by Ashley Pullo
“Can we get two Cosmos, please?” The bartender cocks his eyebrow and I’m certainly aware I just lost a few points in the manhood department, but I’m willing to accept an incredulous perception as long as I get laid. In fact, I prefer it. I don’t have the patience for the blonde to know anything about me.
“I’m Adam by the way.” I sit on the stool next to her; close enough to make sure our legs touch and close enough that she feels wanted. Steve Something and Burt Pervertson pat me on the back, drool over the blonde, leave me their whiskey tab and move on to another bar.
“I’m Dana . . . are those your friends?” She asks while pointing shyly to the White Sharks.
“Nope, we just work together.” I drink the rest of my beer so that I can prepare my palate for the pink shit that’s being placed in front of me.
“So Dana, to a nice summer evening with endless possibilities.” She giggles as we raise our glasses simultaneously.
“Oh, yummy . . . but very strong.” She scrunches her nose. Oh, dear god.
“What do you do, Dana?” Secretary.
“I’m an administrative assistant for a VP of Marketing.” But she also wants to act. “But I’m trying desperately to get into acting. I have an agent and a few small television credits.” Her roommate is on Broadway. “My roommate is a model and she’s been given a ton of commercial opportunities.” I was very close. She will complain about working in an office. “It’s tough working in an office and not having time to pound the cement for acting jobs.” Of course.
“So Adam, are you a banker?” She sips her Cosmo giving me her full attention.
“Nope, attorney.” Which is so much cooler than a banker.
“Oh great, like Wall Street?” Is she kidding?
“Um no, Midtown . . . defense litigation.” She scrunches her nose again and I think it’s time for another round of drinks.
“My ex-boyfriend works on Wall Street. He passed his Series Seven exam and then dumped me last week . . . I bet a handsome man like you would appreciate me.” She rubs my arm and attempts a sexy pout. Poor girl, she’s hot, but incredibly desperate. She has the delusion that only a rich asshole can help her get into acting and I actually feel sorry for her. I would introduce her to the Sharks but I have no idea what their names are and judging by their body language tonight, they are an item.
“Dana, may I give you some advice?” There’s really no easy way out of this disaster so I’m going to take the high road and go home.
“I guess . . .” Her smile is nervously cautious.
“The men in here are losers . . . I was going to sleep with you and never call. The truth is, you’re a beautiful woman and you shouldn’t be in bars looking for men . . . in fact, nine times out of ten, nothing good comes from a bar encounter.” I smile sincerely because I truly mean what I say.
“You need to give yourself some time to heal from your breakup . . .” Before I can finish my very thoughtful lack of interest, Dana stands up to gulp down her Cosmopolitan while glaring at me with her fluttering Bambi eyes. She slams the frail glass on the counter and walks to a group of girls in the far corner. They all stare at me with contempt, and since I’m apparently “the prick” I wave and smile before turning back around to settle my mounting bill.
“Hey, do me a favor, send a round of Apple Martinis to that table of girls over there . . . but after I leave. I also have the whiskey tab from earlier and I will cover my friends down there as well . . .” I point to the Sharks at the end of the bar but the bartender is focused on the entrance. Shit, I’m afraid to look in fear that one of Dana’s friends is plotting my death.
“Hey, are those girls looking at me?” I ask.
“Oh, what? No, no they just left,” he answers.
I turn my head to see what could have possibly distracted him from my two-hundred dollar bar tab and fuck, she’s gorgeous. She’s tall and confident and wearing an incredibly sexy, green dress. She definitely likes attention. Her legs are long and toned and she has the feminine curves of a pin-up model. Her hair is golden, no, that’s not accurate . . . it’s golden-brown with copper, like the sun kissed her and then set her free. And then there’s her smile – warm, inviting, infectious – and she’s smiling at me. This girl is more than a breath of fresh air in a Manhattan bar, she’s oxygen.
But as soon as we make eye contact, she turns her head to acknowledge a short bulldog in an extremely tight shirt. They seem to embrace like uncomfortable strangers and since he’s a couple inches shorter than her, her bright face seems to fizzle. Damn, he doesn’t seem like her type.
“Man, she’s the kind of girl that makes my job fun.” The bartender takes my credit card as I nod to the Sharks and grab my jacket . . .
“You’re not leaving, eh?” Her voice is smooth with just a hint of a raspy inflection.
“No. would you like to get a table?” She beams widely but I’m distracted by her stunning green eyes, full of life and passion.
“Here’s your credit card Mr. Ford. Will you two need anything else?” I’m not sure where the bro code comes into play in this type of scenario, but this dude is clearly on my side.
“Actually yes, can you send someone over to that table?” She looks to where I’m pointing and I slip the bartender a twenty.
I lead her to a small table in the corner and man, she smells so good. I sit down across from her and I can’t help but notice her amazing chest, a very full D-cup. She smiles intently as I roll up the sleeves to my shirt but she seems enamored by my . . . lips?
“Hi guys, can I get you a drink or menu?” One of the roaming bartenders hovers over us with her round tray propped on her hip.
“Sure, I would like a nice gin – Hendrick’s and tonic and . . .” I study her face as she bites the inside of her lip and drums the table with her hands, waiting for a drink epiphany. Malibu?
“Got it, I would like a Greyhound!” She says joyfully as the bartender writes down our order and slowly walks back to the bar to mix our drinks.
“Where are you from?” The Midwest?
“Why would you assume I’m not from here?” She teases.
“Because no one in Manhattan is from Manhattan.” Her smile creates a little dimple on her left cheek and I honestly didn’t think she could get more beautiful.
“Ah, T. O. – you?”
“Buffalo.”
“Does Mr. Ford have a first name?” She raises her eyebrow quizzically.
“You first.”
“Chloe.”
“I’m Adam.” We sit silently for a few minutes, appreciating each other’s quiet company. I switch my focus from her immensely green eyes to her amazing tits and then back to her eyes so I don’t come across as a creeper, but she has no problem fixating on my lips.
“So Adam Ford, you must come here often.” She smirks as the bartender brings our drinks and places them on the small table. I wait for her to leave before I address Chloe’s smart, luscious mouth.
“Actually, I’ve never been here. Do you always order 1950s cocktails?” I ask.
“Nope, I order what I feel in the moment. I felt like grapefruit.” She takes a sip from her tall glass and dramatically says, “Ahhh, refreshing!” Chloe is that perfect combination of sweet and sarcastic . . . she’s not jaded or bitter but can definitely keep up with me.
“Do you work around here?” Fashion District?
“Nope, I live around here. Do you work around here?” Chloe asks.
“Nope, I was in court today.” Her face changes as she leans forward to speak.
“Oh god, what did you do?” We hold eye contact and I’m trying to decipher if she’s actually serious but then she blinks slowly and smiles and I can’t help but return her smile.
“Do you miss Toronto?” I ask.
“I’ve only been gone a few months so there’s not much to miss, but I do miss the trees.” Her smile coupled with her vivid eyes makes everything she says relevant and intriguing. I have yet to be intrigued by any woman.
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br /> “I know what you mean.” I want to tell her about my love for Brooklyn . . . she would appreciate the trees.
“Sabres fan?” She asks while sipping her fruity vodka.
“If I say yes, will you hate me?” I glance at her hands and notice that her nails are painted nicely, but she keeps them very short. Interesting.
“Of course not . . . hockey enemies make the most passionate lovers!” She nibbles on a piece of ice while staring at my lips again.
“That’s true . . . but it also helps that Maple Leaf girls are super slutty.” I like making her smile and I know I would never grow bored of her intimate gesture. “What else, according to Chloe, makes a good lover?” She blushes slightly then throws back the rest of her drink and studies my face. I give her a little nod to tease her and she totally buys it.
“Do you like games, Adam?” I didn’t see that one coming and I’m not sure if she’s referring to me or if in fact she actually wants to play a game.
“No.” I answer by keeping my face firm and solid and she giggles in response, not a fake giggle, she laughs like she means it.
“Well, Adam, let’s say for the sake of getting me in bed . . . you love games.” I push up my sleeves further and rest my arms on the table, hoping to touch her hand that’s stroking her tall cocktail glass. Subtle, Chloe.
“Then for the sake of playing games . . . I would love to get you in bed.” I’m aware that I playfully misspoke, but the true test is her reaction . . . she winks at me.
“Excellent . . . then let’s see how you fair on the Chloe LeGrange Scale of Annoyance! It has a patented guarantee.” She smiles widely, pulls her hair to one side exposing her gorgeous neck and leans toward me. This is going to be a private game.
“Random questions and they must be answered quickly and honestly.” She places her hand on top of mine and instinctively, our pinkies lock. What is that about?
“Shoot.” I’m not sure I’m prepared for what’s to come, but I’m comfortable . . . and she deserves my patience.
“Favorite color?” She cocks one eyebrow and purses her ruby lips.
“Dark navy.”
“Eh? Isn’t navy considered dark to begin with?”
“There are distinctive shades of navy.” I really enjoy her smile.
“Okay . . . favorite television guilty pleasure?” She asks.
“No pleasure is guilty . . . Little House on the Prairie.” I answer a little humiliated.
“Wow, did someone have a crush on Laura Ingall’s?” She seductively bites her lip while staring at my mouth, so I wink at her, just to see if she notices . . . she smiles.
“Mary actually.” I quip.
“Next question . . . least favorite band . . . this is very important!” Her eyes beam widely and I conclude that she is a musician or just really into music. Either way, this could make or break me. She’s Canadian, but extremely feminine . . .
“Rush and Green Day.” I don’t like Rush, past or present but I really hate Green Day.
“Really? I thought every guy liked Rush. Very interesting.” She lowers her head slightly to hide her satisfaction and I hate not being able to see her smile. Ah, there it is.
“Okay, first concert?” She seems uninterested in my answer so I don’t think this question is normally on her annoyance test or maybe no other guy has made it past the third round . . . yes, she’s definitely a musician. But in order for me to be completely honest, I’m going to have to lean and whisper this embarrassing answer.
“Wham.” I barely say.
She laughs hysterically as the floating bartender interrupts us. We simultaneously rest back in our chairs and she removes her hand from mine to kindly give her glass to the bartender. Aha! She’s a musician and a waitress.
“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress looks from me to Chloe waiting for an answer.
“Can we get a couple Labatts?” I ask. I don’t even look at Chloe because I know what she wants. The waitress nods and heads back to the bar.
“Alright Adam, you have definitely scored some major points for that lame response. How about sex?” She smiles seductively and yes, I most certainly want to have sex with her, but I also enjoy our sexual banter.
“Yes.” I answer.
“I didn’t finish the question . . .” She laughs adorably as the waitress places our beers on the table and curtly leaves.
“What song did you lose your virginity to?”
“I don’t know . . . let me think.” I honestly don’t remember because my first time was in Stacey Nichol’s lake cabin after Freshman Homecoming and I’m pretty sure there was no music . . . Chloe seems disappointed as she drinks her beer, so I quickly think of the time when I know there was music.
“Okay, it was Red Hot Chili Peppers, Blood Sugar Sex Magik . . . the entire album.” She accepts my answer with a nod of approval, and I will gladly keep talking about my high school sex life as long as she keeps smiling.
“I loved that album. My mom hated it . . . in fact, I think she lost it.” Chloe makes air quotes and I try to imagine what she was like as a teenager.
“The Chili Peppers are pretty intense, is there a story that goes with it, Adam?”
I make her wait . . . she leans forward and I take her hand and challenge her to a staring contest . . . she chooses my lips and I pick her eyes. Patience . . . and there it is, her gorgeous smile.
“It was my sophomore year with my girlfriend, Brooke. We’d been dating for almost a year and we both decided we wanted it. She was the popular cheerleader but also a preacher’s daughter so it was difficult to actually make it happen. One afternoon when I was leaving the locker room after soccer practice, I found Brooke waiting inside my car. Her parents wouldn’t let her listen to rock music so I put in the Chili Peppers cassette and we drove to the lake. We barely made it before she was yanking at my pants and taking off her clothes. Brooke and I had messy, uncomfortable sex in the backseat of my Chevy Nova. Music makes the memories, I suppose.”
“Yes, music can be very powerful . . . has a song ever made you cry?” Shit, her smile disappeared and she’s acting strange and I cannot read her expression . . . is she serious or fucking with me?
“No, Chloe. I have never cried during a song.”
The waitress comes back to check on us so I release Chloe’s hand and sit back in my chair. I honestly don’t know where this is going and for the first time I’m excited about my uncertainty.
“Anything else?” The waitress places the check on the table without either one of us answering. Chloe bites her lip while staring at my mouth and then turns dazedly toward the waitress.
“No thank you, we’re leaving.” Chloe’s voice comes out smooth and efficient sending the bartender far away.
“Do you have any more questions for your game, Chloe?” I leave some cash on the table and stand up, grabbing my suit jacket and offering her my hand.
“No more talking . . . for now.” She stands up and wraps her hand around my arm while arching her eyebrow and waiting for my next move. Chloe is impulsive and challenging but also more vulnerable than she thinks . . . I need to let her think she has control and Chloe wants to be done talking.
We walk out into the steamy August night, arm in arm, flushed with anticipation, but completely comfortable in our instant connection. I give Chloe one last smile, one last silent message, before leading her down the stairs to the subway entrance of the F train – Brooklyn bound.
Epilogue
July 4, 2013
“I was thinking I would take a shower before bed . . .” I’m interrupted by the familiar sound of The Lone Bellow. There are very few songs that are as electrifying as Green Eyes and a Heart of Gold and the fact that they’re from Brooklyn makes it even sweeter. I love how the song starts with the loud, crisp chorus and eases into the verse. It’s like a passionate slap in the face, challenging the listener to follow them on their journey and to embrace every crescendo like a swelling of emotions. It’s quite an accom
plishment for a musician to build a story in reverse and maintain the momentum of a ballad.
I lean against the bedpost as Adam walks toward me with his incredible lips and his velvet voice singing the poetic verse about the F train. He slowly runs his finger down my bare arm, never releasing his focus from my mouth, while his other hand grabs the back of my ponytail and pulls my head back. I close my eyes and breathe in his male scent of soap and testosterone. Adam sensually licks my collarbone following the curve of my neck and dispersing tiny little kisses along my hairline. He moves his arm tightly around my waist and presses against me while nibbling on my ear. My body aches in anticipation but Adam keeps singing casually as I put my arms around him and dig my fingers into his back . . . our internal rhythms synching together.
Adam moves his lips to my ear and hums the chorus creating a vibrating jolt to run through my body. His dark eyes devour me and I know he needs me as much as I want him.
“Tell me,” Adam whispers into me.
I smile slightly and run my hands up his arm to rest on his big shoulders. He bites my ear and continues to hum as he cups my breast in his hand and squeezes gently.
“I love my life. I had a wonderful day. I love my family. I feel complete,” I say in my raspiest voice.
He kisses me hard, our teeth tapping together while he moves us toward the bed . . . we’ve never been big fans of prolonged foreplay.
“What else?” he demands into my chest.
I smile satisfied by what my honest emotions do to him. “I’m happy my parents are here. I hate turning thirty-five. I’m pissed that my white jeans are ruined. I want to fuh—, I want to make sweet, sweet love to my husband,” I taunt.
Adam grabs my hand and gazes intently into my eyes. He’s daring me to look away but I know this moment too well and this moment is my favorite part. Patiently holding eye contact . . . and there it is. Adam concedes with the most beautiful smile I will ever see, exclusively for me.
Every great love story has a beginning, whether it’s a planned meeting, a random encounter or an impulsive jump into the unknown. But it’s the middle of the story that really counts, the part when life happens, either propelling the relationship into a beautiful romance or dissolving into a predictable wasteland of misconceptions.
