by S. L. Scott
“For you, anything.” I kiss the top of her head right before she steps up and we order.
The small leather couch in the window by the Christmas tree is open and she beelines for it. We settle down, facing each other. She takes a sip of coffee, then asks, “What made you text me today?”
“I missed you.” With my leg anchored on the cushion, I’m not even sure if she knows she’s doing it, but her hand finds its way over, her fingertips rubbing back and forth. Dirty thoughts of those fingers rubbing something else come to mind. Grabbing her hand, I rest mine on hers. It feels so snug, though damn cold. “Geez, you’re like an icicle.”
That breaks any mushiness that was ballooning between us and we laugh. Pulling her hand back, she says, “Yeah, sorry about that. I need to buy a pair of gloves. I lost mine on the subway a week ago.”
I take her hands back from her lap and placing them between mine, I gently rub, creating just enough friction to warm her up. And you’re welcome. I set myself up with that usage of friction, but didn’t go there like I could have. Holding my crude comments might be another side effect of the chemical imbalance Virginia causes in me. Though she might consider it a positive side effect, the guys would call me pussy-whipped. I wouldn’t consider that such a negative though either.
When her hands feel warm, I release mine, and ask, “Better?”
“Much.” Staring at me, she swallows hard and suddenly tension is present.
“What happened?”
“Why did you do that?”
“Warm your hands up?”
“Yes.”
“Because they were cold.”
With her coffee cup in hand, she turns to the window, shifting so her arm rests on the back of the sofa. Watching the snowfall, she says, “I love the snow, the quiet, the coziness of being inside, and building snowmen.” When her gaze turns back to me, she looks sad. “People here are too busy to appreciate the joy in the simple things.”
“I do.”
“I’m discovering that’s true. Is that the key to happiness?”
“Being content is the key to happiness. Appreciating what you have, instead of wishing you had more.”
“You ever wanted what you can’t have?”
Dragging the pad of my thumb over my bottom lip, I think about it. “Only once.”
“What do you want that you can’t have, Hardy?”
She hangs on every second as it spans between us, I look her straight in the eyes, and say, “It’s bad luck to share your wishes.”
The anticipation leaves her shoulders and she sinks against the couch. Letting her head roll to the side, she says, “I guess we should go.”
Looking at my empty cup, I nod. “Yeah, I guess.”
Out on the sidewalk, I ask, “How are you getting home?”
“Subway.”
Looking at the time, it’s almost ten. “I’d feel better if you took a cab.”
“Are you worried about me, Mr. Richard?”
“I do worry about you. I also worry about your girls and why you refuse to give them the support they want.”
“My boobs hate being trapped by that cruel underwire, so I think it’s you who hates to see them carefree and happy.”
“Trust me, there’s nothing I hate about your breasts other than guys staring at them.”
Grabbing her coat and pulling it tighter to her, she laughs. “No worrying about that in winter. Hey, before you leave, we’re still on for Saturday?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I step closer, closing the gap. “I missed you.”
Surprised by the turn in my tone, she looks up in curiosity. “You said that.”
“I wanted you to remember it. I want it to be the first thing you think of when you think of tonight.”
Her arms slide around my middle and she squeezes as my arms come around her, holding her close. She says, “I missed you too.”
Our usual goodbye begins with getting her safely into a cab and sending her on her way. I grab a taxi to take me back to Brooklyn instead of waiting around watching her taillights disappear into the dark down the city street.
Right when I get comfortable in the back of a warm cab, I get a text from her: I miss you already.
Leaning back, I smile, then respond: I miss you too, V.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday can’t come soon enough. I know. This is not real. Virginia’s made it more than clear that she wants another guy, but the next lesson is the one I’ve been waiting for. Well, besides the final lesson.
All sex aside, though I’ll use my skills to the best of my ability, she said being with me was easy. I feel like I’m always finding my way back to that word. As much as I’ve been saying it’s not easy being around her, it’s just because I want her in ways that she doesn’t want me. That makes it hard, literally all the time for me.
She’s right though. It’s easy to sit with her. It’s easy to talk to her. It’s easy to feel good around her. She makes me smile. She challenges me in ways that are unexpected—like the going without a bra thing. That befuddles me on a different level. It’s like she’s this vixen waiting to break free and has handed me the key to open the door.
Twenty-four hours until I put that key in the lock, but will it unleash her desires or set her free to be with another guy? It’s a risk she’s asked me to take without even realizing the risks involved.
Two lessons left to win her body.
Two lessons left to win her heart.
I will win the title, the grand prize, and all the blue ribbons. This is the Olympics of seduction, the final lap around the track. Do or die time. I’m determined to come out on top . . . or bottom, or from behind. I bet she’ll like it from behind.
* * *
Friday night at The Hideaway is always busy. The hookups are happening early and the crowd is spirited. Three of us—Romeo, Clive, and myself—are covering the bar and Eddie’s working the tables tonight—not something we usually do, but our bussing crew is late. Hiring more people is another thing on my never-ending list of things to do.
Cocktailing is fun. It’s entertaining. It makes money. It’s a skill that not everyone has. If they’re reading recipes, they need to go back down to the minors. We’re too busy to be looking up how much Angostura bitters goes in a Manhattan or white rum goes in a piña colada. Bartending is a profession and I expect my tenders to treat it as such. That is why I have low turnover. They are treated with respect and paid well. What they do on their breaks or how they get the customers back in the door is on them. As long as it’s legal, I’m good.
Clive lays down a line of lemon drops for a group of friends on a girls’ night. Romeo is down at the other end serving a group of guys out for a good time who are eyeing the girls. I hear him telling them to buy the ladies their drinks and then to introduce themselves before he has the pleasure. “Once they meet me, you have no chance.”
His arrogance is well backed by years of having it reaffirmed. He’s not called Romeo for nothing. His parents called it the minute they met him. The ladies have been falling for him ever since.
As for me, something’s got to change. I need to spend less time working in the front or less in the back, but doing both is wearing me down. I think it’s time to have a full-time manager come on board. Eddie’s always been my right hand man without complaint. I’ll meet with him soon to give him the news he’s been working for.
I check on the far end of the bar where two women have been waiting longer than I like. “Sorry about the wait. What can I get you?”
I’ve seen the light haired brunette before. Somewhere, though I can’t place it. Her lips are fire engine red and draw my attention. As her tongue dips out, she leans against the bar. Our eyes meet, hers looking me over before she asks, “What do you recommend?”
Normally I’d rattle off my standard for women with her hair—rum and coke, but I have a feeling she’s not looking for that drink tonight. Her confidence exudes the bright lip color, so I take a guess, “Vodka martini?
”
“Extra olives?”
“You got it.”
Her friend wants the same, so I get to concocting their drinks. I overhear her friend talking to her about the latest episode of the reality show red-lips is on. That’s where I’ve seen her. I’m not one to watch a lot of tele but I have a few guilty pleasures and trash TV at 3:30 a.m. is the perfect sedative after a long shift. I put five olives in each glass and then pour the liquid over the top. When I set the drinks down in front of them, red lips says, “Extra dirty. Just how I like it.”
My feelings may be all mixed up after meeting Virginia, but I’m not dense. I know a come on when I hear it and just as I’m about to slip into my old lines now and maybe her later, I realize my mind is blank.
No lines.
No funny comebacks.
No sexual innuendoes.
Holy shit. Am I broken?
Two weeks ago I was happily chugging along minding my own business except when a pretty woman wanted me to mind hers. Now, PMV—post meeting Virginia—I’m standing in front a celebrity—although minor fame—she’s gorgeous and hitting on me and I have no response other than, “Keep the tab open?”
Her expression falls. A credit card is handed to me, and she replies, “Thanks.”
When I turn around and enter her card into the register, the women start talking to each other again, “I heard he was easy.”
Easy?
There’s that damn word again, but used in a way I never thought I’d hear in regard to me.
Red lips whispers, “I heard he was the best. I want the best.”
“He doesn’t seem interested.”
Her huff is heard and I move to the other end of the bar. Tapping Clive on the shoulder, I say, “Take over the two at the end for me.”
Leaning back, he glances down the long line of the bar, then back to me. With his eyebrow cocked, he asks, “You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
While filling a pint glass, he keeps tabs on them. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing.” I chuckle, restocking the wine glasses.
“But they’re hot and you’re tossing them to me?”
“They have their own minds, you know. I can’t toss them to anyone. I’m just not interested.”
“Why not?”
“Clive,” I gripe. “Enough. Will you take care of them or not?”
“Sorry,” he says, with his hands up. “I’ll take over.”
My annoyance has reached a peak, but I try to blow it off and calm down. “Thank you.”
“It’s almost sad to see it go, but I’m happy for you.” He claps me on the back and takes someone’s order.
I set another pitcher down for the guys at the end, and then add it to their tab. When Clive turns to ring up the drinks, I ask, “See what go?”
“Your pride. Your drive. The good times. We’ll remember them fondly. You fought hard, my friend, but it’s time to surrender.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Rule number two.”
“Pfft. Rule number two is firmly in place. Like stronger than ever. My feelings don’t even dip into that lake, much less swim there.”
“Would that be the lake of love? You sure you’re not already skinny dipping with your heart on your sleeve?”
“Positive.” Pretty sure. Maybe. Not at all. “Fuck.” I walk out from behind the bar and head for the office. “Cover me, Eddie.”
“Will do.”
I don’t turn on the light in the office when I enter. I like the dark. The little lights from technology are enough to find my way to my desk. Sitting down, I drop my head into my hands. When did it happen? When did I succumb to something I never gave any credence to? When did I fall?
It’s not about when I fell, but how I catch myself. I dig my phone from my pocket and send a text to a friend.
The reservation is set at one of the best restaurants in New York City. It’s good to have friends in the business. After confirming, I text Virginia: Kat & Theo at 8?
It’s not what I wanted to type. I wanted to drop a whole confessional of sinful thoughts I’d had about her, thoughts that included that dreaded four-letter word. Not fuck though it’s my favorite, but the one that starts with L and ends with an E. I didn’t though because I may be falling apart at the seams, but I still have my dignity.
Lessons in love. That’s all this is. Teach her so she can seduce the asshole from work. I bang my head against my wood desk. Then my phone dings with a message and I’m quick to look to see if it’s her. It is! Success. I read: I’ve always wanted to go there. See you then.
See you then. I return the message a little too eagerly for my liking but what the hell. I had already blown my image of Mr. Cool the minute I agreed to her crazy plan.Setting my phone in front of me, I rub my hands over the scruff of my beard, then reach over and turn on the lamp. A knock comes too soon, and I say, “Come in.”
Eddie peeks in. “The bussers showed up, so I’m back behind the bar. I brought in an extra bar back as well. He just got here.”
“That’s good. Hey Eddie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. It’s probably not a great time since we’re busy, but I want you to think about moving into a manager position. Let me know your thoughts and we can discuss the details on Sunday when we both work.”
Blinding white teeth are revealed when his smile grows. “Thanks, boss.”
“Save the flirting for the ladies and get back out there.”
“Will do.”
The door shuts and as much as I want to spend more time moaning about my love life and the problems a cute little brunette has caused, I can’t. It feels good to reward people who deserve it. And really? If life was that bad, I wouldn’t have Virginia in my life at all, so I think I have it pretty damn good right now. Even if she is driving me mad.
I turn the lamp off, pocket my phone, straighten my vest and collar, and get back to work. It’s not called Hardy’s Hideaway for nothing.
* * *
What is this feeling?
I ran an extra two miles when I woke up today on what felt like pure adrenaline, but I do a few jumping jacks to shake this onslaught coursing my veins. When I stop, my breathing is harsher, but nope, still there.
In the bathroom, I take a closer look at my face. I’ve got color, so I stick out my tongue. Pink, like always. “Ahhhhh.” Opening my mouth wide, I try to look at the back of my throat. Looks normal.
What’s wrong with me? I haven’t felt like this in years. Then, like a V-8, it hits me smack dab on the forehead. Nerves. More precisely, I’m nervous or anxious. I never did understand the difference, much to the contempt of my private school teachers. They swore to me I’d need to know this one day and here I am, using them interchangeably. They were right. Maybe I should track them down and let them know . . . What the fuck? Why am I rambling like this? Oh, the nerves. That’s right.
Why am I nervous?
It’s Virginia. Just lesson three. We’ve been here before. The first night we met I was touching her soft skin and causing those sweet heart-shaped lips to form that O from ecstasy. I can’t wait to feel her heat and taste her desire again. I have absolutely no reason to be nervous. The last two lessons are my specialty. This is where I shine.
My skills in the bedroom are as good as my word. I always keep my promise and like The Hideaways motto—they always come, and always want to come back for more. That motto didn’t invent itself. It came from years of experience and attention to detail. One taste and women were coming back in droves and bringing their friends. Look, I know what you’re thinking. We aren’t male prostitutes and we’re not hooking up with everyone. The Hideaway is a place where women and men gather and meet. There’s no pretension or judgment you find at a lot of the bars in Manhattan. So the clientele is hooking up with each other and we’ve had six marriages in the last two years.
For me personally, it’s been a matter of that connection I spoke to Virginia about. A little
human touch is good for the soul. I’m not screwing all of Brooklyn, but if I was, I still sleep like a baby at night. I’m okay with who I am. Well, I was . . . until Virginia and now I’m a mess.
I do twenty jumping jacks and fifty pushups before getting in the shower to help relieve some of the pressure aka nerves. Thinking about that sexy little kneecap does the trick. I never saw it the first time we were together, so this photo teases in the best of ways of all the body parts I’ve never seen that she’s blessed with.
Extra time is spent getting ready as if this is a date. Virginia made it clear it was “almost like a date.” Highly disappointing.
On top of the “almost like a date” comment, I’m sitting here in my apartment completely dressed with nothing to do but worry about how this night and maybe the rest of the nights of my life are going to play out. Looking at the clock, it’s only five thirty. Damn, what is wrong with me?
I can’t sit here any longer. There are stops I need to make, so I grab my coat and gloves and head to the city.
Chapter Fourteen
The second I enter the shop he turns around and grabs a big box of Godiva chocolates and sets it on the counter next to the register. The health store hipster doesn’t even look up. He just knows. Like he knew I’d be back. “I knew you’d be back.”
See? He’s intuitive like that.
“I need your advice.”
When I reach the counter, he closes his romance novel with the pirates on the cover, and looks up. “The chocolate didn’t work?”
“She liked it.”
“All girls like chocolate. If she liked the other box, bring her more.”
“I’m not sure chocolate will fix this mess.”
After crossing his arms over his chest, he leans back and kicks his feet up on the counter. “Look, I’m no psychologist. I just know that we like to complicate things that aren’t so complicated. Zen. We need to get Zen with our world, become one with the things we value.”
“I’m trying, man. I’m just so fucking confused.”
