41. The Great Banging #2
I climb down from the ladder on Thursday afternoon, wipe my hands on my paint-stained T-shirt, and take a few steps back to survey my work.
I’ve only just begun the mural, but the corner looks good with the start of a stylized trolley car.
I take it in, then let my gaze wander down the length of it.
This thing is no joke. I finished sketching the chalk outlines onto the grid earlier this week.
Now I’m finally painting it, which should take a month at least. Still faster than most other murals of this size, but that’s Eleanor for you.
She operates at top speed all the time, and I suppose that’s good since Angelina has been working with California Style on sending a photographer in a couple weeks for the spread.
Such a strange thought. A cool one too. I wipe my hands on a dust rag, then gather up my supplies to set them aside for the night when a peppy voice echoes across the cavernous hallway, accompanied by the lope of paws.
“It looks so good!”
I turn to find Holmes and Eleanor striding my way, the woman’s Converse sneakers smacking against the floor.
She cuts an interesting image in slacks, a blazer, and Chucks.
But if the fashion world has taught us anything recently, it’s that heels can go fuck off.
Holmes reaches me first, parking his fluffy little butt down and wagging his tail.
I bend to scratch his chin, and his tail thumps harder. “Hey, cutie,” I say.
“Thank you for not embarrassing me again in front of the talent,” Eleanor says to the dog, who’s not humping my leg but is looking at it like he dreams of doggy-style.
As for me, I love being called the talent. “He’s a very good boy,” I say.
“And that is a very good start to the mural,” she says, admiring the trolley I’ve been drawing. She parks her hands on her hips, checking out the grid that extends for more than forty feet. There’s a proud smile on her face. “Look at us—living the dream. Making art and talking trades,” she says.
That catches my attention. “Asher?” The word flies out before I can think twice about it.
She shakes her head. “No. Not him. I’ve no plans to trade him away,” she says, and immediately I wonder if he has a no-trade clause. I think so, but I should ask him. “But I have my eyes on some talent. We’ll see how things go. I asked my GM to make some calls today.”
Am I her new best friend or something? Why is she telling me about her wheeling and dealing? “That’s…cool.”
But then she waves her hand, her huge diamond ring sparkling as she sets it on Holmes’s little head. “But that’s all in a day’s work.”
Oh, okay. It’s no big deal she’s saying that. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m lucky Asher’s played here his whole career. Maybe that means he won’t ever be traded.
As I put my chalks away, footsteps click across the concrete.
“Hey, honey.”
His voice slides up my spine like warm fingertips gently tracing the lines of me. I turn to see my husband heading in our direction. With eyes only for me. With an intensity in his gaze. A purpose in his step.
When he reaches me, he loops an arm around my waist, then drops one of his signature possessive kisses to my lips. My head goes hazy even from the quick kiss.
But when he lets go, and I catch Eleanor watching us, looking thrilled, I want to whisper, Good job to Asher.
Every day this week, he’s driven me here to the arena, he’s made sure to meet me at the end of work—except when I went to the studio—and he’s kissed me in public.
He hasn’t forgotten the brunch lesson from that day at their house.
Maybe he hasn’t forgotten that Holmes has a crush on me, too, since he turns to the dog and says, “Sorry, bud. She’s all mine.”
Eleanor cracks up. “I guess you heard.”
“I did. But I get it. She’s pretty irresistible,” he says, tugging me closer.
Eleanor smiles at us approvingly, like all is right in the world.
And really, in this moment, it is. Even though I know this affection, though real, is also all for show. It’s for her benefit. But who am I to complain? I’m enjoying the benefits, too, of Asher’s performance.
After I pack up, Asher walks me to his car in the players’ lot. “Pole class now? With the troublemakers?”
I pat my pink duffel bag I’m carrying. It has my clothes but also a gift for Asher. Something I’ve been holding onto for a few days. I’ve been looking for the right moment to give it to him. “I’m ready for it.”
He looks me over with hungry eyes as we reach the car. “You should show me sometime.”
“My pole moves?” I ask.
“Yes.”
My mind is racing ahead to what he might like. I think I know, so I smile as I slide into the car. “Consider it done.”
On the way to class, he cruises through early evening traffic, slowing at a light. His expression is a little serious and a little hopeful when he says, “Would you want to come to the game next Sunday with my dads?”
My heart warms, heating my whole chest it seems. I’ve always loved watching him play. “Of course.”
As we wait at the red light, he gives a small smile. “Good. I want you there again. Been thinking about it since the other week when you and Vivian came. I like you there as my wife,” he says with confidence but a trace of vulnerability too.
That warmth spreads, heating me up from the possession in his tone. “Then I’ll be there as your wife. I mean, that’ll look good, right?”
The light changes and he hits the gas. “Yes, but that’s not why I want you there. It’s not for show.”
“It’s because I’m your good luck charm,” I add lightly.
He shakes his head. “I thought we cleared that up. You’re an instigator, you’re an agent, you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“Clearly that’s all true. But I also like the idea that I can bring you luck.”
A small laugh seems to escape his lips, but he says nothing, just shakes his head slightly, like he can’t quite win on this count.
I’m not sure what to make of the moment, but there’s no time to dissect meanings since he pulls up to Upside Down a minute later.
“I bet you’ll be hungry when you’re done. I’ll handle dinner for us,” he says.
“Damn. I love it when you order food,” I say with a low whistle, touching his chest because I can. “I like these marital benefits too.”
“Good. I want you to.” He grabs my hand, making my stomach flip. He drops a quick, hot kiss to my lips and nods to the studio door. “Go do your thing, Maeve…Callahan.”
A tingle slides down my spine from the way he says his last name. But before I exit the car, I stop, my fingers curled around the door handle. “Do you have a no-trade clause?”
He smiles. “I do.” He pauses, his lips curving up, almost like he’s amused. “I’ve told you that before though.”
Hmm. He probably has. I’m sure it came up at some point—when bowling, while exploring the weird new offerings at the local farmers market, while playing party games at Josie and Wesley’s some night. Yet this time feels different. Because I’m asking for me.