Page 54 of Laurels and Liquor

And then, as suddenly as it started, the vibrations stop. I’m still reeling from the sudden loss of stimulation when my phone goes off in my bag. I dig for a moment before pulling it out and finding a new message.

Rhett: I hope you enjoyed your morning with Lucas, little one. Our game has officially started. So behave yourself today, and enjoy yourself as much as you can. I’ll be by my phone all day, so if you need to ask me anything, don’t hesitate to send me a text. I love you.

Chapter twenty-five

Lydia

Afterthefirstshowof force, I’d expected Rhett to toy with me all day. But instead, I’m left with only the strange sensation of the toy shifting around inside of me as I tour the first two apartments Gabby had lined up for us. The anticipation of not knowing when the next burst will come drives me nearly to insanity, and I can’t help myself.

Me: Is the game over, sir?

Simple, not overly needy. Because I still want to play, but I can’t stand the suspense. Thankfully, Rhett doesn’t keep me waiting.

Rhett: You’re out with people who haven’t consented to playing.

Rhett: But do let me know when Mateo has picked you up, yeah?

I huff a sigh, but relax despite myself after sending back a brief ‘yes, sir.’ Rhett’s views on consent continue to surprise me, though they really shouldn’t at this point. I’m still a little annoyed that he chose not to inform me of this decision, and left me an anxious mess for the better part of the morning. Knowing that I have some time before he starts up again in earnest, I rejoin the conversation happening in the front of the vehicle.

“That last one would have been perfect,” Gabby moans.

“It’s too far from the major traffic routes. And did you see the state of the bathrooms? I’m sorry, but salmon sinks and toilets died in the 70s for a reason,” Wila sniffs.

“It’s retro!” her granddaughter protests, but Wila doesn’t deign to respond.

Luckily, we pull up to the last place for the day before the fight can continue. Gabby parks on the street outside of a four-story building, the two display windows that frame the store entrance covered in white plastic, and a “For Lease” sign hanging in the left one. There’s a door to the right of the opposite window, with a matching “For Rent” sign tacked to it.

“The leasing company is willing to cut us a deal if we want the retail space and the apartment,” Gabby comments, taking the lead toward the entrance.

She enters a code into the lockbox hanging from the handle, extracting several keys from within before unlocking the door. Wila gives me a look, and I suddenly realize where Gabby inherited her Sigh of the Long Suffering. I smother a giggle under a cough and follow Wila inside.

This retail space is bigger than I’d anticipated, completely empty of any displays or refrigerator units. Looking around, the walls are still bare of paint, the floor covered in plastic drop cloths. The only thing breaking up the area is a long countertop in the back that spans almost the entire width of the room, centered with enough space on either side for the tellers to come around from behind it without having to vault over it. The wall behind the counter has built-in shelving, and a door, which I presume leads to the stockroom and workspace.

Gabby has been rattling off numbers, but it’s all Greek to me. Wila, though, looks distinctly impressed. As she takes everything in, there’s a brightness to her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time, not since before the fire.

“And the best part: even though we’re on State Street, we’re out of the B.O.A. territory,” Gabby finishes with a smug flourish.

I contain my laughter to a snort, but Wila perks up. The Business Owner’s Association has been a thorn in her side for as long as I’ve known her. The endless string of meetings and phone calls is bad enough, but she’s been obligated to follow their rules about what she can display in her windows, even when it doesn’t truly reflect the types of products and services she offers. Because, yes, while the shop did do a fair number of walk-in arrangements, the vast majority of the business comes from special events like weddings, funerals, and parties. It didn’t benefit us to display Easter baskets and leprechauns during peak wedding season, but the B.O.A.’s rule was gospel.

I look around again, spinning in a slow circle as I try to imagine what this place would look like when it’s complete. But even as I do, something nags at my heart, a hollow feeling like I’d imagine a kid with diabetes might get on Halloween. I could dream all I liked, but now that I’m part of Pack St. Clair, this store isn’t my future.

“Let’s go look upstairs. I think you’re going to love this,” Gabby says, bouncing excitedly on her toes.

“Y’all go on ahead. I want to take a better look around, do some measuring,” Wila says distractedly, already walking off toward the backroom.

Gabby hardly waits for the words to come out of her mouth before she’s taking my hand and dragging me out of the front door, through the side door, and up a narrow but well-maintained staircase.

“Is it too soon to be grateful we don’t have furniture to move? Because could you fucking imagine trying to get a couch up these?” Gabby laughs as we stop on the landing.

I chuckle nervously, not giving more of a response than that. She uses one of the other keys to unlock the door and it swings open on smooth hinges. Stepping inside, I suck in a sharp breath. The place is already furnished, but the atmosphere is so comfortable. Like the rest of the building, everything feels brand new, but with an air of inexplicable coziness.

“Yeah, I know. It feels like the one, doesn’t it?” Gabby sighs, stepping around me to flop down onto the overstuffed couch.

I nod and join her, sitting more carefully to avoid any awkward jostling. We’re quiet for a long time, but neither of us moves to explore the place any further. She lets out a deep, relaxed breath, leaning over to rest her head on my shoulder, and I immediately tip my head so my cheek sits on the top of her intricately braided head. Her scent of caramel candy apples is touched with cinnamon, and I let myself sink into it.

“Gran’s trying to put it off for as long as she can, but she’s only delaying the inevitable,” Gabby whispers in the quiet.

My stomach drops, and I tense, waiting for her to go on. The relaxed bubble around us seems to close in, slipping away with each passing second.

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