by Lola StVil
I want her to talk to me. I want to hear her thoughts. What are her dreams? What does she do for a living? Is it her passion or something to pay the bills? What does her laugh sound like?
What does she like to do when she’s not leaping into dumpsters? What do her lips taste like?
It’s a half hour later when we enter her apartment. It isn’t lavish but it’s thoughtfully decorated. The glass coffee table has a large photography book on various colorful birds. She’s decorated with warm yet bright colors that make it easy to feel cozy and at home. There’s a sketch of a large bird in flight in a dark frame that takes up a large part of her wall. I don’t know anything about birds or drawings, but even I have to admit it’s impressive.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks,” she says.
I turn my attention to the doorway and study the locks on her door. Not good. I look over at the locks on her windows and they suck even more. “Your security is a joke. You need to fix it,” I inform her.
“Why? Do you think this Donavan guy is coming after me?” she says on high alert.
“No, his number one priority right now is getting as far from the city as he can.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, relieved.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—”
“I am not scared,” she says, insulted.
“Okay, fine. You’re a rock. Alright?”
“What is your problem?” she demands.
“Me? I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
“By telling me my security is bad?”
“It is! Your locks are equivalent to sticking gum on the door. The locks on your window frames would cave in with the slightest push.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It will, after you get it fixed.”
“Argh, you are so damn…”
“What? I’m so what?”
“A jerk. You’re kind of a jerk.”
“You women kill me. You don’t want the truth no matter how much you say you do.”
“Oh, so that’s who you are? Mr. Truthful? Great. Then tell me the truth, how close did I come to dying tonight?”
“Fine, if I had gotten out of the car a millisecond later than I did, chunks of your brains would be splattered all over the alley for the rats to feast on!” The minute the words leave my mouth, I know I fucked up—badly. She bursts into tears.
Great job, asshole! I scold myself as I run over to her and hold her. She sobs into my chest and I swear this is the worst I’ve ever felt. I didn’t mean to say what I said or at least not the way it came out. Christ, what the fuck was I thinking?
I take her over to the sofa and have her sit down. I enter her bathroom and turn on the shower, hoping a nice hot shower will make her feel better. While the water runs, I go into the kitchen. I turn on her stove, fill her kettle with water, and place it on the burner. She has like twelve hundred boxes of tea, so I’m thinking that’s her thing. So, maybe it will relax her. I go back to the sofa, where she’s shaking and looking off in the distance.
“I’m sorry if I scare—made you feel unsettled. It was a fucked-up way to—look, your locks suck. I’m not gonna lie to you about that. But we’ll get them fixed. I know a great locksmith, he’ll come first thing in the morning. But for now, you don’t have to worry about the door or the windows. You don’t need them to protect you. You have me.” She looks into my eyes. I ache to touch her but I don’t dare try. I would be crossing a line neither of us is ready to cross.
“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” I tell her as I help her stand up. She looks at me with worry and surprise.
“Relax, I didn’t mean I would join you,” I assure her. She smiles a little. It floods my chest with warmth. Shit. What is happening right now?
She enters the bathroom; I close the door behind her. On my way to the kitchen, I spot her bedroom; the door is slightly ajar. Her pink satin robe is slung over the edge of the bed. I picture myself sliding the silky fabric off her shoulders and exposing her bare breasts. I picture myself suckling on the tips until they’re so hard, she cries out ecstasy.
But now is not the time, so I pull her bedroom door closed and make my way to the kettle. I pick a tea flavor, Earl Grey. It’s the one she is almost out of, so I’m guessing she drinks it more often than the others. I pour the tea into her large red mug that says “Central Perk” and add a splash of the whiskey I found in one of the cabinets.
While I’m making the tea, I’m trying like hell not to think about her in the shower. I try to push away the image of drops of water traveling down the base of her neck and onto the slope of her breasts. I try with everything that’s in me not to think about those same drops of water dripping down the peaks of her pointed nipples and down her stomach. I can see them dissolving into the space between her thighs. I want to burst through that damn door, pin her against the wet shower wall, and have her a hundred different ways, until we damn near die from exhaustion. The only thing stronger than the desire to have her is the need ensure she’s really, truly okay.
“Thanks for staying,” she says as she emerges from the shower a while later. Her hair is freshly towel dried, and she’s wearing a large tee shirt that says “NYC public library.” It’s grey and hangs just above her knees. She’s barely showing any skin but she might as well be naked. It is having the same effect on my cock. This is ridiculous. I need to make sure she’s okay and then get the hell out of here before I lose it.
“And thank you for saving my life,” she says softly.
“Well, there was another woman a block away that needed my help, but your ass is much nicer,” I tease as I hand her the cup of tea.
“So you only rescue good-looking women?” she says as she starts to blow on the surface of the tea.
“NYPD policy. Hot women first,” I reply, clearly teasing. She smiles but it quickly fades. She’s thinking again. Not good.
“You have to stop that,” I reply as I take her over to the sofa.
“Stop what?”
“Overthinking. You had a bad night. It’s over,” I assure her.
“I’m over the initial shock, it’s just…if this were it, if it was really the end, what would that look like for me? My life is…my last act on Earth would be running from my ex and into a dumpster. Not actually a hero’s story,” she says.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call anyone for you?” I ask. I brought up contacting family hours earlier, but she didn’t want her sister to worry. And she knew her parents would come and make a big deal out of everything. She didn’t want that.
“No, Bree is a worrier, and I don’t want to give her a reason to lose her mind.”
“Okay, I get that. Come here,” I reply. I’m not sure how she’ll react but I take a chance and put my arms around her shoulders. She leans into me and places her head on my chest. It feels way better than it should. I look down at her; she’s studying the poster of the bird in flight on the wall across from us.
“You have a thing for birds—is that part of your day job? You study birds?”
“No. I run an outreach program for foster kids. It’s based in a community center not far from here,” she says, and she goes on to tell me about her program and how being a foster kid until the age of ten affected her. She stops in the middle of her story.
“Go on. What happened after the Bennetts took you in? Were they good to you? Was it easy to fit in? Did you make friends quickly or was it hard?” I ask. She looks up at me, shocked that I have follow-up questions. She continues her story. When she’s done, I look over at the drawing of the bird in flight.
“You grew up in foster care. The love of birds makes sense,” I conclude.
“What do you mean? I like birds because they are colorful, amazing flyers, and fun to watch.”
“Um…okay.”
“You think there’s another reason?”
“I do.”
“I’m listening,” she says.
“Birds have internal navigation. No matter where they are, they can find their way back home. If I were a foster kid, I’d spend my life trying to find home too.”
“Are you trying to say that I’m some lost damaged chick?” she says, sitting up, suddenly hostile.
“No, Winter, I’m not. I’m saying, no matter how far or how fast a bird can fly, sooner or later, it has to find a place to land...”
I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes, the sun is beaming through the window and Wyatt is gone. He leaves a note on the coffee table: “Work calls. Get some rest, beautiful.” I feel a sharp pang of disappointment when I realize I won’t see his face. Hey, maybe it’s just hunger pains. I am ravenous in the morning. Yeah, maybe that’s it.
Wyatt is true to his word. First thing in the morning, a man comes to install new locks on the doors and the windows. Not long after, I place a call to my sister. After I update her, she tries really hard to contain herself and not come through the phone and strangle me for not calling her last night.
She scolds me like I’m a child who has broken curfew and needs to be punished. I love her to death and I know it comes from a good place, but she really needs to back off. I debated not telling her, but if something like that happened to her, I’d want to know. When I finally convince her that I’m okay, she asks about Danny. She says I was right to freak out and she hates that Danny is now on my mind.
But Danny isn’t the one on my mind. The guy I can’t stop thinking about is Wyatt. I’m only half listening to my sister because I’m too busy looking over at the sofa where we sat. He held me all night. His hold was firm but tender. I laid my head on his rock-solid chest and felt safe. And when his powerful hand gently stroked my arm, it caused a tingle down my spine unlike anything I ever felt before. When I replay that moment, a fleet of butterflies takes flight in the pit of my belly.
“Bree, I gotta go, or I’ll be late for work. You tell Lily I love her.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I can’t believe the dumpster part.”
“So you can process the gunshots but not the trash?”
“You live in New York City. That’s why for years I’ve told you, you need to move—”
“Yeah, I know. I know. But can we argue about my life choices later?”
She reluctantly agrees and lets me off the hook. I hop in the shower and wait for it to get nice and hot. I stand under the downpour and try wash away all the drama of the past twenty-four hours. But no matter how long I stay in the shower, I can’t seem to get Wyatt out of my head. It’s not just being held by him that has me acting so nuts, it’s something else—he listened. We sat on the sofa and he listened to me. All the guys I’ve been with before only pretended to listen so they could get back to the part where they talked. But Wyatt was different…
I get out of the shower and remind myself that chances are, Wyatt was just doing his job. I was a hysterical woman that he had no choice but to look after. There was no “spark” like I thought when our eyes met in the alley. It was all in my head. In reality, he’s got several women or one amazing woman at home. She’s one of those women who looks good in everything and doesn’t own any fat pants. Why would she? She never gains any weight. She wears white and never spills anything on it. She buys her lingerie at high-end places like La Perla. And even if by some miracle he was single, I’m not looking for a relationship. After what happened with Danny, I was a fool to even try dating.
“Guys don’t know how to love back. I fell for their act once; I won’t do it again. I can’t,” I tell myself as I look in the mirror. It helps. It has renewed my resolve. I don’t need a man. I have the kids at the center. I have my friends and family. I need my trusty vibrator and, yes, my Netflix. I take in a deep breath and vow never to think about “Mr. Hot and Sexy” ever again.
I open my closet and decide on a chocolate brown pencil skirt, paired with a fitted ivory silk blouse I got on sale at Macy’s. I dab a little perfume on my wrist and put on my heels, a hint of lip gloss, and a little mascara. That’s it. I’m ready to go back to normal. No bullets. No drama. And no dating.
***
I pull into the parking lot and grab the box of supplies from the back of my trunk. The city gives our program a yearly stipend, but it’s rarely enough for the things we need to do. So I often add my money and get us additional supplies. I usually have a box or two of supplies, but this time I have five boxes thanks to the mega sale at Office Depot.
“Hi, Ms. Bennett! Do you need help?” a little boy says with a thick Spanish accent. His name is Luis Pena. He’s nine years old and has ink black hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile that makes it hard to say no whenever he asks for something.
“Yes, thank you, Luis.” He takes one of the boxes, and together we head for my office. The hallway is filled with artwork from our kids and trophies from various competitions they have entered. The family across the street adopted Luis over a year ago. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. His older brother, Carlos, is sixteen and has yet to find a family. The two of them are so close, it hurt to watch them be separated. Luis’s new family couldn’t afford to take both boys, but thankfully, after school, Luis takes classes here and he meets up with Carlos.
“Hey, where’s your bother? I haven’t seen him in class. I don’t like him missing college prep.”
“He’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Um…stuff,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
“Hey, Luis, come here.” He comes closer to me.
“Is everything okay with Carlos? Is he having any issues with his new group home?” I ask.
“He has friends. New friends. And they hang out a lot.”
“What kind of friends?”
Luis shrugs his shoulders. This neighborhood has its fair share of gangs but Carlos is a good kid and he won’t get into anything like that.
“Tell me about his new friends,” I push.
“They just hang out on the corner and stuff. He said they were cool. I don’t like them much. I think they with this new crew, the Street Kings.”
“Carlos knows better than that, right?”
“He said it’s not a gang, it’s like a club or something.”
I try to hide my worry and sound upbeat. I tell Luis to have Carlos come and see me when he comes after school. I thank Luis for his help and I remind him of the time. “School starts in twenty minutes. You better get going,” I suggest.
“Ms. Bennett, my school is only two blocks away and my skateboard skills are sick. I’ll get there early,” he gushes.
“I heard that you’re getting pretty good at that thing.” I smile.
“Good? No, I’m the best.”
“Well I’m glad to hear it. Now, what about Math class? How did the test go last week?”
“Math doesn’t get me. See, Ms. Bennett, I’m a complicated man,” he says in earnest. I suppress a smile.
“Math doesn’t need to ‘get you,’ you need to get it. And you can. You just need to spend as much time on it as you do on that thing,” I reply, pointing to his skateboard.
“I won’t need it. I’m gonna be the most richest and most famous skater that ever lived. I won’t need math at all.”
“Okay, you are now the richest skateboarder on the planet. You get lots of endorsement deals, commercials, and everything.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Here’s the thing, Luis: Math will help you with that. Because with all the money you will be making, you need to keep track. Now, you can hire someone to look after your money, but who’s gonna look after that guy?”
“Oh,” he says as he takes in what I said.
“You can do anything in life, anything you want. I know that about you. But what do I always tell you, Luis?”
“If I am willing to work for it, there’s nothing I can’t have,” he says with a big sigh.
“That’s righ
t. If you want to be good at math, go be good at it. That means not skipping our after-school tutoring session with Mrs. Paul.”
“You know about that?” he says, shocked.
“Yeah, I do. So after school your butt better be here with your homework out, ready to work.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be here. Don’t worry I’ll get really good at the math stuff so we can hold on to all our money when we get married.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I see that for us.”
“You want to be my husband?”
“Yeah, but I need time, you know, to see other girls,” he says as he runs out of the room and hops on his board. I laugh out loud and shake my head. He’s one of my favorites kids.
“Hey, be careful, Luis!” I hear my best friend, Jana, calling out in the hallway. I open the door and hug her. Jana Miller is a walking heart. She has curly dark hair, a curvy figure, and great cheekbones. She loves clubs, short skirts, and flirting. She was away on vacation until this morning, so I didn’t even think to call her about last night.
“How was Jamaica?” I ask.
“Yummy!” she says with a mischievous grin. She tells me about her many conquests on the small island. She’s always complaining that she needs to lose weight, but she never has trouble getting guys. She’s charming, sweet, and cares very much about the center.
“I don’t think mangos are supposed to be used like that,” I reply as we share a laugh. She nears the end of her third tale of island scandal by saying she can’t wait to go back and that I should come with her next time.
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough adventure in the past few hours. I need peace and quiet.”
“What’s going on?”
I tell her about yesterday as we unpack the supplies. Unlike my sister, Jana is not a drama queen. She could see that all in all I was okay. However, she can also spot when I am holding something back. She can sniff it out of me like a police dog.
