Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
KEEN VIRTUE
Jules
It’s well after supper time when I turn onto the top of my road. I’m still tired. The aspirin I took this afternoon is wearing off, and my nose is starting to throb. And after walking all the way home, I’m starving. But the prospect of eating alone only makes me slow my steps.
I left my iPad in his car and hoped that he’d see it and run after me and we’d kiss in the rain but not feel a single dreary drop while we got lost in each other’s lips.
When that didn’t happen, I spent the entire day at work and the Tube ride home imagining that he would be waiting outside the flat for me. He’d have my iPad tucked under one of his anatomically perfect arms and pull me into his lap for a kiss. And as soon as our lips touched, it would start raining and we’d sit kissing and getting soaked.
He wasn’t there. It didn’t rain.
But three days later, I’ve accepted he’s not going to come seek me out. I just hope he brings it to the pub with him on Sunday when he comes in for his regular afternoon meal.
But as I approach the small gate that leads to the residents’ entrance, I see someone leaning against the gate, and I quicken my steps, only to have my foolish romantic heart sag when I get closer and can make out that it’s Dominic.
“Evening, Dom.”
“Good evening. You hungry?” he calls and waves me over.
“Yeah, I guess.”
He frowns. “Why d’long face, child? Your nose bothering you?”
I shake my head and attempt a smile. “Long day.”
“I’ll have one of the boys run dinner up to you, okay?”
My heart lifts for the first time today. I press a kiss to his weathered cheek and thank whatever good luck brought him into my life. He and his wife, Jodi, own the Effra. He runs the back office, she runs the kitchen. They’re not quite old enough to be my parents, but they seem to like taking care of me. So I let them.
When I first arrived in London in 2011 to complete my A-levels, I rented a student house in Kensington Church Street, close to my college. The small savings account that my father set up and deposited into every month until the week he died had more money in it than it should, and I didn’t know how he’d managed to save it all. But there was enough in the account to pay the exorbitant fees that came with admission and board at what my research said was the best A levels program in London a thousand times over.
I’d never seen so much money in one place, and I was afraid to spend it. He told me the account was to pay for university, and if there was any left, a down payment on a house when I got married. What I found in that account was enough to buy a few houses if I wanted.
I didn’t think I’d ever marry the way he hoped. So I planned to use it for the other things he wanted me to. I paid for the best education money could buy and prepaid my rent for the year. And then determined I wouldn’t touch another cent unless I had to.
One of my classmates was a barkeep at a place in Kensington and got me a job there, too.
I’d never even opened a bottle of wine at that point, so I spent a few days practicing pulling corks and watched YouTube videos on pulling the perfect pint and mixing the staple cocktails served at pubs. I worked there until Conrad and I crossed paths again.
When he disappeared with what he thought were my lifesavings, I decided that a neighborhood off the beaten path where I could blend in was a better fit for me than the high-traffic tourist trap of Kensington.
I knew just the place. Brixton—where my father had lived as a student before he abandoned London for the bucolic setting of Stow-on-the-Wold.
My tutor in the law department had warned me of the rampant crime and drug dealers that plagued every corner and suggested I take a weekend and get to know the area, see it at night, first thing in the morning, and in the middle of the afternoon before I decided.
So I did.
What I found was a bustling, vibrant neighborhood that was exactly as my father described it. My father, who’d never had a chance to formally study anything, had been a self-taught historian, and he’d regale me with stories he’d read about the famous Windrush years and the way they shaped the area. But the memories that brought more smiles to his face than any other were from The Effra, a pub where he and his friends, newly arrived from Ghana in the 1980s, found hearty welcomes and each other.
When I arrived here nearly six years ago, The Effra was still there and run by the son of the former landlord. It was nestled on a residential road away from the busy Coldharbour Lane, where the majority of night clubs, pubs, and restaurants in Brixton were crammed together.
The Sunday I walked into The Effra, they said they were hiring a barkeep and that the job came with a small flat upstairs. It was kismet. Dominic hired me on the spot, and I accepted before I even saw the place I’d call home.
It’s tiny, dated, and the noise from downstairs only relents when the pub closes at midnight. But it’s all mine and has allowed me to save up all the money Conrad stole and then some while I went to school full-time.
Six years later, I love living here as much as I love working downstairs.
But tonight, I’m dreading the quiet that’s waiting for me. As if being lonely wasn’t bad enough, I’m also bored because my one source of entertainment is with a man who probably forgot my name before he woke up the next morning.
The buzzer at my door wakes me up with a start. I blink at my watch and groan. How is it already nine o’clock? Last time I looked at the clock, I’d just finished drowning my sorrows in vanilla ice cream topped with an indulgent amount of chocolate sauce and had closed my eyes for what was supposed to be just a few minutes. My buzzer goes again, and I come fully awake and push myself off the sofa.
“Coming,” I call as I approach the door. This late, it’s either the lady from next door bumming alcohol off me or my best mate from college, Kyle, who never calls before he shows up.
I don’t bother looking in the mirror as I pass it. They’ve both seen me in a lot less than my pajamas.
I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt such an acute regret about a decision as I do about that when I open the door and see Omar Solomon on the other side of it.
I stand there rumpled and pray that I don’t have drool dried on my face or crust in the corners of my bugged-out eyes. I give him a once-over and swallow hard. He doesn’t look like he’s spent the night eating his feelings. His black shirt is open at the top and frames his golden, clean-shaven, exquisitely formed throat like the work of art it is. It fits his broad chest and trim torso like it was cut just for him. The cuffs are linked with a small gold “S.” And it’s tucked into his black trousers. They cling to his slim hips and long legs and give just a hint of the muscle that cords them. His dark hair is wet and slicked back like he just showered, and his rugged jaw is shaved clean. He smells like a sultry summer night and looks like a dream. I want to run my hands all over him.
“Is this a bad time?” he asks. I clasp them in front of me and refocus my eyes on his.
“No, I just… I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, amazed that I can speak through the buzz of frantic butterflies that are flying around inside me, knocking against my heart, fighting their way up my throat as if they’ve had enough and want out.
He bites that sensual top lip of his, and his dark hazel eyes, the color of the golden syrup the restaurant uses for their famous sticky toffee puddings, narrow on me, and I recognize that expression from hours of watching video of him on the pitch. He looks just like that right before he makes one of the moves that earned him his nickname of Mastermind, and I hold my breath to see what he’s going to do next.
“You left your iPad in my car.” His voice is as gruff as it is when he’s barking at someone for a misstep in a play.
“Oh, I wondered where that got to,” I lie through my teeth. “It was good of you to bring it all this way. Sunday would have been fine.” I flash a sheepish grin.
“I wanted to bring it sooner, but a pipe burst in the kitchen, and the week got away from me.” His gaze narrows on my face, and he winces. “And I don’t think I had a chance to say how fucking sorry I am about your nose, Jules.”
I forgot I’m sporting a pair of black eyes and still have the bandage across my nose. God, I wish I’d looked in the mirror. “I’m pretty sure you apologized, and it was an accident,” I admonish him.
The facsimile of a smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain focused on my face.
“I broke my nose like that a few times. I know how painful it is in the moment, and that it looks worse than it feels for a bit…but of all the breaks and tears I’ve had, it was the easiest to live with and healed fast. Is it feeling better today?”
“It’s a little sore, but the pain meds help.” I touch the side of it gingerly. He’s right. The worst of it was the impact, and all that blood.
His smile seems forced, and he shuffles his feet. “Okay, good.” He pats the pocket of his slacks. “I really like the painting you use for your screen background.”
I’m thrown by the change of subject and have to look at the tablet in my hand before I fully understand what he’s saying. “Oh, yes, it’s by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, I love all her work, but this painting is my absolute favorite.” I run a reverent fingertip over the picture of the dark-skinned, dreadlocked man sitting with a black cat perched on his shoulder. I was drawn to it because the firm set of his jaw reminds me of my father.
He nods in agreement. “Yeah, I looked her up. All her paintings have titles that are as evocative as the actual images.”
“I know.” I groan in half pleasure, half pain and clutch my iPad to my chest. “This one is titled In Lieu of Keen Virtue . She’s had a series of private audience events at the Tate Modern running since January. It ends this week.”
“I saw. Have you been?”
“I wish . The tickets sold out in less than a day. I was on the waitlist in case any came available, but I’m number six hundred and something, and I can’t imagine anyone returning those. So I’ve just resigned myself to wait until she does it again.” I sigh heavily.
“Or you can see her on Thursday.” He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope that he holds out to me.
“No way,” I gasp. I put my iPad down on the console table and grab the envelope. I slide my finger under the flap and pull it open to peer inside, holding my breath until I see what’s there with my own eyes.
I let the breath out with a whispered, “Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” I look up at him, my eyes wide with wonder and a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach. “How did you get these?”
The flush that was already on his cheeks deepens even as he shrugs off my amazement. “I called my agent to ask if he could get his hands on some, and it turned out the Tate comped him these last year. They were just sitting there.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. In my next life, I want to be a talent agent who gets comped tickets,” I quip with a grin.
He nods and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “No, it’s just…there are two tickets. I was hoping we could go together and maybe have dinner after. It’s Thursday night, and I know you have your shift?—”
“I’ll get Jodi to cover it for me. It’s fine,” I interject loudly.
“Perfect.” He rocks back on his heels with a nod.
“Thank you so much. This might be the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I confess and stare down at the treasure in my hands.
“You’re very welcome, Jules.” That rare smile of his is fully present, dimples and all, and I feel a surge of pride at putting that hard-won rarity on his face. “I’m glad I could get them. It starts at six. I can pick you up from work and drive us over.”
I tap my chin and think about what my day looks like on Thursday. “I’ll be in chambers that afternoon. If you don’t mind, we could meet at Blackfriars Underground Station at five-thirty. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk, so we can take our time.”
“It’s a date,” he says easily. Probably because he’s said it countless times before. But I haven’t. And it’s not just a date. I have a date with Omar Solomon. I’m squealing like a maniac on the inside, but I keep my exterior as cool as it can be and smile. “Sounds great.”
“Let’s exchange phone numbers so we can touch base if anything comes up before.”
“Absolutely. I’ll give you mine and you can text me so I’ll have yours,” I effuse, my voice pitched higher than normal. I rattle off my number as he types it into his phone. That maniacal squeal is close to turning itself inside out by the time he looks up and says, “Text sent.”
He glances at his watch and winces. “I’m meeting a friend for drinks in Mayfair. I’ve got to dash, but I’ll see you Thursday at Blackfriars at five-thirty?”
“Great,” I croak and lift a hand to wave.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He doesn’t move, though, and his eyes drop to my T-shirt. His lashes beat against each other softly as he blinks in surprise and looks back up at my face. “There’s, uh… something on your shirt,” he explains and points to it.
I look down at the dark brown dollop of chocolate hanging off the tip of my left nipple.
“It’s… Shit,” I grumble, annoyed and then mortified. “No. It’s not shit. It’s chocolate sauce,” I explain and wish I had a rewind button on this whole encounter. I swipe it off with the tip of my finger and gasp at the jolt of pleasure the friction creates.
“I fucking love chocolate sauce,” he says in a low, quiet voice. I look up and find his eyes fixed on the tip of my finger.
My heart is beating a wild timpani that’s too fast to be healthy, but I attempt a breezy smile and casual tone when I catch enough breath to speak. “Oh, well, next time you’re here, I’ll have you in to try some. It’s Tesco’s brand but really?—”
“Can I try it right now?” he asks.
“You mean…” I look at my finger. “You want this?”
“Yes. Please.”
I hold my finger out to him, and he leans forward, grabs my wrist, and sucks my finger into his mouth.
I gasp at the hot rasp of his tongue as he twirls it around my finger, and his eyes flick up to meet mine. And if the naked heat in them hadn’t nearly given me an arrhythmia, the sensation of his lips closing over it and sucking would certainly have.
My nipples, already primed by my touch and his desire, furl and stiffen with a sharp shot of pleasure I feel all the way to my core.
He releases my finger and lets my go of my wrist.
I instinctively cross my arms over my chest at the same time that he takes a step back and off my welcome mat. “That was delicious. Thank you.”
“Okay. Sure.” I manage to speak even though I’m sure my lungs have collapsed.
A barely perceptible smile tugs the corners of his lips. “See you Thursday.”
I close the door and walk to my kitchen. I pull out the food Dominic sent and heat it up in the microwave.
While I wait, I pick up my phone. It takes me a second to register that the text from a number I don’t know is from Omar. “Eeek,” I squeal, and open it.
Thursday 5:30, Blackfriars.
I save his number as Break in my phone and put it down. “I’m going on a date with Omar Solomon.” And then the words sink in, and my excitement surges and bursts through the dam of stupor. I run back out to the hallway, repeating myself the whole way.
“Oh Jesus,” I gasp at my reflection. It’s worse than I thought. My eyes are red, my hair is a disaster, and the bandages on my nose make it look twice as big as it is. But my smile says it all. “Omar Solomon asked me on a date.” I walk back to my couch, flop onto it, and replay his entire visit. But this time, I let that maniacal squeal loose, and it’s so loud that my upstairs neighbor pounds her floor in protest.
“Sorry,” I shout, but not even her complaining can dampen my excitement. “My fucking finger was in his mouth . And he put it there himself. And we have a date on Thursday.” I kick my legs and scream again but this time into one of the throw pillows on my couch.
When I’m finished with my solo celebration, I send Jodi a text and ask if we can switch shifts this week and offer to take her Saturday night one. I know she’ll say yes, but I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I tell her why I need the night off.