Chinese Takeout Ch. 04

Keith saw my smile. He looked at me for a moment, then grinned. It was like he was reading my mind, I was sure. I felt my nipples tightening just from that look.

"See you Monday Blue, you did real good today girl." Quebec was looking from Keith to me and back again, grinning. "You guys have yourselves a good weekend."

"Thanks Quebec," I said.

"You too Quebec," Keith said, "and thanks bro."

"Never a problem for a brother Round Out." Quebec was still smiling as I staggered away, Keith's arm around me, my gym bag and my rucksack in his other hand.

"You go, Baby Blue. Doing real good there girl." One of the guys training on the weight machines gave me a grin as I staggered past.

I gave him a weak grimace that was meant to be a smile back. He grinned through the sheen of sweat on his face. Good. I wasn't the only one sweating. On the far side of the gym, Olaf and another guy were sparring. Kicking and punching. They were wearing padding, lots of padding, but the sheer violence, the speed and the power of those kicks and punches was terrifying. They reminded me of my cousin Hayley that last time she'd come to stay. I'd gone with her to watch her compete in a Tae Kwon Do tournament. Watching her fight had been scary, the way she could kick and strike so quickly, so hard, so viciously.

Watching Olaf was like that, except scarier still. If one of those kicks or punches hit me, it'd rip me in half. I watched the dust fly of off Olaf as a kick hit home. Just for a second, hearing the noise and seeing the power of the impact, thinking what would happen to me if a kick like that hit me, I wanted to curl up in sheer terror.

Keith must have noticed. He patted my shoulder. "Don't even think about it Jay-Lin, there's not a woman in the world could take on a guy like Olaf, not even Ronda Rousey."

"Ronda who?"

"Ohhhhhkay." Keith was smiling at me. "I can see we've got some videos to watch together."

"Okay." My mind was a blank. Pure exhaustion.

The silence after the gym door shut behind us was heaven. The coolness of the air in that hallway as we walked towards the outside door was bliss.

"What time do you have to be home?" Keith asked me. We were outside, walking down the pavement towards his truck. The evening air was a welcome breeze, doing its best to cool me. Failing miserably.

"Anytime really," I said, enjoying his arm around me. "I can call Mom and Dad and tell them I'll be home later. As long as I call them and tell them, they won't worry."

"Want to come to my place and take a shower? We can go grab something to eat and then I can drive you home."

Go to Keith's place. Oh yes please. I was so curious. I wanted to see where Keith lived. Apartment? House? "I'd love to."

"Okay, call your parents once we're in the truck." He glanced at his watch. "Tell them I'll drop you home about ten, okay."

"Great." He was already opening the door, flipping a towel out to cover the seat, helping me in.

Charlie was there, lying on the pavement with some sheets of cardboard underneath him, his head on a pile of newspaper, a tattered old coat over him. Asleep or unconscious. An empty bottle in one hand. Okay, probably unconscious. The donut box was there, empty.

I pulled my phone out, calling my Mom's number as soon as I was sitting down. She didn't answer. I left her a message, then did the same with my Dad, then called our home phone, leaving another message. Keith grinned at me. Done, I tucked my phone away, sitting back, limp. Keith started the truck, pulled out.

My eyes closed. I was exhausted. I'd never been so exhausted in my life.

* * * * * * * *

I woke up, still in the cab, feeling hot and sticky and dirty, smelling myself. I reeked but at least I seemed to have stopped sweating and my breathing was back to normal. The towel Keith had covered the seat with beneath me was soaked.

"Almost there," Keith said as we pulled away from some lights, passing me a cool wet wipe.

It felt so good to wipe my face and forehead. I had no idea where we were. Keith hadn't actually told me where he lived. "Where's there?" I asked.

He grinned. "Of off Courtenay Drive. ... Here, drink some of this." He handed me a large container of low fat chocolate milk and a straw. "Chocolate Milk. Believe it or not, it's just as good as all the expensive recovery drinks," he said as I drank.

And drank. And drank. Feeling myself coming back to life. It worked for me. While drinking, I looked out the window. Now that he'd given me a clue, I recognized where we were. Bars. Restaurants. Coffee shops. Trendy stores. Clubs. Courtenay Drive was the hub of the entertainment district. A one mile long strip of nightlife. I'd been there clubbing with Ginny and our other friends a few times. I'd been there for dinner a few times with my parents and their friends as well. There were some nice restaurants. I recognized the Darjeeling Polo Club as we drove past. They did these divine roasted pork hocks to die for.

My stomach realized what my eyes were looking at and said "hungry" rather too loudly. Keith glanced at me, grinning. God, had it been that loud? Now I was embarrassed. Mind you, I was so flushed that you couldn't have told that I was blushing.

"Shower at my place, then food." He was smiling at me.

I smiled back, still too tired to talk although I felt a lot better after that nap and the chocolate milk. That sounded like a plan. Except I'd add in something else after the food. I smiled. The truck slowed, turned right at some lights, drove slowly down a side street right at the middle of Courtenay Drive. Of either side and down to the river, the whole area had once been old warehouses, small low-rise factories and office buildings, often a combination of all three uses, three and four story brick buildings from the nineteenth century. They weren't industrial anymore.

The whole area had been gentrified over the last ten to fifteen years. Was still being gentrified as a matter of fact, slowly spreading outwards. Now it was a mix of trendy downtown loft conversions, small businesses, new and old businesses that liked to look trendy even if they weren't, all mixed in with the bars, restaurants, cafes and shops that were spreading beyond the confines of Courtenay Drive itself. I liked this part of town. Did Keith live here? He didn't look like the sort of person that would live in the center of downtown yuppiedom; but then, I found it hard to imagine where I thought Keith might live. He didn't look like a house in the suburbs sort of guy either.

If I'd had to come up with something, I'd have said one of those working class subdivisions with the smaller houses, those old houses from the twenties and thirties or maybe immediately post-world war two, that kind of place. Looked like I would've been wrong. I guess I'd see. Mind you, he had said something about working for himself when we'd been talking last weekend. I wondered what he actually did. One of these days I'd ask.

That side-street that we'd turned into was humming. It was one of those wide old streets made for trucks and warehouses. Now, with no trucks, there were wide tree-lined sidewalks, raised flowerbeds, ornate cast-iron lampposts, bench seats here and there, angle parking, all lined by bars, restaurants, cafés with patios on the sidewalks and trendy looking shops. All the sorts of things yuppies liked to go with their Sumatran cat-poop lattes. And no, I wasn't a Sumatran cat-poop latte sort of girl. More a bubble-tea girl, really. I glanced at Keith. Nope, he wasn't a Sumatran cat-poop latte sort of guy. He was grinning that mischievous shit-eating grin of his that I already knew meant some kind of a surprise for me.

I waited. Waiting was easy, requiring no expenditure of energy. Right now, I liked waiting.

We slowed. The indicator started flashing. Turning left into a cobblestone-paved alleyway, brick walls rose high on either side, a narrow brick canyon, cars parked tight against the walls down one side. The truck juddered its way past them. Keith hit the garage door opener clipped to the visor above me. To our left, a large steel gate on rollers whispered open. Keith nosed the truck round and through, into what looked like a large cobblestone-paved courtyard surrounded by high brick walls topped with barbed wire. The door whispered closed behind us. We were at the rear of one of those old industrial buildings, an old factory loading bay ran down the back of the building, there was a large garage, double doored, on my side. Keith parked in next to the garage.

"We're here," seemed rather unnecessary, given he'd turned the engine off. I opened my door, went to slide out, found myself groaning, barely able to lift my legs. God, I was so stiff and sore. My muscles hurt. All of them. Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt. I'd never felt like this, not even in my first year at High School when I'd been on the swim team. Our coach had been a real bitch, I'd given it a pass after the first year. Now, after Quebec, that coach actually seemed rather nice.

"Stay there Jay-Lin, I'll come and help you out."

Sounded like a great idea to me. Keith didn't just help me. He slung my backpack over his shoulder, hung my gym bag over the top, lifting me out as if I was a feather. It felt so nice to be carried like a baby. His baby. Keith's baby.

"Jay-Lin," he said, kissing my sweaty forehead, "welcome to my ever so humble home." I squealed when he licked my neck as well. "Mmmmm, tasty." Squealed and giggled. But I didn't wriggle. I tilted my head so he could lick me some more. He did, sending little shivers down my spine. He didn't put me down right away either. He kicked the truck door shut, carried me across the courtyard and up a concrete ramp, stopping outside a roller door with a steel door to one side. "I have to put you down to open the door," he sounded apologetic, lowering me to my feet, but only after he'd kissed me again. He didn't seem to mind that I was all sweaty.

Standing was okay. It was only moving that really hurt. That steel door was heavy, I could tell. Even Keith had to exert a bit of effort to open it. Taking my hand, he led me inside, the lights coming on automatically. We were in what looked like a large triple-garage sized workshop, bigger than my parent's garage. Way bigger. I recognized Keith's Harley sitting just inside the roller door. An old couch and a large fridge sat at the rear against a brick wall.

The room was lined with an assortment of industrial furniture. Workbenches covered in what I guessed must be motorcycle parts, what looked like a partly disassembled engine on one, more parts strewn around it, tools hanging on the walls, big steel work cabinets, machine tools of one kind or another, a couple of stands with motorcycles on them, partly stripped down. Motorcycle magazines scattered around. The whole room smelled of oil and paint and metal and machines.

"I'm rebuilding a couple of Harley's," he said, answering my look. "There's a couple of old bikes over there I fixed up that I don't ride much anymore, maybe get round to selling them one of these days." He pointed, "And that one's an old 1965 AJS 650, got her two years ago, fixing her up but parts, man, they're hard to get. She's a bit of a museum piece. Like that old Norton Commando over there." He looked at me and grinned. "Come on, I can show you all this tomorrow, let's get you into the shower."

I wondered if Keith lived here, with his motorcycles. It looked pretty industrial. Concrete floor mostly covered with that grey diamond tread stuff. The same stuff Dad had put down on our garage floor which was the only reason I knew what it was. I'd had to help. Brick walls. Concrete pillars. I mean, my heart sank a little but really, I wouldn't mind if he had a room off the workshop or anything, although it wasn't quite what I'd envisaged. But if this was where Keith lived, I'd do my best to accept it. I knew not everyone lived like my parents.

"Okay," was all I said. I really wanted that shower. I just hoped his shower was clean.

He took my hand and led me across the workshop. "Sorry about this, we're coming in the back door," he said apologetically, leading me to another big steel door, unlocking it, swinging it open.

My first reaction was surprise. Then curiosity. I wasn't seeing what I'd expected to see. Keith led me through the door into a beautiful marble-floored, wooden-paneled foyer lit by a chandelier hanging from a white plastered ceiling lined with these beautiful old cornices. While he shut the door behind us, I looked around, fascinated.

No, this was not at all what I expected. It certainly wasn't industrial. Okay, I read too many of those Georgette Heyer regency romances. This was almost like what I imagined the foyer to one of those old English manor houses to be. Except it was in the middle of downtown in an old industrial building. Somebody had done an amazing renovation.

There were a couple of large paintings on the walls that in some strange way fitted the decor, motorcycle art of some sort. I looked closer. David Mann? Never heard of him. A couple of solid looking chairs with a small table separating them. Opposite me was what looked like a large walk-in closet or a small cloakroom, through the open door of which I could see coats, boots, a couple of helmets, assorted clothing that looked to me like stuff you'd wear on a motorcycle. Was this Keith's? I could see a washroom there too. At the rear were wide wooden stairs leading upwards, those stairs you get in large old nineteenth century houses and office buildings. Wide, with big landings, hand-carved balustrades and wooden paneling. Against the far wall and opening towards where the front of the building must be was another large wooden door.

"That's my front door," Keith said helpfully. Soreness almost forgotten in a wave of curiosity, I followed him over, looking out past him when he opened it. A wide tile-floored hallway led towards the street, I could see stairs and, almost beside the door we were looking out from, one of those old old elevators, the ones where the doors were a steel grill that you had to pull shut by hand.

"Wow!" was all I could say as Keith shut the door, cutting of the noise immediately. "But where do you live?"

"I'm upstairs," Keith locked the door as he spoke. He looked at me. "I'll carry you up." He didn't wait for me to say yes or no. He swept me off my feet as if I was a feather. "It's my private stairwell," he told me as we climbed. Well, he climbed, I just lay back in his arms, my head resting wetly on his shoulder. "There's another stairwell and that elevator at the front for the tenants we can use as well but we're going up MY private stairs."

Keith had a private stairwell? This was his private stairs? Tenants? Huh? No, this was certainly NOT what I'd expected. No way.

"What's in the building?" I asked, "Besides your apartment." I wondered what sort of apartment he had. I'd never been in any apartment's downtown but I'd seen the advertisements for some of those loft conversions they were doing down around here. The apartments they carved out were either tiny, meant for either one person or for a professional couple, or larger and priced extortionately high in my opinion, but I was no real estate expert. I guessed if Keith lived here by himself, his apartment wasn't that big but wow, that foyer and these stairs, they weren't pokey.

These must be the original stairs, wide, polished wood, beautifully carved balustrades, wood paneled walls. Large windows on each landing, looking out over the courtyard and the alleyway below I assumed. The location was nice too. But what was it with this private stairwell? Was that just Keith's? He'd said it was. And how come his motorcycle stuff was down there in that huge workshop? That sort of space down here in this part of town would cost a fortune to rent.

"There's a twenty four hour gym in the basement and a bar and grill on the ground floor," Keith said. God, he was so strong, carrying me up the stairs effortlessly, talking conversationally at the same time. I didn't mind. Not at all. Lying in Keith's arms all sweaty and tired was where I wanted to be. Just, I'd rather I was sweaty and tired from making out with Keith, not working out with Quebec. There was a difference. "Restaurant on the first floor, second, third and fourth floors are professional offices, I live on the fifth floor."

We were already on the second floor landing with no slowing of pace. "We'll go downstairs to the restaurant for dinner, the guy that runs it, Jean-Paul, he's this French guy, great chef, we get on. Great menu. He does these amazing flambés right at your table. I called him while you were sleeping, asked him to hold a table for us."

"Flambé? Sounds like my Mom barbequing," I giggled. Mom could cook on a stove, just, but give her a barbeque and she'd set fire to everything in seconds flat. Dad and I refused to let her near ours.

"Here we are." Keith set me down on a gleaming white-with-flecks-of-grey marble-floored landing outside an arched wooden double-door entrance. I looked around. The only other door was on the outside wall, marked "Fire Escape." Opening those ornate double doors wide, he smiled. "Come in, Jay-Lin."

I stepped inside. Immediately I felt silly all over again. I'd more or less been expecting a small or maybe a mid-sized urban loft. Something modern and urban; like in the advertisements. All white paint and modern furniture and not that big. I'd been expecting wrong. Totally. Again.

His home was as rugged and beautiful as Keith himself. My first impression was of gleaming hardwood floors colored dark honey stretching into the distance. The floor was completely open, from the back of the building all the way to the front, from one side to the other. From where we were standing near the rear, you could see all the way to the front of the building where huge old paned-glass windows ran from waist height almost to the ceiling thirty feet up, looking out over the street. There were more windows beside where we stood, stretching across the width of the rear wall, just as big. The entire floor was one huge open plan area, stripped down to show the old brick walls and the thick supporting pillars at regular intervals.

There was even a large brick fireplace against one sidewall, the one that faced out onto the alleyway. If there'd been a ceiling, it was long gone, revealing a high-pitched timber-lined roof along with the old wooden rafters and supporting beams, hugely thick rough-hewn beams dark with age, supporting what must surely be the roof. Down one side if the roof were skylight windows. The floor itself was all old wooden planks, polished to a glowing dark-honey. The entire loft seemed to be all old wood, brick, glass, open space, gorgeous rugs, dark leather and wood furniture broken only by a modernistic kitchen. Keith took my hand, led me inside, shutting the doors behind us.

Okay, I stared. I just stared. This was Keith's apartment? Wow! This was a glimpse into Keith's soul, into the Keith I was so desperate to know better -- and it was stunning. Like him.

"Like it?" Keith smiled. He sounded a little anxious.

"Wow!" I had to say it. "Just, wow Keith. This is amazing."

It was.

"How ... How big is this place?" I gasped, wide-eyed, looking around, taking in the kitchen in one corner. "It's all yours? The whole floor?"

"'Bout a hundred forty feet deep, sixty wide," Keith said. "And yup, this floor's mine." He grinned, leading me by the hand out into the center of the floor. "Bedroom's up there." He turned me and pointed. "Mezzanine."

I hadn't even noticed it before. It'd been above where we were standing, by those doors he'd led me in through. The ceiling in the main area was about thirty feet up, but back where we'd come in, a mezzanine floor had been built in right across the rear, with wide wooden stairs leading up to it on one side.