Dating the Devil

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Dating the Devil Page 2

by Lia Romeo


  Of course, not compared to my friends I don’t. Mel wears a short, charcoal grey pencil skirt and a ruffled ivory blouse, her shoulder-length blonde hair straight and shiny, her signature strand of pearls around her neck, and a tiny Louis Vuitton bag that would cost me a month’s salary casually slung over her shoulder. As usual, she’s spent an hour on her makeup, and as usual it’s perfect . . . creamy skin, smoky eyes, flawless red lips. Minutes before we left, Nat shimmied into a deep green mini-dress, dabbed on some sparkly silver shadow and fuchsia lipstick, and tossed her keys and her credit card into a black fringed leather clutch, and despite the fact that she’s hardly spent any time she still looks better than either of us.

  The bouncer gives us a puzzled look when we come in the door. The three of us, in our designer dresses (hand-me-down, in my case, but still), are a far cry from the jeans and t-shirts crowd packed three deep waiting for beers at the bar. We’ve barely set foot in the place and we’re already getting appreciative glances from guys, at least Mel and Nat are, and pretty soon we’re sharing a booth with a group of investment bankers and they’ve put a round of shots on the table in front of us.

  An hour and several rounds later, Natalie and one of the bankers are whispering seductively in each other’s ears on the other side of the table, and Mel and another one have disappeared into the alcove beside the bathroom. Something I forgot to mention about Mel is that, despite having a perfect fiancé, she cheats on him from time to time.

  It’s never anything serious. She’ll get a little too close to a guy at a bar while they’re dancing, and they’ll kiss. Or she’ll come back from a party that Brandon couldn’t go to with a story about making out with somebody in the bathroom. She’s never actually gone home with anyone, or if she has, she’s been back in her bed by early the next morning. And she always feels bad afterwards, though never bad enough not to do it again.

  I don’t actually know that she’s kissing the banker—who’s very cute, six feet tall with short brown hair and a blue button-down shirt that matches his eyes—in the tiny alcove next to the bathroom that used to hold a telephone. I don’t really want to know, which is why even though I’ve had to pee for the last twenty minutes I’ve been holding it.

  I don’t like Brandon that much—he was born and raised in New York, went to NYU and Columbia, and definitely sees the rest of the country as flyover territory. And he has a habit of looking at my handbag (usually cheap) and my shoes (usually cheaper), as though he’s measuring my worth by what I’m wearing. Until I met him, I thought only salespeople in snooty boutiques did that.

  But despite being kind of a snob, he doesn’t deserve what Mel’s doing—and if I see it, I’m going to feel like I have to pull her aside and tell her so. We’ve had these conversations before, and they always end with her crying and telling me I’m right, and then the next time she gets drunk going out and doing it again.

  I’m making half-hearted conversation with the banker on my side of the table. He’s clearly The Friend That’s Not Cute—he’s short and bald and wears wire-rimmed glasses. Which would be fine, if he had anything interesting to say, but he’s talking about derivatives . . . and even if I knew what derivatives were, I doubt I’d find them all that entertaining.

  Also, he’s got his arm around my shoulder, and his fingers are inching down towards my breast. So before he can actually grope me I jump up and with my brightest smile I tell him I’m going to the bathroom. If I see Mel, I’ll just have to ignore her, that’s all.

  But I don’t see Mel. In fact, I forget all about Mel, because I see Lewis.

  Of course, I don’t know he’s Lewis yet. But I know he’s got to be someone. He’s standing against the wall, next to the jukebox. He’s mostly in shadow, but the red and blue flashing lights from the jukebox are playing across his face. He’s tall and dark-haired, and he’s wearing a suit . . . a navy jacket and pants, and a white shirt, untucked, with the top two buttons undone so I get just a glimpse of his smooth, muscled chest.

  But the thing I really notice is how still he is. Everyone else in the bar is in constant motion, sipping drinks, twirling hair, rocking back and forth to the beat. But he’s standing perfectly motionless. There’s a cocktail glass in his hand but he isn’t drinking. Just standing . . . and looking.

  Looking at me.

  Really? I look over my shoulder. Maybe he’s looking at Natalie. She’s straddling the banker in the booth and they’re kissing . . . definitely a spectacle worth looking at, but I don’t think he could see them from where he’s standing. I look behind me, to see if he’s checking out one of the blonde coeds. But when I look back, he raises one eyebrow, and he smiles.

  It isn’t a very nice smile. It isn’t the kind of smile that says, I’d like to get to know you, take you out to dinner, come home and make out on the couch, and then give you money for a taxi. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m going to eat you. And you’re going to like it.

  I don’t usually go for the dangerous type. Nat goes crazy for them, and I know if she spots this guy it’ll be goodbye banker, hello bad boy. And of course, if he spots her, he’ll stop looking at me this way, and I suddenly, desperately don’t want that to happen. Those shadowed eyes . . . that predatory smile. But Grandmother, what big teeth you have! The line from “Little Red Riding Hood” comes suddenly and inanely into my head.

  He extends one finger and beckons. Who, me? I must have mouthed the question, because he nods and beckons again. I walk a few steps slowly towards him, my heels sticking to the wooden floor.

  “You look like a lady who needs a drink,” he says in a low, sexy voice.

  I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing I look like, seeing as I’ve had three? four? of the disgusting shots that the bankers were calling SoCo and vodka. (“Isn’t SoCo supposed to go with lime?—not . . . vodka?” I’d asked The Friend That’s Not Cute. He’d just shrugged.) I’m pretty sure my cheeks are flushed and my hair is sticking to my face, and I might just be wobbling a little. But his lips are so sexy, forming the shapes of the words, that all I can do is nod.

  And suddenly, there are two drinks in his hands. I could have sworn there was only one before. He extends one of them towards me and the ice tinkles invitingly. I take a sip of the dark brown liquid, and despite the fact that I’m already tipsy I already am it burns all the way down.

  “What is that?” I gasp when I can speak again.

  “Scotch,” he says, as though drinking scotch at a dive bar were the most natural thing in the world. “Very good scotch,” he adds.

  I try another small sip, and it goes down smoother this time. “Thank you,” I manage.

  “I take it you’re not a scotch drinker.”

  “I usually drink wine.”

  “What kind?” he asks.

  “White. Sauvignon blanc or pinot.”

  “Ah.” He sips at his scotch, nodding as though he’s got me all figured out.

  “What do you mean, ah?”

  “I have a theory,” he says. “I spend a lot of time in bars. And I believe you can tell a lot about a person based on their libation of choice.”

  Libation? Who says libation? “So what can you tell about me?”

  “White wine drinkers are usually cautious. They don’t have adventurous tastes, but they want to seem worldly. They like wearing black. They go to the museum and the theater and the symphony a few times a year, but more because they feel like they’re supposed to than because they really enjoy it.”

  “Hmm.” He’s mostly right. Despite the hundreds of good restaurants in our neighborhood, I tend to go the same few places all the time. I wear black every time I go out, mostly because it’s slimming. And I would love to seem worldly, though I’ve pretty much realized it’s a lost cause. I do genuinely love the New York Philharmonic, though. I go whenever I can afford a ticket—mostly by myself, though Nat’s been known to go as an excuse to wear her dramatic black silk opera gloves. I’ve tried to tell her that they’re supposed to be for
the opera, not the symphony, but she doesn’t care.

  “So what about scotch drinkers?” I ask him.

  “Complicated. Masochistic. Intelligent. Loyal.”

  “That kind of sounds like a sheepdog.”

  He laughs, throwing his head back, showing his white teeth, and his brooding, serious face is totally transformed. Making him laugh feels like the greatest accomplishment of my night—of my week, actually.

  “I like you,” he says.

  “Even though I don’t have adventurous tastes?”

  “I think you might have more adventurous tastes than you realize. Maybe you just haven’t found the perfect drink yet.”

  I take a big gulp of scotch to avoid meeting his eyes, then cough and sputter as it burns my throat. “Nope. Still terrible,” I manage to choke out.

  He smiles and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his suit pocket. “Smoke?”

  I nod—I never smoke in the daytime, but I do occasionally when I go out—and he sets our glasses down on top of the jukebox, then takes my hand, pulling me through the crowd towards the front door. His hand is hot, and all of the nerves in my body seem to be concentrated in my fingers where they’re touching his.

  Outside, he takes a cigarette out of the pack, and leans forward to place it between my lips. “Want to see a party trick?” he says. He touches the tip of the cigarette with his index finger, and it flares into light.

  “How did you . . .?”

  He just smiles and lights his own cigarette the same way. We smoke for a moment in silence, watching women in bright cocktail dresses and men in dark suits, women with purple hair and men in leather pants go in and out of bars, climb in and out of cabs, disappear into the subway.

  “You know what I love about New York?” he says.

  “What?”

  “How everyone’s lost, but they all look like they know exactly where they’re going.”

  “Do I look like I know where I’m going?” I ask him.

  “No,” he says. “But I bet you haven’t been here very long. Have you?”

  “Four years,” I say. “How long have you been here?”

  He smiles. “Forever.”

  ANOTHER CIGARETTE later, he’s kissing my neck in the back seat of a cab headed downtown to his apartment.

  Now I should say, first of all, that I’m not the kind of girl who normally lets strange men kiss my neck in the back seat of cabs. I’m not even the kind of girl who normally lets strange men take me home.

  I had a couple of one night stands shortly after Ben and I broke up, woke up hung over and feeling bad about myself, and spent the next week hoping they’d call to make me feel better. They didn’t. After that I decided sleeping with strangers just wasn’t “me,” and I’d only sleep with men I’d been dating for a while. Meaning I haven’t had sex with anyone in almost two years.

  But he kissed me outside the bar, while I was waiting for a taxi, and my knees literally buckled. I’d never experienced a truly remarkable kiss before. I’d enjoyed kissing, but more as proof that someone wanted to kiss me than as a sexual act.

  But this.

  It wasn’t a kiss, it was a revelation. I was standing on the curb, about to stick my arm out, and he tipped my chin back with one finger, then leaned in and lightly brushed his lips against mine. My lips tingled. Then he leaned closer, gently biting my lip with his teeth and letting his tongue brush against my tongue, and my tongue was alive, electric, twisting eagerly around his. And then my knees went weak, and I was leaning against him, into him, as our lips, tongues, teeth met, parted, met again, and when a taxi finally drew alongside us he pulled me into the back seat and told the driver to go to Broadway and Rector Street.

  And now his lips are on my neck and tongues of flame are licking up towards my hairline, and I’m biting my lip to keep myself from gasping and running my hands over his thigh muscles under the (very good quality) wool of his suit. I don’t want the cab ride to end, because I don’t want him to stop kissing me like this, but I also want to feel his tongue against my stomach, my thighs, my . . .

  Finally, we pull up in front of a huge, old-fashioned apartment building in the financial district, tumble out of the cab, and make our way up the steps. Before he opens the door, he grabs my hair and crushes me against him, kissing me hard for a moment, and then we separate and walk with perfect decorum through the lobby. At least, he does. He even manages to nod cordially at the doorman. As for me, my face is flushed, and I’m still breathing heavily.

  He presses the up arrow for the elevator, and as soon as the doors open and close behind us he’s pressing me against the wall, kissing my collarbone and running his hands over my breasts under the tight fabric of the dress I’m wearing. I know we’re on camera, but I don’t care, I’m pulling the neckline of my dress down lower to feel his rough, hot hands on my skin. And then he pulls away, says “Wait,” and the two of us stare at each other, faces inches apart, breathing hard, as the elevator moves slowly upwards towards the thirteenth floor. His eyes are deep blue, almost black. A single drop of sweat rolls down his forehead.

  When the elevator doors open he fumbles in his pocket for keys, gets his door open and then pushes me up against the back of it. He hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights, and the whites of his eyes gleam in the darkness. With one hand he’s holding my shoulders against the door, while with the other he’s pulling up my dress and pulling down my thong, and I’m fumbling frantically at his belt buckle. Finally, he lets me go for a minute and undoes it himself, letting his pants drop and pool around his ankles.

  Then he quickly unwraps and unrolls a condom and pushes into me, and the heat spreads upwards through my entire body as he starts to move. My hands are clutching his shoulders, and I’m biting my lip to keep from screaming as the heat builds and builds until I feel as if I am literally combusting from the inside. And then I am screaming, and then we’re finished and my knees are buckling and I’m sagging to the ground, still leaning against the door, and he’s picking me up and carrying me into the bedroom, where we do it all again—twice, as a matter of fact—before finally falling into an exhausted sleep at five in the morning.

  And there’s one thing that’s odd—very odd, actually, though I’m too drunk and dazed with lust to pay a lot of attention. The entire time, he refuses to take off his socks.

  – 3 –

  I’M AWOKEN at nine a.m. by my cell phone ringing. Over and over again.

  By the time I finally stagger out of bed, attempt to wrap a sheet around myself (how do women do this gracefully in movies?), give up wrestling with the sheet and walk across the room to retrieve my purse naked, I have seven missed calls. And they’re all from my boss, Linda.

  When I first moved to the city, my three-point-nine GPA and upbeat attitude quickly landed me a job as an account executive at a boutique PR firm. Shortly thereafter, I realized that “account executive” was code for “office bitch” and “boutique PR firm” was code for “only one client.”

  Said client is Kruger, a vacuum company, so I spend my days—and sometimes my nights, and often my weekends—writing press releases about the “incredible cleaning power” of the Kruger Turbo Mini Vac or trying to convince lifestyle editors to let me send them CDs with a demo of the “sleek and shiny” Kruger Sweeper. It’s a tough job because, no matter how many creative adjectives we employ, there’s really nothing sexy about vacuums. It’s also a tough job because Linda is the most disorganized woman in the world.

  I get back in bed, wrap the sheet around me, and check my voicemail. She’s left three frantic messages, saying that she needs to get into the office right away to pick up one of the new Kruger StickVacs, not even available in stores, for a producer friend who wants to feature it in a segment on “Good Morning America.” But she can’t find her office keys, so she needs me to come over and let her in.

  “Good Morning America” is big . . . but really? Sunday morning? And I know that once I get to the office, she’ll ask if I can ju
st take care of a few little things, and I won’t get out of there until mid-afternoon. I think about pretending I lost my phone, going home and sleeping for a few more hours, then nursing my hangover with eggs and mimosas at a late brunch with Mel and Nat and telling them all about the crazy time I had last night.

  Instead, I climb out of bed, retrieve my dress from the corner where he flung it last night, and pull it over my head. When I emerge from the black fabric, he’s opened his eyes and is propped up on one elbow, watching me.

  “I have to say, I liked it better when that dress was going the other direction,” he says.

  I blush. “I have to go in to work.”

  “I didn’t think PR girls worked on Sundays.”

  Had I told him I worked in PR? “Most don’t. My boss is . . .” I trail off. It would take too long to explain.

  “What time do you get done?”

  “Um. I don’t know. Afternoon, probably.”

  “How about dinner?”

  “Um. Really?” I’m stunned. I was definitely expecting this to be a onetime thing, though the sex was so amazing that I didn’t care. And now, not only is he asking me out again, but he’s asking me out before I’ve even left yet.

  “Yes, really.” He seems amused. “Eight p.m. There’s a French place in the Village—A.O.C.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take my card. In case you get held up at work.” He gets out of bed, naked except for his black socks, and retrieves a business card from the pocket of his suit jacket, tossed in the corner of the room. The card is printed in elegant calligraphy on thick, creamy paper.

  Lewis Mephisto

  555-606-3516

  [email protected]

  I realize I hadn’t even known his name. I turn the card over, looking for the name of a bank or a hedge fund—I figure he works in finance, since he lives in the financial district. But it doesn’t say anything.

 

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