It’s a relief to be out of the club, to be free of his intensity and his desire. It’s also strangely a disappointment, almost as if I miss him. That can’t be true. I can’t miss the way he hurts and humiliates me. I can’t miss the way he hates me.
I walk home from the grocery store, both hands full. I speed up along the cracked sidewalk as plastic presses into my fingers, cutting off circulation. My fingertips are already red, but I don’t like leaving Mrs. Owens alone for too long. Especially when I’m not working.
My next shift is tonight, in about two hours. I’m hoping I can give her dinner and put her to bed, as long as she doesn’t wonder too much about why it’s still bright outside. That way I can dance without worrying about her.
I manage to turn the doorknob with my hands full and shoulder my way inside. I’m busy dropping the grocery bags—gently, slowly, there are eggs inside. So I don’t see someone else at the dining table until he speaks.
“Hi, Hannah.”
I stumble, almost tripping over the bags. “Blue? What the hell are you—”
The question dies in my throat as I see Mrs. Owens, her face flushed and smiling, a light in her eyes that’s becoming more and more rare.
“I didn’t know you had a gentleman,” she says, sounding positively charmed.
I manage not to laugh at the term. Gentleman? Hardly. I think he wants to tear me apart. He wants to fuck me, to bruise me. He definitely doesn’t want to pull the chair out for me.
She comes from a different generation, a time when chivalry wasn’t dead. And she wants the best for me. She believes the best of me. She has no way of knowing he despises me. No one could tell that from the way he smiles at me, as if he’s genuinely pleased to see me.
He stands. “Let me help with those.”
“Sit,” I snap. I have no idea why he’s here or what the hell is going on, but the last thing I need is him looking through our bags, seeing the bags of noodles and the cheap store-brand stuff. Only the tea is expensive, imported, because it’s the only thing Mrs. Owens still remembers.
“Let me pour you some,” she says, reaching for the teapot in the center of the table.
“Allow me,” Blue says.
And I watch, dumbfounded, while he lifts the delicate china pot and pours water into a teacup. I’ve walked into some warped parallel universe where big, surly, pissed-off men have tea parties in the afternoon.
“We couldn’t get the stove to work,” he says as if that explains anything.
I sit down in the chair—because I need to. My legs are giving out. Confusion and a strange emotion like tenderness presses down on me. “I unplug it,” I respond, almost absently.
“Huh.” With one blunt finger, he pushes the saucer and cup in front of me. “This works just as well. And won’t keep you up at night.”
“Here here,” Mrs. Owens says. “I’m always telling this girl not to stay up so late. Sometimes it’s the middle of the night and I can’t find her anywhere.”
My gaze snaps to Blue. His expression doesn’t change, but I feel his awareness. Of course Mrs. Owens doesn’t know what I do for money. She doesn’t even know I pay the bills—or that we have bills. Most of the time she doesn’t know anything that doesn’t relate to her tea.
And apparently she does look for me at night. My heart clenches.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, taking a sip of water. “I thought you would be sleeping.”
She waves her hand. “I’m sure I do plenty of that too. And then sometimes I’m sitting there in the middle of the day, thinking, how am I going to make tea? The stove never works. So I go and look for you, and you’re sleeping. At two o’clock in the afternoon.” She looks at Blue. “What do you think of that?”
Blue’s expression is serious. “I think she must work too hard.”
That seems to please Mrs. Owens. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, forbidden pleasure and regret rolled into one. “You can wake me up anytime, Mrs. Owens. I’ll make you tea whenever you want.”
“Of course I’m not going to wake you up. You need your sleep. If I could only figure out that darned stove.”
I bite my lip, on the verge of tears. I don’t want to cry in front of her. And I sure as hell don’t want to cry in front of him.
“Excuse me,” I manage before shoving away from the table.
I leave the groceries on the floor of the kitchen, waiting to be unpacked. I leave the teacups filled with water. I leave the strange man at the table, both hateful and kind, a symbol of everything bad about me—and a beacon of hope all at once.
The hallway is a blur, and I almost run into the wall. Hot tears sting my eyes.
I push into the small bathroom and shut the door, leaving the light off.
There’s only a second of peace before I hear footsteps.
He doesn’t call my name. He doesn’t even knock. He simply comes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, locking us inside.
“Why are you—”
I don’t have a chance to finish my question. Why are you here? Why are you being nice to Mrs. Owens?