“Roman?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t move either. Was he all right? She stepped over the threshold, the urge to remove his shoes and cover him with a blanket almost overwhelming.
Caretaking inclinations had gotten her into a world of trouble and pain once before. She wasn’t going down that road again. “Roman?” She spoke louder this time. He made a sound and moved just enough to reassure her.
She retreated to the office, wrote a note, and left it on the kitchen counter, along with the receipt and change. She closed the front door quietly behind her.
Roman awakened sweating, heart pounding. He lay still, fighting the sense of foreboding that hung in the darkness pressing in on him. He felt seven years old again, his mother gone for the night. Dark shadows moved on the wall, and he turned on the lights quickly. Nothing there. No reason for panic. Gradually his pulse slowed, and the fear dissipated. Get a grip. You’re not a kid anymore.
How long had he been asleep? It had been daylight when Grace suggested he lie down for a while. He didn’t even remember what happened after walking into his bedroom. The digital clock glowed 1:36. Hours had passed in what seemed like a minute. Lost time. Wasted time. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he waited for the odd confusion to pass. Flipping switches for more light, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found a note, grocery receipt, and exact change.
Rotisserie chicken and salad in the fridge. See you at 9 a.m. Grace
He might be the artist, but she had better penmanship. Attractive, subtle, classy, with a hint of something he couldn’t define. Just like her. She was comfortable in her own skin. Unlike some of us, who’ve never been comfortable, no matter what role we play.
Roman ate half the chicken and all the salad. He needed to work, but he wasn’t in the mood for drawing the herd of zebra migrating the African plains. Stretching out on the black leather sofa in the living room, he looked out the windows. Grace was right. He hadn’t spent much time admiring the view, now obscured by inky darkness. It must be overcast. The night felt heavy, like tar, moist and cold, threatening. He fought his mood while trying to identify it. A growing emptiness? Hunger? For what?
Grace Moore would be moving into his cottage this weekend. He was already having second thoughts. He didn’t want to become too close, and having her right next door might be a temptation. Too late to worry about that now. It was a done deal, unless she changed her mind. She hadn’t been wild about the idea in the first place, but her gaggle of friends had helped his cause. Now she saw it as an answer to prayer.
She’d better not start talking religion to him. Though he had to admit that unlike other religious quacks he’d run into, she’d mentioned faith in a natural way.
Why did people believe in a god they couldn’t see? The only time he ever heard Jesus’ name was in a curse. It went with the territory he’d inhabited until age fourteen. Masterson Ranch didn’t push religion. Chet and Susan had rules, but they hadn’t posted the Ten Commandments on some wall. Jasper told Bobby Ray the way a man used language made a difference in where he could end up. Gutter talk kept one in the gutter. Roman learned how to blend in, even knowing he’d never belong. He could play whatever role was necessary to get ahead. It had only been lately he’d begun to wonder if it was worth the effort. Roman Velasco’s mask kept slipping.
What would Grace Moore think of him if she knew where he’d come from and how he’d survived? A ghetto kid with no father and a whore for a mother. A kid who ran drugs until he talked the head honcho into making him the gang tagger. What would she think of the Bird, who mocked the world that celebrated Roman Velasco but wanted no part of Bobby Ray Dean?
What did Grace do on the weekends? Did she have a steady boyfriend, some nice-looking, button-down guy with a nine-to-five office job? Someone who’d take her to church every Sunday?
And why was he thinking about her so much?
Roman muttered a curse under his breath and sat up. He’d hired her because she wasn’t his type. He now had a dependable, trustworthy, nice-looking girl working for him. A good girl. All his experience was with the other kind.
He couldn’t imagine Grace in a nightclub, let alone looking for a hookup on Friday or Saturday. She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d have hot sex with a stranger, call Uber for a ride home at two in the morning, and make it to work the next day.
He’d wasted enough time sleeping. He didn’t need to waste any more obsessing about his personal assistant, who had already made it abundantly clear that they weren’t going to get personal. He should be happy about that.