March Heat

by Chase Jackson

  “You looked lonely,” I shrugged casually. “You were sitting over here all by yourself…”

  “So is he,” she nodded towards the opposite end of the bar, where the drunken Willie Nelson lookalike was swaying his head back and forth to the song that was playing from the bar’s jukebox.

  “That guy looks he’s having a great time all on his own,” I said. “I didn’t think he needed my company…”

  “But you thought I did?” she demanded.

  I blew a sigh through my lips and sunk down in my chair.

  What the ever-loving fuck did I get myself into?!

  From behind the lacquered bar, the bartender caught my eye and raised the corner of his mouth in a sympathetic smirk. Then he reached for a glass and started pouring my usual: Grey Goose, neat.

  Believe it or not, I hadn’t gone to Vaughan’s Public House to hit on strangers or get laid. Actually, I was there on business: to meet my new roommate.

  Beck was taking the Greyhound into Hartford and, since Vaughan’s was walking-distance from the bus terminal, we had made plans to meet at the bar at around two.

  I guess I had overestimated how long it would take me to get to Vaughan’s from the firehouse, because I had ended up in front of the pub at one-forty, way ahead of schedule.

  That was when I strolled through the door and saw the lonely blonde tapping her heel to the beat at the bar. I had twenty minutes to kill, and I figured she could help me make that time fly right by…

  I guess I had figured wrong.

  Now she was waiting for an explanation, tapping her fingers on the bar and glaring up at me with those unforgiving ice-blue eyes.

  “It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?” she demanded, raising her eyebrows. “That’s what this is really about, right?”

  The bartender slid my drink towards me. I reached for it eagerly, wetting my lips with the smooth sting of vodka—

  “What is it with guys like you?!”

  “Guys like me?” I set the glass down on the bar and turned back towards her.

  “Yeah. You see blonde hair or a little bit of skin—” she motioned to her mile-long legs, poking out from a pair of frayed cutoff denim shorts — “And you assume that it’s some sort of open invitation to be a total creep!”

  “I was just being friendly,” I said firmly, tightening my grip on the glass of vodka.

  “Being friendly?” she scoffed. “Is that what you call this?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I raised the glass and took a long sip.

  “Cut the bullshit,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. “I’m not stupid. I know this routine.”

  “This routine?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” she said. “First you sit down and introduce yourself. Then you’ll try to break the ice with some dumb joke or ridiculous pick-up line. And even though I want to roll my eyes or tell you to ‘fuck off,’ I’ll still feel obligated to laugh politely.”

  “You can tell me to ‘fuck off,’” I told her.

  In fact, at this point I’d prefer it…

  “Of course I can’t!” she countered. “Because if I told you to ‘fuck off,’ then I’d be the asshole.”

  I sighed and took another sip of vodka. The hot liquid tingled as it reached my veins, slowly diffusing the tension that had formed in my neck and shoulders…

  “You and I both know that you had me trapped as soon as you sat down on that bar stool,” she said. “That’s how this routine works. I’m your captive audience. I have to laugh politely at your dumb jokes and dance around your awful pick-up lines and make inane bullshit small talk and—”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I laughed dryly.

  She immediately went silent, and her mouth gaped open.

  “Huh?”

  “I said don’t flatter yourself,” I repeated, turning to face her and resting my elbow on the back of my barstool. “If I actually wanted to get into your pants, we wouldn’t still be sitting here. Trust me.”

  For emphasis, I flicked my eyes up and down her frame, giving her a dismissive once-over.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she recoiled and her face wrinkled into an uncertain scowl, like she was trying to decide whether she should be insulted or pissed off.

  “It means that you’re not my type,” I shrugged, feigning indifference.

  I was saying it to prove a point, but that didn’t make it any less true. If you were to flip through the catalogue of women that I’d taken to bed over the years, it’d be pretty damn obvious that I have a type: big tits, tiny waist, platinum blonde hair, feminine…

  ‘Barbie dolls,’ one of the guys at the firehouse had joked once.

  The pissed off tomboy at the bar fit into that ‘Barbie’ mold like a square peg fits into a round hole. Instead of a smooth platinum blow-out, she had kinky dirty blonde curls that were knotted into a messy bun on top of her head. Instead of stilettos, she was wearing a pair of Adidas Superstars…

  Don’t get me wrong: there was something about her; something that had caught my eye the second I walked into the bar. Maybe it was those mile-long legs, or maybe it was the pair of tits that poked through her gauzy white cotton tank top.

  Either way, I had already loaded a pick-up line onto the tip of my tongue by the time I had swung myself into the empty seat next to her. But then she had beat me to the punch, and now any initial attraction that I might have felt was immediately superseded by annoyance. Maybe even a little bit of embarrassment.

  It didn’t matter that she was right about me. If anything, being caught red-handed made it even worse. Now I had to prove her wrong.

  “If I’m not your type,” she said, “then why did you sit down next to me?”

  “I told you,” I shrugged again, “You looked lonely, and I was just trying to be friendly.”

  “I looked lonely?” she glared. “Or I looked easy?”

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled under my breath.

  “Don’t you find it a little ironic that you’re accusing me of making all of these assumptions about you,” I said, “when really you’re the one who had me sized up before I even sat down?”

  “I didn’t size you up, I—”

  “You definitely sized me up,” I insisted. “You typecast me as some horny douchebag, and you constructed this entire narrative in your head. A fictional narrative, I might add—”

  “I didn’t construct anything!” she fumed. “You made a beeline for me as soon as you walked through that door!”

  “I said ‘hello,’” I reminded her. “That’s all.”

  “Would you have approached me if I was a guy?”

  I glared as I grabbed my drink and downed the rest of the vodka in one swig, then I slammed the glass down on the bar.

  “I didn’t think so,” she smirked, interpreting my silence as an admission of defeat. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know what this was about.”

  “And you can flatter yourself all you want, but I already told you. You’re not my type.”

  “I bet that didn’t stop you from imagining what my lips would look like wrapped around your dick,” she raised an eyebrow, and I felt my cock twitch involuntarily.

  If I hadn’t already imagined what her mouth would look like on my dick, I sure as hell was imagining it now…

  “You’re delusional,” I snorted, but my voice was a few notches shy of sounding convincing.

  “You’re disgusting,” she retorted.

  “You don’t even know me!”

  “I don’t need to know you. You’re a man,” she shook her head. “You’re all the same.”

  Before I could answer, the bartender leaned across the bar and grabbed my empty glass.

  “Can I get you another Grey Goose, Duke?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I grumbled darkly. I flicked my watch around on my wrist and glanced at the time. It was one fifty-five.

  Beck should be getting here any minute now…

&nb
sp; “What did he just call you?”

  “Huh?” I glanced up.

  “The bartender,” the woman said. Her angry glare was replaced with a confused expression. “What did the bartender just call you?”

  “Um… Duke?”

  Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open.

  “As in… Duke Williams?”

  “That’s me…”

  “You’re Duke Williams?”

  “Yes?” I said hesitantly. What’s this about?

  “Well fuck,” she cursed, sinking back into her seat. She palmed her sweaty beer glass and threw back a giant swig, then she slammed the pint down on the bar.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think I’m supposed to be meeting you here,” she said, scrunching her face into a grimace. “I think you’re my new roommate.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I laughed — really laughed — as I reached across the bar for my freshly-poured glass of Grey Goose.

  “I mean… I am meeting my new roommate here,” I said, “But he’s a guy. His name is Beck—”

  “I’m Beck,” she said. “Olivia Beck.”

  CHAPTER SIX | OLIVIA

  “I would invite you back to my place,” Duke said with a sly smile, “but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea…”

  “Not funny,” I scowled as I dug a hand into my jeans pocket, feeling around for cash to close out my tab at the bar.

  “Come on,” Duke said. “You gotta admit this is kinda funny. When I heard the name Beck, I just assumed you were a guy…”

  “I thought you knew,” I shrugged. “But it shouldn’t matter, anyways…”

  “Well, it does matter.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Duke scoffed. “Five minutes ago you were saying that all men are disgusting pigs—”

  “I never said that!”

  “You basically said that,” Duke blinked at me. “If you hate men so much, why would you agree to live with one, anyways?”

  “Desperation? Lack of better options?” I shrugged, pulling a wrinkled twenty dollar bill out of my pocket and smoothing it out with my fingers. “I don’t know. I guess I was hoping that you’d be different.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” he smirked. Then he passed his debit card to the bartender on the other side of the bar and added, “I got this.”

  “No way! I’m not going to let you buy me a drink!”

  “I thought that was part of the routine?” Duke teased.

  “I’m not doing this,” I grumbled. I tossed the twenty dollar bill onto the bar. The bartender glanced up at me, confused.

  “Keep the change,” I snapped. Then I grabbed my duffel bag, swung it over my shoulder, and stormed towards the exit.

  The white glare of the afternoon sun was blinding when I stepped outside. I winced as I retraced my steps towards Trumbull Street until I found a bench on the sidewalk.

  I dumped my duffel bag at my feet, then I took a seat. The bench had been baking in the summer sun all afternoon, and the metal grate burned under my ass like red-hot electric coils on a stovetop. I rolled back, so just my shorts were touching the bench, and then I pulled out my cell phone.

  I clicked open the web browser and paused. I had two options. I could book a ticket on the next bus back to Rhode Island, or I could look for a hotel room here in Hartford. The latter would buy me more time… but it wasn’t a real solution.

  I still have nowhere to stay, I realized. And I can’t afford to live out of a hotel indefinitely…

  I was still trying to plot my next move when I saw a shadow appear overhead. For the second time that day, I glanced up and found myself staring into Duke Williams’ brown eyes. Now, in the sunlight, they looked like little pots of golden brown honey.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come home with me,” he said.

  “Why would I do that?” I had to pinch my eyes shut to block out the glare of the sun.

  “Look,” he sighed, dropping down onto the empty section of bench next to me. “I know you don’t like me—”

  “I don’t,” I confirmed.

  “Trust me, the feeling is mutual,” he rolled his eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you need a place to stay, and I need someone to pay half of my rent.”

  “Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “You said yourself that you were desperate,” he reminded me.

  “Not this desperate.”

  “Ok,” he shrugged, thrusting his feet down onto the sidewalk and standing up abruptly. “You know what? Fine. Good luck, Beck. Or Olga or whatever the hell your name is.”

  Olga?! Seriously?

  He slid a pair of black Wayfarers over his eyes and muttered something else under his breath as he stalked down the sidewalk. I dug my teeth into my bottom lip as I watched him pause at the street crossing.

  Don’t do this, Olivia… I thought to myself. This is a dumb idea…

  Before I could stop myself, I swung my duffel bag over my shoulder and jogged down the sidewalk after him.

  “Olivia,” I said.

  “Huh?” he glanced at me.

  “My name is Olivia,” I repeated. “Not Olga.”

  “Ok?”

  The pedestrian symbol on the crosswalk lit up and a cluster of bodies trampled past us as they filed across the street. Duke didn’t budge.

  “I guess we can give this a try,” I said. Then I added quickly, “At least until something better comes along.”

  “Jeez,” he snorted. “Are you this sweet to all the boys, or just the ones you like?”

  “There’s one condition,” I said, ignoring the remark.

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to treat me like I’m just one of the guys.”

  “You sure about that?” his eyebrows shot up over the tops of his Ray Ban sunglasses.

  “I’m sure.”

  He frowned thoughtfully, and then he shrugged.

  “All right, Beck. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  ***

  “Wow,” I whistled through my teeth as I did a three-sixty, slowly scanning my eyes around the apartment.

  “Not too shabby, eh?” Duke asked, trailing behind me.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “How did you even find this place?”

  “Let’s just say I have my connections,” he winked mysteriously.

  Duke had sent me a few cell phone snapshots of the vacant bedroom and ensuite bathroom. I thought the unit looked nice enough — especially for the price — but now that I was standing in the center of the gourmet kitchen, I realized that those snapshots hadn’t even come close to doing the apartment justice: the place was stunning.

  The apartment was a juxtaposition of rustic and modern: the walls were a rugged, rusty orange exposed brick and the ceilings were vaulted and accented by thick, weathered cedar beams that ran the length of the room. In contrast, the kitchen was entirely modern: stainless steel appliances, handleless wooden cabinets, slick black granite countertops…

  The kitchen opened straight into a living room, which was outlined by a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the Connecticut River and, beyond it, the skyline of downtown Hartford.

  “The kitchen is fully stocked, by the way,” Duke informed me as he hovered over a stainless steel gas cooktop. “Do you like to cook?”

  Before I could answer, he added quickly, “And no, I’m not just asking you that because you’re a woman.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “That depends,” I said. “Do sandwiches and ramen noodles count as cooking?”

  Duke wrinkled his nose in disgust. I’ll take that as a no…

  I flicked open one of the cabinet drawers and glanced down at the contents, an assortment of shiny chrome cooking utensils and tools.

  “Oh, wow,” I said, eyeing the drawer apprehensively. “It looks like a Williams-So
noma store threw up in there.”

  I picked up a spiked mallet that looked like some sort of medieval torture device and I practiced giving it a few swings.

  “Ahh, the meat tenderizer. That’s one of my favorite kitchen utensils,” Duke said, flashing me a playful smile.

  “It is?”

  “Oh yeah,” he nodded enthusiastically. “It’s great for smashing the patriarchy, or just general ball-busting…”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I winked as I dropped the mallet back into the drawer and nudged it shut with my hip.

  “Come on,” Duke said, nodding for me to follow him through the apartment. “Your bedroom is over here.”

  He pushed open a door off the living room, then he glanced over his shoulder:

  “I’d say ladies first, but…” then he shrugged and stepped into the room ahead of me.

  Just like the living room, the bedroom had a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down on the same view of the river below.

  “I don’t remember you mentioning furniture,” I said, pointing to a plain bed frame and mattress that were pushed against one wall and a matching dresser positioned on the other side of the room. “Is that included?”

  “Oh, that,” Duke said, glancing at the bed. “Well… you mentioned that you weren’t bringing any furniture with you. I figured you’d need somewhere to sleep and put your clothes. So I went to Ikea. Have you heard of that place? It’s crazy. I had no idea it existed until my old roommate, Josh, brought me there—”

  “You bought me a bed and a dresser?” I frowned, confused.

  “Well… yeah,” he shrugged. “I know it’s not much. I just thought you could use something to get you started…”

  “You did this for me?” I felt my insides start to soften, like a stick of butter in the summer sun.

  “Technically I did it for a guy named Beck,” Duke clarified, holding up a finger. “So don’t try to spin this around. This wasn’t some weird ploy to get into bed with you.”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “Was that a genuine laugh, or an obligated laugh?”

  “Genuine,” I assured him with a smile. “Thank you, Duke. This is probably one of the nicest things that anyone has ever done for me.”