City Chicks

Chapter 8

Eight

“Evan,” I slurred, two hours and twice as many Mojitos later, “is a louse.”

Kit, across from me in the cramped booth, smiled, nodded, and signaled the aging waitress for another cup of coffee. The woman—fifty if she was a day—waddled over on her thick soled shoes and poured more murky thickness into my cup.

“Drink up,” Kit ordered, “or you’ll be sorry in the morning.”

Wary of the heavy, diner-issue mug, I lifted the pungent brew and took a sip. The caffeine shot straight to my brain.

“Good Lord, is there any water in this?”

“Not much.”

The coffee jolted me from my rum-induced haze. I looked around at the dingy diner, walls covered in peeling blue wallpaper in a pattern someone must have once thought contributed to the atmosphere. The scarred, melamine tabletops looked vintage 1962. The red naugahyde upholstery might have been replaced in 1970.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, incredulous.

The whole thing seemed light-years from any New York restaurant—if I could call it that—I’d ever visited.

It reminded me of a typical mobile home diner parked in perpetuity on a vacant lot just outside the city limits of a small, southern town.

It reminded me of home.

“Sobering you up,” Kit explained. “If you go to bed with all that rum and sugar in your gut, you’ll be emptying your stomach all day tomorrow.”

As if in agreement, my stomach churned.

I quickly downed another mouthful of coffee sludge.

“Finish that cup.” Kit withdrew her wallet and laid a five on the table. “We’ve got an apartment to stake out.”

The sludge went down the wrong pipe and I choked on the bitter taste.

“St-stake out?” I asked around coughs.

“Evan’s not going to stake himself out.”

Images of Evan, staked out in the desert and left to the vultures and the scorpions, made me smile. I indulged in the delicious revenge fantasy until reality intruded.

Fractured memories played in my mind like overexposed home movies. Kit questioning me about my history with Evan. Me spilling every last, sordid—alright, not so sordid—detail. Dear Lord. I smothered a groan. Rum should be outlawed.

Um, ah, well. “Kit, I—”

“Hurry up,” she interrupted. “Everyone stuck around the party after we left, but he’s probably headed home by now.”

Purse in hand, she slid out of the booth and marched across the diner. When she reached the door and realized I wasn’t in step behind her, she threw me an impatient look and motioned me into action.

What could I say? Kit welcomed no argument.

I downed the last of the sludge. She’d done a pretty good job of digging out my secrets. If anyone could make Evan confess, it was Kit.

“Which floor is his?” Kit asked as she—untainted by the single bottle of East River Ale she had imbibed at the Red Hook party—pulled my Beetle into to the curb across from Evan’s building.

I gazed up at the four story brick building—an historic, Greek Revival row house dating back nearly two-hundred years—a building I hadn’t laid eyes on in nearly a year.

A building I had once dreamed of moving into.

I even spent a few afternoons in the city archives, researching the building’s history. Turned out it was a wedding gift from one of the city’s early mayors to his son and new daughter-in-law.

In retrospect, I might have been a tad too eager about a potential future with Evan.

“Third floor,” I replied. “On the front.”

She plunked the car into park and turned off the engine. Turning in the driver’s seat to face me, she asked, “Now what?”

“Now what?” I parroted. “This was your idea.”

“Hardly. This is your stalking.”

“I’m not—” stalking Evan, I started to say. But, if you looked at it in a certain light—bright, glaring daylight perhaps—my actions could, if considered with rational detachment, be considered stalking-esque. Thankfully it was dark as night and rationality was nowhere in sight. “I’m not stalking him. I’m just ... curious.”

“Curious,” Kit snorted.

“Yes, curious. I might have followed him, you know, once.” Or twice, if I wanted to be anal about the details. “To see who he was meeting—.”

“You don’t have to explain to me. I know all about rodent droppings, remember. You deserve to know the truth and the louse deserves whatever he gets.”

Put that way it sounded almost logical. Like I had a right to shadow Evan’s every move until I uncovered his deception and made him pay for throwing our relationship away and making a fraud of himself.

Kit clearly excelled at rationalizing extreme behavior—

“Shoot.” She ducked and pulled my head down after her.

The sudden movement sent my brain, still slightly muddled by alcohol, swimming. My mind buzzed, even as I tried to figure out what was going on.

“Kit, what are you—”

“Shhh!” she admonished. Then, in a fervent whisper, explain, “Evan’s coming up the sidewalk.”

“Is he alone?” I lifted my head to see.

Kit tugged me right back down. “Stay out of sight.”

In the quiet of the car, I listened to my breath whoosh in and out as we waited. Evan’s street—one block from St. Mark’s Church in the Bowery, one of the oldest parishes in the city—was silent in the early morning hours, a stark contrast to the bustling activity that brought it to life during the day. This was a neighborhood you could raise a family in—and the thought made my heart ache.

With every failed relationship, my dreams of a family and a future slipped a little further away. At thirty-two, I could only see them faintly in the distance as they threatened to drop below the horizon forever.

This was why I needed to stay far away from alcohol—it made me melancholy.

Footsteps echoed on the sidewalk.

I held my breath—and heard Kit suck in hers—as the footfalls approached. Evan’s muffled voice reached my ears.

“You know I love you,” he was saying. “I tell you every day.”

Who was he with? When I tried to sneak a peek, turning my head and peering up through the driver’s side window, Kit—hunched across the center console to avoid the steering wheel—smacked my thigh.

“Head down,” she whispered.

Lord, she should have been an army general. No soldier would dare disobey her orders.

“I wish we could be together, too,” Evan continued. “But that’s not possible right now. We both made this choice to put the job first. For now.”

Sounded like he was talking on his cell.

“I’m almost home.” He was right next to the car. “I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

“Miss you.” His voice grew fainter as he moved beyond the car. “My bed is empty without you.”

Silence, except for the sound of his steps as he crossed the street. Waiting to give him a chance to get into the building and for Kit to give the all clear—I was woman enough to admit she frightened me—I pondered the eavesdropped conversation. Clearly he had been talking to a lover. A lover he couldn’t, given current circumstances, see right now.

That louse!

Evan had a secret girlfriend.

“He is so busted,” I whispered.

Kit looked at me like I was crazy.

Maybe I was.

“Want to stay over?” I asked as Kit pulled into my parking garage. “Randy’s on the sofa, but my bed’s real big.”

“No thanks. My place is only a few blocks away.”

She cut the ignition and dropped the keys in my lap.

“Really,” I insisted, “you shouldn’t walk home alone this late at night.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Kit was definitely the kind of woman who didn’t ask for assistance on anything. She handled it all and then some without a stitch of help.

But even if it’s unnecessary, sometimes a little help is nice.

“At least let Randy walk you home,” I offered.

“No, I’m fine—”

“I insist.”

She met my gaze with those intense blue eyes and clearly saw my determination. Shrugging, she relented. SoHo was not a neighborhood to go wandering alone at night.

Randy, who had been waiting up for my return, started in as soon as we walked in the door.

“Where in hell have you been?”

I tensed. My first instinct was to retort, “Where do you get off?” But I was in no mood to start an argument. Ignoring his outburst, I shrugged my purse off my shoulder and set it on the hall table.

“I’ve been waiting up for hours!” he continued. “You could have at least called!”

Sounded just like Daddy, mad at me for breaking curfew back in high school.

Randy was more like our father than he cared to admit—leaping in without thinking when he got the least bit worried. But I was willing to forgive him that if he stopped now and cut his losses. My silence should have clued him in to my displeasure.

It didn’t.

“I was worried sick!”

He came at me, finger pointing and voice rising.

“I called the police and the hospitals and—”

“Randy! Enough!” I interrupted when the thin veneer of my patience cracked. Swallowing my anger, I concentrated on sounding calm—though I was only mildly successful—as I said, “Kit needs to go home. Would you please escort her.”

It was not a request. Kit wasn’t the only one who could issue orders.

Clearly shocked by my outburst, he snapped his mouth shut and grabbed his coat in silence. He had learned long ago that when my patience snapped it was time to get out of the way.

Like the time he had put his pet garter snake in my bathroom sink every morning for a week. The last time, I’d screamed my head off, carried the snake at arm’s length back to Randy’s room, and threw it on his bed before punching him in the face—Daddy had taught me how to throw a mean jab.

He’d had to explain to everyone at school how his sister had given him a black eye.

Now he knew better.

“My pleasure,” he assured Kit.

As soon as the door shut behind them I peeled off my ballet flats and flung one at the wall. I’d been on my own in New York since I was eighteen. The last thing I needed was a chaperone keeping track of my every move and chastising me for not checking in.

I’d left my father in Georgia and didn’t need another one.

“Bethany?” Randy’s voice came muffled through the door. “Are you alright?”

I flung the other shoe at the door.

“She’s fine,” I heard him say. “Let’s go.”

That was the problem with Southern men. They might be chivalrous, but they could also be overprotective.

With a sigh, I unbuttoned my cardigan and padded barefoot into my room. Naked in seconds, I slipped into the silk pajamas neatly folded beneath my pillow. Ahhh, the softness of silk was almost as relaxing as a hot bath, even if it didn’t soothe sore muscles.

I promised my aching body—sore from a long day and even longer night—a hot bath first thing in the morning. Setting my overprotective brother straight was the only thing between me and my soft, sateen sheets.

When Randy burst in fifteen minutes later he looked ready to pick up his lecture where he’d left off. I was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“Don’t even think about it, baby boy,” I shouted before he had a chance to speak.

Though it galled him to be called a baby, he was younger by nearly eight years. It would do him good to keep that in mind.

“You take a seat on this barstool and listen.”

I waited until he complied. He slunk over to the breakfast counter like a guilty little boy. Which he was.

“Don’t think for a second that you can come into my life, into my apartment, and take charge like some big, strong man. I’ve managed quite admirably on my own. I don’t need your protection or your censure. Either you realize I am a grown, fully capable woman, or you find another couch.”

Head hung, he ran a hand over his dirty blonde hair. He was silent for several long seconds, the only sound in the room the even rasp of his breath.

“Lord, Bets,” he said finally, his voice pained. “I’m just like him, aren’t I?”

His torment deflated my fury.

“No, honey,” I assured him. “You’re nothing like Daddy. You care so much that sometimes it clouds your better judgment.”

And in matters other than family relations, I added silently. He took the same caring, protective approach with Laura Jane.

“I just— I worried, and I couldn’t help it, and—”

“I know. And it’s okay to worry. Hell,” I said, “I’d be hurt if you didn’t. But you need to respect me enough to know I can take care of myself.”

“I do, honestly. You’re a big city career woman and I am so proud of you. I know you can manage without my interference. But you’ll always be my sister.” He shook his head, as if trying to reconcile the contradiction. “And the city is a scary place.”

His eyes got a faraway look and I could tell he was no longer thinking about my independence. He was thinking about another woman close to his heart. Another woman living in the danger of the city.

Laura Jane was never far from his mind. I could see her in the shadows that darkened his bright eyes when he thought no one was looking. She haunted him, and he needed to get her out of his system.

Pulling him into a hug, I asked, “Have you seen her?”

His entire body stiffened in my arms.

“Yes,” he bit out.

Whoa! There was a lot of anger in that one word. It didn’t take woman’s intuition to guess that meeting hadn’t gone well.

He pulled away, busying himself with hanging his coat on the rack in the hall. I lowered onto the stool, watching his jerky movements and certain he was not going to say more.

He finally spoke without turning, still facing the wall. “I should have dumped her a long time ago.”

I started to agree, but decided to hold my tongue.

When he turned toward me, his youthful face was hard as stone. “Aren’t you going to say, ‘I told you so’?”

There was so much pain in those words. More pain than my baby brother should ever know.

Tears leapt to my eyes.

I blinked them away and shook my head.

“Well, you should.” Then, in an instant, his façade crumbled, his face fell, and wetness streaked his cheeks.

I watched helplessly as my own tears ran.

“Do you know what she said?” he asked, pained. “She said I was a useless hillbilly with no future. She said she’d found herself a real man who could take care of her and buy her expensive things. How—” His voice cracked. “—how could she say those things? Sh-she loves me.”

When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I moved to comfort him.

Just that fast his demeanor changed. Jaw clenched, he brusquely wiped at his tears and held me off. Without another word, he stalked to the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

I released a wrenching sob, since there wasn’t anything else I could do. My baby brother was hurting and I couldn’t do a thing about it.

All I could do was hope that this pain would help him heal.

Healing by fire.

Randy was gone when I woke up the next morning. I called Walk-In Closet and Kit assured me he was there and physically healthy. Maybe a good night’s sleep had eased his pain.

My pain, on the other hand, was only beginning.

Despite Kit’s caffeinated efforts, my head throbbed with every subtle movement. All I wanted to do was down a pair of aspirin, crawl under my covers, and spend the day in the oblivion of sleep.

The phone rang before I folded back the duvet.

Running through the apartment to find my cell before voicemail picked up—cursing the pain that accompanied every pounding step—I finally found it beneath a couch cushion.

“Hello?”

“Morning, sugar.”

The deep male voice on the other end of my phone haunted my fantasies, invaded my dreams.

“Chris?”

“You got plans?”

I looked longingly back at my bedroom door, imagining the fluffy softness of my bed and the bliss of a lazy Saturday of lounging.

“No,” I said sadly, because the prospect of spending time with Chris—unavailable though he may have been—was a thousand times better than spending the day alone. “No plans.”

“How would you like to go aisle shopping?”

“Aisle shopping?” I asked as I headed for my closet.

“Like window shopping,” he explained, “but at grocery stores. I need to scout out some markets for the next episode.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Flipping quickly through the rack of florals, toiles, and paisleys in my closet, I realized what I was doing and quickly chastised myself. What kind of head-case dressed to impress a man she could never even hope to attract?

Maybe I needed more therapy than I thought.

“Good,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I’m standing outside your apartment.”

My therapy needs forgotten, I rushed over to the window overlooking Broome Street three stories down. There, on the busy sidewalk buzzing with people, stood Chris, cell phone in hand. Staring back at me.

He looked heartstoppingly attractive in a crisp blue camp shirt, black leather blazer, and clean cut khakis. Straight from the pages of GQ. I could so easily imagine unbuttoning that preppy shirt, peeling it off to reveal the muscular chest I knew was there—

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid irrational fantasies. Stick to reality, Bethany. I briefly beat myself over the head with the phone before saying, “I’ll buzz you in.”

By the time Chris stepped off the elevator, I had given myself a serious talking to about the pitfalls of lusting after a man who wasn’t interested in my gender. I was even almost convinced that my attraction was an overblown fantasy—no one could possibly live up to the image of Chris I had planted in my mind.

But then he walked off the elevator and I was hit full force with a desire to bear his children.

Lord, but he was the most attractive man I’d ever seen, and he was within reaching distance. He was smiling—a broad, welcoming smile that popped a pair of dimples into the smooth planes of his cheeks—and that made his clear blue eyes sparkle like the Hope Diamond.

Up close I could see how well his clothes fit, hugging every muscular inch with just the right amount of give. His brown curls looked finger-combed, like he had rolled out of bed, raked his hands through his hair, and headed out the door.

Unfortunately, my brain stuck on the image of Chris rolling out of bed—or, more accurately, Chris in bed.

Le sigh.

I managed to smile, despite my lusty fog, and opened my arms in a welcoming hug.

“Sexy threads,” he said as I released him, “but maybe a little casual for grocery shopping.”

“Hey”—I smacked him for his insolence—”these happen to be imported. You’re never underdressed in 100% silk.”

He lifted his hand to my shoulder and slowly—torturously—trailed his fingertips along the pale pink silk, tracing over my bicep, the sensitive inside of my elbow, and down my forearm until silk gave way to skin. My breathing quickened into little pants. My blood throbbed as my heart beat a pace to match hoofbeats on Derby day. Every nerve in my arm tingled.

“Silk.” His gaze focused on the spot where his fingers met my wrist. “So soft.”

Every sense cried out for him, and I leaned in. With my whole body. My lips parted in breathless anticipation of a fantasy realized.

Then I made the mistake of sighing, “Chris.”

As soon as I spoke, his eyes darted to mine.

He blinked twice.

He looked shocked.

Then embarrassed.

Hell.