by Joey Bush
“I can’t believe this is a part of your regular life,” I gasped, taking a sip of the cool, refreshing Old Style in my hand. The sun was high in the sky at this three o’clock start time, and I felt myself sweating with the adrenaline of the day.
“So,” Drew began, turning toward me. All his interest was fueled directly to my eyes, my face. He placed his hand on my knee before taking it off quickly, out of respect. “I was surprised to hear from your assistant today—“
I panicked, suddenly. I didn’t want him to know I worked at the dance studio, not yet. It was still so strange. People were so weird about me being a dancer—an actual, trained dancer, and I was so weird about having failed as a “real” one. It was just too personal of a topic to even discuss. I waved my hand over my face. “You know. She’s my assistant, yes. But I don’t currently have a job. She’s helping me parse through the city, discover where my talents should really lie.”
Drew nodded, a tiny wrinkle forming above his nose. “I see. She’s putting your name out everywhere. What are you looking for?”
I bit my lip for just a moment, my mind rushing. “You know. I studied journalism, public relations, that sort of thing in college. Which fits a broad range of jobs, of course.”
Drew nodded, his eyes bright. “Yes. I, myself, studied PR a good deal. A lucrative career, if you know where to look.”
“Right,” I nodded. I tried to remember everything that my roommate had told me in college about PR. Her homework had seemed so boring, but the fact that she could do many different things outside of college—beyond the realms of just dancing until your body gave out—was always very interesting to me.
But I couldn’t sift through everything she had told me; it had been another lifetime ago. “What about you?” I asked him. The game was close to starting; the men were running from the field to their respective dugouts. “I know you’re in Chicago to open up a bookstore—“
“Right,” Drew nodded. “I own a small chain of bookstores—all mostly throughout Manhattan and Brooklyn. They’re called the Femme Fatale bookstores. We sort of dim the lighting, make everything a little darker in there—a little mysterious while you look at the books.”
“So you feel like you’re in a spy novel?” I chimed in, rolling my head back a bit.
He nodded. “Yeah. But mostly, they’re just regular bookstores.”
“Except they seem to be thriving,” I blurted in, knowing that bookstores were generally on the decline in greater cities, especially with the rise of e-books—airless readers.
He shrugged his shoulders, beginning to unwrap his Chicago dog. He took a long sip from his Old Style. “Man, this tastes good. You know, my first drink ever was an Old Style, at a pub down the street.”
“When you were twenty-one?” I asked him.
His eyes grew mischievous. “My grandfather—diehard Cubs fan—brought me to the ballpark when I was seventeen, maybe early eighteen. And he took me to that bar—his bar, he called it. And the bartender didn’t care at all. Round here in Wrigleyville, the Old Style might as well come out of the tap. We drink it like water.” He glugged it down for a moment before smashing it back in the cup holder. The players were taking the field. The other team—the St. Louis Cardinals—were up to bat. The age-old organ was playing old-fashioned baseball music, and the entire crowd, all of the Cubs fans were singing along.
I felt the amazing rush of having so many people around you, rooted in the same belief, the same love. I sipped my Old Style, eyeing Drew to the side as he looked out on the field. His face was bright, so happy. He kept pointing things out to me; watch how he does that, Molly, or look at that hit, Molly! We cheered the Cub boys on through their up to bat, screaming wildly every time one of them hit the small ball into the outfield. The Cardinals seemed no match for the great stadium’s power. Here in Wrigleyville, there was a sense of magic that could not be beat.
During the end of the fifth inning, after the Cubs scored their fourth run and they struck out their last batter, circus music began to play throughout the stands. The crowd began to freak and scream with happiness. I watched as the cotton candy man bobbed his great pink head throughout the crowd, selling small satchels of sugar. I watched as a small child, just a few seats away from me, crawled up on his grandfather’s lap and pointed out at the field, his nose red from the sun. “What a wonderful place,” I whispered to Drew.
“I’m glad you’re having fun. But—Oh! Watch out!” Drew was pointing up to the great screen, where they had flashed the words “MAKE OUT CAMERA!” Drew turned to me, his eyes bright. “What do you think about that?”
I turned pink, shaking my head. “They surely won’t land on us,” I sputtered, smiling. I watched as an older couple, both of them with bright white hair, appeared on the camera and then turned to one another, administering a brief, smooched kiss on each other’s lips. Another couple appeared—a woman holding a baby and her husband directly next to her. They were bickering. When someone pointed the screen out to them, they pushed each other’s faces together briefly before the camera fled away.
And then; I saw myself. On screen. My blonde hair was glinting in the sunlight, and—on screen—my mouth was open in wonder. I turned swiftly toward Drew, who was already prepared. He came toward me, his mouth open, his eyes closed. And I leaned into it as well. He started kissing me deeply, so much like he had the evening before. His tongue flipped against mine intimately. I could feel a hint of beard on his cheek. I heard the people around us begin to cheer, “YEAH. GET IT!” as we kissed and kissed. Drew’s hand was on my shoulder before he moved it up to my cheek, playing with my ear. An internal desire to fuck him sprang up in me; it was such a surprise, those feelings. I wanted to mount him there, in front of everyone, in front of the entire stadium.
But then, Drew pulled back. He nipped at my lower lip one final time before looking at me with slanted, bedroom eyes. “Wow,” he murmured. “You are a really good kisser.”
I just blinked up at him, still hearing all of the people around us. “What I would do to be her right now,” said a woman a few rows back, eyeing Drew and I tightly. I smiled, leaning my head against Drew’s shoulder. I daydreamed for the remainder of the game, watching as the ball flew through the air—and feeling as high as that ball. I felt butterflies brimming in my stomach; I felt the lurch of nerves every time Drew spoke to me, asking me if I wanted another dog, another beer. Always I spoke to him in a low, husky voice. There was an intimacy forming between us; I felt it so starkly, then.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After the game, we walked through the dense crowd toward the street. All horns were honking; the people were swarming. The Cubbies had won. I was caught up in the excitement; I felt like my heart was in my throat. I clung to Drew’s hand as we skirted across the street, watching people making out in the streets, watching a drunk person fall off a curb. I watched as people saluted each other. We were all on the same team in that moment. We were all together.
A few blocks away from Wrigleyville, everything started to calm down a little bit. I turned toward Drew, looking up at his shadowed face—so high up there, six foot four. “That was incredible,” I murmured to him. I rubbed my hand across his chest.
He nodded, then, turning toward me. He showed his teeth, illuminating such light toward me. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I loved sharing it with you.”
I nodded, pulling my blonde hair around my ear. I didn’t know what to say. I felt so unlike myself—so much like a rich girlfriend, a successful person. I wondered if this was the sort of life I would have had if I would have been successful as a dancer.
“Hey. Do you want to walk around a bit more? I know we’re close to your place, but.” Drew paused. He looked around at the streets, the people. “God, I love this city. And I love walking around with you.” He turned toward me, touching the spot directly behind my ear. “I want to talk a little bit more, with the backdrop of the city behind us.”
I nodded, feeling his hand reach ar
ound my back.
“So. What about your life,” Drew began, clearing his throat a little bit. “I mean. Have you had very serious relationships in the past? Or you just sleep around?” He grinned at me for a moment, flashing his teeth. “I don’t mean to be so forward.”
My eyes were wide with surprise, but I decided to go with it. What did I have to lose? I really liked this guy; he was the most attractive man I’d seen in a long time. And his hand was around my back; his kiss had been for me alone. “Okay. Okay. I’ll answer you,” I said coyly, raising my eyebrow. “I have had only one serious boyfriend, actually. In college. Kevin.” I rolled my eyes at myself for a moment. “He was a business major, until he dropped out. He wasn’t—hmm. He wasn’t driven in the same way that I was.”
“And you were driven for PR, yeah?” Drew asked me. I had forgotten already that I had lied to him about my career, about my life. I went with it, though. I wasn’t ready. I nodded my head. “So. Just one serious boyfriend?”
“Yeah. What about yourself? I mean. I hope I’m not being so forward. But fair’s fair.” I winked at him.
He put up his hands in the air, like he was defending himself. But his eyes were full of humor. “All right, all right.” We were walking down unfamiliar streets, jetting further and further away from my apartment. Where were we going? “So. I travel nearly constantly. I grew up here, moved there—and still never felt like I had a home anywhere, you know?”
I nodded, keeping eye contact with him. I had slipped my hand into his. “So. I haven’t had any really serious relationships. Not for a while, at least. Of course—“ Here, he paused, looking at me with a glimmer of sarcasm in his eyes. “I do play the field.”
I punched him lightly on the side of his arm. “Oh, whatever, Drew,” I said, my cheeks growing hot. Why did I feel like I already knew him, like I had known him my whole life?
“Anyway. It’s just been too hard to hold down a real relationship with someone. To grow close to someone.” Drew stopped, then, and pulled me close to him. I felt my body grow hot as it leaned up to him, closer to him. I could feel his penis, strong in his pants. I nearly shuddered as his eyes looked deep into mine, his fingers laced around my left ear. “You are truly beautiful. You know that?”
I wanted to shake my head, to run away. I felt like a deer, nearly hunted. He kissed me, then, in the center of the street. And I knew; in that moment. I knew I was his. That he could do whatever he wanted to do to me. That this was my destiny. At least for the day. At least for the night.
He pulled away, suddenly, and brought his arm out to gesture to the building directly next to him. I looked up at it, noting that it was a Four Seasons hotel. A fine one. A luxurious door opened before us, bringing a concierge toward us. “Sir Thompson,” the man said. “You haven’t any bags today, do you?”
“No, no, John,” Drew said, nodding at him. “Thank you.”
The concierge bowed his head and backed away, giving him his space. I looked up at Drew, amazed. He was rich, I knew. But this was ridiculous. “Do you live here?” I asked him.
He nodded slightly, bobbing his head back and forth. “Just for now, you know. Until I find something better, something bigger. A place to—perhaps—settle down.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Do you want to go up?”
I looked up at the windows, all of them glowing in the soft sunlight of the coming evening. I felt my body quivering, quaking. I looked at him with large, orb-like eyes, and I nodded ever-so-slightly.
“Follow me,” he ordered, taking my hand once more. We wound through the doorway, through the illustrious foyer. I had never seen such a fanciful hotel. Concierges, dressed in their red outfits, scurried everywhere, bringing drinks or carrying suitcases. The general grandeur of each of the many guests was so apparent in my eyes. My heart was beating so fast. I wanted to note everything so I could tell Mel about it the next day. I could hear my own voice in my head saying, “Imagine, Mel. Me. Who can hardly pay for anything. In the Four Seasons.”
We walked into the elevator with such purpose. We turned, and I eyed some of the women in the lobby who looked at me with such jealous zeal. I was with the most handsome, most money-laden man in the room. I held my hands together, self-conscious, as Drew turned to me and positioned his hands on my ass. “You really are so beautiful,” he said before he dove his head into my neck, kissing me with his large, romantic lips. I leaned my head back, allowing him to dip down to my collar, my breasts. A large sigh came from my lips.
Finally, we reached the tenth floor. I followed him down the wide hallway, wondering about all the people in each of the rooms; each with such money, each probably fucking their wives, their mistresses. Drew opened the last door on the right—room 371—and allowed me to enter first, streamlining his arm forward to usher me in.
My breath was caught in my throat as I entered. I looked back at him only for a moment before stepping forward, finding myself with the greatest view of the city I had ever seen. I walked to the window, watching as the sun petered out over the clouds, leaving the city lights to shine. Behind me, I felt a warm shadow. Drew had come up behind me, wrapping his arms around my thin waist. “Look at it, baby,” he said. “Look at it.”
And I did. I placed my hands on the floor to ceiling window, watching as the city came to life. I sighed into it, feeling so utterly complete. My breasts bobbed into the window. I felt so full, so cherished.
Behind me, Drew had pulled away. I heard him on the telephone, ordering champagne. Was this what rich people did? I couldn’t be sure. I walked toward the bed. It was a fine king-sized bed with crisp white sheets and a white comforter. I imagined us fucking on it, and my eyes began to roam over his tight body, his thick, muscled arms. I licked my lips. He hung up the phone, turning back toward me and clapping his hands.
“You ordered champagne?” I asked him, bringing myself back into the moment.
He nodded, walking toward the bed. He wrapped his arms around me again.
I spoke in a husky, sexy voice. “What are we celebrating?” I asked him. I swallowed firmly, feeling the rush, the sexuality forming in me. My pussy was wet; it seemed to beat beneath me. My nipples were hard in my bra.
He spoke back. His penis was hard against my leg. Suddenly, I placed my hand over it, kneading it. I sighed as he spoke. “I bought a building today. In Wicker Park. I’ll be having my bookstore there,” he said, leaning in and beginning to kiss my neck, my cheek. “I’ll destroy the whole goddamned building. You can watch me knock it down.”
I grabbed his chest, needing him, pulling him closer. “Yeah? You’ll destroy it?”
“Just like I’m going to destroy you,” he said. He teased me, licking lightly at the tip of my nose. I laughed, loving the playfulness of it.
“You’ll destroy it and build a new building?” I asked him, kissing him again, barely able to concentrate on the details.
He nodded, beginning to unbutton my dress, pulling off my jacket. Suddenly, one of my buttons popped and flung itself across the room. He knelt at my breasts and began rubbing them, kissing them. He grabbed my nipples and began playing with them, forcing my head back. I started breathing hot, wanting him to touch me. I thought about it; how he would work in Wicker Park, so close to me. How I could rush to his bookstore and fuck him, there in the midst of the books, whenever I wanted. I pictured it in my mind in a flurry of nervous, sexual energy. I let out a loud moan.
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” This was Drew, below me, unbuttoning still more of my dress, revealing more of my abdomen. My breasts bounced in his face, and his tongue met them easily.
At the door, there was a knock. So swept up in Drew’s touch, I leaned back against the bed when he let me go, touching myself, feeling myself. My eyes were hardly open. Drew opened the door, revealing the concierge from below, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. I flung my arm across my exposed breasts. The concierge looked back at me, seeing my breasts bouncing and spilling out of my shirt, my hand on my pussy. He nodded at
Drew, his face nearly stricken. “Here you are, Mr. Thompson.”
Drew stuck a $100 bill in the concierge’s pocket and closed the door. He turned back toward me, his left eyebrow raised. “You better behave yourself. I can’t afford to just give $100 tips to every concierge every time they see your boobs.”
I bounced up on my knees, allowing my body to become supple, tender. “Well, I covered myself up.”
“Maybe he realized we were about to fuck.” I laughed nervously. Drew raised his left eyebrow at me, preparing to pop the top from the champagne. “Cover your ears,” he warned me in a hushed, husky voice. And then; POP. The top came flying off the rim of the champagne bottle, colliding directly with the lamp on the other side of the bed. The lamp fell from the bed, erupting into three pieces on the floor. Foam came spewing from the champagne, falling to the ground. In a rush, I sprung from the comforter and grabbed the champagne glasses, catching bits of the foam and liquid as it spewed. Drew placed his mouth over it, laughing as it ran wild. I was so giddy, so vibrant. I watched as finally he poured the liquid into the champagne glass, the bubbles wafting toward the top. He poured his own as I stood, expectant, my breasts nearly out of my dress. I touched my blonde hair, gazing behind him at the illustrious city below.
“Let me make a toast,” Drew said, directing his gaze toward me. He cleared his throat. “Okay. First of all, to finding my true home, here in Chicago.”
“Here, here,” I called out.
“And to the Cubs’ amazing win earlier today.” He kissed his thumb, holding his hand in a fist. “Amazing. To further purchasing my own lot in Wicker Park, where I’ll be able to finally, finally build a Femme Fatale bookstore in my favorite city. And finally—finally. To you.” He pushed his glass out and clinked it with mine. The sound was so beautiful, sending shivers down my back.
I shivered, taking a sip. The bubbles coursed through my mouth, putting an immediate smile on my face. I looked up at him, noting the way his eyes had grown dark, the way he clinked his glass down. He began to unbutton his shirt, removing it quickly. His face was hot, ready. I clinked my glass to the side of his, on the table. I hadn’t had sex in years. So many years of wasted youth, I thought. I held up my hands, helping him to remove his shirt quickly, to remove his pants. He stood, finally, in his boxer shorts. His body heaved with uneven breathing. He grabbed my dress, then, and pulled it straight up over my head, ripping it a bit in the armpit and at the breast. I called out, feeling so utterly exposed, so naked in front of him.
