“You don’t smile much,” I say, feeling bold.
“I’m smiling right now.”
“That’s because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re lubricated,” I correct.
“Well, you’re lubricated, too.” But then he seems momentarily embarrassed even through the haze, because the notion of a girl being “lubricated” has a bit of double meaning.
He breaks the awkwardness by pretending he didn’t notice then says, “What, do I come across as stodgy?”
“You’re very serious.”
“Am I? I’m really not.”
“Well, you look it.”
“I don’t. What, did you think I was an asshole?”
“Past tense?” I say. Then I smile to soften the statement, to make it clear as a joke.
“I’m not,” he says, seeming a trifle offended. “I just don’t smile much, I guess. But that doesn’t make me serious.”
“Only compared to you.”
“What does that mean?” And now I’m the one who, to my own ears, sounds a trifle offended. What, I’m all giggles and unicorns? Nothing hardworking and intelligent to look at here, folks. Just another dumb blonde with rainbows in her head.
“You’re just very ebullient.”
“‘Ebullient’?”
“It means happy. Bubbly.”
“I know what it means. I’m just surprised that you do.”
“What, because I’m just a construction worker?”
“You’re Vice President of Land Acquisition,” I say, raising my glass.
“Not yet.”
“Soon,” I say. “He likes you a lot.”
“How ebullient of you.”
There’s another moment of quiet, and I find the courage to speak. But I’m also aware, despite my lubrication (in its multiple variations), that I’m nervous enough to require courage. Why is that? Brandon isn’t even my type. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s ambitious, and I’m hardwired to melt in the face of ambition. And yes, he’s overcome some bad stuff, tripping my admiration for people who refuse to settle. But at twenty-seven, he’s a bit too old for me. He’s too serious. And there’s that beard.
“What is with the beard?” My eyes flick away and down as I ask. My hand comes up almost of its own will, and I realize I’m touching my hair, suddenly sure it’s out of place. My airheaded blonde hair, which almost certainly isn’t his type, either.
“I like having a beard,” he says, as if that’s an answer.
“Bullshit.”
His lips pull into a wide smile this time, almost like a joker’s. It makes points of his mouth. It’s probably a beautiful thing without all that hair in the way, but even with the beard I don’t mind. Beards scratch, sure. But Brandon’s looks soft, and it takes everything inside me not to reach out and see for myself.
“What?” I say.
“It’s just cute to see you swear.”
I’m sure I’ve sworn in front of him before. I also wasn’t shy at school, with my friends. But that’s a side I’ve been hiding. He’ll assume I was in a damned sorority if I let him down that road, and I definitely wasn’t. My friends went to crappy diners and dive-bar concerts. It’s definitely not my first go-round at being called “cute,” though, and more than once one of my male friends had to save me from a drunk admirer with a mohawk.
“Cute.”
“It’s not bad to be cute,” he says, apparently noting my tone.
“So you think that’s what I am. Cute.” It’s a trap question. Because of course he should think I’m cute, but he also shouldn’t.
“Sure,” he says, unabashed.
I’m not as offended as I should be. But if he says “sure” so easily, does that mean it’s what everyone else at Life of Riley thinks? It’s definitely what my father thinks.
“I’m more than cute.”
“I get that,” he says, the coat hanger smile still on his lips.
“I swear plenty.”
“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”
“Fuck,” I say.
His eyebrows go up. “The big one, right off the bat.” He sips. “That’s kind of hot.”
“I thought it was cute?”
“It’s hot to hear you swear because you’re cute.”
I suppose this is a compliment. It’s also an uncomfortable one, and I’m not tipsy enough to miss the awkward part coming if we keep heading down this road.
Brandon leans back and twists his lips up at one end as if thinking hard.
“How do you know Johnny Rotten?” he says.
“Who?”
“John Lydon. The singer from the Sex Pistols.”
It’s a strange question. I’m sure my face twists a bit when I reply. “What makes you think I know him?”
“I saw a picture of you with him on LiveLyfe.”
My expression twists farther. “Why were you on my LiveLyfe?”
He looks suddenly embarrassed. “Oh. I don’t know. Job research.”
“You’re stalking me,” I joke. But something about the idea that he’s spent time looking me up makes me feel warmer than what I already feel from the wine. Now I really want to lay my hand on his knee. The restaurant is clearing out a little, and the empty space makes me want to kiss him. Nobody would need to know. But then again, that’s the kind of thing Old Riley would do. The action of a hormone-fueled teenager.
“I was looking up Life of Riley, and you’re connected, so I — ”
I decide to save him. “What’s Johnny Rotten to you?” I ask. Because the picture isn’t labeled; it’s just another upload I never bothered to caption. Who recognizes John Lydon today? This isn’t Johnny Rotten from the liner notes of Never Mind the Bollocks. This is Lydon as he is now, decades later. And that’s even ignoring that the Pistols’ heyday was before both our times. I can thank my vintage friends at college for introducing me to that old scene. But what’s it to Brandon?
“I like punk music. Well, all sorts of music, really. But enough to know Johnny Rotten when I see him.”
“He doesn’t even look like Johnny Rotten anymore. Would you recognize Sid Vicious, too?”
“I would,” Brandon says, “if he wasn’t dead.”
I raise my glass: trick question passed.
The waiter returns and asks if we’d like our wine and gasoline-scotch refreshed. We both decline, but I ask for more coffee. The waiter seems slightly annoyed that we’re still here, occupying the table, but scuttles off to comply.
“Maybe we should go,” I say, watching the bustling waiter. My bluff should be obvious because I just asked for more coffee, but Brandon doesn’t seem to see it. Good. Because I’d like to keep pretending I don’t want him, and maybe he’ll do me the courtesy of pretending he doesn’t want me.
This might be a mistake waiting to happen. I don’t think either of us is thinking clearly, but we’re definitely not drunk. It’s the perfect amount of inhibition, just right like Goldilocks’s porridge.
“I could call you a cab,” he says.
Oh. Right. I forgot that Bridget, in order to handle her “emergency,” took his car.
“Sounds like a pain.”
“Maybe an Uber,” he suggests.
“Also sounds like a pain,” I say.
And now I’m having to backtrack. Now I’m clearly the one keeping us here, given the way I’m rebutting all departure options. But he is too, and has been from the start; we could easily have taken our food to go and called two separate cabs (or Uber cars) straightaway. I’m not sure what kept us eating after Dad’s departure. Maybe it was a sense of obligation to get our money’s worth on my father’s generosity. Or maybe it was something else — something that held our silence long enough for a few glasses of liquid courage to loosen our tongues.
“Okay,” he says, that smile changing on his face. “I have an idea.”
Brandon raises his hand. The waiter, watching us, comes over. He has the coffee pot — a froufrou French press th
ingy — but Brandon puts his hand over my cup before the man can pour.
“We’ll take the check. Never mind the coffee.”
“And never mind the Bollocks either,” I say.
Brandon gives me a look as the waiter leaves. There’s a heavy moment between us.
Okay, maybe two and a half large glasses of wine is too much for a seldom-drinking girl like me. And consequently, maybe I shouldn’t play along with whatever Brandon has in mind.
But I’m young. It’s still early. And I find myself wanting to play.
CHAPTER 21
Brandon
Bridget knows better than to text me again. Her interference in my life and livelihood, this time, is unforgivably past the line. Not only did she maroon me at the table and steal my truck, she also duped Mason with what I presume was a decoy message left by one of her friends. She disturbed the dinner at which I might have received my promotion, all because of some misguided impression that I like this girl and need a shove for my own good.
I’m teetering on whether or not to strike back at Bridget. Only the fact that I’m actually not mad keeps me from hurling the first stone.
I get up from the table, knowing I should use my phone to get a couple of Uber cars sent this way: one for me and another for Riley. She needs to get home, and I should brush up on some stuff before our 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. The meeting is surely the final test. If I impress the investors — who will be surprised when Mason approaches them tonight bearing Bridget’s manufactured bad news — then I’ll be home free. At that point, nothing could stop me from getting the vice presidency and everything I want out of life.
Nothing except for something catastrophic that makes Mason change his mind about me.
I’d have to … I don’t know … sleep with his daughter or something.
The thought occurs to me, but I laugh it off without letting the humor touch my lips. Because the idea of sleeping with Mason’s daughter, once whispered inside me, is delicious but absurd. I’d never do something so stupid. At the same time, I have to admit that she’s impossible not to look at.
She’s not my type. I wasn’t lying about that. She’s too bubbly. Too perky. Too full of sunshine and seeming naiveté. Doesn’t matter that she does krav maga. Doesn’t matter that she’s into (and I verified this on my phone when I ran to the bathroom) a lot of the same music as me. Doesn’t matter that the sunshine and naiveté, based on what LiveLyfe has to say, is blended with something darkly intriguing. She lists Salvador Dali as an interest. She’s liked a bunch of Tarantino films. I’d have imagined her as someone who likes roller skating, wine coolers, and … little else. But no. She was in a Young Entrepreneurs club. Looks like she even won an award, or a contest, or something.
But now, because that’s all a bit too obtuse to generate this warmth I feel inside watching her, my mind wants to focus it into physical stuff. Her body is too small for me, but suddenly it feels like the thing that’s been missing from my bed. Her hair isn’t just pretty; now it seems elegant. The way she walks isn’t just sexy. To me, with all these confused thoughts running rampant through my mind, even her gently swaying rear is fascinating.
Even the joke — the certainty that I’d never sleep with this girl if she’d let me, if she’d beg me — forces my heart to beat harder. It makes my face flush, shortens my breath, and causes my words to consider a stutter. It makes thoughts run through my mind — all sorts of do not images that nonetheless make me hard. Everything my brain carefully outlines as forbidden and stupid and of-course-you-can’t-do-that, another part of me watches with a salivating tongue.
I’m thinking this as I hand the house jacket back to the maître d’, careful to slip Mason’s credit card into my pants pocket.
I’m thinking it as we exit the restaurant, with me in the lead … lagging back to open doors so I can watch the way she moves and hope she’ll accidentally brush against me as she passes.
I’m thinking all of this as we step into the cool night. If I were still wearing a jacket, I’d offer it to her for the short walk. It’s not that I think she’s cold. I want to give her something for a reason that feels primal. I want to protect her whether she wants protection or not. Even those wants feel wrong, but I allow them to happen.
Riley stands outside the restaurant’s entrance, three feet from me, mostly looking out at the lights of Old Town, half-turned. Her little red dress is modest enough, but still I can only think of how it’s pressed tight against her naked skin. I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra because I can’t see lines. Her hand is just a bit away from her body, and it’s as if she wants me to take it. But in this little farce, we’re two people marooned together, nothing more. I wouldn’t take Mason’s hand, so of course I wouldn’t take hers.
“Where to?” she asks.
I nod forward and walk, not yet indicating our destination. She follows a half step behind then catches up. She’s on the roadside, so I switch around so she’s nearer to the buildings. Putting myself between a woman and the road is either chivalrous or chauvinistic, and I’m not sure which applies. I guess it depends on the woman. I look over to see, but really I want to watch her for the seconds it takes to notice my stare.
This is a mistake.
Or is it? We’re killing some time together. No big deal.
But I can tell, watching my own responses as if from the outside, that this is what I’d do if I wanted to take a girl home. If Riley were a date, I’d prolong our evening, play to our mutual interests. I’d work hard to find common ground while not being too analytical about it all. I’d try to read her cues, like I’m reading them now. I’d banter. I’d see where things went.
There’s no reason to kill time with Riley. Dinner was supposed to be between me and Mason, not us. She’s an add-on. She didn’t even participate in the business parts of the discussion — though to be fair, Mason never gave her a chance. She was almost as mute as Bridget. When he left, it was my job to be polite, finish up, and see his daughter home.
There’s nothing between me and Riley.
There can’t be anything between me and Riley.
I’m thinking this while we walk, listening to the click of her low heels, enjoying the feeling of Riley beside me, and the surety that other men seeing us together will think she’s mine.
Before we get to where we’re going, I’m thinking it’s objectively smarter for me to end the evening.
And yet something keeps me walking. Something keeps my lips closed. Something keeps whispering that this is all for fun, that I’d do the same if Mason had a son instead of a daughter — a lie I allow myself to believe.
We arrive at a set of big wooden doors. Riley walks a few steps past before realizing I’ve stopped. She turns around to look at me with genuine surprise. Her blue-green eyes follow my white-sleeved arm to its end, settling on the hand I’ve used to grasp the big brass door handle.
“We can’t go in there,” she says.
I knock.
There’s a click from inside, and the door opens.
CHAPTER 22
Riley
It’s Saturday night, but the Overlook has been closed for the past few weekends for renovations. I read about it in the town paper, which Dad had left on the coffee table. The guy who runs the place, Danny, is a town renegade. He must have deep pockets because the loss of profits doesn’t seem to bother him, and the hall has always done things in unusual ways. That’s why the musicians love it. Because it’s not a typical concert hall and doesn’t obey the usual music scene standards. Which, for some, means they can get away with whatever they care to try.
The small bar and concert hall is on a corner, bright yellow, and kind of offensive-looking if you aren’t from Inferno Falls and didn’t grow up getting used to its garish appearance. There’s a tiny patio out front with a low fence separating it from the sidewalk, but during renovations the outside chairs seem to have been stacked in a pile to the door’s left. I haven’t been back long enough to have se
en it this way as more than pictures in the paper, but reading the article, I got a distinct Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory vibe. Danny is eccentric and reclusive (when he’s not in club mode, at which point he becomes almost obnoxiously outgoing), and the place was an institution when I left for school. With the doors shuttered and nobody in the outside chairs, I imagined it feeling quiet but rebuilding inside. And here we are, at the big wooden door at the odd building’s corner, apparently holding a Golden Ticket and waiting for Oompa Loompas to show.
But the door isn’t opened by an Oompa Loompa. Instead, I find myself facing a middle-aged man not much taller than I am. He has a tiny mustache, distinctly unfashionable, and is wearing glasses that are even less so. The man has short, brushy brown-going-slightly-gray hair and is wearing a white tee.
“What do you want?” he asks, peeking through the crack. “The place is closed until next Friday.”
“Richard,” Brandon says.
The small man looks over, opening the door wide enough to see my companion. His face instantly changes. The door flies open, and the man rushes forward in a bustling, busy manner to clap Brandon’s back in welcome.
“Brandon! Where the hell have you been?” His manner is half-companionable and half-chiding. I suppose guys would call it “ball-busting,” like Brandon had neglected something by being away for too long.
“I was here last week.”
“Not when I was here.”
“I’ll be sure to check with your secretary next time.”
Richard, whoever he is, puts his hands on his hips and looks Brandon over. He glances at me again, but it’s a bit reserved, almost suspicious. To Brandon he says, “So, what’s up?”
“Anyone fiddling tonight?”
Very businesslike: “What, literally? No. No fiddles.”
“Not literally playing fiddles, Richard.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “I just meant playing a bit. Trying their sets.”
“Dimebag was trying some shit earlier.”
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