Chapter 8 #2
“We should get these clothes in the dryer,” Calloway says, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Sitting around in wet clothes is a recipe for pneumonia.”
I freeze. “You’re undressing here?”
He shrugs. “No point in catching our deaths. Besides, I don’t think the laundry police are going to arrest us.”
My mind races through options. Leave now? Stay clothed and uncomfortable? Or...
Calloway’s shirt hits the floor with a wet slap. I try to look away, but my eyes betray me, stealing glances at the exposed skin. I was expecting—hoping—his photographer’s body would be soft, disappointing. Something to break this inexplicable attraction. Instead, he’s all lean muscle.
Water droplets slide down his chest, tracing paths between defined pecs, over a flat stomach that tenses as he bends to untie his shoes.
The body of a runner. His arms flex as he works at his belt buckle, and I notice the camera aperture tattoo on his wrist seems to be the only mark on his otherwise flawless skin.
He steps out of his pants, standing now in just black boxer briefs that cling to thick thighs.
I swallow hard.
“Your turn,” he says, gathering his wet clothes.
I don’t move.
“I’ll be a gentleman,” he adds, picking up his jacket from the bench and holding it up like a privacy screen. “Promise not to peek.”
The cold cling of my wet clothes makes the decision for me. “Turn around.”
He turns his head, still holding the jacket up. I unbutton my blouse, peeling the wet fabric from my skin. My jeans follow, sticking to my legs as I struggle to pull them down. Soon I’m standing in my matching black bra and panties, hugging myself against the chill.
“Um, problem,” I say.
Calloway keeps the jacket raised. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t just stand here practically naked.”
He considers this. “Wear my jacket. It will cover you while the clothes dry.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He passes the jacket to me without turning. I quickly slip off my bra and slide the jacket on. It’s still warm from his body, and it smells like him. The jacket falls mid-thigh, offering some modesty.
“I’m covered,” I say.
He turns, and I can’t help noticing how his eyes trace the length of my legs before returning to my face.
“Almost forgot,” I say, reaching beneath the jacket to slide my panties down my legs, keeping the jacket pulled low. Calloway averts his gaze, focusing on the ceiling.
Once I’m done, he nods. “My turn.”
Without warning, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and slides them down.
My eyes shoot straight to the ceiling. Nope. Not looking.
I hear the slide of fabric, a soft, frustrated hiss, and then a distinct fumbling sound. The silence that follows stretches just a beat too long.
I can’t help it. I glance back.
And I miss it. The main event, anyway. What I do see is Calloway Frost, hunched over, with both hands clamped firmly over his...situation, like he’s trying to protect the crown jewels from a sudden draft.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, breaking the tension.
“Something funny?” he asks, a flush creeping up his neck.
“No, no,” I say, failing to suppress my grin. “I just didn’t expect...that...to be a two-handed situation.”
Calloway sits on the plastic bench, hands strategically positioned over his lap, looking more amused than embarrassed. I perch on the opposite end, his jacket wrapped around me.
Our clothes tumble in the dryer, creating a steady background rhythm. I shift, cold vinyl sticking to my thighs.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the mechanical churning and the rain against the windows.
I study the peeling linoleum, the faded safety posters on the walls, anything to avoid looking at him directly. Every few minutes, I steal a glance at Calloway, but he seems lost in his own thoughts, staring at the gray blur outside.
“So,” I say, finally breaking the awkward silence. “Are you okay? After what happened at the gallery, I mean.”
His expression shifts, amusement fading into something more complicated.
“Define ‘okay,’” he says, adjusting his position. “My exhibition space is currently a crime scene. Half my contacts won’t return my calls because they think I’m bad luck, and the other half keep calling to get the gory details.”
Rain continues to hammer against the windows, turning the world outside into a gray blur.
“I can’t stop seeing it,” I admit, surprised by my honesty. “The way he just... All that blood.”
Calloway studies me, his pale eyes intense. “First time seeing someone die?”
“In person? Yes.” The lie comes easily. “I keep thinking about how random it was,” I say, observing his face. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
A muscle works in his jaw. “Actually, not so random.”
I straighten. “What do you mean?”
“The police have a theory.” Calloway shifts, lowering his voice despite the empty laundromat. “They think it was a mob hit. That the guy...Vinny...was the intended target.”
My heartbeat quickens. “A hit? Like, deliberate?”
“Says it has all the markings of a professional.” His eyes find mine. “My friend, Xander, says someone sabotaged the cameras.”
I grip the edge of the bench, steadying myself. “Your friend sounds knowledgeable.”
“Xander knows things.” Calloway shrugs. “He also says the rig had been tampered with in a very specific way. Not something an amateur could pull off.”
Well, I’m no amateur.
“So someone wanted this Vinny guy dead?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual while my mind races.
“Apparently. The North End still has its connections, you know. Vito Torrino—Vinny’s uncle—has fingers in lots of pies. Legitimate and otherwise.”
The dryer hums between us. My clothes spin past the circular window, tumbling alongside his.
“That’s crazy,” I say. “So you weren’t the target?”
“Me?” Calloway looks surprised. “Why would I be a target?”
I backpedal. “I just meant—you were standing right there. It could’ve been you.”
“Ah.” His expression relaxes. “Yeah, that’s been fucking with my head too. Six inches to the left and...” He makes that collapsing gesture again.
He doesn’t know. The police aren’t looking for me. I didn’t kill an innocent.
The dryer buzzes, startling me from my thoughts. With the sound, the strange bubble we’ve created in this empty laundromat shifts, reality creeping back in.
“Looks like our clothes are almost ready,” I say, nodding toward the machine.
“Thank God.” Calloway stands. He turns to the dryer, still keeping one hand placed in front. The movement gives me an unobstructed view of his back, and my eyes automatically track the line of his spine down to his ass.
Okay. Not bad.
The muscles in his back shift and tighten under his skin as he pulls his jeans from the drum with his free hand.
“As much as I’m enjoying our little laundry date, I’d prefer pants.”
“Date?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Figure of speech.” He grins, the expression transforming his face. It’s disarming how his features soften when he smiles, how the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw seem less severe.
“Would you mind?” He holds up his clothes, gesturing for me to turn around.
“Really? After all that?” I tease, but I turn anyway, giving him privacy.
“What can I say? I’m old-fashioned.”
My fingertips brush against my bag, reminding me why I’m here. Why I shouldn’t be enjoying this moment so much.
“You’re good,” he says after a minute.
I turn back to find him dressed, his shirt now dry and wrinkled. He rolls up the sleeves, exposing his forearms.
“Now you,” he says, passing me my clothes and turning his back.
The jacket slides from my shoulders, taking his warmth and his scent with it. The cotton of my blouse is still hot to the touch, a stark comfort against my skin. I pull on my jeans, then work the buttons of my blouse with quick, efficient motions, restoring a layer of order.
“Done,” I announce. “Thank you for the jacket.”
“Anytime.” His eyes meet mine. “Though next time we could skip the biblical flood part.”
I laugh, and it surprises me how genuine it sounds. How good it feels. When was the last time I laughed like this with a man? Not as part of a seduction, not as my bartender persona, but just...me?
“You have a great laugh,” he says. The compliment is so simple that it catches me off guard.
“Thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“So,” he says, checking his watch. “It’s still raining, but just lightly. At least we won’t catch pneumonia now.”
I nod, collecting my bag. “I should probably get going.”
“Right.” Is that disappointment in his voice? “Big plans for your day off?”
“Not really. Just some errands.”
“Can I ask you something?” Calloway says, his voice quiet.
“Sure.”
“At the gallery, before everything happened...” He pauses, appearing to search for words. “Were you following me?”
My breath catches. “What?”
“I kept seeing you. In different corners of the room. Looking at me.” His eyes study mine, searching for truth. “Am I imagining things?”
I force a smile. “Maybe I was just admiring the view.”
“So it wasn’t my imagination,” he says. His eyes linger.
“I find you interesting,” I admit.
“Interesting?” He smirks. “That could mean a lot of things.”
“It could.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other. The air between us is charged, electric.
“I should get back to work,” he says, but makes no move to leave.
“Me too.”
Still, neither of us moves.
“Unless...” he starts.
“Unless?”
His gaze shifts to the window, then back to me. Calloway points to a grimy-looking dive bar across the street, its neon sign flickering. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. A real one. Not champagne. What do you say?”