by Holley Trent
“Uh.” She crooked her thumb toward the stage. “So, why this band? Why not someone local?”
The blonde put her hands up and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Okay. So. Like, long story.”
Shit.
“The Celtic Society at the university has a pretty robust membership, and…”
Erica tuned her out. She nodded at what seemed like the appropriate times and occasionally cut her gaze toward the door for signs of black spectacles or a messy blond mop-top.
Come on, Curt.
The girl was still talking when the fiddle player on stage led the band into a jaunty tune. At least that gave Erica a reason to turn and watch the stage. She didn’t have to pretend all that hard. She tapped her foot to the beat, appreciating the energy of the septet’s rollicking performance, even if she wasn’t familiar with the tunes. They were good.
Her music preferences tended to lean heavily toward bombastic pop ballads, but she could imagine herself dancing to the folk tune at a wedding. Not that she’d been to a wedding in recent memory. Did people still dance at weddings? Just another side effect of having such a small inner circle.
An inner circle of one.
Curt appeared at the same time as the waitress delivering their sandwiches.
Erica slipped toward the wall to let him in, observing the tense set of his jaw and hard line of his lips as he sat.
She squeezed his knee. “Everything okay?”
He rotated his plate and put the two halves of his sandwich together after flicking off the lettuce. She made a mental note. No lettuce.
“Stuff at home,” he said.
“Oh.”
Should I push, or drop it? What would he expect? Do the opposite.
So, she tucked into her own sandwich, and let the subject drop.
Halfway through his sandwich, he wiped his fingers clean on a paper napkin and cleared his throat. When Erica’s attention was on him again, and also that of their two tablemates, he nodded toward the stage. “I played fiddle growing up.”
“Oh?” Erica perked up. Was that the first truly personal thing he’d shared with her?
“Yeah. Mum thought it’d be good to flex that side of my brain. She was a harpist and used to play for church. She’d practice in the evenings. Early on I was already intrigued by the scales and chord progressions, even before I picked up an instrument. I think it was the math part of my brain kicking in.”
“Do you still play?” the redhead asked. “I play saxophone.”
The blonde elbowed her. “Shut up, no you don’t.”
“I do! Well, it’s in my mom’s attic but I’m sure I could still play it.”
Curt shook his head and picked his sandwich up. “Played until I was around fifteen or so and got busy with other things. Wasn’t any good at it, anyway. I’m too rigid. Can’t improvise worth a shit, which is sort of a deal-breaker for playing folk music.”
Erica had noticed some of that exacting rigidity. It hadn’t bothered her at the time because he was working her to the most explosive orgasm she’d ever had in her life. At the thought of it, she turned her face to the wall and blew out a ragged breath, transmitting chaste thoughts down to her tingling sex. Didn’t work. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench and recited the alphabet backward in her head. By the time she worked down to D, the compulsion to climb onto Curt’s lap had passed.
After the show, rather than immediately head back to Erica’s apartment, the two meandered the neighborhood on foot, Curt with his hand in Erica’s back pocket, giving her rear the occasional squeeze.
“So, how’s the photography going?”
She let out a long, low hiss.
“That bad, huh?”
“Same shit as always. I’ve been going out after work, you know? Museums, parks, coffee shops–everywhere people congregate. I took hundreds of pictures this last week, and not a single one was worth keeping beyond uploading to the Internet as stock art. That’s how bland they were. Did sell a bunch, though. I guess people need bland stock art.”
“I’m sure they weren’t that bad.”
“Yeah, they were. I guess it’s because I don’t have any training beyond what my boss taught me to do.” Admittedly, the training hadn’t been great. She’d mostly shadowed Tate, photographed what he photographed, and they compared shots later on. “I understand the rule of thirds and have a general grasp on composition, but I know I’m not an artist. I’m like that house painter who aspires to paint canvasses but has spent too long making broad strokes.”
He pulled his hand from her back pocket and put his arm around her waist, pulling her in close to his side as they walked.
She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it. He’d been so tentative about touching her when they weren’t having sex before. Did he realize what he was doing?
“Your photography sounds a lot like my fiddle playing. Good technician, but too rigid.”
“I guess it does. The photos are good. Clear. But there’s no heart. So, your fiddling, you don’t feel any regret about giving up on it?”
That option had been haunting her in recent days. She hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet, but she figured if she changed her mindset, it’d be easier to let go of. It was a job, not a career. Just a means to a paycheck. Not her passion. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if she had a passion. Weren’t passions supposed to be all-consuming?
He shrugged. “I try not to let regret take up too much space in my life.”
“I see.”
There went that damned compartmentalization of his again. She envied him for the ease which with he could push things into their rightful little corners and not think about them again until the right time.
Bet he doesn’t have trouble sleeping most nights.
“Hey.” She gave his waist a squeeze.
“Hmm?”
“I made you a pie. You want to go eat it?”
He scoffed, but smiled a broad, genuine grin. “You made me a pie? Are you sure you didn’t make it for yourself and you’re just using me as an excuse?”
“Are you saying I eat too much pie? Wow, you are an asshole.”
“Don’t even go there. There’s nothing wrong with your body. Please don’t be one of those girls.”
Ouch.
“I just don’t think anyone’s ever made me pie before.”
“Not even your mother?”
She thought she saw him flinch, but the movement flicked across his face so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“Mum can’t really cook. Or rather, she shouldn’t. She’s bad at it.”
Now at Erica’s Jeep, they leaned against the front passenger door and he reached for a swatch of her hair to fondle.
“My sister Jenny started cooking for us from the time she was twelve on. Mum just gave up.”
“That makes me want to feed you even more.”
He laughed as he pulled the door open and climbed onto the seat. “I’ve gained five pounds in the past two weeks. You think I don’t notice you trying to fatten me up like the witch did to Hansel and Gretel?”
Erica leaned onto his lap and wriggled her brows at him. “I want you to look like you’re being taken care of. I’ll let you know when you get there.”
“You’re a fucking saint.”
“As in a saint who fucks?”
’Cause that’s what we’re going to go do right now.
“Funny.”
She winked and closed his door.
When she climbed into the driver’s seat, her phone buzzed. She sighed as she jammed her key into the ignition and ripped her seatbelt across her body. Her gut screamed it out again: Tate. “Yeah?”
Tate barked a cough that in the past could have had him confined to a sanitarium. “I’m putting you on that rally tomorrow.”
She checked her mirrors and eased out of her parking space. “No, you’re not. You can’t keep trying to send me out on days I’m not scheduled. Why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you be convalesci
ng? Besides, you don’t need two photographers there. Skip me and send an extra reporter instead. You’ll need that extra coverage for an event that size, and you knew about this before five minutes ago. Why are you springing it on me now?”
“Hold on.” He covered his phone’s mouthpiece, but that did nothing to muffle his cough. “Flexibility is a major component of your job, or have you forgotten that?”
“What kind of question is that? I’ve been doing this nearly a decade and I think it’s reasonable for me to want to have a life outside the newspaper. I don’t want to spend every Saturday and Sunday of my life neck-deep in rally crowds. I’m not a rookie, haven’t been for years. Why don’t you send one of the interns? That’s what they’re for. Those shots would be impossible to mess up.”
Curt reached across the console and squeezed her thigh. He shook his head and whispered, “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”
She shook her head and kept her focus on the road. “Six hours is a really fucking long time, Tate, and I’ve gotta say, if you keep spring this shit on me I’m going to walk one day.”
“Sure you will. You got money saved up for that? I know how much you’re paid, remember? Unless you’ve started tricking again for extra cash. If so, let me know, because–”
She ended the call and white-knuckled the steering wheel all the way back to her apartment.
Chapter 10
Erica was in a moderately better mood come morning, due mostly to Curt paying her the flattering compliment of eating half her citrus sour cream pie. Still, she wrung her hands, pacing the floor until nine-fifteen, at which point she absolutely had to head out.
She plucked the last of the bacon out of the frying pan and carried the dish of scrambled eggs to the table, scraping more onto Curt’s plate without asking.
“Jaysus, woman.”
“Too much?”
“Getting there.”
She set down the dish and wrung her hands some more.
“Erica?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s with the fretting?”
She stopped wringing and scratched her head. “Uh, if you want to make another pot of coffee, the can is in the freezer and the filters are in the junk drawer. If you want more toast…”
He grabbed her belt buckle and pulled her in close. “Chill. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want you to get bored.”
“Afraid I’ll riffle through your panty drawer?”
She laughed and gave him a playful shove. “No, riffle all you want.” She picked up both camera bags and slung them over her shoulders.
He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Nah, I’ll probably head home. I’ve got to return a bunch of calls.”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed, watching him dump sugar into his coffee. If he left, would he come back or would she have to chase him? He didn’t seem like the kind of man who found desperation arousing.
Am I desperate?
Yes, she decided. She was, although she couldn’t put a finger on what, precisely, she was desperate for. Attention? Affection? Companionship? Maybe all those things, but was it Curt specifically who could meet those needs or would any man who wasn’t Tate do? Certainly required some thought.
“Stick around, I have a surprise for later.” She shifted her weight and fondled the strap of one of her bags. She had no idea what that surprise would be.
He grinned. “Culinary or carnal?”
“Maybe both.”
“Well, then.” He gave her a mock toast with his coffee mug. “I await your service.”
She clamped her teeth to suppress the sigh of relief she felt trying to escape her lips. “Okay. Call me if you need anything.”
Curt lifted a brow behind his glasses. “Darlin’. Go. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay, you’re a big boy.”
“Yep.”
“So, I’ll just go.”
He waved.
She backed out the door and locked it. As soon as she crossed the threshold, her mood instantly changed for the worse. With as angry as she was, if Tate got within five feet of her, she was going to maim him, flu or not. That phone call the night before had brought it all to a head. Sure, the newspaper was understaffed, but a lot of the shots she’d been sent out to grab in the past two weeks didn’t even make it into the paper. She was certain he was sending her on one wild goose chase after another, and for what? She thought she knew.
At the university campus where the Green Party rally was hosted, she parked in the far lot and caught the shuttle the rest of the way. While she was standing on the crowded bus with one arm wrapped against a pole, she pried her phone out of her back pocket and brought up her email. She scanned her contacts list, mumbling, “Please be in here,” and finally found Carla’s name listed with no surname. She quickly corrected the entry, pausing to peer out the window to find the bus paused at a traffic light, and started a new email.
Hi, Carla. I hate sending weird out-of-the-blue messages like this, but I was wondering if you could give me some history on Curt. And can we keep this between us? Thanks.
Erica’s phone buzzed as she stepped off the bus. Carla must have been in front of her computer.
Call me on my house phone. Kids are napping.
She’d typed her number at the bottom of the message.
Erica got out of the way of the foot traffic and rested her bags atop a brick wall. She hiked herself up onto it and instructed her phone to call the highlighted number.
“That you, Erica?”
“It is.”
“Okay, this feels kind of like giving a reference check.” Carla chuckled on her side of the Atlantic. Erica could hear birds in the background. She must have stepped out into the garden.
“I hope it’s a good reference.”
“More or less. I’ve known Curt since Grant and I got married three years ago. He’s actually mellowed out a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the stereotypical Irishman. He and Grant have that in common.”
“What, booze or temper?”
“Temper. He’s so damn cerebral, though, that he keeps it in check. On the rare occasion he’s let loose on someone, it was well-deserved. He does appreciate a good sloshing, just so you know. He could drink Seth under the table. Have you met Seth yet?”
“No, but from the way Curt talks about him, I’m not sure I want to.”
Carla laughed. “He’s a character, that’s for sure. Let’s see. What else? Oh, women seem to really like Curt, and he really likes women.”
“I think I’ve witnessed a bit of that. Is he satiable, do you think?”
“Sure, they’re all satiable if they find good enough food.” Carla chuckled again. “I’m kidding. I can’t pretend I know what’s running through that chaotic mind of his, but I think at heart he wants stability. I sort of see it in him whenever Emma and Adam tackle him. He acts like he’s affronted, but he really doesn’t care. He’d never admit it.”
“So, why hasn’t anyone claimed him before now?”
“I’m not saying he’s not slippery. He is. I think as a mathematician he’s constantly weighing out probabilities and trying to figure out the action that’ll grant him the greatest future benefit. He very rarely just goes with his gut. I’m not even sure he has a gut.”
“You mean besides the one I’ve been filling up the past couple weeks?”
“You’ve been seeing him a lot?”
“He’s at my apartment right now. I’m out working.”
Carla was silent for a long while.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I guess whatever you’re doing is right for him.”
“Oh.” Erica slumped on the wall. Just what was it that she was doing right? Constantly challenging him? Feeding him? Screwing his brains out in increasingly kinkier ways? If it was the latter, she was going to run fresh out of kink soon. And what was he going to do when he learned she wasn’t the
confident goddess with her shit together she pretended to be? Would he care she’d fled a perfectly good home life as teenager? One where she had a mother that actually cooked good meals and father who made sure the bills were always paid? Would he balk at her refusal to be groomed into a perfect cook, perfect homemaker, perfect wife?
And what was she doing now? Trying to affix him to her by filling him up with good Cuban food and keeping him so well-sexed he wouldn’t want to go home.
She laughed long and loud. If that wasn’t irony, she didn’t know what the word meant.
* * * *
Curt had been sitting with his feet up on Erica’s coffee table, gawking at game shows on Telemundo for at least an hour before he ran out of coffee. That had been the cut-off he’d arbitrarily assigned himself that morning when the fox had left. Finish the coffee, then make his calls.
He’d been tempted to run some more water through the coffeemaker, but even he knew that was a ridiculous stalling effort. He turned the television volume down low and dragged his messenger bag across the carpet to his feet. After meditating on the strap’s weave for a while, he dug out his phone with a sigh. Before he could dial, a text message from Erica came through.
It was an arm’s-length photograph of herself making an Ugh face. Behind her in the shot, a bunch of people held up political signs with badly-worded puns.
“God, she’s cute.”
Curt responded in kind with a picture of him giving wild eyes to the columns of numbers in some data he’d been carrying around in his bag. Then he dialed his sister’s number.
“How goes it, Curt?”
