Leon's Way Page 3

  I’m impressed with how well Leon handles Ingela. A month ago, she appeared at Smother with blue eyes shining and a wide smile lighting her face. “I’m Ingela, I’m an international exchange student, and I like your bar, so I shall work here,” she had explained. “I need a job because I’m totally, totally broke.”

  I don’t ask, but my guess is she’s in the country on a student visa. Leon must be taking his chances with the IRS by paying her under the table.

  Thankfully, Ingela’s little phone chat is over by the time I’m out of the bathroom.

  “You missed out.” She nods, her signature broad grin in place. Short, blonde bangs hop over her perfect eyebrows as she speaks. “Cameron is…” She frowns, thinking. “Heell—hellar—” Then, she cops out and goes, “Funny.”

  “Hilarious?” I suggest, and she smacks her hands together.

  “Yeah! Hilarious.”

  “So, not ‘rude as hell’ or ‘gross?’”

  Ingela cups her mouth with a palm, laughing. “Oh yes, uh-huh! He called just to be gross with me.”

  I’m not surprised—at either of them. Ingela grabs the last piece of whole-wheat toast with liver pâté and shoves it into her mouth. With the other hand, she ruffles the short layers of hair brushing her neck.

  “I have class first, but I’ll be at work in…” She checks her watch. “Bah, when I get bored. Or soon anyway. I’ll take the campus bus—the Silver Line. It drops me off by Smother.”

  “Okay, so you won’t be late?” I ask.

  Ingela dons washed-out jeans peppered with holes. Tall and skinny, the stereotype of a Scandinavian girl hikes her odd little backpack up on a shoulder and strides to the door. “Never.” She bats her lashes.

  “You bringing those?” I point. The black slacks she’s supposed to wear beneath the bartender apron remain on the counter.

  “No, I’m wearing these,” she explains like I can’t tell.

  “Ingela,” I begin, “your pants are, um. Broken. Also, they’re not black. Wouldn’t it be nice to surprise our dear boss by bringing the actual uniform without being reminded? He’d be excited.”

  “Ha!” she exclaims. “Leon can’t get excited. No way.”

  We’re talking about completely different things, but my mind strays to the dawn of New Year’s Day. In my experience, the man is excitable. Very excitable. “Yeah, well.”

  Unconsciously, I cover my boobs with my elbows, pressing inward as Ingela slams the door over a “hej då”—her “goodbye” when she forgets to speak English.

  I consider letting her deal with the uniform issue on her own. We live a short walk from Smother, so Ingela could make it here and back quickly. Still, I don’t want her to be late.

  Once Ingela started working at the bar, everything happened fast. In a matter of days, my old roommate packed up, and Ingela moved in—I don’t even remember offering her the spare room.

  The girl took a week getting used to my administrative talents slash mom genes. I groan to myself. Unfortunately, I hate to disappoint, so now, I swipe up the damn pants and head out.

  This morning went well at home. I had some of Ingela’s crisp breads and water before I got out of bed, which lessened the nausea. Now, though—a few hours into my shift at work—I tip up on the balls of my feet so as not to stir my roiling innards while I slink past Leon’s office door. The club doesn’t open for a while, but with the influx of new staff since New Year’s, Leon demands my presence more than ever. Yeah, this semester I’m not taking any college classes. I can’t with the way Leon needs me at Smother.

  As I head to the bathroom, he calls out my name. “Arriane. Please come in for a minute.” My pulse thuds triple-beats but relents when I remind my heart that he’s unaware of my state.

  “Be right there,” I shout, business-like.

  I’m in luck. No one else is in the other stall, so I don’t have to keep my gagging under wraps. I lock the main door to the ladies’ room to have the place to myself. Hurl out the latest batch of saltines, the ones I keep stashed in my purse. Blinking the liquid away from my eyes, I relax. I’m done for now. I always feel better right after I get it out.

  Cute silly-boy, Cameron, is stacking beer glasses when I return to the bar. I lean against a stool, straightening my apron. “Pour me some Coke, Cam,” I say, and he bobs his Nordic-blond head, so much like Ingela’s, and curls his lips in a seductive grin.

  “Anything for you, Boss Lady.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Just show me how fast you can be, boy—we’ll be slammed after the game tonight.”

  I’m no one’s supervisor—the responsibility I have is rooted in detailed instruction from our boss. Whenever Leon’s at his other club in Talco, Christian becomes the manager at Smother. “And stop calling me that,” I add to Cameron.

  “Sorry, bossy lady,” he quips and holds his hands up in defeat when I glare at him. “Hey, at least I didn’t say ‘Boss Lady!’”

  “Now you did,” I say, causing him to chuckle and mumble something to the effect of “oh, snap” and “good one.”

  Slowly, I suck down my fizzy medicine. My stomach adjusts around the sugar, settling further.

  “Arriane.” I tense on the seat at Leon’s voice behind me. “Were you coming?”

  This looks bad. Instead of going straight to his office, I’m slacking on duty, drinking and eating his stuff. Knowing him, he won’t hold it against me, though.

  “She’s sick,” Cameron volunteers. “She’s been throwing up all day.”

  That’s not even true. It’s the first time today, and we’re way into the afternoon. Honestly, I feel good about this. Not so good about Cameron’s outing. Snitch.

  “Thanks, Cameron,” I wheeze under my breath. He’s clueless, his light green eyes arching with surprise.

  I slide into damage control mode. I hop off the stool and skip the first two steps in Leon’s direction. The dark lines of his brows dip together. Without a word, he holds the door to his office for me and closes it behind us.

  I hope he’ll sit behind his desk, because distance works well for me. Unfortunately, he just crosses his arms and turns to me. “Is it true what Cameron says?” His voice is silky-alert and not ready to buy lies.

  “Yeah, I ate some old takeout yesterday—”

  “Did you eat leftovers the night before too?”

  “Funny, I actually did,” I fib, straight-faced, because what? Is he going to call me on it?

  Leon moves into my personal space, his stare glittering over me. A stray spike of hair writhes over his lashes when he blinks. “Little liar.”

  The only other time he’s said those words to me were—

  My heart does an unnatural bounce, and I mentally shush it.

  “I worry about you, Arriane,” he tells me and looks at me the way he did upstairs a month ago. With him so close, with his hand resting flat against the wall by my neck, I don’t feel like his employee.

  “I see you, you know. How exhausted you are lately. It’s my fault, Arriane. I work you too hard. You should…” Leon’s gaze flickers over my face, searching for signs—of something. It drops to my throat, and I become hyper-aware of how hard my pulse throbs there.

  “Thank you, boss, but it’s nothing, really.” Even with my quiet tone, I sound convincing. The room is hot, and my cheeks burn from his nearness.

  We face off, at a standstill for a moment. An almost imperceptible headshake prefaces his next words.

  “I’m sorry about New Year’s Eve, Arriane.” Wisps of cologne reach me. Tendrils of musk and… sex. It’s hard not to think of sex around Leon.

  The apology surprises me, because he hasn’t broached our night since the note he left in his apartment the morning after.

  My eyes must have fluttered shut while I inhaled his scent. I startle when light fingertips touch my cheek. They search down the bare skin of my neck, and I’m alert. Heart-hammering alert.

  My brain tics through the last month. It’s been a good month. Leon’s b
een in one of his girlfriend-free hiatuses. They are the times I breathe freely. He doesn’t select his broken girls quickly. Once he finds them, his relationships are short, intense—anything from weeks to months long. Then, there are the periods of denial and hysterics from the girls after he cuts them loose.

  “Arriane,” Leon says, lower than before. Until now, the events upstairs have seemed unreal. That was me with him. Me.

  “Yes, Leon.”

  “Take some days off.”

  “No.”

  “Sis?” I smile into the phone. “Wait—no. Who’s this poser? My little sister never calls. She’s all busy in Silicon-Valley world with her high-tech job of a lifetime.”

  Katsu giggles little-girl trills of delight. “Crap, I’m bad. But you could call too, Shishi!”

  “So what’s new?” I ask. Katsu wouldn’t call without a reason. Don’t get me wrong—we are close. When you rely on each other against monster fathers as kids, you never drift apart. Back then, I fought for her, and she lied for me.

  The last trickles of her laughter sober swiftly. “Well, I figured you hadn’t checked in with Dad,” she says.

  “Of course I haven’t. Why would I?”

  “Well, they called from Parkwood Hospital. Dad had a stroke, Leon.”

  I can’t picture the man ill. It’s easier to recall the steeled tip of his work boot ramming into my soft, ten-year-old middle as I lied curled up on the floor until little Katsu’s shriek permeated the air.

  I shrug. “What do you want me to do, Sis? Heal him?”

  Unsurprised, my sister doesn’t miss a beat. The years haven’t changed who we are. She always laughed easily, and now, the giggle she emits is all Katsu. “Well, I’m coming home. Even if he’s a fucking loser—”

  “Don’t swear,” I interrupt automatically.

  “—he’s still our father, and we shouldn’t have any regrets if he ends up croaking or whatever,” she explains, ignoring me. “Which is why we want to do the right thing.”

  “Bullshit. The only regret I’ll ever have is that I didn’t bolt sooner.”

  She joins me in the second part of the mantra I’ve repeated too often and finishes it with, “Yeah, yeah. Anyway. Can I crash at your place? I’ve got a week.”

  “Of course, baby sis.”

  Today, Leon isn’t his cool, inscrutable self. Cameron is helping Christian set up for a reserved party on the rooftop, and I’m hanging ribbons and streamers for the National Hat Day celebration downstairs. Since I started at Smother, I’ve been in charge of event planning and decorations. I like it whenever my special-days creativity produces pleased grins on Leon’s face.

  Cold sweat threatens my hairline because I haven’t gained control over my nausea yet. I guess it’s a ways to go for that. Five weeks and counting. How long does it take before it disappears? I don’t read about this. My strategy is to wait it out. Procrastinate. Shove my undigested secret under a rug.

  I take another chug of Coke and pop a handful of peanuts in my mouth.

  My attention is always on Leon, even when he’s not in my line of vision. At the moment he thinks he’s alone, but I’m close enough to catch him covering his eyes and hunching that ever-straight back a little.

  His mouth…

  Why are those cherry-plump lips quivering?

  Leon is a private man, and I shouldn’t pry. Still, sometimes when you don’t think, you jump in. And I?

  I can’t let him hurt alone.

  I take the steps over to the tall table he sits at with his accounting. I don’t stop until my hand touches his cheek.

  “Leon?” I ask, my heart slowing with worry.

  He sucks in a breath at my touch, thick lashes dropping. Lightly, he bends into my palm and I feel it, the stubble I dream of. It pricks like kitten-paw-soft cacti against my skin.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I expect him to brush me off, get up. Become his business-self. Give me a low, clear order I can carry out for him.

  But Leon’s knees slide apart, making room for my body. His hands scoot around me, pulling me into him, and something shifts in my womb even though it’s probably too early.

  His sigh is so heavy. Arms spread over my back, fingers pressing into flesh, fanning upward until a fist curls around my neck. The pinch is painful as he nudges me closer, bending so he can delve in against my throat.

  “Just family stuff scrambling my brain,” he whispers. Can he hear my heartbeat? It’s fast, insistent. Hopeful. When I dare to move my arms from their frozen, low-slung sides, it’s to link them into his embrace. He turns my face to him and kisses me, first chastely on the mouth, until I open and he deepens the kiss.

  He finds bare skin under my shirt, and as we make out, he forces a hand into the crack at the top of my pants.

  I let him.

  I want him happy.

  Not thinking, I lift a foot up on the railing of his barstool as he scoots out on his seat enough to leave only fabric between us. He puffs a grunt into my ear. “Wait, let me…” he begins but trails off in favor of action. Deft fingers undo the top button of my slacks and unzip my fly. “Much better. I couldn’t get to you.”

  I gasp when his fingers find my entrance from behind, easing in, showing both of us how quickly I heat for him.

  “Sweetie, the guys will be down any minute—”

  Leon cuts me off with a stinging slap on my ass, ending his violent caress with a firm grasp on the butt cheek he spanked. “Trust me.”

  I do. I—

  He holds me while he fingers me.

  The boys laugh at the top of the stairs. “Nah, I’m good,” Christian rumbles. “Got my Shannon—she keeps me busy. But go for it. They say once you go threesome, you’ll never want to go back.”

  Cameron howls with laughter, their high-five ringing down to us. “Damn, that’d be awesome. Gotta find me some chicks who’ll be into it more than once. I mean how ’bout forever, am I right?”

  If I hadn’t been drowning in Leon’s world, I’d roll my eyes again at Cameron.

  “Sure, and marry both of them. In different states before you all move to a third one,” Christian helps.

  “You. Are. A. Genius,” Funny-Cam bursts out. “Or in a different country! Sweden.”

  “Ingela, huh?” Christian asks.

  “Yeah, I might’ve suggested it to her. She said I was, and I quote, ‘gross.’”

  Christian’s reply is dry. “Go figure.”

  “Open your eyes,” the man I love says to me. He isn’t paying attention to the guys’ inane prattling. His eyes burn through me, engrossed in the desire I can’t hide. I’m climbing—I’m already so close, but… so are my colleagues. This is insanity.

  “Leon,” I whimper. “Please, let me go.”

  “Shh.” He swings me sideways between his thighs, moving me out enough to push a hand down my front too. Both of his hands reach my…

  “Fuck, Arriane,” he breathes into my ear. “Hurry, beautiful. Come.”

  My heart, my poor heart. It gallops for him, for unplanned babies. It races out of fear that the boys will discover us. I’m dying a little, and then I explode in his hands, dampening him, and I can’t hold back the yelp he’s grown in me. Leon stops my cry—stops me with—

  God, how I love his lips on my mouth.

  Cameron jumps down the stairs two at a time.

  “You’re a fucking hippo on the loose, dude,” Christian chortles at his young apprentice.

  I’m gelatinous. Weak-kneed and wilting. Leon tugs my pants in place. Keeping me on my feet with one hand, he zips me up with the other. He’s fast—sure. I’d expected nothing less from this man. By the time Cameron hits the last step, Leon’s got me seated on the stool opposite him.

  “All set, boss,” Cameron beams.

  So am I. Wow.

  Behind him, Christian bites his lip, studying me. “You all right, Arriane?”

  “Huh, she’s beet red,” Cameron mumbles not-so-discretely to Christian.

&nbs
p; Leon follows their gaze to me, and for a nanosecond a tinge of tenderness floats through frosty irises. His eyes land on my flushed chest, and I wish my neckline were higher. Or that Leon was the one facing them. Or that we hadn’t just…

  “She’s still sick,” Leon explains, causing me to blush harder. He has no idea, and I haven’t decided what to do.

  About him not knowing. About the sweetest curveball. About… any of this. It’s early. I have plenty of time to wrap my head around things. Come up with a plan.

  “No? Have you been puking for two weeks straight or something?” too-observant Cameron asks.

  Leon’s expression is inscrutable. Hands on his thighs, his eyes don’t stray from my face. “Arriane, I think you should stop eating leftovers. You’re not an old food kind of girl.”

  Lights are low, and the party is throbbing. Hat Day is another one of Arriane’s successes. She undulates subtly behind the bar, hips moving to the beat as she fills her glass with soda. Her nose wrinkles when Cam waves an e-cig in her face. Bubblegum-flavored I’m guessing, because she looks abnormally disgusted.

  Serene, levelheaded, beautiful Arriane. I overstepped my boundaries again today when she came to me. Open and trusting, she wanted to ease my funk. But I barreled in and “helped” her instead.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, missing Pandora, missing the bitches I fucked before her, every one of them so deserving of me, of what I had to offer. Perched on my post by the DJ booth, I survey boozed-up dudes in cowboy hats swirling tipsy girls with tiaras on the dance floor.

  A flaxen-haired girl sits alone at a tall table on the other side of the DJ booth. She’s pretty in that fragile, porcelain way I can work with. Shoulders faintly sloped, her intention is to disappear. She sniffs and whips her hair back in a way that’s not natural for her. She’s out of place. Trying hard to seem at ease. Sensing my attention, she peers up but ducks in over her beer when I keep checking her out.