by Zoey Castile
“All the single ladies,” my mind hums.
Single ladies. That’s when it hits me. “I’d love to but I have a work thing.”
“On a Saturday night? Where’s that New York hospitality you never hear about?”
My fifth alarm goes off.
My mind is frazzled, tugging between the mess in my apartment and the potential in the hallway.
“Say yes,” my heart urges.
He has a sequin thong in his laundry bag. And a girl’s shirt. DO NOT ENTER, my mind practically screams.
When there’s a war between my heart and my mind, then my mind always wins.
“I really have to go,” I say.
I’m too old to date guys like this, anyway. He just got home at seven in the morning after partying. Then, a ray of light hits the beautiful stranger standing in my hallway. It’s downright angelic, is what it is. He doesn’t even look tired. His eyes have a mischievous glint, like one night with him could turn my world upside down. His body is tan and the sweat that’s dried on his skin fills my senses. His lips—they’re full and slightly parted as he patiently waits for me to close the door. His foot taps ever so slightly, and it’s the only sign that he’s perhaps nervous. But then I see something else that adds to the decision that, no, I should not be seeing a guy like this. I did not imagine the glimmer in his eyes. The glimmer is, in fact, everywhere.
“Also, you have glitter on your neck,” I say.
He looks confused for a moment, then gives me an understanding closed-lip smile. An understanding that the glitter had to come from somewhere, someone. He nods again and watches me close the door.
“You know where I live if you change your mind,” he says quickly.
After I shut the door I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I look through the peephole and my heart gives a little tug because he’s still standing there. He looks like he might knock again, but he hesitates. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. He picks up his laundry and shoulders the weight, grabbing his duffel bag with his free hand.
Then he’s gone.
I don’t have time to pine for him, even though a sick, twisted, sexually deprived part of me wants to.
But my phone goes off again. This time it’s not my alarm. It’s my best friend, Lily, calling. Lily teaches in the classroom next to mine. I told her if I wasn’t in the teachers’ lounge by seven thirty, to call me.
I let the phone go to voice mail, and hurriedly pour the salvaged coffee into my travel mug. I rummage through my laundry while scalding my tongue with coffee. It’s okay. Taste buds are overrated. So are hot men with glitter on their necks and bedazzled thongs and women’s clothes in their laundry.
I shoot Lily a text. Traffic! Cover for me, please!
Lily responds with a side-eye emoji. Hurry up. Principal Platypus is patrolling the halls.
That’s when I see it, and an involuntary grin spreads across my face.
At the top of my laundry stack is my favorite red spring dress.
I put it on.
FALLON
“She totally went through my clothes,” I tell Yaz when I walk into my apartment.
Yaz, my five-month-old husky pup, barks in response. She runs around the laundry I drop at the foot of my bed. I take my clothes off on the way to the bathroom, leaving a bread-crumb trail for no one. Once upon a time, this Prince Charming wouldn’t be coming home alone after a night of work. Wouldn’t have gotten turned down for a “work thing.”
“ ‘Also, you have glitter on your neck,’” I say, trying to mimic 6A’s voice. It isn’t high-pitched, the way her sweet, soft face gives the impression it would be. It’s a perfect, rough alto. The kind of voice I can picture whispering dirty nothings in my ear.
Having spent the night surrounded by hundreds of women with high-pitched screams, the sound of her voice is a welcome reprieve.
I kick off my sweatpants and run the water. I’ve started a downside list of living in New York. My place in Boston was brand-new and three times as big for the same price. Astoria’s got its charm, I suppose. Greek coffee and baklava at any time of the day is a pretty sweet deal.
Downside #1 is that it takes five minutes for the water to turn hot. I love hot showers, and I’m not just talking about the times I have someone in there with me. I’m talking scalding-hot water. Feel the steam in my pores. Feel my muscles unwind after a night of acrobatics.
It’s the only way I feel clean after having bills shoved down my pants. Don’t get me wrong. I love money. I love having it launched at me from willing MILF hands, fingers that have mapped every inch of my hard-earned muscles. I work for that paper. But I still need a shower.
Fucking glitter. Ruining my life one sparkle at a time.
I scrub my face and neck, knowing how hard it is to get rid of this stuff. Glitter is the herpes of the makeup world. On that note, I think of 6A in her pretty silk kimono instead.
Wrong. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.
Her in that robe was the hottest wet dream I’ve ever had come to life; it was a gift from the gods themselves. She kept pulling it tighter around her full breasts and tiny waist, like she thought I had X-ray vision. I wish I’d been able to say something clever.
Well, if I’m wishing for stuff, I’d wish that she’d said yes. I pause and marvel at that. She said no to me. I must be losing my edge.
After a night of “yeses” I finally have one no. And it sucks. I haven’t had a girl turn me down since I shot up a foot and had my braces removed in the eleventh grade.
I push the bath curtain aside and pull the cabinet mirror toward me. I wipe away some of the steam and take a look at myself. I’ve got some serious dark circles under my eyes. I resigned myself a long time ago to a life of sleeping in the day and working at night. It’s part of the glamorous life I live.
I wink at my own reflection. That wink has gotten me out of speeding tickets, brought in thousands of dollars in tips, and earned me passing grades up until I dropped out of high school. There was a time when I didn’t have to say a single word to get a date. A wink, a smile, and it was over.
Zac Fallon, lady-killer. Not literally, of course.
What has New York City done to me? I don’t have the attention span. I work, I go home, I go to the gym, I go to work again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
My buddy Ricky likes to remind me that at thirty, I’m over the hill. Ricky himself is thirty-nine, but still thinks like a horny nineteen-year-old. Maybe I am old. Maybe I look tired. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I’m just not for her.
As if sensing my distress, Yaz barks from the living room.
I push the mirror back into place, leaving a soapy trail on the glass.
Once I’ve rinsed the glitter out of my pores, I replay my interaction with 6A. Incredulous. Judgey. She was so fucking judgey. You know what? I probably dodged a bullet with that one. There’s no point in getting tangled up with someone when I don’t know how long I’m going to stay in this shit city.
As the waterfall of metallic New York water washes the suds away, I truly convince myself that I was never interested in her. Not in her high cheekbones that turned perfectly pink when I winked at her. Not in the thick, long black hair that tumbled around her shoulders like waterfalls of ink. Not even in the round and perky tits she kept trying to cover with that flimsy robe.
I hope she’ll wear the red dress.
I turn off the faucet and watch the tiny whirlpools of suds and glitter run down the drain.
“Fuck.” I’m hard. I’m hard just thinking about her in that silk robe. In that red dress. I don’t even know her name and I’m hard as fuck.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good hard-on. I spent six hours with hordes of women grabbing at my dick and nothing happened. There was a time ten years ago when the touch of a woman, any woman, during one of my sets would have me saluting my flag.
That went away right quick. Self-control and all that.
But here I am, like a maypole reaching toward the s
ky, and I blame her. Judgey, rude, messy, gorgeous, sexy—
She wasn’t just the girl who stole my laundry. She was the girl who saw right through me. My dick is a fucking masochist.
I turn the water back on. Hotter this time so steam can rise. It’s been a while. Not because I don’t have opportunity. I always have the opportunity. But because, lately, I feel worn and torn most of the time.
I groan into the rising mist. I rub my hand up and down my shaft. I hold on tighter to myself and to the fleeting memory of a woman who doesn’t want me. Think of the way her nipples pushed against silk. If that thin tie had come undone around her waist I would’ve been able to see everything that she was hiding.
“Oh shit,” I grunt, and shiver despite the heat, releasing my load into the drain as 6A’s full dick-sucking lips come to mind.
When my legs stop trembling, and the water rinses me clean (well, relatively clean), I dry off and jump into bed. Tomorrow is the beginning of June, and the New York chill refuses to let go. I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about the fact that the hottest girl I’ve seen in this city has been living one floor above me. Then, I think about work—there’s so much that needs to get done. So much to decide. The show gets bigger every day. . . .
Yaz barks, then climbs up on my chest and passes out. At least Yaz wants me.
Rick and the club will have to wait until Monday. I haven’t had more than three days off in a row, let alone a weekend, in about five years. I give myself permission to think of 6A once more.
That heart-stopping, breathtaking, world-changing face.
Okay, that’s it. No more. Tomorrow I can forget about her.
Okay, once more. “She could be the girl,” I say, touching the chilly part of my bed. She could keep my sheets warm. She could be a reason to be in this damned city. I could be charming and sweep her off her feet. I can’t wait to see her again.
But another voice, a strange, sensible voice that’s been quiet most of my life, whispers, “No. It’s just the past coming to haunt you. She’s just the girl who took your laundry.”
Zoey Castile was born in Ecuador and raised in Queens, New York. She started writing in her teens and pursued that love in her studies at Hunter College and the University of Montana. For nearly a decade, she worked as a bartender, hostess, and manager in New York City’s nightlife.
You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram @ZoeyCastile.
You can also email her at [email protected].
