Through Fire (Portland, ME #3) (13 page)

I pull my wallet out and toss some bills on the table when Ike stops me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve gotta talk to her,” I snap, pushing away from the table when Ike’s hand shoots out and fists in my shirt, pulling me back down.

“Sit your ass down. Don’t know what’s in your head and I doubt you do. Not a good time to seek her out, buddy. Get your head on straight before you do.” He easily holds my angry glare, just waiting me out, and not letting go of my damn shirt. Finally I give in, albeit grudgingly. He’s right, I’m not thinking straight. I wouldn’t even fucking know what to say to her, or even whether I should.

“Have you heard from your brother?” Ike asks, as he holds his cup up to the waitress for a refill.

“He’s been calling. So has Mom, since I’ve bailed on two of the obligatory Sunday afternoons, as well as Christmas dinner at Casa di Veldman. I’ve avoided them both,” I admit, knowing if I don’t get in touch with them soon, they’ll be knocking down my door. I realize I’ve been pretty self-absorbed, not giving much thought to my brother, who had his own rug pulled from beneath his feet. I should call him. Find out where his head it at and maybe get a bit more background on the douche Ruby was working for. The kind of trouble she might be in.

Yeah, I should probably start there.

-

N
ot ten minutes after sending him a text, Mark is standing on my front step.

After breakfast, I’d come back here and did some research online to see what I could find out about Carlos Delgado. It wasn’t much, other than what I’d already been told. I’d wanted to go talk to Ruby, see how she was doing, since I left her standing outside her apartment, and basically disappeared. That part was normal standard behavior for me, the walking away when things looked to get complicated, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt such a strong sense of loss after. Or this kind of need to know everything there is to know about a woman. Not even with Viv. So I sent a message to my brother, in hopes he could enlighten me some.

“You look like you crawled out of your hole,” he says, looking pretty damn ratty himself.

“Yeah? Well, at least I’m in good company: you look like you just came off a three-week bender,” I retort.

“Pretty much.” He drops down on the couch and props his feet up on the table. “So what’s new in your life?” he mocks. “Thanks for bailing on Christmas, leaving me to deal with Mom and Dad alone.”

With a deep breath, I catch him up on my fucked up situation, to which he reacts with predictable anger. That means, the next ten minutes I have to talk him down from wanting to
rip that bitch a new one
. He admits my comment about the bender had not been too far off the mark, but only by a week. He apparently discovered that at our age; it’s a lot harder to keep up, and a shitload more painful when you finally smarten up.

By the time Mark leaves, it’s dark out, my house is littered with empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and the dining table is covered with notes and sketches. Also, I know more about the gang controlled sex trade than I ever wanted to.

It’s already past nine, and if I want to catch Ruby, I’m going to have to get moving.

R
uby

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I hold myself up against the doorpost as Tim bends down to pick up my keys.

“It’s okay,” I say, but I’m lying. My knees still wobble like jelly and my heart is firmly wedged in my throat, trying to beat its way out. His responding grumble tells me he’s not buying it. With a steadying hand on my arm, he uses my keys to open the door, and once again marches me past the elevator and up the stairs. “Wait,” I insist, with a restraining hand on his chest as he prepares to unlock my apartment. “What is going on?” With the initial scare gone, a surge of anger flares up. “Are you gonna drop me at my door and disappear for weeks again? Because if you are, spare me, okay? It wasn’t worth the heart attack.” I snatch the keys from his hand and swiftly unlock and push open the door, fully intending to slam it behind me. Tim is faster, though, forcing himself inside, behind me, before closing the door firmly.

“We need to talk,” he says, shrugging out of his coat, and for the first time I have a good look at him. I’m initially distracted by the pretty substantial beard he’s grown, the unkempt hair, and his unusually casual attire, before my eyes zoom in on the lines in his face and the dark circles under his eyes. I instantly feel my anger fade. It’s pretty obvious the man’s not having an easy time. So instead of arguing, I take off my coat, kick off my shoes, and sit down in a corner of the couch, not saying a word.

Finally, after observing me from his vantage point by the door, he heels off his boots and follows me inside. Instead of the couch, he chooses to sit down on the coffee table facing me, running a hand through his messy hair. Slowly his eyes come up to meet mine and he clears his throat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he starts, surprising me. “I don’t,” he repeats. “My life was pretty set. I thought I knew what I did and didn’t want out of it, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Because you lost your job,” I clarify.

“Not just because of that, although I will admit; it’s a fucking sobering experience to think you’re sitting safe with twenty solid years under your belt, only to have it disappear like
that
.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “These past few weeks have felt like my world’s been tilted on its axis, changing my entire perspective. It’s unsettling. I couldn’t even handle Christmas. It didn’t start with getting fired, though,” he says leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It started when I first saw you.”

I can’t stop the snort escaping, despite the hand I slap in front of my face. “Please. I find that hard to believe,” I scoff. “We never even spoke more than a few words since I started working at the pub. Not until a few weeks ago anyway.”

“True,” he admits. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t see you.” I wave my hand in the air dismissively, not ready to buy into that.

“Will you tell me about it?” he asks, switching direction completely and throwing me off. Oh, I know what he’s talking about, but I didn’t expect him to be so direct. “Not now,” he assures me, putting a hand on my knee. “But at some point?”

“Why?” I have to know. “It’s not a pretty story.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but it’s your story, which means I want to know it.”

Something about that hits me hard. The idea someone thinks I’m worth knowing is still so new. So strange to learn not everyone sees you as a means to an end, a
thing
to be used and discarded. I’ve had glimpses of it, especially the last few weeks, but from Tim it brings up a lot of emotions. Perhaps because it makes me realize he sees me as a whole and not as the sum of my
parts
.

“You like me,” I blurt out, before I can catch myself. I’m mortified, but Tim chuckles softly.

“Not the first time I heard that,” he says, shaking his head. “But yeah, I like you, Ruby. And I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to know you, but there’s so much going on that I don’t know where to start.”

That little seed that had almost shriveled up in the past few weeks flares back to life with a fresh surge of hope. In my much younger years, before every last spark of hope had been carefully ground out, I’d sometimes fantasized about someone coming along, who might want me for more than just sex, but those dreams didn’t last long. It makes me a little scared, a lot out of my element, but I force myself to look Tim square in the eyes.

“I don’t know either, but maybe we can start with a drink?”

A slow smile spreads over Tim’s face, brightening even his gorgeous blue eyes. “I’d like that,” he says in a low voice. Then he gets up and I expect him to sit down on the couch, but instead he leans forward, his arms on the arm and backrest, caging me in. His mouth brushes mine softly. “I’d like that a lot,” he affirms, his lips moving on my mouth, before nipping my bottom lip. I’m completely mesmerized by the slow, sweet play of his kisses.

Abruptly he pushes up and steps back to reveal he’s clearly as affected as I am. “Yeah,” he says, adjusting himself unselfconsciously with a smirk. “Before I get carried away, I’m gonna splash some cold water on my face. Maybe you can grab those drinks?”

With my mouth still hanging half open and a hot flush on my cheeks, I watch him saunter into the hallway, realizing too late all I have in my fridge is milk and cranberry juice. A mad scramble to the kitchen shows me the sad truth. A jug of milk and half a container of juice, a few tea bags and decaf coffee Viv must’ve left in the cupboard. I’m going to have to make a grocery list the moment my brain starts working again.

I hear the toilet flush and a moment later Tim comes walking into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” he wants to know, watching me struggle to fold the paper towel in the coffee maker Viv left behind to serve as a makeshift filter. I’d bypassed the milk and tea as viable options for a drink, and settled on coffee being the more masculine option than cranberry juice.

“I, uhh...I’m making coffee. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

Noticing my embarrassment, he smiles before leaning down to kiss my lips again. “Coffee is fine, but what’s with the paper towel?”

“No filters,” I explain. “I haven’t had a chance to go to the grocery store. I’ll go tomorrow,” I assure him. That’s not exactly the truth, because I have been. It’s just that I get flustered when I see the miles of aisles, with everything under the sun on offer. I hardly know where to start, so I end up grabbing what I can see and hurry through the register before I’m completely overwhelmed. I obviously haven’t managed to find the coffee filters yet.

“Here—give me that.” Tim deftly plucks the wad of paper out of my hands and proceeds to fold it neatly into the shape of a filter. In less than a minute, the coffee is perking.

“So let’s start easy, okay?” he says gently, as he takes in my wringing hands. “I’m Tim Veldman, Timothy Michael Veldman, to be complete. I’m forty-three,  have one brother and was born and raised in Portland. My parents still live here and I’m currently unemployed,” he adds with a wink. “Now you.”

“Oh. Uh, my last name is Soto,” I share with him, a little relieved to find I’m only a year older. “I’m forty-four and don’t have brothers or sisters.”

“So not Betty Boop?” he jokes, before his smiling face turns serious. “And what about parents?” he asks carefully.

“They died a long time ago,” I explain.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out and stroking the backs of his fingers over my cheek. I have to stop myself from curling into his touch like a cat.

“It’s okay,” I shrug, pulling away to grab the two mugs I have from the cupboard. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

Tim stays quiet behind me while I pour coffee. Turning around, I find his eyes intently focused on me. “Tell me the rest when you’re ready,” he says softly. I nod in silent understanding. He’s letting me off the hook, that’s what he’s telling me. At the same time, he’s making sure I know that he still intends to find out everything about me.

Oddly enough, it doesn’t scare me half as much as it probably should.

T
im

“You’re back?”

Ruby’s voice sounds a little breathless as she opens the door for me. I’d managed to catch the entrance door as it was closing behind an older gentleman taking his slobbering little pug for a walk. I’ve never seen the appeal of those pint-sized failed bulldogs.

I’d made the decision to take Ruby to get groceries last night, when she mentioned needing some. She doesn’t have transportation, and something about her having to tote her bags walking or taking the bus just doesn’t sit right with me. The taste of that vile decaf crap solidified my idea. I’ve been living off takeout these last few weeks, too miserable to get myself into the kitchen, so I’m past due to stock my fridge anyway. It wasn’t until I was halfway home I realized I’d forgot to mention it.

I’d been too preoccupied the rest of the evening. A little stilted at first, Ruby had started talking a little about her life. Mostly general stuff at first, a few movies she’d seen, some places she’d been to. When I asked her what place she’d most like to return to, she’d gone quiet for a bit. “To my parents’ farm,” she admitted finally, a hitch in her voice and a hint of wetness in her eyes. “I’d love to wake up to the sound of the tractor in the morning, when my father would go out to his fields. Mamá would be in the kitchen. She never sent my father off without a cooked breakfast. Or me,” she said wishfully, her eyes getting that far away look of someone lost in their memories.

I didn’t stay long after that. It was already late and she’d had a full shift on her feet. So I pulled her from the couch, had her walk me to the door where I kissed her goodbye. Took all I had to walk out of that door.

The same door that is now propped open by Ruby’s well-rounded hip.

“Groceries. Let’s go,” I prod her, pleased to see a little smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “You probably start at ten or eleven? That gives us an hour and a half to get what we need and still have you there in time. Oh,” I add as she buttons her coat and grabs her bag, before pulling the door shut behind her. “I also printed out a recipe for Chiles Renellos. I owe you a cooking lesson.”