I raised my eyebrows. Ignored my own. Dug my cell out from my pocket and checked for missed calls. Zero. “Thank you for the beer.”
He waved to the bartender, a man in a tight shirt, one who gave me a smile that I was pretty sure was mocking me for our bathroom playtime. “Naw. I’m pretty sure your drinking and fucking budget is bigger than mine. I’ll be in the truck.” He swung by me, shaking a few hands and slapping backs on his way out, his stride relaxed, confident.
I looked back at the bartender, who wiped down the counter and gave me an expectant look. “He got a tab?”
“Not one he’s paid recently.” The man reached for our glasses, raised an eyebrow at my full one before dumping them both in the sink.
“Figures.” I dug in my pocket, coming up with a twenty, and smacked it down on the counter. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Always great to see one of Lee’s girls.”
I paused in my exit, turning around to glare at him. “I’m not one of his girls.”
The man snorted back a laugh, shrugging as he plucked up the cash, stuffing it in his front pocket. “Whatever.”
One of Lee’s girls. I wish I’d driven. Wished I could get back into my car and return to luxury. Instead, I crawled up into his jeep. Suffered the ten-minute car ride back to the convenience store, the wind whipping my hair as his speakers crackled through the bass beats of Florida Georgia Line.
He came to an abrupt stop behind my car, his eyes sweeping over the clean lines that had put Brant back six figures. “I assume this is you, Lucky.”
“It’s Layana.” I grabbed my purse and unclipped the seatbelt, stopping when he flipped open the ashtray and fished out a business card, the edges worn and bent. “Lana to my friends.”
“I’m not crazy about that name.”
“I’m not crazy about Lee.”
“Whatever. Call me if you ever want thirds.” He grinned at me. Revved his engine as if he was ready for me to get out.
I stared at the card. Wanted to crumple it up but didn’t. He has a business card. The fact was both ridiculous and endearing.
I got out having no idea what to do with the card. Watched as his jeep pulled off, the trailer behind it sending a cloud of parking lot dust into my face. I got into my car, my skin dirty, my * taken, half of my clothes stretched out or ruined.
I pulled over three exits before home and parked in a Lowe’s lot—locked my doors, lowered my face to the steering wheel, and cried.
Chapter 24
I walked into my house, stripping as soon as I entered the bedroom, needing the shower yet not wanting to wash off his scent. I smelled like him. Like oil and grass and dirt and sex. It was out of place in my world, in my bedroom, in my life. And I knew it didn’t make sense, but I wanted more of it and loved Brant even more after that afternoon.
He’d been so different from Brant, so outside our box. I liked the different. I wanted more of it and hated myself for it. Wanted more than I could get from Brant, more sides, more than the man who held my hand and listened to my words and proposed to me in moonlight.
I turned on the water and dreaded stepping into the shower. I put my leg up on the tub and pushed my fingers inside. Closed my eyes against the sore need there. Wanted him. If I erased him, I would need him again. I opened the door and stepped into the stream of water. Cried again as I washed every part of the day off my body.
I was slow to turn off the water, but felt the urgency. I had to get dressed. I was having dinner with Brant that night.
Lies. A mountain of them between us, the linen tablecloth too pure and small to hold them all. They tumbled down the sides, spilled around and crowded the filets before us, the melted butter catching some of them in its flame.
I had many; he had few. I was fully aware of my deceit, and I could only guess at his. We’d talked for hours in this relationship, but had said little that wasn’t, in some part, a lie.
“I heard that you’re honoring your parents at the Xavier Event.”
He nodded. Speared a piece of mushroom. “I’ve decided to name the new building in their honor.” A building. A hundred million dollar investment, their names displayed proudly on the top. A kind gesture, if it wasn’t the tenth building he’d built this decade. Three of them on BSX’s campus already bear my name, the challenge of a new employee finding his way to the right one becoming a hazing practice among veterans. Other boyfriends gave roses; Brant gave buildings. Literally gave them. My name was on the property deeds, his companies paying me a handsome sum of rent each month.
I sipped my wine. Held the taste in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. 1961 La Mission Haut-Brion. A lingering finish on my tongue. Success went down smooth. “Are you giving the building to their foundation?”