CHAPTER EIGHT

 

When I showed Lisa the photographs in McCoy’s album she gushed over them. She had told me to hurry it up as I put the album in front of her on her desk. She shushed me when I tried to explain who McCoy was and why I wanted to show her his work. She had told me that it was best to let the photos speak for themselves.

Apparently, they spoke highly of themselves. She had placed a call to another agent somewhere in the office, asking if he had time to review some new content. Upon him seeing the images, he wanted to sign a contract with me. I explained that I was not the photographer, but I would relay the message to McCoy.

They wanted to use his photographs for a project that was in the works. A writer had written a piece about living in the city and wanted photographs to accompany the autobiography. McCoy agreed to the terms. From there he received many calls from local magazines and three art galleries. Everyone paid well. It was clear that he had something new to bring to the table; something people hadn’t seen before. His pictures were raw and real and appealed to the masses. He was, as Lisa had said, very marketable.

We were eating dinner when the third art gallery called. I insisted he take it, just in case. When he hung up he gave me a broad, boyish grin. “I got another one,” he said. His enthusiasm and genuine excitement radiated from him.

“I told you so,” I quipped. “And look how fast it all happened. Two weeks. Two weeks and you have art hanging in galleries for everyone to see. Crazy.”

“And I’m making money.”

I nodded. “Money is good too.”

“I have news,” he said, putting his fork down on his plate. I had cooked us spaghetti and we were sitting at my dining room table. There was a candle burning between us. It lit his face up with a warm amber glow that made him look even more attractive.

“Okay, do tell.” I followed suit and put my fork down.

“I quit my job.”

McCoy had still been going to work at his construction job for the last two weeks. He spent most of his nights at my house and one of my drawers was filling with his shirts and jeans and boxers. I didn’t mind. Carly had tried to hint that I was moving too fast, but I didn’t care. The progression, albeit fast, felt natural.

“You quit? That’s amazing! We should have gone somewhere to celebrate.”

He shook his head. “No, no need. This is perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I grinned and picked up my fork.

“No seriously, Veronica. Thank you. I wouldn’t have done any of this if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be getting ready to put on a hard hat in the morning. Still be hanging around with… with the wrong people.”

In the two weeks that we had spent together McCoy had never mentioned anything about the crowd he associated with, and I hadn’t asked. I thought often of the night that we had first met. I thought about the man who had crouched in front of me and ran his finger along the inseam of my jeans. I thought of how terrified I was.

But I didn’t want to say anything to McCoy. I trusted him, and I didn’t expect him to run off on me, but I also didn’t expect him to cut all ties with his old ‘friends’. I didn’t want to ask him to. It wasn’t my place.

However, now seemed like the perfect window to start asking some questions that I had been holding back. “Why were you with those guys that night?”

He wouldn’t look at me.

“McCoy. I’m not going to judge.”

He glanced at me and his eyes glowed in the candlelight before he looked away again. As he spoke he refused to meet my eyes. “Because I had my priorities all screwed up.”

“What does that mean?”

“When I got out of prison…” he sighed. “When I got out I wasn’t able to go back to how things had been before. There was no home to go back to. No friends to turn to. I had to start fresh. And starting fresh is really hard, especially when there’s no one to lean on. So when some of my buddies from the system found me and offered me a place to stay, I didn’t say no.”

I nodded. “I don’t think that’s anything to feel bad about.”

He shrugged. “Had I stayed until I got my shit together and then left, sure. I wouldn’t feel ashamed. But I stayed for four years. Dicking around. Wasting time. Watching them spiral. Watching some of them go back to prison. If I hadn’t met you, I would still be on that path.”

I lifted a mouthful of spaghetti to my mouth. “You’re starting to sound like a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

“Who?”

I laughed. “Nevermind.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“All of it,” he leaned back in his chair. “What I did. That I was in prison. That I hung out with guys like the ones… like the ones from that night.”

“Honestly?”

He nodded, his jaw tight and his hands clasped in his lap. “Honestly.”

I put my fork down once again and thought about how I could best answer his question. “I don’t worry about you, McCoy. I don’t think anything of your history. I know who you are now- right now. I think, to a certain point, we all fall victim to circumstance. You just fell a bit harder than some. So did I. I let myself waste nine years of my life. I guess what I’m trying to say is no, it doesn’t bother me.”

Relief was so plain on his face. He relaxed and pulled himself back up to the table, then he cracked that devilish smile of his. “You know, you really are a strange kind of girl.”

“So I’ve been told,” I smirked. “Pass the parmesan.”

My cell phone rang. McCoy went to grab it off the counter and I shook my head. “I’ll call them back. Who is it?”

He shrugged. “Unknown number.”

“Probably just a telemarketer. Their uncanny ability to call during dinner is impeccable.”

When we snuggled up on the couch to watch Netflix, my phone rang again. McCoy paused the movie and I answered the phone. I said hello several times, but no one answered me. “Helloooo? I hate when this happens.”

McCoy was watching me over his shoulder. “Just hang up.”

Fifteen minutes into the movie the phone rang again. “Hello?” I said, my voice irritated. Still no answer. I held it to my ear and waited an extra fifteen seconds or so. Then I heard it. The soft yet distinct sound of someone breathing on the other end. “I can hear you,” I said. “Stop calling me.”

Another fifteen minutes went by. The phone rang again. I went to answer it but McCoy held out his hand. “Give it here.” I dropped the phone in his open palm.

He answered it and raised it to his ear. He didn’t say anything for a while. He just listened. “Listen buddy,” McCoy started, “time to get a hobby. Stop calling and get a life. We have better things to do with our time than listen to you breathe like an overweight uncle at the dinner table into the phone. Got it?” Then he hung up and put the phone on silent. “If they call back don’t answer it. They’ll stop eventually.”

I did as he suggested. “Who do you think it is?”

He shrugged. “Don’t care. Probably stupid teenagers sitting in their parents basement prank calling random numbers.”

“Sounds like you have experience in the subject.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a cocky smile. “You know it.”

When the movie ended McCoy bundled me up in his arms and brought me upstairs to the bedroom. I was exhausted. He went through my dresser and handed me a blue silk camisole and a matching pair of shorts. His favourite sleeping outfit of mine. I slipped into it and brushed my teeth before letting myself fall into the bed. I yawned and dragged the blankets up over my shoulders while I waited for him to join me.

When he slid into the bed I pressed myself against him for warmth. He wrapped one arm around my shoulder and I nestled my cheek into his chest. I kissed the warm skin below his collarbone.

“Don’t tease me like that,” he whispered.

“It’s not teasing if I follow through.”

I knew he was looking at me even though I couldn’t see his face. His chest rose and fell as he chuckled. “I would never expect you not to follow through. But you’re tired. You should sleep. It’s been a long week.”

Jason had never once told me I should get some rest when sex was on his mind. I looked up at McCoy. Up at his dark hair that was messed up from the pillow. Up at his jaw and the curve of his mouth. “Where did you come from?” I breathed.

He grazed his fingers over my back lightly. It soothed me and brought me closer to exhaustion. He played with my hair before returning to rub my back. “Goodnight,” he whispered, kissing the top of my cheek.

“Goodnight.”

Then sleep came and blessed me with dreams of McCoy.