Dan shakes his head and sends Bart off. “Go on.” He watches his son climb the stairs and we both listen to the soles of Bart’s footie bottoms whiff on the carpet.
“You texting with a woman?” Dan doesn’t look at me. He’s watching Bart turn on the bathroom light.
“Yes.” No use lying about it or acting upset about the question. He’s my big brother. “Her name is Sammie. Met her at work.”
Dan nods but doesn’t say anything more. I know what he’s thinking, though: Please be careful. Don’t do what I did.
I glance up the stairs. Dan went through hell with his divorce. But at least he got Bart. “Thanks for packing up the last of my stuff.”
Dan rolls his eyes. “Why do you keep all those old drawings? There’s stuff from high school in there.”
High school, college—some people keep a journal. I keep my drawings. “I’m a hoarder. You’ll need to commit me in a few months. Start planning now.”
Dan chuckles. “You got some hand drawn porn in there.” He smirks and kicks at one of the boxes. “That’s why you keep it. Admit it.”
“If only.” But I used to draw every pretty woman I saw. Out on the mall in front of the art building, while sitting on the grass in front of the library—
A memory slaps me hard: My first month on campus, an upperclassman walking by, her lovely auburn hair in a ponytail, her head turning as she watched me watch her.
“Man, you alright?” Dan slaps my shoulder. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Maybe I did. A ghost I share with Sammie.
And maybe my phantom is big enough, strong enough, to wrestle into submission whatever is swirling around in her head.
* * *
Back home, I kneel in my “living room” next to my apartment’s big sliding glass door. The balcony is three feet deep, just enough for a chair and a pot of tomatoes. It’s the reason I took this place. The door lets in brilliant afternoon light.
The room has one chair. My monitors sit on my desk, in the dining area off the little kitchenette. I usually eat on the balcony or at my work table, which sits where a normal person would have a couch.
The place screams bachelor—working bachelor—but it gets the job done. I did spring for a big comfy mattress, the only furniture in the apartment’s one bedroom.
Inside the box of old drawings, I find some comic book-inspired work from middle school, a couple still lifes from high school, and my target: one of my small drawing pads from my freshman year of college.
The memories rush back in: The play of light on the grass I favored. The laughter and the sounds of bikes rushing by. The smell of coffee and fast food.
Some of the pages are smudged. Some not. I flip through the book, searching.
And there she is, walking by, her lush hair in a ponytail and her backpack riding high on her back. She’d glanced over her shoulder, watching me more than where she was walking, and I had to draw her. I had to capture that face.
Sammie, four years ago, just as she was graduating. We’d had a moment. Too brief and never followed up, but it happened. And I had proof.
I stare at the drawing for a long second. I’d used pencil for this one. It had faded some around her shoulders, but her face lifts off of the paper, beautiful and perfect. Somehow, I’d managed to get it right.
I’ll give it to her tomorrow. Even if nothing comes of it, she needs to know not all men see her the way her boyfriend does. Some men see what’s truly there.
That asshole is going to lose her, if it’s the last thing I do.
6
Samantha
We’re outside today, sitting at the picnic table under the sad maple tree in the tiny municipal park next to our building. There’s an ugly piece of seventies public art at the intersection of the two sidewalks bisecting the lawn, and the tree shades it as much as the picnic table.
But we take what we can get. This is one of the few open grassy areas in the entire downtown that hasn’t been turned into a parking lot and there are always employees out here, taking in a bit of sun.
Tom is telling me about his family and I’m chewing my sandwich. We’re eating the same thing for lunch again today, but I’m pretty sure he chose the same I did on purpose this time because he keeps making a face when he bites into his Reuben. I didn’t think anything could make him more handsome, but the frowny-face does.
His eyes light up when he talks about his nephew and his gestures become more animated when he tells me how Bart likes to draw just like his Uncle Tommy. When he shows me Bart’s picture I can’t help but smile. I’m watching Tom, listening, thinking he’s not only unbelievably hot, but also a good person. And interesting.
“You have two brothers?” Two other Quidell men walk the world, probably both just as flawless as Tom.
He nods. “Dan used to be a firefighter, until his injury. Now he has his own company.” A new frown works across his face as he takes a bite of his lunch, chews, and swallows it down. “Rob starts grad school next year. Cultural Anthropology.”
Smart, too. But I could have guessed that.
We’re quiet for a moment, both finishing our sandwiches. After we’d ordered he’d tucked his hand around my back and ushered me through the crowd using his big shoulders to clear a path.
I don’t know why, but it made me feel special.
“Rick’s coming home tomorrow night.” I blurt it out. I never blurt. I think I need some insight, some support on this, and for some reason, my instincts tell me to talk to Tom about it, and not Andy. Maybe because Andy’s always had a crush on Rick.
Tom sits back. He watches me with his intense blue-green eyes, and his jaw hardens. He truly is a big guy; he’s wide enough to block all the glare bouncing off the public art behind him.
“What are you going to do?” He wants to cross his arms but he doesn’t—I can see his shoulders twitch like he’s fighting it.
Move out and spend the rest of my life subduing my sex drive by masturbating to my old fantasy of your former self? I think.
A blush creeps up my neck and I look away. I’ve been doing pretty well on keeping control of the color creeping up my neck. I don’t want to lose a friend because I can’t keep my hormones in check. “I’m thinking I should move out.” I can’t read his response. He’s holding his body perfectly still and with the bright light out here it’s difficult to read the subtle twitches of his face.
“Do you have a place to stay?” He says it slow and I can tell he’s watching me carefully.
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked anyone.” Sitting straight, I look around. I could ask Andy, but I haven’t seen him all week. This isn’t something to text someone about. “My family is in Grand Forks. Finding a new apartment first would probably be the best idea.”
His phone beeps. “Shit. Listen, I have another meeting.” Stuffing it back in his pocket, he stands up. “I think I need to work on scheduling, huh?”
He’s smiling and I feel better. The wonderful person in front of me is willing to go through the hell of rescheduling meetings in our meeting-heavy workplace just so he can spend longer lunches with me.
I don’t think I’ve ever had lunch with Rick. When he comes downtown, he’s always too busy.
“Drinks after work?” Tom touches my elbow but pulls his hand back like he’s afraid he did something bad.
I don’t think Rick ever touches my arms, either, except to hold me down.
“Okay,” I say. Drinks with a friend is, I think, what I need right now.
“We’ll get this worked out. You don’t have to live somewhere you don’t want to.” Tom takes both trays and waits as I stand and loop my bag over my arm. The shadow he throws is almost as big as the one cast by the art, and for a second I wonder if I should be intimidated. I’m not. But his presence offers a comfort I’m not used to.
As I stand in this little park surrounded by coworkers chatting on their phones and the constant downtown traffic noise, I wonder why I’ve been fighti
ng moving out. Because I have.
Why do I keep going back to the loft? For a split second, I wonder if it’s as simple—and as pathetic—as not wanting to be alone.
But I don’t think so.
I smile. “After work it is. I’ll come down and meet you. Okay?”
Tom smiles too, a big grin like I’d expect to see on this little nephew’s face when the kid wants to share a secret but can’t because he promised.
“Okay, what’s up?” I throw him an exaggerated look of suspicion just to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t disappoint.
The grin turns into a big, full-body wiggle of happiness. When a man does the quick body dance of excitement—not a kid, but a gorgeous guy—it’s like every glacier on the planet has melted and everything’s blooming. He’s not just a big dude capable of scary things, but a full person with joy in his heart.
“I have something for you.” He’s still grinning, and still just as gorgeous.
“Oh my God you didn’t buy me a car, did you?” I’m sure I’m smiling just as much because there’s no way I couldn’t be, even though I’m joking.
A wonderful, hearty laugh rolls out of Tom. “Been on the job three weeks, my lovely, beautiful Sammie. A new car won’t be coming for at least six months.” Tom ushers me back toward the door, winking.
He said lovely, beautiful Sammie. He stacks the trays and lays his hand on my back, at waist level the same way he did when we came outside.
But this time I feel the strength of his fingers. This time, I want more than just his forearm rubbing my skin through my blouse. I want to be against his side, feeling those arms wrap around all of me. I want to be close enough to smell his subtle-but-rich scent. To breathe in masculinity and consideration and art.
He’s juggling the trays and lifts his hand off my back, his attention completely on the tip weight of what he’s holding and not at all on what’s playing over my face. And I’m glad, because if he did see, I’d be embarrassed beyond anything I felt when I realized he was my fantasy freshman.
Much more embarrassed.
Which I shouldn’t be. Or maybe I should. I walk alongside Mr. Tom Quidell, chatting small talk. He won’t tell me what he has for me. And I don’t say anything about wanting right now, more than anything else in the world, to kiss him.
And the embarrassment just grows.
When we walk the stairs to our floors, he smiles again and watches my face like he can’t quite figure out what he’s seeing. “Drinks in four hours. No backing out.” He gives me a mock stern look.
I must be hiding my embarrassment well, so I grin and wag my finger at him. “You said you have something for me. I want it.”
Tom laughs as he opens the graffiti door. “Off to your dungeon my queen, before the knaves find us missing from our tortures.” He bows and vanishes from the stairwell, hurrying off to his meeting.
Ahead, I have four hours of stewing in the emotions rolling around inside my body. Four hours of a clenched gut that can’t decide if it wants to force me to run and hide or jump for joy.
I stare at the door thinking, once again, the one thought that’s been blinking in my mind for the past few days like a giant neon light: I’m so fucked up.
But this time it’s dancing with another thought: I know how much Rick likes the “fucked up” me. I think, for him, it’s useful. It’s that bit of distance that allows him to do whatever the hell he wants.
I never hid it from Rick. We never talked about it, either. I suppose it’s not fair to hide it from Tom. So the question is, how much “fucked up” will Tom tolerate?
7
Thomas
The bar across the street from our building serves a good selection of beers, but Sammie sits across from me in the dim booth with a glass of malbec in front of her. She leans forward, playing with her napkin, and for a second I get a good look at her cleavage.
I want to crawl over the dark table top to the deep red leather of her side of the booth and pull her into the corner. I want to kiss that frown right off her face while I rub my palm across her exceptional breasts.
And maybe get her to look at me.
She’s been avoiding eye contact since we came in. We chatted about work and weekend plans, because it’s Friday. All it did was remind her that her asshole boyfriend would be home tomorrow evening.
Now she’s on her second glass of wine. She hasn’t eaten anything, either. So I’m wondering. “You going to be okay on your bus trip home?” She’s not that big, though she is taller than most women. To me, she’s the perfect size.
She looks up this time, meeting my gaze, and sighs. “What do you have for me?”
I shake my head. “It’s in my truck. And don’t change the subject.”
She sits up. “In your truck, huh?”
I can’t tell what she’s thinking but her body looks tentative. “When we leave, I’ll get it.”
Quiet, she watches me. After another sip, she sits back. “You’re too perfect, do you know that?”
I almost spit my beer across the table. It’s not that good anyway—it’s bitter—and I set it down instead. “I’m too perfect?” God damn, I think. Is she flirting with me? It’s dark in here and a shadow fell across her face when she sat back. Could I be lucky enough to have her flirt with me?
“You’re right. I don’t need to live someplace I don’t want to.” Her delicate hand lifts her glass off the table and it disappears into the shadow as she sips. “I think I should have had something to eat.”
“We can get something. Or go down the street to the new Thai place.” Or I can drive you home, I think. Drive her to her door, go in with her, and pack up all her possessions and take her back to my place.
“At least I have my work shit together.” She shrugs and sips again. “And you, to make sure I’m not a hazard to my fellow bus passengers.”
Her gaze flits to my face as if she’s waiting for me to run away. But I know what she’s doing. She’s laying out her insecurities because every woman knows nothing chases off a man faster than showing “senseless vulnerability.” Or at least that’s what Dan says.
I’d rather see her demons now, though, and not three years into a marriage, thank you very much.
I blink, watching her, and my chest tightens. Thinking about Sammie and three years into a marriage at the same time is, in all honesty, much scarier than any of her self-doubts.
“You know why Rick likes me?” She sniffs and swirls what’s left of her wine. Then she thrusts out her breasts.
I almost spit out my beer again. “That can’t be the only reason.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to spill every detail of their sex life but snaps it shut. Her jaw clenches.
It is the only reason he likes her. What kind of asshole is this guy?
She waves her hand in the air. “It’s my fault. It’s the only reason I like him.”
I don’t know what to say. Living with someone just for the sex would be fun, I suppose. For a while.
“Why do you do that to yourself?” It’s the only question my brain musters.
Across from me, Sammie steels herself. She’s going to give me an honest answer and I know from the way she’s looking at me that this is a test. I know it the way I know she’s unbelievably beautiful. I may not be able to read women’s faces, but this body language screams louder than Bart when he wants a new video game.
“I like sex,” she says. She’s owning it, not flinching or backing down and goddamn, it makes her hotter. I want to rub my face between her breasts. And my cock.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re living with him.” I own it too—if she’s testing me by showing what she considers her warts, then I’ll give her honest answers. I won’t be chased off by my own discomfort.
“No, it doesn’t.” She takes another sip.
My napkin bunches up under my fingers. “It seems like you’re ashamed.”
She doesn’t look at me. “Why would I be ashamed?”
That’s just it. I don’t know why she would be ashamed. She’s lovely and fun and if she needs to own anything in her life, it’s that. “You can like sex. You don’t need to separate it from the rest of your life. Well, maybe work.” I grin, trying to ease some of her tension. Though backing her against the wall under the stairs would be a nice distraction between meetings.
Sammie grins back at me and taps her temple. “I grew up in the suburbs of a small city. Maybe I have stuff in my head I don’t know about.”
“Don’t we all?” Blaming her ghosts wouldn’t change anything, though.
“I’m frustrated when I can’t have the sex I want.” She takes another sip. “Rick’s been tired lately. Says he’s been training too hard and he’d rather sleep.”
Whoa, I think. I suspect my eyes got big. “No fucking way.” He’s denying Sammie? Who the hell would deny Sammie? My hand slaps the table top. “I’d rather be close to my woman than train, or play video games, or drink, or anything else. A weight bench is no one’s muse.”
Her face changes. Her cheeks soften and her eyes grow big. Just for a second.
I wonder if I just passed the test.
“You have a much healthier view of sex than I do.”
I laugh. “If you think abstinence is healthy.” I roll my eyes.
“What?” Now she looks equal parts shocked and confused.
I laugh again. “Been living in my brother’s basement, remember? Makes a man bad dating material.”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this. You must think I’m a crazy person.” She downs her wine, a new embarrassment creeping up her neck, and glances at her watch. “Who is about to miss her bus.”
My hand wraps around her wrist before she can stand up. “I’ll drive you home. Besides, I have something for you, remember?”
“Oh…” She’s staring at me and her eyes are huge. Really huge.
“Sammie, you’re not crazy.”
“But I am fucked up,” she whispers.
Thomas's Muse: A Quidell Brothers Novella Page 4
