Without Scars (11 page)

After I made sure it was okay with Charlie, I called up some of the girls from work and invited them. Once most of us had a full plate, the energy in the room picked up. Conversations drifted quickly. Beer bottles knocked. Food was shared. The music got louder. Laughter ensued. Strangers became instant friends.

The girl on my left—Brianne or Brenda—was telling a story about something, but I was watching Charlie’s mouth. Watching him laugh at whatever Brody was telling him. Watching his lips skim the rim of a beer bottle. Letting my gaze wander down his body like Samira’s hands had. Wanting to know what all of it tasted like. His mouth. His tongue. His fingers. His abs. His dick. His cum. All of him.

Shit. I gripped my plate as a burn blew through my veins. Charlie had caught me—that smile of his rising on one side. I grinned back. He started to speak, but an older man walked in from the backyard with an aluminum pan of ribs. People either rushed to help him or cheered. Clearly this was Julian. It was like meeting a head of state. He even looked liked one—wrinkled brow, mustache, a wash of white hair, a wide trunk, and a protruding stomach. Charlie waved to him and Julian’s eyes brightened.

“Come meet him. He’s so awesome,” he said, handing our plates to Brody. I got up and followed him. I was so nervous, trembling in the sweltering house because this man was obviously important to Charlie. He spoke with a slight accent, and the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He reminded me of my grandfather.

After small talk with me, he hugged Charlie and asked about the rest of the Daras. Someone yelled out to him from the kitchen and Julian signaled that he’d be right over. “I have a good story tonight,” Julian said to Charlie.

“Great, can’t wait to hear.” Charlie put his hand on Julian’s shoulder. When he walked away Charlie turned to me.

“Story?” I asked. “About what?”

“Just his life. He left Cuba during the boatlift with his wife and son, but they died when the boat they were in capsized. He never remarried. He’s been here alone for a long time and works as a cook. The neighborhood is poor; there’s no getting around it. Sometimes they don’t even have enough for dinner. So he started cooking for them some years ago, and eventually it turned into something bigger. People donate cash and ingredients, but he does this all from the goodness of his heart. Never requires payment. Everyone’s allowed in. I encouraged him to share old stories. We don’t just come here for the food. People really like him.”

He cast his eyes down for a moment, like he was suddenly irritated. His tone got soft but his expression was dark when he spoke again. “He’s been letting me record his life story. I’m typing it up…like a memoir. So he can have it…or turn it into an actual book. I think he has a story that deserves to be told…and heard. I want people who don’t know him now to know him forever.” Something shifted inside my chest. In a moment of paralysis I could only stare at him. It was like spotting a double rainbow. He tilted his head, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” I smiled, leading him back to the couch. “Our food’s probably cold.”

A while later a bunch of us gathered in Julian’s fenced backyard. It was after one A.M., but he was still grilling for the late arrivals. Charlie sat in one of the chairs and pulled me onto his lap like it was exactly where I belonged. I blew out a soft breath and smiled when he hugged me. More stubble sliding across my shoulder. More having to think of
anything
except stubble sliding across my shoulder.

Julian took the ribs inside when they were done and came back with a case of beer. Charlie turned on a recording app on his phone and passed it to him. After opening one of the bottles, Julian told us about the time he worked in a busy bakery in his early twenties. And how he’d caught a female employee taking from the register. He ignored it at first and paid it back for her. He didn’t know much about her, only that she worked hard and she kept to herself. But she would always come in with bruises.

When he couldn’t afford to cover for her anymore, he confronted her. She was embarrassed, and she broke down crying. She was trying to escape her abusive husband by leaving Cuba on a smuggler’s boat soon. She just didn’t have enough to cover the fee yet. So Julian started giving her what little he could, after he took up a second job. He got to know her better over time. She said her husband never let her do anything or wear what she wanted or go anywhere. But now that she was leaving him, she wanted to dance one night at the world famous Tropicana, before she fled the country. He had been there plenty of times and offered to go with her during the same week she was planning to leave.

The problem was, though, he was starting to fall for her. He thought maybe they could run away together. Or at least hide in another part of the country. He hoped to tell her that night. “I put on the only suit I owned. I got a haircut and I went. I didn’t dance or drink at all. I just waited…and I waited and waited. Two hours. Or three. She came finally. But she wasn’t dressed up. She looked like she was in trouble. Big trouble. Her dress was torn at the shoulder. There was a cut on her lip, too. Then she took my hand and said, ‘Something happened. Something very bad happened. I can’t leave the country anymore.’” Julian paused and chugged the beer he was holding. I didn’t think any of us was actually breathing. “To be continued…”

We all groaned, a chorus of collective disappointment. “That’s it?” Deacon asked. “What the hell? Come on, old man. What happened to her? Is that how you met your wife or what?” He broke the seal, and everyone started asking questions.

“For next time!” Julian shouted. He turned up the music on the small boom box that was out there. “La Vida es un Carnaval”
played. Drunk people were pretty suggestible, so a few guests paired up to dance when he coaxed them. Conversations and drinking picked up again, too. Julian asked me to be his dance partner, and I showed off what little salsa steps I remembered from when my mom taught me.

Charlie nodded off before the song was even over, chin on his chest, with his beer out of his hand and soaking the grass. Poor thing. He probably hadn’t really intended to leave the house tonight. I was having such a good night. But it was time to take him home. I walked over and flicked his nose. He swatted at my hand as he woke up. “I’m ready to go,” I said.

He grinned when he focused on my face. “Party’s just picking up.”

“Yeah, but you are
struggling
.” I held my hand out. “Keys. You’ve had quite a few.” He looked relieved. After passing them to me, he stood and yawned.

“Just go to your place. I don’t mind crashing,” he said. We made a long final walk through the house to say goodbye to everyone. I wanted to thank Julian personally because it was my first time here. He gave me a Tupperware container of ribs to take home.

“Cute girl…” I said as Charlie approached where I was waiting. It was my sly way of being nosy. He’d just hugged a woman goodbye, and jealousy twisted up my stomach for a second. Silly because we were leaving together. And I was sure if Charlie wanted to see more of Pretty with Perfect Curls tonight, he’d shove me in a cab and send me on my way.

“This one, too.” He ticked his chin up at me. Then murdered me with that smile. God, he was hot. Weren’t your friends supposed to stop being hot after a while? Wasn’t I supposed to stop thinking about the things I wanted to do to Charlie by now?

“Hey, I saw her run her fingers down your forearm. I know what that means. I’m queen of the forearm brush,” I teased…while still subtly inquiring into who that woman was.

“Haha. Sometimes, I see people and think they’d be perfect for one of my shows. Told her she should come in for an audition for
Confessions.
” He quickly finished off the new beer in his hand and set the bottle down on the curb.

“Whoa. Hillington bought it?”

“Yeah. And
Traitor
.”

“Charlie!” I pulled him into a hug. “That’s awesome!”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. Geez, no one was less enthusiastic about Charlie than Charlie. Taking the Tupperware from me, he set it on the car’s roof. He put his hand on my hips and shifted me back against the door. I held his wrists and the touch warmed my blood. His eyelids were heavy. He had this sleepy-sexy look going. Well, he had an in general sexy look thing going. “Do you feel safe right now?”

“With you? Yeah!” I looked at him questioningly. “Of course.”

“Well, now you know where this place is. You always have somewhere to come, if you need it. If…I’m not around.” He hugged me…or rather sort of fell against me and then put his arms around my neck. I loved the way he smelled and how his body felt against mine. My brain was already connecting this scent with security. “Julian’s door is almost always open, okay?”

“Got it.” He’d brought me to a place where everyone was welcome. Gratitude bloomed somewhere inside me. It was trying
so
hard to become tears, too. I’d sort of been an emotional wreck today (really my entire life); don’t hold it against me. I just couldn’t remember the last time anyone did anything this nice for me. “Thank you for this…and for letting me into your life.” Oh, yeah, he’d struck a chord that deep.

Charlie pulled back and gripped my waist. “How could I not? You tell your story and you don’t run from it. You’re brave. You inspire me…to not be afraid.”

“You?” I smirked. “Afraid? What could
you
possibly be afraid of?”

“Writing.” He turned away from me like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“Really? But you—”

Love it? Fear and love…come from the same place, don’t they? Vulnerability and the loss of control. It’s all the same.” He shrugged.

“Yeah…I guess you’re right…” I picked up the Tupperware container.

“Damn…” I heard him say as I walked to the other side of the car. I turned around midway across the front bumper, and Charlie was staring at me—drunkenly swaying, too, but staring. And smiling. Good lord. My heart was sliding into my stomach. I couldn’t even hold his stare. My legs went numb but my brain got me to the driver-side door, anyway. I was giddy all of a sudden. I felt like my own smile was about to rip my face in two.

Attraction was a hell of a drug.

“What?” I asked.

He placed his hands on top of the car. “You’re beautiful, Nik. Sometimes it warrants a ‘damn.’ All the time, actually.” After wrestling with the door handle a bit, he flopped down hard in the passenger seat. Then he stuck his head out the window. “Fine with you if I say ‘damn’ sometimes?”

I laughed. “Yes. Definitely. Say damn whenever you want. I will take your damns.”

When I started the car he put his hand on the back of my neck. I held my breath. “Promise me you’ll come here on your own sometime…” His expression was serious and his tone was demanding. His thumb stroked the space between my shoulder blades.

“Yeah. I will. What’s going on?”

Charlie sighed. “Look, this isn’t pity. It’s not White Knight Syndrome. You were getting by before I got here. I know you’ve got it all figured out, but I just…I just don’t like imagining you ever being alone or people pushing you away because of what you did. I want people to really know you, too, I guess.”

Wow. My trembling hands settled on the steering wheel. I nodded. “I appreciate that. Thank you.” I was all heart flips and quivering stomach behind this poker face and calm tone. Here I was suddenly discovering that I mattered to the kind of person I hadn’t known I wanted to matter to a few weeks ago. You could go weak in the knees while sitting down, in case you were wondering.

Using Google Maps, I drove us the long way back, with Kings of Leon’s “Only By the Night” album playing. “Use Somebody” was our only duet. Then I sang the next few songs quietly and off-key as Charlie hummed, his fingers still outlining shapes between my shoulders.

Miami was being Miami outside—humid, bright, loud, and perpetually sleepless—and we had our comfortable isolation inside the car. His “shuffle mode” serendipitously landed on “I Want You” when we pulled into my parking lot. As he struggled to get out of the car on his own, Charlie hollered into the air, butchering the lyrics, singing to me. It was adorable but my neighbors would not appreciate serenading at this hour, so I ushered him inside as quickly as I could.

I had to open the front door to my apartment slowly. Charlie was leaning against it, debating me on which of us was right about the words in the song. I was, obviously. “You okay with sleeping on the couch?” I asked. I didn’t know why I said it. There was only one other option, and I didn’t think I could handle Charlie in my bed. Real or imagined, my tiny couch offered chastity.

“Just get me a blanket for this cold ass apartment.” Charlie took off his shirt, and I froze mid-walk. Smooth skin. Defined abs for days. Chiseled pecs. Other muscles I couldn’t name…for days, too. Guess it was my turn to drop a “damn.” My mind was suddenly on his full frontal again, conjuring up what that was going to look like, with “Sex on Fire” as my mental soundtrack. “Give me something to sleep in…”

Me
maybe
.
God, I was such a perv. And Charlie was just so intoxicating, and it was way better than the woozy pleasure I got from booze. I felt
vibrant
when we were together, like it was fine to be old me, without the villain narrative attached. I skipped (yup, that happened) to my bedroom and changed into my PJs. I wanted to spin around with my arms out, like movie chicks when they moved into their first apartment. “Sure…one of my tank tops can probably get on your arm,” I joked when I returned with the blanket from my bed.