldn’t go amiss as I trudge back up the two flights of stairs and along the corridor to his sanctuary. I push the door to his office wide. He’s standing with his back to me, facing a wall of screens. He has on some torn low slung jeans that hang off his hips, exposing the dimples on his lower back, just above the firm curve of his arse cheeks. Strange that, even though I’ve seen his butt a million times, with a little covering, he just looks so much more tempting. I can feel my cheeks burn when he coughs, and I look up to see his wry, knowing grin.
“When you’ve finished ogling my arse, I have some news.” He snaps his fingers and points to his desk.
“I wasn’t…” I blurt, flustered and burning right up from his accurate observation. “Shut up, what news?” He chuckles at my embarrassment and walks over to his massive antique oak desk that looks oddly right in a room filled with the most up-to-date technology and geek shit available. He picks up a small Post-it note and hands it to me. I read the numbers and frown.
“What do these mean?” I hand it back, and he shakes his head, like I’ve missed something crucial. It’s just numbers that don’t look nearly long enough to be a phone number.
“That’s what Bernard got for your painting he just sold.” He turns the little yellow piece of paper around in his long fingers and holds it a few centimetres from my nose. I squint and focus with much more interest.
“Seriously? I mean, really, you’re not teasing? Because that wouldn’t be funny.” I take the paper again, not quite believing my eyes.
“I know it wouldn’t,” he replies flatly, and
his brow furrows at my comment. “I’m not teasing. I said they’d sell. You just needed the right gallery to take a chance on you.” He places his heavy arm over my shoulder and pulls me in for a side hug, pride now replacing the brief look of confusion.
“And the decimal is in the right place? It’s really eight hundred not just eight pound right?” I feel this burst of excitement rip through me, and I start to bounce on my toes. His arm is slipping from my shoulders, since I can’t seem to keep still.
“God, you’re adorable! Yes, it’s eight hundred pounds. That’s after his commission. Even as a friend, he was never going to do it for love.”
“Oh, god no, of course not, of course. Oh, wow, Logan, this is amazing. I might not have to go cleaning for much longer after all. I mean, if this works out, and it’s not just a one-off.”
His tone drops low. “That’s what I was thinking.” A disapproving rumble escapes his bare chest, and his dark eyes look so much more serious.
“I know you don’t think I need to do this.”
“I don’t think, I know,” he corrects.
I let out a breath of frustration. Man, he’s stubborn. “But I do, I have to contribute. It’s just not in me to be a taker. I feel so damn guilty that I’ve taken so much already.” It’s not my only reason, but it’s the only one I can share.
He drops his jaw comically wide and rolls his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. There’s a huge imbalance here, Logan, and I want to even it out a bit,” I add. I know I can’t repay him for everything he’s done, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.
His voice softens. “The imbalance is on my end, Tia. You’ve made my life almost normal, and I never believed that would be possible.” His eyes hold a sadness that feels like a sucker punch to my chest. I reach for him, my hand on his arm, his large flexed muscle feeling like concrete under my touch.
“Logan, you know, if we maybe talked…” And just like that his shield slams shut, and he breaks all contact. The warmth I felt in my fingertips vanishes, and he turns abruptly away from me, snapping with open hostility in his tone.
“I won’t wait up.”
“Right, okay. Well, thanks for this.” I fold the paper with my newly earned fortune and slip it into my jacket pocket.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Okay, then, bye.”
“Shut the door on your way out,” he yells as I step over the threshold.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I pull his door shut. Every damn time. I know I’m out of my depth with someone like Logan. He’s so smart, and he’s probably read everything ever printed on agoraphobia. If there was a way, if he really wanted to, I’m sure he’d conquer that demon. It’s just I can’t help thinking or hoping that, if it’s something else, and maybe talking to me might fix whatever it is, even the slightest chance, then I’m going to keep trying.
Even if it stings like a bitch when he shuts down like that.
I grab my courier bag which is just large enough to fit Marias canvas and sling it across my body. Opening the front door, I skip down the cracked steps that lead down the path toward the street, where the weeds are winning the battle against the decaying concrete in this urban turf war. The sun is high, but April still clings to a chill and I wrap my scarf around my neck and button up my denim jacket. I actually wish I had my woolly hat with me, but looking around at people in shorts and summer dresses, I would feel a little conspicuous. Looking at them makes me shiver because I’m always cold. Even in a heat wave I would probably still have socks and a jumper stuffed in my bag, just in case.
Logan’s house is elevated at the top of a long residential street, with only a few other similar properties. Several Edwardian town houses and Victorian mansions dot the tree lined road, mostly hidden behind tall hedges, secure iron railings and automatic gates. Logan’s house has the least security features which is one of the reasons it was so easy to break into. It’s also the most isolated considering we live on the edge of one of the most densely populated cities in Eurpoe.
The end of the street is a junction that leads to the main road and my nearest bus stop. The walk itself takes about half an hour and there are always buses every fifteen minutes throughout the day, which is another perk of living in the commuter belt of a big city. In the village I grew up in there was a bus in the morning and one in the evening. If I missed either, I was walking, not that I had anywhere to go but I frequently missed my bus home and cursed both living in the countryside having a mother that didn’t drive.
It’s a short bus ride into the heart of town from where we live, but it takes forever with the London traffic. When I finally arrive at my destination, I spend a good hour in the art supply shop. While I wait for them to frame my picture I wander the isles, mentally making up my wish list until I actually get that money from the sale of my painting in my account. I am so low on materials, I will probably blow half of it in here. I settle on buying some charcoal and a new sketchpad. I have a couple of hours to kill before I have to be at work, so I make my way to the park and settle down to people watch and sketch.
This is what I love about city parks. Any break in the cloud and they are teeming with people making the most of these small patches of nature in an over-populated city. Office workers on late lunches, parents with children, a football being kicked around in the distance, and tourists clearly taken by surprise judging by the quantity of clothes they are now wearing tied around their waists or draped over arms and shoulders.
Doesn’t it always rain in London?
Only one thing is missing on this perfect afternoon, one person. I let out a heavy sigh, and in lieu of any tissues, wipe my charcoal-blackened hands on the grass. I fish out my phone and dial the only contact in my address book. When it goes direct to voicemail, I want to kick myself and head back home to apologise. He must be really mad with me to ignore my call, and really I should’ve kept my big mouth shut, especially after his little re-modelling on the back door this morning. Damn it. I drop a text with an apology but don’t bother waiting on a reply. If anything is going to drive me crazy, it’s waiting for a reply from Mr Stubborn.
The sun has started to set when I finally pack my things away and stand. Brushing the grass from my jeans, I stretch the cramp and dampness from my legs and begin the forty-minute walk into the heart of the business district.
The grey and glass buildings towering on every side seem to close in around me. The roads are lined with cars making their way home, but the pavements are empty. Looking up, the buildings are so tall they converge to such an extent that I can barely see the darkening sky. It feels every bit as oppressive as I can only imagine Logan must feel when faced with the great outdoors. My chest feels tight, and I get a chill in my bones that makes me shiver. I physically shake to try and alleviate the heavy feeling of being closed in. Normally, I’m not remotely claustrophobic. I lived in Logan’s dark basement for weeks, but there is something eerie about the business district part of the city when it’s void of humans.
I reach the office block where I have worked for the last few months and have another full body shiver, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold breeze funnelled into a sharp wind whipping between the buildings. This is a direct result of reading his family name in big silver letters over the main doors, Kruse Tower. It’s a stunning building, forty-four floors of sleek shiny steel and mirrored glass. The surrounding buildings fade into the background next to this impressive feat of architecture and engineering. Not unlike meeting Atticus himself, I muse, letting out a flat humourless laugh. He wasn’t always so impressive, not so much when we met as children, but around the time when he turned eighteen, there wasn’t another man on the planet that could touch him for looks and presence.
I turn away from the main doors and make my way to the service entrance, swipe my card, and dump my stuff in my locker. The padlock hangs broken, and I haven’t bothered to replace it. It’s not like I have anything worth stealing. I sl
ip into my not-so-sexy shapeless beige overalls on top of my clothes and, with the picture I painted of her granddaughter tucked under my arm, head off to find Maria. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass walkways and cringe, l look like some kind of cross between an inmate at a maximum security facility and a baked potato.
The staff room is deep in the bowels of the building. That is, the staff room for the caretakers, cleaners, and maintenance staff is buried down there. Several other staff rooms are spread over on other floors of the block, and of course, the executive lounge for board members and family is situated one level below the top floor office suites. The Kruse family has always liked to keep that line between ‘them and us’ absolutely visible. As if I could ever forget.
“There you are, sweet cheeks,” Maria calls out as I come into view. I don’t quite enter the room, but her seat is strategically placed to spot anyone approaching her domain. “I was just talking about you to Loretta here, telling her what a great artist you are and all. Didn’t I say that she’s wasted here, Loretta? I said there’s no way you’re a lifer.” She chuckles, and Loretta is nodding in agreement, although I’m not sure she understands a word Maria is saying; she speaks so fast with a thick Caribbean accent.
“I feel like a lifer in this jumpsuit.” I tug on the coarse material of my uniform. Even cinched at the waist, it has to be the most unflattering item of clothing ever designed, but then fashion probably wasn’t high on its list of requisite functions.
“Hmm?” A deep frown forms on Maria’s face, my attempt at humour flying neatly over her tightly curled hair. Her smooth dark skin barely has a single wrinkle, and I know she is the wrong side of fifty. I wish I had her genes. The only gifts my mother gave to me were childbearing hips and high blood pressure.
“Never mind.” I wave off my joke rather than try to explain, which would be painful for everyone. “Thank you, though, you’re very kind.” I hold out the picture, which is in a simple paper bag, but now at least it is framed. “I did this for you. I know you took a risk taking me on, and I’m really grateful.”
