“Hey, Dar, do you want me to come with you to O’Doul’s? Afterward we can go hang out somewhere.” Bailey, sans Chester, poked her head into his office, startling him. Her cornflower blue eyes looked hopeful but wary, turning almost morose when he shook his head no. “Aw, come on, Dar, you never have time to just hang out anymore.”
“I’m just tired, Bai. It’s this heat, when the weather cools down…” He let the promise trail off. He couldn’t explain why to her. Hell, he didn’t know why he didn’t want to hang out anymore. That he just didn’t feel like it wasn’t enough of an excuse, at least not one she would let pass without wanting to dissect. And Darcy sure as hell didn’t want to be dissected right now.
“Okay, Dar, we’re all going over to Megan’s place for drinks around her pool. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.” She masked her disappointment behind a smile, but he could hear it in her voice.
“Sure, and hey, Bai, you know I love you, right?” He wanted to see her smile again, really smile, instead of the plastered on, social smile that seemed to be part of her uniform where he was concerned.
“I love you too, Dar. I’ll see you Thursday.” She smiled wanly and in a flurry of loose flowing skirt, she was gone, leaving him alone to lock up.
It was Chester. Of course, it was Chester; she called him Chess, which irritated him, much like the nickname Dar irritated him, just worse. Bailey and her preference for nicknames had always baffled him. Darcy knew one thing, Bailey only gave nicknames to people she had some use for. He couldn’t really call this thing between them love. He’d never really thought she loved him.
Chester had come between them long before they’d left Oregon behind for the Big Easy. Darcy suspected as early as last September, when she dropped the last syllable of his name. Of course, he wasn’t going to blame anything on the appearance of a nickname, there were other indications they were sleeping together. She would take Chester’s call when they were together. Darcy lost track of the number of conversations in which Chester was the only topic. He was young, fresh, idealistic, not burdened down by his own mortality.
Sex had become infrequent, but that was Darcy’s fault more than hers. He just didn’t like thinking there was a third person in bed with them. As a result, they’d drifted apart before the move; the last time he’d slept at her place was long before Christmas, and even then, not much happened. He shrugged it off. Blamed the magazine, blamed her for letting Chester come between them, for losing interest.
Darcy didn’t delude himself, he knew it was him. He’d lost interest long before Chester came along. The friends with benefits relationship they’d shared since college didn’t excite him anymore. He wanted something else. But damned if he knew what that something else was.
Shaking off the unwanted thoughts Darcy loped down the three flights of stairs and locked up. The very second he hit the street, heat engulfed him, heavy, damp heat that seemed to seep into his very bones. He inhaled deeply, hoping to clear his head, but the stench made him gag, the assorted odors of New Orleans had never grown on him. The river, the lake, the aging city, all combined to create an odd smell that he couldn’t get used to. Today was one of those days. The oppressive heat, the swamp-like humidity, the bum pissing in the alley. Shit, he wanted to go home.
O’Doul’s Pub, just up the street, was a welcome relief from the heat. It was open, filled with light and music at all times of the day or night, and most importantly, the bar was blessed with a working air conditioner.
“Hey, Ducky, you want the usual?” The bartender called to him the second he stepped inside, a smile on his face. The taunting nickname Darcy could live with. He was proud to be a Duck.
“Anything, as long as it’s cold. God, it feels like heaven in here.”
“I heard about your AC problems, damned copper thieves most likely got to it. They stripped mine clean last year. Not once, but twice. Cost me a fortune to replace, but what you gonna do? You gotta have it.” The bartender talked while he reached into a barrel filled with ice and pulled out a bottle of the imported beer Darcy loved, popped the top and handed it off to him.
“Start a tab for me, will ya? I’m meeting someone, an artist for the magazine. I want to impress him. He’s gifted, just what we need to class up the joint.” Darcy found a booth with the best possible vantage point, beneath one of the industrial sized air vents, so he could watch the front window and get as much of the blasting air as he possibly could.
“Sure thing, Ducky, you want some lunch or should I just call the paramedics now?” The bartender hitched his eyebrows, as he looked him up and down.
“I look that bad, huh? I can’t get used to this heat,” he tried to make his voice light.
“This ain’t hot,
cher
, not by a long shot. Just wait ‘til August, then we’ll talk about heat.” And there it was, the mocking grin, the familiar yet oh so hated litany that made Darcy physically fear the coming of August.
“Yeah, yeah, so you keep telling me. Send me out a sandwich or something, but after I stop sweating.” He held the bottle in a salute and caved into the wonderfully cool leatherette booth with a sigh.
Two beers later, Darcy felt human again. His button down shirt was rumpled, but it was at least dry now, he’d long ago done away with his tie and loosened his collar. Hell, he’d even rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. He felt like a slob, but he was cool and that was all that mattered.
Caleb Mitchell’s file lay out on the table before him, outlining just the basics of his career. While he had no formal schooling, Caleb had spent his early life trotting around the globe, photographing war and unrest. His paintings had been displayed in New York, London and Paris. Impressive. Why he wanted to freelance for Darcy’s little e-mag was beyond him, but he wasn’t about to turn up his nose at talent.
He heard the rumble of an engine before the motorcycle pulled up outside and parked in front of the bar. The rider, dressed in faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt covered with an unbuttoned brown leather vest, pulled the helmet off and brushed his hair back from his face.
Fascinated, Darcy watched him climb off the bike and saunter into the bar. He stopped to talk to the bartender and while Darcy watched, they both looked at him. The biker’s gaze seemed to caress him as he walked in his direction. He had an easy infectious smile, his gait long and rolling. Jesus,
this
was Caleb Mitchell?
“You’re Darcy Butler?” He didn’t wait for Darcy to say a word; he just fell into the seat across from him, laying a pair of long, tan arms on the table. Smooth, muscular and adorned with silver chain bracelets of varying sizes that moved fluidly as he did. “I was expecting a woman… Sorry, that was rude.”
“I get that a lot, the curse of a romance loving mother. She named me after her favorite heroes and didn’t seem to think I’d get my ass kicked for it. You must be Caleb Mitchell. It’s nice to meet you, Mr Mitchell. I must say, I’m a fan of your work.” Darcy didn’t know why he was babbling like an idiot. He hadn’t expected the man to look like a movie star version of a Hell’s Angel biker. Or that he’d have such piercing eyes. Green eyes. Damn. He cleared his throat.
“Mr Mitchell was my father, just Caleb is fine.” He pulled his file over without even asking. “I see you’ve done your homework. I look pretty good on paper.”
In real life too.
Jesus, why in the hell did he just think that? He cleared his throat again. “What is it about my magazine that interests you? Certainly not the pay. A talent like yours, you could go anywhere. Not that I’m not flattered, and we could certainly use you. I’m just curious.”
“I’m bored. You’re here.” The artist stated simply, his smile growing wider, his gaze to the bottle Darcy tipped to his lips.
“Pardon me, where are my manners. Can I get you a drink, some lunch? I’m sorry to have changed the meeting place but the air conditioning quit at the office and the heat was just unbearable.” Babbling again, shit.
“Probably copper thieves, little pricks can strip a unit faster than you can sneeze.” Caleb had a wonderful accent, not really regional, more like you hear in old movies, a long slow drawl, very southern. “I’ll have one of those, thanks.”
Darcy raised his bottle and stuck up two fingers, the bartender smiled and nodded. “Sure thing, Ducky, you want that sandwich now or later?”
“Now would be great. Whatever you got up there, O’Doul,” Caleb shouted before Darcy had a chance.
“Sure thing, Caleb.” The bartender grinned and sent back a shout to his kitchen staff.
“I come here a lot when I’m in town. Only the locals know this place, it’s off the main tourist drag and I like the sandwiches. Why’d O’Doul call you Ducky?” The artist looked him over, his intelligent eyes filled with a curiosity that had Darcy at the point of blushing.
“I graduated from the University of Oregon. Made the mistake of telling him, been stuck with the name ever since.” What was it about this man that made him want to talk?
“Them Ducks nearly beat Auburn last year in the BCS championship, nothing to be ashamed of there. We judge people by the quality of their football program down here if you haven’t figured it out yet.” Caleb’s laughter rumbled across the table, making Darcy smile.
“Yeah, well, I did notice, about a week after I moved here.” He picked at the label on his empty bottle under the unwavering green gaze.
“What part of Oregon are you from?” Caleb pushed his hair back from his face with a practiced move, the chains gliding from his wrist to his forearm. His hair was all one length. Pushed back, it fell to his collar, brown with blond highlights he didn’t get from a bottle.
Darcy cleared his throat before he spoke, “Astoria, on the Oregon coast.”
“Yeah? That’s a gorgeous town. I went whale watching up there a couple of years ago and stayed in Astoria.”
“Where are you from originally, if you don’t mind me asking? You don’t exactly have the native accent.” Curiosity finally got the better of him.
“Oh,
cher
, you have no idea how long it took to get rid of my accent.” His voice changed, growing more melodic, his accent thicker even than O’Doul’s. “But no, I’m not born down here, you are right about that. My mama, she came from here. I spent most of my life on the bayou, seems like, here and in South Carolina. I speak low country tidal and Cajun as a first language. You have no idea how messed up that is.” He shifted back to his original accent with practiced ease as O’Doul brought out their sandwich baskets.
“Don’t mess with the boy’s head,
cher
, he’s new around here.” O’Doul smiled at the two of them, winked at Darcy before he left them alone.
“Hey, O’Doul, you think I ought to go work at this here boy’s magazine?” Caleb said suddenly, seeming to catch himself off guard if the look in his eyes was any indication, the Cajun accent infusing his speech almost as if it were unintentional.
“It’s a pretty good rag,
cher
. You want to kill it before it can do any good?” The bartender laughed, his eyes sparkling with good humor.
“I don’t aim to class it up none, no. Thought it would class me up a tad,” Caleb shot back in the same accent. Darcy just sat and watched them banter.
“Not gonna happen. You need the dough?”
“No,
cher
, I got too much of that.”
“Then, if Ducky there is willing to take your bullshit on, go for it. Can’t hurt none, and might keep you out of trouble.”
“You willing to take my bullshit on, Ducky? And believe me, I come with some heavy shit. You might regret it before it’s said and done.” The artist turned serious, his eyes losing some of the sparkle.
Darcy took a bite of the sandwich, hot beef juices searing the back of his throat while he wondered how he’d gone from being the interviewer to the interviewee. He swallowed, watching the artist watch him.
“I believe we can come to some arrangement.”
Darcy Butler sure as fuck wasn’t what Caleb expected. Beyond the obvious, button-down oxford, khaki slacks, penny loafer and rimless glasses wearing, prep school do-gooder, who never extended his style past the basic uniform. Behind those glasses was a pair of brilliant blue eyes that caught Caleb’s attention before he even knew the man was the person he was there to meet.
Dark hair and blue eyes always did it for him. Man, woman, it didn’t matter; he was a sucker for the combo. A blatant curiosity filled those eyes, Caleb noticed it the moment he stepped inside, and he’d tried to pretend not to see him staring. He tried not to let the caress of those eyes get to him. But they did, tricking him into letting the flirt loose. So there he sat, laying on the charm just to see Darcy’s boy-next-door face blush a rosy red.
Caleb watched as he bit into the oversized roast beef sandwich, licking at the trickle of beef juice that eased down his chin. Caleb had to turn his head before the urge to help him lick it clean became a compulsion he couldn’t control. Damn, shit, fuck.
“I believe we can come to more than an arrangement.” Damn, he hoped that didn’t sound like a come on. This was supposed to be a job interview. He’d discovered the offices a few weeks ago just down the street, stopped in and asked what sort of magazine they were. The receptionist handed him a brochure with their basic information.
Started in Oregon by a bunch of fed up, unemployed, college graduates, they sought to tell the truth, as they saw it at least. But it wasn’t a political magazine, which was what he’d expected when he logged on. Or a celebrity tattler either. They did product reviews, covered some social stuff, vacation destinations, aimed at Gen Y.
Y not ask Y!
Stupid name, but catchy. Lately they’d been instrumental in helping the generation get back on its feet after the recession hit them hard.
Y not ask Y!
had grown out of the movement. Information for the next decade, information that is practical and timely. He liked what he saw. Mostly.
“I like your magazine, Darcy. I’ve been on the edge of self-employed for the last fifteen years. I can get behind a company that not only promotes self-starters, but is also run by self-starters. But frankly, your art department is lacking, sorry to be the one to tell you.”