by Zoey Castile
Someone.
By the sparkle in Angie’s eye, I know it has to be one of two things: Tessa Thompson in a bikini or the Vegas stripper she’s trying to set me up with. Angie is convinced she’s going to find me a man that’ll quench my dry spell. Sometimes you just go for so long without something that you lose the taste for it. Like dairy. I brace myself for what’s in store.
His voice comes first. Slow as gin, and I know, I just know that when I turn around to look at him, the sight of him won’t disappoint.
“Excuse me, miss. I believe you’re in my seat.”
Angie is smirking like a little kid with a birthday cake all to herself from orchestrating this little encounter. She let me sit down on a chair that was already taken. She never does that. She knows I like to drink in a corner of my own. My seat happens to be occupied by a couple obnoxiously making out. For the first time I notice I’m sitting on the sleeve of a rich blue blazer. Angie must’ve known his jacket was there.
I turn around in my chair and steady myself. The snake coiled in my chest morphs into something different. Something tangled and unsure and a feeling I can’t quite place.
This guy is deliciously rumpled. Like he just rolled out of bed with his dark hair mussed up despite the product I can smell in it. A rebellious chunk flops over his eyes, and he brushes it back with strong, fine hands. His angular jawline and cheekbones were made to chisel gemstones into perfection. His eyes are the clear light brown of my whiskey, and when he blinks, I feel like I could just sit here and count every single one of his thick black lashes.
I recognize the feeling I couldn’t place. Has it really been so long that I couldn’t put a name to it? Two years, to be exact. The word flashes across my eyes like neon strobe lights. WANT. Like candy on days I have a sweet tooth or water during a long hot day.
This is a guy who knows what he’s doing. Knows the way my body reacts to him, turning just so forward. I’m not even meaning to do that, but I’m leaning like a flower thirsty for the sun.
I instantly don’t like this feeling, and I’m going to have to give Angie hell for trying to orchestrate this.
“Sorry,” I say, and start to get up.
“No, no, I can move.” His voice has a treble that thrums across my spine. “Though I will need my jacket back.”
I find myself stuttering. I haven’t stuttered since junior prom, when I was unsure if Jerry Carlson was going to kiss me or not. (He didn’t.) “Th-this jacket?”
I have it in my hand. A soft, expensive fabric. I peek at the brand before I hand it over. I’m doing the thing that Angie tells me I do too quickly. I overanalyze. His suit is easily three grand from head to toe. Shoes that are classic, polished leather. No one wears cufflinks anymore, but he has two simple gold buttons on both sides. Designer watch with a minimalist face around his right wrist, fingernails manicured meticulously and kept short.
If Angie hadn’t told me his profession, I’d play that guessing game she and I have when I let her take me out to “troll for dick” as she puts it, though we always end up getting her a hookup instead. It’s fine with me, and so I developed the guessing game I have going on now.
I would have gone with a hedge fund guy. He’s too happy to be a lawyer, and too well dressed for a tech start-up, and too classic for a musician, or at least one who would be in this hotel when Jazz Fest isn’t clogging up the city’s arteries.
I hand him his jacket blazer, and he extends a hand for me to shake.
“Aiden,” he says.
“Faith,” I say.
“Faith,” he repeats, and the sound of my name on his lips is a ridiculously beautiful thing. “I could use a little bit of that.”
I cringe a little inwardly. I hate pickup lines. I’ve heard most of them. I’ve said all my prayers tonight. Every version of that one about falling from heaven. The men of New Orleans keep thinking I’m angelic, and this one can be added to that pile of cheesy one-liners.
Then when I notice the sad tug at the corner of his lips, I wonder if he’s sincere. Or a very good actor.
He points to the just-vacated seat beside me. “Do you mind?”
I shake my head and try to breathe through the sudden rush of excitement I feel, despite my better judgment. His muscles flex against the stark-white material of his shirt, and just before he sits I can’t help but admire the way his tailored slacks hug perfectly tight buns. Because I can sense Angie smirking, I force myself to look away from the lines of his body. Is it possible for someone to be soft and hard at the same time? I can feel a flush creep up my neck because I picture him stepping out of a fireman uniform or whatever it is he wears onstage. He certainly moves like he’s aware of his body. A sensuality, a gracefulness as he turns to me with his whole self, like I’m the only thing worth looking at. For a flash of a moment, he looks unsure, but it’s only a second. Then he licks a set of full lips, and that image tugs a smile at the corners of my own mouth.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks. That irreverent flop of hair falls over his eyes, and I wrestle with my own desire to reach for it if only to stare into those whiskey eyes. My heart flutters, but then I cross my legs, because so does another part of me.
I bite my bottom lip. I should go home. I should apologize to my mother. But I’m drawn to this handsome stranger in a way I can’t explain.
I have a feeling I might regret this.
So I say yes.
3
Crush
AIDEN
When I saw her, my entire body reacted.
I’ve always loved looking at women. They’re all beautiful in more ways than I can count. My mother taught me that I had to show respect, especially if I was going to try to talk to her, and no matter what the outcome.
This woman, sitting in my seat, was a sight I was not prepared for. My eyes widened at the sleek curve of her profile. An hourglass figure that I’d like to turn in my hands. Her black dress was sensible, elegant, with a playful red sash to accentuate her waist. Delicate. The word danced around my mind as I took in the hair gathered at the base of her neck. With every step I took to get to that bar, I imagined her hair falling down her back if I pulled the pins holding it together.
I was holding my breath right up until I reached her, my heart hammering as I anticipated looking into her eyes. I could see a fraction of her in the mirror, a sliver of a promise I wasn’t sure I was ready to make.
Then I saw Angelique’s mischievous grin as she watched me approach. A Cupid with horns instead of wings.
I start talking to her, and she tells me her name is Faith. Honestly, I’ve been throwing cheesy-ass lines all night. Off my game and all that. But when I hear her name is Faith, it feels like God and the Universe might be trying to tell me something.
“Whatever the lady is drinking,” I tell Angelique.
Faith traces the mouth of her glass, empty, with the drippy remnants of an ice cube sliding back and forth.
“And I’ll take another hurricane,” I say and knock on the marble.
Faith smacks her hands down. “You cannot order that.”
“Why do you guys keep judging my drink of choice?” I say, flashing a smile.
Faith and Angelique share a long stare. It’s the way I might look at a friend. “Do you two know each other?”
Neither of them answer, but my devilishly beautiful bartender says, “I told you. I can’t in good conscience give you the immense sugar crash you’ve had with hurricanes. It’s your—”
“It’s my sixth one of the night,” I say quickly. “But you’ve taken such good care of me. Besides. It’s basically juice I’m drinking.”
“I can’t sit here and watch this happen. Will you let me order you a grown-up drink?”
“Technically, any drink I order is a grown-up drink because I am over twenty-one.”
She smiles again, wide and playful. “Listen, I understand the need for cocktails. They’re pretty. They’re sweet. But when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to r
egret it.”
The way she speaks makes me want to lean in toward her. Everything about her fascinates me. The way she holds her drink with a confident ease. But when she catches me checking out her thick brown legs, she fingers a lock of her hair. Maybe that trip to the bathroom did me good because my head is clear, focused. My dick twitches with instant desire for her, while the rest of me is steady, comfortable. Like her stare is anchoring me here to this moment. I can practically taste the cloud of worry around her, like she just fought with someone. A boyfriend. A friend. Someone important. Whatever it is, it has to be the thing behind her words.
“Are we still talking about a drink?” I ask.
She lifts her chin, watching me defiantly. I can count the smatter of freckles across her cheeks and nose the way I count stars.
“Yes,” she says, in a calm alto voice. “Drinks. Now. I’ll let you buy me a drink if you let me buy you one.”
“Doesn’t that cancel them out?”
She tilts her head. “Isn’t it the gesture that matters?”
“Okay, but I hate the taste of licorice.” I notice the way she crosses her legs tighter. “I’ll eat just about anything else.”
“Drink,” she corrects me, a little ruffled.
But I smile and shrug, leaving her to conjure up whatever image she wants.
I watch as Faith rests her chin on her closed fist. Her eyes are trained on the array of bottles in front of us, and my eyes are trained on her. There’s a tiny freckle on her right jaw, and I find myself overwhelmed with the urge to brush my thumb across it.
Whoa, hey, no. I clear my throat.
This woman is stunning and has me shook in a way I haven’t felt in years. Perhaps ever. But I can’t let myself get carried away.
“Let’s go with a classic,” Faith says. “We are in New Orleans, after all.”
She hasn’t actually said the drink, but Angelique seems to read her mind. While the bartender has her back turned, mixing spirits, Faith and I have a moment to ourselves.
“So, you do know each other.” I leave the statement plainly there.
Faith looks at me with the slightest hint of coyness. There’s a solid gold ring with a garnet stone on her middle finger. It’s the only jewelry she’s wearing other than elegant but simple pearl stud earrings, so I’d wager it’s a family heirloom. She’s not the usual kind of woman I’ve met sitting alone at a bar. She wasn’t searching for someone. Probably got off work and swung by to grab a drink where she knows the bartender. I want to ask her. I want to know why she seems so tense. But that breaks some sort of playbook rule. It must.
“We went to school together, actually,” she says. It took her so long to come up with an answer that I can sense how guarded she is. “Have you been in town long?”
“Not long. I’ve barely left the hotel, actually.” I instantly regret saying that because it leads to more questions I can’t exactly answer.
I tell myself that I’m not working. That I was left here all by myself by a client. I tell myself that I’m not doing anything wrong, because getting to know this woman can’t possibly be wrong.
“You’re in the greatest city in the world,” Faith says. “How have you not left the hotel?”
I make a sound like a record scratching. I tug on my tie until it comes completely undone and turn in my seat to face her. “Excuse me. I’m from the greatest city in the world, and that’s New York. You might have heard of it. There are a bunch of songs about it.”
“Greatest?” She purses her lips and holds up a finger. “So you like paying $4,000 for a closet and $20 for cocktails? No wonder you’re getting your fill of hurricanes here.”
I laugh at her burn. From her lips, it’s not a burn at all. “Actually, I grew up in Queens, so I paid $1,500 for a two bedroom, and where I’m from I don’t drink hurricanes so I can’t tell you if they’re $20.”
It’s her turn to laugh. “Angie said you came from Vegas. You’re not going to defend that place, too?”
Chances are that since they’re such good friends, my favorite bartender must have already told Faith that I dance. It’s a good sign that she’s still talking to me, but I’m going to dive right in and see if I can swim.
“God, no,” I say, edging just a tiny bit closer to her. “I couldn’t cut it, anyway. I danced for a while with Mayhem City. I don’t know if you’ve heard of us, since you don’t know New York is the greatest city in the world, either.”
Her eyes widen, like she’s shocked at my directness. But her smile is so full, so brilliantly real as she laughs that my insides feel a strange tingle.
“I don’t know why but it sounds familiar,” she says, unable to look at me when she continues. “But I’ve never been to a, uh, show.”
When her dark eyes flash back to mine, I hold her gaze and say, “I could always give you a private one.”
She presses her hand on my chest and gives me a little push. “You are too much for your own well-being.”
The pressure of her fingers on my chest is enough to light me up, the pleasure of it settling right in my crotch.
“How long have you danced?” she asks.
“Since I was eighteen.” I never talk to women like this. Yeah, one of my rules is honesty, but for the most part they never ask. They just want to go straight to the goods, and I’m usually okay with that. “I never had it in me to be something terrible like a lawyer or a—wait, are you a lawyer? Did I just totally fuck this up?”
She looks down, and her insanely pretty lashes rest on her cheeks when she smiles. “No, I’m not. I’m between jobs.”
“Well, I’m glad we have that in common.”
Do you ever get several voices in your head all at once? Sometimes when I’m doing something I know I shouldn’t be doing, that voice sounds like my tía Cecilia. She basically taught me everything about girls that I couldn’t talk to my mother about, and my father, well . . . Tía Ceci was there to rise up to the challenge. She’s always telling me how to treat a girl. Like a queen. Una reina. She has to mean everything to me in that moment. If I’m not feeling it, don’t fake it. The problem is, when I was younger, I wanted everyone to be my queen. Here, right now, I’m more aroused by Faith’s freckles, her eyelashes, than any other woman in this bar. Slow down, the voice says.
Faith’s lashes are a perfect curl, framing narrow eyes as dark as midnight. She takes a breath, a little sigh I want to capture with my mouth. “You’re staring.”
“So are you,” I shoot right back.
Her eyes flick down to her lap. Her body language speaks volumes. She’s not moving from her seat but has swiveled, turning her knees toward me, smooth and polished in the bar’s light. She’s tapping her heeled foot, which tells me she’s just a little bit nervous. A girl like this doesn’t seem to lack confidence, but here she is, avoiding my eyes and smiling all the same.
Angelique brings our drinks around, and I wink at her. I owe her a huge thank-you for introducing me to Faith. I know she’s looking for another dancing gig, and I’ll have to remember to ask my buddy Fallon to look into it.
Faith cocks her head to the side. “What should we toast to?”
I hold my drink level to hers. When I look at Faith, everything feels sharper. Like clouds have parted to reveal her eyes and nose and lips and cheekbones.
“To grown-up drinks,” I say.
“I know what else you should toast to,” Angelique mutters, cleaning a glass with a rag.
The girls look at each other, but Angelique doesn’t share the reason I’m so dressed up even though I’m staying in.
Faith clicks her glass to mine.
My drink is like bitter medicine with muddled fruit and a sugar cube. I don’t love it but I don’t hate it and I wonder if it’s only because she ordered it for me.
“What is this?”
“A Sazerac!” Faith says with gusto. “You should have had one as soon as you got off the plane.”
When I watch her take another swig of her plain o
ld whiskey, I shiver. I’ll drink tequila and rum on their own all day. But there’s something about straight whiskey that is incompatible with me.
“How can you drink that stuff?” I ask, watching her down the amber liquid.
She looks into her glass, I can tell there’s a depth I haven’t even begun to see. “When I was little my dad used to come home from work, walk into his office, and pour himself a glass. Sometimes when he was tired, I’d do it for him. Measure two fingers, he’d say. Well, three for me because I was little. Then I’d fetch one ice cube. No more, no less. I guess I take after him. What about you?”
“My mom didn’t drink. I mean, except for Communion wine. My dad, on the other hand. When he was around, he’d finish a bottle of this stuff, aguardiente. It literally means ‘burning water’ and it tastes like shit. But he’d drink that with orange juice. My mom kicked him out a bunch of times but she just—and wow, sorry. Too personal.” I stare into the abyss of my cocktail to avoid the sympathy I’m sure is swimming in her stare. Why did I tell her that?
“Hey, Angelique,” I say, knocking on the bar. “Is there some sort of truth potion in here?”
Angelique is busy shaking a drink at the other end of the bar. “Yeah, it’s called alcohol.”
Faith’s observing me. Maybe even trying to decide what my game is. A girl as fine as this? She wouldn’t give me the time of day if she knew what I did in addition to dancing . . . the reason I’m stranded in this city for at least a week. I know that I should be more straight up with her. But for a sec, just for a sec, I tell myself that I’m off the clock. Ginny is off with her husband. So I’m just a guy buying a drink for a gorgeous woman I don’t want to pry myself away from.
It’s scary as fuck.
She tucks a strand of her hair back. My heart gives a little thump when I imagine whispering sweet nothings in her ear. I clear my throat and sit back.
“That’s okay. You can tell me your darkest secrets right now and it’ll stay between us,” she says.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because we’re strangers.”
