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He looks so completely stricken with guilt I almost regret telling him.
“Motherfucker!” shouts the skinny blonde with the foul mouth.
Calvin levels a slightly annoyed glare at Amber. “Give us a minute?”
“No.”
His expression softens when it returns to me. “Can you stand?” At my nod, he wraps a muscular arm around my shoulders and lifts me up, securing me to his side. Essentially, I’m under his big wing like he’s a mama duck, and I’m the puffy, ruddy faced duckling. Amber’s eyes skip back and forth between us. She doesn’t budge from her spot in the bathroom doorway. Next to me, I can feel mama duck growing tense, his muscles assuming a certain rigidity.
“Amber––” At my weak prompt, she turns and walks away, grumbling something under her breath––more charming pet names for Calvin, no doubt. While Amber grabs my jacket and purse, Calvin walks me out the employee entrance.
“You’re staying with me tonight,” she announces once we’re in the alleyway behind One Maple.
“No, she’s not. She’s coming home with me.” Amber responds with a filthy glare, which Cal pretends he doesn’t see. “Stop flapping those lips and make yourself useful by getting in the car.”
I’m surprised Amber doesn’t gut him then and there. By the look on her face, she’s definitely slow cooking him in a vat of acid in her mind…or skinning him alive with a dull and rusty paring knife.
“Amber, please get in the car.” I’m ready to beg on my knees if it will get her compliance. All I want to do is get into bed, hide under the covers, and never come out again. The clear exhaustion in my voice quells her fury for a moment.
“Fine,” she grumbles through gritted teeth and jumps into the Range Rover without further argument. Wearing a carefully neutral expression, Calvin helps me into the back and buckles my seatbelt. I’m letting him manage me. I know I am. And yet I can’t muster the requisite energy to care. Truth: he’s being so considerate it’s easier to let him, pride be damned.
Amber wraps me in her slender arms. On the drive to Greenwich Village, to Amber’s apartment, Calvin repeatedly glances in the rear view mirror at me.
“How long was I in there?”
“We couldn’t find you anywhere. You scared the shit out of us,” Amber tells me.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s two thirty. We’ve been looking for you for over an hour.” Calvin’s voice is low, underscored with a hint of anxiety I’m not too far gone to miss. I don’t let the thought linger, however, because I am too far gone to care.
Not another word is spoken until we reach Amber’s building. It takes another fifteen minutes for me to convince her that it’s best I go home with Calvin. As much as I love Amber, I’ve always licked my wounds in private––that’s just how I’m wired––and right now I feel the need to be alone. I can do the postmortem with her tomorrow.
Killed himself? No. No way. Matt’s death was an accident. The police ruled it an accident. The roads were icy that night. Was he stressed in the weeks leading up to it? Yes. Depressed? No.
We wait for Amber to enter her building safely before Calvin drives away, on a tear back home. I can feel him watching me.
“I’m fine. Stop looking at me that way,” I manage weakly.
His pointed gaze holds mine in the rearview mirror. “You’re not fine,” he insists, his full lips set in a grim line. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Champ, but I already have a daddy.”
His eyes instantly turn into two shards of steel, hard and intractable. Whatevs. I’m not sorry. His sudden concern is a bitter pill. He hadn’t given two figs about what was good for me not so long ago, and now he thinks discussing it will magically make me feel better?
The Rover moves swiftly up the West Side Highway and over the George Washington Bridge, I close my eyes and stop fighting the sleep pulling me under.
When I wake the next morning, my head throbs from an emotional hangover like I’ve been on an all night bender. Minus the fun, of course. I’m in bed, fully clothed with a blanket thrown over me…hmmm. I don’t even recall getting home last night––and thank my maker it’s Saturday because I’m positive I would’ve been useless to Sam today. A shower will have to wait for later since it’s already eight and he’s probably wondering where his breakfast is.
Throwing on a white button down and skinny jeans, I dash downstairs…and come to an abrupt halt when I spy two Shaw men sitting at the recently delivered kitchen table. Sam is busy digging into a large stack of misshapen pancakes while Calvin eats the last bite of his eggs.
“Who cooked breakfast?” I ask in open surprise. I take a seat at the table and load my plate with food. Sam glances at Calvin, who’s watching me with alarming focus.
