Thirty-Nine

Riding The Line

 

March 13, 2011

 

Montreal always felt different. The city settled into her bones, making the chaos of tour life feel like it belonged to someone else. The past couple of days off had been exactly what they needed.

Nothing but slow mornings. Sleeping in just enough for the sun to claim the windows, lingering over breakfast and coffee, then bundling Lily up for walks through the still-too-cold March air. Maybe lunch out, then back to the loft. And when Lily was down for the night, it was takeout, quiet fires, and the kind of couch time that felt indulgent instead of rushed.

Today started no differently. Lily’s morning chatter filled their bedroom—half words, half nonsense, all insistently addressed to Meatball, who lay loyally by her crib. Breakfast was easy. Lily perched in her high chair while Jon pilfered bites from her tray whenever she allowed it, acting personally offended when she didn’t.

Afterward, they drifted into their own corners of the loft. Jon disappeared into the studio to tweak something, which could mean anything from ten minutes to two hours. Ari headed for the office with her laptop and a production schedule that wasn’t going to magically finalize itself.

She texted Kennedy about the Las Vegas credentials and adjusted the freight arrival while Lily made her aggressive laps around the office in her walker. Kennedy’s reply came in under a minute—Vegas was locked, with run-of-show updates coming by two o’clock.

Of course it was. Kennedy was better at this than Ari these days.

Vegas. Just the mention of it made something stir inside her. She made a mental note to call Cara later, see if she could make it out for that one. If anyone deserved front-row chaos, it was her.

Lily smacked her palms against the desk and squealed like she was conducting an orchestra. Ari leaned down to brush a kiss over the top of her head.

An hour later, the schedule was cleaner, her inbox wasn’t glaring at her, and Lily’s enthusiasm had officially tipped into fussiness. Right on cue.

“Okay, tiny boss,” Ari sighed, scooping her up. “Nap time before you unionize.”

Lily yawned as Ari carried her to her crib. She reached out for Meatball one last time before Ari gently tucked her in, and within minutes, the room fell into the smallest sound. Lingering at the doorway, Ari savored the moment—until a glance at the clock reminded her the bar was waiting.

She had enough time for a quick shower before she had to leave. By the time she toweled off and slipped into something comfortable, she felt refreshed and alive all at once. Her laptop was shut, production schedules set for the next call with Kennedy, and the loft had returned to that quiet rhythm only found when Lily napped.

One last look at Lily before heading out, Ari set out to find Jon.

Stepping into the gym, she froze at the sight of him mid-workout. She was supposed to tell him she was off to the bar—but nope—armpits first, everything else later. The rhythmic thud of weights echoed through the open space, matching the quickening of her pulse. He stood in front of the mirror, back taut, a sleeveless Patriots T-shirt riding high on his shoulders, sweat gleaming on skin that flexed with every lift. Every lift, each flex—she just couldn’t look away.

And when he lifted the weights again, the worn cotton shifted, baring the hollow beneath his arm.

Her breath caught—yeah, this was definitely a problem.

The scent hit her a second later: salt, skin, sweat… and that unmistakable trace of his cologne.

Well… there went her self-control. Pregnancy had made her avoid more than a few things over the last few months. Somehow, this wasn’t one of them.

Leaning against the doorframe, heat bloomed low, tightening her focus entirely on him.

“Enjoying the view?” he said, lowering the weight. “Or are we calling this… appreciation?”

Ari stepped closer, swallowing. “Yeah… sure. Let’s go with that.”

“You could at least pretend you’re here for the workout.”

“Oh, I care,” she said. “Just… not about that.”

He straightened, a slow grin tugging at his lips. His fingers flexed briefly around the bar as her eyes found him, the reaction subtle but there.

“Oh yeah? Something catch your eye?”

“You know exactly what,” she said—too quick to be casual.

He shook his head. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” she said. “This won’t take long.”

She grabbed his wrists, nudging him back onto the workbench. His feigned struggle lasted two seconds before he surrendered, shoulders adjusting under her weight, grinning as the gleam in her eyes dared him to resist.

Ari straddled his lap, her knees pressing against the vinyl bench on either side of his hips. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, breaths quick, hearts racing.

She didn’t hesitate—fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, lips brushing his in a daring kiss. His fingers found her waist instinctively, anchoring her even as she pulled him closer. He barely had time to react before her fingers slid into his damp hair, holding him there. Her mouth skimmed his jaw, dangerously close to the spot she couldn’t resist. Fierce. Unapologetic. The pace was hers, messy and delicious, even fully clothed.

When she pulled back, his breath was gone, and the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Ari lingered just long enough to enjoy it, her chest rising with a slow, deliberate inhale.

Then she licked her lips and slid off his lap, smoothing her shirt, pushing a hand through her hair as if nothing had just happened.

“I won’t be late,” she said, already moving.

He let out a breathless laugh. “Leave the money at the door.”

She didn’t turn around, just lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment as she walked out.

The bar was waiting.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Thirty minutes later, Ari turned onto Rachel East Street, easing her red Jeep down the block with the casual confidence of someone who’d done it thousand times.

 

Parking, however, was always a gamble.

 

She scanned the curb in front of Petite Soho and muttered a quick prayer to the city’s unofficial patron saint of impossible street parking.

 

“Just one spot. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

Halfway down the block, a car’s reverse lights flicked on.

 

Ari grinned.

 

“Well, look at that.”

 

She spun the Jeep into a quick U-turn, hazards blinking while the car pulled away.  The moment the space cleared, she eased forward and slipped into it in one smooth motion, the Jeep’s tight turning radius doing half the work.

 

She straightened the wheel and killed the engine, pleased with herself.

 

Front row parking in Montreal was basically a miracle.

 

Ari stepped out of the Jeep, the March air biting just enough to wake her senses. She headed toward the backyard, the narrow path curling around the side in a way that felt as familiar as breathing. The tree stood, bare branches scratching against the gray sky. 

 

Kneeling, she traced a finger over the small patch of earth where her grandmother rested, the edges of the plaque peeking out from beneath the leaves.

 

“Hey, Mamie,” she whispered. “Can’t stay long... today. I’m late, and Max’ll kill me.”

She dusted away fallen leaves and lingering snow, brushed the soil from her jeans, and headed back down the cobble path to the stairs.

Inside, the apartment was quiet. Ari dropped her bag on the counter, then opened the door that led downstairs. She took the steps carefully, hand sliding along the worn railing. Before she even reached the bottom, the rhythmic thud of a knife hitting the cutting board echoed through the kitchen.

 

Gabriel.

 

Ari stepped through the doorway just as he slid a pan onto the burner. He glanced up briefly, eyes narrowing in recognition before his face softened into a familiar smile.

 

“Ma petite papillon,” he said warmly. “Et la petite Lily, elle est où?” (and little Lily, where is she?)

 

Ari leaned against the counter.

 

“Home with Jon. She just went down for her nap before I left.”

 

Gabriel chuckled softly. “Ah, cette petite… elle grandit déjà trop vite.” (Ah, that little one… she’s already growing too fast.)

 

From the doorway, Max appeared, a clipboard tucked under his arm and a stack of bar towels draped over his shoulder. He stopped when he spotted Ari.

 

“Let me guess… something distracted you.” 

 

“Yeah. You miss me.”

 

Max just laughed “Bar’s stocked—fruit cutting’s all yours.”

 

 “Oh, my favorite.” Ari pushed off the counter and took the clipboard. “Now, give me those and get out of here. I got this.”

 

Gabriel waved a wooden spoon in their direction without even looking up. “Both of you—out of my kitchen if you’re not cooking.”

 

The familiar chaos of the kitchen wrapped around her like a second skin. 

 

“Alright, alright. We’re going.”

 

Stepping through the swinging door from the kitchen, she spotted him immediately. Sitting at the bar, massive and relaxed, but coiled with quiet awareness.

 

She slipped behind the bar, grabbed a new bottle of water, and slid it along the wood in his direction.

 

“Well, well… what are you doing here?”

 

Cliff looked up, expression unreadable for a heartbeat before his lips twitched. “I was thirsty.”

 

 “They run out of water at the St. James?”

 

He shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Was hungry too. Heard this was the best place for Chinese pâté.”

 

 She knew exactly who and why he was sitting here.

 

“Big Red,” she said.  “You’re supposed to be on my side. Not plotting against me.”

You wound me, Lucy. That is me on your side.”

“Protecting me from what? The neighborhood pigeons?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

She set the cutting board, knife and fruit, in front of him as she started cutting.

 

“So… how are your bartending skills?”

 

“Pretty good actually. Why do you ask?”

 

“Habs game. Might need you to help a girl out.”

 

“Something tells me you’ve done this a time or twelve.”

 

“With my eyes closed,” she scooped up the lemons and placed them in the tray. “Pregnant me might need a bathroom break at some point.” 

 

“I got you Lucy. Just say when.” 

 

She gave him a mock salute and moved down the bar, collecting empty glasses as she went. The bell over the door chimed. She glanced up to welcome the first wave of customers; a couple settling at a high top, a group of friends claiming a stretch of barstools like they’d been waiting all day.

 

Ari fell into rhythm easily, slipping between tasks, trading playful barbs with the locals as the room began to fill in around her. By the time she circled back to Cliff, the stainless steel garnish tray was stocked and ready, everything in its place without her having to think twice about it. 

 

When the game kicked off, the volume surged; shouts, laughter, the sharp crack of reactions hitting all at once until the noise settled into something steady, a warm, pulsing energy that carried the whole room.

 

The game burned itself out the way it always did—loud until it wasn’t.

 

By the final buzzer, the bar had thinned to nothing, the last stragglers drifting out in the cold with lingering laughter and half-finished conversations. Ari locked the door behind them, letting the stillness settle in.

 

Closing alone wasn’t new. Slower, maybe, but not unfamiliar. She moved through it methodically. Glasses racked and washed. Chairs turned, floor swept, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound left.

 

Cliff handled the heavier lifts without a word, hauled the last of the trash out back, checked the alley before coming back in and locked up the kitchen.

 

By the last light, the bar felt like itself again, waiting for tomorrow.

 

“Alright,” she murmured, more to the room than to him. “We’re done.”

 

Outside, the cold hit sharper than before, the street nearly empty now. She pulled her coat tighter and headed for her Jeep.  Sure enough, Cliff’s car started a beat after hers, settling into position behind her at a careful distance.  She shook her head with a faint smile. 

 

Once she was safely parked in the garage, he flashed his headlights and waved. It wasn’t until the door started to lower that he began backing out of the driveway.

 

Upstairs, the loft was dim, warm, and still.  Ari kicked off her Chucks and tossed her coat over the couch before heading upstairs.  She paused at the doorway of Lily’s room, peeking in to see her daughter curled up under the blanket breathing, steadily in sleep. A small smile touched her lips before she continued down the hall.

 

A low lamp glowed in the bedroom. Jon was propped up against the headboard, a book resting loosely in his hands. He glanced up as she stepped in, eyes tracking her in that quiet, familiar way.

 

Crossing the room, she shed her clothes, leaving a quiet trail along the way. By the time she reached the bed, her clothes were in a neat, chaotic pile. She tugged one of his t-shirts over her head, the soft fabric swallowing her in comfort. Without a word, she crawled under the covers, tucking herself against him.

 

Jon shifted, arm coming around her, the book lowering but not quite set aside. His hand found her back as she exhaled, letting the weight of his hand steady her.

 

His thumb traced a lazy line against her side, once, twice. And just like that—she was asleep.

 

“Goodnight, Crash,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.