Megan Hart - Tear You Apart

I shrug. “Not my business.”

He squints, mouth pursed. “He’s married, huh?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not his wife.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not.”

Will gives them another look and slowly shakes his head, then lets his gaze slide back to mine. Sly, sideways, full of charm. He reminds me of a fox, I think suddenly. The slight spike at the tips of his ears, the way his hair feathers forward in front of them, the sleek and perfect arch of his brows. He leans close to me again. Sharing secrets.

“How about,” he says, “you and me, we get out of here?”

Chapter Two

I thought he meant to take me to a coffee shop. That’s what anyone would think when a stranger asks you at close to midnight if you want a cup of coffee. I’m still not familiar with the neighborhood. Naveen’s new gallery opened only a month ago, and while I can get to and from it, I don’t know about anything else nearby.

Will does. He lives close by, in Chinatown. I love Chinatown. I love shopping for chopsticks and soup spoons I could find anywhere, but which feel so much more authentic here. If I could, I’d have an entire collection of those cats with the waving paws. Money cats. I love them, too. They’re usually red and gold, and to me the ticky-tocky motion of their hands always smells like fresh lemons.

I should be surprised when instead of a coffee shop with slices of cake in a revolving case, he takes me to a building made of stone, with ornate metal bars on the windows and a front door he needs to unlock with a keypad. I should hold back, hesitant, when he turns just inside the doorway to smile back at me with that same sly and sideways grin he gave me in the gallery. I shouldn’t go upstairs with him, into his apartment, where he again holds the door open, this time so I can step through in front of him, though the space is small enough that I have to touch my shoulder to his chest as I pass.

I should go home.

I think about it. Imagine myself backing off, hands up. Shake, shake of my head and a nervous smile. I imagine myself finding a cab. Taking the train. The entire scenario takes about thirty seconds, and by that time it’s too late. I’m already inside.

It’s a loft, of course. That’s where artists live. It must’ve once been a warehouse or factory. Wood floors, big beams, brick walls. Living room, kitchen, dining area all one big space, with a hallway leading to what I assume is bathroom and bedroom. There’s an actual loft, too, with a spiral staircase that makes my heart ache with envy.

“I want an apartment.” I’ve said it aloud without realizing.

Will looks at me. “So get one.”

I laugh. “I have a house. I don’t need an apartment. I just want one.”

A place I don’t have to share. Built-in bookcases, a tiny galley kitchen I’ll never use because I’ll never cook. Hardwood floors with colorful throw rugs. A big, soft bed with all the pillows for myself. A quiet place with smooth corners just for me. It would be filled with rainbows and the smell of the ocean sand.

“So get one,” Will repeats, as if it’s as easy as going down to the apartment store and picking one out. “Hey. Coffee?”

It’s late. Drinking coffee now will only keep me from being able to sleep, but of course that’s why I need it. “Yes, please.”

He has some fancy coffeemaker that grinds the beans and heats the water to just the right temperature. I can’t explain why this makes me laugh, but it does. Will slants me a grin as I lean against his countertop—bright, polished metal like you’d find in a restaurant.

“What?”

I shrug. “I just didn’t have you figured as a fancy coffeemaker sort of guy, that’s all.”

Will leans, too, close enough that if he stretched out a leg he could tap my foot with his. “Oh. That. It’s not mine. It was my wife’s.”

Instinctively, I look around his place for signs of a woman’s touch, not that I’m sure what that might be. Flowers and throw pillows, I guess. The scent of perfume. He laughs. I’m caught.

“Ex,” he emphasizes. “Was. She took the cat. I got the coffeemaker.”

“Oh.” The machine spits and hisses, burping out black liquid. The smell is amazing. Just coffee, nothing odd. Still amazing.

He pours me a cup. Then one for himself. He pulls a bottle from a cupboard. Bushmills. “Want some?”

“Um...no.” It’s nearly one in the morning. I have to leave in a few minutes so I can catch the last train.

I shouldn’t be here at all.

“You sure?” He wags the bottle. Tempting me. He splashes his mug with a liberal dose. “It’s good.”

I’m sure it is. I haven’t had whiskey in...well, I can’t remember the last time. Have I ever had whiskey? Surely in those booze-addled college days when we drank whatever we could get our hands on, I must’ve had whiskey.

I hold out my mug. “Not too much.”

“No such thing,” Will says, and pours in a healthy shot. He raises his mug and waits until I’ve done the same. “Sláinte.”

“Are you Irish?” I take a hesitant sip. The coffee’s hot and good. The whiskey, better. Both are strong and hit the back of my throat and then my stomach with heat. Or maybe I shouldn’t lie. It’s the way he looks at me, not anything I’m drinking.

“Who isn’t?” He lifts the mug and drinks without so much as a wince. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

“Not your etchings, I hope.” The joke’s not smooth, but since everything about me feels herky-jerky, all rough edges and stumbling feet, why should my words be any different?

Will glances over his shoulder. “Something like that.”

I do hesitate then, just for a second. Then another. I’m in a stranger’s apartment so late it’s soon going to be early. I took his liquor. Would I blame him if he thought there might be more to this?

Would I be disappointed if he doesn’t?

In one corner of the vast space, he shows me a desk set up with an impressive desktop computer, stacks of file folders, bits of crumpled paper. A little farther back is a set of red velvet curtains hung on the wall. Next to that is a metal rack holding several rolls of paper backdrops. Also, another table fitted with several lights and a contraption of metal and fabric I’ve seen before. I forget what it’s called. A light box, maybe. Something to showcase items to be photographed.

“This is where the magic happens.” He turns on one of the big lights, bathing everything in a golden glow.

I shield my eyes for a second, glad the beam is focused on a battered wooden chair set in front of the velvet curtains, and not on me. That light highlights that chair’s every crack and splinter, every flaw. I can only imagine what it would show on my face.

Will opens a folder to pull out an eight-by-ten glossy of a woman seated at a desk, typing at an old-fashioned typewriter. She’s dressed like a fetishized secretary. Tight black skirt, white shirt with a bow at the collar, impossibly high heels. Hair pulled back in a severe bun, glasses covering eyes made up with far too much shadow and liner to be appropriate for a real office. I’m confused.

“Stock art.” He pulls another shot from the folder, this one of a businessman in a suit and tie, holding a paper take-out cup of coffee and a briefcase. Will waves the photo slowly.

“You took those?”

“I did.” He fits them back into the folder. “My bread and butter.”

Somehow, this deflates me. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Gotta eat,” Will says. “But look at these.”

He gestures for me to move closer, and to resist would, at the very least, seem impolite. I stand next to him at the desk, our shoulders brushing as he sorts through another folder to pull out a colorful print of a man and a woman in an embrace. They’re wearing historical costumes, her hair flowing. For that matter, his hair’s flowing, too. The print behind it is of the same shot, though it’s been altered to add a different background and some stylized effects. Also, text.