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Please come to me. I’m crying.
I sighed and texted him.
Sorry, boss. My phone died. On my way home, call you when I’m there.
“I have to go,” I said to Fort. “I’m sorry to rush out.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
He held the hanger with the coat so I couldn’t reach it. “I’ll drive you. No arguments. We need to get you back to the Black Wall before Goodluck’s head explodes.”
It was easier to go in Fort’s car than to wait for a driver or take the subway, even if our conversation during the ride was a little stilted. I knew he wanted to talk about The Gallery, what I’d thought of the whole experience, but it was too much to hash over while I still felt half asleep, so we talked about safer things. Small talk. When he pulled up to the Black Wall, I gathered my coat and uniform.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, turning to open the door.
“Juliet.”
I turned back to him. He wanted to talk, but I was afraid of what I’d say. “I’m sorry, Fort. Please. I have to go. He’s going to get crazier about this whole candle thing before he calms down.”
“Okay. Call me later though, after you’ve…processed.”
Did he want to hash over our experience at The Gallery for sexy thrills? I didn’t think so. He was worried that I was hiding uncomfortable feelings, that I was upset.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, touching his hand on the gearshift. “Let’s talk later.”
I got out of the car and crossed to the stairwell, feeling silly in my sweatpants and stilettos. When I got up to my floor, I found Goodluck crouched beside my welcome mat, cupping his hand around a silver taper candle’s flame.
“You’re going to burn your fingers,” I scolded. “Why don’t you have a holder for that?”
He gave me an accusing look. “The holder is me. Where have you been? I asked you to call me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I shifted my coat to the other hand. “I was out late doing a…a thing.”
“A thing? How late?” He stood, still cupping his candle. “It’s almost one in the afternoon, in case you haven’t noticed. You still have sleep all over your face.”
I knew my eyes were puffier than normal from crying last night. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. My phone died. Please, Goodluck. Chill out.”
“Chill out?” he said, flinching as if I’d slapped his face. “I experienced things last night that you can’t imagine. I needed to talk to you about it. How long have we worked together? You know that inspiration comes when it comes.”
I rubbed my forehead, wondering how it had come to this. I was tottering on black stilettos in a chilly stairwell in someone else’s clothes while an artist in meltdown-mode chewed me out.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to listen,” I said, even though I wasn’t.
He frowned at me, his ocean-blue eyes filled with emotion. “You have to be here when I need you. I can’t work like this.”
“Look, I’m going to go in and change into some other clothes, and do something with my hair, and then we can talk, okay? I’ll come upstairs and knock.”
“Starcomet!”
“That’s not my name,” I said, struggling with the lock while trying not to drop my coat, or the bag with my uniform. “Don’t catch me on fire. I’ll come upstairs in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” he snapped, like I was the unreasonable one.
I had too much on my mind to deal with his crazy-artist tantrum right now. I went into my apartment and kicked the door shut behind me, juggling the coat as I threw down my keys. I dropped everything on a chair and took off the stilettos, and went into my bathroom, grabbing a pair of pajama pants on the way. I took off Fort’s clothes and put on a bra—a real one, not a peek-a-boo one—then turned around to inspect my butt again in the mirror.
Holy hell, what a mess of bruises and marks. I gingerly prodded one of the bruises. It didn’t hurt that much. The welts were what hurt. I pulled on a pair of thong underwear and turned back to the mirror, splashing water on my hair. I heard the door bang, heard Goodluck’s voice as he entered my living room.
