by Conn, Claudy
He pauses, and then heads towards me again. The closer he gets, the more his back straightens, his head raises, and his jaw squares. The air of modesty he had while sitting with his friend disappears along with the tingle of my hormones. I love confidence, but I have too much self-respect to waste my time kissing up to someone with attitude. If a man wants to leave me begging for more, he doesn’t hang up without saying goodbye; he tells me he can’t wait to see me again.
James Dean II is just a couple of feet away when he suddenly looks like he wants to scamper home. My hormones come rushing back, and “hello” blurts out of me before he can change his mind.
His voice is soft and on the verge of cracking as he returns the greeting. Rox and I shift in our stools so he can stand between us. “Hi. I’m Chris,” he says to me.
Wow! No cheesy pick up line? This is great. “Hi, I’m Darla.”
He then introduces himself to the girls before turning back to me. We smile at each other like idiots.
He came to me, so he should open the conversation, right? But I said hello first. Then again, I hate games, and who speaks first really doesn’t matter a hill of beans in the grand scheme of things. The better question is, who put the Mexican Jumping Beans in my stomach?
Finally, he breaks the ice. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of something to say. I hate pick up lines. I don’t have a single decent one.” He scratches his head while looking somewhat pained by the struggle for words. It’s awesome. “You come here often?”
Jacqueline raises her glass. “Every Friday night for the last few years, no matter how hard we have tried not to.”
Rox taps his arm. “Ask Darla if she wants to share an orange.”
I groan. Jacqueline rolls her eyes. Chris’s brows scrunch. “What?” he asks. “That’s horrible. Somebody has actually used that on you before?”
Is that a slip of an accent in his voice? Southern?
Drool!
Jacqueline raises her hand. “Yep. You’d be amazed by the things we’ve heard.”
“Wow,” he says with raised brows.
Jacqueline and Rox turn to each other. Rox winks and Jacqueline nods. That genuine look of surprise just earned Chris their seals of approval. It must be obvious that I am interested, because they scoot over a stool and invite him to join us.
Chris removes his jacket before sitting. His short-sleeved T-shirt confirms that unlike his tatted friend, the only thing decorating his arms is a watch. Interesting. Clearly he does not mind tattoos on others, which is a good thing since my skin has not been pristine in years.
“I have to tell you,” he says, “you are the most intriguing women I’ve ever seen.” He looks to Jacqueline, who wears a fully buttoned blouse and a knee-length skirt. “I love your classic sense of style.” Then he turns to Rox in her Go-Go dress and mod eyeliner. “Please tell me you dress like that all the time, because it absolutely suits you.” Rox beams so much that I think I hear her squealing inside. Chris then looks to me yet can’t quite make eye contact. “Your hair is stunning. The vibrant colors remind me of a peacock in its full glory.” Finally his eyes meet mine. His mouth drops open to speak but then closes.
Are his cheeks flushing?
My heart flutters so much that I can’t even pull myself together enough to thank him for the compliment.
Jacqueline comes to our rescue. “You have an interesting accent,” she says to Chris. “Where are you from?”
“Alabama. Is it obvious? I’m really trying to lose it and fit in around here.”
Jacqueline chuckles. “Trust me. Fitting in is overrated, especially in Los Angeles.”
Rox is quick to agree. “I’ve never had any idea how it feels to fit in.”
I’m with them. “The last time I tried was in grade school, just before I met you two. I am never making that mistake again!”
Chris looks at each of us in disbelief. “Wow, you have all known each other that long? That’s some friendship.”
The guy Chris was talking to earlier approaches our table. My eyes lock on his ink that covers the skin on the back of his hand and continues all the way up his arms. More color peeks out from under his T-shirt collar and climbs up his neck, stopping just shy of what would be his hairline. His art is a great big contrast to itself. The tattoo coming up the back of his neck appears to be part of a large piece done by a true artist. However, his arms are a different story. Those tattoos are much smaller and appear to be spattered about like whims or possibly tales of adventure and survival. I’m betting this man has a lot of great stories.
Jacqueline scoots her stool over so he can join us. He puts a hand up, smiles, and shakes his head. “No, thank you. Hey, Chris, come on, man, we’ve got to go. The guys are here.” My racing hormones stop and frown.
“Sorry,” Chris says to me.
We stare at each other, both trying to conceal how awkward we feel. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rox buying me time by popping up from her seat to check out some of the color creeping out from under the guy’s sleeve. “Hey! Is that an Aerosmith logo?”
His eyes brighten. “Yeah, sort of. It’s a hybrid between that and Skynyrd. Chris came up with it.”
“Wow! How is that even possible?”
So Chris is a tattoo artist without obvious tattoos? The mystery around him grows. “Hey,” he says, “I know this is short notice, but with next weekend being Thanksgiving, tomorrow is the only Saturday night I have free for the next few weeks. Are you available?”
Volumes have been written on the subject of dating. I’m pretty sure every authoritarian would tell me to stick with the cat and mouse game, but I really hate nonsense. “What did you have in mind?”
A group of biker-types calls for the attention of Chris and his friend. “How about I meet you here at six and we go from there?”
“Sounds great.”
His eyes seem to twinkle. You’d think with all these other guys around he’d try to hide it. “It’s a date,” he says.
Maybe it is the excitement of the upcoming holidays that provides the magic I feel seeping through the air, but it sure would be nice to have it caused by something else. The holidays have always held joy for me in so many ways. Dare I hope this one will bring magic of a different kind?
Thunder storms from outside, announcing that wheels are about to roll. My adrenaline rushes at the sound.
Jacqueline fans herself. Her eyes beam with sparks of mischief. “He is so not your type. I think you’d better leave him in my hands.”
“He is so cute and perfect for you!” Rox adds.
I raise my glass in a silent toast to myself, but I don’t keep all of my thoughts secret. “Yeah, isn’t it awesome!”
Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin'
I feel lame.
A grown, reasonably attractive woman, sitting in a bar, waiting, alone, on a Saturday night—it just shouldn’t happen.
Driven by both frustration and boredom, I send Bailey a text. “He’s late.”
Why did I put myself in a spin to get here on time? Aren’t women the ones who are supposed to make men wait? Maybe I should have done that.
No, I hate being late just as much as I hate dating games. I also believe in making a good first impression.
My phone chimes with a return message from Bailey, “And yet men always complain about us.”
Shoot, even if I was late, I might have been sitting here alone. It is nearly ten after six. He did say six tonight, didn’t he?
“How long is it polite to wait for someone you don’t know?” I text back. “At what point do you become a chump?”
Finally, I am hit with a wave of relief that I no longer need to badger myself with questions. Chris heads straight to the table were we met last night, even though it is dirty, and looks for a waitress to clear it. It would probably seem odd to most that he didn’t just grab another table, but to me, it’s sweet. My dad is sentimental like that. If I could score someone who is half the man he is, I’d be set.
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My phone chimes with another text from Bailey. “I think you know how to take care of yourself better than anyone else ever could.”
“He’s here,” I reply before tossing the phone into my purse.
I clear my throat, twice, and chuckle before it catches his attention. Chris smiles to the waitress, thanks her anyway, and heads to my booth. His walk reminds me of that of his friend last night—board-straight, confident, and with a bit of swagger. I can’t help but notice that his hair is unkempt like he just got out of bed.
“Hey,” he says. He sits across from me and places his cell phone on the table, taking care to make sure it is straight and aligned with the wood grain. I then notice that for as casual as he looks, everything about him is pristine. His ripped jeans seem pressed, his T-shirt is bright white and practically fresh out of the wrapper, and his boots and leather jacket have been polished. A woody scent, accented with a hint of mint and lemon, wafts across the table. It makes me want to snuggle into his shoulder. When I die, this is how I expect Heaven to smell.
Chris raises his hand to get the attention of the waitress. The smile he gives her would make the Devil envious of its power. She blushes to the point where she has to force herself to look at me and ask for my order. I don’t blame her. He really is handsome, and that disheveled, yet perfectly clean, look could rev any woman’s engines.
I don’t want to drink anything too strong, so—
“A Cosmo for the lady. Whisky for me. Neat.”
The waitress tucks her hair behind her ear as she turns to Chris. “Anything else?”
Did he just order me a Sex and the City drink without asking? I want to be polite, but I really dislike Cosmos.
I stop the waitress before she leaves. “Make mine an Old Fashion, please.” Chris’s expression goes blank. He is probably nervous and was trying to be nice by ordering for me. I stomped on it by ordering something that an eighty-year-old man would get. His unintentionally being rude doesn’t justify me doing it to him. “Sorry, I’m not very fond of cranberries.” I’m not exactly crazy about Old Fashions either, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I must be just as nervous.
Chris leans onto the table and speaks softly. “So, you are a multi-faceted woman who does not want to be around cranberries. Tell me what else I get to learn about you.”
Dear God, those eyes—so clear, so blue, so enrapturing.
Aw. I like the sweet way he said that. Yeah, we are both just nervous. It’s understandable. “My job title says that I am Head of Reception Relations for Endeara Candies. What that really means is that instead of wearing professional office attire, I should dress like a traffic cop. I’m the first one who gets called in a crisis, be it an accident in the warehouse or one of the executives losing a paperclip.”
His tone of voice strengthens. “Professional attire? With that hair?” He scoffs.
It has got to be nerves. Nerves will doom you. They are sure doing a number on me. I tuck my hands into my lap, suddenly very aware that they exist. “Yeah,” I tell him, “I really don’t get the place I work at. No one does. We all have to wear business suits and warehouse uniforms, yet individuality is stressed.”
“Sounds interesting,” he says, blandly.
Funny, how he is eyeing the room tells me nothing around here seems interesting to him. Maybe I am rambling. Lord knows my thoughts are. I don’t quite feel like I am really here. “Yeah, there are always plenty of ridiculous antics going on. Rox works there too, so she helps keep me sane.”
The waitress walks by on her way to take an order at another table. Chris flags her down with a single finger. It is pretty impressive that she noticed the stealth gesture. Then again, he is hard not to notice. “Hey, didn’t we order drinks?”
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “There was a mistake. The bartender is finishing them now.”
She is hardly out of earshot when he says, “Looks like her daddy was the one who made a mistake.”
My hand smacks onto the table. “What!” No! No possible way! That comment brought me back to reality with lightning speed. “What did you just say?” He’s got two seconds to tell me I have wax in my ears and heard him wrong. Nerves or not, there is never an excuse to look down on someone like that.
Suddenly, he chuckles. While it may sound nervous, a layer of smug coats him as if someone smacked his face with a brush. I’d kind of like to do that myself.
I’m pretty sure it is my obvious lack of amusement that gets him to stop laughing and change his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this dating thing. With the way she was flirting with me earlier, I just wanted to make sure you knew there was nothing to be jealous over.”
Um … Wow.
“Anyway … ” He taps on the table and eyes the room. He is probably trying to figure out how to pull himself out of his hole. “So, that cute, little friend you work with, I bet she’d drool over what I have in the garage.”
This guy makes zero sense. “So, you don’t want me to be jealous over the waitress smiling at you, yet you are talking about making my best friend drool?”
His chin raises, and I swear he is puffing out his chest. “All right. Tell me what you drool over.”
Okay, where is the hidden camera? I’m alternating between being pissed off and feeling like he is trying to make me jealous of pretty much every woman in existence. But what really gets me is my own behavior. Normally I don’t just let others ask the questions; I interact. I don’t sit with my hands in my lap; I gesture. I toss them in the air. I use them like a natural part of my vocabulary. I’ve always been that way. I don’t like me like this, and no guy is worth me not liking myself.
The waitress returns with my Old Fashion. What I ordered must not have registered with her before, because she looks confused by the old man drink. I smile and thank her. She then places Chris’s drink in front of him, and he fails to bat an eye. As she heads off, I thank her on his behalf. My confusion over his difference in behavior must show. “Something wrong?” he asks.
“Nope. Everything is hunky dory.” Great, now I am telling lies. I never lie unless it is absolutely necessary. Can this man make me any more uncomfortable with myself?
Now I get a charming smile. “Excellent.” He clanks his glass to mine even though I’ve yet to touch it. His eyes hone in on me. “Drink up,” he says, firmly.
God, those eyes. They have the power to suck me in like a fool. However, my sense of self-worth doesn’t give a crap about my hormones. That voice was commanding. Come to think of it, most of our conversation has consisted of him giving passive orders. Something is not quite right here. I have to admit that I am morbidly curious as to what the hell is going on.
His phone rings. He doesn’t even look at it before saying, “Excuse me,” and heading off.
Maybe it is egotistical, but I have to question what could be so important that he would leave a first date for a phone call. Isn’t this when we are supposed to put our best foot forward?
Yes, it is, which makes that supposedly well-intended joke about the waitress all the more crass.
Chris makes his way back to the table while still on the phone. “Sure, meet me there at six tomorrow. It’s a date.”
A date at six tomorrow? Am I over reacting by thinking that sounds familiar? Then again, with the way he seems to be trying to make me jealous, him making a date in front of me is fitting.
“So,” he states while slipping his phone into his back pocket, “I know this was a short notice thing, but you’re free after this, right? Finish up.” He knocks back his whisky with one swallow. His glass hits the table, and I get dead on eye contact. “Let’s get out of here.” He then nudges toward my glass to drive home his point that it is time to go.
Seriously, what the hell? That’s it. I’m done.
It’s sad that I waited this long to call it quits, but I keep hoping to see the man I saw yesterday. Whoever he was, I liked him. He warmed my spirit. He made me want to know more about him. And he
didn’t make me feel like I am expected to follow his every command like a well-trained circus animal. This guy wants to suck me in by playing on my natural, female instinct to change him into what I saw he could be. He thinks it would buy him forgiveness every time that he is an ass. Little does he know I’ve never been one of those women who felt that trying to change anyone was either morally right or worth the time and dignity I would lose while failing.
It is long past time to go. “Actually, I need to call it a night. Busy day tomorrow.” I slip on my jacket before reaching into my purse to foot my share of the bill.
There goes that blank stare again. It caves way to wide eyes when he realizes that I am serious about leaving. He places a hand out to stop me from paying. “I’ve got this.”
I put down my share anyway. I won’t let this guy find any reason why I could possibly owe him anything. “Thank you, but I have a personal policy about these things. Goodbye.”
I’m nearly to the door when I hear boots running up behind me. “It’s dark out. Let me walk you to your car.”
Normally I would see this as a nice gesture, but right now the offer comes off as yet another passive form of assertiveness. My stride does not falter. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Still, he follows along.
“I’ll call you,” he says as I get into my car, and then he just stands there.
It feels like he wants me to ask when or to throw open my arms and beg him to come to my place. I feel so cold for leaving like this, but I just want out of here. “Okay, good night.”
I’ve got one foot in my car when his words race out. “I’m headed out of town on Monday for Thanksgiving. I won’t be back until Sunday. I’ll call you then, okay?”
I stop myself just short of saying I won’t answer, because I won’t lower myself and be rude. Also, it hasn’t dawned on him that he doesn’t have my number, and there is certainly no need to go there.
I can’t drive off fast enough. It pains me to admit that books on dating may have a purpose other than being kindling after all.
