I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (19 page)

First of which, Kay has only ever seen one side of me, the good side, the side that is laid back most of the time, the side that is flirty and fun, generally nice. But there’s darkness in me too, I am still fucked up. Her sweet soul couldn’t begin to fathom the many demons I still battle—my night with Missy, case in point. Kay would surely be disgusted if she learned of the things I did with the head of the bake committee, her sort-of friend that she wants me to sit beside if I lose our stupid bet.
Fuck
. And what would sweet girl think if she knew just how much I craved the coke Missy had in her purse that night? Kay has no idea what those cravings are like, how they all come back to you when temptation is near, sometimes like they never even left. My girl has never craved oblivion and destruction the way I have; she’s too good for those kinds of fucked-in-the-head thoughts.

It was a fight that night not to use—it
is
a fight. Not every day, but it is there, lurking under my skin, waiting for something big enough to push my resistance all the way down to giving in. Really, I don’t know if the battle to never use drugs again will ever be completely won. And it’s not fair to drag Kay onto that battlefield. I don’t want her to end up battered and bruised, caught up in a fight that’s not even her own.

I abruptly straighten, suddenly feeling shameful and undeserving. I lean away from Kay, put my elbow up on the armrest. She glances my way and gives me a lazy smile, like I’m someone special. Too bad I am nothing even close to special.

Kay untucks her legs and stretches them out in front of her. “Yeah, I have to readjust, too,” she says, completely misinterpreting my move away from her. “I think my right foot fell asleep, like, twenty minutes ago.”

She smiles again and I try to smile back.

What am I going to do? I may be in control tonight, but my resolve is clearly crumbling. This back-and-forth shit is tearing me to pieces. My feelings for Kay are turned, twisted, and jacked. Fuck, my girl deserves so much more than me, but me is what I long to give her. How do I stop whatever is developing between us when I really don’t want to anymore? How do I fight fucking destiny? Do I keep resisting?

My heart tells me the answer is simple:
Quit resisting.

But will I ever be what Kay deserves?
I ask back.

My heart tells me it doesn’t matter, Kay gets me, she already accepts the man I am, imperfections included.

I relax a little. I decide to go with the flow, for now, and pray my heart can keep us both from getting hurt.

Chapter Six

Kay

Tuesday is everything I love about summer: baby-blue skies, high clouds, and warm morning sun. An anemic ray struggles to stream through my basement apartment window. It almost reaches the spot where I stand. I step closer and closer, until warmth finds my upturned face. I stop, I bask.

My heated cheeks remind me of someone who has this same effect on me, someone who’s fast becoming my own personal ray of sun. And that man—my badass-artist boy, my contradiction, Chase Gartner—is occupying my thoughts more and more.

Last night was fun, watching the movie with my complicated friend. He puzzles me though. Sometimes it’s impossible to discern what he’s thinking. Does he like me more than a friend? Does he think I’m pretty? I like him, so these things carry importance. However, last night I think I may have finally received an answer in the sketch he drew of me.

Seeing the way Chase captured me the Sunday we met gave me a pretty darn good idea of what he’s thinking, and one question was perhaps answered. I think my artist boy sees me as something I could only ever hope to be—beautiful. Though when he realized I saw the truth in what he’d drawn it seemed he felt put on the spot.

He backtracked a bit, used the word “pretty,” not “beautiful, but it was too late. I’ve learned enough of that man over the past few weeks that I saw right through his no-big-deal façade. The sketch created by his hand told me everything I’ve been dying to know—Chase Gartner is as attracted to me as I am to him.

And thinking of this newfound knowledge as I stand beneath the thin strand of light created by the summer sun, my heart soars high, way up into the outside blue, up into the high summer clouds.

I gather my things and leave my apartment. I feel better than fine, my heart up high even as I walk across the parking lot. I am ten feet tall and feeling grand. Unfortunately, these high spirits land me in hot water when I let my guard down. I feel it before I see it, but there’s no mistaking I’ve been noticed.

There are three junkies hanging out over by an alley that skirts around the side of the building. My car is in a space nearby, leaving me no choice but to pass right by the junkies. As I near the three miscreants, I mistakenly make eye contact with one, a short, stubby guy with unwashed hair. He’s leaned up against the building, his beefy arms crossed over his chest. He’s built like a fireplug, not as skinny as his blank-stare, soul-lost pals. Naming him Fireplug in my head, I determine he must be fairly new to this kind of life. Even so, as I pass, his dark, empty eyes rake me over, like it’s his right. My stomach turns. I suspect this junkie wants more of me than what his eyes can give him.

Isn’t it enough that he’s already taking something?
I think with a shudder.

I frown and his expression challenges, his eyes dare.
Go ahead and say something,
they tell me.
See what happens.

Of course, I remain silent.

I’m all too aware of how helpless I am in this situation. Suddenly, the flimsy sundress I slipped over my head this morning feels like nothing. The thin material, the short hemline, the scooped neckline, these stylish details make me feel nothing now but vulnerable and exposed.

The blue cotton fabric matches today’s sky perfectly, but I, unfortunately, don’t blend in. Fireplug with the greasy hair stares and stares, his lips curling up into a feral grin, one that reveals a missing tooth.

I avert my eyes and just run the rest of the way to my car, wedge heels on my feet be damned. The danger of living here has just been ratcheted up a notch. I’ve been noticed, and by someone who probably won’t forget, something I’ve successfully avoided for a whole year.
Damn.

What I should do is quit being stubborn and ask Chase about his apartment. I know for a fact it’s still for rent. He told me just the other day that the only person who’s gone out to view the place, a male college student, decided not to take it. The kid supposedly liked the apartment, but Chase said the guy ultimately decided he’d rather remain in town.

I fumble with my keys and keep my thoughts busy, trying (in vain) to ignore the stares burning into my back. I’ve saved a little extra these past few weeks and could possibly swing the rental rate Chase is asking. I guess the only thing still holding me back now is a sense of pride. It’s stupid, I know, but I feel like maybe I should just find a place on my own.

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?

My real concern is that if I live in such close proximity to Chase I’ll just fall for him even more. I already feel like I’m moving faster than him, so I certainly don’t need to make things harder for myself.

These thoughts distract me from the junkies, but my heart still races when I jump into my car and speed away. Even though Fireplug and his lecherous stares are left behind me in the lot, I remain uneasy.

I spend the rest of the drive to work coaxing my heart back to a regular rhythm. “I am calm, I am calm,” I whisper out loud, hands gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. “Everything is fine now. There’s no more danger.”

My attempts to relax come to fruition, and by the time I reach the church it’s like the early morning scare never even occurred. Or so I think.

The morning flies by, and a little before noon Chase calls instead of texting. He asks me to meet him in front of the church in roughly ten more minutes. Apparently Father Maridale is having him take a look at the Holy Trinity fresco, the larger-than-life colorful painting behind the altar. The shades and tones are still bright, but there are a few areas that could use some touching up. There’s a certain way to do this, Chase tells me, to preserve the integrity of the original painting, and that’s what he and Father Maridale are discussing.

Ten minutes later, as Chase requested, I’m at the base of the church steps, waiting for him to emerge. And, unbeknownst to me, I am about to find out the effects from this morning are still with me.

I begin to make a call on my cell, a call to Missy I’ve yet to return. But just as I find her in my contacts, I feel someone come up behind me. Startled, I spin around and drop the cell. Chase catches it.

“Whoa, sweet girl, someone’s a little jumpy today.” His blues fill with question. “Hey, did something upset you this morning?”—
if only you knew
—“Is everything okay?”

No.
“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

My gaze locks on the phone as Chase hands it back. I don’t wish to share the details of my morning run-in. Why worry him? And why confirm his belief that I should move as soon as possible?

So, with a smile, I just say, “You startled me, that’s all.”

I guess Chase assumes my skittishness has something to do with the call I was making. His brow furrows, and he glances at the phone. “Who were you calling?” he asks.

“Oh…I was calling Missy. There’s a big bake sale coming up in conjunction with the Fourth of July carnival.” Chase appears impassive as I pause. “You do know Missy is the head of the bake committee, right?”

Chase nods curtly and some emotion I can’t peg darkens his expression. But as quickly as I pick up on it, a second later, it’s gone.
Strange.
What is up with those two? Just this past Sunday when I waved to Chase and turned back in my seat, Missy was shaking her head. “What?” I asked her.

“You’re playing with fire, Kay,” was all she would say, shaking her head like she knew something I didn’t.

Again, I wanted to question her cryptic comment, but the organ music started up right then.

I shake off the memory and finish my explanation to Chase. “Missy called and left a message last night, asking if I could bake cookies for the sale. I always help out.” I sigh. “But I won’t be able to this time. My stupid oven broke last month.”

I half-expect Chase to tell me he’ll take a look at it, or maybe even offer up the use of his own oven—he’s usually helpful like that—but instead he just changes the subject.

“Hey, do you want to mix it up a little today?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck and squinting into the sun. “Maybe we could eat lunch down at Pizza House?”

Crap
, I think,
anywhere but there
. With my luck Nick will be working. Chase isn’t my boyfriend or anything, but Nick got to know me well enough that he’d probably pick up on my attraction to Chase. Why rub it in Nick’s face? Not to mention, I certainly don’t want my intuitive friend to catch on that I have a sort-of history with the manager at Pizza House. There’s too much of a chance our entire lunch could turn completely awkward.

I tell Chase I’d rather just stick with the diner. “Besides, it’s like they know us there. They might miss us if we don’t make our usual lunchtime appearance.”

The crap I’m spouting is just that—crap. I highly doubt the employees at the diner care whether Chase and I show up every day. Chase looks like he’s thinking exactly the same thing, but he humors me and we end up sticking with the diner, potential trip to Awkward-Ville averted.

I don’t know how it happens, but the next day I find myself divulging to Chase that I haven’t had a relationship with anyone since college, not since Doug Wilson. I don’t count last autumn with Nick. It was something, sure, but not the kind of relationship Chase and I are currently discussing. This discussion is about serious relationships, meaning ones that involved sex.

Chase confesses his longest relationship, one he had with some girl back in Vegas, lasted only a couple of months. Then, his dad died, and his life—as well as that relationship—fell to pieces.

That sure doesn’t mean Chase hasn’t had sex since then. Quite the contrary. He knows I’m well aware of this, so he spares me any further details of his past beyond his two-month girlfriend.

I tell him about Doug Wilson, my only real boyfriend and the only guy I’ve ever had sex with. Chase watches me with interest. Unlike him, my lack of a boyfriend for the past four years means I’ve also gone without sex for just as long. I hint at that, but don’t come right out and say it. I give Chase a minute to figure that one out for himself as I line up my shot and prepare to putt a bright pink golf ball.

Chase and I are playing miniature golf at a course behind an ice-cream parlor/putt-putt golf course that just opened across the street from the church. It was Chase’s idea to come here this evening. We both finished work at the same time and ran into each other out in the parking lot. Not literally, like our first meeting, but as I was opening my car door Chase was walking up to his truck. We smiled at each other and laughed about a stupid joke the waitress had told us earlier during our lunch at the diner. Chase then said he didn’t feel like going straight home, it was too nice an evening. The sun was still high in the sky and the breezes blew warm as they whipped around us. I asked what my restless boy felt like doing.

“How `bout a game of mini-golf?” Chase asked as he gestured to the newly opened place across the street. “I heard the ice cream is good and their putt-putt course is fun.” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think? Golf first, ice cream after, and winner buys the cones. You game, baby girl?”

And that’s how we ended up here under sodium lighting, hitting golf balls through rotating windmill blades and, just last hole, a blue whale’s mouth. All the while talking about relationships and sex.
Oh, boy.

My club makes contact and the pink ball flies through a metal loop-the-loop on the green before coming out on the other side. The ball does a little hop and I get my first hole in one. I don’t mutter “fuck, yeah” like Chase did when he got a hole in one at the last hole.

But I do execute a little spin, making my flouncy skirt flare out as I yell, “Yay!”

Chase gives me a high five and starts to write my score down on our scorecard. I notice he seems distracted. I figure he must still be thinking about what I told him right before I putted—that I haven’t been involved with a man for four years. I discover I am absolutely correct in three-two-one…

“So-o-o,” Chase says slowly, looking up from where his golf pencil is no longer moving, “does that mean it’s been four whole years since you last…” He trails off and coughs, but I swear I hear him say “fucked” under his breath.

Not only is it all kinds of hot to hear Chase say the word “fucked” in reference to me, but what he’s asking is pretty clear. Even if his words weren’t enough—and, trust me, they were—his quirked eyebrow and questioning gunmetal stare put to rest any doubts.

“Oh my God,” I sputter. “I can’t believe you just asked me…
that
.” My cheeks are surely red. Not pink, red. Good Lord, is the beautiful Chase Gartner really asking me to confirm that I haven’t gotten laid in four years?

Chase shrugs and gets back to writing on the scorecard. “Just keeping it real, blushing girl. We talk about everything else, right?”

“True,” I say, because he’s right.

We share a lot, more and more each day, and far more than I’ve ever shared with any other person. I think the same is true for him. In fact, I’m sure of it. The things we tell one another we’d never share with anyone else.

For instance, just last week, I ended up telling Chase about my fractured relationship with my parents. Right after he shared with me that he still loves his mom, even after all that’s passed between them. But he wishes every day that things had turned out differently. I told him I knew how he felt; I often wish the same for myself.

We were coming back from lunch at the time, and when Chase noticed my eyes misting, he stopped and pulled me to him. He gave me a hug of epic proportions. It was a sweet and simple gesture, full of warmth and caring. And I hugged him back just as big, thinking maybe he needed holding as much as I did. As we held tightly to one another, like two lost ships on a sea of confusion, I breathed in the guy I’ve grown to care for so very much. Chase smelled clean—a hint of paint, soap and shave cream…and just pure, delicious male.

A day later, Chase and I were discussing music over lunch. He mentioned he’s been listening to some old albums he found up in his attic weeks ago, classic rock that once belonged to his father. Chase said listening to those old songs—songs his dad had once loved so much—makes him feel closer to the man who left his life too soon.