It’s my job.
“Well, we broke ground on the Spokani Eden project last week and it’s on schedule, but then it’s only been a week.” He shrugs. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle.
“I’m hoping to install that new gray-water system I was telling you about. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent.”
“Impressive.”
“I hope so.”
We drive in silence into downtown Portland and just as we’re pulling into the underground garage at The Heathman—the last place I saw her—Elliot mutters, “You know we’re missing the Mariners game this evening.”
“Maybe you can have a night in front of the TV. Give your dick a rest and watch baseball.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
KEEPING UP WITH ELLIOT is a challenge. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. Elliot knows no fear—it’s why I admire him. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate our surroundings. I’m vaguely aware of the lush greenery flashing past me, but my eyes are on the trail, trying to avoid the potholes.
By the end of the ride we’re both filthy and exhausted.
“That was the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on in a while,” Elliot says as we hand the bikes over to the bellboy at The Heathman.
“Yeah,” I mutter, and then recall holding Anastasia when Isaved her from the cyclist. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my senses.
I had my clothes on then…“Yeah,” I murmur again.
We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.
I have e-mails, a couple of texts from Elena asking what I’m doing this weekend, but no missed calls from Anastasia. It’s just before 7:00—she must have received the books by now. The thought depresses me: I’ve come all the way to Portland on a wild-goose chase again.
“Man, that chick has called me five times and sent me four texts. Doesn’t she know how desperate she comes across?” Elliot whines.
“Maybe she’s pregnant.”
Elliot pales and I laugh.
“Not funny, hotshot,” he grumbles. “Besides, I haven’t known her that long. Or that often.”
AFTER A QUICK SHOWER I join Elliot in his suite and we sit down to watch the rest of the Mariners game against the San Diego Padres. We order up steak, salad, fries, and a couple of beers, and I sit back to enjoy the game in Elliot’s easy company. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Anastasia’s not going to call. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout.
Disappointingly it isn’t, though the Mariners win 4–1.
Go Mariners! Elliot and I clink beer bottles.
As the postgame analysis drones on, my phone buzzes and Miss Steele’s number flashes on the screen.
It’s her.
“Anastasia?” I don’t hide my surprise or my pleasure. The background is noisy and it sounds like she’s at a party or in a bar. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot.
“Why did you send me the books?” She’s slurring her words, and a wave of apprehension ripples down my spine.
“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.”
“I’m not the strange one, you are.” Her tone is accusatory.
“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”
Hell. Who is she with? The photographer? Where’s her friend Kate?
“What’s it to you?” She sounds surly and belligerent, and I know she’s drunk, but I also need to know that she’s okay.
“I’m…curious. Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“Which bar?” Tell me. Anxiety blooms in my gut. She’s a young woman, drunk, somewhere in Portland. She’s not safe.
“A bar in Portland.”
“How are you getting home?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in the
“Well, we broke ground on the Spokani Eden project last week and it’s on schedule, but then it’s only been a week.” He shrugs. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle.
“I’m hoping to install that new gray-water system I was telling you about. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent.”
“Impressive.”
“I hope so.”
We drive in silence into downtown Portland and just as we’re pulling into the underground garage at The Heathman—the last place I saw her—Elliot mutters, “You know we’re missing the Mariners game this evening.”
“Maybe you can have a night in front of the TV. Give your dick a rest and watch baseball.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
KEEPING UP WITH ELLIOT is a challenge. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. Elliot knows no fear—it’s why I admire him. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate our surroundings. I’m vaguely aware of the lush greenery flashing past me, but my eyes are on the trail, trying to avoid the potholes.
By the end of the ride we’re both filthy and exhausted.
“That was the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on in a while,” Elliot says as we hand the bikes over to the bellboy at The Heathman.
“Yeah,” I mutter, and then recall holding Anastasia when Isaved her from the cyclist. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my senses.
I had my clothes on then…“Yeah,” I murmur again.
We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.
I have e-mails, a couple of texts from Elena asking what I’m doing this weekend, but no missed calls from Anastasia. It’s just before 7:00—she must have received the books by now. The thought depresses me: I’ve come all the way to Portland on a wild-goose chase again.
“Man, that chick has called me five times and sent me four texts. Doesn’t she know how desperate she comes across?” Elliot whines.
“Maybe she’s pregnant.”
Elliot pales and I laugh.
“Not funny, hotshot,” he grumbles. “Besides, I haven’t known her that long. Or that often.”
AFTER A QUICK SHOWER I join Elliot in his suite and we sit down to watch the rest of the Mariners game against the San Diego Padres. We order up steak, salad, fries, and a couple of beers, and I sit back to enjoy the game in Elliot’s easy company. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Anastasia’s not going to call. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout.
Disappointingly it isn’t, though the Mariners win 4–1.
Go Mariners! Elliot and I clink beer bottles.
As the postgame analysis drones on, my phone buzzes and Miss Steele’s number flashes on the screen.
It’s her.
“Anastasia?” I don’t hide my surprise or my pleasure. The background is noisy and it sounds like she’s at a party or in a bar. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot.
“Why did you send me the books?” She’s slurring her words, and a wave of apprehension ripples down my spine.
“Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange.”
“I’m not the strange one, you are.” Her tone is accusatory.
“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”
Hell. Who is she with? The photographer? Where’s her friend Kate?
“What’s it to you?” She sounds surly and belligerent, and I know she’s drunk, but I also need to know that she’s okay.
“I’m…curious. Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“Which bar?” Tell me. Anxiety blooms in my gut. She’s a young woman, drunk, somewhere in Portland. She’s not safe.
“A bar in Portland.”
“How are you getting home?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in the
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