Barrett

“Ought to do it,” I tell my brother as I drop the hood on his 2016 Audi A8. It’s black, and was a beautiful car when I bought it for him two years ago. Now it’s boasting a long scratch along the passenger side and a dent in the front bumper thanks to his DUI.

Today isn’t quite as dramatic. He thought the Audi needed “fixing” but it turned out needing an oil change.

“Thanks,” Aaron says. He’s two years older than me biologically but behaves ten years younger than me—considering I’ve had many immature moments, that’s saying something. “Thought I’d need a new one.”

“You don’t need a new car, Aaron.” I wipe my hands on an orange oil-stained towel. “You need to keep this one serviced. Oil changes. Wash it on occasion. Any of this sound familiar?”

“Oil changes cost money.” His face pinches. “I can’t help it I got fired.”

“You were fired for stealing,” I remind him. “You could’ve helped it.”

“It wasn’t stealing. Everyone pilfers the ice cream bars from Speedway.” He was a clerk at a convenience store for four years running—far as I know, that’s the longest stretch he’d ever held down a job. Then he started lifting snacks during his shifts.

“Just because everyone does it doesn’t mean it’s right.” I’d add the phrase “like mom and dad always told you” but they never told us that. They always told us to “get while the gettin’s good” and then they’d add that “no one” would ever give us “nothin’ for free.”

They weren’t the best role models alive and didn’t die the best ones, either. About two years after I signed with Miami, they went out one night to celebrate. They put away countless draft beers at a local watering hole and ended up wrapping their car around a tree on the way home. They both died on impact. Aaron then became my responsibility. The folks didn’t have a will, so I let my brother have it all. Their brick ranch in an okay but affordable part of town. I sent him money. Bought him the car. Bailed him out of jail a few months back when he crashed the car.

“You could’ve helped getting shit-canned, too, Big Time.”

Fuck, here he goes. I hate that nickname.

“You were right. They shouldn’t allow female refs on the field. Their judgment’s impaired by their hormones.”

“Again. Just because I lost my job doesn’t mean you should lose yours. Were you listening to nothing I just said?”

“You could’ve handed me cash to get the oil change, Big Time. I’d have gotten it.”

He’d have drunk it, but that’s not a conversation to have right now. I have a date in a few hours.

I walk to my car—an older version of the Audi Aaron drives minus the dents and scratches. She’s a gorgeous cherry red with champagne leather interior.

“Hey, man,” he says as I slide into the driver’s side “You have any cash on you? It’s for a vacation with my bros.”

“Not sure you should be taking a vacation with your ‘bros’ since you lost your job.” Amazing I have to have this convo with a thirty-one-year-old, isn’t it?

“I knew you’d say that.” He rolls his eyes—green like mom’s. He’s a redhead, too, but I have more of Dad’s coloring—some of that sandy, golden brown rather a full-on flame-red like mom. Aaron has her coloring and about a billion freckles to go along with it. “Can I talk you out of a hundred bucks or so?”

“You expect me to give you one hundred dollars when I changed your oil myself to save you thirty?” He’s always been a leech. First off mom and dad and now off me.

Rather than answer my query, he straightens his narrow frame and smirks. “I have a date with Carrie Grammar. Remember her? Blonde. Cheerleader. Huge tits.”

He holds his hands chest high and gestures like he’s palming a pair of basketballs.

I’m not qualifying that statement with a comment.

Aaron leans a hip on my car after I close myself in. “What about you? You go back to Beth for some ex-sex or are you getting it on with a bunch of desperate OSU cheerleaders?”

“Do you have to be such a dick?” Arguably I, at one point, wasn’t much better than my older brother. Thank God I had a great arm and could run fast. A football scholarship might’ve been all that stood in the way of my turning out exactly like him.

Still. He is my brother.

I reach into my wallet and pull out some cash. A fifty-dollar bill and three twenties still leaves me with sixty bucks, but I can use a card if I need more. Tonight’s date is on the Columbus Dispatch anyway. I hold the money out for Aaron to take. As he reaches for it, I pull it back.

“Take Carrie somewhere nice. I mean it. And pull her chair out for her.”

“Fuck off.” He swipes the cash. “You worry about your own love life, Big Time.”

“Get the hell off my car.” I rev the engine. He flips me off, and I reverse out of the drive, eyeing the overgrown grass, filthy windows, and dead fern in a planter hanging from the front porch.

I hate this place.

Catarina

La Petit France’s website doesn’t do it justice. There were a few small photos on a black and white background, which hinted at its minimalist style, but when I walk through the door I’m floored by the aggressive elegance of the restaurant.

Jacket required, indeed.

The waitstaff wear white shirts with black bow ties, black pants, and long, black aprons. A sommelier whisks by with a leather-bound wine list, a pristine towel draped over one arm. The host is a beautiful blond woman in a tight, black dress, with a long, gold necklace.

“Reservations for Everhart,” I say, aware of Barrett behind me. Tonight has become suddenly and accidentally intimate.

“Best table you have, honey.” Barrett places his palm on my back, warming my bare skin thanks to the backless white dress I’m wearing. That wide, rough hand slides around until he’s gripping my waist possessively. “One by a window would be preferable.”

Our hostess taps her iPad then nods, locking eyes with Barrett a moment later. I watch as her entire face softens with recognition. Admiration. What gives? Shouldn’t women hate him for what he said to Loretta Santiago on that field? Instead they melt over great biceps and seaworthy blue eyes. Pathetic.

“Barrett Fox. Oh my gosh.” She flits a nervous glance around as if she’s aware she’s acting unprofessionally before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Can you sign something for me if I bring it by discreetly?”

He leans in and murmurs, “Honey, I’ll sign your chest if you meet me in the back.”

She giggles, then cuts me a look of apology.

I smile patiently. Yes. I’m still here.

“Oh, her?” Barrett tucks me closer. “She’s used to me signing boobs.”

The hostess covers her mouth before collecting two menus, and then herself. She straightens as a tall, older gentleman in a smart black tux rounds the corner.

“Pierre, please take this couple to table eleven.”

“Certainly. This way.” If Pierre, who doesn’t have a tiny mustache like his name presumes, is impressed by my date he doesn’t show it. He’s the consummate professional. A host with the most. He seats us, hands us our menus, and fills our water glasses without fanfare.

“Swanky.” Barrett is checking out the room: several crystal chandeliers hovering overhead, ironed white tablecloths, low candlelight in crystal dishes at the center of the table.

“Yes, well, readers want the fantasy.” I unroll my silverware and spread the napkin on my lap. He watches me before doing the same, like he was unsure if that was his cue. I can’t resist a smile so I hide my face behind the wine menu.

I order a bottle, going as far as ordering it in French. The sommelier has a dash more personality than Pierre the host, but not by much.

“Yikes. Tough crowd,” Barrett says when the sommelier leaves.

“You don’t have to share the Chianti with me, Fox,” I tell him. “Beer is acceptable. You’re supposed to be you, not conform.”

“You think I can’t drink wine?”

“I think you don’t want wine,” I correct.

“I want wine.”

I shrug and let him have it his way.

“I like that dress on you, Kitty Cat,” he says as I study the menu. “I always thought I liked low-cut necks and supershort skirts, yet here you are blowing that idea out of the water.”

The white dress I’m wearing has no sleeves, so my shoulders are bare—a good look for me since I’m tan and prone to nice shoulders. The back is out, too, which I like because it’s sexy without being overtly pinup girl. My hair is fastened at my nape, a few strands artfully pulled out of the twist to frame my face.

“You cleaned up nicely yourself, Fox.” He’s in his typical black pants/white shirt combo, but he’s wearing a tie. A sleek, charcoal gray tie that looks expensive. I know because North is an impeccable dresser. His tie collection rivals my shoe collection. As restaurant rules specify, Barrett is wearing a suit jacket over those broad shoulders. It’s charcoal in color and perfectly fitted. He didn’t buy off the rack. This one was tailored.

I imagine what his closet looks like only to crash into a visual of him naked and choosing clothes from it. I blink to wipe away the image.

Pheromones. Yeesh.

“Do you have a stylist?” I tell myself it’s my job to get to know my date, but the truth is I’ve been curious about his style since I met him.

“Had.” He takes a big drink of water.

He’s leaning back in his chair, one leg under the table, the other leg out in the aisle like he can’t be contained by the tiny seating area to which we’ve been assigned. We’re by a window as he requested. Downtown Columbus makes a pretty backdrop. Navy sky and tall, shadowy buildings checkered with golden lights.

“I learned how to dress after a few years of being in the spotlight,” he explains. “Here’s less pressure than Miami. The club scene.” He purses his lips and blows out a breath. “You have to be on top of it to fit in there.”

Our wine arrives and I wave off the option of a taste test. The sommelier pours both glasses and whisks away leaving Barrett and I alone with our Chianti.

“North and I enjoy this vintage often. I think you’ll like it.” I take a drink of the exquisite liquid, forgiving myself for the white lie. North and I haven’t enjoyed a bottle of this particular vintage in a long while. Probably the last time we slept together.

“Why the frown, Kitty Cat? Does it taste bad?” Barrett takes a drink big enough to fill his cheeks and then makes a show of squinting one eye and swishing it like mouthwash, first on one side of his mouth and then on the other.

A laugh bursts out of me and I have to cover my lips with my fingers to subdue it.

He swallows the drink and grins, leaning over the table. He can’t come far. There are flowers, candles, and four glasses dotted between us. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you’re enjoying an evening with me.”

“The night is young,” I tell him. “You have plenty of time to screw it up.”

As premonitions go, that one was a tad too accurate.

After dinner and dessert, I’m wedging my molars together and praying for patience.

“Barrett.” My whisper is urgent, my eyes rounded.

“Yes, Kitty Cat?” He answers without looking up from his work: carefully trimming the end off a cigar. A lighter rests on the pristine tablecloth in front of him.

“You can’t smoke that in here.” Smoking is prohibited in public places in Ohio—but even if it was allowed, cigar smoking is a huge no-no. Especially in a restaurant where there isn’t a designated area.

“Why not?” He pockets the cutter and chomps on the end of the cigar, channeling his inner Clint Eastwood.

“Because you’re not allowed.” I shoot a nervous glance to the tables around us, aware of several expressions of distaste.

“Allowed is relative,” he says around the cigar. He follows the direction of my gaze and tips his chin at an older couple. “How you doing?”

Then. He lights the cigar. Takes one puff, then another, blowing acrid smoke in a thick cloud over his head. He pulls it from his mouth and regards it with pride.

“Cuban.” He offers it to me. “Wanna try?”

Mouth open, I lean in to reprimand him but the hostess from earlier, who has been bustling around taking inventory of the tables, beats me to it. She’s all smiles and stars in her eyes, but she takes her task seriously.

“Mr. Fox.” Her smile is nervous as she leans close.

“Yeah, doll?” he asks, taking another deep puff.

“I’m so sorry to disturb your dinner, but I need you to put out the cigar. There’s no smoking in here.”

“Is that a rule?” He blows more smoke into the air.

“Yes. It’s a rule.” She positions his half full water glass in front of him. “Put it out, please.”

“Can’t do that,” he says as someone behind me noisily coughs. The older couple to his left wave their hands in front of their faces as my date takes another drag.

“You’re going to get into trouble if you don’t,” the hostess whispers, concern in her big blue eyes. “I don’t want to have to ask you to leave.”

A wolfish smile slides onto Barrett’s face, equal parts charm and smarm. “In that case, honey, I’ll let you put it out. I can’t. It’s too fine an indulgence to dispose of personally.”

He puts the cigar between his lips, sucks his cheeks in and enjoys one more taste before the hostess reaches over with a shaking hand and takes it from his lips.

I’m watching her closely so I witness the exact moment her eyes pop wide and her mouth drops open in shock. Her entire body jerks forward at the same time the older woman lets out a loud “My word!” like it’s a curse.

That’s when I notice Barrett’s hand gripping the hostess’s backside. And that’s when I stand and leave him with the bill.