by Lisa Sorbe
“It’s only been a day,” I point out. “I really don’t know how much of a help I’ll be. Might be awhile before he’s really, you know, free to… Well, free to do whatever it is he does when he’s not working.” For some reason, I don’t want her getting her hopes up. Just picturing the two of them together – driving around in that car of his or snuggled on the couch and watching a movie – is making me cranky.
I grab my beer and chug it.
The conversation swirls around me, and since I don’t know these people from Adam, it’s damn near impossible to join in. I’ve never felt like more of an outsider. And seeing Miles in his element – joking and laughing and trading quick witted barbs with friends he’s obviously known for years – has me unsettled. He’s not like I though he was. In more ways than one.
And all this camaraderie? It’s like these people genuinely like each other or something.
The table gets more boisterous as the night goes on, with Betsy turning to water halfway through so she can drive the majority of the drunkards home. Miles eventually moves down the table to sit with us, and I notice that George has positioned her chair so her shoulder bumps his whenever she moves. Which, to me, looks incredibly desperate and clingy. But who am I to judge?
She’s also made it her mission to set me up.
“Bets, seriously.” She leans over the table, her voice conspiratorial. Her face is flushed, and the loud whisper she’s failing to contain reminds me of Emilia. “Adair, right? We should totally hook Jenny – whoops, I mean Jen – up with him. Don’t you think?”
Betsy scrunches her brow. “I don’t know…” She hesitates, and I see something flicker in her eyes. There’s a sadness there. A longing I don’t even think she realizes. Her pale cheeks blaze pink as she shrugs.
“Here we go,” Miles cuts in. He looks irritated; the buzz he had moments earlier when ribbing me about the way I heckled the ump at the game is gone. “Why do women always do this? You know, maybe Jenny doesn’t want to be set up.” When Betsy shoots him a look, he narrows his eyes right back. “Not everyone wants to be coupled off. Some people are just fine on their own.”
The tension in the air is thick. So thick I can feel the heaviness of their unspoken words weighing me down. But George is either too buzzed or dense to sense it. As beautiful as she is, just talking with her this last hour has me thinking she isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
Sweet but stupid.
Her grin, however, is anything but sweet when as she plunges her elbow into the guy sitting next to her, the strawberry blonde who ordered our drinks earlier. He’s huge and handsome in a rugged way, his thick beard neatly trimmed and his shoulders on par with those of an NFL linebacker. He sputters, chokes on his beer. “What is it, Georgina?”
She wrinkles her nose. “When are you going to stop calling me that?”
“What? You mean calling you by your actual name?” His accent worms its way into my ear, a pleasing fluctuation of clipped vowels and trilled r’s.
George ignores him and waves her hand across the table at me. “Have you met Jen yet?”
At first glance, Adair is intimidating as fuck. He reminds me a lot of Julian in that way, all hard edges with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and carrying the sort of dark intensity that makes your breath catch just by being in his presence. It’s that Old-World look, the kind that immediately makes me think of medieval war heroes – the ones who downed a keg after battle before scooping up a voluptuous maiden and carrying her off to bed as a way of celebrating their rousing victories.
But when he turns his eyes my way, they’re surprisingly gentle. And any woman he chose to carry to bed would probably be more than willing. His smile is warm as he appraises me, though I hardly feel scrutinized. His sky-blue gaze seems to pull only my good parts to the surface; it’s almost as if I can feel them rushing up, past all the mean and ugly shit that usually obscures it. Like breaking up an oil spill to reveal clean water.
He holds a hand out, which engulfs mine when I take it. “Adair McTaggart.”
“Jen Malone.”
He quirks a brow. “You wouldn’t be related to Humphrey Malone now, would you?” His u sounds like oo, and I have to press my lips to keep from smiling too wide. I mean, men and accents, right?
“Humphrey’s my brother.” It feels strange to say his first name; he’s been Fox to the family for as far back as I can remember.
“A good man. My cousin William spends a lot of time with him and his fiancé. Seems they’ve taken a shine to Scotland.”
I haven’t talked to my twin brother since he left Iowa back in May, two whole months ago. We’re not close – being around him has always made me feel too exposed. Like I said before, his light washes over my dark like a spotlight, illuminating the imperfections I try so hard to keep covered.
I don’t let Adair know that, though. Instead, I just nod. “So,” I say, turning the focus back to him, “what brought you to Iowa?”
He shrugs. “Got drunk one night, made a bet, and threw a dart at a map.” He arches a brow, his eyes never leaving mine as he lifts his glass and takes a drink. Then he swallows, tosses his head back and laughs, the boisterous rumble full and round and deep.
It’s contagious and makes my own lips kick up at the corners. I cross my arms and lean back in my seat. “You’re joking.”
Betsy rests her elbows on the table and leans over. “It’s the truth. Dumbass over there is here because he lost a bet.”
I hesitate to laugh, still not sure if they’re fucking with me. “What was the bet?”
“I’m taking it to the grave,” Adair says, holding up a meaty palm and crossing his fingers over his chest.
Betsy clicks her tongue. “He won’t say. All we really know about this Scotsman is that he landed on our shores five years ago, started one of the most successful breweries in the area, and has an uncanny panty dropping ability that would put most men to shame.” She smirks. “Personally, I think most women fall for the accent.”
“Aye.” His eyes burn as they brush over Betsy, making her blush even more. “But not all women. Isn’t that right, love?”
“It takes more than a charming accent to get in some women’s pants, you know.”
Adair chugs his beer. “So you’ve said.” He turns to me. “Now, let’s ask Jenny here. What do you say?” He tucks his fingers into his collar, sits up straight, pulls a serious face, and arches a brow. “What do you think? Charismatic, right? Midwestern charm, yeah?”
I’m about to answer when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Miles scowling. When I look over at him, he narrows his eyes and gives a subtle shake of his head. “Very debonair,” I say, giving a quick smile and taking a long pull from my beer to avoid doing what I usually do when there’s a hot guy in my vicinity: flirt.
Because, yeah. There’s more here between Betsy and Adair than what they’re letting on.
I’ve never been around people like this before. Adair, he’s real. Betsy and George, they’re real. Hell, even Miles – annoying as he is – is real.
And any pain I cause Betsy by flirting with someone she obviously cares about would be… real.
This is a completely new feeling for me. This placid sensation of not wanting to dominate someone – everyone – is just… It’s not like me. At all.
It’s not that I need to be the center of attention. Granted, I don’t avoid it, either. But I’m not loud in that way. The marionette doesn’t pull its own strings, after all. It’s the upper hand that I crave. I like being the manipulator. The one moving the pieces. The ultimate feeling of control. In this dog-eat-dog world, being better than the rest is the only way to survive.
Why risk handing over the power to others when they’ll just use it against you?
My eyes land on the empty pitcher in the middle of the table. I pull it toward me, stand up, and give it a little shake. When everyone’s looking up, I point at the other empty pitchers lining the table. “Did we win tonight or did we WIN?”
&nb
sp; The table roars. Everyone but Miles. Who’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.
I make eye contact with the bartender, point at the empty in my hand, and then hold up four fingers. After he nods, I turn back to the team. “Next round is on me. Let get this party started!”
I’m ducking frunk.
Or frunking dunk?
“You’re what?”
I look at Miles. Apparently I said that out loud.
Whoops. I laugh as my feet suddenly detach from my body. Something pulls hard on my arm and saves me from falling.
“I said,” I say, then pause because I need to concentrate. Who knew walking was so hard? “I said I’m fucking drunk.”
That’s it. That’s what I was trying to say. I smile, proud of myself.
Miles tightens his grip on my arm and huffs. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I think hard. For some reason, I want to impress him. “I can do fouette turns en pointe.”
“You can do a what in what?”
“It’s ballet.” I stop abruptly, and since my arm is still tangled up with Miles’s, he almost falls backwards.
“Jesus, Jenn –”
I slide my arm out from his and get into position, suddenly sure that the fifteen years between the time I last did this and now is of no consequence. Why did I ever quit ballet? I was so good. Getting into position, I lift my leg up to passé, dip to plié, and just as I’m starting to open to second on relevé… An earthquake hits. At least, it has to be an earthquake, because the sidewalk starts moving, rolling under my foot and throwing me off balance.
But Miles is there, as he always seems to be lately, and before I know it I’m flush against his front. His chest is hot and heaving, the beat of his heart fast against my palm. My forehead is pressed against his neck, and I find myself wondering how he can still smell so good after playing sweaty softball all night.
“Whew, Jenny,” he says, making a face. “You’re ripe.”
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for me.
And before I know it, I’m off my feet and in his arms.
Me and all my ripeness.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, anyway?” he asks, continuing our walk. “You could’ve broken your damn ankle.”
“You asked me to tell you something you don’t know.” I open my mouth up wide as I say each word, keeping my tone even so he can’t tell that I’m drunk. The key is to be articulate. So far, I don’t think he suspects. “I was gonna show you.”
“I was being sarcastic.” He sounds exasperated.
I forget what we were talking about, or why I’m even in his arms. So I just lean my head against his shoulder and enjoy the feeling of being weightless. Ballet used to make me feel weightless.
Julian used to make me feel weightless.
“My husband. Um, I mean, my ex-husband – we’re no longer together – is bigger than you.”
Miles shifts me in his arms, and my head bumps roughly against his shoulder. But I don’t care, because he smells like oranges and mint and the forest.
“Good for him.”
“Not height-wise,” I say, rambling. “But muscle-wise. He had, er, has a lot of muscles. Big, bulky muscles. Like, huuuge.” I run my fingers over Miles’s right arm, which is firm and straining under my weight. “Yours are smaller.”
“Thanks for the newsflash.” His voice is dry, and he doesn’t sound very appreciative of my newsflash at all.
I give my legs a few lazy kicks as we walk. It feels good to be carried. To be taken care of. Even if the person doing the caring is Miles. “But it’s funny, though. ‘Cuz you’re just as strong.” I press my nose into his neck and inhale. “And you,” – I moan – “you smell different. Like orange peels and pine trees and mint leaves.”
Miles stops, puts me down. “Think you can walk now?” His voice is hoarse. “We’re almost there.”
I take a tentative step forward, testing the ground. Seems the earthquake has stopped. Miles carried me through it. “Where’s there?” I glance around and see a familiar looking building across the street and point. “I work there.”
“And tonight, you’re going to sleep there.” Miles pulls me along, wrapping his arm up in mine in case the earthquake hits again. I can tell he’s worried about it, too. He’s hurrying us along, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Who woulda thought, huh?” I say, slightly out of breath because we’re walking so fast. “An earthquake in Iowa?”
He looks at me funny. “What are you talking about?”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Earth –” He sighs, reaching his free hand into his pocket for his keys. “You know what? Never mind.” Instead of going in the front way, we round the building and head for a door in the back. Miles releases my arm, plunges the key into the lock, and steps inside.
I follow him, squishing up against his side as I step onto the small landing. The only light is coming from a window at the top of the staircase, giving the narrow space a faintly luminescent, underwater feel.
“Okay, so this might be difficult for you.” Miles turns to face me, and we’re so close that if I rose on my tiptoes I could lick the strong line of his jaw. I consider it for a second, then spend another second wondering why I’m considering it. I’m reconsidering it all over again when Miles takes my hands. They feel fleshy and rubbery against his palms.
“The light switch is broken in here, so there’s no light. Think you can make it up the stairs without falling and breaking your neck?”
I stand up straight. What does he think I am? Drunk?
“Of course I can.” I brush past, tripping on the first step. “Can you turn the light on?”
Miles groans and sidles up behind me, placing his hands on my hips. I can feel their heat through my jeans, and the sensation gives me the chills. It’s certainly not helping me walk though, because I’m suddenly numb to everywhere but that spot.
I giggle as we fumble our way up, because my insides feel lighter than air. Of course, this ethereal buoyancy can’t be explained solely by the moon’s filtered glow through the smudged window. But before I can fully question the source of my levity, Miles wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off my feet. The old boards creak heavily with our shared weight as he takes the last few steps.
When he sets me down, I pat his chest. “See? Strong.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just leads me in, shuts the door, and kicks off his shoes onto a mat that says Beware of the Cat. I follow suit, kicking off my own sneakers and trailing him across the room to a door. He opens it, turns the light on, and shuts it halfway. “The bathroom, if you need it.” I don’t, so I just nod and twist around, studying the room. When I see the bed – still rumpled and unmade from this morning – it calls to me. Soft. It’s soft, and I want to be in that softness. Wrapped up in it, cushioned and snug. But the muscles in my legs aren’t working right, and I can’t seem to get them to move.
Miles is suddenly next to me with a glass of water. “Drink this.”
I do, but only because I’m thirsty and not because he told me to. I down the entire thing, hand him the glass, and take a deep breath as the cold water works its way through my system. While he’s busy at the kitchen sink, I push my legs toward the bed, each step a success.
“So, the couch pulls out into a bed. Just let me throw some sheets on it and then you –”
Oh, my god. This bed is the most comfortable bed in the whole wide world.
“Yeah, my bed is pretty comfortable.” I look up from the bed to see Miles looking down at me, his shadow hovering like sentry. It reminds me of the moai statues on Easter Island – something I learned about back in college and haven’t thought of since. Miles is like a moai.
“I’m like a what?”
There I go again, speaking out loud. Okay, so nothing stays in my head anymore. I stretch out against the sheets – which, yum, smell like Miles – and get to work on my nightl
y routine. Pulling the pillows close, I tuck one under my leg, prop one against my back, and sling my arm around another, squeezing it to my chest.
“Let me guess,” Miles says, arms crossed and a smirk on his face, “you were one of those little girls who couldn’t go to sleep unless she had every single doll and stuffed animal in bed with her.”
The rug muffles the creak of the floor as he turns and makes his way over to the couch. Feeling his absence, I lift my head slightly and watch as he tosses the cushions aside and reaches in for the pull-out bed. The metal frame squeaks in protest as he unfolds it, dropping the legs to the floor with a dull thump. He doesn’t even bother with sheets before he plops down and sprawls out on his back, bare feet dangling off the edge.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Huh? You weren’t what?” His voice sounds drowsy, like he was just drifting off to sleep.
“I didn’t have to sleep with all of my dolls and stuffed, um…. Stuffed stuff.” Not all of them, anyway.
Miles chuckles. “I asked you that question, like, ten minutes ago.”
“Oh.” Then I notice all the lights are off, aside from the sliver of white bleeding out from the half-open bathroom door and stretching across the concrete floor like a blade. “Miles?”
A frustrated sigh. “Yeah, Jenny?”
I tuck the back of my hand under my cheek and close my eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Miles answers immediately. “The odds of being killed by falling space debris is one in five billion.”
“Smart ass.” My words are slurry. But I’m pretty much past caring at this point.
He laughs. “You asked.”
All I can see of him are his legs and feet, crossed at the ankles. He took his sweats off at some point, and seeing his bare calves in this setting is strangely intimate. The window air conditioning is going strong but, despite the chill, he hasn’t covered up. “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I emphasize.
“Nice try, Princess. I already went. It’s your turn.”
His voice is disembodied, and the fact that I can’t see his expression makes me brave.
