The disdain in his voice makes it clear he's speaking the truth. We're still about thirty feet from the entrance when he grabs my hand and rushes up to the doorman tugging me along behind him. As we pass, a woman in a white dress, comes out the door and is helped into a waiting car at the curb. She stops momentarily looking over the vehicle. It takes me a moment to realize that she is posing. She then bends into the back seat of the car.
The driver closes the door behind her quickly, and I lose sight of them as Beau tows me to an elevator.
"Mr. Huntington? Sir. Mr. Huntington, Sir." Beau doesn't even turn to answer, only ignores the man darting forward.
I tug his hand, "Beau." I know he can hear him, why not answer? Beau sighs in defeat and turns. His face is stone, no sign of the fun, easy-going man that was in my studio an hour ago.
"Yes," he says curtly conveying annoyance.
I can see the relief in the nervous man’s face, no matter how unwelcoming Beau’s response seems.
"Sir, you have quite a few messages at the desk and a few deliveries as well."
"Put them in my box." Beau presses down on the elevator button.
“Yes sir, we’ve have done that like you asked. But….” Beau turns and pushes the up button again, clicking it this time repeatedly.
"Sir, these messages are of an urgent nature," the man looks at me quickly and then looks back to Beau, indicating that he doesn't want to say what they are with me present. "I've personally taken several messages from the same caller," he urges.
"Anyone I want to speak with can call me directly," Beau dismisses him. His hand is tightening on mine as he's moving us closer to the elevator door.
The persistent man either takes no notice or just ignores theback offvibe, Beau is clearly conveying, "Sir, I'm more than sure these messages you would take." He almost seems desperate for Beau to accept them.
Beau finally turns again and narrows his eyes. He shifts from one foot to the other clearly uncomfortable, still gripping my hand.
"That's where you're wrong. I don't care who it is. Unless I've given them my number; I don't want to speak to them. Okay!” There’s no question, just a statement. The man looks aghast but doesn't try to convince Beau any further.
"Yes of course, Mr. Huntington. When she calls back, I'll inform her of your wishes. What of the deliveries?" It's not lost on me that he mentioned the caller is a female.
"I didn't order anything," is Beau’s only response. He turns back around effectively dismissing the man. The elevator doors click close.
"Shit," he curses as he punches the button again. I use my free hand to wrap it around our already entwined palms. Beau looks down at me at the contact. His face looks weary. I give him a small smile and step forward when the doors ping open, this time I pull him along with me.
"What floor hoss?" Beau hits the button, his shoulders falling as soon as the doors close. We're alone.
He looks right into my eyes and says, "I hate all these people. They constantly cater, thinking they know me and what I need.” He sighs, “I hate the person I become when they're around me even more." He looks up at the closed doors. It feels like he's just made a confession. “I don’t want to be ushered through my own life, but they won’t takenofor an answer.”
"It's okay to protect yourself, Beau."
The doors open, and he drops my hand to retrieve the keys from his front pocket. It's a simple ring with three large keys attached. He pulls one free and goes to unlock the only door in the hallway. The lock clicks open, and he steps to the side, beckoning me to enter first.
The first thing I notice is how similar it is Rita’s. The ultra-modern design is all clean lines and minimal decor. The colors I see are limited to primarily black and white, with a vibrant red splashed around in a purposeful manner.
"When I first got here I liked it." He looks around the rooms that are visible from our vantage point. "After seeing your place, it feels like a museum, a cold one."
"It's not that bad," I offer, and he grins at me.
"You are a terrible liar,” He boasts. “You hate it!"
"I don't hate it,” I defect. “I just don't like it either," I add sheepishly. He chuckles and moves to the fridge.
"You want a drink?" He opens the door. I peer inside the massive fridge that contains at least ten different beer choices and a few bottles of wine. His fridge resembles a bar. The only food I see is in the form of take out containers.
"Um water, if you have one."
He pushes aside a few bottles causing them to clang together. The sound takes me back to my childhood home, reminding me of a deranged Darryl sifting through empty bottles. He had poured them out into the sink the previous morning, amid a cloud of apologies. The night before being the first time he hit me. I remember him coming home drunk that same day, furious to find the bottles empty. He blamed me. It became a routine.
A nervous flood hits my belly. I didn’t emphasis to Beau how bad the drinking got with Darryl. I said things in passing, but I never told him how the thought of being around a man drunk terrifies me.
