Folsom (End of Men, #1)(7)

FIVE





FOLSOM


It’s the little one who interests me, her hair more tangled than her sister’s, like she didn’t bother with it at all. I’m pleased it’s her, a familiar face. Her eyes are curious and wild: brown, common and yet uncommon in the way they slant upward at the outside corners. She stands in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, but instead of studying my body like most women do, her head is tilted to the side, eyes fixed on my boots. I clear my throat to get her attention and she drags her eyes away from my feet and back to my face. She frowns and shakes her head like she’s just realizing where she is.

“Your boots are beautiful,” she finally says. From somewhere beside me her sister groans and her mother lets out what I take as an embarrassed laugh.

“Thank you,” I say, unable to keep the humor from my voice. “I designed them myself.” I don’t usually tell people that, but she seems genuinely interested.

“You design clothes?” she asks, surprised.

“You’re surprised that I’m good at something other than fucking?”

Her mother makes a choking noise, but we both ignore it, our attention solely focused.

“Yes, I’m quite surprised,” she says. “Though I can’t attest personally to the fucking part…”

“Yet,” I say.

“Yet,” she echoes, with a slight nod of her head. She’s realized to some degree how derailed our conversation has become because her cheeks color and she looks quickly at her mother and sister in apology.

Her mother motions toward her. “This is Gwen,” she says wryly then holds her hand out to the other girl. “And Sophia.”

I’m entertained. Usually these meetings all go the same: I’m ushered into a large, affluent house, my hosts accommodating and well groomed. The conversation is a game of choreographed female entrapment—coy and polite. I’m asked question after question, the women pretending to be interested while counting down the minutes until they can lead me to their bedrooms. Where was I last? How did I like it? Be sure to eat at this and this restaurant—banal small talk. I think the exchange has come to an end and I almost feel disappointed when Gwen suddenly speaks up.

“Can I try them on?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Right now?”

“Yes, why not?”

I look around for somewhere to sit and spot a leather wingback chair near the door. Sitting, I begin to loosen the laces while Gwen’s mother and sister insist that I needn’t bother. I ignore them, watching her face until both boots are off and my socked feet rest on the wood floor. I hold out the boots to Gwen, who steps forward to take them. She sits directly on the stairs that lead up to the second floor, slipping off her own shoes and dropping her feet into mine. Her hair is even wilder than I thought, falling around her face and almost trailing the floor as she bends forward. Before I can say anything, she’s standing up and walking over to a large gilded mirror; the boots clomping as she walks, several sizes too large for her tiny feet. When she reaches the mirror, she turns from side to side admiring her reflection.

“They’re the best boots I’ve ever seen,” she says over her shoulder. “Can you design something for me?”

“Gwen,” her mother interrupts before I can answer. “That’s enough.”

She shoots her mother an apologetic look before returning to the stairs to take them off. I wink at her when she returns them, and she blushes and quickly looks away.

I know what it’s like to be shamed out of your real personality.

“We’ve prepared lunch, Folsom, if you’d like to follow me into the dining room,” her mother says. The perfect hostess smile has returned to her face and she’s walking toward a doorway expecting me to follow.

I don’t move. “Actually,” I say. “I’d like to get started. I’ll eat after the first appointment, that way I’ll be rested for the next.”

Gwen’s sister—what was her name again?—smiles in my direction. Gwen, having returned her shoes to her feet, stands up and bounces a few times on her toes.

“I’m ready if he is,” she says when her mother looks at her for approval.

“Well, there you go,” she says. “You two can head right upstairs.”

I follow Gwen up the winding staircase, thinking how cliché a winding staircase is. The End Men are told to read books, romance books are encouraged—a crash course in what women want. My personal favorite is Gone with the Wind, in which slowly winding staircases were a staple of Southern wealth. Rhett Butler’s plight in life rang true for me, always wanting something he couldn’t have. In Rhett’s case it was the spiky Scarlett O’Hara, in mine…freedom. We reach a hallway of doors, each one heavy and old, paneled in oak. Gwen rests her hand on the third door down the hallway and turns to look at me.

“Is this awkward for you?”

“No more than for you,” I say.

“I don’t feel awkward,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

“You’ve been waiting for my dick your whole life, what an honor.” I place my hand over my heart to emphasize my sarcasm. She rolls her eyes, undeterred.

“For the baby, Folsom.”