by Zoey Castile
I sigh because he’s right. Something about them just brings out the worst in me. “You were never a dick when you started.”
Aiden, ever the peacemaker, smiles in that charming and unassuming way of his. “I’ll talk to Vinny and Frank, too. He riles up his brother. Just cool it, okay?”
“I’ll try.” I switch the weight on my pack. Hold out my hand.
He returns my fist bump. “Good luck on your date tonight, bro.”
“I was born lucky.”
I go home to walk my dog, shower, and shave. It’s the first time I’ve been truly alone all weekend, and my apartment still has traces of the party we had. Try as they will, my boys are not good at cleaning up after themselves. I tie the last of the bottles in a recycling bag and leave it at the entrance.
I have a missed call from my sister, but when I try to call her back, she doesn’t pick up. Mary never calls me, unless she’s out of allowance money. I send her a text asking if she’s okay, but I don’t get anything back. Little sisters.
I cue up some of my old-man music and get ready for my date with Robyn.
I fish out a pair of jeans and iron a button-down. My father was a lousy drunk most of the time, but he always looked sharp. “Listen, here boys,” he used to say. “You only get one shot for someone to size you up. Looking the part is almost as important as the work you put in.” Sure, he was talking to my brother and me about how he was going to get a job. Dad was a bastard, and half the shit out of his mouth was toxic, but he managed to get hired. Even if he didn’t manage to keep the job a month later.
I button up my shirt in front of the mirror, mouthing the lyrics to Stone Temple Pilots’ “Interstate Love Song.” Then, I hear a louder sound. I can’t make out the melody, but it’s sweet. I look up where the floorboards creak the most. I turn off my music and hear her. Robyn, singing a song in Spanish.
My Spanish is shit, and I can’t make out what she says, but the pitch of her voice makes my guts twist. I’m half inclined to get a ladder so I can bring my ear closer to the ceiling and listen to her, if she didn’t stop abruptly to answer her phone. I wonder who she’s talking to. I wonder if she’s got this same knot in the pit of her stomach. I wonder if we’re doing the right thing.
I get back up and spray on some of the cologne Darla gave me for Christmas. She told me I needed to stop wearing the same shit as a college frat boy trying to cover up his stink. I said, “I’ve never been a frat boy a day in my life.” Still, it’s some French stuff that isn’t half bad, and women seem to dig it.
Yaz runs into the room and sits at my feet. I’ve walked her, fed her, and played with her. But still, she rubs her head on my legs and walks in a circle. I pet her head, and she barks a few times before jumping onto my bed and making herself a comfortable pad.
“Okay, Yaz, but if I bring a girl back, your ass gets kicked to the living room.”
As if she understands me, she growls in response.
My phone beeps at three minutes to eight. I slip into my brown leather jacket and stuff my money clip into the inside zipper pocket. When I take another step, my boot crunches down on something.
I look down and see a crushed white pill. I pick some up and bring it to my nose, and it’s odorless. I didn’t see anyone taking pills Saturday night, but then again, I was gone for half of it with Robyn.
There’s a knock on my door, and I don’t have time to clean it up, so I dust my hands and grab the door.
When I see her, I’m breathless. In fact, I have to remind myself to breathe because the air is literally knocked out of my lungs. Her hair is done up in full black waves. I could drown in that hair. Her warm, light-brown skin shimmers, gold at her shoulders. Her lashes are darker than usual, the corners of her eyes lined with makeup so black, it makes her midnight eyes brighter. Her lips are the red of roses blooming, and they match the flowers printed on the dress that hugs every inch of her. From her thin waist to the full curves that make my dick twitch.
“I was going to pick you up,” I say.
She quirks her full mouth to one side. “I’m just full of surprises.”
9
You Are My Kind
ROBYN
What Fallon doesn’t know is that the biggest surprise of all is that for the first time in maybe two months, I’m on time.
Granted, I was on time for the bridal fitting, but that was because Lily picked me up for what would be the most painful hour of my life (I might still be bleeding from the pins the seamstress poked me with a dozen times). The morning wasn’t much better, because Principal Lukas chose today of all days to sit in on my class. He’s been nothing but friendly to me, but there’s something about him that doesn’t quite sit right with me. The entire time I was talking to my kids my unease at having him there increased. At the end of it, he congratulated me on a great lesson plan and asked me for restaurant recommendations.
After I ran home, I showered and put on one of my dad’s old CDs. It’s the kind of music I only listen to when I’m alone, boleros and baladas sung by glamorous singers from decades ago. The old Spanish guitar and songs about all kinds of love calm me the most.
Plus, I was nervous as hell. When was the last time I went out with someone as beautiful as Fallon? Because Fallon isn’t just hot. He’s got muscles that scream of workouts I avoid like the plague. His jawline could shave a chunk of crystal into diamonds. And where most guys I’ve dated had thin lips that disappeared when they were upset or worried, Fallon has a mouth that was made for doing sinful things.
But his eyes, the blue of warm seas. The long lashes that frame them. The smatter of freckles on the broken bridge of his nose. Why is it that some men just look better when their noses have been broken like that? Is it because it speaks to a rough-and-tumble nature? Because it breaks the otherwise too-perfect symmetry of his face, and makes him unbearably sexy?
I realize I’m staring, and take the arm he holds out to me, his leather jacket cool on my skin.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “I feel like I left you to fend for yourself with trying to pick a restaurant when you’re new in town.”
“I’m only good at a handful of things,” he says, “but finding good food is one of them.”
He holds the parking lot door for me, and leads me to his car. My black heels make a sharp click on the concrete, echoing off the walls around us. My skin warms under his gaze, and I feel a pleasant thrill knowing that he wants me. He opens the door to his car, and waits for me to get in before closing it.
I feel like we never stop looking at each other. Not when he puts the car in drive, which, you know, is probably dangerous. But I find it hard to look away. When he drives, he stares straight ahead, keeping one hand on top of mine. I study the angle of his smooth cheekbones, breathe in his cologne, a scent that brings to mind pinewood and burning fires. When he stops at each red light he turns to me. Every time. His face is bathed in the bright lights of the city.
We don’t talk much, and I don’t mind it. It’s like we’re settling into each other’s presence. There isn’t the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter about the weather. We were both out in the world; we know that it was sunny with a high of seventy. We can talk about our days while we’re eating. For now, we’re just together, and this sensation is so strange and new that it sends me into a nervous flutter.
“Can you give me a hint about what kind of food it is?” I ask.
He gives my hand a squeeze and says, “Delicious. I promise.”
“Well, good, because I’m so hungry I could probably eat you.”
His laugh is husky, and when he bares his teeth like that I can see his slightly crooked canine. “I was hoping that was third-date stuff.”
“Oh, there’s a third date?”
“There’s a bunch of dates. I thought I had you for three whole months.”
I can’t help it. I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Let’s just see how tonight goes. It’s more like an audition.”
“God,
I haven’t had to audition for anything in years.”
“Do tell.”
“Patience, young Padawan.” He lets go of my hand briefly to change gears, and enters the restaurant parking lot.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m full Jedi.”
“God, you’re sexy when you’re nerdy.” He licks his bottom lip, and I want to follow his tongue with my own. “We’re here.”
La Isla is a hot new restaurant that specializes in Puerto Rican food and claims to have the best mojitos outside of the island itself. Lily and I have been trying to get reservations for a month.
“This place is harder to get into than Area 51,” I say.
He looks amused and takes my hand, making our way to the front of the restaurant where there’s a line around the block. I’m glad I wore sensible four-hour heels instead of the just-for-show six-inch ones.
“How many attempts have you actually made to get into Area 51?” he asks, then tugs on my hand. “Come.”
Fallon leads me down to the front door, where people who’ve been waiting for probably over an hour give us dirty looks. As a lifelong New Yorker, I hate being that person. But as a person who hasn’t eaten since breakfast, I willingly put pep in my step all the way to the hostess stand. Instantly, my senses are distracted with the scent of roasted meats and savory dishes, the loud chatter and laughter of dozens of tables, the bright neon lights that remind me of the South Beach strip that faces the ocean, the rhythm of the live salsa band playing at the end of the room.
A gorgeous Puerto Rican woman, a little younger than me, greets Fallon with a bright smile.
“Fal!” she shouts over the live music.
“Daya, this is Robyn,” he tells the hostess. “Robyn, Daya’s brother Sebastian is one of the New York additions in my crew.”
“So you’re the reason he finally leaves his apartment after three weeks.” She takes my hand and winks at me before picking up some menus and saying, “Follow me.”
Fallon lowers his lips to my ear, and his cool breath makes my skin tickle. “Like?”
Like doesn’t even begin to cover it. I want to say that I love it, but the salsa band’s horns are too loud for me to try to talk over. Instead, I squeeze his hand and smile. In the dimly lit restaurant with neon greens and blues highlighting his features, I’m positive Fallon is the best accidental thing to ever have happened to me.
Daya sets menus on our table and Fallon gives her a kiss on the cheek. We sit side by side at a table for two facing the band. In their white suits and Panama hats, they’re every bit old-Latin glamour.
A waitress comes over and takes our drink orders. She never looks at me, not really. I’ve never been the jealous type, and I’m not going to start now. If I were in her shoes, I’d want to stare at him, too. His smile is radiant, his eyes are happy and honest. Fallon is the perfect mix of sweet and sexy, the kind that is so rare to find, he might as well be a fucking unicorn.
The band’s song comes to a crescendo and takes a break.
“If you’re trying to impress me,” I say, looking up from my menu, “it’s working.”
He chuckles and leans back, reaching an arm across the back of my chair. “Good. I want to start fresh.”
“What did Daya mean when she said you haven’t left your apartment in three weeks?”
He rolls his eyes playfully, his thumb right on my spine. A food runner sets our drinks down. The glasses are slender and tall, mint and ice practically glowing in the black light. We clink the edges of our glasses, and I drink the sweet rum as he talks.
“Her brother is on our crew. Likes to make fun of me for being old.”
“How old are you?”
He chuckles. “Old enough that I can’t hang anymore. Thirty.”
“Well, I’m twenty-eight and I’ve basically been an old man my whole life.”
“Hot,” he says, laughing his beautiful laugh. “So we can skip all the dating and sex and go right into reading the paper at six in the morning and yelling at kids in the park?”
I ball my hand and shake it in the air. “Damn youths!”
But as he thumbs the sensitive skin of my spine, I’ve never felt more alive. I see the lust spark in his eyes as he tries not to be so obvious about looking at my cleavage.
“But seriously?” he says. “I’ve been so focused on the group that I don’t make time for anything else.”
“Then thank you for making time for me.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
“Please,” he says, as if it’s no big deal. “I want to be here. Not just because I’ve spent the entire day in a studio with a bunch of other sweaty dudes.”
“Sexy,” I say in turn, and edge a little closer to him. I take another sip of my Best Mojito Outside of Puerto RicoTM and ask, “Am I allowed to know about the elephant in the room?”
He smirks. “I’ve been waiting for it. Come on. I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”
“How—what—” I stop and try again. I have a million questions I can ask, but nothing seems right. I feel like I’m invading his space. Intruding in a life that he chose long before we met. Plus, I’m still embarrassed about having called his profession trashy.
“It’s okay, Robyn. You’re not going to ask anything others haven’t. Let me make it easy. I started when I was nineteen. Before that I was working at a bar back home. I was a little bit of an attention whore when I was younger.”
“And you aren’t now?”
“Burn,” he says, and takes a long swallow from his straw. “I mean, I loved being in the spotlight.”
There’s something strange about the way he says that. The obvious deduction is that he doesn’t love being in the spotlight anymore.
“What’s changed?”
“I’m not sure,” he says. “It’s been a good living. We travel the world. I get whole months off at a time to do whatever I want. I have some of the best friends I can ask for. Sometimes my crew feels more like my family than my real family.”
There’s something wonderful and sad about that. “Family’s important. I used to feel that way about my friend Lily.”
“The one getting married?”
“Yeah. Things are just different now. She has the life I wanted for myself when I was in college. I was different then, too.”
“Let me guess. You had a five-year plan. Perfect office-working husband. Kids and a white picket fence?”
I poke him in his stomach, which doesn’t do much because it hurts me more than it does him. “No, actually. I mean, yes, in a way. I didn’t want to be a teacher. I love the kids I teach, I do. I went to school for literature because I love books. I wanted to be a writer. I’ve actually never told anyone that.”
“What’s stopping you?” He asks it as if it’s the easiest thing to just follow some dream. As if I haven’t considered it every waking moment that I’m putting together a lesson plan and grading papers.
“Because it’s not practical, and I have always been practical.” I rest my hand on his thigh because it feels natural and I want to touch him. “I was raised by parents who always did the right thing. Go to college, get a job, have a family. Somewhere along the line I turned into the person I wasn’t supposed to be.”
Fallon takes a deep breath and studies my face. The hand draped around my shoulder plays with my hair.
“You mean you weren’t supposed to be having dinner with a male stripper?” He smiles when he says it, but he’s self-deprecating.
“No, that part is actually pretty amazing. I mean it. What I was trying to say is, I wasn’t supposed to hate my profession so soon.”
“Then quit,” he says, pulling at his straw until the liquid is all gone.
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” I say. “Thanks, Fallon, you’ve solved all my problems. Why don’t you quit, too?”
“Okay, okay. Smartass.” He leans in as if he’s going to take a bite out of my neck, but instead, he breathes in my scent. “The difference is that I don’t hate what
I do.”
I quirk my eyebrow, unable to stop the vision of him taking off his clothes from entering my mind’s eye. “What do you love about it?”
“I’m starving,” he says, trying to change the subject. He fidgets and looks around the restaurant. He holds up two fingers as the waitress makes her way back to us.
“Do you want to put in your food order?”
Fallon picks up the menu, but I can tell he doesn’t know where to start.
“Actually,” I say, “can we have the sample platter for two?”
“What the lady wants,” Fallon says, quirking his mouth into a brilliant smile.
“It’ll be right out.” The waitress winks at me and walks away.
I turn back to Fallon. He’s not going to get out of answering that question. “You were saying?”
He looks up and rubs his lips together, deep in thought. He pulls me closer with the hand that’s around me. He brushes my hair away from my ear, and I remind myself that we are in public, and I can’t rip his shirt off here and now.
“You want the truth?” he asks.
I nod, unable to move my mouth to form coherent words.
“There is no better sensation than making a woman feel sexy.” He places a hand on my knee, his thick, long fingers edge under the hem of my dress, and I feel every part of me stir with longing. “When I’m onstage, I can be anyone. I take my clothes off. I dance around. But to that woman, I’m there for her, and only her, pleasure.”
I smirk. “How do you stop yourself from—”
“Right now? I’m not,” he says, and as gently as I can, I move my hand to the left and graze the bulge that strains against his pants.
He shuts his eyes and sighs, then puts some distance between us. He takes his napkin and drapes it across his lap, but it doesn’t help with covering it up. When he takes his hand off my leg, my body screams for him to put it back.
“Anyway. The shows are raunchy, but they aren’t as scandalous as what you might be thinking. You—you should come see one night.”
I’d be lying if I hadn’t considered it since the moment I found out. It would help me to understand his life. This life I’ve only ever seen on Vegas show ads and in Channing Tatum movies. It’s different when the idea of male strippers is outside of a sorority or bachelorette party. It’s different when it’s the man you’re planning on dating for a summer.
