The Rich Boy

by Scott, Kylie

  “Not a problem. What would you like?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “We’re having a drink together? All right, let me see.” I set up two shot glasses and pour the Don Julio silver tequila. If I hadn’t already cleaned up the bulk of the bar I’d have made us margaritas. But maybe another time. It’s a warm late summer night and tequila feels about right.

  “You’re not messing around,” he says.

  “Nothing says you’re serious like tequila.” We each pick our glasses, clinking them together before downing them in one. The liquor warms my throat all the way down. Shots are always a bit dangerous. But then everything about this man feels dangerous. To my head and my heart and my loins combined.

  He does a little bow. “Now I would like to ask you to dance.”

  “Are you sure we’re up to that? What do the rules say?”

  “Since dancing is basically just hugging and rocking back and forth a little, strictly speaking, we would still be in accordance with the rules. As long as you can restrain yourself from attempting any ass grabbing, that is.”

  “Well, I’ll do my best. But no promises.”

  “May I check out your playlist please, wife?”

  I pass him my phone, wandering around to the other side of the bar. He takes his time selecting a song, smiling, frowning, and even snorting at some of my music choices. Judgey, much? Finally, “You’re the One” by Greta Van Fleet starts playing over the stereo system. You really can’t beat it for a slow rock ballad. He has taste. And I stand there like an idiot, unwilling to make the first move. Again he simply opens his arms in invitation.

  “I’ll try not to step on your toes,” I joke, getting nearer to him.

  “Stomp to your heart’s content. I can take it.”

  Where to touch him…his broad shoulders seem like the safest choice, so I rest my hands lightly there. Meanwhile he slides his arms loosely around my waist. The moment I touch him, enter into his personal space, it’s not awkward anymore. It’s exciting and thrilling and a thousand other things. But not uncomfortable.

  “Don’t forget to leave room for Jesus,” he says.

  Only we don’t. With each sway of our bodies we get closer until any kind of spiritual figure would have definite issues getting between us. But I figure Jesus has better things to do at this hour anyway. After a long night at work, my feet hurt and I probably smell suspect, but none of it matters. My heart beats hard and his arms surround me. I’m exactly where I want to be. Never would I have thought of my workplace as having any hint of a romantic vibe. Only it’s him and me alone again. Anywhere would do.

  “All of Me” by Billie Holiday comes on and we neither stop nor speak. We just keep moving to the music. My hands creep up to the back of his neck where his skin is bare and warm to the touch. His eyes are the most amazing shade of hazel. Like some lovesick fool I could stare into them for hours. I don’t think I’ve slow danced with someone since high school. Don’t get me wrong, there have been memorable times in my adult life. I’ve been given roses and taken to dimly lit restaurants. But being here with him is quickly becoming peak romance.

  Next is “Lover” by Taylor Swift and we dance on. He doesn’t try to kiss me so I don’t make a move either. There’s no need for more just yet. Doing this, being this close, is beautiful. I want about a hundred more moments like this with him. Possibly a great deal more.

  When the music stops, we gradually still. And there’s this moment when it’s just me and him and the city around us seems perfectly silent. How good it is to simply be in his arms and to have the full focus of his attentions. To know that maybe, just maybe, I’m safe here with him. The chambers of my heart fill up with him, one by one, and it’s both wonderful and terrifying.

  “That was nice,” he says in a low voice.

  “Yes, it was.”

  He looks down, taking in the way our bodies are pressed together. “Baby Jesus would be appalled.”

  “I do so hate disappointing infant gods.”

  “You know, fifty years from now we’re going to look back on tonight and you’re going to regret not taking the opportunity to feel me up,” he says. “Just going for it and grabbing my junk like you own it.”

  “Oh my God, Beck.” I laugh. “That was such a perfect romantic moment and you just killed it.”

  “I did?”

  “Dead and buried.”

  He scratches at his head. “Well, shit. I was only being honest.”

  “Of course you were.”

  With a smile, he takes a step back. I miss him immediately. The heat and the feel of him. Maybe I should have taken him home last night. Though this slower pace has a sweetness and heat I can’t help but enjoy. Despite the crazy things that come out of his mouth and the insane cravings he inspires in me just by existing. Damn the man.

  “So,” he says.

  I break out in gooseflesh from the way he looks at me. As if not only am I the only woman in the room (which I am), but quite possibly on the whole damn planet. As I’ve mentioned before, his attention is addictive.

  “How about I get the mopping done and then take you on a second date to the diner?” he asks. “See if I can’t bring the romance back to our burgeoning long-term relationship.”

  “A second date, huh?”

  “It’s a big step, I know. But I think we’re ready. What do you think?”

  I nod, my stomach turning upside down. “Let’s do it.”

  The more time we spend together, the more I feel and the harder I fall. It’s inevitable. The next night after work, we grab some pizza and walk through downtown. This has fast turned into a habit, us spending time together after work. Delaying the moment when we both go our separate ways. And yet I still haven’t invited him home and he’s made no further moves. Maybe if we don’t rush things he’ll grow to like the place and/or me and stay a while. That would be nice. Though there’s also the faint fear that if we have sex then all of this amazing thrilling sexual tension will disappear. We’ll be nothing more than two strangers who happen to have seen each other naked and in potentially awkward positions. Hookups are all well and good. But when it comes to him, I want more.

  “I think I need that shirt,” he says, nodding to a shop window.

  “You don’t find the mix of fluorescent leopard and zebra print somewhat aggressive?”

  “But they have a dress in that print too. We could match.”

  “That would be something.”

  “And we’d never lose each other in a crowd.”

  “True.” I oh-so-gracefully deal with a string of cheese attached to my chin. In the next shop window are a selection of formal gowns. All of them sleek and beautiful and so not my size. “For a while when I was little I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I suck at sewing. No patience for it at all.”

  “Ah.”

  “But I would draw all of these pictures and Mom and I would look through fashion magazines and sites together. It was one of our bonding things. That and books.”

  High up above, the moon peaks out from behind gray clouds. Being with Beck is, as always, enjoyable. The flow of conversation comes easy as if we’re old friends. Then there’s the way he watches me…it’s safe to say my needs are growing. “Want” is too small and passive a word. I need to crawl all over him, to feel his heat and taste his skin. No matter my fears, it may be time to heed the call to action and make a move. I’ll overthink it first for a while just to be sure.

  “What did you want to be when you were growing up?” I ask, dragging my mind out of his pants.

  His grin is wide. “Professional skateboarder.”

  “Cool. Were you good at it?”

  “I know my way around a half pipe.”

  “So what changed your mind?” I ask.

  The line between his brows returns. I hate that line. He stares out at the palm trees and sighs. “It’s just a stupid kid’s dream, right? Li
ke wanting to be an astronaut or a fireman. You grow up and realize that’s not how life works. Just because you like the idea of something doesn’t mean you’ve got what it takes to make it to the top in that field.”

  “I don’t know about that. Don’t people now have three to five different careers over the course of their lives?” I ask. “You said you already changed the road you were on. What’s another diversion if it leads to possible future happiness?”

  “Pretty sure even busboys earn more than most skateboarders.”

  “You may have a point.” I wave my fist at the sky. “Damn you, adulthood, with all of your inevitable debt and bills and endless cycles of existential crises.”

  He smiles. I made him smile. Victory.

  A big fat drop of water hits my cheek. Sure enough, the heavens open and down comes the rain. We run for cover beneath the shop awnings. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have taunted the gods.”

  “Perhaps not,” he says.

  “If skateboarding isn’t your destiny, then where do you see yourself in ten years?”

  He makes a humming noise. Much thinking is obviously going on. “Sitting on a porch with you watching our children frolic in the front yard.”

  “Oh, we’re having children now, are we?”

  “Guess that’s up to you.”

  I shake my head. “This time answer the question seriously.”

  “Okay.” He sighs. “The grim reality is, I’ll probably be back in Denver working for the family business.”

  “The one you’re currently AWOL from?”

  “Yep. This pleasant break from all of the bullshit will end eventually. I’ll go back and do what’s expected of me.” And he doesn’t look happy about it either. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d like to do some post-grad study. But the cost involved…” I let the thought dwindle away. One day I’ll figure it out and find my motivation. Stop being the runt of the family. My brother is in IT and is doing great. But then, he was always top of his science classes. Meanwhile, I had my nose in a book and my head in the clouds. Real life can be hard for a dreamer who lives mostly inside their own head. Or maybe it’s just bouncing back from disappointments that takes longer. Hard to move forward when your mind has a penchant for torturing you by reliving your worst moments and undermining your confidence. Sometimes I really am my own worst enemy. One day I’ll grow up, get a better job, and be a great success. Make my parents proud. Anytime now would be good.

  I finish the slice of pizza and commence wiping my greasy fingers with a paper napkin. Oh, awesome. An oil spot marks the front of my pale blue shirt.

  “Come here.” He catches my chin, carefully wiping beside my lips with his own napkin. “Wife, you’re a hot mess. Emphasis on hot.”

  Maybe this is it. Maybe now he’ll finally make his move. After all, you couldn’t ask for a more romantic setting. Rain and misty streetlights. Just me and him and a whole sleeping city. Apart from the drunk down the way shouting out lyrics to a Led Zeppelin song. Someone yells at him to shut up from a nearby building. Such is LA.

  “But that song’s a California classic,” I murmur.

  “Like and/or lust in her eyes and tomato sauce on her lips.”

  “At least it’s not in my hair.” And we’re standing so close, but all I want is to get closer. The man makes me greedy. “Beck?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Stuff. Important stuff.”

  “Oh, really?” I smile. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  His gaze fixes on my mouth, pupils large and dark. “Kiss you?”

  “Yes.”

  He brushes the pad of his thumb slowly over my bottom lip. Such a small touch yet it echoes through me making every nerve ending sing. This man is magic. He licks his lips and I can almost taste him, I swear.

  “I should,” he says, his breath leaving him on a sigh. “But I’m not going to. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Instead, he takes me in his arms, fitting his long strong body to mine. Of course, this is all nice and good and even beginning to get a little familiar. The scent of him and the way he rests his cheek on top of my head. I tighten my arms around his waist, pressing myself up against him. In response, one of his hands slides down my back, grabbing hold of my ass. Nothing subtle about the move, but I don’t mind. We’re as wound around each other as we can manage on a city street. As close as we can be while fully dressed.

  “I will kiss you,” he whispers in my ear. “When the time is exactly, perfectly, without a doubt, right.”

  “That’d better be soon.”

  “It will be.”

  Here’s the thing…dick is, generally speaking, readily available. What’s rarer is liking the person with the appendage. It presents something of a quandary if you’re attempting a simple straightforward sort of existence. Not that I know what I’m doing with my life. Let’s not pretend I have a clue. But wanting to talk, spend quality time together, as opposed to just playing naked before moving on, is tricky. Sex becomes much less meaningless when you grow feelings for the guy. When you can’t stop thinking about him and want to know his opinion about pretty much everything.

  And that’s a little scary because feelings are the worst.

  Then there’s the complication of us working together. Though, to be fair, it might not be an actual impediment so much as me searching for reasons to try and slow down my head and my heart. Any opportunity to guard against future hurt has, however, long since passed. Let’s be honest.

  “Food?” he asks as I lock the back door.

  We’ve known each other for four days and we already have a coupledom routine. This is crazy.

  “Wife,” he says, placing a hand low on my back. “You’re frowning. What can I do?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  Further revealing my various neuroses and assorted fears regarding his interest in me won’t help anything. I shake my head, shove the keys into my handbag, and tell him a lie. “It was a busy night, is all.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  Unresolved sexual tension fills the dark alley along with the scent of garbage. He smiles and, as usual, my stomach turns upside down and inside out. It’s messy and gravity defying, the effect he has on me. If only he didn’t make me feel things outside of the crotch region. Life would be so much simpler. I don’t believe in love at first sight or even within the first few weeks of acquaintance, to be honest. It’s too Hollywood. Too extreme. Yet while I’m not exactly sure what this is, it feels important. And given we both have the next two days off, now is the time to figure it out.

  “Are you up to being wooed over ketchup and fries? Or we don’t have to go to the diner,” he says. “I mean, if you’re not in the mood or whatever. We could do something else. Go for pizza again or take another walk on the beach, maybe?”

  My brain has stalled. I have nothing. “Um…”

  “Or I can just walk you to your car, if you want. Say good night.” Now he’s frowning too. It’s contagious, apparently. “Say something, Alice. You’re making me nervous and I’m not used to it.”

  “Which is weird given how it’s basically my state of being.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I’m just…I’m thinking. I need a minute.”

  “One minute.” He holds his plastic wristwatch up to his face. “And…go.”

  “Very funny,” I mumble.

  Beck doesn’t own a car. He says he doesn’t need one. When he decides it’s time to move on, he just catches a bus or train into the next town. In the meantime, he’s living in a hostel nearby. Further proof that this is all temporary. A dalliance. An opportunity only open to me for a limited amount of time so I should make the most of it while I can. That would be the smart thing to do. Thinking about how much I’ll probably miss him when he’s gone would be less smart, however, yet unavoidable for various reasons.

 
What are my options? If I’d never met him that would have been sad. He makes me laugh. Hell, the last few days I’ve actually looked forward to work. And attempting to friend zone him would never have succeeded. The thirst is real. Though even in that impossible instance, it still would have sucked when he left. I think my anxiety has now mentally covered every possible scenario between us. Enough of the dithering.

  I take a deep breath. “I’ve reached another decision.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Yes,” I say. “The time has come. I think we should just fornicate and be done with it… Beck?”

  Only he’s not listening.

  Instead, he’s staring over my head into the nearby parking lot that the alley leads to. A shiny luxury SUV sits beneath the one lone crappy light. Many is the night I’ve run to my car terrified of stalkers. From the back of the car emerges a man with a silver head of hair wearing a three-piece suit. Someone else waits in the driver’s seat, barely visible behind the dark tinted glass.

  Beck’s jaw firms, a muscle popping out on the side. He is not a happy camper.

  The stranger just stands there, watching us. Until finally, he speaks. “I didn’t think you’d want me to come inside.”

  A grunt from Beck.

  “If you’d have answered your cell, I wouldn’t have had to come.”

  “Got rid of it months ago,” says Beck. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it pretty clear I wanted to be left alone.”

  “You did, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He sighs heavily before walking closer. An unimpressed gaze takes me in for all of a second before returning to the man at my side. Brows drawn in tight, he says, “Beck, your father…”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Oh no.

  “What?” Beck stiffens. “How? When?”

  “Eight days ago of a heart attack,” the man reports, not unsympathetically. “It was quick; he didn’t suffer.”

  Beck just shakes his head. I slip my hand into his and his fingers tighten on mine. Like he needs something or someone to hold on to.

  “It took us a while to find you.” The man inhales, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “You need to come home. They’re delaying the funeral for you, but they can’t wait much longer.”