Chapter 13
I, in fact, do not have fun on my date. Garrett takes me to Louie’s, so of course all I think about is how Ben could walk in at any moment. Louie’s is also known for its karaoke nights.
I fucking hate karaoke.
Excusing myself from the table, I make my way over to the bar simply so I can have a break from Garrett’s incessant droning about which All American Rejects song he wants to sing.
He was debating between “Swing, Swing” and “Dirty Little Secret.” When he suggested the latter, he gave an exaggerated wink and elbowed me awkwardly in the side.
That is when I excused myself.
Louie and another young bartender are serving drinks to the mostly college-aged crowd. When Louie spots me, he waves me over to his end of the bar, already pouring me a glass of red wine by the time I get there.
“You are a saint,” I yell over the noise. It’s so, so loud in here, my skin has started crawling.
Taking a sip of my wine, I try to recenter myself, but I’m failing miserably. “Louie! Can I get an ice cube?”
He wraps one in a paper towel before handing it to me. I place it on my wrist in an attempt to ground myself. “Who is that guy you’re with?” Louie asks, leaning forward on the bar so he’s not having to yell. “He looks…”
A chuckle escapes as I watch Louie search for the appropriate word to describe Garrett. He’s tall but all pale, gangly skin and bone. It appears as if his hair has been straightened and there’s enough product in it to create another hole in the ozone.
“That’s not what his picture looked like,” I say in defense. “Listen, I really don’t want to stay in here—no offense—so can I pay for our tab and sneak out?”
I don’t think I can stomach listening to Garrett sing. There’s absolutely no way I will be able to pretend that it’s good.
Louie waves me off. “It’s on the house! Get out of here.”
This is not the first time Louie has, lovingly, kicked me out of his establishment, and I’m even more grateful for it tonight. “Thank you,” I mouth, draining my glass.
When I finally make it out onto the quiet street, I’m so relieved I could cry. I lean against the wall outside of Louie’s, taking a few deep breaths. I feel the smallest inkling of guilt until it’s quickly washed away by two things happening simultaneously.
First: The opening chords of “Dirty Little Secret” drift out from behind the door to Louie’s.
Second: A door on the other side of me swings open, revealing Benoit Bardot.
“You!” I point my finger at a confused looking Ben. “You ruined my date.”
“Me?” His reply is indignant. “I’ve been in my apartment all night. How could I have possibly ruined your date?”
“It was the—the hair thing!”
Ben doesn’t feign confusion. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “The hair thing?” He saunters toward me, so much more muscular than Garrett—taking up so much space.
“Yes! The hair thing!” I’m mad that I liked it so much. I’m mad that I can’t find someone who makes me feel the things that Ben makes me feel. I wave toward my ponytail in emphasis. “The hair thing!” I repeat.
“I heard you, Red. You liked the hair thing. Where’s your date? Is it over?”
“It is for me,” I reply. The wind leaves my sails, and I slump back against the exterior wall. Ben misreads my frustration with myself as something else because his demeanor immediately changes.
“Did he do something to make you uncomfortable?” His voice is low, serious.
“Does bringing me to karaoke count?”
“I’m serious, Colette. What happened?”
I wave him off. “Nothing, Benjamin. I’m just overstimulated. That’s why I left. I was not expecting to run into you out here.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Come upstairs with me.”
“No.”
“C’mon, Red. I’ll let you tie me to anything you want.”
Groaning, I lightly bang my head against the wall. “I shouldn’t have ever let you into my bedroom. I’m not even a big restraint person! I just want to go home and take a bath.”
“I have a bath upstairs.”
“I don’t like bubbles.”
“I’ll throw the bubble bath away,” he counters.
“There are specific candles I like.”
“Hmm. Well, since I don’t know you, there’s no reason I should have Irish coffee scented candles upstairs in my bathroom.”
My head snaps toward him. “What the fuck?”
His body tips back, head nodding toward the door he just came out of. “Let’s go, Red.”
Against my better judgement, I follow him.
I’m telling myself I have no idea why—that’s not really true though, is it?
Ben, whether I want to acknowledge it or not, has been one of the most constant things in my life.
After my parents divorce, I was never able to form a stable relationship with them—hell, even before the divorce.
My parents didn’t understand my quirks. Neither did Maya, apparently. But Ben…
We climb the stairs to the apartments above Louie’s. I knew Ben lived here, but I’ve never been inside. I’m expecting it to be loud up here but it’s surprisingly quiet. I look down at the floor, wondering if I’m just so overwhelmed, I’ve detached myself from the world around me.
It doesn’t look like a bachelor pad, either.
The furniture is semi-coordinated, and there are pictures of the various Bardot family members hung up on the walls.
Ben reaches back, linking his pinky with mine in a surprisingly sweet gesture, while leading me down the hall.
He pushes open the door to a bedroom and guides me to the bed.
I stop short. “I was serious—no sex.”
“We aren’t having sex, Red. I respect you, as much as you’d like to think I don’t.”
He walks through another door, and after a moment I hear the water start to run. “Extra hot,” I call.
“Boiling lobster, got it!”
Rolling my eyes, I stand and wander around Ben’s room.
There’s a queen bed with a plaid comforter, a nightstand holding a variety of knickknacks—including an extra pair of glasses even though he’s currently wearing a pair—and a small desk pushed up against the wall.
Might as well be nosy while I’m here, not sure I’ll get the chance again.
I inch closer to his desk, looking over my shoulder to make sure Ben is occupied.
A drawing catches my eye, of… is that a princess?
And a knight that is hiding behind a bush?
“Chloe” is written in all caps across the bottom.
There’s also a moleskin journal open on the other end of the desk.
I didn’t take Ben as a journaler, but I can’t say I’m not curious.
Slowly, I creep sideways, trying to get a peek.
My brow furrows as I realize it’s just full of tally marks. Is Ben a serial killer?
“Water’s ready,” Ben calls from the other room. Sure enough, when I walk into the bathroom there’s an Irish coffee candle lit on the counter and steaming, bubble-less water in the bathtub. “Strip, Red.”
“Help me?”
I’m pretty sure he mutters a fucking hell before standing from where he was kneeling next to the tub.
He taps my elbows, urging my arms up. I feel his hands slide under my sweater, across my stomach.
I’ve kept up running since high school, but not even a run gets my heart rate up the way Ben’s hands roaming my body does.
Soon my clothes are on the floor and I’m dipping my toes into Ben Bardot’s bathtub.
The warm water immediately soothes me. Ben watches with rapt attention as my ivory skin begins to splotch red all over. I sigh, in contented silence, pulling my legs in toward my chest, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable even with this man who has already seen me naked.
“Why did you leave your date tonight?” Ben asks.
I choose defensiveness as a response. “I already told you about the hair thing,” I say, sliding further into the water.
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Yes, we’ve established that you like the hair thing, Red. But that’s not really why you left Louie’s, is it? You said something about being overstimulated?”
Oh. That’s what he means. “Have you been to Louie’s?” I deadpan. “It’s loud. It’s hot. People are making poor choices. And I really didn’t want to listen to Garrett sing and… Pretend. Pretending is so fucking exhausting.”
“Do you—Do you get overstimulated often?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his tone.
I debate how much I actually want to open up to… Well, I’m not sure if I can actually call him my nemesis anymore. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cool tile. He’s already seen me naked, physically. Might as well strip down emotionally too.
“I was diagnosed with autism in college. I—Well, I’m not sure if it’s a surprise to anyone. I’ve always been ‘quirky.’” I add air quotes for emphasis. “Always been a ‘bitch.’ But I wasn’t doing it on purpose, not that anyone believes me when I say that.”
“I believe you.”
So simple. Just immediate belief, no need for me to convince him. No additional questions. He says he believes me and I want to believe him.
“Hey, Ben?”
“Yeah, Cole?”
“Come do the hair thing.”