What happens when the star baseball player hits a home run into the art studio window?
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All Sadie Lane Garner needed to make herself happy was a canvas and paintbrush.
With copious projects due and little studio time, she volunteers to clean t...
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tw: mention of systemic racial profiling, the scene is not violent or graphic.
THE WIND WAS cool on my legs, yet the abundant liquor sloshing in my veins kept the rest of me warm. Rocking on my heels, I watched people filter in and out of the bar. The music beckoned me to come back inside because my conscience knew whatever I was about to do was a bad idea.
I should not have asked Elijah to come and get me.
Though I could ask him to take me to my apartment. Otherwise, I don't know where we would go.
A black car I'd come to recognize pulled up beside me and put their four-way-flashers on. My feet froze when the driver rolled down the window and I saw Elijah smiling. "Need a ride?"
I grew still as he got out of his car and walked toward me. My eyes raked over his tight black curls to his grey long-sleeved shirt and jeans, landing square on his face. He stopped a couple of feet away as people ambled between us. Sweet Lord, what am I doing?
"Thanks for coming to get me."
His eyes didn't leave mine. "Anytime."
I looked around me, clutching my pocketbook. I was drunk. Extremely drunk, and the only thing keeping me sane was my nerves.
"You good?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm great," I chuckled. I was, in fact, not great.
"Ready to go then?"
I wobbled when I stepped forward and Elijah's reached out to steady me. "Woah, do you need my help or can you walk?"
I stood straight, putting my hands out. "I can walk."
"Mhm, okay," he said cheekily. "Tell me if you need my help."
He followed close behind to the passenger side and reached for the handle before I had the chance to. Our eyes locked, and it looked as though he was going to say something, but he clamped his mouth shut.
Okay, then.
I slid into the warm car. His scent encompassed me—sweet and clean—and Frank played. I smiled.
"Where am I taking you?" he asked, running his hands down his thighs.
Home.
"It doesn't matter."
He tilted his head. "That's not an answer. Your place or my place?"
I hesitated. "Your place is fine. I don't want to go home yet."
"Okay," was all he said. He put the car in drive and we left town.
We drove past campus, past my apartment complex, and into the familiar neighborhood where the white paneled house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac. I didn't know what Elijah and I were going to do here. This was the first time we've been together outside of the studio by choice.
