“Do you make out with guys often?” he asks, steering the conversation back to me. So serious. Not a hint of humor, just wide-eyed intent.
I’m still reeling from the no girlfriend revelation. The lack of sleep and dehydration from the night’s alcohol consumption along with the weirdness of this entire conversation combine together into a hysterical cocktail. Which apparently I’m the only one drinking because Bowie is just standing there. . .perplexed and pulling at his patch.
Maybe…just maybe he’s as clueless as he looks.
“Bow…man,” I take a few deep breaths to help swallow my laughter. “Did you not know?”
“What?” The word is a breath of disbelief.
“I like guys and girls.”
“Pardon?” He appears quite stupefied. “But—”
“I’ve had girlfriends and boyfriends, but more recently more on the female side of things.” The edge of the dining table is sharp against the back of my legs as I lean back, the need for external support falling on me.
“For real. . .you’re attracted to guys?”
“Yes, Bow.”
His index finger strokes along the cleft of his three a.m. shadowed chin. “The dude tonight didn’t have a beard?”
“Christ.” Good thing for the table, otherwise I’d be flat on my ass. “You’re not making fuck’s sense right now…”
“You prefer no beard?” His thumb rubs across that exquisite lower lip.
He stands a couple of feet away. I only have to tip my chin to look straight at him. His eyes are not sparked with his typical Bowie mischief, but a wild, unchecked power.
“Uh. . .” My brain short circuits, zapping the words from my mouth. “I’ve never kissed anyone with one.”
“No one?”
“No,” I attempt to take a breath. “Technically, my Uncle Rubin had a moustache and kissed me on the cheek—”
“I want to kiss you,” he starts, but stops as my fingers stretch to touch his cheek. His beard. There are only inches between us. “Do you—”
A wet blanket falls on our fire when the JJ’s burst through the front door, a little tipsy and giggly, meaning they’re more likely sex drunk versus vodka drunk.
Jolene stops. “Whoa.” Jess, who’s on her phone, crashes into her.
“Hey, it’s the DJ man,” Jess says and looks around the room. “Was the party here?”
“Rox, you know hot DJ?” Jolene asks, incredulous.
“It’s Bowie, you dumbass,” I step away from the table. And the hot DJ that I was about to kiss the hell out of a few seconds ago.
“Shut the friggin’ door,” Jolene says, slapping a hand to her forehead. “The Bowie? Like the always hanging around Bowie?”
“Like the hot tight pants Bowie?” Jess chimes in. Maybe they are more booze drunk.
Fuck me. This is why you should never gossip about boys to your roommates. They blurt out privileged information at the most inopportune time. I can’t look directly at him. He fills himself with this information and promptly assumes the famous Bowie lean against the breakfast counter, complete with a self-confident smirk.
“No, no, no,” I say and start corralling them toward the stairs. “Just annoyingly arrogant Bowie.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says with all the teeth grinning.
“Your night is over, my darlings,” I say.
“Good night, ladies.” He spreads the charm like buttercream frosting on a cake.
The JJs eyes glaze over until I nudge them, ever not so gently toward their destination. The whispers crescendo up the stairs, peaking at the top with a “She’s gonna fuck the hot DJ!”
With my back to this humiliation, I lock the forgotten front door and note the green paint is chipping away by the dead bolt. My chest expands in an attempt to fill myself with some type of gallantry in the face of this man who snuck his way into my space—my life over these last few months.
This man who always makes me laugh and smile.
This man who treats me as an equal.
This man who looks at me as though I’m the queen. His queen.
This man whose face I want to kiss instead of shave.
He stands behind me, not touching, but close enough to blanket me from head to toe with his scent, his breath, his heat.
“Roxy.” My name brushes the back of my neck and crackles down my spine, lighting up every nerve ending.
He’s so close.
Or I am.
We lean forward and backwards. The space between disappears as his fingers slide down my bare arms and entwine with mine—thumbs pressing another hot switch in my palm.
His lips. His beard skims along my bare shoulder, the side of my neck to the shell of my ear before he says, “You’re killing me. You’ve been killing me forever. I never thought I could have this.” He presses a kiss behind my ear, causing our chests to rise and fall in staccato rhythm.
“And tonight, Jesus, I didn’t think I’d survive. This dress.” He bites the knot of my halter top and whispers kisses along my spine. “Your skin. . .”
With the electric shock of his touch—lips, tongue, stubble against my neck—my heart races, pounding through my veins in a frantic beat that makes me want to dance until we shatter.
I turn and face him
“I. . .” My voice is heavy and thick. My hands on his chest provide a pocket of space filled with unanswered questions and unreleased tension. The distance gives me room to gaze at him. He’s dark blue. His fingers blaze. His eyes sear. His tongue is a flickering flame against his bottom lip, framed by a masterpiece, my masterpiece of a beard.
“What?” he asks, his hands resting—branding the tops of my hips.
“This,” I say, slipping my hands over the coiled muscles of his shoulders. Over the racing pulse in his neck.
With trembling fingers, I trace along the immaculate cheek line, the skin there still smooth from my blade. I continue across the hair above his top lip, shorter than the rest of his beard and down the square outline of his stubbled chin before settling my fingers on the soft thickness of his cheek. My thumb rests in the cleft just perfectly.
His body is still, coiled in anticipation, waiting to spring into action at the right moment. I’m not sure he’s breathing. I’m not sure I am.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you forever.” I confess. To him. To myself.
His lips curl up just enough to change the curve of his cheek and signal a hint of the first dimple under my hand. His body uncoils, arms cinching around my waist. His breath brushes my lips before we touch.
So close.
No space. He’s the blood in my veins, the oxygen in my lungs, the electric current down my nerves. He’s no longer only in my headspace. He’s in every space.
The kiss is soft and stubble. Slick and sweet. An infinite dimple smile.
It’s fingers in his thick hair. Palms on my bare back. Teeth nipping earlobes.
It’s his throat. Smooth shaven. Bowie scented. Thunder rumbling under the drag of my tongue.
It’s the sum of all these months—every smile, every teasing joke, every hour spent sweating at the gym.
It’s the door at my back. Wall of Bowie at my front. And nothing between us.
It’s fucking finally.
The kiss ends with foreheads pressed together, bare chests rising to each other in breathless wonder, while his long fingers refuse to leave my spine. By some miracle, we’re still standing.
“So. . .”
“So. . .” he says and leans back just enough for me to catch the mischief in his eyes. “To beard or not to beard?”
I kiss him, nipping at his bottom lip. His stubble tingles against my chin.
“Beard.” I’m blinded by a full three-dimple smile. “Most definitely to beard.”
About J. Quist
Whether growing up with five sisters in a small midwestern town (population 700), cleaning campground restrooms in high school (yes, totally gross), teaching patients to walk again (awesome caree
r), J. Quist is always surrounded by interesting people. Where there are people, there are stories. So many stories to tell.
Some of her favorite things include Duran Duran, iced tea, all sports, books, musicals, soccer boys and neuroanatomy. Oh, and tacos. Don’t forget the tacos.
J. Quist lives in the concrete desert metropolis of Phoenix with her husband and three daughters. You can find her on the sidelines of her kids’ soccer games, working with special needs children as physical therapist, reading all the books and cheering for her beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers and Liverpool Football Club.
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“Venti, iced caramel latte, soy, no foam, two pumps of—”
“Hazelnut,” I spoke over my shoulder. Without a nudge of help the new dude would no doubt mess this up. And from the little I knew about our mysterious daily visitor, she wasn’t the type of chick who tolerated people fucking things up. Part of me wanted to see him botch the order just to get a reaction out of her, but I was once in his position and I sympathized with the poor guy. Tony was yet to learn the secret motto most baristas mumbled at least ten times a day: If your coffee takes more than three words to order, you’re part of the problem.
Complicated shit aside, I glanced her way, hoping to catch a glimmer of appreciation flash across her face from underneath her dark-rimmed glasses, but nope—nothing. Just like always. I was beginning to think she needed better glasses or I was invisible. Not likely, though, since the sexy-bearded-barista-thing was irresistible to most of the women populating the hipster-lined streets of Williamsburg. And I fit that description to the T.
Tony finished ringing her up and then scribbled her name—I use the term her loosely here—across the plastic cup. I busied myself behind the counter doing barista-ish things while checking her out. A daily pastime. She fumbled through her wallet—a fuchsia vinyl piece of junk held together with a strip of zebra washi tape—while biting on her burgundy painted and silver-ringed lip. Shit! That again? Did she not know what that did to me?
I ignored the current of neediness that pumped through my body from tongue to cock, like the double shot of hazelnut I’d infused into Greta’s coffee.
“Greta?” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as I turned to face her. I thought about calling her out on it because I’d finally caught on. Yesterday it was Ava, the day before Marilyn, and last week she had the cashier squiggle Rita on her cup. Hollywood starlets. Quite clever for a chick her age. She couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one, if that. I only hoped I wasn’t drooling over jail bait, for Christ’s sake.
“Yup. That’s me. Thank you,” she whispered grabbing her order with her eyes toward the ground.
I extended the cold, perfectly brewed beverage into her hands and held on a second longer than usual, hoping her eyes would meet mine.
Nothing. Not a smile, not a flush of embarrassment, not so much as a glance at our fingers that were mere centimeters apart, wrapped around the cup.
She was indifferent. I hated that. There was nothing worse than wanting the attention of someone who couldn’t care less that you existed. But it was a challenge. The cocky part of me didn’t have to question that the opposite sex liked what I had to offer. Hell, I lived in the most diverse slice of Brooklyn. Forget about the opposite sex; dudes liked what I had to offer, too. But regardless of my carefully groomed, bearded armor there was a dormant insecurity from many moons ago that was awoken by this mystifying woman who was hell bent on ignoring me.
When I noticed that the morning rush had simmered to only one last customer in line, I took it upon myself to end this charade for once and for all. Fuck it! What did I have to lose?
“I’m on to you, you know,” I blurted with a crooked grin while I rubbed my fingers scraping over scruff.
“Excuse me?” she muttered with a scowl, her brows angling inward to the bridge of her cute little nose. I guessed she was offended that I finally spoke more than the four typical words to her.
Too bad. There’s more where that came from, Miss Garbo.
“I know your name isn’t Greta, or Rita, or Marilyn for that matter. So, now that I figured out your clever name game—which was pretty slick, might I add—why don’t you tell me what your real name is so I can ask you out the way I’ve been wanting to since you strolled in here ordering your obnoxious concoction and made me mad, wondering whether you’ll lose your glasses and the pencil in your bun when you finally let me kiss you?”
Starlett-Wanna-Be’s brilliant green eyes went wide behind those sexy-as-hell specs. Her alabaster skin flushed pink along her faultlessly sculpted cheekbones. Stunned speechless, she took a half step backwards and gulped back the sip of coffee she’d taken before I’d started making the moves on her.
I leaned forward, rested my elbows on the “pick up your order here” counter and waited for her to say something. Anything. I might’ve gotten a hard on, even if she told me to fuck off. But what I hadn’t expected was for her to run to her regular table in the corner, grab her notebook, and dash out the front door at the speed of a freight train on a one-way track to get-me-the-fuck-outta-here.
“Real slick, Ezra. I’ve never seen that girl jet out of here like that. What did you say to her?” Tony was behind me snickering as he wiped his hands on his apron.
I shook my head and made my way back to the coffee machine to brew a fresh roast for the mid-morning crowd. “Eh, nothing. Guess she had somewhere to be today.” I waved him off as if I hadn’t a care in the world, when in reality I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of how she’d blown me off all day.
Lucky for me, she’d be back. Not because of me or for another coffee fix. No. I was certain she’d return, because on the table in the far right corner–her table—sat the white electrical cord to her MacBook Air. That was my in. When she came back I’d make it a point to get her name—and her story—once and for all.
I’d stared at the clock for so long, my eyes were starting to cross.
Mid-morning had turned into lunch, and lunch had turned into evening quicker than I expected. It didn’t help that Tony’s shift ended hours ago and Shelby had some kind of crisis with her cat or her iguana, or was it her chinchilla, and had to jet out of here to tend to her ailing pet.
I was holding down the fort—solo—and aside from the hum of the music which had become an annoying blend of whiney indie rock, the rain pelting against the front window of the store was all that was left to keep my mind off the clock.
A bright burst of lightning animated the darkened sky, a loud crack of thunder booming shortly after.
“Shit! It’s getting bad out there,” I mused aloud as I dried one of the pots I’d just cleaned. Not only was it pouring buckets, but now the lightning and thunder had become impossible to ignore. Not like I was scared or anything, but the streets were deserted and I’d rather be home binging on Game of Thrones than here in this lonely coffee house waiting out a storm. And keeping an eye out for a girl who wasn’t showing up.
Stupid me had jumped at the chance to tack on an extra shift just so I could be here when Greta–or whatever her real name was—came back. Stupid me never did shit like this—wait around for a chick. Stupid me . . . Who was I kidding? If the weather wasn’t apocalyptic out there I’d still be holding out hope that she’d walk through those doors.
I took one more glance at my wristwatch, another meandering gaze around the empty shop, and decided to call it quits. Didn’t matter that closing time wasn’t for another half hour. Who was braving this storm for overpriced caffeine or stale scones? Definitely not my mystery woman. “I guess I scared her away.” I laughed to myself, scratching my beard as I thought about what I said to her. I allowed the memory of her shocked expression to penetrate a moment too long and warm my weary body. I jangled the set of keys I was given once I’d made management and walked to the door to lock it shut.
With one hand twirling the key ring and the other undoing the string around my apron, I blinked twice as I approached t
he foggy, rain soaked glass. “No. Fucking. Way.”
I had to be imagining things. But who in their right mind would ever conjure up the vision of an enormous red umbrella and hideous yellow and white polka dot rain boots?
“Greta?” I shook my head and unscrambled my eyes to make sure they weren’t playing some kind of pathetic trick on me. But sure enough, as I hurried closer to the door and swung it open, the rain and wind rushed in as if they were welcome guests and the umbrella lifted ever so slightly to reveal the girl behind the dark-rimmed glasses that had me counting the seconds, minutes, and hours all day.
Even protected by the parachute-sized umbrella, her dark hair was matted to her face with tiny drops of rain dripping down the bridge of her upturned nose. “You’re soaked. Come in!” I shouted above the sound of the torrential downpour and another deafening crash of thunder.
The snap and crack of the boom sent Greta jumping straight into my arms, the red umbrella an afterthought as it flew out of her hands and floated behind her. I was momentarily stunned by the feeling of her body against mine—wet, cold, trembling—but then looked over her shoulder to catch the path her umbrella was headed on.
Call me a hero—or a dumbass, your choice—but I felt as if that umbrella was some kind of lifeline. She’d need it to get back home in this storm and although it had failed her from the look and feel of her saturated clothing, the need to retrieve it before it was lost for good overtook me.
“Hang on.” I peeled myself away and darted toward the door. As soon as I stepped outside, the rain assaulted me, clouding my vision. I managed to catch sight of the flyaway umbrella to my right and took a few bounding steps through puddles that soaked the hems of my jeans. With a leap and a stretch that was action-movie-hero worthy, I clutched the red fabric and held on for dear life before it had a chance to drift further down the stream of water that had formed in the gutter. “Got ya, you son of a bitch!”
I didn’t bother closing it, or thinking about anything but getting back inside, for that matter. Once I did, however, and after I shook off the rain like a shaggy dog just in from a jaunt in the mud, I realized the umbrella might have been safe, but the keys to the shop were not.
