“Locke? It’s me talking.”
I look over my shoulder at Carter, her hair damp from a shower, fully clothed in one of those things girls wear that has a shirt attached to the shorts. A green one. I tell myself not to stare at her legs, and my attention strays to her chest before I can stop it. She folds her arms.
“I knew it was you talking,” I say.
I didn’t really. Mornings put me on autopilot, and my sister swears I hallucinate.
“I debated dropping Lily on top of you while I showered, but when I went in, I couldn’t even rouse you,” she said.
I turn to her, shaking the bottle. “Did you tickle my feet?”
She looks at me like it’s a creeptastic fetish I have.
“It’s a trick Astor uses,” I elaborate. “To wake me up.”
“Lily was fine with me on the bathroom floor, anyway.” Carter shrugs then moves around me to grab a pitcher of orange juice and pours herself a glass. “Until she escaped briefly and found a tub of puffs, I see.”
“Another Hayes trait, I’m afraid. We’re gluttons for food. Even kernels found on the floor. Perhaps we were city pigeons in a past life.”
Carter leans a hip on the counter as she drinks. “Are you okay? You don’t look like you slept much.”
“Slept just fine, thank you.” I give Lily her bottle and put her on the floor so she can drink it herself. “As your inability to wake me proves.”
“Mm.”
“I figure I’ll take Lily to the park today. Want to come?”
Carter’s expression smooths like she understands I’m changing the subject. “Can’t. I’m going to help Pierce hang my paintings.”
I have to think back, rely on Carter’s previous nuggets of information, to remember who the fuck Pierce is. I still don’t. “Pierce?”
“The owner and manager of the cafe where I’m being displayed.”
Unintentionally, I stray to her cleavage again.
“My art, Locke.”
“Obviously,” I scoff, then pretend deep interest in how Lily’s tilting her bottle.
“It might take all day. I’m sorry I can’t be here to help.”
When Carter looks at Lily, it’s as if Lily just set off the most brilliant sunset. Even doing the simplest tasks, like drinking her breakfast, Carter can never look at Lily like she’s bored.
It grounds me, that look. So matured, yet timeless. One I hope I’ll earn enough to emulate.
“Don’t worry about it. Lily and I’ll be fine. Right, Lil?”
Lily tilts her head almost backwards to peer at me through her forehead.
“Right,” I agree with myself. “And it’s good practice. For when I can no longer rely on you.”
If Lily causes sunsets in Carter, I fling blackouts.
“Yeah.” Carter sets her empty glass in the sink behind me.
“Carter, I didn’t mean…”
“No, of course not!” she says with forced cheer. “You’re totally right. And I’m going out with your sister tonight, anyway, so today’s a true test for you.”
Carter bends down and smooches Lily on the cheek. Then, as if on impulse, she does the same to my scruff.
“Good luck,” she says.
Carter strides to her paintings, which I only now notice have been stacked near the front door.
“Can you carry all that?” I ask. I need a few seconds to get over the stupor of having her lips on my face. “Gimme five to put on a shirt and pants—”
“No worries, Pierce is coming to give me a hand.”
“Pierce, huh?” I say before thinking.
Carter eyes me through her lashes. “Yes. Pierce. The manager. We’ve discussed this.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean against the fridge, Lily still pumping that milk into her system at my feet.
Carter blinks, and her suspicion is gone. In its place is a strange sort of glee. “By the way, there’s a reason I’ve wished you luck.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She pooped!” Carter says brightly before swinging open the front door. “Enjoy!”
“She what?” I look down at the cute nugget, whose size should not be emitting the kind of smell that’s reaching my nostrils right now.
“You said it yourself, you need the practice. And you’ve been strangely absent whenever she’s had a really full diaper.”
“Wait!” My palm’s out as if mental force alone can stop Carter from disappearing into the hallway.
“You left your paintings!” I try next, even though she’s already shut the door. “I can destroy them!”
“I’m coming back later to get them!” her muffled voice replies. “With Pierce.”
Though Carter can’t see it, my lip curls into a sneer on the name. When I land back on Lily, it turns into a grimace.
“Dear God, woman. Whose side of the family does that come from?”
I lift, then hold her at arm’s length as we toddle to her nursery.
Lily looks at me with milk dribbling down the corners of her lips and grins.
17
Carter
I’m nervous.
I’m so anxious my fingers are giving out during every attempt to lift my artwork from the floor and hand it to Pierce, a lean, salt-and-pepper styled, happily-married father of three.
But I’m not telling Locke that.
The way Locke responded to my saying I’m receiving help from another man—oh, the horror—with his brows ramming down and the tendons of his forearms standing out as he crossed them, his feet splaying out all caveman style. He might as well have lifted one leg and sprayed his scent all over me.
What is Locke thinking? He doesn’t own me. He hasn’t even kissed me. So, what, I live with him. I’m helping him adjust to a baby daughter. None of that gives him the right to lay claim like I’m some boon he found on his woodland travels that he now wants to clonk on the head and drag back to his lair.
But…and I’m ashamed to admit it, if Paige were here, she’d for sure smack me between the eyes…but…
It makes me feel kinda sexy.
And now I imagine what else I can do to make Locke jealous. What can unleash the beast that had to be in there for him to succeed in dominating football since high school? Oh, I want to know.
The place between my legs wants to know.
And, thanks to all that, my nerves are coated with sexual angst in addition to the fear of displaying my work for strangers to critique.
No, not simply strangers. New Yorkers.
“Dude, what a way to pop your cherry.”
I hear Paige’s ghostly whisper like she’s right beside me, and I have to stop myself from asking aloud, Do you mean Locke or my paintings?
“They’ll either tear your canvas to shreds or make you go viral,” Paige answers for me.
I nod. Paige has never been more correct.
“That’s the last of it,” Pierce says as he rubs his hands together. His black T-shirt is covered in that weird paper dust that all cardboard boxes bring. I’m sure my dark green romper looks the same.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, hands on my hips as I study the bare brick walls, painted a distressed white, where my art will hang. Six faded spots where other artists have tried, maybe succeeded, maybe failed, to begin imprinting their names into unknown minds.
“I’ll hang each in the spare areas you see,” Pierce continues, pointing for effect. “Below, I’ll display your name, the price, and your QR code.”
“My QR code?”
His pale green eyes take me in, and he cocks a hand on his hip. “Do not tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”
“Uh…”
He holds up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”
“What’s a QR code?”
“Lord Almighty,” he sighs to the ceiling. “Behold, I’ve met my first millennial who doesn’t know what the internet is.”
“I know what the web is.”
“You just called it a web.”
&nb
sp; “Isn’t that what it is?” I splay out my hands. “Websites?”
“Good lord. Come here.” He ushers me to a table and calls to the coffee bar, “Cameron, we’re going to need two double espressos, stat.”
I plop into a seat. “I haven’t had much time to stay in touch with whatever’s trending.”
“Clearly.”
I sigh but accept the double espresso Cameron, cute in a red plaid shirt, black slacks and suspenders, places in front of me.
“Thanks, hun,” Pierce says to him.
I glance between the two of them, notice they each wear wedding rings and make the deduction.
Even better to tease Locke with.
But I can’t be thinking of Locke at the moment, or how he saw me half-naked. Or how close I came to dropping the towel entirely if it weren’t for Lily making noises nearby.
Instead, I must focus on what a QR code is.
“It’s a quick response code,” Pierce says, reading my mind. “You know, the square barcodes you see everywhere on ads and products? Can be captured by people’s phone cameras? That sort of thing. It immediately takes them to your website so you can grab their info. Sell your stuff via the internet, because no one does face-to-face persuasion these days.” He leans back. “In my day, we exchanged cash and checks. By hand.”
“Oh. I know what that is. I’ve seen it.” I pull out my phone. “I don’t have a website, but I have an Instagram account; I just haven’t used it in a long while. Could that work?”
“It’s something, at least.” Pierce sips his espresso, his eyes drawing shut as he tastes. “Perfect, as usual. Go on, drink. Cameron drops some cream in for people he likes.”
I smile and do as he asks. Pierce is right. I’ll never have espresso without a dollop of cream again.
“Back to business,” Pierce continues. “Now that we’ve discovered you have a business. Or at least the start of one, so people can tag you even if they choose not to buy. Social media is all the rage for advertising because it’s free.”
I listen intently to Pierce, but internally wonder why it took me this long to make the first move. And like the traitor it usually is, my mind lists all the logical conclusions as to why I haven’t jumped into the deep end.
Money.
Job security.
Paige.
Lily.
Cancer.
“My chance has finally arrived,” I say aloud. “I’m ready for this.”
“Good,” Pierce says. “I’m no city art gallery, but this is a start. And I’ll begin by taking a fifteen percent commission on anything you sell. Usually, I also charge a flat fee for the artist to display for four weeks, but I’ll make an exception for you. Your work…it really is stunning.” His tone rises at the end like he’s truly surprised my generation can put paintbrush to canvas and create such beauty.
I hadn’t expected he’d go so low. “That’s…that’d be great.”
Pierce’s eyes soften. “There’s something about you, kid. A sweet eagerness that this city would devour the minute the sun sets behind these buildings. Many people would, in fact, eat you for dinner, forget about breakfast. But not me. I’m from Alabama.” Pierce tips his head to include Cameron, whose dark curls are bent as he crafts lattes. “He’s from Louisiana. We’re small-town boys chasing big dreams.” He pauses for another drink and says over the rim, “Like recognizes like.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, other than to become a regular patron and buy double espressos on the regular.”
Pierce laughs. “And to have the excuse to watch people look at your work, see how you’re coming across. I know the moves.”
I shrug. “I live next door almost. It’ll be tempting.”
“If you bring that golden chunk of man in every now and again, I won’t tell.”
We share a grin. Then I shake my head and attempt to hide behind my mug, except it’s a ceramic toy made for baby hands.
“There’s no hiding your blush, dear one.”
“We’re just…”
“Don’t patronize me with your ‘just friends’ talk. This neighborhood notices things, including a small child this golden man is now carting around that you must have something do with.”
“Oh, she’s not…I’m not…” I hate denying Lily as my own, as my heart beats truly for her. But it’s impossible to ignore the facts, considering I have to leave her behind.
“I’m not her mom,” I finish.
Pierce sees more than he lets on. He allows silence to hang in the air between us, a subtle gesture asking me to keep going, but when I don’t, he doesn’t press.
“Well,” he says as he gets up. “You three are welcome here any time.”
“Thank you, Pierce.”
“Uh-huh. Now, scoot. I have some artwork to sell to stressed-out caffeine addicts.”
Smiling, I make my exit, but not before leaving a few bills on the table for the espresso and excellent service.
Pierce could be a friend, if I let him. A confidante. Maybe the kind of person I haven’t had since Paige. He’s making it clear.
I take to the streets on a long-held sigh.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to start to like it here, and that would be the worst kind of self-destruction.
I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning.
Locke is refusing rent while I stay, so I try to be relevant in other ways, like have him and Lily come home to a spit-shine of an apartment.
Except, forget about digging into corners. All I have to do is brush a cloth over the hardwood, and it comes up black.
“God, Lily has been crawling on this?” I ask myself.
It’s not that this place wasn’t clean when Lily and I first moved in—that I know. It’s what I’m slowly coming to understand: No matter how hard I scrub or how much I pick, these New York buildings are so old and crusty, black soot is permanently wedged into every crevice it can find.
And any time construction starts nearby, a fresh coat of gray dust will go on top.
I sit on my haunches, dirtied cloth at my side, and wonder if I can make an exception just one time to use bleach instead of the all-natural, not-toxic-in-the-least, environmentally friendly baby products that are fully stocked in this place ever since Lily came into the picture.
Maybe this once. In the bathroom, where Lily rarely, if ever, goes.
I tuck hair that’s escaped from my messy bun behind my ears and go in search. I start under the sink in the bathroom, and, finding nothing but disposable razors and men’s body wash, I make a mental note to add bathroom cleaning products to Locke’s woefully lacking stock.
I can’t help but pop open the lid to his body wash and take a deep breath in. That’s him—his smell. It’s way better on his skin, but this small whiff sends tingles down my spine.
A nose remembers, and I know any time this scent drifts near, I’ll think of him.
At that unwanted thought, I slam the lid closed and shove it back in its place.
Stop with the empty fantasies.
Rising, I clomp over to the kitchen sink, thinking maybe, in a two-bedroom apartment, that’s where other homelike products will be.
I prop open the door and bend down, hair escaping again, and scrape it back with one hand while rifling through with the other.
Plumbing solution falls on its side, as well as some WD40. Who the frick knows why he needs that, and reach all the way into the back and hear a hollow clonk.
I pull out the empty gallon and cock my head.
Antifreeze? Why does Locke need that? He doesn’t have a car. I don’t claim to know anything about New Yorkers’ habits, or why he’d want an empty jug of it in the first place. I unscrew the lid, peering in. Definitely, strangely, clean and empty. I put it back where I found it.
While I’m continuing to scour, I happen to glance at the oven clock and swear.
I’m meant to meet Astor in an hour.
That gives me barely enough time to shower, dry my hair, and look
somewhat like a girl who would love a night out with her best friend’s baby daddy’s sister.
The mere thought has me slamming a palm to my forehead. I get up from my crouch and head to the shower, all the while chanting, stop picturing your best friend’s baby daddy naked.
18
Locke
When I return with Lily, Carter’s practically out the door again.
“Hey, how’d the picture hanging go?” I ask her. I’m still focused on Lily and getting her out of the stroller and onto the floor before she tangles herself permanently in the straps.
“Great,” she responds, and when she walks by me, I get a trail of her perfume.
It’s a gorgeous musk, a floral drift I can’t discern, but there’s a sweetness there, like vanilla. In short, it’s delicious, and I want to lick it off her.
I try to clear an itch in my throat instead.
“Okay, buddy pal, you’re free,” I say to Lily. She shrieks and crawls toward Carter, and that’s when I lay eyes on her.
She’s in red. That much, I register.
A red dress, with a deep-V down the center, showcasing the perfect curves of her breasts, with some gold sparkle she rubbed into her exposed cleavage.
That same glitter spreads down her thighs, her shins until she curves into black high heels that show off her calf muscles in a way that makes me want to bite between the lines.
Her shoulders are covered by her mermaid hair, messy with curls, and when she heaves it to one side with her hand, exposing her neck, it takes every logical fiber I possess not to stalk over and lay my claim on her.
Carter made her eyes golden just like the rest of her but painted her lips scarlet. I picture the stain of her lips on my chest and smearing her lipstick with my finger before I take her with my mouth.
Christ, I think instead. Christ, she’s everything.
“Uh…” I say. Out loud.
Carter’s mouth parts. “Is it too much? Astor texted that it was a cocktail place we were going to, so I thought—”
“Perfect,” I said, then recover enough to add, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Trusting You Page 13
