Chapter 10 Erin
Erin
I pull up to the port and wait for the man in the security booth to direct me to the warehouse, then drive down the road, past enormous shipping containers, trucks and abandoned boats until I reach a building with a rusty sign hanging above the door saying ‘North Shore Storage.’
I park the car out front, unlock the door and peek inside.
The smell hits me first—damp, decaying and probably moth-eaten materials. A bit like a lost and forgotten vintage shop. There are windows—too high to reach—but they’re dirty, which stifles the ability for light to shine through.
Inside is exactly the sort of chaos I’d have expected from Mallorie’s head. Garment racks bowing under the weight of costumes, plastic bins stacked three high, and a regiment of headless mannequins standing in a row like they’re awaiting sentencing.
“Well,” I say out loud, stepping inside. “At least you’re already decapitated. That helps.”
I drop my bag to the floor and drag the first mannequin toward the entrance with an unfeminine grunt. Whoever invented mannequins has clearly never needed to move one alone. By the time I’ve wrestled three to the door, my arms are burning and my patience is shot.
When I reach for a fourth, I lose my footing and knock against a garment rack. A sequined jacket slides off its hanger and lands at my feet.
I peer deeper into the rack to see what other gems might be hiding in there. I’m not disappointed.
There are costumes. Not cute costumes, but dramatic ones.
Vintage and outlandish. Things that have clearly been worn under hot lights by people with confidence and possibly substance abuse problems. Feathers in every color.
Fringe of varying lengths. Satin, velvet and chiffon.
A gold jumpsuit that looks like it has more sexual experience than me.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone, then turn back to the rack.
“I am already mid-divorce,” I tell the garments. “I have nothing to lose.”
I slip off my sweater and leggings and pull on the jumpsuit. Then I turn to a cracked mirror leaning up against the wall.
Holy smokes! If it was possible for flattery to be aggressive, this would be the absolute definition.
The waistband nips me in, the neckline plunges, the legs flare so impressively they deserve their own encore.
I strike a pose. And then another, and then I remember the other garments.
Next, I layer over the jumpsuit a cropped military-style jacket—black with gold buttons—and top off the look with a feathered cabaret hat.
Wrinkling my nose, I toss both and change out of the jumpsuit.
Standing in only my underwear, I rummage through more items and find the most exquisite, thrillingly theatrical showgirl costume.
A leotard, really, covered in sequins and beads in blue, green and silver.
Inside it is a built in corset and dangling from the same hanger is a set of feather boas in the same color palette.
It could have walked straight off the set of Moulin Rouge.
There’s no way I could ever wear something like this. There’s no way I could pull it off. My eyes roam over it hungrily.
Fuck it.
I pull the costume on over my panties and bra and squeeze in as much as I can to pull up the zipper. When I turn back to my reflection I could faint.
Staring back at me is a slinky, superbly sexy showgirl slash peacock.
Good heavens.
I have legs, and a waist, and an extraordinarily perky bosom. I wonder if Mallorie would let me borrow this for those increasingly frequent moments of low self-esteem. This outfit is more effective than Zoloft.
I decide to keep it on while I rummage for the rest of the mannequins—it adds a certain sparkle to an otherwise mundane task in my overwhelmingly mundane life.
I manage to locate four more mannequins bringing my total to seven.
But Mallorie said she needed twenty. Glancing around in the dimming light, I search for anything that might qualify as a headless doll.
I search under everything, lifting up discarded theatre curtains, dust sheets and canvas backdrops.
Then I notice a large container with a piano upended inside it.
I peer over the top and sure enough, there are roughly fifteen headless bodies wedged beneath the piano.
There’s no chance on earth I’ll be able to move that piano by myself. And that’s the only way I’ll be able to get my hands on those mannequins.
I’m going to need help.
I slip my sneakers back on my feet so I’m not tottering around barefoot, and fetch my cell from my bag.
Mallorie picks up after three rings. “Hey, how’s it going?”
I glance down and my outfit and decide to spare her the details of my little dress-up session. “Well, I’ve managed to get seven mannequins but it seems the rest are jammed beneath an old piano in a box.
“Ah shit,” she hisses. “I told Phillippe to put that thing out of the way.”
I glance up at the offending instrument wedged in the box in a corner of the warehouse. “I mean, it kind of is,” I say.
“You’ll need to get someone from the port offices to help you.”
“They’ll do that?”
“Hate to say it, but if you push out your breasts and give them a smile they will.”
I arch a brow. “Will it help if I’m wearing, say, a… showgirl outfit?”
“Erin, you didn’t.” She giggles at the other end.
“I look freaking amazing, Mal.”
“Then absolutely. They might even send a crew down to help you.”
Laughing, we hang up and I smooth my hands over the tight costume. There’s barely room in it to breath, but it might just make the next hour of my life a lot easier.
I jog in my sneakers back to the offices and knock.
“Yeah?” A deep voice invites me inside.
Carefully closing the door, I turn to face my audience, and my stomach almost hits the floor.
Two unfamiliar men are sitting at a desk, while a third one is standing, his back leaning against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets, suit jacket rippling over a hard body.
Dark hazel eyes turned toward me, a Roman nose I’m fast becoming familiar with and a mouth that I know first-hand is capable of issuing the filthiest of threats.
His eyes widen a touch when he recognizes me, then they drift down my body in a hot caress, whispering over the tops of my thighs to my very toes, then back to my beet red face.
He says nothing.
Meanwhile, the voices in my head have too much to say.
How can this be happening to me?
Why did I decide to wear a showgirl outfit to seek help from a bunch of port workers?
What is he doing here?
At what point do I get to die on the floor and put an end to this fresh hell?
“Um…I can explain,” I start, shakily.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Please do.”
“I have a bit of an emergency, and I, um, I need some help.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Because when I imagine you handling a crisis, this is exactly what I picture.”
Embarrassment floods through me and I can’t help but fling a smart remark in his direction.
“You should have seen the other options. There were nipple tassels. I showed restraint.”
One of the two other men smirks and earns himself a shockingly fast, dark glare. When he turns back to me, his eyes soften.
“Where’s this emergency?”
“Unit twelve—North Shore Storage.”
He frowns and there’s a sharp edge to his voice. “Are you there alone?”
“Yes. It’s just me. And I need help moving a piano.”
He pushes his bulk away from the wall and nods to the door. My head spins as I open it. He was the last person I was expecting to see here. Mallorie will die when I tell her about this.
We start to walk side by side back to the warehouse. “What are you doing in the storage unit?” he asks. “Apart from moving pianos about.”
I take a deep breath, knowing how odd this is going to sound. “I’m collecting headless mannequins.”
I feel his gaze dart to me in the corner of my eye. Then the back of his hand brushes against mine and sends a sizzle of heat up my arm.
“I’m doing a favor for a friend. She’s a stylist, so she’s planning props for department store windows and private parties.”
“Ah,” he nods once. “So… the outfit…”
“What, this old thing?” I say brightly.
He looks me up and down again, lazier this time. How does he manage to make my knees feel weak with just one look?
Each inch of flesh his gaze touches heats by a few degrees until I’m sweating like a murderer on Death Row inside this ridiculous costume.
“It’s not mine,” I reply when the taut silence becomes too much. “I just tried it on for fun.”
“It makes you look like trouble.”
He almost smiles and my stomach ripples like it was just praised by the Pope.
I turn the topic onto safer ground.
“What are you doing here at the port?” My eyes narrow. “Are you following me?”
He hesitates for so long I wonder if he didn’t hear me.
“I’m an investor,” he says eventually, with the faintest of frowns. “I part own this place so I like to come and check how it’s doing some days.”
“Uh huh.” So, that’s how he can afford to buy thousand dollar shirts.
“And no, I’m not following you. Just a happy coincidence.”
His frown suggests he’s the opposite of happy. Or rather, preoccupied with something else.
“Hopefully this won’t take long. I don’t want to keep you.”
“If you’re going to be traipsing about in that outfit, Erin, you can keep me as long as you like.”
My feet come to a slow stop as I try and catch my breath.
When he realizes I’m not with him, he turns around, not one fleck of surprise on that sculpted face.
“Come on. This piano isn’t going to move itself.”
I somehow recover under his soft command and follow him into the warehouse. Because the sun is going down, the light is already sparse. He looks around the space and spots the piano, then he shrugs off his suit jacket and hangs it over the antler of a stag head.
I try not to drool as he rolls up his sleeves and shows off the ink that has me behaving like a bitch in heat.
And I try not to totter in these sequins, but the fact I can hardly breathe in this thing isn’t helping.
There’s a permanent flush across the mounds of my cleavage and I can feel it crawling right up my neck.
We reach the piano and I make a half-hearted attempt to push it a little. Even with some effort on my part, it doesn’t budge.
“I think we’re going to need your friends back there.” My tone is apologetic.
His frown deepens as he circles the container like a lion prowling round its prey.
“I can go fetch them if you like?”
He ignores me, comes to a stop at the other end of the container and grabs the piano in huge, manly paws. Then, with a guttural growl, he pushes the piano onto its end and pivots it to the edge of the container where it rests on the side.
“How many bodies do you need?” he asks, peering into the sea of mutilated mannequins.
“Um, thirteen.”
Again, there’s no response. He just leans into the container and pulls out headless body after headless body, each one life-sized and weighing about forty pounds… one-handed.
It’s only when he has them all piled up that I become aware of the fact I’m staring. The brazen show of masculinity has got my skin humming and my muscles twitching. I force my mouth closed. He must have this effect on everyone—women and men alike.
“Anything else you need help with?”
I bite my lip and remind myself I don’t need any more help, at least not from a guy I’m supposed to be in a mad huff with.
“Na-ah. But thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”
I follow him out of the storage unit. There isn’t a bead of sweat on him after that exertion. Just when I think he’s going to carry on walking and not look back, he turns and completely disarms with warmth in his eyes and the curl of a smile on his lips.
“When’s your next shift at the bar?”
I fold my arms across my stomach, suddenly feeling bared to him. “Tomorrow night.”
He doesn’t respond to that, but his gaze licks me up and down one time before he nods once. “See you around, Erin.”
I watch him walk away then go back inside the cool warehouse.
It takes me about ten minutes after he’s gone for my skin to return to its normal temperature, my pulse to calm the fuck down, and my brain to realize…
I don’t even know his name.