Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  “It’s over. OK?”

  This gets his attention. He turns to me and places his hands on my shoulders. His Donetsk blue eyes are sharp and focused entirely on me now.

  “Natalie, why don’t I take you home and you can tell me what happened?”

  “No. Here’s what’s going to go down. You’re going to dance with Meagan. I’m going to dance with that hunk of a man over there, and we’re going to save the rest for another day.”

  “I’m just trying to be supportive.”

  “I realize that, but the best way for you to be supportive would be to let me enjoy tonight without your interference.”

  “Fine.” Alex huffs out a breath with the words, and his hands drop from my shoulders.

  He spins on his heel and stalks to Meagan, immediately grabbing her hand and leading her to the dance floor, not caring that he’s interrupting her conversation with Gavin.

  “Sorry, about that,” I apologize as soon as I’m back by the bar.

  “No problem, lass.”

  Oh, wow. The accent seems to have increased with Mr. Sexy’s frustration. It puts all sorts of thoughts in my head. The problem is that before I read that Stephen King book, I was reading one of those Highlander romance novels. It set my expectations mighty high. While I was with Jeff, I was content to let those expectations rest unfulfilled, because honestly, who gets their own Highlander in real life? But now, with a bona fide Scot sitting next to me, all those butterflies in the stomach feelings come straight back.

  “Would you like tae dance?”

  “I’d love to.”

  As if on cue, the band starts in on “Listen to Your Heart.” They’re favoring the ’80s tonight.

  We start out a respectable distance apart. His hands ride my lower back, never drifting further. My own arms wind around his neck. We sway to the music and talk about nothing important. In between songs, we take breaks to sip on drinks and talk about the Steelers. Gavin’s a fellow sports fan, though he doesn’t seem to have a preference for a team. He mostly listens.

  There are no expectations; it’s uncomplicated. It’s just what I need tonight.

  Eventually Meagan makes her way back over to us. Alex keeps his distance, standing closer to the door, most likely still pissed off at me. I ignore him; let him stew.

  Meagan’s cheeks are flushed from dancing, and her blue eyes are sparkling.

  “Time to go!” she says happily.

  Go? I’m not ready for it to be over. Neither is Gavin, if his sudden piercing attention to our conversation is any indication.

  “I want to stay,” I say.

  “But I have to go. I have that blood drive I volunteered for tomorrow morning, and I have the duchess coming in for her hair appointment.”

  Right, I had forgotten about that. The blood drive will look good on Meagan’s résumé, and she’s been going on about volunteer work since she started nursing school. Lord knows she’s drained enough of my own blood in her practicing. The hair appointment is also important. The duchess, who is actually a moderately rich woman, distantly related to someone of possible royal blood, is Meagan’s biggest client. Whenever the duchess goes in for her hair appointment, she gets it cut, colored, and buys a load of expensive products.

  “You go ahead and go. I’ll get a ride home with Josh. No big.”

  Some of the excitement leaves her face. She steers me further away from Gavin and the dancing crowd.

  “You’re not drunk, are you? I lost count of your drinks when we started dancing.”

  “You know you don’t have to keep track of my drinks, and no I’m not drunk. I’ve eaten a burger and fries, and after the dress incident I started spreading my drinks out over the hours.”

  “Promise me that you won’t do something you shouldn’t.”

  “Meagan! Come on! Since when have I done something I shouldn’t?”

  “OK…I guess. I guess I’ll see you later tonight.”

  Or tomorrow, I silently add.

  “Don’t wait up. We’ll catch up tomorrow,” I say aloud.

  I hug her close and then watch her walk out the door with Alex. When I turn back, Gavin’s already standing with his hand out in invitation. Once again, we head toward the dance floor.

  “I’ve settled our tab, including a burger that I never got tae taste,” he says laughing.

  I laugh with him, and he pulls me a little closer. It’s good that he’s closed out our tab. The drinks of the night seem to be hitting a bit harder now, and the same with him. I think we’re both more than a little unsteady now.

  There’s something here. Pure, sensual magic. The unbidden thrill in the touch of a stranger. A fine sheen of sweat on skin taut over tense muscles, hearts beating fast, senses tingling, feet dancing to the rhythm of their own accord, as our bodies shift ever closer. I decide I may want to do something I shouldn’t.

  Unfamiliar hands against my hip, sliding up along my ribs and down again, the pulse of the music invading our pores, overwhelming all good and practical sense. The moment perfect, lasting, even in the haze of our mutual intoxication.

  I don’t want it to ever end.

  Amber eyes staring through me, until we aren’t our boring, everyday lives. We’re transcendental; we’re current. Alive.

  When he kisses me, it’s as natural as the beat of the drum, the bass strum, and my own pounding heart. It’s kinetic, a sense of the unexpected, yet somehow our meeting, our connection, is perfectly choreographed. It feels fated.

  He makes me feel powerful, desirable, and uncertain all at once. The heady feeling is incredible, easily conquering any reservations or misgivings I may hold.

  When the lights flicker as a signal for last call, I don’t consciously decide to walk with him to his cab; I just can’t bear the thought of him taking this wonderful freedom away with him. Just as I don’t plan on falling into his arms in the backseat, intent only on chasing the pressure of his lips. And finally, I don’t purposely choose to stumble up the stairs to his hotel room, amid tossed shoes, wadded up socks, and a shirt that suffers the loss of its buttons for the cause.

  It just happens.

  And I wantonly let it happen, without remorse, without thought, without the proper care.

  Our paths collide in a flurry of passion. Like destiny.

  Chapter Four

  My head warns me of the torture it’s going to put me through as soon as consciousness even begins to arrive. It’s like three thousand hammers are pounding inside my brain.

  What did I drink last night? And more importantly, how much, and why?

  I doubt there’s a reason good enough for this early morning agony.

  What time is it?

  To find out, I’ll have to completely open my eyes, leaving them vulnerable to the light shining somewhere too close.

  It takes four attempts to get my eyelids up to a squint; what I see makes me regret the effort. The sunlight is caused by a crack between the curtain and the wall, and the curtain is on a window behind the bed. My room doesn’t feature a window with a curtain behind the bed; that’s the first problem.

  The second is the growing need to puke. The third, well the third, is even more pressing than the other two combined.

  I am not alone in this strange bed.

  Someone else’s body is pressed against mine, hot and heavy.

  How did this happen? How could I let this happen?

  Because not only am I in a man’s bed, the man is barely familiar. I can’t even come up with the name that goes with that ruggedly handsome face. That thought has bile rising up past my ability to control it.

  I quickly launch myself out of the bed, or at least I would have, if my legs didn’t get wound up in the sheets. I go tumbling down, my hand clenched over my mouth to prevent throwing up. It feels like an eternity to untangle my feet from one particularly persistent loop of russet brown fabric.

  I could almost sing hallelujah when I finally break free of the confining jumble of sheets. I’m naked, so I g
rab the twisted sheet and pull until it’s free to wrap around my body, then I truck it to the bedroom door.

  The room is unfamiliar, but someone is looking out for me, because the bathroom door is wide open, summoning me in for relief.

  My heaves are particularly violent. It’s not something I feel equipped to handle so early in the morning. Well, I’m still working under the assumption that it’s early morning. It seems to be the only possibility that makes sense. Or maybe it’s the only possibility I want to make sense. Surely I’m not missing whole days? Surely I didn’t do something that stupid?

  But, no matter how much I want it to, shaking my head, closing my eyes, and counting to three does nothing to change the bathroom into my own. I’m still in a stranger’s hotel suite puking my guts out.

  When my stomach settles, I rinse my mouth out in the sink and put a dab of toothpaste from the tube of Crest onto my finger. It’s just further confirmation that I’m not where I should be. Meagan and I are dedicated Colgate girls. My efforts are undone by another bout of nausea.

  After emptying my stomach for the third time, I once again rinse and brush with my finger and the toothpaste. Then I rinse with the Crest mouthwash, also sitting on the counter. Meagan and I use Listerine and Scope respectively.

  This is so wrong.

  Finally daring to look upon my reflection in the mirror, I’m appalled by what I see. My hair is mussed and crazy from day old hairspray, my once sultry eyeliner is smudged along the outer corner of my eyes up to my hairline, with mascara tracks highlighting the circles under my eyes. I have a particularly violent hickey on the right side, where neck meets shoulder. Oh, God. My mind flashes to that Carrie Underwood song and countless TV movies, but mercifully my left ring finger is still bare.

  My footsteps seem to make far too much noise as I tiptoe back into the bedroom portion of the suite. I plop down onto the floor and begin searching for a more traditional covering than some stranger’s flat sheet. I’m pretty sure I was wearing a dress last night, but that dress is nowhere to be found. I do manage to find my underthings and the short, little biker shorts I always wear under skirts and dresses. I pull the clothes on awkwardly, struggling to tug the shorts up from my sitting position. Then, peeking beneath the bed, I spy a tattered corner of red flannel plaid, and it all comes back to me . . . The heat, the want, the feeling of destiny, and the comfort of having someone surrounding me.

  Shoot.

  What have I done? If my mom were still alive, she’d be mortified ten times to Sunday. As it is, if my brothers or papa ever find out about this, I’ll be locked away in a tower until I’m 45.

  This is so not me; I don’t do reckless. Meagan’s voice wafts through my memory, “Promise me that you won’t do something you shouldn’t.”

  Well, I broke that promise.

  There’s a buzzing from somewhere close by. A groan sounds from above me, and I’m hiding underneath the bed before I can think through what I should do next. This is ridiculous. Gavin’s just as much to blame for what we did as I am. At the same time, I don’t think I want to face him after what we did. I don’t know the dude; I only just remembered his name a couple of minutes ago. He’s a stranger.

  The buzzing starts up again. Who is calling or texting this early in the morning, or whatever time it is right now? They’re going to wake Gavin up. I’d like to take my walk of shame without an audience, thank you very much. Although, maybe if Gavin does wake up, he’d offer breakfast and coffee.

  Oh, what I’d give to have a cup of coffee and a bagel. But not that, Nat. My subconscious is right, and stronger than my now growling stomach. I’d give nearly anything for breakfast, but I wouldn’t give Gavin a chance to confront me about what we did last night. Breakfast is not worth facing him.

  The buzzing again, followed by another groan. This time it spurs me into action. I pull on the shirt and button it as quickly as my nerves allow; well, I button what few buttons remain. My purse shines from the edge of a night table. I grab that up as well. Now, shoes. One heel peeks out from the load of covers that I pulled down to the floor with me. I jam it on, and then think better of it, pulling it off and clutching it in my hands. I’ll be faster barefoot.

  When the phone buzzes again, it takes priority. Though I think I make more noise trying to reach it before it can wake Gavin than it does in its persistent buzzing. The phone screen shows a slew of missed messages and phone calls from several different people. The time reads 8:00 a.m. I slide the unlock bar, not expecting it to work, because who doesn’t have a pin code these days? But lo and behold, it makes a clicking sound and takes me straight to messaging.

  Gavin’s been getting texts from all sorts of people, but the most frequent is from someone named Hawke. Glancing at Gavin’s sleeping form to check that he is indeed still out, I tap on Hawke’s latest text.

  Hawke: Dude, whatd u do this time? Where ARE U? More importantly who are u with?

  Huh. I swipe upward and indulge in a little snooping, promising myself that after I read the context, I’ll find my other shoe and get out of here. The mostly one-sided dialogue does not give me warm fuzzies.

  Hawke: Whatcha got goin tonite?

  Gavin: Nothing worth doing.

  Hawke: Come on man. Get happy! That girl I met wants u to go 2 that weird decades bar. She has some chics for u 2 meet.

  Gavin: I’ve met enough. All these nights are getting tiresome.

  Hawke: Dont make me come over there and beat u out of that depression. Attempt some more babes and youll get a babe, if ya know what I’m saying.

  Gavin: Yeah.

  After Gavin’s last reply at 5:24 p.m., there’s a span of about six hours before this Hawke starts up again.

  Hawke: Found somethin good? Another test drive?

  Bràthair?

  Startin to worry here.

  Got a pup already? Do u need backup?

  Ditch the latest and get back here for some brew.

  GAVIN! The pack is starting to freak. Call me bac!

  I don’t know what to do with the steady stream of texts. It sounds like Gavin gets busy quite frequently. And what in the heck does “bràthair” mean? And pup and pack?

  Gavin’s face in rest looks so innocent. He’s not a womanizer intent on impregnating some girl? Right? Cause that’s just creepy.

  Now I’m too invested to just put the phone away and leave as I should. So, I put the phone to my ear and check one of the voicemails.

  Prince MacCrae, tis Elder Duncan. If ye are done sowin’ yer wild oats, yer pack would like ta speak wit’ ye. Return this call as soon as possible.

  Yep, Gavin’s a complete creeper. I had a one-night stand with a creeper, who has voicemails from elderly men who refer to him as a prince. This is messed up.

  I set the phone back down on the table and stare at Gavin’s sleeping form, trying to make sense of the crazy that I just stumbled upon. I just can’t, no matter how hard I try. It makes it worse that I still find Gavin’s exposed chest enticing. The man is too gorgeous for his own good, and certainly too gorgeous for mine. My hickey burns at the sight of him.

  He shifts, reaching out an arm toward the spot I was sleeping in just minutes before. He settles for the other pillow, clutching it close to his chest. His eyelashes flutter against his insanely high cheekbones, as I stare in attracted wonder.

  But there’s no time to be an insipid female. When I tiptoe back out of his room and to the top of his stairs, I trip on my other heel. I grab it up, rubbing my stubbed toe in misery.

  As soon as I’m out of the hotel and across the lot, I slip the heels on and walk around the corner to call a cab. I won’t feel safe from the weird man, with the weird friends, until I’m back in my own apartment, though I’m not looking forward to filling out the scorecard notebook with this tale.

  Ten minutes into my wait for the cab, there’s a slamming door so loud it echoes across the parking lot.

  Not good.

  Peeking around the corner of the gas statio
n I’m hiding behind, I can see Gavin in the distance. He’s standing outside his hotel, with the now unattached side door lying on the pavement five feet away from him.

  “NATALIE!” he screams, his lovely accent distorted by the volume.

  Crap. He remembered my name far quicker than I remembered his. He runs across the lot, his hands tearing through his hair. He’s barefoot.

  Oh, God.

  He’s probably a serial killer. I’ve just angered a serial killer.

  “NATALIE!”

  The taxi pulls up to one of the pumps. I wave at the driver as I struggle not to lean too far away from the building. He shakes his head and pushes his hand down twice in a, “Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, girlie,” gesture. Then he flips a greasy hank of frosted hair away from his face and moves to pump his gas.

  Oh, no, you’re not going to ignore me! I’m paying your paycheck, dude.

  “NATALIE! COME BACK HERE!”

  The shouts are getting louder, meaning they’re getting closer. Gearing up all my courage and strength, I run across the gas station parking lot.

  When I reach the taxi car, I slam my hand down on the trunk.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Miss—”

  “Now,” I growl.

  “NATALIE! DOONA DARE!”

  He’s seen me now. He doesn’t want me to escape.

  “A friend of yours?” the cabbie asks, still pumping his gas.

  His gaze flicks from my heeled feet to my unevenly buttoned, slightly torn, man’s shirt. I endure the lewd appraisal, until his gaze moves back up to my face.

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  He stutters, his green eyes widening in shock. He didn’t think I’d call him out on his rudeness, but I’m so not in the mood for this right now.

  “I say you’re done,” I answer my own question.

  With that, I shove the man away from the gas pump and jerk it out of the car, a splash of gasoline landing on his shirt.

  “Hey!” he yells, grabbing my arm in sudden violence, one hand lifting as if to slap me. The hickey mark burns again, but in a different way, more of an agitation than pleasant warmth.