His eyes came back to mine and he didn’t go.
Instead, he asked, “What song was it?”
No way in heck I was sharing that.
“Dobie Gray’s, ‘Drift Away’.”
There it was again. Another fraking lie!
His eyes lit and his mouth twitched before he asked, “The song that moved you to tears and drove you into the cold night was a song about a man who gets through by listening to rock ‘n’ roll?”
I was realizing I really needed to pay more attention to lyrics when I answered with another lie, “Yes.” Then to add validity to something that was nowhere near valid, I added, “My favorite part is when he sings while people clap.”
And right then, in my apartment, I watched Chace Keaton throw back his handsome head and burst out laughing.
Seeing it, hearing the deep richness of it, my hands went behind me and curled into the iron of my foot stand so they could assist my legs in keeping me standing.
I was prepared to ask him to leave when he stopped laughing (not that I wanted him to stop laughing, ever) but he got there before me by tipping his eyes back to mine and ordering through his laughter, “Put it on.”
I blinked and my chest seized.
Therefore I had to force out my, “What?”
His eyes scanned my apartment, spied my stereo then came back to me.
He tilted his head to my stereo and repeated, “Put it on.”
“Put what on?” I asked stupidly.
“‘Drift Away’.”
Oh God!
“Um… I’m kind of tired,” I informed him.
“Faye, honey, you just ran through a very cold night chasing an abused, terrified kid. You’re not tired.”
There it was, him reading me again.
“Um…”
“But I bet that song will help you relax and unwind.”
He was right. It would. It was on my unwind playlist for that very purpose.
“Uh…”
“Put it on.”
“Chace, I don’t –”
“You don’t, I find your iPod and I’ll do it.”
That got me moving for two reasons. One, this would require a body search and my iPod was at my bottom. I didn’t want Chace Keaton’s hands anywhere near my bottom. Second, the song it was set at was “Holding Out for a Hero” which meant if he had my iPod, he’d catch me out in the lie and know, possibly, what really was making me cry.
So I slid out from in front of him, unbuttoned my coat, shrugged it off and threw it on my armchair. Then I unwound my scarf and did the same with that. Finally, I dug into my back pocket, pulled out my iPod and set up the song.
The strains of the guitar hit the space as I turned back to see Chace had taken off his coat, thrown it on my bed and he was leaning a hip against the foot stand.
He looked good standing anywhere.
But he never looked better than standing right there.
Really, seriously, how was this happening?
“Forgot how much I like this song,” he said through the music.
“Told you it was good,” I muttered.
At my words, he suddenly pushed away from the bed and came at me.
I had to make a split second decision. Run from the apartment (and I’d just taken off my coat), race to the bathroom and lock myself in, retreat again even though I had nowhere to go or hold my ground.
I took longer than the split second to make my decision and thus ended up doing the last and therefore was an available target when he reached down and grabbed my hand.
He yanked it firm but gentle and I flew toward him.
His other arm slid around me and suddenly I found myself, after midnight, in my apartment, dancing with Chace Keaton.
It wasn’t just a close to each other, hips swaying dance. He swung me out, twirled me around, threw me wide and wound me back in. He was sure in his moves, strong, confident and my body just moved how he wanted me to move. It didn’t feel stilted, I wasn’t nervous.
I just moved where he guided me like we’d danced together countless times. It felt natural. It felt right. It felt great.
So great, the song was so awesome, I got into it and started grinning, aiming this at him whenever my eyes caught his which were always on me.
The slow bits, he held me close and swayed. The faster bits, he moved me around and when the clapping came, he pulled me close, his neck bending, his lips finding my ear and he whispered, “You’re right, honey, this is definitely the best part.”
My hand was resting on the hard wall of his chest, my head tipped back, his came up and we locked eyes.
Then I whispered, “See?”
He smiled.
I drowned.
Then he twirled me out when the tempo shifted up but we finished close, hips swaying. His arm was around me, his hand in mine holding it to his chest. My other hand was resting lightly on his shoulder. His jaw was pressed to the side of my hair and my eyes trained to the strong column of his throat.
The song faded away, our hips stopped swaying, but he didn’t let me go.
I had no idea what was happening, how it came about but that didn’t mean I didn’t close my eyes and commit every nuance of that moment to memory.
Then he said quietly in my ear, “For a long time, a long fuckin’ time, Faye, nearly six years, I thought it was certain I’d never have anything as beautiful as the last three minutes. Thank you, honey, for giving that to me.”
Once he’d dropped this confusing, exquisite bombshell, he moved away, went to his coat on his bed, tagged it, sauntered to my door and walked out of it, closing it behind him.
Not looking back.
Chapter Four
The Cherokee and Coffee
It was four days (well, technically three) after Chace Keaton said beautiful but bewildering words to me and sauntered out of my apartment.
In other words, it was Tuesday morning at eight thirty which was an hour before I had to get to work, preparing to open the library and I was in my Cherokee staking out the return bin in hopes of seeing the boy.
I was there on Tuesday because the library wasn’t open on Mondays.
Also because I hadn’t had time to come earlier.
This was because I was catching up on sleep, cleaning my house and going two kinds of shopping – grocery and for some kid I didn’t know. My time was also spent having dinner with my parents including helping my Mom make it and watching two movies with them after it. Not to mention, in order to keep my mind off things, I’d been to the gym twice and worked out for an hour rather than half that.
Further, I had a marathon session with Serenity to try to talk her down from uncovering dirt on scary, rich powerbrokers (this, incidentally, failed). I also had a marathon phone conversation with my sister Liza who lived in Gnaw Bone and was fighting with her husband (again). Though, not for the first time, even hearing it from Liza, I sided with Boyd. This wasn’t unusual but I didn’t tell Liza that. Not only that I sided with Boyd but also that it wasn’t unusual I sided with him and maybe she should stop being such a drama queen.
That said, what did I know? I’d never even had a boyfriend. I was not in any position to be a marriage counselor.
So instead I played my normal role, the sister-bitching listener.
In the time between Chace leaving me Thursday night (or, more aptly, Friday very early morning) I’d gone out and bought the boy a new coat as well as a hat, scarf, gloves and three pairs of thick, wool socks. I’d also guesstimated sizes and bought him two pairs of new jeans, two chunky, warm sweaters and some underwear.
With this, I added a pint of milk, three bottles of water, a package of bologna, a package of American cheese slices, a loaf of bread, a box of granola bars, three apples, a bunch of bananas, a cucumber (he wouldn’t eat it but I had to make the effort of getting what my Dad called “roughage” in him) and a ginormous bar of Hershey’s chocolate (which he probably would eat).