With Fragile Facade coming out soon, today's Throwback is from Courting Chaos! Hopefully this will give those of you who have had the chance to check out the serials a little refresher. For those of you who have not, read on and see how the mystery is unfolding!!!
Book: Courting Chaos, Blind Barriers Vol. #2
Release Date: January 17, 2014
Lark
For the bargain price of thirty-nine dollars roundtrip, MegaBus will take you from New York City’s Chinatown to Washington, D.C.’s Chinatown. You can’t beat that, right? WRONG. I’d made the mistake of being economical once, and never again. Not only was the bus overcrowded, hot, and deafeningly loud, with the pungent odor of egg rolls, the luggage compartment underneath had been filled with TVs, stereos, and other expensive electronics. I’d watched them load it all up while waiting to board. It was a pretty safe bet they’d fallen off the back of a truck somewhere, so the whole ride I just kept picturing the police pulling the bus over and busting the lot of us. I could picture the headline: Lark Kingsley, Arrested for Transporting Stolen Goods Across State Lines. My mother would die of shame – literally.
I rubbed my fingers down the velvety cloth of the seat I was currently sitting in, shuddering slightly as I thought of the sticky plastic material that had covered the bus’s seats. The smooth ride, the comfortable temperature, the lack of abusive odors, these seemingly small luxuries of the train made it a hugely favorable alternative to bumping along Interstate 95 down to the Nation’s Capital. Sure, it was four times the price. But it was worth every extra penny.
Without warning, the masculine hand atop the armrest next to me covered the small distance and wrapped warm fingers around mine. Another shiver went through me – this one of pure pleasure. Every single touch just felt so right. I hadn’t even known that was truly possible. Romance novels claimed the busty beautiful heroine melted every time her brooding lover turned his smoldering dark gaze on her; I’d chalked up the fantasy to good fiction – until Blake. His touch did make my insides gooey as liquid chocolate. And I did feel the desire burning in his gorgeous gaze when it met mine. Blake looked at me as if I was the most beautiful girl in the world. What really made my knees go weak, though, was the love he felt secure enough to put on display. No one had ever loved me the way Blake did. And the feelings were mutual. I loved him so much that my heart almost ached sometimes from the overload of emotion.
I turned from the window and my ruminations to where Blake sat next to me. I grinned like an idiot before snuggling my head down into the crook of his shoulder. If I could just have this, this peace, this calm, this lack of pretense forever, I’d die a happy woman.
He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering against my hair a moment before he spoke. “I need to use the little boys’ room; we’re going to be there in just a few minutes.”
I sat up and smiled again, brushing my lips across his soft mouth in reply. He stood and began making his way down the aisle, moving steadily and confidently despite the movement of the train. As soon as he was out of sight, I reached down into the bag at my feet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was silly, and kind of cheesy, but I loved hiding notes for him to find later. This one went into the side pocket of his messenger bag, tucked within the Welcome folder from Georgetown. I pictured him finding it when he took out the folder to check his itinerary, or consult the campus map, and couldn’t help but giggle. Blake always called or sent a text as soon as he found one of my short messages to him.
Lately, I’d been on a themed kick, entitling the first of the series “10 Things I Love About You (Because There’s Nothing I Hate).” It was a little before my time, but I loved the Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger film, and knew Blake would appreciate the homage. The one I’d just hidden was Number Four: How you make me feel like anything is possible, as long as we’re together.
Of course, if our parents had their respective ways, in just under a year we wouldn’t be in the same city. It’s not that they were trying to keep us apart or anything – they would have to know we were together first – they just had their own agendas for our futures. With my parents’ plans for me including Columbia and Blake’s father expecting him to attend his alma mater, Georgetown, we were dealing with a slight hurdle. I didn’t let this get me down though, I had no doubts that we would figure it out. Our entire relationship was tricky and required delicate maneuvering. School next year was just par for the course, another obstacle for us to overcome together.
“You are so cute when you’re deep in thought. You scrunch up your nose,” Blake declared as he slid back into his seat. He kissed the tip of my nose, before moving down to my lips. We were the only two in an alcove meant for six, so when he hesitantly deepened the kiss, I went with it. He sighed and tangled his fingers in my hair, his other hand slipping around my waist to draw me as close as the arm rests would allow.
Before our make out session had even reached a PG-13 rating, chimes dinged overhead, and an automated voice announced, “Now approaching our final destination: Union Station, Washington, D.C.”
“Thwarted by the bell again,” Blake declared as we broke apart.
We both laughed. Because our secret relationship was, well, secret, our more intimate encounters were constantly interrupted. It happened so often that it was genuinely comical.
Blake’s hand was now cupping my cheek. His eyes searched mine as his thumb moved gently against my skin. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he leaned towards me again. This time when his lips found mine, the kiss was softer but just as heart-stopping as the first. Only the abrupt stopping of the train ended our hold on each other. Blake brought our joined hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle, making the chaste gesture incredible intimate. Using the other hand, he scooped up both of our overnight bags, and we disembarked just like that. His hold never faltered for a second. Sure, holding hands was something even ten-year-olds did during their playground romances. Unfortunately, we, teenagers on the precipice of adulthood, didn’t have the luxury of PDA of any sort at home. We never knew who might be watching, or walking by. The anonymity of being in an entirely different city as our friends and families was glorious.
Without stopping to consult any of the signs, Blake led me through the station, into a cavernous space where passengers were in varied states of hurry, and out into the sunshine. Ever the gentleman, Blake walked on the side nearest the street, passing a line of people waiting for taxis. A line of black Towncars sat idling several yards ahead. He paused briefly to peruse the men standing next to their vehicles. Each dark sedan was identical to the next, making it impossible to tell them apart, which was why the drivers all held signs bearing their passenger’s name in neat bold-faced type. Spotting Greyfield, Blake led me to the car his father had insisted on hiring for the weekend. The tall, thin driver wore black slacks and a white shirt, instead of the more formal suit and tie of his counterparts; he spotted us immediately.
“Good morning, folks. Blake?” His questioning gaze was friendly.
“Yes, sir. How are you doing today? Blake Greyfield.” Blake set our bags down and held out his free hand. The driver looked slightly taken aback by the gesture, but readily accepted the proffered handshake. “And this is Lark.”
I greeted the driver with a smile and a small wave to put him at ease since he looked slightly confused by my presence. This seemed to relax him, and he didn’t ask any questions.
“Nice to meet you both. I’m Calvin Goode, but my friends call me Cal. You’re welcome to do the same if you like. May I put your bags in the trunk?” he asked, already reaching for the overnight cases.
“That’d be great, Cal. Thank you,” Blake answered.
While Cal was doing that, Blake opened the rear passenger door for me. I got in and immediately slid to the far side, so he wouldn’t have to walk through the honking traffic in front of the train station. When we were both inside and settled, Blake was sitting in the middle of the seat, so our legs were touching.
“So, where are we headed?” Cal asked once he was behind the wheel.
“First, we’re going to take the beautiful Lark to the W Hotel, and then I’ll need to head over to Georgetown,” Blake replied.
“Your wish is my command, at least for the next two days.”
Traffic was light for a Saturday morning, especially compared to Manhattan. As we drove, I realized how different the two cities were. Here, trees lined many of the streets, and the buildings were short, completely unlike the mammoth skyscrapers of New York that obscured the sun and cast dark shadows over the bustling metropolis. Compared to our island of tightly packed steel and granite, the District felt as if it was wide open. You could actually breathe here. I’d been to D.C. on an eighth grade field trip, but hadn’t appreciated these small pleasures then. Maybe it was being with Blake. The world appeared different when we were together, as if he was my own personal pair of rose-colored glasses. Snuggling into Blake, I sighed in contentment and watched the buildings with their beautiful architecture passing by outside the window. I would’ve been happy driving around all day, tucked against his side. A few times I looked up and caught Cal smiling at us in the rear view mirror. There was no way to tell for sure, but I had a feeling he’d keep my presence here with Blake between the three of us.
Much too soon, we arrived at the W. Blake checked his watch as Cal unloaded our bags from the trunk and handed them over to a waiting porter. He was eyeing the nearby intersection, where the road we’d driven over on dead-ended into another one with only an occasional car driving by. Blake looked uneasy, glancing nervously at the light traffic.
“Don’t bother getting a cab, sweetie. Take the car. I don’t want you to be late for your lunch,” I told him, anticipating that Blake was about to insist Cal remain at my beck and call.
“No, no, you keep it in case you want to go somewhere.” Exactly as I thought, he never failed to be the perfect gentleman.
“Seriously, love, take it. I’m not planning on going anywhere in particular, I’ll probably just wander around for a bit, no biggie. The best way to sightsee is on foot, anyway. I honestly prefer it that way,” I said with a smile. I kissed him lightly before stepping away. “I know you have to get going. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“Sir, we’ll be more than happy to order the lady a car or hail her a cab if she needs one,” the waiting porter offered.
“See? They’ve got me covered,” I said.
This seemed to mollify Blake, who stepped forward and kissed me again, reaching down to squeeze my hand as he did.
“I have my cell if you need anything. Anything at all. And I’m sure Cal has a card if you need him.” As if on cue, Cal stepped forward and produced two cards with his name, cell number, and the main line for the car service. He offered one to me and one to the porter.
“Have fun, sweetie,” I told Blake, squeezing his hand back before shooing him towards the door Cal was holding open.
Blake ducked his head to get in the car, and rolled down the window once inside. “See you tonight?”
I blew him a kiss in response.
The porter – his name tag read Mark, and I made a mental note to remember it – held the door open for me when I turned away from the departing car. I’m sure he thought we were more than a little dramatic; two kids in love who couldn’t stand to be apart. He smiled politely as I passed, but the jaded look in his eye told me what he really thought: It will never last. Poor Mark.
Entering the lobby, I paused to admire the glass-top bar immediately to my right. Despite the fact we were both only eighteen, I had no doubt the bartenders would serve us tonight should we decide to hang out down here. As unfair as it was, the Kingsleys, Vanderkams and Greyfields of the world were treated differently. Even here, in a city where my family’s every move wasn’t documented on Page Six, people would still recognize my last name. Maybe they’d begrudge me the fact that I’d been born into the “right” family, but that wouldn’t stop them from falling all over themselves to cater to my every whim. I didn’t kid myself, I knew the only reason people were extra nice to me was the hope I’d slip them large bills for their trouble. Whether or not you believe money makes the world go round, it certainly does grease the wheels, and a lot of outstretched palms. And for many, the name Kingsley was interchangeable with money. It wasn’t exactly the greatest thing ever.
Shaking my head, I dismissed the sad thoughts and focused on the fact I had a whole weekend away from most of that. Looking up, I noticed a large chandelier made of twisted blown glass, the colors bouncing off the flawless white marble floor below, hung from the vaulted ceiling. Maybe it was totally dorky, but I whipped out my cell and took a picture with my camera phone. I loved art, and recognized a Chihuly when I saw one. It was a masterpiece, juxtaposing the fragility of glass with the strength of bold reds, yellows, blues, and greens.
I quickly checked in at the reception desk. The attendant smiled a little too brightly when I gave my name. I took the keycards, and discreetly passed the bellhop a folded bill as I asked him to take the bags to the room. Then, retracing my steps, I emerged once more into the sunny day.
“I’ve changed my mind, I’ll need that cab after all,” I told Mark. His eyebrows raised, and he looked quite smug, as if he’d caught me in a lie.
“Where are you headed, Miss?” he asked surreptitiously. It was a common practice for a man in his position to tell a hailed cabdriver where to take the passenger, but I knew curiosity was the real reason he’d asked.
I’d have to be careful around Mark, I decided. He was too interested.
Three hours later, I was feeling frustrated and disheartened. Walking out of yet another posh lobby, I decided to walk for a bit instead of hailing yet another cab, my fifth in three hours. I strolled for a while with no concern for direction, and turned at random when I came to crossings. Row homes lined the majority of the side streets, but I was looking for something more modern. I stuck to the heavily trafficked roads, knowing that the urban feel was more my style. From the signs, I gathered that George Washington University was about half a mile ahead. There was a small park, and I stopped to look around. I couldn’t get over all the green space here, or how many people were gathered in these areas, reading books, playing chess, running around with their dogs. On the corner across from the park was a small café with tables outside, and my grumbling stomach led me there.
Following the sign’s instruction to seat myself, I settled in at a table next to two young guys holding hands and laughing at some untold joke. They seemed so relaxed, so unaware of who was around and paying attention. It was incredibly refreshing. In New York everyone – gay, straight, or otherwise – focused on appearance. Teenagers, or at least those who weren’t in a clandestine relationship, might demonstrate PDA, but not the adults. That was taboo among our sort, as my mother always reminded me. It drove me nuts when she said things like that. Our sort? Exactly who was our sort? It was as if she thought we were members of the royal family observing protocol, and showing affection in public was much too common for our kind. As I sat there, wishing that Blake and I could switch lives with the two of them, the young couple caught me staring longingly at them. I smiled, feeling my face flame with embarrassment, and then quickly began to rummage around in my purse. Normally, I would never carry such a large and heavy bag with me when wandering around, but today’s errands made it necessary.
The waitress came over and handed me a menu. “Can I get you something to drink while you look?” she asked.
“Um, I’ll just take iced tea and,” I quickly glanced down at the menu, “a turkey club.”
“Coming right up.”
I felt almost naughty ordering a sandwich, which I knew was laughable. At home everyone appraised what everyone else ordered when we were at restaurants, so salads were all anybody ever got. It was like shame dieting. Heaven forbid you ordered something with more than four hundred calories or with a single carb. Some girls even quietly competed to see who could order less, their victories a triumph unbeknownst to the opponents. Last week, when the rest of us ordered spinach salads with strawberries, almonds and balsamic vinegar, Lydia Gromsley had ordered last, requesting only iceberg lettuce with plain mustard. She’d worn a victorious grin for most of the meal. Inwardly, I’d worn my own smug smile because at least my salad tasted good, even if it hadn’t filled me up. Luckily she wasn’t part of the Eight, so Lydia didn’t eat with us frequently.
When my ordinarily shameful lunch was delivered, I took a large bite, delighting in the crispy bacon, crunchy lettuce, fresh tomatoes, and toasted sourdough bread. When a little bit of mayonnaise dripped onto my plate – I hadn’t even told them to hold the mayo! – I scooped it up with a French fry, as they do in Amsterdam. This was the first time I’d taken a trip without any of the Eight, without my parents, without anyone to judge me. It was the most freeing feeling that I could imagine. I watched a miniature poodle bouncing around on its hind legs, trying to grab a bone held above its head and laughed. If that wasn’t a metaphor for my life…
I watched the various people in the park while I finished my sandwich, thinking about how different life must be for those people. The people here were well dressed, yes, but it was more laid-back East Coast casual than Fashion Week at Bryant Park. I saw more Vineyard Vines than Prada, more J Crew than Chanel, more sandals and boat shoes than stilettos and boots. I knew it was the weekend, and most of the older crowd would suit up come Monday, but the weekends here were a time to kick back and relax. I really liked that.
With that thought, I pushed my plate away and pulled the folded newspaper from my purse. It was easy to get a copy of The Washington Post from any newsstand on the Upper East Side, and I’d done some recon before coming here with Blake this weekend. Now I turned to where I’d circled several apartment listings, crossing out the ones I’d already visited. My frustration returned, thinking of the places I’d seen and discarded. There were only two left circled. Looking back over to the park, to where the poodle was now playing with a miniature Schnauzer and a toy Pomeranian, I crossed out those as well. Neither was pet-friendly, and I suddenly loved the idea of maybe getting a dog. It would be nice to have a companion. I’d never had a pet before, unless you counted the single beta fish that my mother had given me when I’d begged for a puppy as a child. I knew it was a huge responsibility, that I alone would have to feed him, walk him, and care for him, but I at least wanted the option.
Looking around the area, I decided to just wander for a bit, burn off some of the superfluous calories from my lunch. Just as I was getting up, the young couple near me stood as well. One of the guys, the one with scruff on his face, glanced over at me. He wore a red and blue striped Rugby shirt with khaki shorts and Sperry loafers and looked every bit the part of New England preppy. His partner, who was clean shaven and sporting quite a bit of hair product, was checking the table for anything left behind.
“Looking for an apartment?” Rugby shirt asked, glancing pointedly at the paper in my hand. His boyfriend looked over in surprise, having not noticed me before. In his pink polo, he was definitely more effeminate than his rugged counterpart.
“Yeah, I’m kind of striking out though. I don’t know anything about the area, so it’s difficult to gauge the apartments from the paper until I get there.” I didn’t want to offend these guys and their city, so I chose not to remark on the areas that gentrification hadn’t reached yet. I’d vetoed one apartment from inside the cab, as soon as we’d turned on to the street.
“You poor thing. Some of the neighborhoods are ghe-tto,” he responded, emphasizing the syllables.
“Yeah, you don’t belong anywhere besides Northwest, and not north of Columbia Heights,” pink polo chimed in, unabashedly appraising me. “Let me guess, you’re from Manhattan?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said with a smile. “What gave it away?” I’d chosen Tory Burch flats – not the ones I’d apparently worn last weekend, but the same style in nude – white jeans and a flowy top with the designer’s trademark zigzags in coral, navy and white. I’d figured it would fit in anywhere on a Saturday afternoon.
“It’s not your outfit sweetie, though I love it. I’m not sure which I’m crazier about- the patent leather shoes or that coral pop in your Missoni. But it’s not that. I grew up on the island, I’d know a fellow New Yorker anywhere,” pink polo reassured me.
“Oh, nice! And thank you.” I was still trying not to giggle over his quick assessment of my attire. “How do you like living here?”
“Love it!” he declared. “There’s more power here, yet it’s somehow not as frantic. And I never would’ve snagged this hottie if I hadn’t moved.” Rugby shirt looked at polo with a smile, a slight blush creeping up his neck. He turned back to me and stuck out his hand.
“Sorry, I’m Zeke.”
“Hi Zeke,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I’m L- Lila.” You’re such a weirdo, I thought to myself. Sometimes I used Lila when I was out with my friends, in cases where I wanted to fly under the radar. My family was obviously well-known, and I don’t have the most common name, so it worked in those situations.
“Hi Lila, I’m Nick,” pink polo said. With his piercing blue eyes, chiseled face, and sandy hair, and Zeke’s chocolate eyes, almost-black hair, and broad build, the two really did make a striking couple.
“So, what kind of place are you looking for? What areas have you checked out?” Zeke asked. At this point, we were just standing in the entranceway to the café, blocking new customers.
“Um, I’d prefer an apartment to a townhouse or rowhome if possible. And obviously somewhere safe. Where do you guys live?”
“We live near here,” he replied.
“And where would here be, exactly?”
Nick smirked, not even trying to hide his amusement. “That’s CardozoPark,” he said, gesturing to the park across the street. “We’re in the southern part of Columbia Heights, near the U Street Corridor.”
“Don’t mock her,” Zeke chided gently, pushing Nick’s arm in a playful manner. “You didn’t know anything about the District when you moved here either. Lila, would you like to walk home with us? We can give you a little tour of the neighborhood along the way, it’ll give you a chance to check out the area.”
“Really?” I asked, excited to have some assistance, but not wanting to disrupt their afternoon plans. “I would love that, but I don’t want to inconvenience you guys.”
“Not at all,” Nick responded, threading his arm through mine. “It’ll be fun, like a scavenger hunt.”
We walked around for over an hour, chatting easily the whole time. Zeke and Nick had clearly abandoned their plans to go home, and embraced their new roles at tour guides. The guys pointed out the best brunch spots, their favorite happy hour haunts, and the bars with good live music, and described how to get to the closest Whole Foods. There was a CVS on nearly every corner, and Nick explained how CVS is a convenience store here. New Yorkers use Duane Reade, but in DC CVS is the one-stop-shop – and it’s way more spacious than our tiny markets. It’s where everyone goes for everything from snacks to toilet paper, first aid supplies to prepared dinners and desserts.
As we walked back up U Street in the direction of the park, we started to meander the side streets. Just two blocks past Cardozo, a building that was taller than the surrounding houses caught my eye.
The corner jutted out over the sidewalk, as if the square building had been turned slightly askew. The façade was entirely glass, with shiny struts delineating the apartments themselves. On one side of the front lobby door was an Organic Market, on the other was a restaurant with a small independent bookstore inside. Through the window of the latter, I could see a young guy with flawless cocoa skin strumming a guitar and singing into a microphone.
“What’s this place?” I asked, turning to the boys who’d stopped as well.
“It’s new, ultra-modern and coveted in this area. It’s the height of gentrification, sweeping through old decrepit buildings and turning them into luxury apartments. It’s called The Pines,” Zeke added.
“I think…” I paused, contemplating the building and its surroundings. “I think I’m going to go check it out.”