by Lucy Lyons
“Well, the dress looks nice anyway,” Isabel said, pressing her lips together and flipping the mirror back up.
She stepped out of her car, tottering slightly on the heels she had convinced herself to wear before locking the door on the old Camry. Isabel had timed her arrival in the downtown area carefully; it was to her benefit that most of the crowd visiting the bars and clubs had already started their revels. Isabel started towards the elevator, balancing her weight carefully on her new heels until her body fell into the right posture to walk in, running through her plan mentally. Most of the guys at her favorite club would be at least one drink in, probably closer to two or three; they would have been shot down by the hottest of women out partying. And the men who were far, far out of her league would have picked up their hookups for the night.
Isabel had never needed the insincere protests from her cadre of going-out girlfriends that “you’ve got such a pretty face” and “you’re not fat, you’re beautiful,” to know where she stood in the spectrum of available single ladies. Although she had been a waifish child, as soon as puberty had come along, Isabel had struggled with her weight. Although looking back at pictures of herself as a teen, she had to admit that her self-perception of herself as a homely blob had been far from the truth. Her breasts and hips had expanded again and again, while her upward growth had stalled out at 5’6”, and while she was curvy, Isabel knew that some of her curves were less than perfectly appealing to a certain subset of men.
It had been a hard-won victory when she had learned to dress for her body type, and found jeans that fit her hips without gaping at her waist. However, for going out, she preferred skirts or dresses. She believed she was a great hookup fodder; pretty enough, cute enough, sultry enough to appeal to men for the purposes of getting laid. Yet not ethereally lovely or perfect enough –thus far –to find the prince charming who would want a relationship that lasted more than a few months on the outside.
Isabel shook her thoughts away as she stepped out of the parking garage and onto the street, looking both ways to take in the general vibe. Judging by the throng of smokers outside, there seemed to be some kind of event at Rock-a-Billy’s, while O’Malley’s had its usual crowd of beer-and-whiskey rowdies at the picnic tables in front.
Isabel’s gaze landed on the entrance to Underground, her favorite Friday night haunt; the two door men were in position, with Mike at the door itself to check IDs and Clancy seated next to the cash register. There was no line, but movement inside the club told Isabel that there were still plenty of people, and there would probably be more in an hour or so. Underground didn’t really pick up until almost midnight.
She made her way across the street, and Mike spotted her first, smiling at her as she approached. “How much is cover?” Clancy shook his head in response to her question.
“You know better than that,” Mike said, ripping a paper wristband free of the sheet folded in his hand. “I wouldn’t even bother with the wristband, but there are a couple of new bartenders we just took on, and I don’t want you to deal with the hassle of explaining to them that you’re honorary staff.” Isabel grinned, giving Clancy a quick hug while holding out her wrist for Mike to wrap the band around. She had come to Underground almost every weekend for years; she was practically a fixture for Friday, and sometimes, Saturday nights.
“What’s the show tonight?” Normally, there was no cover charge at the door unless there was a special event.
“Burlesque,” Clancy told her. “They’re starting up in about an hour.” That would help – in its own way. Of course, the men would flirt with the performers, hopeful to get a half-naked woman to come home with them. But when the lingerie-clad beauties started to filter out of the club with their boyfriends, spouses, or the odd ‘Mr. Right for tonight,’ the attention would turn back to the regular denizens of the club, with an urgency that would make it easier for Isabel to “close the deal” as the guys said.
She hugged Mike and stepped into the dark entryway of the club, letting her eyes adjust. Pounding rhythms of a Strokes song filled her ears, and Isabel glanced in the direction of the DJ booth to confirm that DD was running that end of things. Which he was, bent over his MacBook to adjust the levels. As soon as she was confident of her ability to navigate the dance floor without either getting doused by some drunk’s PBR or stepping on someone else, Isabel made a beeline for the bar.
She saw one of the new bartenders, but waited for Jesse to be free, leaning against the acrylic bar top and looking around. Most of the people in the club were regulars; a few looked like fish out of water; people who had somehow managed to stray from their usual haunts along Royale Street.
“The usual?” Isabel nodded in response to Jesse’s question and took her debit card out of her wallet while he poured Jameson into a plastic cup full of ice, and added quick, short dashes of cola to it. He reached out blindly and grabbed an orange wedge from the caddy behind the bar, squeezing the juice into the cocktail and dropping the wedge in, before adding a straw and looking up to take Isabel’s card. She might have another two or three over the course of the night – four, if it looked likely that she was going to end up going home without a partner. She would be staying until closing time at 4 in the morning--but the first sip of bitter-caramel-orange sweetness was the best.
“No one makes it better,” Isabel told Jesse, giving him a thumbs up before he turned away to start her tab. Isabel reached into her purse and found her pack of cigarettes after a moment’s searching, and then her lighter after a little more effort. She had managed to cut back her bad habit to weekends only, and when she was out or hooking up with someone. One day, she was sure, she would end up kicking it entirely.
While she waited for the show to start, Isabel wandered around the club, making her way slowly towards the back, where the patio area was, and then back into the main dance floor, evaluating her options. There were a few guys she thought might be worth subtly trying to encourage; but she would have to wait and see if they managed to catch any of the performers’ interest. Isabel chatted with fellow regulars, greeted some of the lingerie-clad women who would grace the stage, and tried to keep herself optimistic for the hours to come. There would be no point in being out if she was going to give up on herself before the night was half over.
As she stood at the bar, Isabel felt someone staring at her. DD was on a run in the DJ booth: Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Depeche Mode, The Cure, in rapid succession, making people feel faintly romantic. Isabel looked around, trying to find the source of the stare, when she spotted a man standing along one of the walls, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had met him before. It was hard to make out details in the darkness, and she had already finished her first drink, but he was gorgeous even from afar to be paying such serious attention to her. Especially when there were far more glamorous women in the crowd.
The man was tall, broad across the shoulders, dressed in a tailored suit which fit him so perfectly that Isabel wondered what he was doing in Underground at all. Why isn’t he over at Roxy’s, or Martini Blues? The man had blond hair, combed back from his face to just fall at his collar, and while Isabel couldn’t determine the exact color, his eyes were pale from where she stood. She met his gaze and raised an eyebrow, letting him know that she was aware of him staring at her. Instead of looking away, or even signaling her, the man smiled slightly, continuing to meet her gaze. He must just look like he’s looking at me, Isabel decided. She looked away, flustered, and took a sip of her second drink. Isabel reached for her pack of cigarettes, but her lighter had disappeared. Annoyance replaced her embarrassment as she decided, glumly, that someone had stolen it. “Can I get a packet of matches, Jesse?”
“No need,” someone said next to her. Isabel turned in the direction of the low, cool-toned voice. The first thing she saw was a flame, flickering at the top of a vintage lighter –Isabel thought it looked too classy to be a Zippo –extended just in range for her to light a cigarette. She quickly plucked one out of her pack
and brought it to her lips, leaning towards the flame.
“Thank you,” she said when she pulled back, exhaling the first, quick throatful of smoke. The lid on the lighter snapped shut and the flame extinguished. Isabel glanced at the source of the convenient light and nearly dropped her cigarette in shock. What the hell is a guy like you doing in a place like this? The man who had offered her a light was every bit as gorgeous as the one she had caught staring from across the room, but he was quite different in appearance. He had long, slightly curling dark hair that stopped just above his shoulders, and big, deep eyes which Isabel thought were some shade of either hazel or brown. His features were sharply cut, his strong jawline softened by a dusting of dark stubble. Instead of a tailored suit, he wore jeans and a fitted black tee shirt. But just the sight of the man was enough to make Isabel’s throat dry, and enough to make her heart pound.
“My pleasure,” the man said, smiling slowly. There was something beautiful, and brightly warm about the sight of him. Isabel’s heart fluttered in her chest. Down girl! He’s probably here with a date. And if he’s not, he’ll leave with a date for the night who’s so far beyond a “10” that they knock the number scale out of the water! He’s probably just nice. But there was unmistakable warmth in the dark eyes looking down into hers, and something she couldn’t quite make out in the curve of his lips; a kind of promise that Isabel hadn’t seen before. “You can take it, if you want,” the man added, opening his hand and extending the lighter towards her.
“That looks like it probably costs my entire bar tab,” Isabel said with a laugh.
“I have a dozen of them,” the man told her with a shrug. “I have three on me tonight alone.”
“Collector?” Isabel smiled politely. That explains it, if he’s single: he’s some kind of nerd.
“I just enjoy beautiful things,” the man said, smiling at her again. “Take it, please.” Isabel hesitated a moment longer, but there was nothing in the man’s face that made her doubt his sincerity. She reached out and took the lighter. For a moment, she thought that the man’s skin felt strange – smoother than she would have expected, almost hot to the touch. But she dismissed it as her fingers closed around the cool metal of the lighter. “I’ll see you later, Isabel.”
“How do you know my name? And what’s yours?” Isabel frowned for a moment, wondering if she had – somehow – gained a reputation beyond the usual for an Underground regular.
“Lucky guess,” the man said. “I’m Oz.” He leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’m friends with one of the performers: Miss Kitty Galore. I need to run, but I will definitely find you later.” Isabel highly doubted that, but as the man walked away, she thought that if nothing else, her ego had been propped up by the strangely charming man.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Make sure you have your drinks in hand. The show is about to begin!” Isabel turned her attention towards the stage, pushing the two supernaturally gorgeous men out of her mind in her determination to enjoy the show. She told herself that there was no chance in hell that she would end up with either of them that night; she might as well forget they even existed.
Chapter Two
Isabel stumbled into her bathroom the next morning, groaning as she made a beeline for the shower. She turned the water on and waited for it to heat up, taking care of other physical needs first and wondering what she could have possibly done the night before to feel so utterly exhausted and sore. “Well,” she said to herself, sitting on the toilet seat lid and staring blankly at the water shooting down from the showerhead. “One thing I definitely know is that I got laid.” She shifted her hips and cringed, pain seething through her.
The possibility that she might have been drugged floated up into her mind, but Isabel dismissed it; it felt more like she had been spectacularly drunk, though she thought she had only had maybe four Jameson-and-Cokes over the course of the evening. “Okay,” Isabel said, rising to her feet and reaching a hand into the shower to test the water temperature. “First things first: what do I actually remember?”
She stepped into the hot water and closed her eyes, letting it pound her throbbing skull for a while until she was drenched from head to toe. Isabel started from the beginning of the evening – her arrival at Underground – and tried to work from there. She remembered one or two of the burlesque acts: there had been a debut performer, doing her strip tease to one of Isabel’s favorite songs, and a few others that were noteworthy, in a span of maybe ten acts total. “And then what happened?” Isabel turned her back to the showerhead and reached for her soap, racking her brain. The gorgeous man – the second one she had seen, with the dark hair – had approached her at some point. He had offered to buy her a drink, and she had accepted, though she had watched Jesse make it and had taken it directly from the bartender’s hands. She couldn’t have let the man bring it to her, reasoning as always that one couldn’t be too careful.
They had spent the rest of the time – that Underground was open – talking on the back patio, though Isabel couldn’t remember what they had specifically talked about. She had a mental image of the man attentively listening to her, nodding occasionally, and heard – in her mind – bits and pieces of things that she must have said: something about what she did for a living, writing ad copy for the agency. Something about the worst client she had ever had to deal with, and about petty office politics.
She could remember the dark-haired man, Oz, she recalled, finally pointing out to her that she seemed more drunk than she should be to drive home. He had offered to drive her to a diner up the street when the Underground’s manager announced last call. Isabel frowned again, thinking to herself that Oz had somehow managed to pay her tab as well. She had another mental image of the two of them seated in Bien-Venue, the preferred after-hours eating spot in the downtown area – owned by the same people who owned Underground. She remembered talking while they ate the high-end diner fare.
Isabel began scrubbing herself, turning her head this way and that, hoping that the heat of the shower water would loosen the tight feeling there. She couldn’t quite remember what she had eaten at Bien-Venue, only that she had gradually sobered up – not fully, but enough to think to herself that she might be capable of driving herself home.
She had walked with Oz to his car, and somehow – Isabel saw flashes in her mind’s eye – she had ended up in the back seat with him. As she slid her soapy hands along one of her legs, Isabel felt a rough patch, like a scab, just below where her hip and thigh met, only inches away from her vagina. “What the hell is that?” Isabel looked down at her leg, turning out at the hip to examine the patch. It looked like something between a small, deep scratch and a bite mark. She scowled at the mark, trying to remember how it had come to be there; certainly, it hadn’t been there before that night.
There was no way that there had been enough room in the back of Oz’s car for him to have done that, and on top of that, Isabel thought, it doesn’t look like anything a person could have done. Was there some kind of critter in his car? Had she done something after getting out of Oz’s car when they had finished?
Isabel shuddered, trying to imagine how such an odd mark could have ended up in such an intimate area and failing utterly. “Okay, it’ll come back to you later. Think about it later,” she told herself. “No sense in getting yourself all worked up.”
She finished her shower and grabbed her towel, feeling a small measure more human than when she had stepped into the bathroom, even if there were still bits and pieces of the night before that Isabel thought she would never quite recall. There had been a few nights like that in her life before; she had learned not to worry herself about it too much. But the soreness, the tender feeling between her legs, told her that whatever had happened, she must have been enthusiastic.
Isabel wrapped the towel tightly around her breasts and walked across her apartment to the kitchen. Her head was still throbbing, but she thought it had subsided a little. “Maybe next week, I’ll stick
with my usual,” Isabel mused, pressing the power button on her coffee maker to start it up. She remembered suddenly that she’d also had one or two shots of something – maybe a Fireball, something with cinnamon. The shots hadn’t been drugged; but they had utterly destroyed her inhibitions. “No wonder I feel like death warmed over,” Isabel murmured to herself. She put a coffee pod in the brewer and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard. The whole evening was so strange; Isabel shook her head in disbelief.
There were other things; that much Isabel knew. Whatever she had done with Oz in the back of his car, it hadn’t caused the strange mark on her inner thigh, or the tenderness she felt along her labia and along her inner walls. Isabel snickered softly to herself as the coffee began pouring into the mug. “Whoever else I ended up with, they must have been big.” She shook her head again.
Isabel —added cream and sugar to her coffee then walked to her couch and sat down, sipping carefully. As the caffeine began to do its work, a few more flashes of the night before came back to her. There had been another man; she couldn’t remember who, just the fact of hearing someone call to her, quietly, as she had left Oz’s car.
