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His dresser drawers were more organized than I would have expected of a twenty-five-year-old bachelor. Boxers on one side of the top drawer, boxer briefs on the other. Briefs, thankfully, nowhere to be found. The other was filled with socks, folded into pairs but tossed in carelessly which meant he wasn’t a psychopath. Thank goodness.
Under the t-shirts he kept his personal stash of weed because Charlie smoked a joint each night to help him sleep. I smiled at his small stash because it was just so typical of him, to keep a little for himself while there was a big jar of it downstairs for visitors, which lately was just me.
The other drawers were filled with pajama pants and workout clothes, nothing of any interest at all.
His closet was more of the same. Ten pairs of jeans in different washes, a couple leather vests that documented his rise within the Reckless Bastards, a suit and a few nice shirts. The closet floor contained six pairs of shoes, sneakers and shit-kicker motorcycle boots, but it was the box in back that drew my attention.
Would it contain mementos of girlfriends’ past? Phone numbers? Naked photos of his conquests? I sat on the floor and gathered the box in my lap, opening it carefully, as if it contained the secrets of the world. Inside was a pair of black dress shoes. “Fuck.”
There was nothing. Not one piece of information that gave me any other clues about Charlie. The photos around the house were the only clue about what, or who, was important to him. His family and his MC. The end.
I dropped down on the bed, disappointing that my snooping had been painfully short-lived, and produced no information on Charlie.
“Why the fuck am I so curious, anyway?” This was just sex, damn good, toe-curling sex for sure, but it was just sex. I didn’t need to know his past or his hopes for the future, and I damn sure didn’t need to know what kind of women he dated or if he gave his heart to them.
I’d never be one of those women, so it didn’t fucking matter.
But it felt like it did.
“Damn you, Charlie Ellison.”
I was in a fucked up headspace, that’s all it was. Right now, Charlie was exactly the wrong kind of man for me. He was kind and sweet and considerate, a good guy even if he fucked like he was a bad man. That kindness was hard to shake off. I couldn’t even write him off as a man who was using me for information, even though, on some level, I knew he was doing that too.
But he could have just kept me locked up in his basement like Blade had in those early days when I was sure I’d end up as his personal sex slave. Blade had fed me once a day, and every morning he placed a one liter bottle of water just far enough out of my reach that it hurt to see it, so desperate was I to quench my thirst.
Charlie could have done that, but he didn’t. He had his mother give me first-aid and buy me clothes. He cooked for me and gave me weed and nicotine to keep the withdrawals from getting out of fucking control.
Yeah, he was a nice guy, and that was starting to make me feel things I shouldn’t. Things beyond ecstasy, more than a carnal crush. More than lust.
“Fuck this shit.”
I put the shoe box back and made my way down to the kitchen. Jana stopped by once a week to fill Charlie’s fridge with groceries. Today, I planned to take full advantage of her generosity by making something for dinner. We had ground beef, and I decided to try my hand at meatballs.
I found a recipe online that seemed easy enough to make and hard to screw up. I gathered all the ingredients the internet said I’d need and got lost in the details of cooking, of chopping and peeling and following every step with careful precision.
Since I was no longer the Rhymer Princess, cooking was a skill I’d need to learn to survive. So really, I thought, this was a gift for both me and for Charlie.
Thirty minutes later, I stood back and examined my handiwork. I felt proud and impressed with the result so far. I wasn’t impressed enough to fry the meatballs, so I put them in the oven and got started on mashed potatoes, which the blogger had called fool-proof. Music to my ears.
It was a nice change, having something to do, even if all I did was obsessively check the oven and turn the meatballs and then pierce each potato chunk with a fork even though the timer hadn’t sounded. It was better than wandering the house aimlessly and trying hard not to think of getting a fix.
