Near & Far (4 page)

“Let me guess. Change of plans?” Jesse was smiling, but his voice betrayed his disappointment.

I nodded and gave him an apologetic look.

He gave the bed one longing look before cupping my face and pressing a soft kiss into my mouth. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Not that I needed a reminder, but moments like that, the unequivocal goodness that was Jesse Walker was glaringly obvious. “Tomorrow. You. Me. Bed. Not leaving it until you have to hit the road. Deal?”

Jesse’s smile tilted higher on one side. “Like you even need to ask.” One more kiss, that one lingering, and he stood up. “So. What can I do?”

My head was still reeling from that kiss, but a certain art exhibit at one of the country’s most notorious clubs rushed to the forefront of my mind. “I’ve got to hop into the shower. Can you grab me some clothes and then a dress or something nice for later tonight?”

Jesse’s eyebrows came together. I felt so transparent when I was with him that I forgot that he didn’t know everything.

“That was Jax, one of the T.A.’s at school. He managed to get my art on display at this artist’s dream of a nightclub.
Tonight
. And he needs me to get to the school right away and pull some things so we can get everything set up early.” I was so busy rambling and rushing around the room, chucking random things into my purse, that it took me a few moments to notice the questions on his face.

I saw so many questions there, but I had so little time to answer them. Before I’d figured out if I needed to stay and answer his unsaid questions or if I needed to rush and get my butt to the school and answer Jesse’s questions later, his face cleared. “Let me know what you need. When you can. Okay?”

I felt part relieved and part guilty that he’d shoved his questions aside. “Okay.” I blew him a kiss before rushing for the bathroom.

“Sure you don’t need any help in the shower?” I heard the hope in his tone.

Jesse was always hopeful when it came to a certain part of our relationship. “Not if I need to get to the school in under a half hour.”

A long, tortured sigh followed me into the bathroom.

I GAVE MYSELF a few minutes to mourn what-could-have-been after Rowen took off in a mad rush, then hopped into the shower . . . that was still steamy and smelt like Rowen’s herby shampoo. So I gave myself a few more pity minutes.

Then I sucked it up, told myself to stop acting like a whiny baby, and hopped out of the shower with an attitude adjustment. Really, I was happy for Rowen. Excited for her. We’d only had a few minutes to go over what had transpired on the phone, but from what she said, getting her art on display was pretty much the opportunity of a lifetime.

Barely one year in and she was already getting “opportunities of a lifetime.” To say I was proud of her would be an understatement. Not just proud of what she created—I’d known how talented she was from the first time I sneaked a peak at her sketchbook last summer—but that she’d begun to realize how talented she was.

I was going to meet Rowen later at the Underground, and since I’d insisted she drive Old Bessie instead of her bike since it was pouring outside, I’d be hitching a ride with Alex. I liked Alex and all, but I didn’t put it past her that we’d be literally “hitching a ride.”

This morning, I’d replaced all of the burnt-out bulbs in the sidewalk lights, tuned up Rowen’s bike, and fixed the dripping faucet in the kitchen. When I was done with all of that, it was only lunchtime. I still had another nine hours before I got to see Rowen again. After inhaling a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, I got creative. I didn’t do “idle time” very well.

Since there wasn’t a single thing left to do outside, I had no other choice than to get to work inside. I think I washed every piece of clothing Rowen owned. A mere five loads later, I’d folded, hung, and put away more girly clothing than I’d ever thought I could manage in a single day. When Alex stumbled into Rowen’s room asking me if I knew where the C batteries were—I didn’t, and I didn’t want to know what she needed them for, per Rowen’s warning last night—my face got red. Alex had found me layering Rowen’s bras and panties into her dresser. I don’t know why I went all “blushing school boy” because I’d been caught with a pair of panties in my hand. I mean, hell, I’d had my hands on about every single pair of panties Rowen owned, but the look Alex gave me made me feel like a particular brand of perv. Thankfully, after checking to make sure I didn’t plan on trying them on, which only made me turn about five shades redder, Alex left the room in search of her much-needed batteries.

After laundry duty, I loaded, ran, and unloaded the dishwasher. I sprayed glass cleaner on all of the windows and mirrors in the apartment. I vacuumed, mopped the kitchen and bathroom, and I even had enough time to scrub out the tub.

Other than her clothes, I didn’t touch Rowen’s room. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew she wouldn’t want me to. She wasn’t messy, but she wasn’t particularly organized either. She liked a little bit of chaos in her life, her room no exception. Scratch that: she liked a bit of
organized
chaos in her life.

I’d always been so busy doing something cattle related back at Willow Springs that I’d never delved into the domestic chores on the ranch. After that day, I had to admit the work Mom and my sisters did was harder than the work we guys did.

Actually, what they did made what I did seem like child’s play.

After all of that, I needed another shower. It was a little past eight when I headed into the living room, hoping Alex was ready to head out. Work had done a decent job of keeping my mind off of Rowen, but since my hands weren’t busy doing something, that ache of separation was coming back in full force.

Alex was sitting on the couch, one foot furiously tapping the floor, dressed in . . . well, I don’t know exactly how to classify what she was wearing. She was dressed at least. Mostly.

She took one look at me, her eyes went wide as saucers, and she shook her head. “Uh-huh. No way. Turn around and go change,” she ordered, waving me away. When I just stood there, unsure what to say or do, she added, “Now.”

I glanced down to make sure I had on what I remembered changing into. Yep. Jeans, white tee, boots, and my hat.

“Listen, Sex God, you’re fine and all, and I’m sure that look works when you’re square dancing with Norma Jean, but you have to go change. I will not be responsible for what happens to you if you go walking into that place dressed like that.”

A five-second speech from Alex was like reading
Atlas Shrugged
. I was left with a whole lot of questions and didn’t know which one to ask first. So instead of getting into an argument with her, I asked, “What do you want me to change into?”

“Something else.
Anything
else.” Her nose curled as she inspected me again. Maybe she was allergic to cowboy. Good thing Rowen hadn’t been.

Since I guessed nothing I’d packed would be up to Alex’s standards, I decided to try to save some time. “Listen, I’m good. This is what I wear everywhere and, to my knowledge, I haven’t heinously offended anyone to date.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Alex mumbled. “Now you listen to me.” She wasn’t mumbling anymore. “I’m not asking you to go change because I’m worried about you offending every Seattleite we pass—even though you would. I’m
telling
you to go change because if you walk into the Underground dressed like that . . . you are not coming out in one piece.” She paused long enough to take a breath but not long enough for me to get a word out. “Those skinny emo guys might seem harmless, but they’re vicious little bitches when they group together.”

Ah. I got it. She was worried I would get my ass beat by guys who shopped at a different clothing store than I did. Alex might see the world one way, but I obviously saw it another way. Guys, at least the guys I’d met, didn’t give a beating to someone else just because they didn’t agree with each other’s sense of style. If that was how it was there, I was in unchartered waters.

“Hey, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I’ll be good. Really.” I took a step for the door, hoping she’d follow me. That hope was wasted.

“Then you’re
really
not going in there like that, Mr. Lover Not A Fighter. You need to get at least one good punch in before they kill you. That way you can die with honor.”

She wasn’t going to let it go. Obviously. If the quickest way to get us out of there was for me to get changed, then fine. I’d go change. I hoped a darker pair of jeans and a blue shirt would work for her because that was about as versatile as my wardrobe got. “Fine. I’ll go get changed.”

“Not so fast.” She bounced up from the couch and followed me. “If you think I’m letting you dive back into that duffel filled with cowboy denim, you’re got another thing coming.” Grabbing my forearm, she steered me into her room.

It was more of a crypt than a room, and in the first few seconds, I saw so many props, costumes, and toys of a naughty nature that I doubted I’d ever be the same. As Alex tore through her closet, I did my best to focus on the empty patch of carpet in front of my boots. There were a pair of handcuffs to the left and a pair of underwear that really missed the memo on what underwear was intended to cover to the right, so I focused on that four by four inch span of carpet until I felt close to going cross-eyed.

“Here. These should work.” Alex held out an armful of guy’s clothing and waited for me to take it. “Brad wasn’t quite as beefy as you, but he was about as tall.”

“Brad?” I asked, realizing my mistake too late.

Alex sighed something that was too close to a moan for my comfort level. “My old boyfriend. Four exes ago. He was a frickin’ tomcat in the sack. He used to do this thing where he almost lifted me into the air before—”

“Thanks, Alex,” I interrupted, heading for the door. I didn’t need to hear any more about Brad and his mad tomcat skills in the sack. “I’ll try these on and meet you in the living room in five.” I was almost into the hall when Alex called after me.

“Ooooh, wait!” She rummaged around under her bed. “Boots!”

“I’ve already got boots,” I replied right before she flung a pair of black ones my way. I managed to snag them before they clocked me in the face. Okay, so they were boots, but they were basically the polar opposite to the kind I wore—round toed, scuffed up, and a buckle below the ankle. Motorcycle boots? I think?

“Not all boots are created equal,” Alex argued with my silent thoughts. “And those, Sex God, kick your boots’s ass.”

Again, I might have argued if I thought I had a remote chance of coming out the boot victor.