by Hope Irving
The more we kissed, the more I wanted him.
It isn’t like me to be irrational, but when I went to bed that night, my body couldn’t stop shaking. At first, I mistook my reaction for bliss; my nerves were so topsy-turvy that it felt like a million tiny ants were coursing all over my body. I tossed and turned, unable to relax. Exhausted, I growled in frustration and tossed the covers off of my sweaty body. Sitting up straight, I grabbed the bottle of water from the nightstand and drank from the bottle while trying to calm down. Thank God, I had decided to stay in Brooklyn; or else, I would’ve woken my family up with my adolescent behavior. And that’s when I grasped that the sting in my chest wasn’t due to nerves, but jealousy. I wanted to be the one that he delivered searing kisses to; I thought of the scores of women that he had kissed before. Instantly, I hated them, assuming that the kisses he gave them were as good; I was jealous. Instantly, I hated my sister for being one of them, as I started to grasp her obsession with him; I was jealous. Instantly, I hated myself for having such absurd thoughts; I was jealous. I barely slept that night. So, after that, I put my scheming on hold for a bit to explore the extent of his skills. The earlier I knew, the more swiftly my plans would be fulfilled. Win-win situation, right?
The more I relived the kiss, the more I wanted him.
“You know you’re gonna have to go up there, right?” Tig’s question breaks through my thoughts. I long for another kiss, though, and sooner rather than later, if you ask me.
“What?” My splayed palm clutches my chest dramatically. “No way! I’m not singing and dancing. I might even choose the slow song category, so…” I giggle and mentally chastise myself for intertwining his fingers with mine.
Wow, you’re really buzzed, girl!
“Nah…. Didn’t you check the options by the front door? There’s no slow dance category.” My memory is cloudy. “Forget it. Slow songs are the hardest to sing anyway.”
“I’ll have you know that I have a very good voice.”
“You have a great voice.”
Why does his compliment make the corner of my mouth quirk up?
“Anyway,” he continues, completely oblivious to my inner debate, “Look at them.” He throws his arm around. “They’re here to sing along as well.”
So here we are, attempting to muster the courage to go on stage after a nice Chinese dinner that we both refused to call a date. At least he let me treat him without a fight. He mentioned that he was still discovering his new neighborhood and welcomed my spur-of-the moment decision. A controlled one, since Greer is tracking my location on an app. I’d already warned her that I would probably be staying at my Brooklyn hotel tonight.
Greer has been nothing but supportive during my visit. Thanks to her, Father stopped harassing me and pressuring me to come back. She helped him to comprehend that I needed some alone time, away from him. So far, he’s respecting it, now that she’s the one keeping tabs on me. She and I have been texting intermittently all evening, but I won’t allow her fear for my safety overrule my fun with Tig.
What’s more natural than heading to the karaoke joint across the street once you have Chinese food in your body?
“You’re regretting your decision to drag us here, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?” I stir the contents of my frou-frou drink with my straw. It’s so bright pink that I’m afraid to know what’s in the house cocktail. Not that it’s bad; it’s just so sugary that I can envision cavities forming with every gulp. I’m not used to having this much sugar in my system; no wonder why I’m so hyper! And don’t get me started on the two sake bombs that the waiter generously brought to the table after dinner without waiting for approval. When he left our side, Tig politely declined, and we agreed that I could handle both without getting sloshed—my mistake!—and my current beverage is worsening my case.
I take another sip, and my eyes go to his. I can’t see their color now, but I spent the entire dinner examining them to stop myself from obsessing over his sinful mouth. And they’re incredible: the main color is chocolate, but a golden undertone that I hadn’t noticed before adds to his intriguing vibes.
Focusing on his irises gave me a short reprieve from my horniness. Out of reflex, my fingers aim for a lock of hair that’s no longer there. As I register my mistake, my hand is redirected to rub the back of my neck. Knowing what his mouth did to mine, I can’t stop fantasizing about what it could do to other parts of my needy body.
Damn, I need to get laid!
I haven’t had sex in days, since Eric left to be precise. I shake the thought away by staring at the man that could very well help scratch my itch tonight. There’s a good chance that he’ll try to move things along, but no matter how badly I want it, I’m not ready to succumb; he needs to work harder.
“And what will it be for you, youngsters?” The dark-haired woman who runs the place is in front of us all of the sudden, and that marks the ending of our conversation and the beginning of our embarrassment—or at least mine. “You cannot sit here and not sing. Come on, your turn!” she exclaims, traipsing away to snatch the jar from a nearby table before sauntering back. “Here, pick one.” The woman’s serious face and commanding tone tell me that she means business. Are we the only ones in the room who haven’t given it a try? Regarding us alternatively, she asks, “You know which color is which genre, right?”
We nod, speechless.
“Ladies first?”
I would usually enjoy arguing with Tig, but I’m caught so off-guard that I oblige.
I bite the corner of my bottom lip as I unfold the paper with my heart pounding a staccato rhythm in my chest. “Green. So, pop!” Hopefully, my face doesn’t match the color of the paper. I’m not usually prone to stage fright, but the prospect of making a fool of myself in front of him seems to be the cause of the unfamiliar reaction. It swells when I read the song title aloud so that the crowd can hear. “Oops, I Did It Again by Britney Spears,” then let the paper flutter to the table. My eyes stare into my sugary beverage that I chug with a vengeance, earning me a bark of laughter from Tig, and I’m relieved that he has no clue how applicable this song is to our situation.
Without asking Tig which song he ended up with—in the same category as mine—the woman gently escorts me to the stage, where all eyes will soon settle on me. Excitement skates down my body.
“Don’t forget the choreography!” Tig screams, feigning encouragement.
Bastard!
The player doesn’t know me well enough. I won’t chicken out. When my feet land on stage, I’ll be Britney—full throttle. Too bad my red mini-skirt, fitted dark grey turtleneck, thick tights, and black Dr. Martens with gothic designs don’t come close to the red catsuit in the video.
In any case, when the first chords play, I lose myself in the music. The lack of proper outfit and long hair are forgotten now that my sexy, energetic moves make up for it. While uttering the words without looking at the screen, the crowd joins me in paying tribute to this American icon. Whistling. Clapping. Singing along. I silently thank my sister Margot, who’s been a huge fan of Britney for years and taught me some of her most famous choreography.
Yeah, it might seem like a crush…
Immersed in my performance, I close my eyes and the rest of the world falls away. I didn’t expect it to be this liberating, and I congratulate myself at last… until I shiver when I sense a presence beside me. My eyes pop open, and I tilt my head to see what’s going on. And then I smile so big that I’m not able to carry on. The song doesn’t really matter because Tig’s low voice meshes with mine. He’s swaying his hips in an overtly sensual way, and my belly aches from hysterically laughing at the women’s reactions. It’s their own private Magic Mike show! Next thing I know, the formerly aloof man’s playing the part of the sexy guy from the video who went down and got what the old lady dropped into the ocean in the end.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have…”
Wait a minute! Since when does he know the lyrics f
rom the video?
I narrow my gaze on him, and he motions to let me know that I’ll get an explanation later. For now, we sing our hearts out while he does his best to follow my lead.
“Next!” The woman has to scream to be heard and makes us exit the stage. I would’ve never pictured that happening five short minutes ago. “Thank you, lovebirds.” Her thin mouth turns into a tight smile.
Lovebirds?
The patrons are cheering and clapping. We freeze and hug one another, sending a flood of warmth through my body. Great! More unnecessary proof of the effect that he has on me. And Tig doesn’t even seem to mind. Instead, his arm is still wrapped around my waist and his searing brown gaze strips me bare, as if seeing me for the first time. I think I hear him croak, “What are you doing to me?” so low that I might have dreamt it. I could ask him the very same question.
Then, the room goes wild as his mouth crashes into mine. I’m the one deepening the kiss this time as I get reacquainted with this blissful sensation. This unique sensation. This perfect sensation… that Tig de Luca is the only one to elicit in me. Floating on Cloud Nine, our tongues dance together the way we did moments ago, and his hands leisurely roam my body, ignoring the crowded venue.
“Enough!” The petite woman is now at my side, tugging on my shirt to stop me from making out with Tig. “You can’t do that up here!” I’m pretty sure that she regrets forcing me up here, although her voice doesn’t sound mad or reproachful. “The show must go on, people.” She’s right. I sigh and reluctantly break the blistering kiss to ensure that we won’t be arrested for inappropriate PDA. I swivel my head and my eyes meet hers. She points at Tig. “His turn.”
“Oops, I did it again!” Tig smiles at me in such a depraved and playful way that I melt a little; I dig his sense of humor. Then he looks at her. “Oh, okay.” He’s visibly amused that she remains unfazed by our behavior and truly believes that the show must go on. She hands him his piece of paper, and he thanks her politely. Ed Sheeran, Shape of You.
Several more songs follow. After every couple of tunes, we score free drinks, and my tipsy state quickly turns to drunk. My voice is more gravelly than ever, and I slur the lyrics rather than singing them.
No matter how bad the delivery may be, every time that Tig and I motion to leave the stage, there’s protests. I enjoy being so carefree, and seeing Tig that way, too. So, we entertain the crowd that’s apparently more interested in watching us have fun than having fun themselves.
I’m trying hard not to trip over my own two feet when the owners express their gratitude by giving us a giant lucky golden cat and a bottle of sake on our way back to our table.
Others take the stage, and we’re the ones whistling, tapping our feet, and singing along until the place closes.
The crowd trudges outside, and we follow suit. The warm atmosphere of the karaoke bar is a sharp contrast with the cold weather of the early Brooklyn morning. I’m thankful that the earlier wind has subsided. My winter coat is an effective barrier and so is Tig’s arm around my shoulders. Both make quick work at raising my body temperature on top of my alcohol level.
I can’t help but slam the brakes on the romantic fun we’ve been sharing tonight. “Look, I’m gonna have to call it quits because I need to pee—badly.”
His chest rumbles with laughter. “Depending on how badly, I have a solution for you.”
I rub my thighs together, begging my body to behave given this bizarre mix of sensations. Fuzzy mind. Weak bladder. Lustful thoughts. I jut my chin his way to encourage him to speak up.
“My place?”
Chapter Seventeen
Everybody’s Changing
Tig
I spring from the ottoman opposite the sleeper sofa.
“Why are you answering her phone?” The female voice screams in response to my simple greeting of hello. “Where is she? What have you done to her, you freak?”
I stifle a sigh. “Chill, would you?” All I want to do is yell at the woman who has no reason to doubt me, but I applaud my self-restraint for using my most collected voice instead. “Just hear me out, okay?”
A grunt escapes from the other end of the line which I interpret as silent agreement.
“Look, Alie’s safe but passed out drunk.” I put the phone by Alie’s mouth to capture her cute little snoring sounds that she’s making, then lift the phone back to my ear and start wandering aimlessly.
Instinctively, I end up in the massive bedroom to give Alie some privacy. I flop down on the fluffy navy-blue comforter and press my bare feet flat on the hardwood floor before admitting, “Listen, Alie and I had a nice dinner, followed by karaoke. Her idea, by the way. We had a great time. It was late. If you must know, she needed to take a leak and my place was close.”
I feel so stupid thinking about how Alie came on to me after tending to her basic needs. I feel so turned on remembering how she thrust me against the wall with extraordinary force, assaulted my mouth with her alcohol-laden breath, and cupped my jean-clad balls. I feel so reluctant conveying her evident exasperation at my knee-jerk reaction and simply recount how I pushed her away. Taking advantage of her under such circumstances would have been unfair of me. “Believe it or not, I repeat, I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Fine, fine, fine… But you answered her phone, Tig!”
Wait, wait, wait. She knows my name. That means that Alie told her about me… Interesting. But then again, I told both Soraya and Chloe about Alie. Wait, wait, wait. The woman called her something else… Interesting. The name Aliénor sinks into my tired brain; it’s past two in the morning, after all. I didn’t even question Alie’s full name before. Wait, wait, wait. Who am I talking to? Who is she to Alie? Why haven’t I heard anything about her when she seems to know about me? Interesting…
It didn’t cross my mind to check the name of the caller when Alie’s phone rang. So, once again, the phone leaves my ear, and I stare at the screen for a split second. “I answered the phone because you called, Greer.” I bet that she doesn’t miss my sarcastic tone. I’m tapping my right foot on the floor.
“But I didn’t call you; I called her.” Her scolding tone is back, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with it. Some nerve she has!
It’s too late—or way too early—for this nonsense, and my frustrated dick compounds my sour mood. “Oh, give me a break!” I spit out a little too abruptly, and I make a futile attempt to control my temper before adding, “Considering the time, I figured that the person calling might be worried about her because she should’ve texted you that she made it home safe or something.”
“Good guess, Sherlock.” She just never stops.
“Would you stop busting my balls, woman?” So much for calming down. My question sets off another round of pacing, around the bed this time.
The moonlight filters through the open blinds, lending a sudden gothic atmosphere to the bachelor pad. I would find it amusing if this Greer woman hadn’t gotten me all worked up for all the wrong reasons. “I did nothing wrong.” Why am I justifying my actions? Or lack thereof, to be exact.
After rejecting her advances, I fled to the kitchen and busied myself pouring her a glass of water to give my raging hard-on a chance to subside. When I came back, she had taken her shoes off and was curled up on the small couch, fast asleep. I had draped a blanket over her and then sat across from her, watching her sleep like the creeper I had suddenly become while deciding on my next course of action. That’s when her phone rang from its spot on the coffee table.
Furious at myself for answering the damn phone out of reflex or sheer stupidity, I stop in my tracks and press my palm against my forehead.
“I don’t have any evidence, Tig.” For Christ’s sake, what does this woman have against me? What does she think I did to Alie? Granted, under different circumstances, there’s a whole lot of dirty things that I would have done to the Parisian girl who doesn’t sound French at all. The enticing French kisses we shared so far are merely appetizers
, and I’m hoping that there’ll be much more to come. Starting with me inside her.
“Who are you anyway, Greer?”
“I’m her cousin, dumbass. Now put her on the phone!”
“Cousin or not, you’d better watch your tone or I’ll hang up on you.” My jaw tightens then I taunt, “Haven’t you been listening? I just told you she’s sleeping, and I’m not waking her up to indulge your paranoid tendencies.”
“What evidence do I have that you didn’t spike her drink and take advantage of her?”
“You watch too much TV, Greer. Whether you like it or not, I’m not sending you a pic. Your cousin is sleeping peacefully on my couch. You seriously think I would be talking to you if I was a threat.”
A grumble follows. I guess that she’s debating her next words, thoughts, or action.
“Tell you what. Let’s let Sleeping Beauty get the alcohol out of her system, and I’ll have her call you whenever she recovers the ability to speak.”
“Right.”
On tiptoe, I go back to the living room to check on Alie. “Relax, I promise that I won’t do anything to ruin her virtue. You can call me Prince Charming if that makes you feel better.” Alie’s fine, although I’m no Prince, let alone Charming. I chuckle softly at the intensifying snores coming from my couch. She’s fucking hot, and I regret that I had to bring her here tonight of all nights. I’d hoped that would happen when we are both sober. Both horny. Both willing. As usual with Alie, my hand will be taking the edge off as soon as I end this call. Hence, I manage to awkwardly sit next to Alie and ask, “Any questions?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Shoot.” Before I know it, I’m stroking Alie’s short blonde hair with my fingertips. Touching her makes my clueless body buzz, and heat unfurls without warning. I suck in a breath, hoping that my need for her isn’t palpable. Otherwise, Greer will go ballistic again. My eyes linger on her body as it relaxes under my touch, stretching out a little. I can’t help but smile.
