I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (13 page)

Before I get started, I turn the ceiling fan on low and grab a lemon-lime soda out of the fridge. When I settle back down at the table, I wait a few minutes for my drink and the cool rotations of the fan to cool me off. Then, I get to work on sketching a few practice drafts in the book. After I know how I want to present the apartment I go right to the flyer. In no time at all, I’ve created a fucking damn good depiction of the space I plan to rent.

Over in the apartment there’s a half wall separating the living room from the bedroom in the back, but I draw the wall as transparent. That way, prospective renters can see both rooms are furnished. There’s not a lot of stuff, but there’s enough, and it’s nice. Using a dark blue pencil, I shade in the coloring of the small couch Tate and I dragged up when we were both high, and then I sketch the TV and the little wooden table it sits on. For the bedroom, I draw the lines of the iron headboard, the one I refinished when I was all coked up. I add in an old trunk that sits at the foot of the bed and the small dresser up against the wall on the left. I mark two side-by-side doors on the farthest walls as
closet
and
bath
.

Once I finish with all the shading and coloring, I have a fairly kick-ass flyer. Hell, I’d rent the apartment if I didn’t already own the house. I’ve had a rental rate in mind for a while now, but since the place looks so good I up it a bit. What the hell—it’s still a sweet deal.

Once I’m finished with the flyer, the need to sketch keeps the colored pencils going. It’s like that sometimes, like I have to get whatever image is haunting my head out onto a piece of paper. Like I need to give the image life, give it some substance, make it real. And the image currently in my head—searing my brain, in fact—is of Kay. And how she looked this afternoon when she wrecked into me in that parking lot.

She probably has no idea what I saw in her eyes—want, lust, need. A need I definitely could fill. I had every intention of following through. ’Cause let’s be honest, I’m incredibly attracted to Miss Kay Stanton. But after hearing her story from Father Maridale—and seeing the pain in her eyes when our own conversation got real—there’s no way I’ll be pursuing that course of action.

Kay is a sandcastle on the beach, and I’m a fucking hurricane. I’d not only wash her away, I’d fucking destroy her. Even Father Maridale sees that, which is why I received the warning, in not so many words, to not corrupt her. But that doesn’t mean I can’t draw her as I see her in my head, the image of this afternoon from my perspective.

I pick the sketchbook up and flip to the back. Then, I start to draw Kay, hair a little mussed, bottom lip slightly pouted. I draw her eyes and the sex I saw in them, sex…for me. I sketch every detail, down to the veins in the petals of the roses that were printed on her dress. I shade in the soft texture of her cardigan, the little pink thread that came loose that she didn’t think I’d see. But I missed nothing this afternoon, and I miss nothing now. Kay’s immortalized on paper in minutes.

I take a look at the finished sketch, holding the book up to the light.

Sweet girl is, appropriately, a lot of pink. Pink roses, pink sweater, pink cheeks. And pink places I can only imagine. Now
that
kind of pretty in pink I could get into, literally. But I won’t and I can’t, but, fuck, does my body want to.
Shit.

I rip the page from the book. No one can ever see what I’ve drawn since it’s blatantly obvious I don’t see my subject as just a friend. But I can’t bring myself to throw this sketch away, even though it’d be prudent. It’s just too, I don’t know, special maybe. Kay may appear wanton and sexual in my sketch, but I’ve also drawn her as the incredibly beautiful, stunning woman she is. And I can’t bring myself to destroy the image I’ve created.

Against my better judgment, but following my heart, I fold the drawing in half and tuck it in the back of the sketchbook, wondering the whole time if Kay sees herself this way. Does she know how truly beautiful she is? Someone should make sure she knows if she doesn’t. Too bad that someone can’t be me.

Resigned that I will, sadly, never touch Kay Stanton, I put the sketchbook back on the hutch, turn everything off, and go upstairs. But when I lie down to sleep, I can’t stop thinking of sweet girl’s beauty, her fragility—pink and delicate. Not unlike the roses on the dress she wore today.

Thinking of those roses remind me of a time when I was very little, three or four. I see my father giving my mother a single flower. It may have been a rose, I was too little to know, but I recall trying to touch the pretty bloom. But my dad wouldn’t let me. He said it was a special, fragile flower and I had to leave it alone. Just like Father Maridale said to leave Kay alone. She’s fragile, don’t touch her.

I toss and I turn, thinking about that damn flower, and what eventually happened.

Naturally, being a curious and stubborn toddler, I didn’t listen to my dad. First chance I got I crawled up on a stool and put my little fingers all over that pretty pink blossom.

Big mistake… Let’s just say I quickly learned what fragile meant.

When my mom came in and caught me touching the flower, I yanked my hand back.

And that’s when all the petals fell off.

That night I dream of my father. We’re standing behind the church, next to the iron gated entrance. “Am I dying?” I ask my dad. “Or am I already dead?”

Why else would I be at a cemetery with my dead father?

My dad laughs, but it sounds far away, like an echo in a valley. “No, son, you’re very much alive. You’re just getting started, in fact. You have a lot more living to do.”

I take a step into the cemetery and my dad tries to follow, but he’s stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I turn back.

“The ground is consecrated, I can’t go in.” His filmy hand points to his milky, opaque form. “Suicide, you know.”

The sun is shining brightly and I have to shield my eyes. “Why’d you do it?” I ask my father.

He shrugs a shoulder, much like I often do. No answer. My dad is as silent as the stone angel at his grave used to be.

There’s a noise from inside the cemetery and we both turn to see. It’s Will, he’s running around the markers, smiling and laughing. He’s little and happy, like he was before my father passed. Dad and I smile identical smiles, but then Will trips and falls and we’re both brought to action by his cries.

Dad and I move to help Will, but only I can cross over. Dad puts his hand out like he’s touching an invisible barrier that’s been erected between us. I hesitate, but Will cries out once more.

“Son, go help your brother.”

“But-but…what about you?” I implore.

Dad starts to fade away. “You can’t help me, Chase, but your brother still needs you. He always will. You’re there, I am not. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, son.”

Will is crying, Dad is fading, and I am somewhere in between. My hands reach out to both, but before I can choose which way to go, I wake up.

Chapter Four

Kay

Monday arrives in sunny, warm glory. I slip a simple dress over my head and adjust the crisscross of smooth fabric in the back. I feel light and free, pretty in mint green cotton and sandals with oh-so-skinny straps.

When I leave my apartment the junkies lingering in the parking lot rake me over with their empty eyes. Hard stares delivered without apology as I walk to my car. But not even their lascivious looks—or the one long, drawn-out wolf whistle—can bring me down today.

Remember all that hope I was feeling yesterday? Well it’s officially blossomed. I am finally ready to give this “living a full life-thing” a real shot.

I owe this in part to Chase Gartner. If you had told me twenty-four hours ago I’d be singing this tune I never would have believed it. But it’s true. Chase’s passion to move forward has inspired me to do the same. Good looks
and
an inspiration? That guy really is amazing.

I smile to myself. No wonder I can’t wait to see him today.

A little while later, after I’m safe and settled at Connie’s desk in the church office—well,
my
desk for the summer—time becomes a countdown of hours, a race with the clock. I take a few calls, type up a memo for Father Maridale, and make some last-minute changes to June’s online church calendar. But other than those minor tasks things are slow and the morning hours seem to drag on. Needless to say, the second noon arrives I jump out of my seat and race over to the school to find Chase.

The man I seek is standing outside the principal’s office, amid drop-cloth-covered furniture he’s dragged out to the hall. Chase is turned so his back faces me. The first thing I notice is his tawny hair. It’s far messier than it was yesterday, but in a very sexed-up, delicious kind of way.

Chase is busy doing something with his cell and doesn’t notice me right away.
Fine with me
. I stay put and check him out. I love the way the worn and faded denim of the jeans he’s wearing seems to hug his ass. Everything looks so firm and taut. And I can’t help but notice how his black T-shirt pulls tantalizingly at his wide shoulders, especially when he sets his phone down and moves a couple of paint cans from the table in front of him to the floor. The sleeves of his tee ride up slightly as he moves and the edges of two tattoos become slightly visible. There appears to be one tattoo on either arm. I lean forward and squint, quietly. I don’t yet want to be discovered.

The ink on Chase’s right bicep appears to be a number, but I can’t be sure. However, when he wedges a screwdriver under one of the paint can lids and pops it loose, his arm muscles flex and the sleeve of his shirt inches up, revealing more of the tattoo. It’s definitely a number, a seventy-two, I think.

Over on Chase’s left bicep, the tat is much harder to see. It’s a scroll of words, that much is clear. But the letters are small and inked in a dark script, making it too hard to read from where I’m standing. And I can’t move or he’ll hear me. So I just watch for a few seconds, enjoy the view, and then take a tentative step forward.

Chase hears the tap-tap of my sandal heels and turns around.

“Hey,” we both say simultaneously.

For every one step I take, Chase takes two. I count three of my own and then I am face-to-face with this stunning man. Even though he’s obviously been painting all morning he looks great. Neither of us says anything at first, but then Chase smiles and asks me how my day has been.

“Good, it’s been good,” I reply.

Chase is so close and his eyes—more blue than gray in the hall lighting—make a pass over my body. Quickly though, so quickly I almost miss it. But I sure don’t miss the heat in his blues when they catch and hold my gaze.

Chase takes me in and stirs me up. He makes me feel special, just with the look he’s giving me, like I may be one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. I know I am not, but I like how he has the power to affect me like this. And I like the fact that—though it may be fairly demure, in length and style—the thin straps at the shoulders of my sundress and the cross of fabric in the back have me displaying far more skin than yesterday. I don’t quite know why but I want to bare even more for Chase Gartner. My body, maybe my soul—

“You’re looking pretty today,” Chase says softly, breaking me away from my errant thoughts.

His voice is seductive, unintentionally I’m sure. Still, his words warm my cheeks.

I thank him, and hope against hope that I am
not
blushing beet red. But I suspect I am.

And then I’m certain of it when Chase dips down and bumps my shoulder playfully with his own shoulder. “Come on, shy girl,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. “Let’s get this party started.”

Oh yeah, the tour. Party, indeed. I laugh a little. “If only,” I mumble under my breath.

Sadly, my tour hardly qualifies as fun. But nevertheless, Chase gives me his full attention from the moment we get started. He’s already been through the administrative offices, he informs me, the storage areas too. So I skip those rooms and lead him around the corner to the classrooms that are scattered along the long hall to our right. It takes all of about five minutes to walk past and peer into twelve square rooms filled with empty desks and empty chairs.

“Which one is your classroom?” he asks when we reach the end of the hall.

“Oh,” I breathe out, surprised, but pleased that this gorgeous man is interested enough to make such an inquiry.

I point to where the tour started, at the other end of the hall. “It’s down there. It’s the first one we passed.”

We start back down the hall side-by-side, our bodies parting the gray sea of lockers once more. When we reach the first classroom on the right, I say, “This is it.”

Chase nods and we step inside. This is the first day of break, but nostalgia washes over me. I glance over at my desk wistfully, and then to all the little, empty desks. Chase, meanwhile, walks around the front of the small classroom, examining and touching everything. He taps the chalkboard with his knuckles, picks up and checks out a dried-up potted plant on the ledge beneath the windows, and then flips an eraser sitting on a desk over. Chase appears to be very hands-on.

When my hands-on companion reaches my desk, he picks up a big, shiny red ceramic apple that is sitting next to a pencil sharpener. There’s a goofy, lopsided smiley face on one side of the apple. Chase turns to me and quirks an eyebrow.

“From one of the kids,” I explain. “Well, actually one of their mothers.”

With care, Chase places the smiling apple back down on the desk and continues his perusal. He walks down the middle row of desks, lifting up a couple of the tops on his way to the back.

“They’re all empty,” I tell him as I lean against the frame of the door.

Chase shrugs one shoulder, continues to the back of the room, and then returns to the front of the class. Not just the children’s desks are empty. The whole room is mostly devoid of supplies and décor, with the exception of a few drawings pinned up on the corkboard trim around the sides of the chalkboard.

The drawings have garnered Chase’s attention, so I explain, “Some of the kids chose to leave their artwork here for next year’s class.”

One particular sketch seems to have captured Chase’s attention. It’s a drawing of a teacher pointing to a chalkboard in front of a full class. The teacher is just a stick figure lady with
burnt sienna
crayon-colored hair. An A of lime—a dress—cloaks her stick body. The drawing is basic; a depiction created by first-grade hands. But out of all the little pictures this one is clearly the best. It stands out, a gem among mediocrity. Despite its simplicity, there’s a lot of detail—windows with a springtime view, crooked white letters on a black chalkboard, the red apple on my desk that Chase was handling just minutes ago.

“That’s supposed to be you, right?” Chase asks, glancing over his shoulder at me as he points to the stick figure lady.

“Yes.” I laugh.

He turns back to the drawing and taps the construction paper. “This is actually very good.” I nod, even though he’s still focused on the drawing and can’t see me. “For having been drawn by someone so young,” he qualifies, still turned away.

“It is really good,” I agree. “One of my students, Timmy Froehlich, drew it. I think it shows great potential. He’s got talent, that’s for sure.”

Chase nods slowly in agreement, and since I’m curious as to why badass Chase Gartner is taking such an interest in the cutesy drawings of my students, I take a chance and ask, “Are you interested in art? Do you draw?”

Gorgeous cheeks redden ever so slightly. “A little,” he says quietly, before starting back to the door, head down.

“Wait,” I say as he hurriedly walks past me. I follow him out into the hall. “Are you any good?”

Now, badass Gartner is definitely blushing, avoiding my stare.

“You are, aren’t you?” I press, laughing a little at how cute his sudden shyness is.

He stops, turns to me, and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, maybe. I guess I’m okay. I’ll show you some sketches sometime and you can judge for yourself.”

His eyes meet mine, and the way he looks at me—really looks at me, like he’s trying to see
in
me, or figure me out—makes me blush, for the second time this day.

Wondering if I’ll ever get used to this man’s unexpected moments of intensity, I softly mutter, “Come on,” and then I lead the way to the stairwell across from my classroom.

We finish off the tour with the gymnasium downstairs and then return to the hall outside Mr. Kelly’s office.

“That’s it,” I proclaim with a dramatic flourish of my arm. I frown. “Sadly, we’ve reached the end of the tour.”

Chase leans back against the wall and crosses his well-muscled arms. “Well, that took all of about…what? Ten minutes?”

I pull my cell from my purse. “Fourteen minutes, actually.” I toss my cell back in and look up at Chase. “I told you there wasn’t much to see.”

“But there was,” Chase responds softly, a smile playing at his lips. “I got to see your classroom.”

“Yeah, you did.”

I’m not sure where we should go from here. Like, should we part ways, or hang out in the school a while longer? I’ve no idea, but luckily Chase has a great suggestion.

“It looks like we still have about forty-five minutes for lunch. Would you want to grab a bite to eat?”

Spending forty-five more minutes with Chase is something I am not about to decline. I don’t tell him
that
exactly, but I do accept. And after a short deliberation, we decide on a diner on Market that’s only a short walk away.

The old-fashioned restaurant—known to everyone in town as simply
the diner
—has been a Harmony Creek staple for years, situated on the same busy corner since the fifties. I haven’t walked into the place in ages, but I’ve eaten meals there with my parents in the past, a lifetime ago.

When Chase and I walk in, I glance around. Nothing has changed; everything’s the same as I remember. Black-and-white checkered linoleum floor, an old-fashioned soda fountain along the back wall, Formica counters, and dozens of black-and-white framed photos on the walls. Grainy images of how things once were in this small town. Booths, covered in maroon vinyl, line the row of windows in the front and stretch around to a closed-in section on the side.

Chase and I ask to be seated at one of the booths with a view to the outside world.

“It smells so good in here,” I say to Chase as the hostess leads us to our booth.

“You’re not kidding,” he replies.

After we’re seated, we peruse the laminated menus and order. Chase chooses today’s special: the double-decker burger and fries. I stick with a salad.

“Hungry?” I ask when the food arrives and my good-looking lunch companion digs right in.

“Starving,” he says, looking up at me briefly before returning to his big, manly bites.

I imagine Chase probably doesn’t cook much for himself, seeing as he lives all alone out in that old farmhouse. But I don’t ask anything, I just let him eat in peace.

By the time Chase is finished, I’m still picking at my salad. It’s not that I am not hungry—I am, quite a bit in fact—but I feel self-conscious. It’s silly, I know, but I am just not used to eating with another person, especially not someone as undeniably gorgeous as the man across from me.

When the waitress brings our check, I reach in my purse for some money. “I got this,” Chase says.

I know he’s not making a whole lot more than me working for the church, so I throw up the hand not digging around in the purse and wave it back and forth. “No, no. I have money—”

“Seriously, Kay,” he interrupts, putting his hand over the check like it’s already decided.

I huff, and he adds, “Think of it as my way of saying thank you for the tour.”

I have to laugh at that one. “My tour was barely worth the cost of our iced teas, Chase.”

My comment is not entirely in jest. I truly believe I should pay my share, and the “tour” just doesn’t cover it.

Chase picks up the check. “I have a proposal, then.” Suddenly, I am all ears. “You let me get this,” he continues, waving the check a little, “and, in return, I’m going to ask you for a favor. There’s something I need help with.”

“Okay,” I agree, before I even know what I’m agreeing to.

Heck, I could be agreeing to birth his firstborn. Not likely, but it’s sure fun to imagine, especially the part pertaining to exactly
what
we’d have to do for me to uphold my end of the bargain. It would definitely require engaging in some of that crazy-good sex Chase supposedly knows how to make happen.

While I am lost in inappropriate thoughts Chase would probably be shocked to learn, he pulls out a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He unfolds and places it on the table.

“I have an apartment I’d like to rent. I drew up this flyer last night.” Chase taps the piece of paper. “The place I want to rent is on my property, but separate from the main house. It’s above a garage that’s not been used in years.” He runs his fingers through his hair, making a few strands stick out at funny angles. I suppress a smile. “So, if you could make some copies of this flyer for me, I’d really appreciate it. That’s worth the price of lunch, right? What do you say, sound like a fair deal?”