by R. C. Martin
“Brought some food home,” he grunts, following after me. “Figured we’d eat together.”
“That was sweet of you. But you know that I…”
My voice trails off, and I stop short when I see the bucket of KFC on the counter—along with three smaller containers I would bet my life are filled with mashed potatoes, gravy, and macaroni and cheese.
“Dad! You can’t eat this shit,” I grumble, turning to scowl at him. “Tell me you haven’t been on a take-out regimen for the last week.”
“I haven’t,” he says innocently, shrugging his shoulders.
I fold my arms across my chest, challenging him with my blatant, accusatory stare.
He furrows his brow playfully, pointing a finger at me as he asks, “Who’s the parent here, huh?”
He squeezes past me, which isn’t easy to do with his large, heavy frame, and I drop my arms, spinning to face him as I fight a pout. I succeed, barely, but my heart still wrenches in my chest as I think about his.
“Dad—”
“Baby girl, I’m not lyin’ to you.”
“You promised me. You’ve only got one heart, and I’ve only got one parent left, and the doctors—”
“Blaine Luella Foster, quit your worryin’, get your little ass in here, and eat.”
I hesitate only long enough for my stomach to remind me that I’m hungry, and then I join him in the kitchen, grabbing each of us a plate.
“I’m peeling the skin off of your chicken,” I state resolutely.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t offer up any protest, but piles a couple pieces on his plate before sliding it in front of me. I grin victoriously as he makes his way to the kitchen table and plops down in his usual seat.
“So are you going to tell me why you were sleepin’ under my roof all day?”
“Mateo and I got into it after I got home,” I reply vaguely. “I was exhausted, didn’t feel like hashing it out, and needed a place to crash.”
“Not that I don’t mind you being here, Lulu, but it’s your bed he’s sleepin’ in. Shit goes down, it’s his ass that should be tryin’ to find someplace else to crash.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, not saying a word as I carry both of our plates to the table. When my hands are free, I turn to go and grab us some silverware, but dad stops me, gently catching my wrist.
I twist my neck to catch his blue eyes, and he lifts a bushy, dirty blonde eyebrow at me, silently expressing his discontent. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t really need to. I know what he’s thinking. While he’s always been friendly with Mateo, he was against us moving in together from the moment I broached the topic. It’s like he saw the writing on the wall long before I could—like he knew, no matter how much we love each other, that maybe we weren’t as ready as we thought we were to take our relationship to the next level.
I didn’t listen to his advice. But John Foster is the best dad in the whole world. No matter how many times I’ve found myself fleeing from my home to seek the shelter of his, not once has he uttered the words I told you so.
Even still, I can see it in his eyes sometimes. Like now.
“Don’t ever accept less than you deserve,” he says instead. “You promised me.”
I nod, my love for him making my heart swell in my chest.
Tipping his chin, he lets go of my wrist and instructs, “Grab me a fork, baby girl. Tell me how things are going at work.”
I do as he says, curling my legs beneath me when I return and make myself comfortable in the seat beside his. We chat for over an hour, and then I offer to clean up our meal while he makes himself comfortable in his Lazy-Boy, like he does every evening after work. He kisses the top of my head as he leaves me in the kitchen, and I load our used dishes in the dishwasher before I go about peeling off the fried skin of the chicken left in the bucket. When I get to the bottom, with one thigh remaining, I leave it untouched and bury it under the others, smirking as I stow the container in the fridge.
IT’S A FEW minutes to ten when I look up and see Mateo maneuvering his way through the Lounge, making his way toward me. I didn’t respond to any of his text messages earlier, which I’m sure pissed him off, but I had nothing to say. Now that he’s here, I still don’t; but I can’t deny that seeing him causes my affection for him to tug at my heart. When things are good, it’s unheard of for us to go all day without speaking to one another.
“Hey,” he murmurs, now standing across from me.
“Hey.”
He looks down the length of the bar, noticing that we’re a little slow at the moment, and then asks, “Can you take a break?”
I glance back at Irene, who’s filling in for Dodger tonight, and she offers me a slight nod as she assures me, “I got it.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Mateo meets me on the far left side of the bar as I make my exit, immediately reaching for my hand. I don’t pull away as he escorts me through the tables, leading me outside. The weather is cool, the absence of the sun taking with it most of today’s warmth, and I reach up with my free hand to rub my arm in search of some heat. Mateo notices and tugs me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me.
I look up at him from beneath my lashes, and I relax against him when I read the apology in his eyes.
“You were right. I was a dick for forgetting you. I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again, baby, I swear.” Before I can even think of a response, his lips are pressed against mine in a tender kiss. “I mean it, Blaine,” he whispers, kissing me again. And then again. “I’m sorry, baby.”
When he flicks his tongue out, tasting my bottom lip, I can’t stop myself from opening up for him. He doesn’t hesitate to make his move, filling my mouth with his tongue, and I totally cave. I’m not sure how long I let him kiss me, but I’m sure it’s me who slows us down, easing away from him before capturing my lower lip between my teeth.
“I need you to know that I heard you last night,” he goes on to say. “I know what it looks like. I do—but it’s just a slow season for me. Things will pick back up. I’ve got some shit in the works. You’ve got to trust me.”
“I do,” I murmur, fidgeting with the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s just hard. I feel like I’m carrying a lot and—”
“I’m doing my best,” he interrupts, giving me a squeeze.
I nod, not wishing to be too judgmental or too hard on him. I understand what it’s like to fight for a dream. Most days, it takes everything I have in me to try and discover my own. I know chasing after them isn’t always easy.
“Listen, I could really use the car tonight. I know it’s getting late, but—”
“Wait,” I mutter, pushing my hands against his chest. He doesn’t let me go, but that doesn’t stop me from putting some distance between us—enough to squint my eyes at him in confusion. “Did you come down here and say all of that so that you could convince me to hand over my keys?”
“Blaine. Come on, you know I meant—”
I shake my head at him, coughing out a humorless laugh as I shove my way out of his hold. “I can’t believe you.”
“Blaine, baby—”
“No. No! Don’t baby me. One night. You couldn’t go one night without figuring it out for yourself? You know how many times you’ve left me to figure it out for myself? God! I seriously cannot believe that’s why you came down here.”
“Fuck! That’s not the only reason why I’m here. Did you not hear everything that I just said? I mean, Christ, how many times do I have to apologize?”
I shake my head at him, backing my way toward the door as I tell him, “I don’t know. Maybe trying apologizing without feeling me up. Or, better yet, without asking for favors immediately after. Maybe then I’ll be able to hear you.” Turning away from him, I call out, “I’ll see you at home, Mat. I have to get back to work.”
Walking briskly through the bar, I head straight for the bathroom, pressing my back against the door as soon as I’
m inside. I need a minute to breathe—to clear my head. I’m not really sure what just happened, or what’s been happening. I think back on our kiss, tracing my fingers across my lips, wishing I felt the tingle that usually lingers after he showers me in affection. Wishing I felt better about his apology. Wishing I felt more hopeful—more optimistic.
But I don’t.
And it hurts.
Michael
I STEP INTO the Prohibition Lounge with no expectations, and yet I still find myself surprised as I take it all in. It’s a good sized space, while still managing to maintain a sort of intimate atmosphere. The lights are dimmed down a tad, making it inviting, and the dark furniture only adds to the ambiance. There are no tablecloths on the tables, but the silverware wrapped in white linen, along with the white cloth chairs pushed up to each place setting, gives the Lounge a crisp, clean, sharp look to it.
It’s not particularly crowded, which isn’t surprising for a Tuesday night at this time, and I wonder if their kitchen is still open.
“Good evening, sir. Table for two?” greets the hostess, pulling me from my perusal of the place.
I offer her a small smile, dipping my chin in a silent hello, and then search the bar. Noting that there are only a few patrons sitting at the long stretch of counter, I nod in that direction before I inquire, “Would it be all right if I made myself comfortable at the bar?”
“Absolutely, sir. The bar is free seating.”
“Thank you.”
As I make my way past the hostess station, I hear Clay requesting a table near the door. I don’t bother inviting him to sit with me, knowing already that he would decline. He always does—wishing to remain on the periphery of the room, watching my back. He’s constantly on duty when he’s with me. He never lets his guard down. While I don’t always find it necessary, I appreciate his professionalism just the same.
I drape my jacket over the back of my stool and take a seat at the corner of the bar. Pushing up my already cuffed shirt sleeves to my elbows, I rest my forearms against the counter top and shift my focus toward the bartender currently attending to another guest. My gaze relocates when I notice another stepping behind the bar to join her. She spots me right away, offers me a small smile, and then casts her eyes down as she begins to close the distance between us.
I watch her as she approaches, noticing her shoulders rise and fall, as if she’s taking a breath—not because she needs oxygen, but because she’s attempting to prepare herself for something. Just before she stops in front of me, she lifts her head, straightens her neck, and plasters on a smile. Before she even speaks a word, I know the friendly expression on her face isn’t genuine.
It’s a shame, really. She’s got a beautiful face.
Her eyes are hazel, more brown than green—though, perhaps it’s the lighting that plays with the color, or her dark, wavy hair she wears loose; it frames her face, cut just short of her shoulders. Her milky skin looks soft and smooth—save the small mole she’s got on her right cheek, a short distance away from her mouth. Thinking about her mouth makes me look there, too. Her bottom lip is fuller than her top one—and with my focus zeroed in on her lips, her forced smile becomes even more obvious.
“Hi, there. I’m Blaine, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. What can I get you to drink?” she asks, pulling my attention back up to her eyes.
“That depends, actually,” I say, my stomach clenching in hunger. “Is your kitchen still open?”
“Sure is,” she assures me, looking down in front of her. She reaches for a menu, placing it before me as she goes on to inquire, “Would you like a water while you decide on something?”
“Sure, thank you.”
She offers me a nod and another forced smile, and I watch as she goes to fetch me that water. My curiosity getting the better of me, I don’t take my eyes off of her, noting how her shoulders sag the minute she thinks no one is looking. Something tells me it’s not just a long night she’s having. Shoulders that heavy carry an invisible weight that only the bearer is privy to.
Shaking my head clear, I glance down at the menu. It only takes me a minute to decide what I’d like—my hunger driving my decision to disregard the late hour and go for what I crave. Even with my mind made up, I don’t hesitate to engage the little brunette in conversation. If she’s forced to wait on me whilst dealing with whatever it is that plagues her mind at the moment, the least I can do is be extra pleasant.
“Blaine, was it?” I ask before she can step away.
The corners of her mouth twitch up in what might be an almost genuine smile, and she nods, smoothing her hands down her fitted, black, button-up top.
“How’s the burger here? I’ve had a long day, I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I’d really rather not be disappointed,” I tell her with a smirk.
Her smile grows a little more as she rests her palms against the edge of the counter and leans toward me. She shifts her focus down to the menu as she replies, “The burger is decent, but the steak?” She hesitantly reaches for the corner of my menu and turns the page, pointing at the item which she’s in the process of recommending. “It’s amazing. Well, if you order it medium rare. Julio is on deck tonight, and he can kill a medium rare cut. I’d also go with a side of the baked macaroni and cheese. It might sound a little elementary, but I swear by it.”
She leans back, the curve of her lips growing bigger still, and I can’t help but to return the expression. When she gives me a hint of her real smile, it’s contagious.
“You know—if you like that kind of thing,” she finishes.
“I do,” I insist. I consider her recommendation for a moment, then flick my attention down to my wristwatch. Wishing not to disappoint her, I gently remind her, “It’s a little late for a steak, though.”
“True,” she hums before pressing her lips together and tugging them to the side. I watch her, temporarily neglecting my hunger, wishing to distract her for a bit longer. Leaning toward me again, she flips back the page in front of me and points at something else. “How do you feel about crab? Our crab cakes are the best in at least four city blocks.”
Chuckling, I point out, “That’s a very specific radius.”
She shrugs, meeting my eyes and offering me a shy smile. “Just being honest.”
“So, the crab cake? That’s your best offer?”
She glances down at the menu once more and then looks back up at me, giggling softly before she straightens. I fight a grin, feeling as though I’ve just won a battle she didn’t even know I was fighting.
“I swear I’m not trying to dig into your wallet,” she murmurs, interrupting my thoughts. “But you haven’t eaten since lunch, and I don’t want you to be disappointed, either.”
I peer down at the price of the crab cake dinner and smirk. Shutting the menu, I push it toward her as I finally place my order. “I’d love the crab cake with a side of steamed broccoli.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, speaking through a gorgeous smile.
“Blaine?”
“Yes?”
“Call me Michael. And I’ll take a beer. Fat Tire, if you have it.”
“Okay, Michael. Coming right up.”
Blaine
“HE’S CUTE,” IRENE mumbles under her breath when I return to the register.
I add a beer to Michael’s tab, hearing my friend without actually hearing her.
“Hmm?” I hum, turning to look at her as she leans on the counter beside me.
She grins at me slyly before she says, “Don’t act like you don’t notice. I have a fiancé—doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a fine specimen of a man when he sits down at the far end of the bar.”
My eyes flick across the distance separating us from Mister Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, who appears to be enjoying his beverage and scrolling through something on his phone. Returning my attention to the conversation at hand, I meet Irene’s studious gaze once more. She waggles her eyebrows, and I fight a laugh as I point out, “He’s married. He’s a
lso got to be at least, like, thirty-four.”
“Admit it!” she demands through her laughter. “You think he’s hot.” Turning her back toward him, she props her hip against the counter and grips her opposite side with her hand as she goes on to add, “The fact that he’s potentially ten years older than you makes him that much more alluring. Only men can sport a five-o’clock shadow as well as he can.”
I lean back a little, peering around Irene and sneaking another peek at Michael. The truth is, I didn’t notice at first, my mind still trudging its way out of the scene that transpired between Mateo and me a few minutes ago. It wasn’t until Michael asked my advice that I really looked at him.
I bite the inside of my cheek, shifting my focus back to the register, knowing that I don’t need to stare to remember him. He’s the kind of guy that’s hard to forget. He’s huge, first of all—his broad, sculpted shoulders and incredible biceps filling out his white button-up so perfectly, it’s as if it was painted on him. He’s got his top button undone, his blue tie hangs in a loose knot against his chest, and I swear I could see a hint of chest hair peeking out from beneath the collar of his undershirt.
I bet he’s covered. I bet it’s sexy as hell—the dark strands standing out against the pale skin of his massive chest…or what I imagine his massive chest would look like.
Irene chuckles mischievously, and I fight a smile, continuing my mental perusal of the image of Michael that’s still at the forefront of my mind.
I see his strong, square jaw, covered in the dusting of facial hair Irene mentioned a second ago. I think about his pretty blue eyes, a few shades darker than dad’s pale blue ones. And his hair—good god—it’s thick, and dark, and curly. He wears it slicked back and neat on the sides. The top is a little longer; and with the way he parts and combs it, he’s got one big curl that falls across the top of his forehead.
Like Superman.
