Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

by Julie Olivia

  He shakes his head. “Don’t tease me if you can’t play along.”

  We stare at each other for a moment more before he continues walking. I fall in line beside him, my chest warming. My mouth opens before I tell it not to.

  “Fine,” I hear myself say. “Men like to cheat. Specifically, on me. I’m not sure why they’re so compelled to do so. It’s baffling, really. What I did to them…well, I don’t know.” We walk in sync, one foot in front of the other, taking this stroll of truth one moment at a time. When I look, his eyes are already locked on me. I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Here I am with a man in the city where I promised myself not to be around men.

  “You don’t know?” he asks.

  “I think they smell the daddy issues on me. At least I’ve been told that might be it.”

  He barks out a laugh, and it echoes through the alley. I let out a laugh as well, feeling the weight of my words lift the instant the alley absorbs them.

  When he talks, it’s not the same way my exes did. There are no undertones of self-interest where he’s stuttering over every final syllable of my sentence because he can’t wait to get his own words in. He says what he needs to say, and then he listens. Plus, a ‘daddy issues’ joke would have been all too easy and all too hurtful, even if I made the joke myself. It’s comforting how easily he can pick up on that—how intuitive it is for him, and how he’s still prepped for listening.

  “He traveled a lot,” I continue. “But it’s not like my mum was much of a bleeding heart about it. Very self-reliant. I think she actually preferred him on the road. She spent more time pursuing her dream of painting and partying with my aunt. That’s why Natalie and I are so close.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Mmhm,” I hum with a slow nod. “Yeah, although she’s really more of a sister to me.” I laugh and impulsively nudge my shoulder into his arm. He relaxes just as quickly as his muscles stiffen. “She keeps me young with all the night life and pub-hopping.”

  He chuckles. “Did you want to see the night life here?”

  “Oh, lord, no. I like the quiet, honestly,” I say through a small breath of air. I trail my finger on the wall beside us. “Though, Nat can get me to dance on tables.”

  Owen grins. “You continue to surprise me.”

  I shrug. “I like to think I’m a wild card.”

  “Okay, don’t give yourself too much credit.”

  “Arse.”

  We continue walking, me sliding my finger along the brick until I hit something sticky. I jerk my hand away and a slime of abandoned gum comes with it. I rub my hand back against the bare brick a couple feet away, yowling like a cat whose tail was just stepped on.

  “Jesus, what happened?” he asks.

  “Gum. Um, alert—there’s gum. In case you were wondering.”

  I stop and he stops with me, smiling. When I glance behind us then back ahead, my stomach curls in. I realize for the first time that the side street we’re on is empty save for us. His chocolate eyes find mine, and I think I might audibly gulp. The heat of the city, the heat between us that never seems to go away, builds. A storm, and we’re at the eye of the tornado—just me and the tick of his jawline, grinding back and forth as if he can’t find the words to say.

  “They’re idiots, you know.”

  The words, so sudden in our stark silence, so deep in his throat, draw me back.

  “Who?” I ask.

  Owen takes a couple steps closer, slow and deliberate with each extension of his leg, like he’s an animal on the prowl, wary of his prey running away. I can’t move, though. My feet are like glue stuck to the asphalt below me.

  “The guys who cheated on you,” he says, his tone now a low mumble. He’s close enough that it doesn’t need to be above a whisper, and my chest tightens at the sound. “They’re idiots.”

  “Indeed,” I murmur.

  He hovers closer, considering. His throat bobs like he’s swallowing his own thoughts, and this action alone grants him the extra second to sharply inhale and toss his head away from me. The fever of the moment breaks.

  I’m stuck behind him when Owen walks away, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and me being left in the background with my knees weak and head left in a separate dimension altogether, floating above and beyond this alley and this city.

  What was he going to do? And why did he stop? But what a silly question for a silly, naïve woman. I believe that man was wanting to kiss me. I know why he stopped, and it makes my stomach churn. Damn my past self for insisting I wanted nothing to do with him.

  I clear my throat. “Okay, your turn. You’re single—why?”

  I take large steps until I’m back next to him.

  “Can I be honest?” he asks.

  “I feel we should be.”

  He breathes in then exhales sharply before shrugging as high as his shoulders can get—up to his chin—before letting them fall. “Alright, I get bored.”

  The words cause my eyes to roll without even trying, and my gut clenches hard.

  “You are a pig,” I respond.

  “Hey, woah, unwarranted,” he says, holding his hands up in front of him. “Listen, I get bored, but I don’t cheat. I’ve never cheated.”

  “Seriously, you’ve really never—”

  “No.”

  The word is quick, sharp, and decisive. I feel my knees get weak once more.

  “I don’t get why someone would do that to another person,” he continues. “I don’t trust anyone who can consciously, voluntarily violate someone’s trust. Spending an hour cheating on someone? How heartless can you be?”

  “An hour?” I exhale. “Really?”

  Who the hell has sex for an hour? Like, what do you even do for that long? Play cards on each other’s bums?

  Owen’s eyes bolt to me, and a shiver runs down my spine.

  “Sweetheart, if that’s surprising then those men definitely didn’t deserve you.”

  He says it like it’s the end of that conversation, like there’s no further argument left, and the implication hangs in the air, causing a hunger deep in my stomach to growl and my thighs to shiver. I know I must be blushing, but I hope the darkness of the area shrouds it better than I am capable of trying to make it disappear.

  We’re close to the opening into a new street, the sounds of the next intersection gathering in my ears once more, when I suddenly hear a piano and laughter.

  To our left is a door, solo and almost mysterious. If this were Wonderland, I would wonder why Alice hadn’t already drank the potion that made her small enough or big enough to enter through. Every bit of it is enticing—the yellow paint, the small chips that imply its age, and the slight crack, as if it’s inviting us in of its own accord.

  “What’s this?” I ask, stopping to look up at a window open to the street below, bright as if the room beyond were composed of light. I notice a sign on the door advertising a man named Bob the Pianist, available upstairs for entertainment between the hours of nine and midnight.

  “Oh, that?” Owen asks. I hear his footsteps halt beside me. “Hm, looks like a local entertainer. They always do these kinds of things.”

  “What time is it?”

  I turn to see Owen lift his arm and flick his wrist, letting the watch face settle over the flat bone. His fingers look so thick yet simultaneously deft as his other hand adjusts the watch.

  “Little after nine-thirty.”

  The mystery of the building is intriguing, and something about spending more time with Owen seems even more so.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  Owen shrugs without a second thought, a playful smile dancing on his features as he steps to the side to let me pass. “After you.”

  I creak open the door to reveal a rising staircase leading to a nearly invisible landing that’s inscrutable from where we stand on the ground. On the narrow walls are various posters, mostly in the style of old vaudeville shows: desaturated colors and women with pin curls and
dull, faded feathers.

  We ascend the stairs, both of us putting a hand on the railing until we reach the top floor. The wood creaks beneath our feet, so loud it almost brings out your inner librarian to hush it into silence, but the growing sounds of a piano soon overpower it.

  When we turn the corner, the hallway spills into a room more spacious than I had anticipated from the window outside. Small tables line the walls, the feet curled like a French café with only two chairs dedicated to each seating area. On the opposite side of the room, close to the window is a large piano forte complete with a man in a bowler hat. His fingers fly across the keys, playing a little ditty I partially recognize.

  Is that…an Usher song?

  I steal a glance at Owen, his face lit with a excitement like a kid at the carnival, his glasses reflecting the large Edison bulbs hanging all over the walls as he takes it all in: the buzz in the air, the chatter of conversations trying to be held over the sound of the rabid pianist pounding out notes to the beat of ‘lady in the streets but a freak in the bed’ followed by a loud burst of “YEAH!” from the crowd.

  We both jump at that and Owen’s eyes finally meet mine, crinkled at the edges in a giddy grin like we both know we’ve hit gold in finding this hidden speakeasy.

  The patrons range in age from late-twenties like myself to well over seventy, all clutching drinks in their hands. A small bar is set up in the corner, so I make my way there.

  “What can I get for the lady?” the bartender asks when I approach, the champagne and wine bottles in front of him almost as shiny as the baldness of his head.

  “Just a red, please,” I say quickly in an effort to order anything so we look like we belong with the other mixed socialites. I’m not one for drinking, but I’m also smart enough to know that if you’re stopping by to scope out a place, it’s polite to have a glass in your hand. I dig in my crossbody to pull out a bill in exchange for my filled glass. I don’t miss the tight clench of Owen’s jaw as I drop a tip into the jar, his hand clutching his own wallet. To his credit, he plays it off with a deep smile to the bartender.

  “Beer is good,” he says, sidestepping me once the bartender throws his chin up in a request for his order.

  Scanning the room, I spot a vintage couch in the corner and make my way there. I only know Owen is behind me by the continued moans of the wooden floors audible between the piano’s notes. I plop down, cupping the bottom of my wine glass in my palm, and he follows suit, clutching a beer can wrapped in a doily.

  Cute.

  “So this is here, I guess,” he says before taking a sip of his drink. I tip my own glass to my lips as well, and we both choose to waggle our eyebrows at each other simultaneously, causing me to sputter into my cup and him to grip the can harder in an effort to not spit anything out.

  We watch the pianist for a moment, allowing him to wrap up his cover of Usher’s “Yeah!” Owen gets up afterward, dropping a bill into the tip jar near the piano while the crowd and I clap to the final few notes. The pianist tips his hat to Owen in thanks, and he awkwardly bows back. His eyes are widened to me as he walks back, an unspoken thought of disbelief passing between the two of us.

  Owen’s spiced cologne hits me once he sits back down, the cushions depressing under our weight, shifting me so that my outer thigh touches his pant leg. I try to parse through every moment that led us here and wonder how only one month ago I was leaving England in a rushed mess of unwashed hair, holding an overwhelmed cat, and shipping a recliner destined for fiery death. Now I’m sitting here in this odd, lofted room next to a man running his hands through his hair and tossing me the most irresistible side smile.

  I haven’t felt this in a while—this sense of camaraderie with someone of the opposite gender. We haven’t spoken more than a few words since walking in, but the collective mindset seems to flow between us like a steady river, a telepathic conversation as if I’ve known him my entire life.

  This is weird, right?

  Oh, absolutely.

  I nod to a woman standing in the corner, clutching a glass with a mouth the size of a bowl, remnants of a cosmopolitan visible and the visage of her swaying providing evidence of a drink well consumed. The mustached man across from her looks overwhelmed.

  Look at that odd couple, my gesture says.

  Owen’s thick eyebrows rise in response to maybe say, He’s in over his head.

  When the drunk woman leans in to kiss his thin chicken neck, Owen and I take another sip simultaneously in an attempt to conceal our laughs.

  I’m almost too cautious to speak, too terrified of ruining this moment between us. I could sit next to him all night, drinking in my red wine and the scent of his cologne. I’m thankful for the couch below me because when he crosses his ankle over his opposite knee and his watch-adorned wrist settles on it, I just about melt into the cushions.

  The pianist twiddles out a couple random notes then turns in his round swivel chair to face the crowd. After a small “Woot!” from a man flying solo in the corner, he holds up his hand and tilts his head down in gratitude.

  “A good turnout tonight,” he observes, scanning the room. “Wow. You guys really have nothing else to do, huh?” There’s a collective laugh. I revel in Owen’s deep chuckle. “Right, yeah, thought so. New York! City that never sleeps. And yet you’re here.” He clucks his tongue and lets out a low groan, and there’s another awkward “Yeah!” from a random person in the crowd. The pianist aims his finger at him in recognition. “He knows what’s up. But listen, guys…”

  “What’s your favorite song?” Owen’s low voice startles me back to him, like being shaken out of a dream, but one glimpse of his face, so close to mine, mumbling in a low hum is enough to lull me back to comfort.

  “Anything by the Beatles,” I whisper back.

  Owen narrows his eyes. “Oh, what a cliché.”

  “Are you saying, as a Brit, I can’t like the Beatles?” I ask with a grin.

  “Come on, that’s like me, a New Yorker, loving Frank Sinatra.”

  “And do you?”

  “Well of course I do. He’s Sinatra.”

  I hear the deep rustle of a throat being cleared into the microphone and look up to see Bob the pianist and the rest of the crowd staring back at us. “I was just asking for singers, and you two are rather chatty.”

  My stomach drops at the sudden onslaught of attention, but my brain moves faster than my nerves.

  “Oh, Owen, you were just telling me how much you love to sing!” I say, placing a light hand on his shoulder. It tenses under me as he slowly swivels his head with a restrained smile.

  “Was I?” he asks, squinting his eyes.

  We share the glance, a smile sliding up his face and me giving him the best taunting grin I can muster. The room must feel our tension—heck, the comedian must, because he speaks into the mic.

  “Well then, come on up, my man.”

  Owen’s eyes widen are larger than two baseballs when he turns to see the room clapping and the pianist twirling out some introductory notes like it’s a game show and Owen just won a spot at the wheel of prizes. When Owen finds my eyes once more, he shakes his head slowly, slaps his hands on his knees, and rises up—but not before he bends back down toward me, my heart racing faster than it was just a split second ago. On his breath mingle the sweet scents of mint and hoppy beer, and he whispers, “You’re in for it now.”

  I take my most dignified sip of wine in response, and he flashes me an equally knowing grin. Only once he turns to walk to the front—hands held out in a ‘what ya gonna do’ gesture to the crowd topped with his charming, boyish grin—do I allow myself to plunge into the hole of desire. My knees shake, my thighs clench, and I desperately clutch the buttons of my denim jacket so I can tug it close to my chest, cocooning it around me. Were it not for the additional fabric, my diamond-hard nipples would indubitably be on full display.

  Now why did he have to go about saying things like that? And not only those words, but with that t
one—the smooth alto of them dripping out of his mouth like thick honey. He must know—he absolutely must—that he just left me with a new throbbing under the skirt of my dress and wetness that I hope to god remains concealed within my underwear.

  The cheering of the room doesn’t stop until the pianist taps out some quick notes.

  “What do you love to sing?” he asks.

  Owen is already running a hand through his thick locks. I see through the gesture as easily as an officer on the other side of the mirror to an interrogation room. He’s nervous. Despite this, he glances over to me, mid-hair scruff, and gives the laziest grin.

  “The Beatles.”

  My shaking hand brings the wine to my lips once more, acting of its own accord.

  “And do you actually sing, or is this lovely lady determined to embarrass you?” Bob asks.

  “Oh, pure determination on her part,” Owen says, causing laughter to erupt around us. “But I’m good at playing along.” More eyes discreetly find me, but they look away the second I glance back. I can feel my face completely flushed. My drink is pressed against my chest as I will the cool glass to chill through and calm me down.

  “Unfortunately,” Bob says, poking a key on the piano, “I’m a sucker for a cute lady, so it looks like we’ll be embarrassing you, my man.”

  Owen barks out a good-natured laugh along with everyone else in the room, and my smile grows larger.

  “Well don’t let her fool you,” he says. “She’s trouble.”

  Then, for the second time tonight, he throws me a wink, so subtle and delicious that my stomach falls into the pit of me, leaving me empty and vulnerable.

  “Alright.” Bob’s fingers swing over the keys. “And what by the Beatles”—he pronounces it with an exaggerated ‘beat-uhls’—“shall we collectively ruin tonight?”

  He pounds out a few funeral chords on the piano.

  “Which of theirs is the most fun for you?” Owen asks, his hand dragging through his hair again. I can see his nerves buzzing around him like flies to honey. I peer around and spot the other women with their heads tilted to the side, eyes glazed over, and I can only hope I don’t look as hopeless as they do.