Over the next week, I acclimate to my new surroundings one toe at a time, much like the icy water of a river. Work, the leisurely flow of NOLA, and my new digs. Not like with Greier, I dove right into the currents with him. We managed to swim back to the shallows though, even in my weaker moments when I wish we wouldn’t. It’s ridiculous because I have way too much on my plate right now to worry about getting into anything with him, but all the same.
He’s slept in the guest room every night. Though, I hear him crack open the door and check on me some nights. I pretend to be asleep, trying not to scare him off. I like that he keeps an eye on me. I like that he cares. Even without the promise of more from me.
Most nights, I find it hard to sleep, knowing the adjoining bathroom separates us by mere feet. It gets lonely lying in bed with the emptiness beside me to keep me company. But it’s more than a basic human need for connection. It’s more than a woman looking for comfort after a breakup. It’s him.
Maybe making him forbidden to me caused a want-what-you-can’t-have situation, but I think about him. A lot. Like, while I’m at work, when I should be paying attention to what my customers are ordering. When I’m reading, so I read the same paragraph over and over. During my showers, but that’s not so much a problem with the handheld showerhead. I’ve never thought about a boy—a man like this so much. I’ve also never encountered Greier before.
Saturday morning, I shuffle into the bathroom, my brain as thick with fog as the air outside. As I step through the door, Greier steps out of the shower. Steam wafts out around him, his body taut and pearled with water droplets. His mahogany hair plastered to his forehead. I stare at him, my eyes and body frozen. He stares back at me, his expression hard to decipher. Ripping a towel from the rack, he wipes down, his strong shoulders, his wide chest, his rippley abdominals, his memorable junk, really getting up in it. His eyes hammer into mine.
“Are you buying or browsing?”
“Browsing. Uh, leaving.”
I turn on my heel and scramble out of the bathroom, his laughter following me. I slam the door shut and slump against it, his rumbling laugh bouncing around the bathroom on the other side.
Remember to knock first. Remember to knock first. Remember to knock first.
Needing to distance myself from the situation and embarrassment, I make a pot of coffee and pour myself a cup, taking it down to the private brick courtyard behind the building. It’s peaceful. I sit in a wrought iron chair with a matching table and sip on my hot drink. Sweet jasmine cascades over the brick wall separating me from the street traffic beyond. A fountain trickles the soothing melody of running water. Blue, green, and clear bottles dangle from the branches of trees, occasionally clinking together when a warm breeze picks up.
I’m savoring my vanilla-flavored coffee and the cool refuge of the courtyard when Greier joins me with his mug of black coffee. When I offered him some the first time, he said, “Don’t drink that frilly shit.”
“Good,” I said. “More for me.”
I take another drink of my “frilly shit” and watch him stare out across the courtyard, his eyes glazed over with thought. His hair is wet and slicked back. He’s also shirtless, and his knees and thighs peek through the frayed edges of his ripped jeans. Unlike most men who buy their designer jeans shredded, his are clearly torn from natural wear and tear. He doesn’t wear them to be fashionable. He wears them because they’re comfortable. He don’t do frilly shit.
When my eyes drag from his masculine knees to his face, it’s trained on me.
“Is there something particularly interesting about my knees?”
“No, not particularly.”
He grins a closed mouth grin.
I return one.
Returning his focus out over the courtyard, before he takes another draw of his black coffee, he asks, “Are we going to talk about it?” referring to the peepshow.
“Let’s pretend what happened, didn’t,” I suggest.
“I’m down for a game of pretend.” He shrugs, still looking out at the brick garden.
“Good.” I release the breath I choked back when he mentioned our wet, naked encounter.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t want to take you right there in the bathroom.” He turns toward me, his arms crossed on the table, and leans in. “I’ll pretend I didn’t want to bend you over the sink, press your face into the mirror, and fuck you until you release all over me.”
And I’ll pretend I didn’t want you to.
“Greier.”
“Don’t worry, Rae.” He sits back in his chair again. “I know the deal.”
“What’s with the bottles?” I ask, nodding my head in the direction of the closest tree, desperate to ignore the sexual tension between us. Not because I’m afraid to give him the wrong impression about us, but because I’m starting to.
“It’s a voodoo thing. Or hoodoo. I can’t remember. Anyway, it keeps evil spirits away or something to that effect. Izzie believes in all that. She put them there.”
“Do you believe in voodoo?”
“Can’t say one way or the other. Figure I can use all the help I can get.”
He tilts his head to the side briefly and then draws on his coffee.
“Have they worked so far?”
His bottom lip juts out in a thoughtful pout. “Spirits, yeah. People, no.”
“Whether they work or not,” I glance back to the bottles swaying on the branches, “they sure are pretty.”
“Yeah,” he agrees with an almost hypnotized voice, catching my attention and putting it back on him, “they really are.”
He isn’t looking at the bottles. He’s looking at my eyes.
“Uh, um,” I stutter.
He must get a high out of teasing me, ruffling my feathers. He smirks, telepathically patting himself on the back. I see it play across his gaze.
I nip that in the bud real quick, glaring fireballs at his head.
Showing mercy, he relents with a chuckle.
“If you like them, wait until Mardi Gras. Beads hang from every balcony and tree. It takes months to clean up. There’s so many, sometimes they aren’t all found, or they’re just left wherever they land.”
“Maybe it’s silly, but I’m really excited about seeing everything.”
“It isn’t silly. Carnival is something you have to see before you die. I’m happy to give you any time off you need.”
“I thought you hired me to help relieve the other girls.” I lean forward over the table. “I’d hate to think I was getting special treatment because I slept with the man in charge.”
My cheek muscles pull the corners of my mouth into a smile. He gives me one in return. It’s really radiant. It lights up his whole face like a Christmas tree. But it dies a slow death, mimicking mine when I realize what I’m doing. I’m flirting with him. I can’t even practice what I preach. I reel myself back in and sink deeply in my chair, distancing us from each other. Distance is good.
“Yes, I did. However, the other girls have lived here their whole lives. They’ve experienced the best of Mardi Gras. You may never get the chance again depending if you stay or not.” He pauses, as if letting the words settle on his tongue. From the solemn expression on his face, he doesn’t like the way they taste. “I’ll switch a few shifts with the other girls, so you can attend some parades and street parties. I’m sure Izzie’ll show you around town.”
“She is,” I confirm, taking a draw of my coffee. “Maybe you could show me, too.”
His eyes stick on mine.
“Happy to.” He looks out over the courtyard and gives me some reprieve from his steely gaze, finishing off his coffee. “At the end of the season, there’s a series of masked balls. The Magnolia Masquerade is the most anticipated. If you’re here then, would you be my plus one?”
“Love to,” I reply. “If I’m still here.”
He nods his head in understanding.
I nod mine.
Neither one of us speaks after that.
What’s left to say?
Greier went out again.
It’s the third time in over a week. I understand people go out. He is a thirty-something single man with needs. But it’s the hour he goes out. Staying out from two ‘till the gray hours of morning, creeping up the stairs and across the living room like I can’t hear his hefty mass gracelessly bumping into furniture or his clodhopping footsteps.
What could he possibly be doing during those hours? Where does he always sneak off to? Somewhere seedy? To another woman? Gambling? Or maybe he’s an underground cage fighter. That’s my favorite theory. I’m not normally the nosy, green-eyed type with men, wondering where they are and who they’re with. I certainly wasn’t that way with Shaw. Deep down, I welcomed the space from him and my other suitors. But none of them were Greier. He’s different.
This particular night, after a trying shift, I pass out on the couch sometime around midnight. But my eyelids shoot open when I’m woken by noises from the restaurant. It’s four in the morning—when everyone should be long gone. Still in a haze, I assume Greier’s back from wherever he spends most nights. But the sounds become increasingly more aggressive and louder. Without hesitation, I grab the phone and make a beeline for the drawer with the gun. I search the usual hiding spot, but it isn’t here, my hand shakily rummaging for it without success.
Goddammit Greier.
The dumbest idea crosses my half-awake brain. I need to check if it’s a burglary or just him. If I call the cops unnecessarily, it could bring their attention on to me. Knowing what I know, I’m not sure Shaw or his father would go to the cops, even though Lou has them in his back pocket. But you can never be too careful. If they recognize me, my cover’s blown. They’d drag me back to my former life in chains. The idea scares me more than the person destroying the Magnolia.
I tiptoe down the stairs with footsteps lighter than helium and carefully open the door at the bottom. Left without a gun, I clench my hands around the phone, slinking down the hall until I’m able to poke my head around the corner. Behind the bar, a man with a baseball cap and jacket has his back turned to me. He’s handling the bottles, dropping one on the ground with a crash.
This clearly isn’t Greier.
Before I think about my actions, I jump out from my hiding place, pointing the phone at the burglar with my outstretched arms, and shout in my most authoritative voice, “Put your hands in the air and get down on the ground.”
His hands soar toward the ceiling. Same as Greier the night I accidentally aimed the gun at him.
“Wait,” he says with a wobbly stance. “Don’t shoot.”
“Get down on the ground!” I repeat loudly.
“I can explain,” the vandal insists.
“Reagan?” Greier questions from the entrance, his bluer than blue eyes directed at the pretend gun in my extended hands. Following them, they skate to the man cowering at the bar, and he rumbles out an aggravated groan. “Dad, put your hands down.”
“Dad?” My arms flop to my sides, my right hand barely gripping the phone. “As in—Dad?”
“Can’t hide it, anymore, I guess.” He sets his hand against his forehead, partly obscuring his eyes, and releases a drawn-out breath. “Reagan, this is my drunk of a father, Tobias. You’ll have to excuse his stupidity. It gets the better of him sometimes.”
The clearly intoxicated man turns around, his hands still occupying the space above his head. “Nice to meet ya,” he slurs before toppling over and out of sight behind the bar.
“I didn’t know,” I state.
“How could you?” Greier walks over to his father, picking him up from the floor. He rests his father’s arm around his neck to prevent him from falling again and guides him toward the back, to the apartment door. I follow closely, my blood pumping from the weird encounter. After struggling with the stairs, he practically drags his father across the living room and into the makeshift guestroom, Tobias’ feet unable to sync with his son’s. When he gets him to the bed, Tobias collapses face forward onto the mattress, bouncing from the dead weight. Greier sits on the edge of the bed, unlacing his father’s bootlaces. I kneel bedside and start on the other foot. He stops working at the knot, smiling tiredly down at me. I smile back. We continue to work the laces until they give and yank the boots off and toss them on the floor. I tuck them under the bed in case Tobias wakes and gets out of bed. Wouldn’t want him to trip on them in his inebriated state.
“I’ve got the rest, Reagan. You should go back to sleep.”
“Not a chance.” I rise from my knees and walk toward the door. “We should get something in his stomach. I’ll make him soup.”
I’m stepping across the threshold when he stops me.
“Rae.”
“Yeah, Grey?”
“Thanks,” he mutters, visibly ashamed by the situation, by his father. I get the impression this isn’t the first time this has happened. I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“Consider this me paying it forward.”
I walk out of the room and let him finish helping his father into bed. Once I’ve warmed some soup, and we’ve poured it down his throat, I leave a glass of water on the nightstand and a trashcan on the floor near his head. I join Greier out in the living room. He drops onto the couch and rests his arm over his eyes. I sit beside him, wondering if he senses my gaze beating into the side of his face. If he does, he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. For fifteen minutes, the room is silent. He sits with his face partially hidden. I watch him, study him, his sullen face, his slumped body. I want to smash the silence like the glass bottle shattered on the ground in the bar, but Greier beats me to it.
“He promised he wouldn’t do this anymore,” he confesses.
“This isn’t the first time,” I confirm.
“This week or my whole life? Because the answer to both is no.”
I realize something right then. He vanishes around the time bars close. Could he be dealing with his father? One way to find out.
“You’re with him when you disappear, aren’t you?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” I shake my head and stare down at my lap, my legs tucked against my body on the cushion.
“You are correct.”
Ouch.
Why does the truth sting so much?
He slaps his thighs and then rises from the sofa. “Want to drink?”
“Call me nuts,” I utter, “but after that, I’m not in the mood for alcohol.”
He serves himself a stiff one and then walks over to the hi-fi to flip it on, returning to his place next to me. The unmistakable vocals of Louis Armstrong soothe us through the warm crackles of vinyl. Lifting the rim of his glass to his lips, the amber liquor passes over them and into the perfection of his mouth. I know. I’ve had it all over my body.
“He’s always been like this one way or another,” he opens up. “And I always take care of him even though I swear I’ll never do it again. He fucks up, and I clean his mess.”
I quietly study his impeccable apartment, arriving to the conclusion that his past is the reason for his orderliness. It makes sense.
“That’s why your apartment is so tidy, isn’t it?”
He glimpses around the room, as if to corroborate what I’m saying is true. He releases a quiet hmm. “Don’t know,” he mumbles with a shrug, so it sounds like a single jumbled word. “I suppose when you’re raised in anarchy, you seek order. I would’ve given anything to have a father capable of controlling himself, so I could’ve been a kid a bit longer. But life isn’t like that.”
“No,” I agree, “it’s not.”
It’s funny. We’re completely opposite, even in the way we were raised, and yet I understand him. I would’ve given anything to have parents who permitted me the slightest control over my own life, to be surprised by what came next. And Greier desired order and parents who would protect him from the world.
“My dad’s the opposite,” I admit without thinking before I open my mouth. “He demands control, obedience, and order. Most of my life has been simplified into an organizer, planned down to the minute. I’ve never been able to make a choice for myself or simply be until I came here.”
There’s a fleeting moment of thoughtful pause. I swear I almost hear the gears in his head turning as he sips on his drink. His eyes have that blank, not-really-here glaze to them. I watch him, spotting the instant he comes back to me from the depths of his brain.
“Reagan, did you want to marry your fiancé?”
My lips tighten and pucker.
This is volatile territory. If I’m not cautious, I’ll give too much away. Only problem, I’m beginning to want to give him everything. Since that would be a terrible idea—“I wanted to make my parents happy.”
“Oh, I see.” The uncomfortable grimace on his face tells me he does. “Is that why you ran?”
My stomach drops to my feet.
We couldn’t avoid this conversation forever. I knew it was coming. Hoped I’d be long gone by the time it did though.
“Part of the reason.” Without asking, I reach over and take the drink from his hands. If I’m going to do this, I need a nip of liquid courage. “I might’ve even accepted the fact I didn’t love him if he hadn’t done what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“Broke my trust, spit on the sacrifice I made.” I chuckle lightly, and he peers at me with a brow twisted in confusion. “I can’t blame him. How could he respect me when I had none for myself? I was blindly and submissively ready to spend the rest of my days with a man I barely knew and didn’t care for.”
“But you didn’t,” he reminds me.
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at the drink in my hands. “Maybe I owe him for giving me the strength to leave.”
“When you first came here, you said you didn’t have anyone to call. That wasn’t entirely true, was it?”
“Yes and no,” I vaguely answer. “I’m not exactly drowning in friends. And my parents…they wouldn’t understand. They’d probably convince me…no, force me to take him back,” I correct myself, “to live a life of misery and emptiness. But they have no idea who he is, what he’s capable of. They have no idea what my coming back would really mean.”
“So,” he mutters, “you really had no one to call.”
“No,” I whisper with a strangled voice. I’m not a crier. But I’m battling back the tears, my loneliness truly sinking in for the first time.
“But they must be looking for you.”
“I’m sure they are. You wouldn’t let a prized horse get away,” I turn my focus from the drink in my hands to his eyes, “would you?”
He cringes at the coldness in my tone, at the bluntness of my pain. “You think that’s all they see you as?”
“I know they do.”
“Well, you’re welcome to hide here as long as you want, Rae. I like the company, and you’ve really saved me at the bar.”
“Thank you.”
I hand him the emptied glass. He takes it and sets it on the table.
“I should probably get to sleep,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s been a long, weird night.”
His upper body falls back on the couch, one leg hanging over the edge, the other bent and tucked beneath it. His large frame overtakes the width. He can’t be comfortable out here.
Hope I won’t regret what I’m about to offer.
“Would you rather sleep in your bed—with me?”
He looks at me, uncertainty in his eyes.
“You’re asking me to sleep with you?”
“Not you below me or me below you, next to each other and actually sleeping. But yes.”
His brow jumps halfway up his forehead.
“Alright,” he says, failing to hide the pleased surprise in his voice.
It makes my stomach flutter.
“Alright,” I repeat, failing to hide the excited uncertainty in mine.
When we enter, the outside light is faint but bright enough to locate the bed without turning on a lamp. No more than a shadow, his large silhouette moves to the other side. We crawl into the softness and settle. It isn’t long before I’m asleep, soothed by the comfort of his warm mass next to mine.