Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  “Yep,” I chirp. His disapproving tone is not lost on me.

  “So, is this getting serious, then? Are two seeing each other?”

  I don’t know why, but my nerves bottom out in my stomach as I reply. “No, we’re not. Just research for my article. I have some questions I need answered. Easier to focus over dinner.” I’m about to add something snarky, but I know that I’d be rambling. Garrett doesn’t need to know about my peculiar musings of discussing fetishes over steak while looking at a hot piece of meat (that being Nate) from across the table. Garrett and I aren’t back to ground zero yet.

  He shakes it off as I approach the front door.

  “Well, have a good night, Garrett. Don’t wait up.”

  “Wait!”

  My heel nearly catches on the doormat as I attempt to flee, but I swivel around. “What’s up?” I ask, tension settling in the air between us.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking …”

  Uh oh. When Garrett thinks, I don’t think it’s ever added up to much, or much follow through, for that matter.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we, I don’t know, set aside some time to talk? Maybe tomorrow after work? I need to get some stuff off my chest, and I hate things being so weird between us.”

  This comforts me. I smile, and he smiles back.

  “I’d like that. We don’t do weird so well.”

  “No, we definitely don’t. It’s been lonely Netflix binging without you.”

  “No Amy or sexual fiending to soothe your boredom?”

  He presses his lips into a hard line, defining his jawline, and shakes his head. “Not for a while.”

  “Huh,” escapes me. “Glad to hear it. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  He nods, and I make a run for it.

  I trot downstairs to start my trek the couple blocks to the cafe, but I can’t get Garrett’s ringing tone out of my head. For the first time ever, I think I want him fooling around with girls. The fact that he hasn’t is weirding me out more than our lack of communication.

  Life is not close to what it was weeks ago, and I’m starting to wonder how I got here, and if it’s a good thing or not.

  I feel good. I think I’m even happy. There’s a comforting sense of determination with each stride. I also feel like I’m moving forward. I’m no longer stagnant. Which is something I had been feeling for a while, even if it doesn’t mean I was miserable. This Garrett thing feels off. Something I didn’t expect. He has always been this unmovable object in my life, and as I see things shift between us, I find it … disconcerting. It’s such a clinical way to reference my best friend, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

  He’s the only thing I was okay with staying the same. Now, I’m unsure what to do with him.

  “Lauren?”

  I blink a few times, looking around. I must’ve been power walking and daydreaming, because I realize I’ve walked right past Nate at his car.

  “Got something on your mind?” He strides toward me, extending his hand outward.

  Thoughts of Garrett dissipate at Nate’s endearing move.

  I place my hand in his. “You could say that.”

  When his fingers weave around mine, I try to hide my stumble.

  “I think I could hear you thinking from about a block away,” he says, tugging me playfully to his car.

  “You were watching me?”

  He shakes his head, admonishing me. “You can be fascinating when you’re not trying so hard.” He pulls his brows together, mimicking my pout. “It’s hard not to notice this look as you stalk down the street in those heels. Care to share?”

  He opens his car door with his free hand. I smile, licking my lips, and say for the first time since knowing him, “No.”

  His face falls, emptying of emotion, turning into sterile understanding, as if remembering that we’re not supposed to do personal anyway.

  I hate it.

  Tonight, I’m not so willing to be forthcoming. I don’t want to talk about Garrett. Although, it’s never been like me not to willingly divulge information to Nate, even if he doesn’t give me the same resolve.

  I slip inside his car. I don’t like the writhing nerves doubling in the base of my stomach.

  Tonight isn’t shaping up how I want it to.

  It isn’t the slamming of Nate’s driver’s side door once he’s inside the car that breaks my trance, but instead his diligent fingers at my chin turning my head to look at him.

  I’m inclined to apologize. For what? I’m not sure, but before I can wrap my lips around words, his mouth crashes to mine.

  It’s commanding, purposeful, and deliciously possessive.

  He pulls away, smiling, the right corner of his mouth twitching, although his amber stare grips mine. “It’s fine,” he says.

  I exhale, not realizing I was holding my breath or that I was worried about the outcome so much. Yet, I feel reassured. It’s a weird comfort, and I can’t wrap my head around it.

  “Hungry?” he asks, stopping me from analyzing it further.

  “Starving,” I reply, dropping my vision to his lips before I sit back in my seat.

  I don’t treat myself to glancing at him because his soft, appreciative chuckle as he turns to drive is enough for me to feel accomplished.

  I like this give-and-take we have going without trying.

  He steers my chaotic mind into something manageable, and he seems to find my self-confidence amusing.

  When he places his hand on my bare knee while we drive, I turn my face to the window to hide my smile.

  It’s another valet situation when we approach a glass and steel building in the corner of the city. It’s not looming over me like a skyscraper from the center of downtown L.A., but it’s daunting enough, sitting at around ten floors, immaculate and intimidating in silver and muted gray cement.

  A young valet opens the door for me as Nate slips out of the car.

  “Evening, ma’am.”

  I eye his clean-shaven face, and notice his formal button-down uniform matches the valet from Fahrenheit, although we’re in an entirely different part of town and out in the open instead of hiding at the back of a building.

  Hm.

  Evening city traffic zooms, kicking up dirt and noise that echoes off the walls of the concrete jungle. Los Angeles is referred to as a metropolitan city, but we lack all the skyscrapers to compete with a place like New York or Chicago, so this section of downtown stands out to me. It’s on the opposite side of where my office is, but it’s still clustered with mid-size buildings that scream authority and money and flash as much glitz as they do grit.

  “Thanks,” I reply as I place my heels on the sidewalk, letting my eyes drift up the shiny building glittering in the night.

  It’s unmarked for being so large. I’m used to seeing a logo or an emblem, but this one is empty of anything notable. The windows glow, although reflect like two-way mirrors. They can see out, but you can’t see in.

  I twist my body to see a flashy Lexus pulling up behind us.

  Nate’s hand presses against the small of my back, leading me forward and garnering my full attention.

  “Are we still doing dinner?” I ask as he hands his keys off to the valet.

  He nods. “Top floor. Another members-only perk.”

  My brows pull together as I keep pace with his strides. We enter through a shiny, sleek marble entrance, which contradicts the dark underworld of neon I’m used to.

  We approach an elevator that has an identical keypad to the fetish doors of Fahrenheit.

  Nate’s graceful fingers enter a ten-digit code that ignites the opening of the metal elevator doors. He leads me inside, but I’m like a kid at Disneyland. My eyes are everywhere, taking each detail in.

  It has me wondering what’s the yearly income of someone who has a membership to Fahrenheit, and how does Nate, for being young, spend his nine-to-five weekdays when he isn’t toying with the naive mind of a secretly sex-crazed woman.


  Oh, I’m the sex-crazed woman in this scenario. A characteristic that wasn’t unearthed until I met Nathan Sanders in a grungy sex shop in the valley. I might’ve not had any idea what to do with myself in there, but it doesn’t mean I wasn’t curious in a pantie-wetting way.

  God, who am I again?

  “Lauren?”

  “W-what?”

  “You’re spacey today, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. “I guess I am. Lots of self-speculation and the overwhelming need to understand things. That’s all.”

  “Seems like a regular day for you.”

  I laugh. The result is cathartic, especially when the twitch returns to Nate’s lips. He takes a deliberate, predatory step toward me.

  My palm comes flying up, lying flat against his hard chest.

  “Hold up, my sexually charged mentor.”

  The delightfully full timber of his laugh bounces off the metal walls of the elevator. “Where the hell do you come up with this stuff?”

  “I want to be a writer, remember?”

  He rolls his eyes, but gives me his full Technicolor grin. “Why are you stopping me?”

  “Uh.” I stumble. My fingers wiggling against his dark navy button-up, the tips of them toying with the opening at the top, too close to tan flash and a dusting of chest hair. I almost lose my train of thought. I pull my hand away to save myself. “I need to focus.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “I can’t focus when you wield your pheromones like a fricken superpower, Batman.”

  “I told you, I’m the villain.”

  I snort. “Jury’s still out. I can’t see the evildoer in you yet.”

  “Give it time.” The elevator doors spring open to unveil the chatter of people, and the clanking of glasses above the familiar vibrating beats that remind me of the nightclub. However, the music clashes with the formal wall-to-wall windows and dark purple crystal chandelier looming in the center of the open restaurant.

  I step forward, drawn to the podium, but my eyes are anywhere but.

  Nate’s hand curves around my ass to guide me, the heat of his palm like a hot iron through the lace material of the dress.

  “Table for two. Sanders,” he says to the hostess. Her attire is the same stark purple of the chandelier hanging above, but it’s formal and less distracting than the latex dresses the hostesses at the nightclub wear. Instead, her delicate dress, although formfitting, is made from stretchy cotton, falling mid-calf, but cut low at the neckline.

  I peel Nate’s hand from my ass, and wrap my fingers around his. His welcoming squeeze and chuff that accompanies his smile continues to tell me he finds me amusing.

  I trail behind him as we follow the waitress to a table. It’s in a corner near the windows, but I wouldn’t call it private. The myriads of round tables are all spread out, but there are no dark corners to hide in here. Everything is out in the open. Although, no one seems to pay much attention to us.

  I slip into a chair and watch Nate take a seat next to me rather than across from me.

  The woman rattles off dinner specials, but I couldn’t care less as my eyes sweep across the room.

  I spot two city officials, a celebrity, and one recognizable, Senator Jonathan Mills, the man I saw at the bar in Fahrenheit last week.

  As my eyes leap from one suit-and-tied male to their equally formal female counterparts, they blend. An ocean of money, power, and effortless sensuality flows through the room. It’s almost slight. It’s in the tight glances from across tables, and the swiping of tongues over lips, and heated stares over elaborate meals that look as pretty as the patrons who consume them.

  It’s an underworld under the veil of glamour and glitz. I wet my palette finding it so Hollywood. So secretive, yet out in the open, waiting to be caught, but still idolized.

  I pull out my notebook from my purse and scribble the thought down.

  “Starting so soon?” erupts from Nate.

  “You said I could take notes.”

  “I was hoping after we had some wine first.”

  I lift my eyes from my pad of paper and notice that there are already two full glasses of red wine in front of me. The burgundy matches my dress.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I guess I am all over the place tonight.”

  He shakes his head. It’s another funny gesture, and I don’t know why I get such a kick at the fact I’m so obviously his plaything.

  I put my pen down as he reaches for a glass, handing it to me.

  “Maybe this will help steady you.”

  “Doubtful.” I smirk, taking the glass from him.

  We clink glasses, and I wonder what we’re cheering to. No matter. We sip from our wine, our eyes two pairs of heated orbs, his amber sunset against the horizon of my ocean ones.

  I place the glass back onto the ivory tablecloth, noticing that there are Fahrenheit touches everywhere. The cloth napkins that lay neatly folded under an array of silver forks are a deep purple, matching the chandelier and the uniforms. It’s all reminiscent of the winding tunnel that is the sexual underworld on the other side of town.

  I like the nuances.

  I smile as I fiddle with the napkin, thinking there must be a joke somewhere here.

  “So, tell me about this place, Nate,” I request, turning to look at him. “It definitely isn’t your run of the mill steakhouse or something.”

  He goes in for another sip of wine to hide his smirk. “It’s all part of the perks. Good dinner to accompany good sex.”

  “Hmm.” My eyebrows bob, digesting it. His words are comical, and I have the urge to write them down too, now that I can. “I want—”

  “Food.”

  “No, I—”

  He chuckles. “We should order first.”

  I realize that all I want most is to jump right into my game of Twenty Questions, but the approaching waiter has me fumbling for my menu.

  Nate doesn’t pick his up when he orders filet mignon with rice pilaf.

  Why does a fancy piece of meat sound so appropriate for him?

  My eyes slide over his perfect dress shirt without the blazer, noting it’s more of a relaxed look for him sans jacket. I’m noticing he doesn’t like neckties or favor blazers.

  I’m trying to figure out who he is, but nothing is concrete enough for me to feel confident with any assumption. He becomes more of an enigma the longer I’m around him. It excites me as much as it drives me insane.

  The waiter turns to me, and I try not to smirk at the dark purple buttons against his crisp black dress shirt. I open up the menu and choose the first thing I see, because I’m entirely unprepared.

  “Grilled salmon salad, please.”

  He nods, grabbing for the menus before trotting away.

  Fahrenheit is so much grittier than this restaurant. The dichotomy of both connected establishments is absurd. However, I guess people don’t necessarily want their steak the same way they want their sex, unless it’s raw.

  “You were saying?” Nate admonishes.

  “What. Is. This. Place? Besides the obvious.”

  “Is your pen ready?”

  I grin, grabbing for it.

  “It’s exactly what you think it is, just snazzier. Fahrenheit, although about sex, offers a shroud of security. Do you think a congressman or a judge wants to be seen with his mistresses, caught with his hands sliding up their legs?” He pauses. His palm greets my bobbing knee under the table with searing heat. He calms the up and down motion as his fingers skim over the inside of my thigh before giving it a gentle squeeze.

  My soft gasp is impossible to hide.

  I examine his lips, perfect smile, and bright eyes, and I’m curious, like I always am.

  “What brought you here, Nate? What makes you such a fan? What makes you stay?”

  His eyes dart to my pen hovering over my notepad at the ready. He blinks a few times, thinking it over as he brings his free hand to rub over his days of stubble with his free hand, buying him some time. He’s calculat
ing something. I didn’t realize the questions were complicated.

  He shifts his stare back to me, this time soft, teetering on apologetic. “I can’t answer those questions, Lauren, and I’m sorry about that. It’s just …” He shakes his head. “Yeah, I just can’t. It’d giveaway away too much if I were honest, and I wouldn’t lie to you, so it’s better I don’t answer.”

  There’s something in his confusion that has me not wanting to press the issue.

  “It’s okay.” I gift him a forgiving smile, trying a different approach. “Do you think Fahrenheit is about exploring one’s sexual world? Or is it about getting down and dirty in any sense? Or is it just filled with a bunch of sex addicts thirsty to get their fix?”

  His eyes drag across the room, and I allow my vision to do the same. The tables are full. Couples and groups mingle over wine and food. There’s a more conservative nature here at the restaurant, but every now and again, you see a purposeful caress over a shoulder or a passionate kiss that lingers longer than it should. The carnal pulse creeps under the surface here.

  “I even see Senator Mills here. Would he simply be here for a little fun, or something more?” I add to my investigation.

  Nate gives his answer with a cute nibble of his bottom lip. “I’ve heard he’s into some seriously weird shit.”

  “I thought anonymity is key? How would you even know that?” I sway my head sassily. “Turns out you don’t have much of a filter if it isn’t about yourself.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Anonymity is key, but it doesn’t mean Fahrenheit is immune to the rumor mill. Sometimes, that’s the fun part.”

  “Of course,” I huff, pausing to think of this rumor mill. “So, people talk about others?”

  He shrugs. “Sure. Sometimes it’s gossip; other times it’s curiosity. You know all about that. Let’s use the senator as an example. This will help answer your previous question. I heard Mills came in a sexually bumbling fool, unsure what he was looking for.”

  Nate leans in, squeezing my leg. “He was trying to figure out what would cure the aching need deep in his loins, the old bastard, knowing that the remedy might lie among the neon. At first, he was a spectator. I heard he requested an invite through a friend. Who’s going to deny the guy who’s looking to run for president someday? He would come in alone, and eventually started joining conversations to get a feel for what was accessible, and then he began joining others in those naughty rooms. Mission accomplished. Now look at him. He’s a fucking professional. He likes it brutal, dirty, and nasty. I heard he likes giving it in the ass as much as he likes taking it.”