by MV Ellis
We returned to the group to find Kota captivating everyone with one of her stories and began distributing the drinks.
“Ah, here they are, the great hunters. Please tell me you grabbed some of the bar snack crack while you were there?” Kota asked.
“We did.” I motioned to the baskets of chili-salt popcorn balanced precariously on top of the tray of drinks Harley was carrying. “I also ordered three of everything. As busy as they are at the bar, we would’ve spent longer in line for the next round than drinking it, otherwise.”
“Now, Mr. Williamson, anybody would think you’re trying to get me drunk,” she drawled coquettishly, fluttering her eyelids and faux flirting with me.
“You can’t blame a man for trying, now can you?” I returned in an equally hammy drawl, flashing her my most charming smile.
“Well, they say God loves a trier.” A shot of laughter burst from her in a gleeful cackle.
The phrase was one Zed liked to bandy around a lot, always with a heavy dose of sarcasm. It was a hangover from his time at a horrifically expensive upstate boarding school—apparently the principal used to say it a lot—that had stayed with him, despite him turning purple with rage at even the merest mention of the place.
It wasn’t our first rodeo with that routine. In fact, it was pretty much standard between the two of us every Friday night. Just a little harmless fun.
“Then God must love my ass."
That earned more laughter from all of us.
As time wore on, and we bantered back and forth, I noticed a commotion on the other side of the room that started cutting into my consciousness more as time went on. The noise and disruption eventually became too much to ignore, and we all directed our attention toward it. I looked over the sea of heads—one of the many advantages of being above average height—to see what was happening.
Something was kicking off among the group of football players I’d noticed earlier, a fight brewing between two dudes who made me look short and puny. As I stood watching, it escalated from posturing and facing off—a regular occurrence among testosterone-addled jocks—to pushing and shoving. A person didn’t have to be a genius to guess that it was escalating and likely to get worse before it got better.
Clearly nobody else in their group wanted to step in, which told me there was some kind of power struggle happening between the two guys—maybe a captain and a vice—and none of the other players wanted to put their cock on the block by picking sides. As the tension built and the two became more hostile and violent toward each other, everybody else seemed to suddenly notice that their shoes needed polishing. Pussies.
As the noise rose, I couldn’t make out the specifics of what was being yelled, but I could tell it was getting uglier by the second. As the two bounced around like popcorn, the rest of the team jostled each other, pushing into the bachelorette party. The women were looking perturbed, and I couldn’t say I blamed them—it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. That was obviously not how they’d thought their evening would pan out.
As the fists flew, I cast my gaze around the room, trying to see if any of the staff had realized what was going down, but they were all so busy trying to deal with everyone at the bar agitatedly waiting for service that nobody was keeping tabs on what was happening elsewhere. I looked back at the players, and it was then that I saw them, a familiar pair of bright chestnut eyes—eyes that had been haunting me for the previous year—staring out into the crowd.
Straight away I knew something was wrong. She seemed too unfocused, unblinking, and, more to the point, unmoving. Where the other members of the bachelorette party flitted around, nervous looks of concern on their faces, Emi stood eerily still.
Nobody except me seemed to have noticed that anything was wrong, neither from my group or hers, yet she was all I could focus on as the world fell away and there was only her.
11
Emi
“Emi?”
“Hmm..?” The guy who approached me was unfeasibly good-looking, with unforgettable kind gray eyes. In fact, they were almost too soft for his otherwise angular features, but they gave him an approachable air where he could have otherwise seemed harsh. Mean, even.
“Is everything okay?”
“Um… kind of, I guess. I mean, I’m stuck in the middle of a brawl, and it’s ruining my friend’s bachelorette party, but other than that, I guess so… Wait. How do you know my name?”
“Oh, uh….” A look passed across his features that I couldn’t quite identify. Surprise? Shock? Confusion? He recovered quickly.
“Sorry, that was rude of me. I should’ve said hi. It’s just that you looked kind of… um… it’s Spider.”
I looked at him, my face blank.
“From SK:eTCH?” He paused, waiting again.
“I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.” A small, tight smile graced my lips. The kind people reserved for confused toddlers or unstable strangers.
“No, there’s no mistake. Your name is Emi, right?”
“Yes, but I’ve never met you before, so maybe it’s just a really weird coincidence.” My voice was neutral, neither frosty nor conversational. I didn’t want to give him or anyone else the wrong idea about our encounter.
“I agree that would be weird, but I’m sure we’ve met. It was a while ago, just over a year now, but it wasn’t a day you’d forget it a hurry.”
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, and I can see that you genuinely think you know me, but I can assure you I’m not who you think I am. Maybe I just have one of those everyman faces that seems familiar to lots of people?"
He looked at me as though I was speaking Japanese.
“Your face is anything but everyday. And what about your name? Do you really think I’ve mistaken you for some generic-faced girl whose name also just happens to be Emi?”
“Well, it’s a pretty common Mauritian name, so maybe, yeah.”
“You’re Mauritian?”
“Well, that’s where my folks hail from. I was born here, but you know how it goes.”
He looked like he had no clue how it went.
“Hmmm… well, I’m pretty sure you’re the only person I’ve ever met from Mauritius, and I’m certain you’re the only person I know named Emi, so….”
I didn’t want to be outright rude, but I also didn’t want to prolong the conversation. I looked around to see if any of the girls I was with celebrating Sienna’s engagement—in what was actually a kind of pre-bachelorette party—had noticed what was going on.
Everyone seemed to be otherwise occupied: watching the fight as it continued, dealing with spilled drinks, and in the case of Stacey—who was the lead bachelorette and had meticulously planned the whole night—going to find security to break the guys up. I was on my own.
He must have sensed my discomfort, as when he spoke next, it was in a softer, more tentative voice.
“I’m really sorry. I know this must seem weird as shit, but can you please hear me out so I can be sure I’m not losing my mind?”
I was torn. Everyone in my group was immersed in the unfolding drama of the jocks trying to smash each other’s tiny little brains out. I could run, but I didn’t want to make a scene or draw undue attention, so I nodded.
“My name is Spider. I’m a tattooist.” Another pregnant pause. “I have this weird thing where I never forget a face, and despite having done thousands of tattoos in my career, I can meet someone years later and still remember what work I did for them. I did a small piece on your chest about a year ago. It says ‘what’s mine is his.’” Shit. “I mean, there are other reasons I’ll always remember you and that day, but like I said, I never forget my work, and the faces associated it.”
I felt like I would pass out at any moment. I was dizzy, and clammy, and the room seemed to be spinning. I hadn’t had much to drink, so I knew I wasn’t drunk.
“Um, I think I need… I need some air.” I was likely to vomit or faint, or both, if I stayed in
that bar any longer. I needed to get out of there, and fast. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
I started toward the door, not stopping to apologize to Sienna or Stacey or to say goodbye to any of the other girls. I’d text Stacey on my way home and explain that I wasn’t feeling well, which wasn’t a lie for once.
When I got to the door, I reached out to push it, but before I could touch it, it swung open. I could see through the glass that there was nobody on the other side, but then I looked above me to see a thick, tattoo-covered arm holding it ajar.
I stepped through hesitantly. I didn’t want him to come out with me, but I also didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself in a crowded bar, witnessed by my colleagues. Stumbling onto the sidewalk, I gulped to fill my lungs, then leaned against the glass frontage and slid down to a seated position, dropping my head between my bent knees.
Spider crouched down in front of me, his long legs bent awkwardly to meet my level. I continued to gulp, drowning in the very air that was supposed to be saving me. Though I could barely breathe, I gasped out enough words to express myself.
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t. Not when you’re… is there someone I can call for you? Or someone inside I should grab to help you? I can’t leave you here like this.”
“No!” The word tore from my throat more forcefully than I was intending, but the fact was that I’d left the bar in the first place to avoid making a spectacle of myself. The last thing I wanted was for a six-foot-four blond god to approach the group and tell them I needed help. That would be a surefire way to get everyone out onto the sidewalk in record time, asking difficult questions I didn’t want to answer. I appreciated the offer, but it would be the opposite of under the radar, which was always what I was aiming for.
I got some kind of control over my breathing and spoke more normally.
“No. Thank you. Really. I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to worry about me. Go back inside. Don’t let me disrupt your evening. I’m okay. I just got a little hot and bothered. I’m fine. See? I can even string a proper sentence together now.”
The look on his face told me that my “nothing to see here” routine wasn’t convincing him, and I couldn’t say I blamed him.
“Hmm…. I don’t mean to overstep, but I’m not convinced. Are you going back in there?” He motioned to the bar with his thumb.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost time to relieve Kristyn, my babysitter, anyway, so I might as well call it a night.
“Ah, no. I need to head home. I’ll jump in an Uber.”
The look of relief on his face made my chest tighten altogether differently than it had before. I pushed the feeling to the back of mind, just like I had the first time we’d met.
“Okay, that sounds good. Do you mind if I wait with you? Just to see that you get into it okay?”
Ugh. Why was he being so kind and patient when I was acting like a crazy person, while determined to make him look like one too?
I wanted to say no. I’d humiliated myself enough and didn’t want to prolong the agony by standing awkwardly on the sidewalk together while we waited for my ride.
“It’s cool. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I know I don’t have to. But I’d like to.”
Okay. But why?
He plopped on the ground next to me and shuffled around so his back was against the glass like mine.
“My crappy ex-ballplayer knees can’t take crouching like that for much longer. I have the cartilage of a ninety-year-old. I can just sit here in silence. No pressure to make conversation or anything. I just want to know you’re safely in a car, is all.”
I sighed resignedly. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want him to.
“Okay.”
“Good, because now that I’m down here, getting up again won’t be pretty. I’d rather wait until you’re gone so you don’t witness that hot mess.”
I could hear the smile in his voice, and I laughed knowing he was trying to shift the focus of our exchange from me to him and share some of the humiliation. I appreciated that.
He seemed to have made it his mission in life to bail me out of shitty situations of my own making. There was no weak-knee problem that would ever outdo my performance in the bar, or the drama at the tattoo studio, but I appreciated the sentiment.
I fished out my phone and ordered the car. That time of night on the weekend in the city was as bad as rush hour. Everyone was leaving their after-work destinations in favor either of going home or on to the next venue. The cool kids—those who were sporadically or informally employed and therefore had the luxury of daytime naps—were only just leaving their lofts now for the “early” portion of their nights.
According to the app, it was an eight-minute wait. Eight of possibly the most awkward minutes of my entire life, which, given the life I’d led, was saying something. I cursed the city’s overpopulation under my breath while we waited.
As we sat in silence, my hand strayed to the spot where my tattoo lurked under my shirt, practically burning a hole in my skin. It wasn’t huge, about the size of a coaster, but its significance in my life was enormous.
I carried many scars, both internal and external, from my time with Tommy, but the tattoo was the most visible and the most symbolic, both because of what it said and the circumstances under which it was created. Tommy had branded me as his property moments before I was to be free of him for life. Irony wasn’t quite the word I was looking for, but it would have to do to sum up how fucked up the situation was.
As though reading my mind, Spider reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black square of cardboard, and handed it to me.
“No pressure, but if you ever want to talk about… anything, day or night, call me.”
“Oh.” I tried to mask my shock but didn’t even convince myself. I took the card and turned it over in my fingers, looking at it as though I’d never seen it before, when in reality I’d stared at one just like it so hard, and for so long, it was a miracle I hadn’t worn the details clear off it just with the power of my vision.
“Thank you, Spider.” His name sounded weird coming from my mouth. “I appreciate the offer. Actually, I really appreciate everything—you helping me out of the bar, waiting with me.” Not probing me with questions I couldn’t answer, but you must want to know the answers to. Saving my life.
“All good. Anytime.”
“I think that’s my car there.” I pointed to the sedan on the corner of the previous block before glancing down at my phone to check that the license plate matched. It did. I stood up and waited a few moments while Spider did the same. It wasn’t half as much of a catastrophe as he’d made it out to be, but I again appreciated his effort to put me at ease.
I turned to him. “Thank you. This has been epically weird and awkward, but I’m grateful that you helped. I’ll see you around, maybe.” I sincerely hoped not, but I kept that gem to myself.
“Uh, yeah. That would be…. Anyway, you have my card, and I meant what I said. Honestly.”
I didn’t know him very well, but what I knew of him led me to believe that it was a genuine offer. One I would never take up, but that didn’t stop me from appreciating the sentiment.
He extended his hand, and I stared at it for long enough to cement myself in his mind as a card-carrying weirdo. I was literally carrying his card and behaving like a total freakazoid.
Laughter bubbled in my throat at the irony, but I gulped it down. The last thing I needed was to add to my crazy by cackling to myself about nothing. I’d save that pleasure for the poor unsuspecting Uber driver.
After what felt like a hundred and fifty years, I took his hand. It was huge and made mine seem small and childlike in comparison. It was warm but not sweaty. It was also roughly calloused. He’d mentioned playing ball earlier. Maybe that was why. His handshake was firm but not aggressively so; it was exactly what I’d expect from a ma
n of his giant stature but gentle nature.
Now he was the one to hold the gesture just a little longer than was normal. I glanced quickly from side to side. I was partly checking the approach of my ride and partly not wanting to make eye contact with Spider. But when he continued to grip my hand, it compelled me to look him in the eye, which I was sure was his intention.
Our gazes locked together, and I instantly wished I hadn’t given in to the urge. The look in his eyes—no doubt reflected in my own—spelled nothing but trouble, for me, for him, and for the two of us. Neither of us moved for the longest time, not even to breathe. He blinked slowly. I followed suit, at the same time taking my first breath in what seemed like forever. It felt sharp and rough as it tore at my lungs.
Spider opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it again, frowning. Just as I thought I’d misread the situation, he bent down and swiped his lips against mine. It was so soft and brief that it was barely there. It was over before I could blink.
Without using words, he’d sought my permission, and I’d given it. Then, in stark contrast to Tommy—all testosterone-fueled aggression and rage, taking what he considered to be his—Spider handled me like I was made of cut glass and may shatter any moment, which wasn’t too far from the truth. It was a mere moment, a nanosecond, yet somehow it was the most significant touch of my entire life.
He waited a few more beats and so did I, unsure which way the situation would go. Spider decided for both of us. One hand at the base of my neck, the other gripping my waist, he turned us quickly so he was shielding me with his back to the road while mine faced the bar. Then he took two large, swift steps, pushing me against the glass. His mouth on mine was different this time. Hot. Needy. Insistent.
Mine was the same. The passion and arousal that surged through my body were a shock to me. It’d been a long time since I’d felt so brazenly and wildly aroused by a man. I couldn’t remember the last time my body had hummed and zinged with excitement, so in tune with another person’s. What sizzled between us wasn’t chemistry, it was alchemy.
