by Tasha Fawkes
I figure I have nothing to lose by answering the door, so I do. If we’re going to be friends, which maybe we are, she’ll eventually find out how I live and where I come from.
She’s still wearing her work clothes, and she still looks fantastic. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a t-shirt which is basically a series of holes with strips of fabric here and there. Only slightly more embarrassing than my coffee-stained blouse.
“Why are you here? Don’t tell me you live in this building.” My joke falls flat.
She smiles. “I wanted to take you out for a drink after work, but you bolted out too fast for me to catch you.”
Yes, because I wanted to get the hell out and pretend the whole messy day never happened.
But I'm not rude.
“Do you want to come in?” She nods, and I step aside, however reluctantly.
“This is cute!” she exclaims as she looks around. “You’re so creative, making such great use of your space.”
That's probably the nicest way I've ever heard someone describe something this small. When I first saw it, for once I was grateful that my childhood had left me with very little in the way of possessions.
“How did you know where I live?” I motion to the futon where she manages to perch delicately without looking snotty about it.
She shrugs. “It’s in your personnel file.”
My jaw drops. “You looked at my file?”
“Yeah. Why not?” She shrugs again. “Anyway, I figured you need a drink after this morning. More than one drink, maybe.”
I laugh and try not to let her see how nervous the suggestion makes me. “I’m pretty tired, to be honest. And I’m not much of a social butterfly. I go to bed early, too. I’m basically the cover of a AARP magazine.”
Her laugh is rich and throaty. The sort of thing men would want to listen to for hours on end. “Come on, Jane. It’s still early. Happy Hour is barely even over yet. One or two drinks won’t keep you out too late. We can get something to eat, too. I promise, I won’t keep you out too far past your bedtime, Grandma.”
I have the feeling she’s going to be a bad influence on me, but maybe a bad influence is just what I need. And it's not like I have many friends to fall back on. Maybe I could use a work friend, someone to go with the new start I hope to make.
“Okay. Give me a quick sec to get dressed.”
“No,” she says as she gives me a once over. “The homeless look is super in right now.”
Chloe manages a straight face for about three seconds before bursting into laughter, and this time, I join her.
Chapter 4
Anthony
Dad’s gonna kill me.
I can’t help but think that with a wry smile as I lift a glass of Scotch to my lips. I’ve been thinking it all night, in club after club, every time I walk in and get recognized by casual acquaintances and perfect strangers alike. At some point, pictures of me will end up online, and Dad will kill me. There’s a sort of satisfaction in knowing that it's inevitable. He just doesn’t get my life. I need him to know I do what I want, when I want, why I want. I won’t jump just because he tells me to.
I love him, but he can be a real asshole sometimes, particularly when it comes to getting his way. I wonder what things would be like if Mom hadn't died. If I’d gone to any college I wanted rather than busting my ass to get into Princeton since that was Dad's alma mater. Or, if I had earned something other than the MBA Dad wanted me to pursue. What would life have been like if everything wasn’t always about what my dad wanted for me, but for once about what I wanted for myself?
Is it any wonder I pull these little rebellious stunts? I mean, I'm twenty-eight-years-old. I should be able to run my own fucking life. Right?
My friend, Tyler, looks in much worse shape than me, anyway. I’m only buzzed. I know how to pace myself. He, on the other hand, is trying to drink a woman away. Never a good idea. He’s chatting up a blonde with a rack that could smother a guy if things got rough. Tyler’s always been a tits guy. Not that I dislike boobs, but I don’t go into a bar looking for the chick with the biggest set the way he does.
I’m not going to get in his way. Let him look for the most expensive set of tits he can find. Let him take a girl home and bang his ex out of his system. I’m just the wingman keeping an eye on him from a few feet away. Making sure he doesn't hurt himself or someone else. He can be an angry drunk sometimes, and the last thing I need is a brawl. Even I'm not that stupid.
I look around, squinting a little to see into the dark corners. The whole place is dark, really. Like beer goggles aren’t bad enough, let’s make sure the lighting is so dim a guy can’t see his hand in front of his face. The bar is backlit in warm amber tones, and the rich, polished wood throughout the club just adds to the feeling of exclusivity. Only members can get in here, and they are carefully vetted. Not that weird shit goes down or anything like that, but the management likes to keep a certain standard. I appreciate that they have standards like my own.
I focus on a pair of familiar eyes and am startled to find them staring back at me. The so-blonde-you-know-it’s-fake hair is the next giveaway. My stomach sours as it clicks that I just locked eyes with my ex-girlfriend. Judging by the way she hops off her chair and stalks toward me like a cat, she’s been waiting for an excuse to come over. Just my luck.
“Hey, sexy.” She folds her arms on the edge of the bar and bends forward a little, like she wants to give me a view down her skintight black dress.
Like I haven't seen it all before?
Like I want to see it again?
“What do you want?” I empty my glass and avoid eye contact. Instead, I look over at Tyler to see how well he’s doing with his girl. She's hanging on his every word. Good for him. At least one of us will probably be getting lucky tonight.
“You don’t have to be nasty.”
I’m not giving her the satisfaction of responding to her tone of voice, but I can tell she’s pouting. That's always her go-to when things aren't going her way. I might've fallen for it once, just like I had for that 'look at my cleavage' move, but I've moved long past it.
“I don’t? That’s funny coming from you.”
“What’s funny about it?” No surprise that she drops the childish shit when she sees it isn't working on me.
Well, the pouting anyway. Now she just sounds like a spoiled brat.
I toss back the last of my drink and wave over the bartender. “You telling me not to be nasty, Trin. You're the queen of nasty, aren't you?” I trade my empty glass for a full one, not looking at her as I keep talking. “It’s over. I thought I made that clear.”
“You don’t know what you want, baby.” She makes the mistake of touching my arm, and I fling her hand off.
“Don’t touch me. I wasn’t kidding when I told you I never wanted to see you again,” I snarl. What did I ever see in her? I used to think she was hot, sexy, funny, smart. Now, she just looks incredibly cheap. Ironic considering how much money she's spent on her looks.
Her dark eyes narrow dangerously. “Nobody talks to me like that, Anthony! Not even a fucking James!”
“Not even men you cheated on? I think that gives me the right to talk to you any goddamn way I please.”
“One slip up!”
I laugh at her way of bending the truth. “A slip up that lasted four months and resulted in a series of sex tapes that would put some porn stars to shame.” I shake my head. “Forget about it. Nobody cheats on me and gets away with it.”
A movement around the corner of my eye catches my attention, and just as I notice a punk with a camera phone video taping our every word, I realize how loud we’ve become.
Great. I can’t wait to see where the video ends up.
“Everybody thinks they’re fuckin’ paparazzi now,” I sneer.
Tyler’s fine. He’s going to get laid and wake up with a hell of a hangover, both of which he can handle on his own. I need to get out of here fast before Trinity, or my secret videographer,
or anybody else fucks my night up any further. I throw a hundred bucks at the bartender and rush out before Trinity can try to stop me. That will do nothing but turn into a whole new shit show.
Where can I go? I don’t want that jerk following me with the phone. He probably knows who I am and thinks he can get some cash for the video, not that it’s that big a deal since everyone already knows that Trinity cheated on me. I suppose it doesn't matter why we argued. Tabloid journalists can always spin a story out of nothing.
I turn up the collar of my coat against the cold wind and round the corner, eyes darting back and forth for a place to hide. Is this what my life has come to? For the first time, I wonder if maybe I should have listened to my father.
I eye a little shit hole joint where nobody in their right mind would ever come looking for me. Compared to what I just left, it might as well be in the ghetto. Perfect for waiting until I can get away unnoticed.
The place reeks of smoke, even though smoking in public establishments has been illegal in New York for years. It must cling to the ceiling tiles, deep inside the stuffing of the padded booths. I make a face. I have my vices, but smoking isn't one of them. I like my health too much.
There’s jazz music coming from somewhere, and that just adds to the throwback vibe. Posters inside the entrance advertise live entertainment on the weekend. This is a Monday, though, and the music is canned.
I perch on a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the door, and survey the crowd. That’s a generous word, as it’s more like a smattering of people. Mostly people in their mid to late thirties, but there are a few people in their twenties like me, including a cute little brunette at the other end. After my encounter with Trinity, I appreciate how natural and sweet the young woman looks. Not cheap or flashy, not trying to attract all the attention in the room. If anything, she looks completely out of her element here, which makes me wonder what her element is.
Normally, I’d go in for the kill, but somehow, that doesn’t seem right. So, I watch her instead. I wonder who she is and how best to introduce myself.
Chapter 5
Jane
“I can’t imagine how loud it must get in here when there’s a live band playing.” I take a sip of my vodka and cranberry juice and look around the bar area, where a handful of people are talking and enjoying their drinks.
“I like the vibe,” Chloe says. “It’s not full of a bunch of posers or hipsters or worse: aging frat boys.”
I laugh, and it eases some of the tension in my stomach. I'm glad that she didn't drag me to a club full of people from work who would feel obligated to get to know me. After the day I had, Chloe's about all I can handle.
“That’s good.” My hands tighten around my glass as I search for something to say. “I like the music.”
Her eyes light up. “You do? I love jazz. I can't play any instruments, but I've always wanted to learn. I can't quite force myself to do the work that comes with it, and what's the point of doing it if you're not great, right?”
“I like it better than a lot of current stuff,” I admit with a smile, “but I don’t know much about it.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to educate you. I know all the best places in the city. I dated a jazz musician once. Great hands.” She signals the bartender for another drink as I blush, but I shake my head when she looks at me. I have to seriously kick ass in the morning to make up for my horrendous day today, and it doesn’t take much to get me drunk.
“Do you mind if I admit something embarrassing?” She shakes her head, then takes a drink from her fresh glass. I feel silly, but I make myself say, “I’m just flattered that you would take an interest in me at all.”
“Why? What’s so bad about you?” She looks so honestly clueless that it makes it easier to answer her questions.
“I’ve never had a lot of friends.”
“You?” She looks me up and down. “How come?”
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for whatever reaction I get. “I grew up in foster care.”
There's sympathy on her face, but no pity. I sense she wants to know more. She’s the sort of girl who always wants to know more, curious about everything and everybody. I give her what I can.
“My mom died giving birth to me, and there's no father named on the birth certificate. At least that's what my social worker always told me.”
I can't bring myself to meet Chloe's eyes. It's better to get this out of the way now, I tell myself, before it becomes the sort of embarrassing conversation we have when the holidays are approaching, and I have to say that I don't have any family to go to. No family I want to see, anyway.
“I have a couple distant relatives, but none of them could take care of me, so I went into the system. I moved from home to home, always wearing hand-me-downs, and being labeled as one of 'those' kids by everyone.” I run the tip of my pinky around the rim of my glass. “The county didn't have a lot of families looking to take in random kids, so we were usually stuck in the sort of places where there were always too many of us.”
When I finally risk a glance, I see that she's smiling, and it isn't the sort of cruel smile I usually get when people hear my story.
“Well, we have one thing in common. We grew up in homes with a ton of kids. I have seven brothers and sisters, and I'm the youngest. Everybody’s always up in everybody else’s business.” She rolls her eyes. “It can be a real pain, especially when you don’t necessarily want everybody knowing everything. I mean, what girl wants all of her siblings knowing when she gets her first kiss? Especially when the boys all want to go beat the guy up, and the girls want to give you advice on your technique.”
I can only smile in return. I can't help thinking that it would be nice to have a family who cared enough to be nosy. Nobody who grew up that way could really understand how lucky they are, because they’ve never known anything else. I’d give just about anything to have a family like that.
Her hand covers mine. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “My thoughts wandered.”
She looks at my empty glass and shakes her head. “That’s not doing it. You need something else.”
I blink, confused. “Not doing what? What do I need?”
“Something else to get you out of this funk.” She looks around. “I’m gonna get you laid tonight, girlfriend.”
My heart nearly stops, and I squeeze my glass so hard that I worry it might break. “Um, no. That’s okay.”
She doesn’t hear me. “I’ll send one your way.”
“Please, don’t do this!”
But it's too late. She’s already started trolling. There are hardly any guys even close to our age at the bar, and I hope that's going to be enough to dissuade her. I start sweating bullets at the thought of strangers coming up to me, trying to pick me up. I've never picked up a guy in a bar in my life. How will I even react to them? What do I say? I'm not like her, with a mom and sisters to offer advice.
It only takes a minute for the first prospect to approach. He’s cute in an offbeat way, sort of dorky and shy. Is that who Chloe sees me with? I give him a shaky smile and feel pathetic for needing help scoring a man. I don’t even want to score one, but that doesn’t seem to matter. My discomfort clashes with his, and ultimately, it’s a wash. After an awkward minute, I smile and tell him to have a good night, and he goes back to his friends, looking relieved enough that I know he didn't want to talk to me either. I catch Chloe’s eye and try to look as forbidding as possible, but she’s oblivious.
A few minutes later, guy number 2 comes over. He’s a little more handsome...and a lot more aggressive. He sits close to me.
“What are you drinking?”
My nose wrinkles as his cheap cologne envelopes me. “Oh, I’m okay. Thanks.” I take pains to sound polite in spite of my irritation. It isn't his fault that Chloe's on a mission. And I can't really be rude to someone for wearing too much cologne, can I?
“I insist. Let me buy you a drink.”
He flashes a too-bright smile, and I feel myself withering a little under it. Damn that Chloe for putting me here.
“No, thank you. I’m all right.” I slide off my stool and decide to tell Chloe, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t need her to set me up. I don’t want her to get me laid. I like her a lot, but I don’t appreciate being embarrassed.
Only some guys can’t take no for an answer. “What’s your problem?” he asks as he follows me.
The bar is getting more crowded, and I elbow my way through the newcomers, hoping to reach my friend before Mr. Cologne Bath catches me. I tried being polite, but if he can't let it go, we're going to have a problem.
He’s still going as he trails behind. “I asked what your problem is! A guy offers to buy you a drink, and you think you’re too good for him? Who the hell ever told you you’re so special?”
By this time, we’re attracting attention and my face is burning. I should have just let him buy me a drink and leave it at that. Except guys like him, the ones who'll follow a girl across a bar because she doesn't want a drink, they think that once they buy a woman something, she owes them.
He steps in front of me, blocking my way.
“You’re not that hot, you know,” he snaps. “Ungrateful bitch.”
I’m shocked into silence. I have literally no idea what to say to that attack.
As it turns out, I don’t need to say anything. I hear a deep, resonant voice just over my shoulder. “There you are, honey.”
I turn and can’t believe my eyes. Anthony James is standing there, smiling down at me. That can't be real. Just like he can't be taking me into his arms like I belong to him, pulling me tight against his hard, unyielding chest. I don’t even have time to gasp before he presses his mouth to mine and gives me the sexiest, most toe-curling kiss of my life.
