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“Great. Now, what am I supposed to wear?”
“I’m sure we can find something for you in here.” He turns and pushes open two bi-fold closet doors along one wall of the cream-colored room he’s put me in. Inside is a closet full of a woman’s clothing. Oh. Hell. No.
“You want me to wear your girlfriend’s clothes?” I practically shout and instantly regret the volume. A battalion of tiny elves hammer on my brain with pickaxes.
“Relax. They’re not my girlfriend’s,” he growls.
“You’re married?” Again, the elves remind me to keep my voice down. I squeeze my temples. Message received, boys.
Tarzan gives me a look that makes all of the air in the room stop instantly. Our breath, the whisper of the air conditioning and the whir of the ceiling fan — they all seem to pause for a heartbeat. For a single second, time stops, and I have no idea why my question forced such a reaction from him.
“No, Lainey Bird, not married. My niece stays with me sometimes. This is her room. She’s got a shopping addiction and keeps some stuff here. You two look to be about the same size.”
He tosses a pair of jeans and a vintage T-shirt to me from one of the shelves in the closet.
“My name is Elaine,” I say more quietly. The elves seem pleased. “Elaine Flynn.”
“I saw on your license,” he says. “It also says you live in Chicago.”
“I know. I’ve been meaning to get it changed, but I keep forgetting.” That is actually a lie. I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just been working such long hours every day. I never made time to go to the DMV to get it changed. The lines are always so long, and it would have wasted valuable time I could have used to get ahead on important projects at work.
“I’m Connor Rose. But I kind of like Tarzan better.”
“Thank you for taking care of me, Conner Rose,” I mutter shyly, “but I’d really like to just take my doll clothes and go home now. Give me a few minutes. I’ll change and call an Uber. I’ll make sure your niece gets her clothes back.”
“Look, why don’t you get a shower. We can grab some food, and I’ll take you back to the bar to get your car. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach.”
I can still hear the elves hammering although they seem like they’re using dull rubber mallets now. Honestly, if I tried to drive right this minute, it would be a disaster. Then again, I could walk home from the bar. My apartment is only a couple of blocks away. But the the thought of getting cleaned up does sound heavenly, especially after my hellish night.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I don’t want to admit to him that he’s right.
“The bathroom is through there,” he points to a partially closed door to my left. “Ginger uses all sorts of different soaps and shampoos. I think she has one for every part of her body. Help yourself. You’ll find clean towels in the basket under the sink and extra toothbrushes in plastic wrap in the cabinet above the sink.”
The bathroom, like the bedroom, is a mixture of textures more than colors. It’s like a variation on the theme of cream. The fixtures and finishes look expensive and the spaces are large. An apartment like this in Atlanta costs a fortune. Maybe bartending could be a potential career option if this whole job search thing in the advertising world doesn’t produce fruit soon.
The hot water feels amazing. When I finally force myself to leave its steamy embrace, I find my bra and panties clean and folded on the bed. A glass of water and a couple of Tylenol are on the nightstand beside them. I’m grateful for both.
I slide on the jeans and the T-shirt. I really love the way the jeans fit me. I haven’t worn jeans in years. I don’t even know if I still have any in my closet. My typical outfit of choice is a suit or a dress. When I’m at home, it’s yoga pants, sweats or pajamas.
I twist to look at my ass in the jeans. Dang, the cut of these things does wonders for my backside. Even my legs look longer. I turn and face myself in the mirror. My long brown hair hangs in damp waves down my back. I can’t believe how long it’s gotten. When was the last time I got a haircut, anyway? My eyes have always been my favorite feature — they’re almost a bit too large for my face, almond-shaped and a dark brown. So dark brown, depending on what I’m wearing, they can appear almost black. Today, though, they’re streaked with red. They’re not amazing. I sigh and twist my hair up into a messy bun with a ponytail holder I found in the girl’s bathroom.
I couldn’t remove all my makeup from last night and dark gray smears of eyeliner and mascara linger under my eyes. I rub at them with my fingertips, but it’s no use. I pinch my cheeks to try to put some color back into them. They look bony and a little hollow. I remember a bathroom scale beside the shower and jump on it. Holy crap! I’ve lost fifteen pounds? I’ve always yo-yoed with my weight, but whoa!
Maybe Tarzan is right. Oh, he said his name is, what…? Maybe Connor Rose is right. Apparently, I can’t live on birdseed and water.
The house is a maze of hallways and staircases. I get lost a couple of times and accidentally stumble into some sort of library or office filled with books, another bathroom and finally what appears to be a music room. There’s a grand piano, several guitars on stands, a giant hand-carved harp and … a cello. My heart instantly stops beating.
I pad slowly over to it on bare feet as if I’m approaching a creature in the wild. I just want to touch it. I won’t play it, I promise myself. Just one touch.
Brushing my fingertips over the strings, I feel the delicate etched grooves along their length and the sharp bite as I press against them. I carefully slide my hands over the satiny finish of the neck and body. My touch is more like that of a lustful lover admiring the curves of his beautiful woman. Cellos are built like women, curvy and delicate. Held and caressed by a master, they can be made to sing and moan in haunting harmonies that can force the hair on your neck to rise in a standing ovation.
My fingers instinctively begin to twitch in midair, tapping out the easy dance of the warm-ups I played for more years than I didn’t. I can almost feel the notes hum from the strings. Bouncing and rising and then falling in scale after scale. But I won’t play it. I only touch, hearing the music in my mind.
“Do you play?” Connor’s voice rumbles from the doorway. I’m lost in my daydream and his low growl makes me jump.
“I used to, a little,” I stammer. It’s a gross understatement of the truth, but that doesn’t matter to him. My heart has resumed beating again and now it’s racing. I’m not sure if it’s the cello or the man or both. Maybe it’s the hangover.
“Play something for me,” he says, motioning to the instrument.
