“Is there something wrong?” he asked, his voice suddenly low and intimate.
Well, there was no time like the present. “I…” I stopped to fiddle with a button on my coat. Then I looked up at Drake. “It’s just…” I found myself staring into his warm, brown eyes and instantly forgot what I intended to say. I blushed and looked down at my hands. It took me a beat before I remembered. “It’s Ryan.” His name on my lips felt foreign. Ryan didn’t belong here, not in this time; he seemed to exist a lifetime ago.
I smoothed down the front of my coat as if I could smooth away the tension Ryan’s name evoked in my mind. “He wants you…” My voice dropped to almost a whisper, “…out of my head.” When he didn’t reply, I looked back up at him.
Drake, unruffled, gazed at me. There was no emotion on his face. “If that is what you want, mon chaton, of course I shall vacate at once.”
I opened my mouth to reply, nearly blindsided by his reaction, but only blinked a couple times. He wasn’t going to argue with me? Or try to sell me on all the reasons why he should stay with me?
“Is that what you want?” he murmured. He subtly leaned in closer to me, waiting for me to answer.
“I…” my voice was barely audible but I had no reply for him.
Of course, it wasn’t what I wanted. I looked back up and tried hard to figure out what to say. He smiled slowly as he watched my face.
“Drake,” I said in an attempt to regain control of the conversation. I became hyper-aware of his close proximity and how close his mouth was to mine, but somehow, I remained frozen in my seat. I knew I should have moved, but I didn’t. “We both knew and agreed this was a temporary arrangement.”
“I will leave your body,” Drake said slowly, his voice softening while his eyes focused on mine, “as soon as you ask me to go.”
He made no move toward or away from me, but stayed still, waiting for me to reply.
“However,” Drake continued, his voice sounding sultry enough to be dangerous, “I’m not in your head now, am I, ma minette?”
In slow motion, he lifted his hand and brought it next to my face, using one finger to gently move a strand of hair that fell across my cheek. Suffocating beneath all the layers of clothing that trapped the heat that was radiating off me, Drake’s finger hadn’t even touched my skin, but that one movement stirred up my emotions into total chaos.
I didn’t know what I wanted: to flee or stay?
But when his eyes locked on mine, my thoughts slowed down in clarification.
I did know what I wanted. I wanted nothing else but for him to close the last little bit of distance between us and kiss me.
As if he could sense what I was feeling, Drake slowly smiled, then leaned back into his seat with a short breath as he turned away from me to gaze out the window. I was so shocked to see him putting more distance between us that I almost asked him what the hell he was doing out of sheer frustration.
But before I could, he asked me, “What are roofies?”
I literally shook my head. My brain couldn’t make any sense of his question, and “What?” was all I could manage to say.
Drake turned back to me, his face thoughtful as he waved a hand in the air. “Roofies. All you had to worry about at the… frat parties?” He waited for me to respond, keeping his eyes on me.
I actually had to shut my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. I was trying to free myself from the frustration still boiling in my chest. “Roofies are drugs that guys use to make girls totally out of it, so they don’t remember what happened after they take them. Guys put them in girls’ drinks so they can… you know…” I looked at Drake and waited for my words to dawn on him. His dark expression surprised me.
He turned toward the street in front of him. “I see. Did anyone ever put roofies in your drink?”
I knew how hard he was concentrating on sounding and looking neutral.
It was nice to see him struggling a bit for a change. “Non,” I said softly, the way he spoke.
His snappy, brown eyes were back on me, and a playful smirk emerged on his lips.
I was still a little grumpy at him for backing away from me. I ignored the guilty thoughts in my mind that should have been stronger and replied, “I was careful to never put down my drink. Which is why, my dear French officer of the law, I will be better than fine in any public bar in the middle of New York City.”
ELEVEN
“Remember to let me do the talking, ma minette,” Drake warned as we walked up to the front of the bar that was both dreary and intimidating in its blandness. There was no sign on the outside, none to speak of. It just looked like another nondescript building with darkened windows. “And stay close to my side.”
I couldn’t help shivering at hearing those last words, and I was certain Drake had intended for them to have that effect on me. I kept walking, observing the rowdy patrons that plastered the walls and spilled out into the street.
Drake held the door open, leaning into me slightly as I passed him. His strong, masculine form was more than a little comforting. I stepped into the bar that was dominated by men, and I spotted several women sitting at tables along the back wall. I noticed their dresses, which were much more lavish than any I’d seen on the streets so far. I recalled our conversation in the cab and wondered why Drake seemed so concerned about me coming here. There were other women who looked “reputable” enough.
The air was so thick with smoke, I could taste it, and I fought the urge to cough. Most of the men crowded at the bar and only turned to look at us when we walked in the door. As expected, their gazes lingered on me. Their eyes were shiny from alcohol, and their expressions were considerably less civil. They all wore hats, and many had thick, handlebar mustaches, including two of the bartenders. I would not have been the least bit surprised if a barbershop quartet suddenly appeared as the entertainment. Schooners of various levels littered the bar top or were held by the visibly overworked hands.
Once inside, Drake placed his hand at the small of my back and nudged me forward. Then, in a blatant show of possession, he stepped so close behind me that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. His heat warmed my cheeks and I hoped no one noticed in the dimly lit atmosphere. We edged up to the bar, and stood since all the stools were already taken. Drake kept me tucked closely by his side as he pulled out a cigar and coolly lit it. The two men on the other side of Drake paused until we got situated before they began to talk again.
“Nobody’s business if a man needs to relieve the pressures o’ providin’ for his family,” the man nearest Drake was saying. He had a bright red mustache that was darker near his lips where it was saturated with beer.
“You got that right,” his companion said, clinking his glass into his friend’s. The faltering waver in his arm indicated he was more than a little intoxicated. “My woman knows not to ask where I go after a long day o’ providin’ fer the family. I had to school ‘er in the beginning, but now she knows the rules.”
My eyebrows nearly rose to my hairline and I opened my mouth to make a remark, but Drake intervened by subtly shaking his head.
When the bartender approached us, Drake nodded to him and said, “A pint of your stout for me, and a glass of chardonnay for the lady.”
The man with the red mustache watched the bartender produce a cold pint of beer and a glass of wine, which he set in front of us. I glared daggers at the pair of men, but they didn’t seem to notice. The bartender, however, did catch my sour face. He took out a rag from below the counter and wiped it down in front of Red and his friend.
“Signs o’ the downfall of our society,” the bartender started with a thick Italian accent, “when the woman, she don’t know her place, then she must learn it under her man’s hand.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Red agreed.
Drake gave me a small smile while assessing me with his eyes. When I didn’t respond immediately, he took a long sip of his beer and gave me an undeniable frown. Clearly, he di
dn’t need to be inside my head to know what I was thinking.
“Mon chaton,” he whispered as he grasped my side and squeezed it affectionately. It was also a definite reminder to me not to lose my cool. I hovered closer to him and loved the feeling of his arm as he wrapped it around me. I just felt safe next to Drake.
I slowly drummed my fingers on the worn wooden bar. Suddenly, the image of Jonathon, my ex-husband, who controlled nearly every aspect of my life during the five years we were married, flashed in my mind. I no longer felt like a mysterious traveler from the future. Short-sighted men just like these ones were no strangers to my generation. I’d even married one.
Drake turned to the two men. “How long have you been married?”
They each evaluated him while Drake took another healthy sip of his beer.
Red’s friend, who had a black mustache, answered first. “Four or five years,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Feels like fifty to me.”
Red smirked at his friend’s feeble attempt at a witty comment and wiped the foamy beer from his face. “Two years.”
Before the two could ask Drake, he nodded to the bartender. “What about yourself?”
The bartender, a much older man than Drake and the two male chauvinists, answered, “For twenty years, I’ve been married to a good woman. She keeps my house clean, and she bore me four strong sons. Naturally, she would never follow or engage in this latest rage called woman’s suffrage.”
The one with the black mustache raised his pint in the air, while Red scoffed audibly.
“Women voting! They don’t need any ballot to clean the kitchen floor!” Red added.
I chugged the entire contents of my glass, figuring I’d need it if I had to continue listening to so much bullshit. The sweet wine was watered down and cheap. Thanks to Party Peyton, during my college days, I became well accustomed to binge drinking, I kept my poker face and let the diluted alcohol slosh in my belly.
I set the glass down with a loud clink and found myself instantly being studied by four pairs of male eyes. Drake’s lips were drawn up in a small smirk. It was hard to read the other two men, who could have been offended or just curious. The bartender wasn’t too pleased though. He crossed his arms as he regarded me.
I tilted my head and put a finger on my lower lip. “I think I’ll take a pint o’ stout too.”
The bartender stared at me with narrowed eyes, but didn’t move to get my drink. When I reached for Drake’s, I added, “Better make that two pints.” Then I shotgunned the entire schooner, minus the two gulps Drake had already taken. I turned to Drake, fully expecting to see disapproval in his expression, but if anything, Drake looked kinda turned on. I responded immediately, the beer rapidly metabolizing into my veins and bringing a flirtatious smile to my lips with ease.
“So how long have you been married?” I asked Drake as I put an elbow on the bar and rested my chin in my hand so I could gaze up at him while I waited for the story I was sure he would spin.
The two men tore their eyes from me as they looked at Drake for his answer. The bartender eventually left two pints on the bar to replace the one I just downed.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, ma minette, but I calculate our happy union has only existed for three months. Yes, I believe one season has passed since we were joined together.” He took a careful sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving mine the whole time.
My smile grew wider as his words subtly referred to the last few months I shared with him inside my head. I temporarily forgot that Drake hadn’t always been like he was now, right in front of me, manifested in all his manly, physical glory.
“Newlyweds,” the black mustache said in a voice oozing with cynicism before he returned to his beer.
“You better be careful with that one,” Red warned Drake.
“Don’t worry, Red.” I took a swig of my beer. “He keeps me close at hand so I don’t sneak off and… vote or something.”
My comment achieved its intended effect, and even though Red’s eyes glinted with wariness as he gave me a sideways glance, his lips were pulled back into a smile.
The bartender looked at me before getting a few pints for other customers. “The women can’t win the vote by themselves,” he said as he poured the beer into schooners. “Woe be to the men who can’t curb their women and keep ‘em in line, the ones who don’t have the,” he looked up and gave Drake a once-over, “strength to keep their women happy at home, which is where they belong. If women win the right to vote, our country will descend into madness and insanity.”
“It’s funny that a man’s masculinity can be so threatened by the mere actions of his wife,” I said. “Besides, isn’t it too easy to dominate a submissive girl? If a man can manage to earn the affection of a strong-minded, independent woman, he would have to possess a very strong personality to begin with.”
My words ruffled the feathers of a few men, as I expected, but I was surprised at Red’s reaction. He actually appeared thoughtful as if he were mulling over what I said.
“A strong man always insists his woman heed his commands, especially when she dares to violate her divinely ordained boundaries. It don’t matter what kinda personality she has,” Black Mustache interjected gruffly.
I could barely resist rolling my eyes. Barely. My next question was to ask how he knew the “divinely ordained boundaries” assigned by “God” for women. But before I could think of the least offensive comeback, Drake interjected.
“I always thought,” Drake said, “that a man’s divinely ordained role was to honor, protect and love his spouse as much or more than he loves himself.”
“’A wife of noble character is her husband’s crown, but a disgraceful wife is like an abscessed tooth that slowly decays. Eventually, it kills ‘em,’” the bartender said.
I wasn’t exactly Bible Thumping Betty, but I had a good inkling that had to be the reference he was citing.
“Ah, yes, Proverbs 12:4,” Drake said as he leaned over the bar and began to slowly swirl the beer around in the schooner. His smooth movements only made him that much more sensual to me and I couldn’t stop watching the way his large hand grasped the oversized mug. “Tell me something then: do ‘noble characters’ include men as well as women?” Drake’s dark, chocolate eyes were leveled on the bartender.
All at once, Drake never seemed sexier to me. Which was saying a lot. I couldn’t recall how many times he’d appeared shirtless, or stretched out on a sofa, or even dressed to the nines, during his visits in dreamscapes. No matter the state of undress, he was always sexy as sin. Since he occupied my head during those moments, and knew what I felt, he also knew exactly what appealed to me, as well as what annoyed me, and he used that knowledge to his full advantage.
The bartender raised his chin while the other two mustached men quietly awaited his response. “Wives must submit to their husbands. End of argument.”
Drake responded immediately. “Do you love your wife?”
“I love my wife,” the bartender replied slowly, “and I know how to keep her in her proper place, which is attending to my needs.”
“And I love mine,” Drake said. His voice emphasized the word, mine, which resulted in giving me goosebumps, “I love knowing that my wife is just as rational in her thinking and choosing the life she wants as I am.”
As much as I appreciated Drake’s valiant show of support, I didn’t miss the way the men sneered at his words. It made me wonder if baiting them was very smart. We’d only come in here to get a clue of who Thomas Dickerson was, not to alienate everyone with progressive ideas that were light years ahead of their time.
“I wonder,” Black Mustache said as he leaned back and eyed Drake with half a smirk and shining, dark eyes, “how you manage to stuff your petticoat under those pants?”
Red spat out some of his drink as he laughed, and the mood instantly shifted from a serious exchange of ideas to drunken mockery. I was suddenly nervous for Drake’s reaction but he just smiled nonchalantly
at Black, as if the stupid man’s comment went in one ear and out the other.
“What he’s trying to say,” I replied as my head swam with the cheap beer, “is that he’d really like to see you take your pants off.” I lifted my glass to Black Mustache who suddenly grew very quiet as I eyed him narrowly. “And I don’t blame you for wanting to, not one bit because the site of this man naked is… nothing short of spectacular.”
Of course I had no idea what Drake looked like naked but I was absolute sure that everything I’d just said was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And, I hated to admit it but there was a definite part of me that wished I could verify.
Drake wheeled around and faced me with a small grin. “Ditto, mon chaton,” he whispered and I felt a lump forming in my throat. A forming lump which was quickly cut short once I caught Black glaring at me.
If looks could kill, Black’s expression and piercing eyes would’ve struck me dead instantly. However, Red didn’t seem to share his friend’s burning offense; I was pleasantly surprised when he tried to hide a smile in his beer mug. The bartender noticed it as well, and scowled disapprovingly before he went to take care of other customers.
Suddenly, Black Mustache was standing in front of us, pointing his finger in Drake’s face. I noticed at once that he was at least a half foot shorter than me, which wasn’t surprising. People were inches smaller in stature in the early twentieth century compared to modern times.
“You better teach your woman some respect and tell her not to talk to a man without getting’ his permission before I do it for you,” he warned through gritted teeth.
Drake leveled his eyes on the man and said slowly, “My wife is unusually proficient in her vocabulary and I doubt seriously that she needs any coaching from me.”
The man edged closer, his nose nearly touching Drake’s. Drake didn’t move a muscle, but simply gazed stonily at Black Mustache. “Maybe you’re the one who needs the lesson.”
I took another gulp of my beer, then wiped the foam from my mouth. The sound of women laughing caught our attention. Drake looked over his shoulder at the two lavishly dressed women we saw as we entered the bar earlier. They were seated not far from where we were now, up against the back wall. I saw all of them smiling at Drake and a few were a little too friendly, but one of them nodded at me with a look of approval.
Brown Eyed Ghoul: A Ghostly Paranormal Romance Series (The Peyton Clark Series Book 3) Page 16
