I Speak...Love (A Different Road #3) (10 page)

“OK,” I answer.

“Yeah?” he replies, tilting his head down to look at me, having expected a different answer.

I pick my head up off his shoulder, then he squeezes me around my shoulder. He gets up from the couch and extends his hand toward me to help me up. I place my hand in his, as he pulls me to my feet.

I flinch with anticipation, but to my surprise, he doesn’t try to hug me. He walks over to the wall by the front door, then he turns around.

“I’m going to turn the light on, is that OK?” he asks.

“Just a sec,” I reply, then wipe the remaining evidence of my tears away. “OK,” I say, then he turns the lights on.

I hadn’t noticed what he was wearing when I stormed up to the house, well because my camera had just been stolen, but now all I can do it stare at him. I was so very wrong when I thought he didn’t have anything that went with the leather bracelet I gave him. It’s almost as if that cuff was made in mind with
exactly
what he has on. His worn, frayed, holey jeans with a tight fitting t-shirt and a pair of chucks look exactly like what one would wear with a bracelet like that.

“Maddy? Stephen calls.

“Hmmm,” I hum, unable to remove my eyes from his jeans.

“Did you want to put on some shoes? I mean you don’t have to, you can go barefoot if you want, I don’t mind,” he says, pulling me out of my stare.

“Shoes,” I say, walking toward my generic, bargain store cheap, fake, canvas shoes that refuse to stay tied even if I double knot them.

Stupid shoes . . . stupid shoelaces.

I slip my toes into my shoes, then cram my feet into them as I take a few steps until they’re all the way on my feet. I don’t even bother lacing them. Why bother? I grab my purse off the counter, then follow Stephen out of my house, locking the door behind me. I follow him down the driveway to his car parked on the street. He walks around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I quickly look down at my filthy dirty clothes feeling unworthy to get inside. I was laying on the ground and pretty much rolling around in the dirt like a dog taking photos earlier. As discrete as I can, I wipe some of the dirt off my shorts, then I slip into the seat. He closes the door, then he walks around to the driver’s side and gets in. His seat molds perfectly to his body, and it looks like it was custom made specifically for each muscle on his backside. He starts the car with the push of a button and it roars to life.

Instead of silence and dwelling on my loss, Stephen gives me a sideways glance, then he turns up the volume to an eighties satellite radio station. His hand rests on the gear shift and taps in rhythm as a new song begins. As Axl Rose from Guns N’ Roses starts to belt out the lyrics to Paradise City his hand moves to my upper thigh. Stephen starts to sing and man, he’s killing it. Then, as if his thumb and forefinger are a pick and my thigh his guitar, he starts strumming in rhythm to the song on my leg. With each gentle flick, it sends chills up and down my leg. As Slash revs up, Stephen’s fingers travel up and down my thigh, and the farther up he goes, the chills multiply and spread over the rest of my body. He gives one last flick as the song ends, then his hand stays relaxed on my thigh. It was a long song, and it was nearly seven minutes of the best time in my life. I’ve never felt something so sensual before.

Stephen pulls into a drive-through, and I’m not even sure what I order, then he drives to an overlook and parks the car. The sun is almost set, and the moon is huge and bright in the sky in front of us. My immediate instinct is to take a picture, then the crushing realization that I don’t own a camera anymore devastates me all over again.

He hands me my food, then I place it in my lap and unwrap my cheeseburger. I take my time and smooth the wrapper out over my legs while Stephen unwraps his. I look at him and wait for him to take the first bite. He gives me his famous sideways glance, then he concedes and takes a bite. I take a tiny bite of mine and remember many days of going hungry. Food is always something I’ve been very protective of. Not just for myself, but for the littler ones who didn’t get enough. It didn’t matter how hungry I was, I always made sure the younger foster kids had food before I did. There were days I would give half of my food to the little kids, only to have the other half of my food stolen by the older kids. That’s when I learned to hoard and steal food. I think that’s why I cook so much extra for clients than I need to. I always want to make sure people have enough food. Even if they do have enough, I always have this hope that maybe they share their extra with someone else that needs it. No one should go hungry. He takes another bite of his burger, then after he swallows, he looks at me.

“How did your camera get broken?” he asks.

I swallow my food hard in my throat, then I look at him. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, then take a deep breath.

“I bought it that way,” I answer.

“You bought a camera that was already broken?” he asks to clarify.

“It’s all I could afford, but once I saw it, I knew it was perfect for me,” I tell him.

“Why did you say it was you?” he then asks.

“It was flawed on the outside and broken on the inside,” I answer truthfully, as I pick a sesame seed off the bun.

“Like you?” he questions.

“Yes,” I answer.

He gives me that look that seems to strip me bare, like he knows every single one of my thoughts.

After a few minutes, he finally says, “Butterflies will always fly, even in the rain.”

My mouth opens in disbelief. It takes me a few minutes to realize he’s referring to me as the butterfly. As if I’m some beautiful creature and even though it rains, in my case constantly, the beautiful butterfly will still spread its majestic wings and fly. But he couldn’t be more wrong.

“No, they don’t. They drown,” I answer.

If the delicate butterfly’s wings get too wet, and they happen to be flying over water, they’ll crash and drown. If I’m this beautiful butterfly, the constant body of water beneath me is my reality. I’ll always drown, even if it’s not raining. The air in the car gets heavy and his piercing eyes lock with mine. After a few minutes of silence, he breaks eye contact and takes another bite of his food. The air lightens, and I too take another bite of my food.

“Now for a serious question?” he says. What can be more serious than personally identifying with a broken camera and saying I’m a drowning butterfly? “When can I taste one of your famous chocolate chip cookies?” he asks.

I choke on the food in my mouth, and he quickly hands me my drink from the cup holder. I take a sip, then clear my throat.

“I’ll bring you some next time I bring you lunch,” I tell him.

“So, that means there’s going to definitely be a next time you bring me lunch?” he asks with a smile. I smile at him knowing that oh yes, I do believe there will be a next time. “Sweetness,” he says, reading my thoughts.

“River would like to invite you to join us for lunch today,” Josh says, as he opens my office door.

“Sorry, I have plans,” I tell him.

“Right,” he says, then closes the door.

I remove my suit coat from the back of my chair, slip it on, then grab my keys and walk out of my office.

I stop in front of Caleigh’s desk and say, “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

She looks up at me in shock, opens and closes her mouth several times like a fish out of water, but doesn’t say anything. I never leave the office, especially at eleven in the morning.

“Yes, sir,” she finally says.

I get in my car and head to the camera shop I researched online when I got to the office at five this morning. I walk in the store and the salesman immediately grins, knowing he sees the high probability for a very nice sale in his future.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asks, politely.

Last night after I got home from dropping Maddy off, I went into my office and researched cameras for a solid three hours. I now have it narrowed down to two possibilities. I have no clue about cameras and honestly, I don’t know what kind Maddy had to begin with. I do know that a specific brand of a camera can be as particular as the preference of a car, so I’m hoping I pick a good one. I take the piece of paper I wrote the two model numbers on out of my breast pocket and place it on the glass counter.

“Do you have either of these?” I ask.

He looks at the paper and his eyes increase in size when he sees the caliber of camera I’m prepared to buy.

“Yes, sir, I have both. Let me get them for you so you can look and feel the difference.”

He walks a few feet away to a different showcase, removes his plastic, blue spiral bracelet from his wrist, and unlocks the door. He removes two cameras, then walks back over to me. He gently sets them on the counter in front of me. I pick each one of them up and, again, I have no clue at what I’m even looking at.

“Which would you prefer?” I ask.

I’m guessing he’ll say the more expensive of the two.

“Is this for you personally or a gift for someone else?” he asks.

“It’s a gift,” I answer.

He asks me several more questions about how the person will be using it and in what capacity, and these questions I know the answer to. To my surprise, he recommends the less expensive of the two cameras, then he proceeds to tell me why.

“I’ll take it,” I tell him.

“Very well, sir,” he says, excitedly.

“I’d also like to purchase two additional lenses, you pick, and a camera backpack that will hold everything,” I add. I know photographers change lenses for specific jobs, and I trust the salesman to pick out two that will serve Maddy well.

“Does she have a memory card?” he asks.

That was most likely stolen too, I imagine.

“Give me the best one you have,” I tell him. “Just one more thing,” I say, stopping him from retrieving everything. “I need you to break the camera itself,” I finish.

“Pardon me?” he asks, shocked.

“I need you to break it somewhere on the outside shell. Obviously, nowhere that it will interfere with the function of the camera, but I need you to crack the case somewhere.”

“But, sir!” he exclaims. “That will void the warranty.”

“That’s OK,” I tell him.

His face changes from shock to bewildered when he realizes that I’m actually serious.

“You’ll need to pay for it first,” he says. I reach for my wallet and pull out my Centurion American Express card and hand it to him. His eyes again go wide when he sees the extended “Black” card. He takes the card, then processes the payment. He hands me back my card, then says, “I’ll be right back.” He goes into the back room and returns ten minutes later with the camera in one hand and the box in the other. “That was the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do,” he says, then he shows me where he cracked the case.

“Thank you,” I tell him, then he packages the camera back inside the box.

I take my purchases, then head back to the office. I get off the elevator on my floor and stop at Caleigh’s desk to check in.

“Maddy is waiting for you in your office with lunch,” she says with a smile. “I’m going to head out myself for lunch. Do you need anything?” she asks.