“I have a class at nine tomorrow and another at noon.” I say. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
He shakes his head. “My classes don’t start until three on Mondays, and then I have a lab at six thirty.”
“Oh.”
The window of the limo lowers, and my dad barks at me.
“I know!” I shout. “I’m coming!”
Logan brackets my face with his hands and says, “I want to kiss you.”
My dad starts to whistle, the window still down. I’m glad Logan can’t hear it because it’s annoying the crap out of me. “I want to be kissed,” I say.
He groans and presses his lips to my forehead, holding them as he breathes in and out, in and out.
In a perfect world, I could go home and we could talk late into the night on the phone. But that can’t happen with us. Logan can use a TTY, but it wouldn’t be the same.
“Emily,” my dad warns.
“I have to go,” I say, and I kiss him quickly on the lips. The driver holds the door open for me, and I slide into the car. I feel like he’s shutting the door to happiness when I have to leave Logan. I sigh heavily and lean back against the backrest. This sucks.
Logan
I run up the stairs as quickly as I can. Paul is standing in the kitchen and spins to face me when I run in and slam the door.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “Someone stole all your clothes and brought you home dressed like a f**king douche.”
“Can I borrow your bike?” I ask, my breath rushing from my body. I need to go, and I need to go quickly.
“It’s too f**king cold to ride the bike,” he warns, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you want it?” Paul has a Suzuki street bike that he won in a card game. He doesn’t drive it this time of the year.
“Can I borrow it?” I ask, hurrying to get my lined overalls and a stocking cap. I don’t have a ton of cash for a cab and the subway will take too long.
He opens a drawer and fishes around until he finds the keys. He tosses them at me and my heart leaps. If I hurry, I might be able to get to Emily’s before they do.
“Thanks,” I say.
I pull on my overalls and get Paul’s helmet from the closet. The bike is down in the garage under the building, but there’s no guard and no delay this time of the night. I run down the steps, hoping the damn thing starts when I try it.
The bad thing about cars and things with engines is that I can’t hear when they start. I can feel the vibrations, though, and I put my hand on it and turn the key. It hums for a second, and then it stops. Of course, this would happen. I’m wrapped like a pig in a blanket and the f**king bike won’t start. I turn the key again, and the bike revs to life. I look behind me at the black smoke billowing from it and straddle the machine, kicking it off its stand. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra, but I have a bad feeling about sending Emily home with Trip. I just do. I don’t know why. But it’s there, and I need to get to her.
The city keeps the streets pretty clear, and cars have been on them all day today. Except for some black ice, I’m not too worried about the roads.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to her house. I see the tail lights of the limo pulling away as I drive up. Henry opens the front door and looks out as I stop Paul’s bike in front of the door, looking through the window for Emily. She must have already gone upstairs.
Henry motions me forward. “Bring that thing inside,” he says. He points to the bike and points to the inside again, like he’s not sure I understand. “If you leave it out there, someone might steal it,” he reminds me.
It’s a small bike, but it’s going to leave wet tracks on the tile if I bring it inside. He nods at me in encouragement and jerks his head, gesturing me into the lobby.
I kill the engine and push the bike into the foyer. He points to a storage room, and I roll the bike toward it. He takes a bucket with a mop sticking out of it from the same room, and goes behind the wheels really quickly, cleaning up my mess.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“No worries.” He cocks his head at me. “Why weren’t you with Miss Madison?” he asks, his brows drawing together.
“Technical glitch,” I say, pulling my knit cap from my hair. I blow into my hands. They’re f**king freezing, even though I had on thick gloves.
He motions for me to come close to the heater blow his desk. “Warm up a bit. Then you can go upstairs.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, as if I don’t care about the answer to my next question. “Are Emily’s parents upstairs?”
He shakes his head. “Just that man. The little fucker.” Henry is a New Yorker through and through. I never can tell, since I can’t hear accents, but I can tell when men start dropping the f-bomb where they’re from. A laugh bursts from my throat.
“Oh, you have no idea,” I say.
“I do know. He threw a fit yesterday when I wouldn’t give him a key.” He shakes his finger in the air like he’s just remembered something. “Speaking of which, I have your key.” He reaches into a drawer, takes out a small brown envelope, and places it in my hand with a flourish. I could kiss him, I’m that happy. I shake the key into my hand and thread it onto my key ring.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods his head toward the elevator. “You better go up. She didn’t look very happy when they came home.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He had icicles hanging from his nuts, if I’m not mistaken,” he says with a grin. “That girl isn’t giving him a second glance, much less any action.”
I really will have to kiss Henry for that. I reach for him, and he jumps back. He’s spry for someone as old as he is. “Save that for Miss Madison,” he says with a laugh.
I unhook my thermal overalls and step out of them. “Can I put these with the bike?” I ask. He opens the storage-room door back up, and I drape them over the Suzuki. I look at Henry. He looks tired.
“Do you ever go home, Henry?” I ask. It seems like he’s here every time I show up.
He smiles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My wife had a stroke recently, so I work to pay for her medical care right now.” He shrugs. “They offer me the extra hours, so I take them.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” I say. “Will she be all right?”
His eyes skitter away from mine. “I certainly hope so.” His chest fills with air as he sighs. “She’s at a nursing home temporarily.” He smiles. “I saw her at lunch, and I’ll go there to sleep tonight.”
I squeeze his shoulder. If there were ever a man who needed a hug, it’s Henry. In Bro Code, a shoulder squeeze is the same as a hug. “You should go home. You might rest better there.”
He smiles and says, “I can’t sleep without her, so I might as well sleep at the nursing home. I’d rather sleep in a recliner holding her hand than sleep in the biggest, softest bed in the world.” He shakes his head. “Someday you’ll know what it’s like to wake up with one woman every day for almost forty years.” He points toward the elevator. “You’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet in the early years.”
I point to my ears and laugh. “I can’t hear a pitter-patter, Henry.” He looks slightly chagrined. “But I get the idea.”
“Miss Madison, she’s the one for you, isn’t she?” he asks.
My heart swells. “The only one.”
He claps my shoulder this time. “Then go get her.” He shoves my shoulder, pushing me toward the elevator. “Go on now. You don’t have to keep an old man company.”
I smile and wave at him, going toward the elevator. I turn back at the last minute. “If I can help with your wife, Henry, please let me know. I have a lot of brothers, and they’re really good for moving furniture and stuff. When she’s ready to come home.”
He grins. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“They’re not good for much else,” I shout as the elevator doors close. Except for supporting me in everything that I do. Except for loving me unconditionally. Except for when they kick my ass for being stupid. They’re useless, all right.
I smile all the way up the elevator. I don’t knock when I get to Emily’s door. Instead, I use my key.
Emily
Trip gets in the elevator behind me and has the nerve to try to back me into a corner. His arms go to each side of my head, trapping me. I turn my face, because he’s had too much to drink. His breath smells like straight-up Jack Daniels.
He was really quiet in the limo coming home, but I have known him long enough to see all the signs. I put my hand on his chest and shove. “Move back, Trip,” I say.
He leans down, breathing into my face. I turn my head and close my eyes. Fighting with Trip when he’s drunk is like kicking a puppy. A rabid puppy who won’t stop foaming at the mouth and trying to bite you. It’s the only kind of puppy I wouldn’t mind kicking in the teeth.
“I don’t want to move back,” he says, slurring as he talks to me. “You used to like it when we were close like this. You said I didn’t show you enough affection.”
He runs his meaty hand down the side of my face. “Back up, Trip,” I warn him again. All it would take is one big push, and he’d be flat on his tail. I’m sure of that.
The elevator dings, and I duck beneath his arm. He groans and follows me to the door. “Hurry up,” he grouses. “I have to piss.”
I shake my head, let him in, and he runs by me, heading straight for the bathroom. He doesn’t close the bathroom door, and I can hear him. There’s no need to even try to talk to him about respect and his lack of it. He’s too drunk.
I look longingly at the front door. Now that he’s inside the apartment, I can catch a cab and go to Logan’s. My heart warms at the idea of it. I turn toward the door. There’s nothing I need here. My bag is still at Logan’s apartment. And so is my heart.
Trip grabs my elbow and says, “Where do you think you’re going?” just as I reach for the door.
“I’m going to Logan’s,” I say. There’s no need to lie to him. “Get out of my way.”
He stands between me and the door with his arms folded, his feet spread wide. Shoot. I should just go to my room and wait for him to pass out. I turn to walk in that direction, but he grabs for me again. I jerk my arm from his grip. That hurts.
“Stop it, Trip,” I say. “Just go to bed.”
He grabs my h*ps and pulls me to him, grinding himself against me. “I will if you’ll go with me.”
I wouldn’t go to the store with him, much less to bed. “You’re drunk, Trip. Go sleep it off.”
“I’m not so drunk that I can’t get it up,” he says.
Yes, I can feel that much against my stomach where he’s pressed against me. I take a deep breath and take his face in my hands, looking into his eyes. “Go to bed,” I say softly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He bends his head and presses a kiss to my neck. Then he bites down, sucking hard on my skin. I shove him back, covering my neck with my hand. “What was that, Trip?” I shout. “God, what’s wrong with you?”
“It’s just a little love bite,” he says, grinning. “You used to love for me to nibble on your neck.”
“That wasn’t a nibble,” I say. “It’s like you were trying to suck my blood or something.”
“I’ll suck on something,” he says, as his hand comes up to cup my breast.
I can’t help it. I slap him. I slap him directly across the face. I hit him so hard that I have to shake the sting from my hand.
It’s in that second that I realize my front door is open, and then Logan charges across the room like a bull and hits Trip in the side, tumbling with him to the floor.
“Logan!” I cry, tugging on his shoulder. He has his hands around Trip’s throat and noises are coming from his mouth that I don’t understand. I’ve never seen him this angry, but apparently intense emotion affects his speech.
Trip grunts from beneath him, and I see what’s going to happen before it ever does. Trip reaches for an urn that’s on the floor by the couch, and he picks it up to hit Logan over the head with it. It bounces off his back, though, and just tumbles to the floor. It’s plastic, so I don’t know what Trip thought he was going to do with it.
“Let him up, Logan,” I say, getting my face down near his. “Let him up. He’s drunk.”
He doesn’t let him up, though. He keeps his knee on Trip’s chest. He’s not hurting him, but he’s holding him there. “What the f**k was he doing to you that made you slap him?” he asks.
“He’s drunk. Let him up so he can go to bed.”
Logan takes his thumbs off Trip’s windpipe, and Trip draws in a huge gulp of air. “Call the cops, Emily,” Trip starts screaming. Logan tightens his grip again.
“He has to shut the f**k up if he wants me to let him up.” He looks down at Trip. “I hate a f**king drunk,” he says. “I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to go to your room. Do you understand?”
Trip nods. Logan steps back, and Trip scrambles to his feet, nearly falling over in the process. “I should call the cops.”
“So I can tell them how you were assaulting me?” I ask.
He looks confused. “I just wanted to kiss you,” he whines. He’s not pretty when he drinks. Not at all.