K. R. Treadway
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Late Night Date Night - 6: Pick your Spot
🕑 Added 2024-01-14 18:16:35 +0000 UTC
August 21, 202X, 2:53 AM
Donnel City - Warehouse District
“I love it,” Hollis replied honestly, her earlier reservations melting from the warmth of Jerome’s apartment—or maybe from the warmth of the man in it.
Jerome nodded, failing to stop a small gratified smile. An answering jolt in her chest told her she loved that smile as much as his place. Way too much.
She blew out a breath and slung her overnight bag onto the futon, which was perpendicular to the side of the bed. Jerome had thoughtfully set out some folded sheets and a pillow. Everything about him seemed thoughtful, including the decorations in his surprisingly tidy apartment. The floorboards gave tiny squeaks as she wandered over to admire the prints he had hung up.
“Are these all yours?”
“On that wall? Yeah.” She detected a faint trace of nervousness, but he didn’t have anything to be nervous about.
They were incredible.
Some were stark black-and-white images, while others had a few different colors, but they all had that organic quality she was beginning to recognize. There was something captivating about the not-quite-perfect reproduction of prints…it was as if they occupied the exact midpoint between human expression and machine precision. She thought of the stark walls in her new apartment and imagined how much better they would look with a few of Jerome’s prints hanging on them.
She stopped in front of a jungle picture done in vivid green ink. The vegetation—all vines and flowers and ornate leaves—was so intricate that it took her a moment to spot the tiger cunningly hidden in the center of the frame. Her small gasp elicited a quiet chuckle behind her.
“These are beautiful,” she said almost to herself.
“I’m glad you think so. They’re my best pieces so far.”
“The way you—” Hollis froze in front of the last picture.
The image was of a muscular man with a classically handsome face heaving an armored car above his head. The back doors had fallen open and a handful of troopers in riot gear were spilling out. Everything about the image, from the man’s roiling cape to the almost comical looks of shock on the faces of the falling men, had an otherworldly flatness.
“I did that in the style of Medieval woodcuts. I wanted it to seem timeless.”
“Strongest. At the St. Louis riots.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, but it came out flat. She was aware of Jerome, in her peripheral vision, moving to stand beside her. He may have nodded.
“That’s right.” His own voice was decidedly noncommittal.
“You like them. The supers and the crime fighters.” The question emerged as a clipped statement.
“Some of them.” Pause. “You don’t?”
“They’re dangerous,” she said automatically. At some point her arms had drifted up to clutch her sides. “People get hurt if they lose control.” When they lose control. She suppressed a shudder.
He was quiet for several seconds. “The supers are very powerful,” he said carefully, “which makes people…understandably nervous. And the crime fighters definitely lack oversight.”
“Do I sense a ‘but?’ ”
“But I think that good ones do exist.”
“Like Strongest?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What he's done over the years…he’s earned my trust. I really like him.” There was something in the way he said it. A resigned note, as if he sensed that his honesty might break apart the fragile connection between them. She couldn’t help but respect his bravery for saying it.
Hollis worried the inside of her cheek, but then gave a sharp nod. “Okay. I can see where you're coming from—at least with Strongest.” She heard him give the smallest exhale, like he'd been holding his breath.
“What do you think about that?” Eager to change the subject, he took a step away from the wall and pointed to a massive print hung over the mantel of the room’s bricked-up fireplace. She walked over.
It was gorgeous, depicting a small hero facing off against a vast multi-headed serpent. One of the heads was in the process of falling after being lopped off. Everything was in a shade of red, from deep crimson to bright ruby.
“Is that…Hercules and the hydra?”
“Yup. Not mine though. It was a friend's thesis project. He drew each hydra head in a different style, basing them on various cultures’ ideas of legendary serpents.”
“Huh. It’s great.” She crossed her arms and turned towards him.
Jerome immediately looked nervous. It was a cute look on him. “What?” he asked.
She tilted her head, enjoying his flustered stare for a moment before continuing. “Your whole apartment seems great. It's very clean, very inviting…”
“Do I sense a ‘but?’ ”
“But where do you live?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Where are you in all this?” Hollis couldn’t help asking it. The way people hid parts of themselves had preoccupied her lately. There were always deeper truths…sometimes darker truths. But Jerome wasn’t like her. His authentic self would be amazing.
“I’m…” Jerome blew out a breath. “I don't get what you're asking. My stuff is everywhere. We just looked at it.”
“All carefully curated,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m not a messy guy, Hollis.” His tone held a trace of annoyance now. “Was that some kind of joke? Like, a cute way to point out how boring I am, or that you bet I have bodies stacked in the basement because I'm too ‘ordinary?’ I've gotten that before, too.”
Hollis’s smile vanished in an instant. That hadn't been her intent at all, yet now she could see her playful teasing had been misinterpreted. The veiled hurt behind his eyes made her brain go blank. She struggled to form the right words, to take it back, but all she managed was a head shake and inanely repeating what had gotten her in trouble: “I just wanted to see you.” God, it sounded so stupid now. At least it came out sounding apologetic.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Just when Hollis was about to suggest that maybe this visit had been a bad idea, Jerome held up a hand. She watched some kind of internal struggle for a moment, and then he turned and walked over toward a part of the room where a wall blocked off a quarter of the main area. No, not a wall. It was a thick canvas sheet the same color as the walls, hanging with barely a wrinkle. She saw the tense set of his shoulders as he reached out.
“Jerome. You don’t have to—”
He gripped the canvas and walked, tugging it with him. The curtain slid back with a rasp until one side of the enclosed space was visible. Hollis took a step closer, unable to contain her curiosity. Jerome walked back and flipped a switch. A bright overhead snapped on.
It was a scene of barely restrained chaos. There was a work bench crammed next to wooden shelves, and an old filing cabinet with long thin drawers, but her eye lingered on the hulking metal device squatting on a dedicated table. A press. His personal press. It had a satisfying industrial feel, with a giant circular handle on one side that sort of looked like a wagon wheel.
Hollis took another step, her mouth falling open as she took in the rest of the space.
Every flat surface was topped with clutter. Rows of prints hung from strings attached to the walls and ceiling. Bottles of ink—different sizes and shapes—had been pushed to the back of the bench to make room for several linoleum squares, each one clean and only partially scored. Carving tools sat out amongst scattered shavings, ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice.
It was vibrant and messy and so…Jerome.
“There you are,” she breathed.
“I guess my studio apartment is more of an art studio apartment,” he admitted, shoulders still hunched. He protectively stood in front of the space, unable to look at her. Her sense of wonder became tinged with guilt. He had revealed a hidden piece of himself because she had pushed, but she wouldn’t be able to do the same. It was unfair.
“Do you…want to look around?”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s private. I get it. But…I’m really glad you showed me. It’s…I can tell it’s such an important place to you. Thank you, Jerome.”
He finally looked up, and his shy smile filled her heart. Her instinct not to pry had been correct. He quickly turned off the light and drew the curtain closed, but this time he was more casual, unafraid to leave a gap exposed.
“So,” he said, “bedtime?”
As if the word was a trigger, Hollis’s mouth abruptly hinged into a massive yawn. His own laugh turned into an answering yawn, and then they both laughed.
“Bedtime,” she agreed.
He pointed her to the bathroom so she could brush her teeth. It was, like everything else, spotless. When she returned she headed immediately for the futon, setting her hand on the folded-up sheet.
“Oh, no. You have the bed.”
Hollis gave him a bemused look. “What?”
“I already changed the sheets and pillowcases. You’re the guest. You get the bed.”
“Oh.” A little trickle of warmth went through her. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. That futon is actually pretty comfortable, so it’s no big deal.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. His recent shower had made its slight curl more noticeable. She felt her fingers twitch with the impulse to run her hands through it.
Hollis took a few tentative steps over to the bed. It had been made up just as Jerome had promised, with an old-fashioned quilt on top. She smelled fresh linen, and felt a pang of disappointment that the pillows wouldn’t smell like him. Her heart thudded at the realization. This…fantasy she was pursuing, a single night to be away from her imploding life, could do her a world of good.
But she had to make sure it didn’t go any further.
She hid her trepidation behind a languid stretch, arching back until she felt her shirt brush against her exposed belly. With her muscles pleasantly loosened, she straightened up and froze. Jerome was staring at her intently, his light blue eyes suddenly a few shades darker. Oops.
Hollis quickly threw back the quilt and slid into the soft bed. She should have stretched under the covers. That had been thoughtless. Or had it been something else…an unconscious invitation? Uncertain, she berated herself for the slip. No more backsliding. Holli had been buried for a reason.
She pulled the blanket up to her chin, her body strangely jittery. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, a fact that made her even more nervous. Off to one side, she heard the rustle of fabric as Jerome started to unfold the sheet. With his back to her, she quickly pulled her arms into her shirt to unhook her bra and pull it out. Her pants followed. She wrapped them awkwardly around her bra and placed them a little under the bed.
His bed.
God, she was such a mess. Blundering around in her own mind while this sweet man gave up his bed. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, tracing the pretty patterns on the stamped tin while she gathered the courage to speak.
“Jerome?”
“Yeah?” The sheet popped as he flung it wide.
“What you’re doing…letting me stay here tonight…it’s incredibly kind.”
There wasn’t a response for a few seconds, then she heard him spreading the sheet over the futon. “Seemed like you needed a little kindness.” His tone was gruff and it settled over her like a balm.
“I’ve barely met you, but you aren’t even asking me why.” Shut up! What had possessed her to say that? What if he started prying? Then she would have to make something up and everything between them would curdle. It would all go wrong and—
“You’ll tell me when you can,” he said. The answer was so perfect her thoughts immediately quieted. She felt a lump in her throat.
“You’re being a true friend,” she whispered.
All sounds of his movement ceased. After a few seconds she heard a muted thump as he sank heavily onto the futon. “I need to say something real quick.”
The odd tone in his voice made her finally turn to look at him. Mistake. Jerome was attractive under normal circumstances, but Jerome in sleep pants and a thin T-shirt, forearms casually resting on his thighs as he regarded her through locks of slightly disheveled hair…good Lord. Her toes curled a bit.
“What is it?” she managed to ask, her voice only slightly high.
“I want…that is, I should make my intentions clear.” His shoulders lifted as he took a deep breath. “I’m grateful to be your friend, but I hope this doesn’t preclude a chance to be…more.” Now his cheeks were turning faintly red. “I would really like to take you out sometime. When you’re feeling better.”
Hollis’s own breath suddenly came faster. The nervous energy zipping under her skin got more insistent. Old Holli was suddenly rattling the bars of her cage, emboldened and eager to reclaim her body as a prelude to claiming his.
No. Don’t even go there.
The situation was impossible. Her nocturnal activities were too dangerous. She was too dangerous. But even so…Hollis spent a handful of precious seconds imagining it. A date with Jerome? Or would it be a second date, since tonight had felt an awful lot like a first? She closed her eyes, unable to handle the conflicting feelings twisting up her insides, but she had to answer.
“Jerome…I…” can’t ever be with anyone. “…I may not ever be in the right place.” What the hell! Inner Holli was playing dirty, leaving the door cracked even though it would only disappoint Jerome in the end.
“But if you were?” he quietly persisted. It wasn’t easy to put yourself in the path of final rejection, and Hollis’s insides melted even more.
“If I was…” she said.
The moment seemed to pause, suspending Hollis on a knife’s edge of want and regret. Whatever she said next would push her off one side or the other. Either way, she was going to get cut. All that had come before, from the heatwave hot chocolate to the heady hours spent in each other's company, replayed behind her eyes. It had been both sublime and surreal.
Like a dream.
People in dreams often experienced the impossible, didn't they? Some even got to hold it close before they woke up. Suddenly she wanted that, needed it with a dizzying yearning. She wanted to sleep. Hollis opened her mouth, hesitated, and then let the ghost of Holli make the terrifying decision.
“If I was in the right place, I would tell you like this.”
With her heart pounding, Hollis slowly slid over. She grasped the corner of the quilt. Could he see her hand trembling? She deliberately pulled it back to reveal a swath of clean sheets, the invitation obvious. “To sleep,” she added hastily, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. “Just to sleep.”
He was utterly still, but his eyes were practically smoldering with the things neither of them could risk saying. His hands gripped his knees hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
“It can only be sleep. For now.” Hollis said softly, then swallowed and forced herself to continue. “If that's enough, then get in. Not because you’re a friend, because you're…more. Fair warning: I’m a bed hog. Also I'll probably steal all the covers.” A shaky not-giggle escaped.
Her nervous laugh, unintentional as it was, managed to relieve the unbearable pressure.
Jerome’s breath wooshed out in an answering chuckle. She could see an ease come over his handsome face, along with a keen joy that matched her own restless exhilaration. Once again she had gone too far, only it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the opposite as he rose up off the futon and crossed the short distance between them.
With exaggerated gentleness, he pulled back the quilt and slid in beside her. This close she could smell soap and a hint of spice, and just like that the bed felt like safety and sanctuary. She could sense the same thrilling tension in him that was in every cell of her body. It was an enjoyable yearning that neither could acknowledge, but both could share.
Jerome settled on his back, careful not to intrude into her space. He was so willing to hold himself in check to ensure her comfort that it gave Hollis just enough security to do one last thing. She turned on her side, reached out a hesitant hand…and set it gently on his chest. He felt warm and firm, and she could detect the barest texture of chest hair underneath the thin material.
He may have sucked in a breath, but the roar of blood in her ears was too loud to be sure. Then she felt his palm coming to rest gently on top of her hand. Bigger, and ever-so-slightly rough. It was perfect. He squeezed, communicating reassurance and understanding. It was so much and not enough, and her eyes shut tight because if she opened them she would ruin this moment of healing.
Later, much later, she fell asleep, his hand resting on hers like the blanket above them.
