5.

Livvy

 

A couple of days ago, after months and months of putting it off—like three and a half of them—because dealing with what my great-grandad put into storage meant dealing with emotions I’d rather ignore for a while longer, I finally searched through the rooms, cataloging what treasurers still laid waiting to breathe fresh air out of the cardboard boxes, and came across one box in particular. On it, the shaky writing of an old man. The words, ‘Shelly’s Box’ lovingly scrawled across the top.

Inside there were mementos of my mother’s life here. Photos of friends, some of her clothing and a Walkman with a bunch of cassette tapes. 

I checked the back and even the batteries had been lovingly removed so they wouldn’t leak and crust while in storage, ruining the player, in the hopes that she’d be back to use it again.

She never did.

But I do.

After, I went to the freezer to grab a pack of batteries. Not sure why I still keep batteries in the freezer. Hell, I’m not sure if it even does good or harm, just that I remember my mother keeping batteries there because that’s what her grandpops had taught her to do.

With fresh ones, the Walkman worked like new. I riffled through the cassettes until I found a cover that caught my eye. Journey’s Greatest Hits. My mother was a Journey fan; I never knew. Lords don’t listen to Journey. They listen to Ozzy and Metallica or whatever new ear-piercing screamo band comes along. Well, except for Boss, who loves the blues, which is why he called his bar Lady Sings the Blues. So by extension, Gage and Raif adopted his love of blues. I only recently found that out—within the past ten months of living at the compound. In some ways he’d grown so much, leaving behind those things he used to cherish in our youth, during those five years we spent apart. Having become this new man, a man I need to get to know, yet underneath it all, at the heart of him, still my Gage. Always my Gage.

Done with work for the day and in a house so clean I could eat off the ground, I walk over to the bed. Only there’s a dried white stain of some kind on my quilt. What could I have spilled on it? I scratch at it with my fingernail, then sniff the residue. Had I eaten yogurt on my bed? No, I don’t think so, but it still has to be dealt with. I’m not happy about the delay in my plans because now I have to strip and wash the bedding, tacking on at least an extra hour before I can fully relax.

Finally with the clean, dry, warm, pulled-fresh-from-the-dryer bedding back in place, I get to lay on my bed with my mother’s headphones on, the ones her grandpops kept stored with the Walkman, and press play. The melodies start to fill my ears, lulling me to a relaxed state. That is until one song in particular comes on. One I’m not prepared for. Hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity. About a man bearing his soul to the woman he loves.

As I sing along with the words I remember from the radio, a distant childhood memory, the tears begin to spill over my cheeks. A river of tears.

In my weakness, I reach for my phone. My finger hovers over the contact that would ease my suffering. But if I call, it’ll just make it harder to stay away. My reasonable mind knows this to be true. We’ve talked every night since the first time I broke down and called him, and every night he asks me to let him come to me. I’m being selfish. He needs to move on too. Unless I’m willing to break down and tell him where I’m at, I can’t let myself call.

“Okay, enough, Liv.” I give myself a pep talk and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Time to start living life.

As scared as the thought makes me, living life means curling my hair the way I normally would when going out, letting the tendrils fall in cascading waves down my back. When I begin to apply the makeup bought from the superstore, at first my biker roots begin to show. Heavy eyes, heavy lips. On the second pass lining my lips, it hits me, this can’t be me anymore. I’m not that woman. The one staring back at me in the mirror.

Houdini took her from me.

So now I don’t know who I am anymore, I just know it’s not her. Never to be her again.

I pick up the package of makeup-removing wipes and wipe my whole face down. Clean pallet.

Soft cheeks, soft eyes. Light lip.

It amazes me how much I look like my mother, minus the biker babe eyes, lips and cheeks. The innocent girl from the pictures in the box. Except for the hair. The strawberry blonde was the one trait I got from my father, the bastard.

My brother has it too. The only similarity between us, as he’s the spitting image of the old man at that age. Raif cuts a handsome figure, just as, unfortunately, my piece of shit father had.

It smarts to admit it, but I understand why my mother fell for him. A strong, confidant man who took an interest in such a small town girl.

Add to that, taking her virginity.

It’s no wonder.

The tears begin to form again.

No.

I walk back into my bedroom and pull a pretty pale-pink sundress from the closet. Besides being a pretty pale pink, it looks to be from the nineteen seventies, with spaghetti straps and a deep V-neck. I picked it up at the secondhand store—pairing it with a pair of tan leather wedge sandals from the same time period.

The hem falls to mid-calf. Me—in a mid-calf. The longest hem I’ve ever worn.

After grabbing a tan sweater, in case I get chilled, I pick my phone, purse and keys up from the kitchen counter and head out to the truck.

It takes only minutes to reach the outskirts of town and the little restaurant called Sea Breeze, which has an outside dining area and bar on a wide veranda overhanging the Chesapeake.

Though the veranda looks full, that’s where I’m headed. Drinks on a veranda to people-watch the night away. Alone without being alone.

Inside, there’s a considerable line at the hostess station, but seeing as I’m a single, the hostess leads me to the bar outside straight away.

They’ve furnished the stools in a high back husky gray. Rounded metal backs and comfortable, stylish cushions in a vinyl rather than leather, which wouldn’t stand up to the weather.

To smell the fresh sea air, I’m not sure how my mother ever left here for the overpopulated likes of the big city. If Chicago is the Windy City, then Smithfield is the sultry, balmy, breezy town. That might be a long moniker, but it fits.

Smithfield. Perfect in its simplicity.

“What can I get you?” The bartender, a woman about my age, asks. Pretty, brown skin. Long fingernails painted red to match her lips.

“I’ll have a Sea Breeze.” Because that’s not what the old me would order. I’m done with whiskey or beer, at least for the time being. Whiskey and beer are too serious. A Sea Breeze, the restaurant’s signature drink, now that’s a drink for the new me. Lighthearted and carefree. I deserve lighthearted and carefree.

“Good choice. Coming right up.”

 Resting my elbows on the bar, I watch as she pulls a glass from under the counter and fills it with ice. She pours the vodka and cranberry juice, then tops it with a splash of grapefruit juice. Before sliding it across the bar top, she garnishes the drink with a slice of grapefruit and sends it off with a wink.

Saluting her skills with the drink raised in one hand, I slide her over the money with the other. Smitty cuts me a paycheck for the purpose of record keeping, but always cashes it with petty cash for me, since I don’t want to open a bank account. Accounts can be tracked. I don’t offer the why and he doesn’t ask. It’s why we work so well together.

“Keep the change,” I tell her. It’s a good tip for a place like this. Since I have to drive home, starting a tab is out of the question.

As I bring the straw up to my lips, a man in an expensive-looking suit slides effortlessly into the seat next to mine. He’s quite handsome. Hair a stylishly cut dark chocolate, with a full, trimmed beard to match. Eyes a seafoam green, so pure, if it weren’t for his glasses, I’d swear he wore color contacts. Eyes are the first thing I notice about any man. I guess because Gage has such startlingly blue eyes, so soulful and loving. I rate their attractiveness on a scale ranging from Chunk, a bully of mine growing up, to Gage. This guy falls closer to Gage, but I’ve yet to meet a man to surpass him.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asks him the same question.

“Whiskey. Straight,” he answers. “And—” He turns to me. “Another of whatever she’s having, for the lady.”

“No thank you,” I refuse politely, watching the bartender fill his glass and slide it over to rest in front of him. Then I blink, and swallow. “I have a drink.”

“Yes, but it’s halfway gone.” He has that eyebrow lift that all deliriously good-looking men perfect by the time they graduate from deliriously good-looking man school.

“Thank you, but I’m fully aware of the implications society places on me accepting that drink. I’m in a very committed relationship, so I won’t be sleeping with you tonight.”

“So you’re in a relationship,” he repeats.

I nod and sip some more of my drink.

“Committed, you say?” The man lifts his glass and sniffs the amber liquid before lowering it to his lips to drink but not drinking, never in that whole transaction, taking his eyes off of me.

“Very,” I agree.

“Then where is he? Why would he let you out to a bar alone?” It’s almost predatory, the way he holds that drink, still not having taken the first sip, leaning heavy on his elbow resting against the bar top as accuses me of… Of what, I’m not even sure.

“He doesn’t let me do anything. I’m a fully capable adult and can make my own decisions. But he’s working, if you must know.”

“Working.” The man repeats my word again. I don’t like how he continues to repeat everything I say.

“Yes, not everyone has a nine to five.”

“Touché. Listen, I’m new in town and am just out to get to know people.”

“Well, I didn’t see you walking over to that table—” I point to a table full of men in the opposite corner. “Before you slid in next to me.”

“So you watched me, then. Promising.”

“No. I already told you. I’m in a committed relationship.”

“Very. I’m Michael, by the way.” He holds his hand out for me to shake. I’m hesitant, but go ahead and shake it anyway. What could it hurt?

“I’d tell you it’s nice to meet you, but I worry that would only encourage you.”

“At least tell me your name.”

I think about it. Like with the handshake, what could it hurt? “I’m Livvy,” I tell him.

“Livvy? That’s unique. Short for Olivia?” he asks.

Shaking my head, I answer him. “No. I was named after my grandmother Livinia.”

“So your name is Livinia.” He cocks his eyebrow in that sexy way he must have also learned at deliriously good-looking man school. “An interesting name for an arresting woman.”

Interesting? At the mere idea of making my way through life with such an old-fashioned sounding name as a Livinia, I rumple my nose and shake my head in a burst of tiny shakes. “No way. She was Livinia. I’m Livvy. The nickname my grandfather gave my grandmother. My mother couldn’t bear to saddle me with Livinia, despite how much she loved her grandparents. So I became Livvy.”

“That’s even more interesting. So Liv, how about you tell me more about yourself now and maybe join me for a nightcap later?” His voice drops to a dangerously low and sultry level.

Uh, no. There will be no joining him for a nightcap later. I should ignore him. Just completely ignore his existence. No one but friends get to call me Liv and we are not at the shorten-my-name point of this nonexistent friendship. I blame it on the Sea Breeze for answering. “People call me ‘Livvy,’ only my friends call me ‘Liv.’”

“Well, Liv, let me refresh that drink for you before we go on.” He points to my glass. “You’re almost out.”

“Uh-uh.” I scold him by waggling my finger at him. “I said my friends call me Liv. I haven’t ascertained that you are a friend, yet.”

“Fair enough. Since we aren’t yet friends, I feel no shame in being brutally honest.” He leans way into my personal space. “I sat down here because when I saw you, I knew I had to fuck you.”

“Wow. So you must be brutally disappointed. Though…” When I pause, I see his eyes grow hugely expectant. “It’s good to want things, but disappointment builds character,” I finish and stand. Setting my glass down on the bar, I pick my purse up and leave Michael behind.

I hear his fading snicker as I walk away. Not a ‘you won’ kind of snicker. The kind that promises we’ll see each other again. I don’t like it. Where’s my pepper spray when I need it? Old me would’ve never left the house without it. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow. But unfortunately, from his seat at the bar on the open veranda, he sees me head to my truck. Now he knows my vehicle.

Okay, so there are some definite old me, new me reconciliations which need to happen ASAP. Buying a can of pepper spray is one of them.

After I get the truck started, but before I pull out of the parking spot, I give in and call Gage. Because in thinking about that scary encounter, I realize how safe he made me feel when we were together.

Three rings, then he answers. “Baby? You okay?” Exactly how he answers every time I call.

“Yeah. I took myself out for a drink to people-watch and got hit on by a real creep.”

“Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“No. I handled him fine. Just, I don’t know… There was something about him that put me off.”

Gage chuckles in my ear. I miss his chuckles. “You want me to beat him up? Tell me where to find him, I’m on my bike.”

“Ha, ha. He said he wants to fuck me. Said it, just like that.”

“I’m going to assume that’s not something you want?”

“Of course not. There’s only one man I want to fuck me, Gage St. James.”

“You’re killing me, baby. I fucking want you so bad, Liv. Your scent has already faded from your pillow. I’ve been reduced to sleeping with a bottle of your shampoo open and sitting on your bedside table.”

His admission jars me. My pillow? My shampoo? He’s sleeping with my pillow to the smell of my shampoo? God, I’m such an idiot, but I don’t know what to do. “Just give me a bit more time. Okay? Please. I’m not ready.”

“Well, while you’re not ready, I’m losing patience. Fucking love you, Liv. I miss your smile, and the way you swat at me instead of the alarm clock on your nightstand when you don’t want to get up. I miss those little noises you make in the back of your throat when you get really turned on. You’re breaking my heart,” he admits in a whisper. “Fucking, fucking love you.”

“I know you do. And I love you.”

“Promise me something, baby. Here, now. I’ll give you the time you need. Won’t push for your location so long as you make me this promise.”

“What is it?”

“Just… that if you need me, you call me. For anything. I will drop everything I’m doing to get to you.”

Jesus, I’m never going to get out from under the Lords—because I knew how I’d answer before he ever asked it of me. “I promise.”

“Good. So tell me, what’re you wearing?”

“Gage—babe. I’m not at home. I’m in the parking lot.”

“Does the state have laws against you telling your old man what you’re wearing?”

“No, but—you know we don’t stick to talking. And I can’t…” I drop my voice to a whisper as if anyone else could hear me. “Touch myself in the truck.”

“Why, Livvy Michelle Baxter, are you suggesting we debase ourselves for sinful pleasures of the flesh?”

“Dammit!” I begin to cry. “Why is my head so messed up? Elise was buried alive and she’s coping just fine.”

“Don’t. Don’t you do that. You’re not Elise. Running out of air is scary. But running out of air while the box you’re in fills up with water, that’s a particular brand of torture Elise never had to live through.”

“Okay.” I sniff. “And um… I miss your smell, too.”