by B. N. Toler
“You smell really fucking good,” he murmured as he lowered it.
Blankly, I stared at him, slowly releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My body strummed like a live wire, reacting to a man who hadn’t even touched me. But hadn’t he? Physically, no, not in any way, even when he’d taken the scarf his hand hadn’t even brushed against me, yet I felt like, somehow, he’d caressed me.
When he wrapped my scarf around his neck and held it to his face again, smelling it, I finally managed to rasp, “Thank you.”
“I think pink is my color,” he mused. I curved my mouth into a slight smile. What a difference a few minutes made.
Fumbling for a moment, unsure of how to behave after that seemingly harmless yet intense moment, I shimmied, scooting up in my seat.
“So…” I let out another long breath. I needed to move us forward…away from whatever just happened. I didn’t care that he still had my scarf around his neck. “You work for the government.” He’d mentioned this in our chats, but hadn’t gone into any detail. It seemed like the perfect place to start a conversation.
“I do.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
So I pressed on. “What exactly do you do?”
He shrugged. “I’m a dolphin trainer.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” he asked, exasperated. “I am.”
“You could just say you don’t want to talk about it,” I grumbled before slurping the remainder of my drink, not caring how obnoxious it sounded. We were back to square one. Damn, he was frustrating.
Threading his fingers together in front of him, one elbow resting on the bar, the other on the back of his chair, he smirked at me. How was he so relaxed?
“Did you know the Russians trained dolphins to find mines in the sea?”
I deflated, my shoulders dropping with his words. Was this really the story he was going with? He went on and five minutes later, I knew for certain, it was in fact the story he was going with. Wren explained in detail how the Navy had used dolphins and sea lions since the 1960s, but Soviet dolphins were trained to kill and were used to plant explosive devices on enemy ships.
When he was done, I sat there, staring at him, feeling numb. Maybe the whiskey aided in this feeling, but Wren was the main culprit. It was a creative story, I’d give him that, and as a writer, I could appreciate it, had he not avoided answering a real question with a real answer. That nagged me. Why was he avoiding answering?
“Sounds like an exciting job.”
“It is,” he agreed. Oh, boy… Slipping the scarf from his neck, he draped it over my head. I froze, unsure of what he was doing, again too curious to stop him. He wasn’t hurting me or assaulting me sexually so I let him continue. “Have you ever worn a hijab?”
I quirked my mouth, looking at him like he was nuts. I knew what a hijab was. A hijab is a veil traditionally worn by Muslim women in the presence of adult males outside of their immediate family, which usually covered the head and chest. I couldn’t say I was well versed on Muslim traditions, but I did know this. I knew, not because he had told me, but because I’d guessed from some of the photos on his profile, that he had spent time in the Middle East as a Marine. But what it had to do with me was beyond me. So while it was odd that he was wrapping me in a hijab in a small town bar on a Friday night, I also found it fascinating. I wanted to see where he was going with it. Maybe he wasn’t giving me answers to questions, but he was showing me something about himself unknowingly. “Uh, I can’t say that I have.”
Scooting toward me, he busied himself moving the fabric around my head and placing it so. When he was done, he leaned back.
“I can see the appeal in it.” He bobbed his head once or twice.
I didn’t respond. Was he saying he liked the idea that women had to hide their faces in public? If this was a woman’s choice, I supported that, but I loathed the idea that a man would just think a woman should do this.
Apparently, he saw the wild flicker of insult in my eyes and he held his hand up. “No. I don’t think women should have to wear one,” he clarified. “I just mean the surprise of it, what’s underneath, the way your eyes stand out right now. It’s…captivating.”
He was a skilled master in the ways of yo-yoing. Everything he said had me back and forth; his hand drifting, controlling me like a slender spool of string tied to his adept finger, pulling me in close then faraway again, up and down. One minute he’d say something that would have me ready to strangle him, letting me down, and the next…he’d get deep, raising my hope.
Holding his phone up, he said, “I need a picture of this.
He was an oddball. I laughed a little as he snapped the shot, thinking how ridiculous it was that he’d want a photo of me in a hijab. Of course, I was the one just sitting there wearing it after he’d dressed me in it like a doll.
As I pulled the scarf from my head, he gazed at his screen before turning it to me. It was a good picture; the scarf was a bright color that showcased my brown eyes well. Pointing at the screen, he indicated an area of skin showing on my chest.
“You see that little bit of skin right there?” he asked. The yo-yo swung up. His dark gaze moved back to mine, a sullen frown capturing his features. “That right there could get you maimed in some places over there. They cut off women’s hands and noses for that.” And the damn yo-yo dropped. Seriously…what the hell?
His mouth flattened as he placed his phone on the bar. Watching him for a moment, I tapped my finger against my glass, fighting myself. I loved dissecting people, and the more intrigued I was with them, the more intense I came off. It had taken me many years to learn to stop seeking and wait; listen. Most of the time if I was patient, I’d get the answers I sought. But it was hard. I was impatient. I was a sucker for complicated people, and I didn’t know much about Wren, but I could feel complicated rolling off him in waves. He was abrasive; he used sarcasm and humor to maneuver his way around a conversation with any topic that made him remotely uncomfortable; and he had an issue with committing, even to something as simple as what time we were meeting. He was the classic stay away from this guy man if I’d ever seen one. Yet there was a softness to him and a confidence I envied.
“So what is it you really do?” I pressed. I needed him to answer this, not because it mattered, really, but because I needed to know if he could. I’d had enough lies to last me a lifetime. I wanted honesty in the worst way. Was this date a joke to him? Would he not tell me anything simply because I asked?
He huffed, widening his eyes to add to the drama. “I told you, I’m a dolphin trainer.”
Shaking my head, I waved to get the bartender’s attention. When he acknowledged me, I announced loudly, “Check please.”
As I dug in my bag, Wren snorted. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. I am.” My words were clipped and lacked the depth of my frustration, but I was attempting to get out of there without getting angry or making a scene. One lie turned into two, then three, and snowballed in size, and the next thing you knew it was a damn liar’s shit show. No, thanks. The part of me that still wanted to know him more was working my nerves. He intrigued me, which scared me. Being drawn to the complicated was expensive in many ways, and I wasn’t sure I had enough of anything to pay the price. The man couldn’t even answer a question. A normal What do you do for a living? question that anyone on a first date would ask was too difficult for this guy. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. He was a bit of a riddle, and though I was a sucker for unlocking mystery, I knew I needed to haul ass away from him. I was too…lost in my own life to let myself get caught up in his.
When I tossed my card on the bar, the bartender quickly grabbed it. “Security,” Wren relented.
I flashed my gaze to him. “What?”
“I’m contracted by the government to train people in high-level security.”
It was something. Closing my eyes, I inhaled a steady breath. He actually answered the questi
on. Finally. But why did it take something as extreme as me leaving to get the answer? “I don’t even care.” I snorted a laugh. Holding my hand up, I added, “I don’t know what your deal is, but this whole night has been a joke. I don’t have time for…this…” I motioned my hand around as I searched for an appropriate word, but when I couldn’t find one, I settled with, “bullshit.”
“Why do you care so much about what I do?”
The bartender slid my receipt to sign along with my card, his stare darting between me and Wren, assessing if there was a situation he needed to keep an eye on. I gave him a half smirk in an attempt to let him know, despite how heated things seemed to be, it was nothing to worry about. I plunked my purse on the stool as I signed. “I don’t care,” I informed Wren as I whipped the pen with loud scratching sounds as I wrote. “You could be a ditch digger for all I care. I just don’t see why you wouldn’t talk about it.”
“Because I didn’t want to,” he snapped.
Shoving my card in my purse, not bothering to return it to my wallet, I held my hands up and gave another short laugh. “I don’t have time for games, Wren.”
“Neither do I.”
Funny, because that seemed to be all he was playing.
“Look, no hard feelings here. I just…can’t.”
“Can’t what?” He held a hand out in question.
Shaking my head, I fisted my hand at my side. “Can’t deal with another man wasting my time,” I blurted. “I don’t need another man to figure out. I’m done with liars, and users, and…” motioning my hand at him, “men who suffer from apparent commitment phobia.” With that, I walked out, lowering my head when I realized everyone at the bar had been watching our farewell and they probably all thought I was a lunatic. As I hurried out, I tripped just outside the door and dropped my purse, the contents spilling everywhere on the sidewalk. Did I mention the night had been an epic failure? Dropping to my knees, I quickly grabbed everything, chucking it in my bag, praying no one from inside saw me trip. This was humiliating. The mace was the last item I picked up, and I groaned when I realized it was leaking. There was a trashcan nearby so I carried the tiny dripping bottle over and tossed it, shaking my hands to dry them as I headed for my car.
What a nightmare that had been. Jeez. Was this the dating world now? Was this what I had to look forward to? The thought, for some reason, hit me hard; a wave of hopelessness slammed into me, making my chest tighten, causing me to tear up. Sad, desperate thoughts ricocheted through my mind like: I’ll never find love again. Swiping at my face to wipe away a rogue tear, I cleared my throat and braced my back. “You will not cry, Hannah,” I scolded myself. I would not be that woman. I would not feel sorry for myself.
I was almost to my car when my vision blurred, my left eye burning. I rubbed at it, which only made it worse and made both eyes water more. Unable to see, I stopped and leaned against a car to brace myself while lifting my shirt and dabbing at my eyes. I didn’t want to use my scarf because I knew my eyeliner would stain it. What the hell was going on?
“Damn,” I groaned when the burning sensation worsened. I couldn’t see and my eyeballs felt like they were rolling in my sockets.
What was happening to me?
“Oh my God,” I cried.
The mace.
I’d just rubbed mace in my eyes and blinded myself in a dark parking lot in the middle of the night. This couldn’t be happening to me. Dropping down, I sat on the concrete leaning my back against the car. I attempted to stop using my hands and tried using one arm to clean my face as I dug in my purse for my cell. When I found it, I realized I couldn’t call anyone because I couldn’t see the screen to dial. My heart pounded in my chest, my body flamed with heat as I wondered if I could just rip my eyes out and end this misery. I was that desperate. Would it be that bad if I did?
Mace in the Face
Eventually the stares of the fellow bar patrons eased away, and I was able to finish the last of my drink without feeling watched. Man…she was nuts. I’d seen some real Mad Hatters in my day, but she took the cake.
She’d already paid the tab, something I found pretty damn attractive before she lost her shit on me, but I threw some cash on the bar, deciding to tip a little extra since we’d made a scene. When I walked outside, the cool night air hit my face as I trudged back to my truck. What a waste of a night this had been. I was just about to hit the remote start to my truck, when I saw something from the corner of my eye. I slowed my stride and honed in on it, stopping in my tracks when I realized what exactly I was looking at.
It was Hannah.
She was sitting on her ass, leaned up against a Honda, her hands covering her face. Was she crying? With her eyes covered and the way she was sitting, she couldn’t see me when I scrunched my face as I battled with myself whether I should check on her. She’d made it pretty clear she didn’t like me based on our limited interaction together—would she tear my head off if I approached?
After a short internal struggle, I decided I couldn’t consciously leave and sleep well tonight without checking on her. Damn it. Jogging over to her, I kneeled down, making sure to keep a few feet of space between us. She was sniffling—definitely crying. Damn, I freaking hated when women cried. I was not the guy you came to for a shoulder to cry on. Her purse was between her legs, her cell phone and keys lay beside her. She was a sitting duck for any creep that might be wanting to take advantage of someone.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
She didn’t look up. “Wren?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Is there…someone I can call for you?”
Using the heels of her hands, she rubbed at her eyes that were squeezed shut, smearing eyeliner all over her face. “No, I’ll be okay. Thanks for checking. You can go.” She sniffled twice.
I stared at her a moment, my brow furrowing. She wasn’t opening her eyes. In fact, she had them clenched tight, her face twisted in pain. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” she insisted, scooting back against the car, then blindly reaching her hand out, touching it to the pavement in search of something, her phone. Picking it up, I grabbed her wrist and placed it in her palm.
She paused, as if she didn’t know what to say, then mumbled a quiet, “Thanks.”
“Open your eyes,” I told her.
Digging in her bag, she pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “I’m good.” I nodded silently, pressing my lips together. It was night time, dark as hell, and she was putting on sunglasses. “Thank you for checking on me.” Crab-crawling her way up the car, she managed to clutch her purse and keys in one arm, then used her free hand to guide herself a step away from me.
I wanted to laugh. God, she was a mess. I mean, seriously. It was outstandingly evident something was wrong with her eyes, but she wouldn’t own it.
“Hannah.” I was amazed I was able to hide the humor in my tone when I spoke. “What in the hell is wrong with your eyes?”
Turning her head toward me, she acted as if she were looking me right in the face, but her head was turned too far to the right. She definitely wasn’t looking at me. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I nodded, crossing my arms. “This your car here?”
“Of course, it’s my car,” she snapped.
“Okay. Unlock it and I’ll leave you alone.” I knew it wasn’t her car. She had a key to a Toyota on her keychain and she was leaned against a Honda.
Letting out a defeated sigh, her shoulders slouched and she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, returning her hands to her eyes. “Fine. I maced myself,” she whined.
“What?”
“Mace,” she grumbled as she rubbed hard at her eyes.
This time I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “How in the hell did you do that?”
“I had it in my purse in case you were a psycho. It leaked and got on my hands, and I rubbed my eyes.”
I was still laughing.
“It’s not funny.” She hung
her head. I bit my lower lip and fought like hell to quiet my chuckles. Obviously, she was embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be humiliated sitting out in a parking lot, blind as a bat, because the mace you brought to protect yourself from a would-be psycho ended up taking you down? I felt bad for her.
“We gotta rinse your eyes out.” I gently took her arm. “Like, right away. Let’s go.”
She immediately pulled away from me. “I’m not going back in there in front of all those people.”
“Okay.” I took her arm again. She was a jumpy little thing. “I have a gallon of water in my truck.”
Did I mention difficult as hell, too? She dragged her feet as I pulled her, not trusting me to lead her blind, yet realizing she really didn’t have a choice. “Why would you have a gallon of water in your truck?”
“To drink.”
She huffed, shaking her head slightly, apparently annoyed by my answer. Even water was on this chick’s shit list.
“What?” I questioned, annoyed. Could I not say anything right to this woman?
“Your answers are always so basic.”
“Okay.” I snickered, the sound coming out in a grunted rasp, not really sure what she meant, but not caring enough to ask. Of course, she didn’t need me to query, she was happy to clarify.
“You give one to two worded answers. Never any depth. Just basic, plain answers.”
Again, I didn’t bother responding. Why the hell did she care so much? After tonight, I’d never see her again. Besides, my answer most likely wouldn’t meet her standards of word count anyway. When we reached my truck, I pulled the tailgate down and lifted her on it. The gesture startled her and she blindly clutched my shoulders.
