It was raining the day my mom left, and cold, just like it is now. I was nine years old and even to this day I can remember, with aching clarity, how the drops stung my face when I went running after my mom down the driveway, begging for her to stay. Behind me, back in the house, my father was destroying everything he could get his hands on. I remember the way my throat burned from screaming out in desperation that I would be perfect, be the best daughter, but the shiny blue Mustang just kept on going, my mom’s head fixed resolutely straight ahead. That’s when I’d learned that words didn’t matter. They never mattered. When the car disappeared from view I was standing at the end of the driveway, sobbing. I’d never been so terrified in my life—not even when I made the deal with Shayne…until now.
It’s all I can do to collapse gently, the wet pavement hard and unforgiving against my knees, the rain a cold, cruel blanket around my shoulders. I fall forward and clutch the metal base of the pay phone, clinging to it as though it’s a life preserver. My body heaves and shakes as giant sobs begin to roll through me, feeling like I’m out in the middle of that dark ocean with the storm tossing me all around.
Through the despair, I hear a voice. A small voice—my voice—inside my head, trying to get through to me, trying to tell me everything will be okay. But there’s a stronger voice shouting that it won’t. That things will never be okay. My cries drown them both out. I’m too tired to argue with myself. Too tired to do anything but sit there and fall apart. And so I let myself drift, my body numb from the rain and the cold, my mind too far gone to do much of anything. I’ve been here before—that day all those years ago, when I was a crumpled heap of a child on a wet gravel driveway, wondering how I’d ever get through life.
Somewhere in the distance, I become vaguely aware of the purr of an engine, of a door being opened, of crinkling paper above me. I hear whispered cursing, then a moment later, strong arms slide under my body, lifting me. My head falls against wet fabric while I tremble uncontrollably. It isn’t until I’m being carefully placed onto a warm leather seat that I slowly start to come back around. A belt encases me with a click, then something dark and warm is being placed over my legs—a tuxedo jacket.
He’s next to me now, back in the driver’s seat. Around me, heat seeps into the air and a finger gently pushes wet hair away from my face.
“How can I help?” a deep voice asks. Only this time it isn’t angry, it’s tender.
I shake my head, trying to catch my breath. When I speak, my voice is choked, the words disjointed. “You—you can’t. Not unless you’re a mechanic and can fi—fix my car, which isn’t mine, but m—my neighbors. I—I have to be home tomorrow morning, early. If I’m not—” I bury my head down, the words too painful to get out.
“It’s taken care of.”
I look over at him as the car starts moving. “Wh—what do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
We’re on the freeway again, headed south. I have questions, but don’t have the strength to ask them. A few minutes later, he’s pulling in front of a two-story building with some cars parked out front. Above the garage door is a large sign that says Burt’s Shop in big block letters, with ‘If you need to ask how much, then find someone else to fix it,’ written underneath.
He parks the car, letting it idle, and opens his hand. “Keys.”
I blink, then reach into my purse and place them in his palm. Without a word, he gets out of the car, climbs the steps on the side, to a landing on the second level, and knocks on a door. I can’t see who answers, but I can see him talking and handing over my keys. Then he’s walking down the steps and back to the car, and I can’t help but notice how the rain is making his white dress shirt stick to his skin, revealing hints of rolling, hard muscle. Something shifts between my legs. A sort of warming, tingly sensation that creeps throughout my body until my heart beats a little faster.
When he settles back into the car, my breath shortens.
“Alright,” he says. “Car’s going to be picked up. He’ll fix it and have it back to my house before morning.”
I stare at him. “I—I can’t pay for…”.
“On the house.” He cocks his head, eyeing me with an odd mix of arrogance and something like concern. “Anything else?”
I don’t know what to say. Then my stomach rumbles, loudly.
“Hungry, eh? Well, I can fix that too.”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
He sighs and looks down. “I should’ve made sure you were okay. I shouldn’t have left you.”
“But—your plans tonight. I thought…”
“I hate those things anyway.”
He reaches up, undoes his bowtie, letting it hang around his neck, then lets loose the top two buttons of his shirt. Then he puts the car in gear, and for the first time, offers a smile. It’s crooked, mischievous and downright stunning.
Seconds later we’re on the freeway again, headed south once more. He looks my way and his voice rumbles through the car. “You said you aren’t from around here, so figure I’ll take you to my house. You can take a warm shower and get into some dry clothes.” He shoots me a look. “That alright?”
I nod and turn to gaze out the window, feeling strange. I’m not used to people doing such nice things for me. The Hanley’s have been the only ones.
“So, what’s your name?” he asks.
“Ava.” I look to him.
“Gavin.”
Our eyes connect for a moment, and it seems like he’s waiting for something, then with a slightly puzzled look on his face he turns back to the road. He grows quiet, seemingly in his thoughts, but that’s alright. I’m not one for conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling into a long driveway at the top of a hill, the twinkling lights of Santa Barbara surrounding us below. Around a bend, a modern, split level house appears, that has me staring. It’s made of tinted glass with shiny metal and black wood, all put together at weird angles, and surrounded by pretty landscaping and outdoor lights that cast crazy sorts of shadows.
I’m still staring when a click sounds, and one of two large garage doors opens. Gavin pulls in slowly, the car rumbling low and beefy, next to three others that sit quietly. They’re all shiny and look expensive, especially the exotic one that sits low to the ground.
When he shuts the car off, I get out and stand. I’m so weak my body wobbles on the heels, but I manage to keep my balance. Off to the side, he opens a door and waits. I walk past him, avoiding his eyes, and hand him his tuxedo jacket as I step into a hallway. Now I’m staring again, only this time at copper walls and some sort of black flooring. It looks almost like concrete, but it’s shiny. And it’s all glowing from a soft light that drifts from somewhere above and below the walls. The effect is striking.
When I feel his presence behind me, I walk forward, my heels clicking loudly over the floor.
Gavin steps alongside and reaches out his hand. “Your jacket.”
I suddenly remember what I’m wearing underneath and shake my head.
He frowns. “Come on, hand it over. You’re soaked.”
I swallow and look down. Water runs off my coat and onto his polished floor. Slowly, I take it off. I avoid his eyes when I hand it over and wrap my arms around myself to cover up.
I look down, not sure what else to do, then notice drops are still hitting the floor. When I look up, Gavin’s just standing there, jacket in hand, staring at me.
His eyes are dark and moving over me, down the plunging neckline of my dress to my waist that’s cinched up tight, and on to my legs. My skin feels hot, like a fever is grabbing hold. I watch him blink, watch the color in his face deepen, then he closes his eyes and turns with a shake of his head.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
It isn’t until he’s hung my coat and is walking down the hallway that I realize I kind of liked his eyes on me.
I hurry to catch up and follow him through the house. There’s not much to it in terms of furniture, and what’s there, is clean and minimal. There’s not even so much as a picture frame, or a piece of art on the wall. But as we pass by a living room, with walls that meet at odd angles, then up a curving metal staircase that hangs from cables attached to the ceiling, I realize, the house is the art.
We go down another copper hallway when Gavin stops at a door. He opens it and switches on the light, revealing a room with dark silver walls and a large bed flanked by a couple metal nightstands, and a black writing desk along the opposite wall.
“Shower’s through there,” he motions with a point of his finger. “I’ll lay out some dry clothes for you on the bed.”
He leaves without a glance and disappears through double doors at the end of the hall that must lead to the master.
I turn back to the room and walk inside. My shoes come off first and the soft grey carpet feels like heaven under my feet. I slide my fingers across the smooth finish of the desk, and over the shiny charcoal bedspread.
Slowly, I make my way into the bathroom and freeze, staring at the reflection in the mirror. I know around me is striking black marble, and silvery stone, and a glass shower off to the side, but all I see is a girl with wet hair in a slutty dress, staring back at me through puffy blue eyes. I was right about the mascara.
I turn around and peek into the bedroom, and see he still hasn’t returned, so I shut the door and start the shower. My dress is soaked through and I have to peel it off like a second skin. When I step into the warm water, coming at me through three different shower heads, the numbness turns to a tingle and the cold begins to melt away. I close my eyes and can’t help but think of Gavin. The way he carried me like I weighed nothing. The way his deep voice rumbled in the car. The way the shirt stuck to him in the rain. I grab the soap and run my hands over my body, wishing they were his hands. I’ve never thought this way about a man before. Maybe because I’ve never met anyone like Gavin. I dip my head under the water, wondering if maybe things might turn out okay after all.
A little while later, I feel like myself again, my face clean and my hair hanging straight and dry around my shoulders, thanks to a hair dryer I found under the sink. I peek through the door, and see a grey Metallica t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants on the bed. The main door to the room is closed, so I walk out in my towel and when I reach the bed, I notice the pants look freshly cut at the bottom, to fit me. It’s a simple gesture, but somehow feels like so much more. I take the t-shirt and press it against my face. It’s soft and smells like fabric softener. I breathe in deep, trying to guess the scent. Fresh linen maybe.
After I’m dressed, I open the door and peer into the hallway. It’s quiet, until I hear some clanking from downstairs. I follow the noise, down the metal staircase, and past the living room, until I stop and turn back. I stand there, staring at a low, glass fireplace that extends the entire length of the wall. I know there’s a sleek grey sectional in front of it, and a coffee table made of shattered glass, and even a view beyond the wall of sliders, but all I can do is stare at the fire—the whole length of the wall. I’m still staring when another clank sounds from down the hall, reminding me of where I was headed.
I start walking again, and turn a corner to find myself in the kitchen. I stop when I see Gavin standing at the stove, barefoot, dressed in grey sweats that hang off his hips and a white t-shirt that hugs his frame. My eyes can’t help but linger on the way the fabric stretches across his chest.
He looks at me, his gaze lingering on my face, then he blinks a couple times and turns back to the stove. “Better,” he says. I guess it’s a compliment, but the sullen tone of his voice has me not so sure.
I move to the countertop and take a seat opposite on one of the stools, then glance around at the dark lacquer cabinets, the white granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances that look more suited to a restaurant than a private home. It’s all so luxurious. I knew people lived like this, but seeing it in person, being around it, feels intimidating.
My eyes move to Gavin again. His hair is freshly wet, as though he just showered too, but it’s starting to dry. And while his hair had looked almost black before, under the recessed lighting, I can see it’s really a dark brown with bits of amber and gold. I watch part of it fall across his forehead, but he swipes it back, and shoots me a glance. “Hope you like mac ‘n’ cheese, cause that’s what you’re getting.”
I nod, and notice the familiar Kraft box sitting on the counter, for which I’m grateful. It’s a favorite. Strange though, it seems out of place in this kitchen.
His eyes drift to me again while he stirs the pasta, and I look away, feeling awkward. Here I am, with a stranger for the most part, in a strange house, miles away from home. I hadn’t planned on this. Meeting someone in a nightclub and going to a hotel, or even the backseat of a car was all I had envisioned. Nothing so intimate. Nothing so personal.
“So,” he says, “you want to tell me where you were headed in that…dress?”
I shake my head, and look down at the counter.
“Were you meeting someone?” he asks.
The tightness in his voice, brings my eyes up. I don’t want to answer, but I don’t want to be rude. So I say, “I just…wanted a night out.”
He turns away and grabs a strainer from a cupboard and places it in the sink. “You’re being vague,” he snaps, giving me a glare as he steps back to the stove.
I can’t tell him the truth, so I say nothing.
He moves back to the sink and pours the pasta into the strainer, and I watch his biceps flex while he does it, watch the way the fabric stretches tight around his arms. I’m still watching when he places the noodles back in the pot and adds the cheese, milk, and butter.
I look back down at the counter and begin tracing one of the gold veins in the granite to help distract me. My body feels tingly again.
A moment later he places a bowl of warm mac ‘n’ cheese and a spoon in front of me, then leans against the counter, a bowl in hand, and begins eating on his feet.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods.
I take a bite and close my eyes. It’s good. So good. I’ve made plenty of mac ‘n’ cheese before, but somehow this tastes so much better. Maybe because he made it for me. I can’t remember the last time anyone cooked for me. It would’ve been back when Helen was alive.
“So you were heading out, huh?” Gavin asks, eyeing me now. “You even old enough to drink?”
I nod and swallow another bite.
“Jesus, you don’t say much, do you? Every woman I’ve ever met can’t shut up, but you—I can barely get two words from you.”
Heat rises in my cheeks and I push the pasta around with my spoon, hoping he can’t see the tremor in my hand. “Just quiet, I guess.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, mindful his eyes are still on me.
When I finally work up the nerve to look his way he’s standing with his arms crossed, his bowl already empty and sitting on the counter. By the way he’s looking at me, I can see he isn’t mad, but he isn’t happy. He seems…frustrated, yet curious.
I keep eating, while he says nothing more. Maybe that’s his way of punishing me. When I take my last bite, he grabs the bowl, along with his, and moves to the sink. I slide off the stool and quickly walk to where he stands and reach for the scrubber, but he grabs it first.
“Please,” I say, opening my palm. “Let me.” I want to repay him for all he’s done, and I know it’s not much, but it’s something.
I look up at him, wondering why he’s suddenly almost a foot taller than me now, then realize I was wearing heels before. Then I realize something else. We’re close. So close I can smell the clean linen scent of his clothes, see the tiny specks of gold nestled in the kelly green of his eyes—eyes that stare down at me, darkening. My throat goes tight and I know no more words are coming, but he still hasn’t yielded. Slowly, I place my hand over his and he drops the scrubber like I’ve burned him.
“Back in a minute,” he says, then turns away.
I’m not sure what just happened until I see him discreetly adjust his crotch. There’s no mistaking the hard bulge trying to push through the fabric. He leaves the kitchen as the air leaves my lungs. I turn back to the sink and lean against the counter for balance. When I reach for the scrubber my hand shakes. In a daze, I take the bowl and slowly rinse it out then place it in the dishwasher. I’m on the second bowl when I hear something.
I turn the water off and wait. I hear it again. A knock. Someone’s at the door. I set the bowl in the dishwasher and walk out of the kitchen, down the hall, and stop in the entryway, where a large metal door looms. Another knock, this one more insistent.
I hurry to the base of the stairs. “Gavin?” I call out.
No answer.
The knocks are growing louder and louder, like it’s urgent.
Shit, I don’t know what to do. There are lights on in the house, so whoever it is, knows he’s home. Maybe it’s important. Or maybe he’s expecting someone.
I close my eyes, say a silent prayer, then turn over the lock and open the door.
On the step is a striking, raven-haired woman with cold, grey eyes, bright red lips, wearing a blue sequin dress that reveals everything and hides nothing. As soon as I watch her expression go from haughty to angry, I know I’ve made a mistake.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just storms past me into the house, knocking me aside with her shoulder.
“Where is he?” she demands, turning to glare at me. “Where is the fucker?”
“It—it’s not like that.”
Her eyes narrow on me, then drift to the clothes I’m wearing.
Uh oh.
Her face turns a livid shade of red. “I should’ve known,” she sneers.
“Really, my car—”
“Save it, bitch.”
She spins and storms towards the stairs when Gavin appears, taking the few last steps, and looking a bit flushed. My eyes can’t help but drift to his crotch, where things have apparently, umm, been taken care of.
He looks at her, then at me, and his eyes narrow. I look away.
“What are you doing here, Candace?” he asks coldly.
“And you said your mom wasn’t well. I should’ve known you skipped out on your award for pussy.” She turns to me. “And underage pussy, by the looks of it. What is she, twelve? You into kids now?”
Her insult doesn’t even phase me…but…mom not well…and…award?
I glance over at him. He’s calm, but the anger is there, set deep into his face. For a moment, he meets my guilty gaze. “Ava, will you excuse us, please?”
I scurry past them and back into the kitchen and begin scrubbing the pot.
Over the running water I hear Candace screaming words like asshole, lying prick, and child molester. Gavin’s voice, however, is more subdued, so much so that I can’t make out what he’s saying.
My lower lip trembles, thinking of just how much trouble I’ve caused him. If only I’d minded my own business, stayed in the kitchen, and ignored the door.
If only I’d stayed home.
Now I hear Gavin’s voice. “Out!” he bellows.
There’s more cursing and yelling on her part, including the words bitch and cunt, which I know are referring to me, but I shut my eyes and drown it out. Eventually, I hear the door slam.
A moment later, Gavin enters the kitchen.
I don’t look his way. Just scrub the pot that was clean five minutes ago. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”
“No. Trouble’s her job and she’s very good at it.”
He stands next to me now, which makes my hands shake. I rinse the pot and he takes it from me, a dish towel in hand. Our fingers graze in the exchange and a swoosh fills my lungs.
“You alright?” he asks.
I nod, trying to swallow down the question that forms, while I grab the sponge and wipe down the sink, but it comes out anyway. “Was she…your girlfriend?”
“No.”
I have no right to be relieved, but I am. Then there’s another question I have to ask. “And your mom—is she okay?”
He turns to put the pot away. “Time will tell.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice he isn’t liking where this is headed, so I let the questions go. It’s none of my business anyway.
And then it hits me. Familiar face. Gavin. Award. I set the sponge down and turn to him. “You’re Gavin West, the actor.”