by JD Hawkins
“Is the Carl thing still on your mind? Or is it the career stuff? Or is it that thing you do where you run your fingers through your hair and go, ‘agghhh what am I doing with my life’?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. Margo frowns more deeply. “Or do you not want to talk about it?”
She looks up from the beer glass she’s screwing into the table.
“All of the above, I guess. But honestly, I’m sick of even thinking about it all,” she says, before looking up at me. Beyond those thick lenses I see her eyes narrow the way she does when she’s analyzing something.
“You know what I think?” I say. “I think you’re pushing too hard. This New York thing, your writing, these lame guys you’re dating…sometimes it seems like you’re so worried about the future that you’re not enjoying the present.”
“I’m twenty-five, Owen, not nineteen.”
“Exactly! So why act like a sixty year old?”
Margo laughs and shakes her head, like I just don’t get it. “I know you think it’s a joke, but I feel like I’ve reached the age where I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
“You’re at an age where you should be enjoying your life, too. I mean, what’s wrong with TrendBlend? Cool people, it’s fun, and they even have an open bar every once in a while. No one says you have to stay there forever, or give up any future opportunities.”
“I know,” Margo admits. “And I do like my job, really. I just…it’s not enough to just have fun anymore. I want something meaningful, you know?”
“Are you talking about your career? Or the douchebags you keep dating?”
“Both? I mean back in college, everything was so simple. I knew exactly which classes to take, what to study for, how to get my degree in hand, and I also knew I had exactly four years to get all my partying out of my system before joining the real world and doing the adult thing. I was so focused. But ever since we graduated I’ve been waiting to feel like I’m finally an actual adult, and for some reason it’s not happening. I feel even more lost than I did during undergrad. I guess because I don’t know what the next step is.”
“I hear what you’re saying.” I nod slowly. “But I know what your next step is.”
She flashes me a suspicious look. “What?”
I lean forward and give her my serious face. “To order another drink.”
Margo laughs and orders some fries and more drinks by elaborately gesturing toward the bartender, and I notice how she sways a little as she does so, clearly a little tipsy. The bar’s filling up now, a few younger groups standing around the counter already getting an early start on their St. Patrick’s Day celebration.
“Listen, Margo,” I go on. “I’ve known you a long time. You have a track record of excellent ass-kicking behind you and I have no reason to believe the future will be any different. You remember where you were ten years ago?”
She shrugs. “I was fifteen, so I guess…making plans to marry Justin Timberlake and dreaming about getting my braces off in between editing the school newspaper and practicing clarinet.” I grin and she adds, “No band geek jokes, please.”
“I would never,” I assure her, resting my hand gently on her forearm. “But my point is, did the fifteen year old you ever imagine that in ten years she’d be living in L.A., impressive journalism degree under her belt, writing for one of the top media outlets?” Margo looks down and shakes her head, a tiny smile playing at her lips. “You get paid to do what you love—most of the time—and at this very moment you’re having drinks with ‘the internet’s hottest dating blogger,’ according to TMZ. I mean I’m practically Justin Timberlake status, if you think about it.”
She bursts out laughing, and it’s music to my ears.
“Come on. Who’s to say how much further you’ll go in another ten years?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
Our eyes meet and something warm passes between us. It’s like I can finally see the dark clouds around her head lifting. I think about taking her hand, just for a moment, just to reassure her like a good friend would, but that’s when our fresh round of drinks arrives.
Margo’s gotten us another couple of beers, the fries, a plate of fried pickles, and a couple of shots. We clink the shots, down them, and when I slam the empty glass on the table I realize I’m getting a little sloshed myself. A skipped breakfast will do that to you. We dive into the food and turn to watch the Lakers game, relaxing into each other’s company just like old times.
“Oh my god! Look who it is!” comes a call from the front doorway, directed so forcefully in our direction we both turn to see the group of college-age drinkers rushing toward us like an offensive play.
There are about seven of them, already drunk on the excitement of St. Patrick’s Day and decked out in various tacky green hats, beads, shamrock t-shirts, and feather boas.
For the next half hour Margo and I are lost in a sea of strange faces, Margo being photographed, filmed, and passed along between the group as they unleash all their excitement and fan-love at meeting the viral star. I down a shot and a second later the glass is full again in my hand. I try to rescue Margo (and myself) from the growing group but get roped into an arms-around-the-shoulders hop-dance to ‘Oh Danny Boy.’ Soon enough, though, I realize she’s having a good time. Could be the alcohol, could be my little pep talk, could be the gushing cat video fans or the raucous music—but whatever it is, I’m glad.
“This is actually kinda fun!” Margo screams at me over the sound of the Irish band that has started getting everybody up from the corner of the bar.
I nod at her and at some point we find ourselves dancing drunkenly along to the music, her warm laugh in my ear, her hand grazing my ass in such a way that I can’t tell if it was on purpose or not. But before I can return the favor, she’s whisked away by the crowd.
Eventually, the group gets big enough to forget all about Margo’s celebrity status and focus on the more important task of getting drunk and mangling the lyrics to Celtic classics. I push through the bodies and eventually catch a glimpse of Margo’s unmistakable hair, tossed back as another shot goes down her throat. She lets out a loud whoop and starts to climb up on a bar stool, a move that I know from past experience can only lead to table dancing and possible minor injuries.
I rush over and gently lift her back down to the floor, guiding her in a direction I hope is the doorway. Eventually we stumble out of the crowd onto the sidewalk like somebody threw us out.
For a few seconds, the mid afternoon sun beats on our faces, turning our alcohol-infused blood warm, and we stand woozily looking at each other.
“I’m…uh…” Margo drawls, blowing out a whistling sound. “I’m drunk, I think.”
“Uh huh,” I say, nodding before I realize it’s a bad idea to move my head that way. “Me too. Got a little crazy back there.”
Margo squints at me and starts to smile. I grin back as she moves in closer and reaches up toward my face—and suddenly all I can think about is crushing my lips to hers, pulling her body against me, reaching my hands down to cup that perfect ass—but then she pulls a necklace of plastic shamrock-shaped beads from around my neck and tosses them in a trash can.
“No idea where those came from,” I say, snapping out of it. “I don’t think I flashed anyone…”
We both laugh. Through swirling, unfocused eyes I notice she’s wearing a pair of skintight, patterned leggings. I get lost in those legs, lost imagining what I would do between them, of how much I’d like to pull them around me…
“Well,” Margo slurs, “thanks for this. It was great seeing you as always.”
“You too.”
“Ok…there’s my car,” she says, squinting into the distance. “So…I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
For a second, it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to grab her around the waist and press her up against the side of the building, not to pin her wrists up above her head as I let m
y mouth rove along her jawline, her lush lips, her collarbone…
“…a good weekend, then,” Margo’s saying, flashing a little wave as she backs a few steps away.
“Sure thing,” I say, wondering how long I’ve been standing there checking her out. “See you Monday, tiger.”
4
Margo
I’m about to start stumbling down the street when Owen calls out, “Margo, wait!” stopping me in my uneven tracks. I turn around to see him jog the distance between us.
“What am I thinking? You can’t drive like this.”
“Shit, you’re right…” I say, embarrassed despite the sheer numbness of my senses. “I’m an idiot. I’ll call an Uber.”
I pull the phone out of my bag, careful not to let my eyes settle on Owen—looking at that gorgeous face has some kind of supernatural effect on me when I’m drunk, making me forget my thoughts, and stopping time.
“Hold on,” he says, as I hit the wrong app multiple times. “My place is about a ten-minute walk from here. You wanna come back for an Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon?”
I look up from my phone, gazing at Owen through narrowed eyes.
“Aromatic espresso with what now?”
“Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon,” he repeats, his face too blank for me to read.
“Why don’t you just say ‘coffee’?”
He breaks into a smile. “Because when you say ‘coffee’ people think you mean ‘sex.’ When you say ‘Arabica espresso with steamed milk and cinnamon,’ people know you mean ‘coffee.’”
I start smiling, and somehow realize we’re already walking in the direction of his apartment. “That’s because nobody wants to have sex with the kind of person who says ‘Arabica espresso with a…’ What was it again?”
Owen laughs, I laugh, and then I stumble, the world spinning for a second before an arm like a barrier wraps itself against my waist and pulls me back up. I look up at him, and in that moment, it’s like time actually stops.
“Hi,” he says, in that nonchalantly powerful way of his, that casual hero thing he does. I swoon a little, dizzy from more than just the alcohol, and realize suddenly that I’m pressed up against a statue-hard body, the smell of cologne and alcohol in my nostrils, taut forearm pressing into the small of my back. It feels good.
“Whoa,” I say, opening my eyes to a dream-like vision of Owen looking down on me.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah. My body’s just not doing what I want it to. I’m gonna hold onto you if that’s ok,” I say, putting an arm through his and leaning on him as we start walking again.
“Always,” Owen says, and I look up again to see him smiling at me.
Thoughts flash through my mind that are as unstable as my steps, alcohol-fueled emotions starting to weave in between them, and I start to wonder if this is really weird. Here I am, walking arm-in-arm with a very hot but very platonic guy friend who regularly tells me how much he likes women, who regularly tells me how good I look, who just invited me to his place (Arabica or not). Is this what friends do with friends? I couldn’t even imagine doing this with my ex… Am I just too drunk to see what’s really happening? Or am I too drunk to stop my imagination from running wild? And if it is really happening, would that be so bad?
All I know for sure is that I like this. I like feeling Owen’s muscles under my hand, I like the way he smiles at me when I look up at him, I like the fact that I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or his cologne that’s getting me high anymore. Even the people we pass on the street, shouting and smiling in green outfits, and the clear, high sun casting the world in a halo, seems to mirror what I’m feeling inside.
When we get to his apartment building, Owen takes my hand to lead me to an elevator, and even though I’m more than capable of walking in a straight line now—the half-mile stroll and the pile of fries I ate at the bar having done wonders to lessen my vertigo—I don’t say anything.
“How you feeling?” he asks, when we step inside the doors.
I lean back against the metal wall and say, “Alive. Like all my senses got turned up to eleven.”
“That actually sounds kind of nice.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds too long, and I catch a flash of intensity in Owen’s eyes and turn away as I feel a hot blush rise to my cheeks.
Silently, the air charged with a sense of something unspoken between us, we step out of the elevator and head down the hallway toward Owen’s apartment. He unlocks the door and pushes it open for me. When I step inside I get the feeling that he might be staring at my ass, but at this point I’m not even sure whether I’d want him to stop.
“Cool place,” I say, stepping through the entryway and into the big living room.
I mean it. Owen’s apartment looks as perfect as a page from a lifestyle magazine, only with the lived-in coziness of somewhere familiar. The furniture’s all antique. Real, aged wood sitting beside patterned, natural fabrics. A couple of battle-scarred guitars dotted among the artwork on the walls, a high ceiling, and a bookshelf that’s both too big, and too obviously well-used, for the amount of time I presumed he spent in the gym.
Owen tosses his keys loudly onto the coffee table and walks behind the counter that separates the room from the kitchen.
“What were you expecting?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say, stepping onto the woven rug, trailing a hand over the woodgrain of the desk near the large window. “Something between the musky dimness of a mancave and those horrible, mostly-empty, techy bachelor pads? You know the ones—all glass and black surfaces. Like your dorm at college.”
Owen laughs as he starts working on the coffee.
“You’re not the only one who’s grown up in the last few years. I guess I should be flattered?”
“No, you get enough of that, I’m sure,” I say, striding back to join him in the kitchen.
I watch as he grinds the beans, leaning over to settle my elbows on the counter top, my uncomfortable drunkenness settling into a light, playful buzz. Owen glances at me quickly, his eyes roving my body, then looks away quickly.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Were you just checking out my ass?”
Owen grins. “What’d you say? I didn’t quite catch that.” He whirls the grinder, effectively drowning out any further questions.
I laugh a little. “I’ll take that as a guilty yes.”
He stops spinning the grinder and smiles as he puts his palms on the counter, turning to look at me slowly. I keep my eyes on his.
“Or am I wrong?” I ask teasingly, still a little too drunk to be sure whether I’m just joking around, or trying to start something with Owen that I might not be able to finish.
Something in his expression changes. A shift from the easy smiles and dry, provocative humor we’ve been trading all day. A shift to something more intense, more real.
He raises an eyebrow, looks back at my ass as if to check something, then back at me. “You’re bent over my counter wearing leggings so tight I can see your panty line. You’re lucky I just checked it out and resisted the urge to smack it.”
I drop my mouth open in mock-horror. “Excuse me? I’m not one of your date night airheads, you know. You even think about slapping my ass and you’re in trouble.”
Owen looks at me keenly, eyes full of mischief. “That sounds like a challenge. Are you daring me?”
My mouth falls open again. “Don’t even think about—”
Owen’s hand hits my ass so loudly it seems to echo around his kitchen like a thunderclap. I let out a yelp that’s more a breathy moan than a cry of pain, and as the sharp sting subsides I remain there, eyes locked on his, my mouth still open mid-sentence. Owen’s smile is gone, the sweet, warm face of a friend is gone. In its place are the narrowed eyes and tightened jaw of a man who’s just made up his mind. My pulse kicks up a few notches.
Incapable of thinking str
aight, stunned into the present moment, all I can say is, “Your hand is still on my ass.”
“I don’t see you rushing to move away,” Owen says, his voice different, somehow darker with the low graininess of intent. “Though you’re more than welcome to.”
I don’t move a muscle. His hand moves across my ass cheek, slow and deliberate, fingers achingly close to my pussy. He squeezes and I try to remember that this is wrong, try to remember that we’re work colleagues, try to remember that we’re just friends, but all that stuff feels as irrelevant as a past life. All I want is this, his hand searching my body slowly, up over my hip and then back down. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes close involuntarily, and as I push back against his palm I realize I’m still drunk—or at least I tell myself that, because this feels so good I need an excuse not to stop.
His rough palm moves under my shirt, thumb exploring the concave of my spine. I arch my back and feel sparks exploding, an electric shock from his touch. When I let out a deep sigh of pleasure, he pulls me toward him so fast that my eyes are still closed as I feel his lips press on mine—urgent and demanding and so hot I can hardly stand it.
I’ve never been kissed like this before. The way Owen tongue-fucks me makes my heart thump in my chest, heat gathering between my thighs, my breasts swelling against his imposing torso. He presses me back against the counter roughly and I grasp at his sides, pulling his shirt from his jeans to run my hands up the planes of his abs. Sirens explode in the depths of my mind telling me to stop, but they’re drowned out by our heavy breathing as we suffocate on each other, they’re drowned out by the rustling of his shirt as I claw downward at the indents of his hips.
Voices wrestle in my head as Owen wrestles with my ass, pulling me closer, crushing me against him as if he wants to feel as much of my body as he can at once. Even as my mind pulls back, my body decides otherwise, and I wrap my legs around him, Owen’s hands sliding under my thighs.
