Othello Station (14 page)

“Yeah. Okay.” I reach out and run my fingers over her knuckles as they grip the edge of the counter.

She breathes deeply and lifts her head. “So. Your turn?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me more about your dad.”

The acid churning in my stomach intensifies. There’s a sour taste in my throat, now, matching the bitterness stewing in my gut. This is definitely the wrong conversation to be having right now. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? I stutter, trying like hell to backtrack somehow. “He passed away. It was awful, obviously. That’s all there is to know.”

“What was he like? Was he like you?”

“No.” The word comes out sharp as a guillotine. “He was better. Much better.” My eyes harden, focusing on the windows in the bedroom. Mira seems to notice the distance that blooms there, following my gaze outside, where the comforting blanket of grey covers the city below.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “We don’t have to talk about this, either.”

“Good.” I snap out of the haze and gulp down some coffee, turning to place our plates in the sink. “You work today, right?”

Mira blinks, hesitating at the abrupt change in subject. “Oh, um…yeah. I do. Not until later this afternoon. I have the evening shift.”

“I think I’m going to go for a run and then get back to the hotel. I have some work to get done.” I turn on the faucet, pouring some dish soap onto the sponge. I start washing the plates, scrubbing them quickly. Not only do I have work to get done, I need to get to my vitamins. And my blood pressure cuff. I haven’t logged my numbers in days.

“Oh, okay. Well, we still have most of the day off. We could hang out until I have to go in for my shift, if you want.” Her shoulders go stiff as she stands by the sink, watching me clean the dishes. I scrub and scrub, determined to make the plates spotless. “How about we go to your place for a change?” My fingers fumble over the sponge, dropping it in the sudsy sink water. My jaw clenches and I forget to breathe.

“My place? Why?”

Mira’s body goes from tense to completely still. She opens her mouth to speak, but it takes a second for her to find her words. “I don’t know, I’d just like to see it?”

“Your place is closer to the hotel. No use in going over to my part of town today.”

“I just thought we could do something different, that’s all. If you don’t want me at your place, that’s fine.” She clears her throat and finally moves, turning for the bedroom.

My hand catches hers, grabbing her softly by the wrist. The words come up dry, escaping the sour bile in my throat that threatens to kill them dead. I don’t know why I’m saying this. I don’t know what I’m doing, at all. I only know I don’t want her to go. And I definitely don’t want to hurt her. I cannot hurt this dove. I just can’t. “I want you at my place.”

“Grant, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“I want you at my place,” I repeat. My tone is curt, less patient than I’d hoped, but I get her attention and that’s the most important thing. “We just can’t stay long, okay? I really do have to get back to the hotel because all of my things are there and I have a project I have to get started on.”

“Okay…” Mira eyes me cautiously, then drops her gaze to our hands. She studies the connection for a moment, watches as I rub circles into her wrist. “That’s fine. I’ll go get ready.”

“I’m going to finish these.” I nod to the dishes and gently release her wrist, reaching over to kiss her forehead. She allows me to kiss her, but she’s still tense. Still uncertain. Her guard is back up, and it’s all my fault. I put it there. Just after I’d helped bring it down a little.

She wanders into the bathroom and I release a deep sigh as I resume washing the dishes, drying them to perfection. I return to my coffee, sipping it slowly, wondering how I’m going to make it through this one. It’s time for me to walk the walk, just as I encouraged Mira to. But I’m not ready.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be.

***

My heart is in my throat. I don’t know what I’m doing on this train. I glance down, where Mira’s hand is linked with mine.

And I remember.

I’m on this train to make this girl happy. Everything about this picture makes absolutely zero fucking sense. And yet here I am on the Lightrail, with this stupid swelling sensation in my chest while this girl holds my hand. It slipped into mine easily—too easily—as we boarded. I’m counting down the stops, now. Othello is getting close.

“You okay?” Mira looks up at me, eyes wide and curious. I don’t have a clue how to answer that. What a loaded question.

“Yeah, why?”

She shrugs. “You’re miles away.”

“Just starting to get tired. Been a long day.”

“We can take an old-man nap at your place if you want.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nah. Me, you, and a bed sounds heavenly right now.” She sighs and it turns into a yawn, resting her head on my arm. I want to turn and pull her closer, press her against my chest, but I don’t. I’m far too uneasy about bringing this girl to my place. Add to that the fact that I cannot, for the life of me, place why that desire is there in the first place. She’s just a girl. A pretty receptionist with weird hobbies and an even stranger dedication to her work place.

Nothing about Mira suits me. She isn’t my type. She’s got far too much sunshine for my liking. And really. She’s a groupie who rummages thrift shops in the middle of the night. The girls I usually fuck get their nails done and go to tanning salons. Their biggest aspiration is to look like the next celebrity dingbat to grace the covers of those trashy entertainment magazines.

The Lightrail announces the Othello Station stop. My fingers drum softly on my pant leg as I ready myself to exit the train doors. Mira stands next to me, quiet and stoic. I’m not worried about her seeing my place. I don’t have laundry all over the bed. There are no condom wrappers littering the floor or unwashed dishes in the sink. My place is spotless. Always. Everything is concealed, no baggage visible to the human eye. But I know what awaits me on the inside. And the girl standing next to me is far more perceptive than any other girl I’ve ever brought to my place. Not that I’ve brought many to my place. I usually go to them. And then I’m gone. My apartment is my haven. A sacred place. I don’t play in my own backyard. Especially now.

“Grant?” Mira’s voice calls to me as the train doors slide open. “You coming?”

I blink and break myself from my thoughts, stepping out into the damp air to join her. “Yeah.” She lets me carve the path toward the apartment building, following me as I cross the street. She looks around in admiration as we enter the building. It’s a far cry from her building’s vintage charm. Everything about this place is clean, sleek, and modern. It’s a chic, urban oasis in the midst of the city’s hustle and bustle. “Let’s take the stairs,” I say, pointing as I pass right by the elevator. “This thing takes forever.” She nods and continues to follow me. I lead her up four flights of stairs until we reach my door.

The moment I crack it open, a breath escapes the apartment like a tomb exhaling for the very first time. It’s only been a few days since I’ve stepped foot inside, but it feels as if ages have passed since I crossed the threshold. I’m instantly quietly as I enter, and Mira follows suit, wordlessly padding into the apartment behind me.

“Well, this is it,” I finally say, eyeing the space for anything that might be out of place. I never miss a thing. Just as I thought, everything is perfect. “Not much to it.”

“It’s so…” Mira gawks, turning slowly in a circle.

“Tidy?”

“Sterile.” She lifts a hand to touch the shiny, marble kitchen counter.

“I keep things clean.”

“You mean, your maid does, right?”

“Marsha. She’s the best housekeeper in town.” She’s also great in the fucking sack, but that ship has definitely sailed.

Mira’s mouth finally closes. She continues to take in the space, wandering from one corner of the apartment to the other. She looks at my living room as if it’s an ancient artifact. “I’m not sure if I should sit down or not. Should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“I’m afraid to touch anything. It’s like… a museum. I might break something important.”

“You’re being dramatic.” I roll my eyes and nod to the black leather couch. “Have a seat. Want something to drink?”

“Sure.” She gingerly sits on the couch, her knees closed tightly as she rests her hands on her lap. She’s poised to perfection, and entirely too fucking uncomfortable.

“Mira. Relax, will you?” I’m officially the biggest hypocrite on the goddamn planet right now.

“I’m trying!”

“Well, try harder. Turn on the TV if you want.” I watch her as her eyes drop to the remote on the coffee table. She stares down at it like it’s glass. “Fine. I’ll do it. Hold on.” I move to the kitchen, catching my reflection in the stainless steel of the refrigerator. Flashes of my face that day, the day my mother called me, pound my mind. The memories swamp me, full of visions of me, curling up in the fetal position here on the kitchen floor, like the weak, spineless man I am.

My knuckles turn white as I grip the fridge door handle.

“Orange juice, water, or wine?” I call out, voice tight.

“Too early for wine,” Mira calls back from the living room, her voice distant, as if it’s caught in a wind tunnel somewhere. “Water’s fine, thanks.”

I yank the door open, ridding the reflection from my view, and reach for the filtered water. I pour us each a glass and return to the living room, surprised to find Mira on her knees in front of the television. She’s thumbing through the DVDs on the shelves, pausing when she reaches a section of books and photo albums. “There are no movies there,” I say quickly, my voice sharp and stern.

“You have good taste,” she says proudly, holding up a book from my Vonnegut collection. “Oh, this looks interesting.” She moves to a thick album next. A photo album I positively have no intention of showing her. Ever.

“Wait!” I dash toward her, slamming the water glasses down on the coffee table first before lunging in her direction. Her eyes pop wide and she jumps, dropping the album onto her lap. Photos spill out and tumble all around her, littering the carpet. She scrambles to pick them up, collecting them one by one and shuffling them into a pile.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles, unable to look at me.

“I told you there were no movies on that shelf.”

“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Just stop,” I bark, snatching the book from her lap. I swipe the photos from her hands, moving like lightning. “Don’t touch them. Just don’t worry about it. I’ll clean them up.” She freezes for a moment, letting me take the reins, then suddenly rises to her feet in one fluid movement. She remains still, staring down at me as I hurry to pick the photographs up. “Your water’s on the table,” I say gruffly, without glancing up in her direction. My hands are acting on their accord, my fingers possessed with the need to conceal each and every photo that’s spilled from the album.

When I finally risk a glance at Mira, I discover it’s too late. She’s already seen each and every picture. There is no going back, no undoing the damage.

“Grant, I never meant to intrude. It was a mistake. Please, forgive me.”

A rope inside of me snaps. This is why I do not bring women to my place. This right here. This is why I refuse to see the same woman more than once, unless she knows better. Unless she knows to stay the hell out of my goddamn business. Unless she knows to not push herself in to my life, my mind, and my memories. Mira does all of those things without even trying. She’s a living, breathing, walking liability. Everything about her is one big fucking risk. She might be a kind, gentle, beautiful dove, but she’s a fucking landmine and she needs to go.

“I think you’d better leave.” The words are out so quickly, spoken with such certainty, that I know there will be no confusion. She’ll hear it, loud and clear, and she will never, ever step foot in my apartment ever again.

“Grant—”

“I said, go!” I rise to my feet, photos in hand, unable to control the rage that powers through me. My limbs shake and every muscle in my neck bulges as I yell in her face. She winces and lifts her hands, stumbling back until her heels hit the edge of the coffee table. “Please, just leave!” A beat passes and she still doesn’t move, stunned in place. It isn’t until I chuck the album and the loose photos across the room onto the leather couch that she jumps into action. She sails through the living room, past the kitchen, and out the door. Out of my life. Out of my apartment.

Out of my tomb.

My heart, lungs, and mind ache as I stalk through the hotel lobby doors and up to the front desk. My calves burn, matching the pain that radiates through me like bubbling lava. I haven’t stopped running until right now, until I reached the hotel’s awning. The second Mira fled the apartment, I did, too. I ran and ran, hopped back on the Lightrail for Westlake station, then ran some more. The world whizzed past me, bright and lively, while I chased away my demons. The pictures of my father and me in his final days still flood my memory. I can still see them scattered all over the living room floor, pooled around Mira’s ankles and knees. I should’ve known better than to bring that damn dove into my apartment. I should’ve kept her locked in a goddamn cage.

But I know better now.

“Can I help you, Sir?” Carina looks at me curiously as I slam my hands on the reception desk. “Do you need some water?”

“Yes, and yes. But first, I need you to extend my reservation.”

“Okay…”

“That means right now, please,” I snap, nodding to the computer screen. “Give me another week, at least.”

“A week? Well, I’m not certain I can do that, Sir.”

“Grant. The name’s Grant. You know damn well who I am. You stitched me up.”

“Okay, Grant,” she shifts uncomfortably, no doubt taken back by my agitation. It’s rolling off me in thick, voracious waves, but I really don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn about any of this. Not this place, not this mousy nurse-in-training behind the desk, and definitely not that soft, holy, intrusive dove that flew into my life and fucked everything up. In a matter of days, my world has been turned upside down—again—and I see it, now. It’s all thanks to Mira. No way am I putting up with this shit anymore. I’m done. That goes for her friends, too.

I hold a hand up to stop Carina’s spiel. “Before you ramble on about it being Valentine’s week and no room availability, let me tell you something. I’ll pay double—make that triple—the nightly room rate. I’ll buy this fucking place out, do you understand? If you need me to speak with your manager, I will. I already have a lot to say to whoever owns this place, anyway. You’ll be hearing from me, believe me. So, for the sake of your ridiculous customer service scores and for the sake of the sanity of everyone on the premises, how about you work your magic on that computer and find me a room for the week. Got it?”

Carina blinks, sputtering as she searches for words. “Wait just a minute, Grant. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Do you want to keep your customers satisfied, or don’t you? It’s that simple, Carina.”

A curtain suddenly drops over Carina’s sweet, innocent features, and she shifts into full-on Bitch Mode. I’ve officially unveiled her dark side, and I have to admit, as a heavy flicker glints in her eyes, I’m a little scared. “You’re not just a customer, though, are you, Mr. Michaelson?” A hand flies to her hip and she lowers her voice. It’s firm and angry and hell-bent on putting me in my place. “I warned you not to hurt her. You demanding to stay here—for another week!—is a surefire way to hurt her, and you know it.”

“You don’t know anything about this.”

“Oh, I don’t?” She nods sharply over my shoulder. I glance behind me to find Mira waiting tables in the café area. Her face is pale, and her eyes are red and splotchy. “She came in this afternoon crying. She’s a mess. I know all about it.”

A sharp pang strikes my chest. “I didn’t hurt her. I had every reason to—”

“The hell you didn’t. You had zero reason to kick her out of your apartment the way you did, with no explanation, no apology, no nothing! Now, I don’t care what demons you have in your closet. We all have them, so man the hell up.” She quickly straightens up and smooths out the edges of her suit jacket as a customer approaches behind me to wait his turn in line. “Go to another hotel. Don’t do this.”

“No,” I insist. I pull my gaze from Mira, unable to focus on the pain there. I’ve inflicted it, but I had no choice. Just like I have no choice, now. I cannot go back to my apartment. And I refuse to go to another hotel. Not until Mira sees just how wrong she is to get involved with me. Not until she realizes that pure, unselfish doves have no place in my world. Somehow, I have to shatter that illusion. If I don’t do it now, she’ll never give up hope. She’ll just keep flying around and around my head and heart until she has nothing left. And that’s the worst kind of pain of all.

“Open up my reservation,” I demand, gesturing for Carina to get to work. “I don’t care what room type you have to put me in or how much I have to pay to be here. I’m not leaving.”

Carina’s nostrils flare and that glint in her eyes hardens, but she moves into action tapping away on the keyboard. “We’ll be with you in just a moment, Sir,” she calls to the customer waiting behind me. “You can’t just leave her alone?” She whispers under her breath. “At least have the decency to say you’re sorry.”

“What is it with you girls?” I laugh, slapping my hand on the counter. “You all stick together, defending one another and making each other’s business your own business. Mira’s mess is her own damn mess. Let her clean it up, will you?”

“No,” Carina says sharply, her eyes hitting mine like a fiery missile. “Her mess is my mess. That’s what friends
do
, Grant. We carry each other’s burdens. Even when we know we can’t help, we carry them because their pain is our pain.” She swipes a key into the key reader, tapping on a few more buttons, then leans over, planting her hands on the counter, matching my stance. “Maybe you’ve spent so much time alone, with no one to look after you, and no willingness to look after anyone else, that you think that’s stupid and pointless. And you know what? That’s just sad. No man is an island. Everyone needs someone, and we don’t get to just use and dispose of people for the sake of self-preservation. One day, maybe long after you push Mira out, you’ll learn that.” The key reader beeps and she grabs the keys, shoves them into a key packet, and chucks them toward me. “You’ve got five more days. Move your things to room 305. Next?” Her chin jerks up and she smiles brightly at the man behind me, welcoming him to step up and take my place.

I stumble aside like a wounded animal, sliding the keys toward me as I step out of the way. The man behind me walks right up to the counter, happy to take my place. Happy to have his turn. I walk toward the elevator in silence and jam the button, refusing to look back in Mira’s direction. I don’t need to look at her again. I’ve already seen her face. I’ve already seen the damage. I already know what I’ve done, and what I’m about to do. It certainly wouldn’t make my father proud. It would probably break his heart. But I already did that—broke his heart. I stuck the nail in that coffin the day I didn’t go to see him. The day I never went to say goodbye. And every day before that, when I failed to meet him at Othello Station, to go to his chemo appointments.

I dropped out of his life, just like I’m about to drop out of Mira’s.

***

My muscles ache from running and I’ve loaded up on my vitamins. My blood pressure numbers are logged—some of them pretty damn high—and I’m ready to flush Mira out of my system for good. There’s a hard knock at the door. When I answer, Samantha’s standing there with her arms crossed. “One of these days, maybe I’ll figure you out.”

“Today is not that day.” I reach out and grab her, pulling her inside and slamming the door.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing with me. And I know exactly what I’m doing with you.” I line her up against the wall and step back to take a good look at her. I fight to push out images of Mira at every turn, flipping the switch. Samantha is as fake as they come. As usual, her makeup is plastered on and perfect, and her barely-there clothing show off every delectable curve of her body. “Clothes off, come on.”

She leans back against the wall and a pleased smile curls her lips. “Need it fast and rough today, do you?”

“Always.” I close the gap between us. I’m not interested in playing games today, and I’m definitely not interested in making small talk. I pin her wrists up above her head and grind against her, slamming my mouth onto hers. She moans against my tongue, stirring my dick to life. Her taste is all wrong. Her scent makes me home sick. Nothing about this feels the way it used to, just as I’d feared.

And I’m really fucking pissed about the fact.

“Oh my God,” Samantha’s head falls back as I bite into her neck. “You’re so good at this.”

“I know.” I kiss her hard to shut her up, abruptly reaching up her skirt to drag her panties down her legs. We won’t be making it to the bed. We won’t be moving an inch. I won’t be satisfied until I pound my way home. Her purse slides from her shoulder and tumbles to the floor, and I wrench her leg up just as quickly as I undo my fly. I squeeze my eyes shut, as tightly as I can, until I see nothing but black, black, black. White wings try to seize my thoughts, but I shoot them down, focusing instead on Samantha’s strange coconut scent and the taste of her red lipstick.

One of her wrists wiggles free and she reaches down, grabbing my cock. She squeezes me in her hand, bringing me to her pussy. I quickly dive into my pant pocket for a rubber and then drive into her, harder and faster than I’ve fucked in a long, long time. Samantha’s head knocks painfully against the wall, but she’s loving every second of it, and my hands and knuckles are scraping against it as I hold her up and ram into her. I lean into her as her arms fall, landing on my shoulders. I bounce her up and down, keeping my eyes glued shut, resting my forehead against her shoulder. She begs for more. I give it to her and then some.

We both climb higher and higher, each second bringing us closer to the edge. Just as I’m about to explode, I open my eyes and yank her hair, pulling her head to the side. I can’t look into her eyes. I can’t look at her face. I just need to feel her body, feel her desperation for the release, but the sound of that god awful flapping distracts me, pluming around me from every direction. I try pressing my face into the crook of Samantha’s neck again, hoping that will push out the sound. Hoping it will drown out the image of the woman moaning before me and replace it with a different fantasy.

One of Mira panting in front of me.

But the moment I allow my mind to go there, I’m bombarded with a tidal wave of desire. I’d give anything to taste her lipstick. To inhale her scent. To hear her moan in my ear. I want that angel’s wings wrapped around me again, just as much as I want her legs wrapped around me in a vice grip. Samantha’s voice grows louder. I cup my hand over her mouth to dampen her cries, and she thinks I’m being kinky or something, so she only moans louder. The sounds shuttle through me, sending the blood pumping until it’s pounding thickly in my ears.

I come hard, emptying myself into her, delivering quick, sharp thrusts. I try to bite back the name, try my best to push back the damage before it’s done, but it’s no use. Mira’s name bursts from my lips and my weight sends Samantha’s bones crushing into the wall. I’m smothering her, covering every inch of her body, clinging on in pure desperation. For a moment, she’s so immersed in the high of her own orgasm that she doesn’t even notice. She rides it out, letting me smash her against the wall, then slowly drops her legs and slides down as I release her from my grip.

“I need a shower,” I tug at my sweaty t-shirt, wrenching it over my head.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Samantha sighs, sagging against the wall. She fusses with her hair and shimmies her skirt down, then saunters over to the bed to sit and stretch. “I’ll happily take another round of that whenever you’re ready.”

“Give me fifteen.” I retrieve a towel from the vanity area and disappear behind the bathroom door, immediately turning the hot water on full blast. The steam fills my lungs and I let it work out what tension is left in my neck and shoulders. The scorching water cascades down my back, washing away the evidence. Once I’m freshly shaven and in my boxers, I stroll out of the bathroom to find Samantha in a hotel bathrobe, lounging on the bed with the TV remote in hand. She’s flipping channels, looking about as bored as I already feel. I’m down for another round, but then she’s got to go. She better not get any crazy ideas, like spending the night here with me.

It’s not happening.

“Anything good?” I drop down next to her, turning my attention to the TV.

“Nope. Looks like you’ll just have to fuck me again.” She tosses the remote and rolls onto her side, delivering me a devilish grin. She crawls over and climbs on top of me, letting her white robe fall open. My hands glide up and over her hips, then move further north to the curve of her breasts. My eyes close while my mind shoves the sound of her voice to some distant, far-off place. I let my body take over, giving in to pure sensation.

A familiar, timid knock at the door sends my eyes snapping open wide.

“Oh!” Samantha rolls off me and rushes to the door, making quick work of her robe tie. She waits until she’s sufficiently covered up to answer.

“Samantha, wait—” I jump up and race after her, but it’s too late. The door is open, and there stands Mira, a flicker of pain drifting over her face when she spots me. A hint of anger flares hot in her brown eyes, but the disappointment lurking there overshadows it, bringing the root of the emotion straight to the surface. Pure, undiluted hurt. I’m the cause of it, and nothing I can do or say in this moment or from here on out can take it back.

I swallow hard, eyes dropping to the silver tray she’s holding. She needs to see this. I need this dove to fly away. I don’t know what I was thinking, spending time with her to begin with. Let alone getting involved with her—touching her, fucking her, holding her. It was downright stupid. And now we’re both paying a price. We’re both standing here, looking in a mirror. Seeing each side of this thing. Facing it all head on. She can’t have me, and I can’t have her.