Aubrey #3
I decide to stay. If only for a little bit. If only to delay the inevitable.
"But if you do stay, take off that T-shirt," he insists.
And for a few more hours, we learn useless things about each other. He says my name when he's close to losing control. He learns that biting the inside of my thigh makes me swear at a volume that may violate hotel policy.
And later, he puts his mouth on my stomach like the softness there deserves thanks.
I don't know what to do with that.
We sleep in pieces. Twenty minutes here. Maybe forty there. The curtains are mostly drawn, and no one is asking me to solve anything. At some point I wake with my cheek on his bicep and his hand open against my lower back. I move an inch.
His arm tightens.
Just once.
Then he releases me.
My phone buzzes.
Then again.
Then again.
That pattern means a clipboard and a crisis.
I sit up.
Dawn is starting behind the curtains, and light shows the shapes of our clothes on the floor. My pants are inside out. One boot is under the chair. My hoodie is still folded because Linden is a freak.
The phone buzzes again.
I climb out of bed and grab it. The screen is full of messages from Marnie Kells, Lantern House's executive director.
Marnie: Sorry if this wakes you. Lattimer's office sent revised notice overnight. They're tightening the note terms.
Marnie: If escrow isn't funded by next week, they can accelerate. Board call at 8. I need your displacement estimate and the last-quarter intake numbers.
Marnie: Also, unknown reporters are calling staff. Don't answer anyone you don't recognize.
Marnie: If you're asleep, stay asleep. If you're awake, I'm sorry.
My bare feet are cold on the floor.
At Lantern House, the numbers are beds, names I keep in locked files, and women who need doors that stay locked from the right side. Perry Lattimer is the lender behind our building note.
Linden sits up. The sheet shifts to his waist. "Everything all right?"
"Work," I say.
It's all I can give him.
He reaches for his jacket, finds the inner pocket, and then stops before taking out his phone. "Do you need a car?"
"No," I tell him.
"I can have one downstairs in five minutes," he insists.
"No, thanks," I say more firmly.
"Aubrey," he says.
But I'm already pulling on my pants. They fight me because they're inside out and because I'm trying to dress at emergency speed while I'm sore in very distracting places.
"Don't use that voice," I tell him.
He seems confused. "What voice?"
"The one that sounds like you're about to create a logistics department around my bad morning," I retort.
His mouth closes.
I tug my pants on properly. "Sorry. That was..." I shake my head. "No outside lives, right?"
"That rule was for names," he says.
"Bending the rules already?" I reply. "It was for the night."
"The night isn't over because your phone buzzed," he says.
I shake my head. "Yes. Yes, it is."
He gets out of bed. He doesn't come too close. He picks up my hoodie from the chair and holds it out.
The hoodie, folded and offered without a joke, almost gets me.
I take it and put it on.
He watches the zipper rise. I look away before I can read his face.
"At least let me walk you down," he says.
I shake my head again. "No."
"Then take the car," he tries.
"No," I counter.
"Aubrey."
"Linden." His name comes out softer than I mean it to. Mistake. Rookie error. I bend to grab my boots so I don't have to stand there wearing my own bad choices on my face.
One boot. Then the other.
My tote goes over my shoulder. The strap digs into the same spot it always does. Thank God for one reliable discomfort.
He reaches for his shirt and pulls it on without buttoning it. "Please."
That stops me more effectively than any order.
The word looks wrong on him. Too bare.
"Don't," I say.
His hand drops from the shirtfront.
"If you're nice, I'll feel obligated," I tell him. "Then I'll be mad at you for making me feel obligated, which is unfair because you'll just be standing there with your stupid face and your folded-hoodie problem."
He frowns. "My stupid face."
"Yes."
The corner of his mouth moves.
I bite back a laugh. If I let it out, I might stay one more minute. One more minute becomes coffee, then a car, then a number. A number means this night comes with me into daylight, and I can't afford that.
I put my hand on the door.
My chest hurts.
"Don't make it weird," I say.
"It's already weird," he replies.
"Then don't make it weirder." For a second, I think he'll stop me. Not physically. He wouldn't. But with a sentence. The right one would give me a reason to break my own rule and hate myself later.
A part me hopes he does.
But he doesn't say it.
Instead, he steps back.
I open the door. The hallway is pale and empty except for a man in a dark jacket near the elevators, turned away, phone in hand, giving me the courtesy of pretending I'm invisible.
Good.
Invisible works.
I leave the Mercer suite at dawn with my boots in one hand, my tote on my shoulder, and only Linden's first name.
Damn it.
Why do I always do this to myself?