41. The Great Banging

41

THE GREAT BANGING

Maeve

I don’t wait long to tell my friends. I can’t keep news like this from them. On Sunday morning when I’m alone and Asher is working out, I head to the terrace, savoring the view of the backyard. There, I fire off a text as I drink the chai latte he made me before he left.

Maeve: *taps mic* I have news.

Josie: *Sits up* *bats lashes*

Leighton: Don’t make us wait any longer.

Fable: I’ve already been waiting too long. Spill.

Everly: It really better be good.

Maeve: Oh it is. As in…we banged. We banged again. And again.

Leighton: I’m so shocked.

Everly: And they say text doesn’t have a tone, but I heard all the deadpan in that, Leighton.

Leighton: As you should.

Maeve: Hello! Did you forget about me? Does no one want to know how it was? ASK ME HOW IT WAS!

Josie: I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say TELL US NOW.

Maeve: Let’s just say I used to think vibrators were the gold standard. Safe to say my husband is.

Fable: Well, marriage-of-convenience has clearly been good to you. And I believe this calls for drinks and dish this week. I want to know everything.

Josie: Yes, like…WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

Maeve: I’m going to be living with him for the next few months, and my “palace” is now vacant.

Josie: I meant, what does it mean in an existential sense, not necessarily a practical one, but good to know you’re becoming a landlord.

Leighton: *raises hand* I need a place to stay. My roommates just started hooking up and they’re LOUD.

Josie: Oh god. I have secondhand embarrassment. Or is that firsthand since I hooked up with my roommate?

Leighton: You started a trend. And now I’m suffering from it!

Maeve: Consider it done. My place is yours.

As I finish the latte, Leighton and I message separately about my sub-lease, where I tell her she’ll become a sub of a sub of a sub, or something like that.

Leighton: Sounds fun. And like the perfect place for a photographer trying to eke out a living.

Maeve: You can take pictures of pigeons fornicating on the windowsill. That’ll really add to your boudoir portfolio. But they might be as loud as your roomies.

Leighton: Former roomies, you mean?

Maeve: Why yes I do.

Leighton: Also, that sounds more like sports photography :) Which works for me too.

And I feel good that I’m helping another artist. I’ve been lucky that I’ve had friends—like Asher—who’ve helped me. It’s nice to return the favor. But as I set the mug in the sink, I return to Josie’s question. What does this mean? I wish I knew. I don’t, though, so I get ready to paint. At least with my brushes, my sketches, and my imagination, I always have answers.

I don’t play nice with the dawn, so when it has the audacity to wake me up at an obscenely early hour on Monday morning with light—fucking morning light—filtering through the windows, I flip, grab a pillow, and cover my eyes, murmuring, “Must get blackout shades soon.”

Sighing, I settle back into the world’s comfiest bed, which I never want to leave, especially since I worked late last night on the mural. Then it hits me—it’s eerily quiet. I peer at Asher’s side of the bed.

It’s empty and neat. The duvet’s already covered up his side.

Hmm.

I swing my gaze to the clock. It’s barely six. Asher’s not a farmer. Or a banker. Why is he up now? He’s been up before me every morning we’ve spent together, except the one in Vegas, but we’d been out and engaging in bedroom activities till three then, so that hardly counts. Maybe he normally exercises at this inhuman hour? Still, worry tugs at my chest. I flip off the covers and pad quietly down the steps, along the hallway, and toward the dim light of the kitchen.

Just one set of lights is on, and it doesn’t sound like he’s cooking. I turn into the doorway.

Oh. He’s standing at the counter. His back’s to me. He’s on his laptop, a mug of coffee next to him, the strong aroma drifting past my nose.

“Hey,” I say quietly, my voice froggy with sleep, but my chest a little heavy with worry. Why is he on his computer at this early hour? It’s…odd.

He looks up, turns to me, his gaze soft. “Hey, you.”

“Are you already up?” I don’t really know his private habits yet .

“Yeah. I remembered something in the middle of the night about the thyroid meds my dad is on, and I wanted to check,” he says.

Right. He’s mentioned in the past that John has hypothyroidism. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he shows me the site he’s on. It’s a health news site and he’s reading an article about the long-term effects of a medication. I’m secretly relieved Asher’s not doing something else online, though I am concerned for his dad on his behalf.

“He’s been on that for a while, right?”

“I just remembered if you’re on it for a while though,” he explains, “it can potentially lead to osteoporosis, so I’ll send over some info on what to do about that. Things to do for good bone health and all.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful,” I say.

“I’m not sure they read them though. The articles I send. The studies and stuff. So it’s probably easier if I go pick up some new vitamins. Calcium and vitamin D.” He pauses, clearly thinking. “Nope. I’ll order online for delivery today.”

I furrow my brow. It sounds a little like he’s parenting his parents. But I don’t know what it’s like to have parents as an adult, so I say nothing on that front. Besides, isn’t this just what he does? He likes to look out for the people he cares about. He’s always one step ahead, with the right info and details, whether it’s a sprained ankle or that time I got the flu, and he paid attention to the symptoms so it wouldn’t turn into pneumonia. “All right. But don’t spend too much time on Amazon or you’ll wind up with a lava lamp and a red-light therapy mirror,” I add.

“I’ll be sure to avoid that rabbit hole,” he says with a smile .

On a yawn, I nod to the stairs. “Your comfy bed is calling my name, so I’m going to listen to it.”

“It’s your comfy bed too,” he says.

My chest flips a little from that word— your— then I glance at the clock in the kitchen. “You have a game tonight. You need to rest as well.”

He lifts his mug. “Coffee and me are tight.”

I shudder. “Coffee is gross.” I wave and turn around, heading back upstairs.

A minute later, as I’m settling into bed, the mattress sinks, and Asher’s right next to me, wrapping an arm around me, dropping a soft kiss to the back of my neck.

“Did you send them the articles?”

“Yeah, but I think I forgot to check on another side effect,” he says, his voice tight. “So I’ll have to do that.”

“You can do it later,” I say softly, hoping he lets go of this worry.

He sighs, then settles into bed.

I drift off, but I have a feeling he doesn’t. When I wake up for good a little later, he’s gone once again. My jaw tightens. I wish he’d sleep more. But maybe my husband is a vampire.

On Wednesday after I complete my work on the mural for the day, I slip off to the tiny studio to finish some lamps I need to bring to the next night market. The other artist I share space with isn’t here tonight, so it’s all mine. I make good progress, so I’m done sooner than expected. Asher said he’d pick me up after his evening workout (thank you, goddesses, for his commitment to his abs and glutes), which means I’ve got a free hour. I shift my focus to mirrors, playing around with one I’ve been working on for a while, picking up a fine paintbrush to add some red to the tiny outline of a woman's dress in the corner when a few strands of my hair fall out of my messy bun. I brush them away from my eyes and continue working.

As I gently, but precisely blend the red to the perfect shade, I lose track of time until sneakers slap on the concrete floor, then I catch the scent of soap. The temperature in me ticks up as I raise my face, meeting Asher’s gaze. One of the other artists must have let him in. The studio space is divided into multiple small rooms. He’s right next to me, and his green eyes glimmer with that mischievous look he gets sometimes. His lips curve up in the slightest grin.

“Hi,” I say, my own smile forming to match his. “Why are you smiling?”

He leans forward and brushes a finger across my cheek, swiping a daub of…red. He holds it up. “You have paint on your cheek.”

“Shocking,” I say.

His gaze drifts down. “Also…”

I follow his eyes. “Oh.”

That smile of his deepens when I lift a hand to swipe the red off my chest, right above the V-neck of my shirt, visible even though I’m wearing a smock. But he’s faster, catching my wrist before I can touch my skin. “I’ve got it,” he says, then slowly strokes his finger through the smudge like it’s the highlight of his day.

Well, right now it feels like the highlight of mine. So does watching him walk to the nearby industrial sink, wet the corner of a clean rag, then return to me, finishing up what he began with lingering, sensual caresses. “All gone now. ”

“But you liked the way it looked,” I say, teasingly.

“So much,” he says.

When we return home, he shows me exactly how much he liked it when he hikes me up on the kitchen counter and gives me the real highlight of my day. After we’re both panting and satisfied, I say, “Things I learned today—my best friend thinks I look good in paint.”

I climb down from the ladder on Thursday afternoon, wipe my hands on my paint-stained T-shirt, and take a few steps back to survey my work. I’ve only just begun the mural, but the corner looks good with the start of a stylized trolley car. I take it in, then let my gaze wander down the length of it. This thing is no joke. I finished sketching the chalk outlines onto the grid earlier this week. Now I’m finally painting it, which should take a month at least. Still faster than most other murals of this size, but that’s Eleanor for you. She operates at top speed all the time, and I suppose that’s good since Angelina has been working with California Style on sending a photographer in a couple weeks for the spread.

Such a strange thought. A cool one too. I wipe my hands on a dust rag, then gather up my supplies to set them aside for the night when a peppy voice echoes across the cavernous hallway, accompanied by the lope of paws.

“It looks so good!”

I turn to find Holmes and Eleanor striding my way, the woman’s Converse sneakers smacking against the floor. She cuts an interesting image in slacks, a blazer, and Chucks. But if the fashion world has taught us anything recently, it’s that heels can go fuck off. Holmes reaches me first, parking his fluffy little butt down and wagging his tail.

I bend to scratch his chin, and his tail thumps harder. “Hey, cutie,” I say.

“Thank you for not embarrassing me again in front of the talent,” Eleanor says to the dog, who’s not humping my leg but is looking at it like he dreams of doggy-style.

As for me, I love being called the talent . “He’s a very good boy,” I say.

“And that is a very good start to the mural,” she says, admiring the trolley I’ve been drawing. She parks her hands on her hips, checking out the grid that extends for more than forty feet. There’s a proud smile on her face. “Look at us—living the dream. Making art and talking trades,” she says.

That catches my attention. “Asher?” The word flies out before I can think twice about it.

She shakes her head. “No. Not him. I’ve no plans to trade him away,” she says, and immediately I wonder if he has a no-trade clause. I think so, but I should ask him. “But I have my eyes on some talent. We’ll see how things go. I asked my GM to make some calls today.”

Am I her new best friend or something? Why is she telling me about her wheeling and dealing? “That’s…cool.”

But then she waves her hand, her huge diamond ring sparkling as she sets it on Holmes’s little head. “But that’s all in a day’s work.”

Oh, okay. It’s no big deal she’s saying that. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m lucky Asher’s played here his whole career. Maybe that means he won’t ever be traded .

As I put my chalks away, footsteps click across the concrete.

“Hey, honey.”

His voice slides up my spine like warm fingertips gently tracing the lines of me. I turn to see my husband heading in our direction. With eyes only for me. With an intensity in his gaze. A purpose in his step.

When he reaches me, he loops an arm around my waist, then drops one of his signature possessive kisses to my lips. My head goes hazy even from the quick kiss.

But when he lets go, and I catch Eleanor watching us, looking thrilled, I want to whisper, Good job to Asher . Every day this week, he’s driven me here to the arena, he’s made sure to meet me at the end of work—except when I went to the studio—and he’s kissed me in public. He hasn’t forgotten the brunch lesson from that day at their house.

Maybe he hasn’t forgotten that Holmes has a crush on me, too, since he turns to the dog and says, “Sorry, bud. She’s all mine.”

Eleanor cracks up. “I guess you heard.”

“I did. But I get it. She’s pretty irresistible,” he says, tugging me closer.

Eleanor smiles at us approvingly, like all is right in the world.

And really, in this moment, it is. Even though I know this affection, though real, is also all for show. It’s for her benefit. But who am I to complain? I’m enjoying the benefits, too, of Asher’s performance.

After I pack up, Asher walks me to his car in the players’ lot. “Pole class now? With the troublemakers?”

I pat my pink duffel bag I’m carrying. It has my clothes but also a gift for Asher. Something I’ve been holding onto for a few days. I’ve been looking for the right moment to give it to him. “I’m ready for it.”

He looks me over with hungry eyes as we reach the car. “You should show me sometime.”

“My pole moves?” I ask.

“Yes.”

My mind is racing ahead to what he might like. I think I know, so I smile as I slide into the car. “Consider it done.”

On the way to class, he cruises through early evening traffic, slowing at a light. His expression is a little serious and a little hopeful when he says, “Would you want to come to the game next Sunday with my dads?”

My heart warms, heating my whole chest it seems. I’ve always loved watching him play. “Of course.”

As we wait at the red light, he gives a small smile. “Good. I want you there again. Been thinking about it since the other week when you and Vivian came. I like you there as my wife,” he says with confidence but a trace of vulnerability too.

That warmth spreads, heating me up from the possession in his tone. “Then I’ll be there as your wife. I mean, that’ll look good, right?”

The light changes and he hits the gas. “Yes, but that’s not why I want you there. It’s not for show.”

“It’s because I’m your good luck charm,” I add lightly.

He shakes his head. “I thought we cleared that up. You’re an instigator, you’re an agent, you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

“Clearly that’s all true. But I also like the idea that I can bring you luck.”

A small laugh seems to escape his lips, but he says nothing, just shakes his head slightly, like he can’t quite win on this count. I’m not sure what to make of the moment, but there’s no time to dissect meanings since he pulls up to Upside Down a minute later. “I bet you’ll be hungry when you’re done. I’ll handle dinner for us,” he says.

“Damn. I love it when you order food,” I say with a low whistle, touching his chest because I can. “I like these marital benefits too.”

“Good. I want you to.” He grabs my hand, making my stomach flip. He drops a quick, hot kiss to my lips and nods to the studio door. “Go do your thing, Maeve…Callahan.”

A tingle slides down my spine from the way he says his last name. But before I exit the car, I stop, my fingers curled around the door handle. “Do you have a no-trade clause?”

He smiles. “I do.” He pauses, his lips curving up, almost like he’s amused. “I’ve told you that before though.”

Hmm. He probably has. I’m sure it came up at some point—when bowling, while exploring the weird new offerings at the local farmers market, while playing party games at Josie and Wesley’s some night. Yet this time feels different. Because I’m asking for me.