Promise (12 page)

There is nothing about her that does not call to the beast she seems to have awakened in me.

“How do you know it wasn’t
my
plan to get
you
to pay
me
fifty bucks an hour to get drunk on your wine?”

She smashes the ball right back in my face, and I’ve got nothing to return.

She lets out a full laugh this time in answer to my paused response, and it’s like the damn Forth of July inside my head as well as inside my boxers.

This was not what I was expecting when I swung that door open to my Dad’s room two days ago. But, I’m almost inclined to call a truce with God and give a nod of thanks.

She’s so much more than I’d imagined, and there’s so much more to discover. For the first time in my life, I want it all.

I see how fragile she is, standing there, taking the last bit of wine between her lips. I want to crush her under me and fuck all the delicate parts of her. I want to treat her like she is strong and powerful even as I break her in such a stunning way that only I can put her back together again. I need to hold her as much as she needs to be held. She just doesn’t know it yet.

Over the next four hours, I do my best to keep my instinct to stalk her under control. The primal part of me that has surfaced is intent on her every move, but I manage to get a few hours of focused work done on the letters and the drawings.

Louis and I are meeting tomorrow to go over the book project, and, even with the biggest distraction of my life floating around in the next room, I manage to make some progress.

The book is a culmination of some seemingly random connections that, when put together, become so much more than just the sum of their parts. Faces have always fascinated me, and even before the fire, I would scribble silhouettes on scraps of paper, napkins in restaurants, and school books.

I could see pain in faces—I never seemed interested in drawing the happy people. I always saw the distraught, the lonely, the grieving. Those are the ones that I could never forget. I still can’t.

Sitting at one of the long tables, I’m scribbling notes on a clean page of a fresh notebook, one that looks exactly like the hundred or so others on the twin table to my right.

My eyes look first at the letter, then, selecting the words that strike me, I write them inside the small sketch of a young boy’s face.

“He didn’t even cry. He took it like a stoic soldier trained for that kind of torture. That was the day I became the real monster. The one that took away his childhood.”

I drop my head before I scribble more notes. Most of the time I don’t know why I still do this, why I need to know more. I’ve seen enough. Read enough. Felt it in the marrow of me.

There is real evil in the world. The worst of it comes packaged inside those that promise to love and protect us the most.

Promise

I had already decided on my way over not to be friends with him.

No, not just friends but
anything
with him.

He is just the $50-an-hour guy and nothing more.

The son of Mr. Fitzgerald.

Beckett. BFF.

If only he would follow in his father’s footsteps and have no interest in speaking to me other than to complain.

But, no.

Beckett has an
interest.

He looks at me like I’m somebody.

It’s unsettling.

I like it.
That is the real problem.

I’ve managed to cultivate a demeanor that matches my looks.

Cold. Disquieting. Off-putting.

I’ve become the ghost.

I may be blind in one eye, but I’m blind in other ways as well, ways that have kept me safe.

The truth is, I just don’t like people all that much. That, plus my cool demeanor, has kept me from making any real human connections for a very long time. With men especially.

Well,
okay
, outside of
Bruce,
who managed against my will to wiggle himself somewhere between boss and friend.

Unfortunately, there is something about Beckett—this half-faced mountain of testosterone and calm control that ignored my well-cultivated stone walls. Before I could smack myself back into line, I’m drinking wine and laughing with him.

Laughing.

Because he’s funny. Sort of. I think.

I haven’t busted out a laugh like that in months, and then it was with Bruce, and he is completely harmless when it comes to that kind of flirtation.

Is that what he was doing? Flirting? Yes, most definitely. And me? No, I was
not
flirting. Was I? Oh god, please, no.

When I’m on stage at the club, men look at me, but I don’t feel anything. They aren’t necessarily interested in me. I’m an anomaly. A sexual aberration.

And they never flirt.

They gawk.

They ogle.

I’m like an exotic jar of pickles they want to pick off the shelf and take home. But, they’ll throw the empty jar away when they’re done.

God, my mind is strange, pickles? Really, I’m a jar of pickles?

Anyway, it’s never just flirting.

I’ve showered Mr. Fitzgerald (Paul actually, but I like to show respect, keep a professional distance), changed his bandage and read to him for an hour, and now he’s leaning his head back on the burgundy La-Z-Boy, his breathing deep and even.

Now what?

I tap the toes of my brown loafers on the cement floor, unsure what to do next.

Every once in a while, I can hear the sound of movement out in the enormous space of the loft. I wish I’d brought my jacket into the apartment with Mr. Fitzgerald, then maybe I could just slip out.

I catch a glimpse of the orange of my jacket still hanging on the back of the chair.

Where he put it when he slipped it off my shoulders, when he brushed my neck with his fingers, and I forgot how to stand.

He’s paid me for five hours today already, and I’m just pushing three and a half now.
What am I supposed to do for another ninety minutes with Mr. Fitzgerald snoring away?

I feel the distinctive tension low in my belly playing over and over the two times we’ve touched. Barely touched. But, it felt like some Oprah “ah ha” moment. Dang it.

STOP.

I don’t stop. I think more. I heard him take a deep breath as though the contact between us latched onto something painful inside of me that he felt as well.

STOP STOP STOP

This is not me. I’m not that girl, the one that turns from lead to liquid at the touch of a man.

I lean forward, tapping my feet faster, and I see Beckett sitting at one of those massive tables covered in notebooks and what looks like letters. I think they are letters because each one has an envelope stapled to the top.

Maybe it’s fan mail. Maybe he’s some secret porn star, and I should be going all fangirl over him.

But, there are other stacks of odd-sized papers without envelopes. They are all set in absurdly perfect stacks at absurdly perfect distances from each other.
He’s got some OCD stuff going on.

This place is as organized as a barracks. I thought I would do some cleaning earlier when I put Mr. Fitzgerald in the shower, but there’s nothing to clean. Even the cement floor is sparkling.

He’s got one letter or whatever it is to his right, there's a notebook open in front of him, and he’s drawing or writing in it. The notebooks are larger than the kind you take to school, and I raise my head and squint to try to get a better look.

They aren’t notebooks, after all; they’re sketch books. And, he’s sketching.

I can’t help the little, ironic giggle that comes out.

Maybe because he doesn’t look like the sketching type. If you took a picture of him and regarded it objectively, you would immediately think gym rat or jarhead.

That’s completely unfair, but I know how people decide who you are at first glance. And, that is what you would think, looking at not just his size but his face and the presence of him. The force that surrounds him.

When he speaks to me, there is a protective sort of kindness that comes through. Something about him makes me want to step closer even as something else about him pushes me away.

I look over as Mr. Fitzgerald lets out a groan and adjusts himself in the wine colored lounge chair. The little apartment is as neat as a pin, and I think of the chaos back in my own room at Bruce’s apartment.

I can’t stop tapping, so I cross my legs. I’m pretending there is not an enticing pressure growing between my thighs. When I look back up to see what Beckett is doing, I practically jump off the chair because he’s leaning in the doorway watching me.

“Jesus! You scared the crud out of me.”

He must have a freakin’ stealth mode because I only looked away for a second and damn if he wasn’t here without a sound.

He busts out that gleaming smile and that chipped front tooth catches my eye again.

How can a tooth be sexy? God, I’m a mess.

I slip my hands over my forehead and down the sides of my hair in an attempt to push it behind my ears when little, sharp tugs remind me I’ve got it tangled up in a bun on the top of my head.

He’s smiling bigger now.

He is clearly amused at the way I pulled my own hair because I couldn’t freakin’ remember if it was up or down.

#pathetic

In the awkward moment of silence, my stomach decides to let out a croaking, painful growl. It’s always done that. And usually at the most horrifying moments possible.

I let out a little whimper, closing my eyes for a second and shaking my head.

My arms dart around my waist in an attempt to muffle further embarrassment. I am acutely more aware of my extra muffin’ top that curls over the waistband of my jeans.

He reaches to the top of the door frame with both hands and stretches, pushing his chest forward while he lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a painful sigh. His left eye closes a bit more than his right when he smiles, and I find his face, scars and all, fascinating and stunning.

The vivid white of his t-shirt stretches over his chest and then tightens around his center. I hate that I notice the indentations around what must be the world’s most perfect set of abs. If I can see them through a t-shirt, what must they look like without?

STOP

Visions of Brat Pitt’s body in
Fight Club
flash through my mind. He’s that guy. Sleek but hard with just enough of everything without being too much. More cut than bulked.

Only, he’s better, bigger, and as far as I know, he’s not a psychotic vision of himself that exists only inside his own head.

My stomach roars again.

“
Oh. My. God.
I’m so sooooorrrry. I didn’t plan very well.” I look anywhere but at him. “Since your Dad is asleep, maybe I can run down the street? I think I saw a Subway a few blocks down.” This is not really a neighborhood where I would feel all that great about running down the street, but I didn’t think to bring anything else to eat after I left Windfield.

I tug at a long strand of wayward hair that has attached itself to my lip and feel his eyes on me.

He’s staring silently, and I realize just how big he is. I feel like an impish child under his gaze.