Chapter Two #2
The (white) dining room table had a turquoise block rug
under it.
That was good.
But the kitchen had oversized, gleaming white subway tile
all over the walls. Stark white counters. Though one side was white cupboards,
the other side was black, and I had one below-counter, hunter green cupboard to
throw in some contrast. The railing to the stairs that led down to the back
door was white, but the door was black.
More bamboo shades, no curtains.
And the floor was tiled in a kickass black and white
artisanal design and the light fixtures were gold.
The hunter green was semi manly.
Did men do white?
At all?
I realized when Mo made the rounds of the blinds in the
dining room and kitchen that he didn’t care about artisanal floors or my
stemmed, wide but shallow wooden fruit bowl and whether or not that fruit bowl
was feminine or mostly unisex.
Through his ministrations, the entire space was shrouded in
darkness, so I flipped a light switch.
And he didn’t care about the gold fixtures.
He was again looking at me.
“While this is going on, you should feel free to eat and
drink what you want,” I offered and opened the door to my fridge (white SMEG,
dammit, SMEG was definitely girlie, wasn’t it?). “You cover my ass, mi casa
is definitely su casa.”
His gaze flicked to the inside of the fridge and his face
registered open approval I could not miss before it came back to me.
So, he ate healthy too.
And maybe he approved of my obsessive lining up of stuff and
tidy placement and (perhaps OCD) usage of matching food storage containers.
If he did, this would be good.
I mean, it looked like a Container Store ad in there.
It was then it hit me he didn’t say much.
But he definitely communicated.
And this was further demonstrated when he turned his
attention to the foyer.
He was done in the kitchen, time to move on.
I didn’t move on.
“I like light, bright space.”
“Blinds closed,” he declared.
His voice was very deep. Not rough. Not smooth.
Just right.
Shit!
“I mean, I like bright space so that explains all the
white,” I told him.
He didn’t care even a little bit about all the white.
His attention went again to the foyer.
“And I’m tidy,” I shared.
He looked to me.
Then immediately back to the foyer.
Okay then.
Time to move on.
I moved us on.
I took him along the short hall that contained the stairs to
the study and TV room on the other side of the house (more closing of blinds).
After that, I took him up the stairs and into the guestroom,
bathroom and my pole room where I practiced and choreographed (he didn’t bother
with the shades in the guestroom, but the pole room was closed off for sure).
We then went into my master.
I was pretty proud of my house. You know, me buying it. Me
gutting it (or hiring someone who did that). Me decorating it. All on my own.
No help. No man.
The little stripper that could.
And the master was the masterpiece.
The two-side slanted ceilings of a Tudor upper floor. The
diamond-paned windows that featured the window seat. The shelving around all
that filled with my beloved books (yeah, strippers read) and stereo. The
clean-lined lighting. The cool rattan rugs. The creamy tones of the couches and
bedclothes, all this mixed with some warm orange notes in the toss pillows,
because I liked orange.
Mo had no opinion on the color orange or the fact it was
clear I read a lot.
Mo assessed the fact my tall, but narrow windows (all four
across, with two square on top) didn’t have blinds and his mouth got tight.
“The bathroom has frosted windows,” I shared helpfully. “And
there aren’t any windows in the walk-in closet.”
The bed was against the back wall.
He turned and looked down at me. “Do not go near those
windows or the couches.”
My master was huge. I had a massive seating area for reasons
that were mostly aesthetic, unless my nephews were up here messing around,
which was usually right where they ran the minute they entered my house because
it drove Jet crazy and my boys and me loved driving my big sister
crazy.
Two couches faced each other over a coffee table made
entirely of glass.
If I was in the mood, it gave me options for lounging and
reading.
It gave Mo bad thoughts.
“I read a lot, Mo, and—”
“No window seat. No couches. Or we put up a sheet until this
is over.”
I pressed my lips together and sucked them between my teeth.
A sheet would totally mess with my masterpiece.
“And you’re not in this room without clothes, ever,” he went
on.
I let go of my lips and nodded.
“Not even just underwear,” he added.
That seemed OTT, considering.
“I strip for a living, Mo, and—”
“Not even just underwear.”
Okay then.
I nodded.
“I sleep on the couch.” And he tilted his head toward the
couch.
Um…
Say what?
“I have a guestroom,” I pointed out.
“I sleep on the couch.”
“Won’t one of Hawk’s other guys—?”
“Just me.”
Okay.
Wait.
What?
“You’re not gonna…trade off or
something?” I asked.
He shook his head.
Once.
I still got the negative.
“Well, uh…I don’t want to be telling you your job, but…is
that the way it’s normally done?”
“Absolutely.”
It was?
I clearly showed my surprise because after I did, the Quiet
Man gave me more words.
“Military. You train with someone. You bunk with someone.
You breathe their air all day every day, they mean something to you. You could
hate their guts and you’d still form a bond. They’re in it with you. They’re
family. There are men…and women…who might rush into danger just to save a life.
But there’s a big difference between instinct and already being in danger.
Knowing your time could be up at any moment. And watching that grenade fall at
your feet. Which is also at the feet of your brothers. Then throwing yourself
on it knowing every man standing with you has the same exact thought to do the
same exact thing because one might have to go, but that bond is so strong,
you’ll die not to make the other ones have to break it.”
“You’re gonna need to throw
yourself on a grenade for me?” I whispered.
“I need you to trust that I’d throw myself on a grenade for
you.”
That was easy. I did that already. I mean, he was wearing
cargo pants. And a gun.
And I could do it and he could sleep in the guestroom or
have an afternoon off.
“I trust you, Mo,” I promised.
“You have no idea the meaning of the word trust, Ms.
McAlister.”
“Lottie.”
He tilted his chin up this time.
“So, you have to sleep in the same room with me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“But you’ll be sleeping.”
“I require four hours of sleep a night, ma’am. And from REM
to battle ready requires two point five four seconds. I don’t know what the
time is to do that and get down the hall if you’re facing a threat. I just know
it’s longer than two point five four seconds.”
Two point five four.
Exact.
“You’ve timed it?” I queried disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
Wow.
“When will you shower?”
“I don’t waste time when I shower. It takes less than five
minutes. So I’ll shower with you in the bathroom with me and the door locked or
I’ll shower while you’re dancing, when Smithie has his men on you. That is, if
I feel the club is clear. If not, I shower with you in the room with me.
Outside me taking away that choice, it’ll be your choice.”
He did not offer the choice of showering while I
was showering in the same shower, which was a shame.
“Why don’t we, um…just play that by ear,” I suggested.
Back to dipping his chin.
“Do you need to go pack a bag or something?” I asked.
“It’s in my truck,” he answered.
“Okay,” I muttered.
His deep voice went low. “This will be done soon and I’ll be
gone.”
Now who was a freak?
I was.
Because I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew
it was bad, and I still didn’t want it to end because I knew exactly one solid
thing about this guy, the fact he was called Mo, and I didn’t want “this” to be
done soon so he’d be gone.
“What’s your full name?” I asked abruptly.
“Kim Seamus Morrison.”
I stared at him. “Your name is Kim?”
“My mother’s Norwegian.”
Since I wasn’t an expert in Norwegian names, that didn’t
explain it, except apparently Kim was a Norwegian dude’s name.
“Your dad?” I pressed.
“Half Scottish. Half dick.”
Oh man.
He rattled that off by rote.
I opened my mouth.
He shook his head.
“This doesn’t get personal,” he stated.
To hell with that.
To hell with nerves too.
There might come a time he’d shower with me in the bathroom
with him.
Or better, with me in the shower too.
So yeah.
To hell with that.
I motioned to the couch, “We’re bunking together. We’re
breathing the same air. You wanna train together,
I’ll show you the pole and you can spot me on the weight bench. You’d fall on a
grenade for me. I’d say this was already personal.”
He said nothing.
“Mo,” I snapped. “Seriously. Who knows how long this is gonna take? You can’t just hulk around silently with your
gun on your belt, waiting for something to happen to me.”
He again said not a word.
Which told me he could hulk around silently with his gun on
his belt, waiting for something to happen to me.
Or more, waiting for it to happen so he could stop it.
“Okay, Rambo, how about I don’t want you hulking
around silently, waiting for something to happen to me,” I amended.
More nothing from him.
I crossed my arms on my chest (and still, he didn’t
look in that direction).
I got paid for men to look at my tits, it was my way of
life.
But never did I want a man to notice my tits as
much as I wanted Mo to notice them.
“Right. I’ll start,” I offered. “I’m Charlotte McAlister.
Not ma’am. Never ma’am. Lottie to family and friends. Which
means Lottie to you. Lottie Mac to the world. Queen of the Corvette calendar
and headliner at Smithie’s strip club. You got a problem with me stripping?”
One head shake.
“You think I’m downtrodden and promoting the objectification
of women?” I asked.
He looked around the room briefly.
This answered part one of my question.