“Look. Just make a suggestion, okay? I have no fucking idea how to sort all this shit.” Well, then. Mr. Azurri was all sunshine, just like me.
I leaned against the white wall, thinking. “You got any beer?”
“That your suggestion?” He shot me an incredulous look, crinkles giving his forehead what women called “character lines” when they bitched about the unfairness of life.
I nodded. He disappeared into the kitchen, moments later coming out with two cans of Miller Lite.
Now it was my turn to sigh. I had asked for beer, not piss-water. It was cold, however, and as such formed a fitting substitute for real beer, and I made a note to start educating Jack on the fine points of microbrews. “Thanks.” I sighed, popped the tab, and lifted the can in a silent salute. Then I did something I never thought I’d ever do—I actually drank some. It was akin to being stuck out in the back of beyond with just a dagger and three matches, eating grubs and earthworms for subsistence.
Jack seemed entirely pleased with his can of light, tasteless, over-chilled beer, and that old grin reappeared on his face. It was infectious, and I saw no reason to spoil his good mood—I grinned back.
“Okay, then. We need to open the boxes. You’ll need a bag for garbage, a box for donations, a box for the stuff you want to keep personally, and a box for stuff you’d like to sell.”
“Yeah? Okay!” He opened a sturdy box and dug through it; then he poured it out in the middle of the Copenhagen Blue carpet. A partially knit afghan slithered out, followed by a merry chase of bright-colored balls of yarn. Then there was a tablecloth and a bunch of placemats and other fabric items and a white, embroidered cooking apron.
“Girl shit.” He grimaced. “Let me get the garbage bags.” He disappeared into the kitchen again.
I was drawn to that apron, though. I picked it up, fingered the fine cotton, and examined the careful, geometric cross-stitched patterns and filigree open work. It didn’t look too fluffy—no flowers or birds—yet it was delicate and expertly made. A good antique store could sell it for fifty bucks, easy. Not having much patience of my own, I’ve always been drawn to the intricacy of needlework and had even tried the odd cross-stitch back when Paul and I were an item. Not that I’d use this apron, but my sister would go absolutely gaga over it. She is only three inches shorter than I am. Wanting to know if it would even fit, I slipped the apron over my neck and tied the ties behind my back in a bow. A bit short on me, possibly perfect for DeeDee.
“We’re keeping the apron,” a husky voice drawled behind me.
I spun around. “I was just checking the size,” I said, my tone of voice somewhat defensive.
“Sure you were.” Jack said, his predatory eye sizing me up in the delicate, embroidered garment. “My grandma made it for Auntie Xenia ages ago, but Auntie never wore it. It was too nice to get dirty, she said. It just sat there in a drawer until it was transferred to this box.” He paused, his eyes suddenly thoughtful. “What do you think of it?”
“I think you could get ten or twenty bucks for it and a store could sell it for fifty or more.”
“That’s peanuts,” he scoffed.
“Sure, but you have got lots of peanuts in here. It all adds up. Besides… if you want to throw it out, can I have it?” I felt uncertain asking—I’d never asked Jack for anything.
His look grew calculating and the silence stretched like a tight string, off-key and filled with apprehension. “If you wear it for me tonight, you can have it or sell it or do whatever you want to do with it.”
I groaned. “Jack! First of all, my ass still hurts from earlier, and second, I don’t do lacy embroidery. I do black leather.”
He was on top of me in a flash, pressing me into the white wall. The dust I had picked up on my hoodie smeared against the wall, decorating it in abstract patterns. “But you look so tasty in that apron, Goldilocks!” I felt him press his body against mine, trying to pin my hands to the wall.
I narrowed my eyes. “Cut it out, Jack.”
He didn’t cut it out, so I dropped my weight and slithered under him and out like a snake. He might be bigger and stronger, but I was still the one who was faster and sneakier. I took the apron off and set it aside. “I’ll think on that one, but unless you want to put me in some severe discomfort, Loverboy, you’ll keep your hands to yourself for now.”
His heavy gaze softened—it was as though he pulled his presence back into himself—and he nodded. “All right. Hey… you okay? I didn’t realize… you know.”
“It’s been two years and one month, Jack.”
“Two years and one month since your Paul, and counting.” I saw his eyes harden and his back stiffen, and he picked up the oversize tablecloth, looking at it. “So what’s this, then? Garbage, sell, or give-away?”
T
WO
more hours and six beers later, we’d sorted through eight boxes. We were also down for the count.
“This shit’s tedious,” he said, collapsing onto the sofa with a blank stare. “I did three boxes on my own, and it took me weeks. The worst part is deciding what to do with something. If I’ve seen it before, it makes me think of the old days, and if I’ve never seen it before, I wonder if it has value of its own.”
I nodded, settling next to him with my head against his shoulder. “How about we go for a run, get some lunch on the way back, and do some more later?”
He looked at me. “You run?”
“Yeah. You gotta run if you’re a burglar, in case they’re chasing you.”
He gave me a grin, probably thinking I was kidding. “I used to do twenty miles a week and then all this landed in my lap. I guess it’s my turn to throw up on you.”
I sprang up, excited. “Loan me some shorts and a T-shirt, will you?” He did, and even clean they still held just that light, indefinable scent I associated with Jack; the fabric felt like a caress against my skin.
He was ready before I was, tying on a pair of ratty sneakers. “Okay, Goldilocks. Let’s do it!”
B
Y
THE
time we did our three miles, Jack had lost his appetite entirely, and it took forever to cool down and stretch. We staggered out of his elevator, and he just leaned there, propped against his door, staring at me. “Just open the damn door.”
“I don’t have a key.”
“You, of all people, don’t need a fucking key.”
“I don’t have my tools on me. What, you think I carry those around? If I get busted with those tools on me, I’m toast.”
“Awww, he’s human after all. No superpowers.” He tossed me his keys, and I sifted through them, taking my time before I unlocked all three locks.
“Sorry to disappoint. My superpowers don’t extend past the bedroom door.”
W
E
SHOWERED
our sweat off only to change into our old, dusty clothing.
“So what do you want on your pizza, pepperoni or sausage?”
I lifted my eyes from the box of salt and pepper shakers I was sorting in my search for precious antiques. “Are those the only choices available?”
He shrugged and let a moment pass. “That’s all Vito’s has to offer.”
“Vito’s? That little place in the mall?”
“Yeah. I never get any other pizza. Why?”
“I always get Tambellini’s. Tambellini’s is made all from scratch, and you can get Pizza Hawaiian.”
He viewed me with unveiled suspicion. “What’s Hawaiian?”
“Ahh….” My tone mellowed out as my taste buds recalled the fine mélange of synchronous flavors. “Onion and ham and green peppers… and pineapple!”
“Pineapple! That’s one of those ‘kitchen sink’ pizzas. Whoever taught you to eat weird combinations like that?”
“Susan.” The word just slipped out, asked-for and delivered.
He sighed and fell on his back on the sofa and put his feet up on the armrest. There was no response, so I felt a need to elaborate.
“My
former
girlfriend, who is now the wife of my
former
boyfriend. She loves to cook. For better or worse, since she’s highly adventurous and combines the oddest flavors. She can serve you a peanut butter and pickle sandwich on the theory that pickle offsets the flavor and texture of peanut butter, except it’s savory instead of sweet. She got this idea from a cool book about a girl bounty hunter she’d been reading.”
“Gross.”
“That’s what I thought until I tasted it. It’s quite refreshing in the summer, although I draw the line at peanut-butter-and-potato-chip sandwiches.”
He turned his head and looked at my slumped figure. I was sitting propped against his formerly white wall, my butt on the floor. “C’mere.” That was not a request.
“Pardon me?” I didn’t take commands easily; never have.
“I’m trying to get my latest fling over here for a hug, so c’mere.”
I slid up the wall and stretched while taking my dusty hoodie off. Then I sprawled on top of Jack, letting his large hands pull me in and stroke me up and down my back.
“Thanks for helping.”
“Sure. It’s fun, actually.” I smiled, enjoying his touch. I wanted to say I really enjoyed spending time with him, but it felt unnecessarily sappy. No need to expose myself and make myself vulnerable.
“Tell you what. We can order from Tambellini’s, but we get a pizza that’s half Hawaiian, half pepperoni.”
“Okay.” I edged higher up his chest and let my lips brush his, sharing his breath, breathing his scent. I felt myself press my middle into his, reacting to his proximity.
“Wyatt.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you trying to start something?”
A faint blush threatened my cheeks as I shifted my hips, eliminating the contact between us. “No. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He reached up and captured my earlobe in his lips. I whined as he sucked on it and then let it go. “Pizza,” he said, his voice strong and determined. “We were negotiating pizza. I’ll work on your reprogramming later.”
N
INE
thirty rolled around, and I felt a sudden need to be in my own space. We had sorted a good third of all the crap in Jack’s spare bedroom; there was even some furniture, which now occupied most of his living room. His clean, civilized area was diminished to half the blue carpet, and his expression was pained as he surveyed the scene.
“This is a clusterfuck, Gaudens. Just a clusterfuck. What am I gonna do with all this?”
I chose to overlook his use of my last name. “Don’t you have any storage space in the building?”
“Yeah, but I have my own stuff in there. And it’s tidy. If I jam all these things in there, I’ll never find anything.”
I surveyed the scene, tapping my tired brain for all those little tricks DeeDee tried to drill into us during spring cleaning. Oh, right. “Well, that whole side is garbage, so we can take that downstairs right now.”
Without a word, Jack grabbed two bags in each hand and headed out the door; I took hold of the other three and followed in his wake. We squished into the small, antiquated elevator. He didn’t say a thing until the bags were in the dumpster outside the basement door. Then he looked at me and said, “Now what?”
I thought hard. “Can you share your storage with those things you actually want to keep?”
“If I do that, I’ll keep too much and it’ll take over.”
“So… find a place in a separate room, then.”
Back in the apartment, he took a large box of keepsake items and shoved it under the dining room table.
“Now for the giveaways. If we load your car, we can take half of this stuff to Goodwill right now and you can drop me off at home.”
“And if we do two trips to Goodwill and drop it off by their back door, it will all be gone outta my living room except for the stuff to sell, and then I can vacuum my rug, and then I can drop you off at home. Or you can stay the night and I can drop you off in the morning.”
I leaned into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “This is all moving too fast, Jack. I really want to sleep at home tonight.”
I felt his lips brush the top of my head as he nuzzled my hair. “Okay, Goldilocks.”
“I’ll give you the second trip to Goodwill, Loverboy. Oh, and make a list of your donated items for a tax write-off next year. It adds up.”
“Whatever.” He stacked two boxes on top of one another and lifted them and headed out the door again, and I followed his example. This time we exited the building through the lobby.
The doorman presented his familiar silhouette, his tall, lanky form bent over a book. He reminded me of a preying mantis.
“Hey, whatcha readin’ now?” I asked him on the way back. “Some fancy literature again?”
Risby Haus lifted his head and fixed me with a blank gaze. “You again!”
“Yeah, him again. Get used to seeing him around.” Jack grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the elevator.
“Hey, Loverboy. I don’t care for being hauled around like that. What was that all about?”
“You’re talking to the man who probably killed my sister.” His eyes were as cold as blued steel.
“That’s right. You want me to help you find out what happened, don’t you?”
“Huh.”
“Didn’t you notice what he was reading?”
“No. Why should I?”
“He had a climbing supply catalog on his desk.”
Our eyes met. Not letting go of my gaze, Jack grabbed the front of my dusty T-shirt and pulled me in. “You better keep your distance from that bastard. I don’t think he’s good company.” His voice was gruff, but his eyes spoke of loss and fear.
I
T
WAS
Wednesday already. Jack was snowed under again, and once again, he was surly and uncommunicative. I called Reyna right before lunch. “Hey… it’s me, Wyatt. Are we on for Friday?”
There was a pregnant pause—the sound of which I didn’t like. Finally she cleared her throat. “Well. As a matter of fact I meant to give you a heads-up on that. Auguste wants me to attend a conference with him this weekend, and our flight leaves on Friday, right before noon. I’m sorry, Wyatt.”
Auguste.
My thoughts wandered back to my former boss. His quiet demeanor, his commanding presence, his lovely, anthracite hair. Much like Paul. You’d never guess Paul to have some wild, erotic tastes behind the closed doors.