Rebel North

by JB Salsbury

  That’s probably a good idea. If he doesn’t put on a shirt and I don’t calm down, I’m liable to ask if I can touch his belly button or take a nap on his nipple. I take the glass and greedily suck down two big gulps.

  He flashes a satisfied, almost smug, smile and motions to his couch. “Sit. You have some time yet.”

  I kick off my sandals and pull my legs up on the couch. He asks me about Evan, how I know him, for how long, and what he’s like. He listens without much response, except for the random jump of his cheeks and flex of his muscles. Or maybe I’m staring too hard at his muscles.

  “You mentioned you haven’t been on a date in a while.” He doesn’t word it like a question, but I answer anyway.

  I tell him about the last two dates I went on, and he shakes his head and mutters curse words.

  “What about you?” I ask as he fills my champagne glass for a second time. “Any notable dates recently?”

  “Recently? No. But there was someone,” he says and reclaims his seat a few cushions down the couch from me. “It was a long time ago.”

  “In France?”

  “No.” His grin is sheepish and shows all his white teeth. “Here in New York.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  His expression falls, and he clears his throat. “She, actually. We met through some mutual friends. She wanted nothing to do with me.”

  What an idiot. I sip my champagne. “Her loss.”

  He looks off into the distance at nothing. “No, she was smart. So fucking smart. I was such a dick back then.”

  “So what happened?”

  His hazel eyes turn dark, haunted. “It didn’t work out.”

  He doesn’t expand, and getting the sense that he’s not comfortable sharing more, I don’t ask. I assume he realized he was gay and couldn’t lead her on. Or maybe she let him go so that he could be happy?

  “Is there anyone you’re interested in now?”

  “Not really,” he says and doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “No one I can pursue.”

  “Because he’s not gay?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  I reach over and rub his thigh, pretending the firm muscle under the soft fabric doesn’t make my heart kick up a little. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  He watches my hand make a pass up and down, up and back again. “Me too.”

  “There’s still hope.” I squeeze his thigh. “We should go to one of those gay clubs.”

  He frowns, shakes his head, and stands. “Enough about me. Let’s plan your night.”

  I slug back half a glass of champagne because it really is helping with my nerves. “I’m excited.” I take another sip. “I haven’t had sex in years—”

  Glass shatters behind me, and I turn around to see Kingston staring down at a broken champagne glass.

  “Let me help you.” I scurry to him.

  “Don’t. There’s glass—”

  “Ow!” I grip the island and pick up my foot. A shard of glass sticks out from a bloody gash just below my big toe.

  He comes around, grips my biceps, and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. He sits me on the island and drops to a squat at my feet. His long, elegant fingers are gentle as he inspects my wound and—

  “Ouch! Fuck!”

  “Sorry.” He tosses the bloodied glass on the floor with the rest, then snags a dishtowel off the counter.

  I pull up my leg. “Don’t. I don’t want to ruin your dishtowel.”

  He shakes his head, snags my foot back, and wraps it in the warm cotton. “Like I give a shit about a towel.”

  He grabs my champagne glass, tops it off, hands it to me, and tells me to stay put while he sweeps up the mess. Once the floor is safe again, I move to slide off the island, only to have him scoop me up into his arms. His bare chest is hard and has the most perfect sprinkling of pale brown hair. He’s warm, he smells amazing, and when he carries me down a hallway, I allow my mind to pretend he’s taking me to bed as a lover.

  He carries me past a mirror, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection and the pale silver scar that runs the length of my face. I’m reminded that in my dream world where Kingston likes women, he’d never pick a woman who looks like me. He has his pick of supermodels or a Hollywood actress with a Harvard education. From Olympic athletes to the most desirable socialites in the world. A woman like me would never stand a chance.

  All I’ll ever have is his friendship. His attention. Not attraction. Best for me to remember that.

  He lays me down on his bed and heads to his bathroom. I scoot back to sit against the leather upholstered backboard that’s the size of his double front doors. His bedroom is dark compared to the rest of his condo—coal-colored walls, faded leather couch and chair, and a bed that I’d swear is bigger than a standard king. The floor is dark wood herringbone, and although there are floor-to-ceiling windows, they’re covered in luxurious curtains that block out the light. I’m not surprised to see that his closet looks like a second bedroom filled with clothes and shoes, and it even has its own island.

  “Let me see your foot again.” He saunters to the bed, and I stare at those muscles that disappear into the front of his sweatpants as they flex with every step. He sits at my feet.

  “I don’t want to bleed on your bed.”

  His gaze slips up my legs. “I don’t mind a little blood on my bed, Gabriella.” His voice is low and vibrates through the air between us.

  I bite my lip as all my insides clench. He seems to notice as a soft chuckle rumbles from his chest. Dammit to hell, I must really need to have sex.

  But with Evan?

  Talk about complicating my work situation.

  What if we have sex and it’s awful? What if we have sex and it’s great? Either way, how will I face him at work again after he’s seen me naked? Slow down, no one is having sex tonight. But I’m sure he’ll try and kiss me. What if he kisses me?

  I’ll just tell him I don’t kiss on the first date.

  But I want to kiss him. Not him so much as anyone. I haven’t been lost in a good kiss in, well, have I ever? Do I even remember how?

  Kingston puts some ointment on my foot, then adds two thick Band-Aids. When he’s finished, he gives my ankle a gentle squeeze. “How does it feel?”

  “Pretty good, thanks to this.” I hold up my champagne.

  He stands to his full height, and those hazel eyes slide from my feet to my face. “You’re wearing heels tonight?”

  I nod.

  “Hm. Will your foot bother you?

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You could always cancel. Reschedule for when your foot feels better.”

  “No, I want to go.” The way Kingston makes me feel, I must put the fire out quickly. If that’s with Evan, so be it.

  Kingston

  Gabriella’s been in my bathroom for an hour, putting the finishing touches on her look. During that time, I slammed back several fingers of scotch in hopes of numbing the possessive ache that flares up when she’s around. I’m restless to bust the door down and tie her to my bed. To keep her from going out with Evan. A douchebag who doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t appreciate her.

  Not like I do.

  But Gabriella is way too good for me. I’m more suited for the kind of woman who doesn’t dig too deep and is content with a lavish lifestyle over any real, meaningful connection.

  Connection? Jesus, Gabriella seems to rip into my soul every time she looks into my eyes. As if she really sees me. Can she see the shame? The secrets? All the goddamn regret?

  I jump up to pour myself another drink just as the lock on my bathroom door clicks. The soles of my Gucci slippers become one with the floor as she steps into the bedroom.

  I’ve seen her in the dress before, and I imagined what she would look like when she’s all put together, but even my most vivid imaginings didn’t prepare me for the stunning woman who stands before me. Smokey eyes, full red lips, a short skirt, and tall heels that make those legs look a mile long
.

  “Is it bad?” She balls her hands together at her midsection and shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

  “No—” I croak and cough to clear my throat. Swallow and try again. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” She looks… “Good.” What? No, not good. “I mean…” Another dry swallow. “Really good.”

  I am literally at a loss for words. And I’m never at a loss for words, especially around women. Gabriella is flipping the script and changing all my games. I can’t even think straight.

  She dips her chin and looks down her body. All that auburn hair falls forward, making it hard to see her face. “Are you sure?”

  “There is one thing.” I cross to her and stop just shy of being in her space. “May I?” I ask for permission to touch her.

  She nods her consent.

  I turn her around so she’s facing the full-length mirror.

  Even with her in heels, I’m nearly a foot taller than her, and the reflection of me standing behind her, shirtless and a little flushed, conjures up fantasies that are not doing my whole homosexual charade any favors.

  She meets my eyes in the mirror. “What?”

  I blink because where the fuck was I? Oh, right… “I’m thinking, because of the high neckline…” I step so close to her that her ass brushes my thighs. I bite back a groan and angle my lower half to keep her from feeling the sudden stiffness behind my sweatpants. I fork my fingers and put both hands into her long, silky hair while I tell myself not to fist it, wrench her head back, and bury my tongue in her mouth.

  Focus, dammit!

  I pull the strands back, up, twist, and hold. When I look in the mirror to see my work, I find my lips parted and my eyelids low. I shake off my sex face and hope like hell she didn’t notice.

  “I think you should wear your hair up,” I croak, my voice shredded.

  Her beautiful face pales. Her lips turn downward, and she ducks and steps away from the mirror.

  I force myself to stay in one place and not chase after her just to get my hands back on her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head and busies herself by packing up the things she brought over. “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Her hands freeze midway into shoving a pair of shoes into her bag. “So are you.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about—”

  She whirls around. “You act like you don’t even see them!”

  I don’t have to ask for clarification. I know she’s talking about her scars and playing dumb would be cruel. “I see them.”

  “Then you know why I can’t just wear my hair up. Especially on a date.” She huffs out a defeated sigh, then goes back to shoving her things into her bag. “People stare at them like they forget there’s a whole human being attached to them who has feelings and a beating heart.”

  I risk getting closer and sit on the edge of the bed next to her bag.

  She turns her face away just enough to hide her scarred side, and I wonder if it’s intentional or a force of habit.

  “You don’t have to hide. The scars are part of you, and anyone who wants to know you should see them.”

  She makes a sound that’s half laughter, half tears.

  “Gabriella.” I say her name to get her attention, and she looks at me with emotion filling her eyes. “I’m serious. There’s nothing wrong with your face.”

  Her sadness morphs into a brutal chill. “Says the guy with the perfect face.”

  “Gab—”

  “Don’t.” She puts her face so close to mine I can feel the heat of her breath and smell her minty toothpaste. “You have no idea what it’s like to look like this.”

  I slam my teeth together and nod.

  She’s right. My deficiencies aren’t seen by the naked eye, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to have parts of me I hide away. Parts of me that I can’t fathom exposing to the light of day. In that sense, I’m a total fucking hypocrite.

  “Thanks for everything.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “I better go.” With that, she walks out and slams the door behind her.

  Ten

  Gabriella

  “I’m sorry. I feel like a dick,” Evan says again from across the dinner table. “I didn’t think you’d want to get so dressed up.” He eyes my chest, then quickly darts his gaze away.

  “Stop apologizing. You only see me in scrubs. For all you know, I don’t even own a dress.” I push around the potato skin on my plate, picking at it with my fork.

  The bar full of sports fans erupts in cheers as some team scores on one of the thirty flatscreens hanging above our heads.

  Evan’s attention is on the screen just over my head, and he shouts his excitement around a cheek full of fried mozzarella.

  “I should’ve asked where we’d be going,” I say and glare at a table of men who haven’t been able to stop staring at me since they got here. At first, they were staring at my legs and grinning. But after they got a better look, they’ve been fixated on my face. I pull my hair over my shoulder and do my best to hide my scars from their view. “I don’t get opportunities to dress up much anymore, so I like to take advantage.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says absently, his attention fully on the game.

  “I don’t usually wear skirts because….”

  “Yeah…” He drinks his beer, still looking just over my head.

  “…it’s much harder to hide my dick.”

  “Totally,” he says.

  I sigh long and hard and sip the cheap wine Evan ordered for me off the happy hour menu.

  This date has been a disaster. I had more fun stepping on glass with Kingston. While Evan has been preoccupied with the game, I’ve been going over the way I left things with Kingston. I may have been too hard on him for suggesting I expose my scar rather than hide it. If only he were here, he could see firsthand the gawking stares, unguarded sneers, and visible bristling. He’d understand if he could see the way other people look at me. Not everyone can ignore it like he does.

  When Kingston looks at me, I forget about my scar. It’s as if he doesn’t even see it. He doesn’t avoid looking at me or my face, but he never fixates. Not once.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Evan says and slides out of the booth.

  “Must be halftime,” I mutter to myself when I see the mass departure of bar patrons to the restrooms and the uptick in conversation.

  I check the time, surprised to see we’ve only been here for forty-five minutes. What’s the expected length of time a date should last? An hour? Can I excuse myself, say I’m tired, and leave now—

  “Hey there.”

  I look up from my phone to see one of the men from the table that’s been staring, standing near Evan’s empty seat. “You lost?”

  He chuckles and motions with a half-empty pint of warm beer to his table, where his four friends all have their stools turned to face us. “My friends and I have a question.”

  “Small penis size.”

  “What?” His teasing smile falls a little.

  “Oh, is the question not why you’re single?”

  “Funny.” His glazed-over eyes flash with an evil glint. “Actually, we were wondering what happened to your face.”

  The four men at his table all laugh, amazed that their little messenger here actually had the balls to ask.

  “What happened to yours?”

  “No, seriously,” he says with a slight slur. “We’re thinking it’s either a car accident, you walked through a glass window, or plastic surgery gone wrong.”

  “I’m a little disappointed by your creativity, boys.” I sip my wine and force the vinegar-tasting sludge down my throat.

  “Come on, we got money riding on it.”

  “Who wins if you’re all wrong?”

  “No one.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but these scars aren’t from any of those things.”

  “No? So what happened?” He leans in a little, clearly interested.

&n
bsp; “I was attacked.”

  His expression falls, and I sense that a spear of regret has penetrated the drunken fog.

  “My boyfriend here?” I motion to Evan’s empty seat. “Real possessive type.” I lean in and whisper. “He stabbed a man for asking me for directions. I tried to break it up, and I took a knife to the face.”

  He swallows hard. “No shit?”

  Evan is over six feet tall, and in street clothes, he looks like a tough dude. Nothing like the big ole teddy bear he resembles in his pale blue scrubs.

  I turn around, look in both directions, and act paranoid. “Look, if I were you, I’d—oh! The bathrooms are over there.” I shove a finger in the direction of the restrooms right as Evan gets back to the table.

  “Hey,” Evan says.

  The man jumps.

  “What’s going on here?” Evan faces the guy.

  He shrinks back on himself and takes a step back.

  I lean around Evan’s body and mouth run.

  “I was just leaving.” He scurries back to his table.

  “Bye! It was nice chatting with you!” I give him and his friends a little finger wave.

  Evan eyes the guy until he’s back in his seat with his buddies and then slips into the booth. “He bothering you?”

  “Nope. He just wanted to ask about the appetizer platter. Guess he has irritable bowel syndrome and wanted to see how much gluten was involved.”

  His eyes are back on the television, and rather than sit here and talk to his chin, I get on my phone and order an Uber.

  Thirty minutes away.

  Great.

  That’s how long it will take me to force down the rest of my wine.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” Evan pleads with me from the open door of the Uber that’s parked outside his apartment complex. “We could watch a movie. Or just talk.”

  The guy had an hour and a half sitting across from me at dinner, and now he wants to talk?

  Men are so transparent.

  Once I announced that I was ready to go home, we split the bill, and he tried to hold my hand on the walk out to the street. He put his arm around me in the backseat of the car and even pressed his lips to the side of my head. Now that we’re here dropping him off, he seems surprised that I’m not ready to fall on my back with my legs open.