"Like," he says, stepping closer, so close our toes touch, as he leans down slightly toward me. "Things."
He leans in to kiss me, closing the distance, but I turn my head, trying to contain my smile when he groans because of my rejection. I glance at him in the mirror. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Just… something."
"You want me to promise something without knowing what the something is?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't work like that," he says. "I can promise to always try my damnedest to come home to you at night… I can promise to love you for the rest of my life… but I can't promise whatever this something is without knowing more about it."
"Why?"
"Because I don't break promises," he says. "I have to know it's something I can keep."
I glare at his reflection. "If you follow me tonight, after you're done with your things, promise me you'll at least come in."
"You want me to come inside the club?"
"Yes," I say. "If you follow me."
He hesitates. I can tell by his conflicted expression that he wants to say no. Timbers is hardly his kind of scene. It's loud, and crowded, filled with drunken college kids. I know he used to go to that place called The Cobalt Room to drink, but I'm pretty sure that place was like a nursing home compared to the nursery room of Timbers.
"Fine," he concedes, his voice strained, like he had to force the word for his lips. "If I show up tonight, I'll come in."
"Promise."
"I promise," he says, grabbing my hips and turning my body, forcing me to look at him and not his reflection. "But I need you to promise me some things. No drugs, no drinking, no flirting, no fighting, and for god's sake, no fucking."
"Uh, no fun," Melody says, appearing in the doorway. "Way to be a spoil-sport."
He ignores her, staring at me, his expression dead serious. He's waiting for my promise. He already knows he has nothing to worry about with the last few, and I'm certainly not one to do any drugs, but drinking?
Ugh.
"One drink."
"None."
"Just a sip."
"No."
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Compromise sucks.
"Fine," I mutter. "I promise."
He kisses me then. This time I don't turn my head. It's soft, and sweet, and way too brief.
"What about me?" Melody chimes in.
"You can do whatever you want," Naz says, turning toward her. "As long as you don't get my wife caught up in it, that is."
Melody playfully salutes him. "Got it, boss."
Naz walks out. I can hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then he's just gone. I'm not sure where he's off to, what sort of the things he has planned tonight, but I'm hoping he's safe, wherever he is, and not doing anything that can get him hurt.
"I swear, the two of you…" Melody says, shaking her head. "I still can't get over it. You're both just so cool about everything, like, whatever about it all."
I know what she means. It's hard to explain, but I guess when you jump over a hurdle like the murder of your parents, everything else sort of just pales in comparison. It's been a while since we've fought about anything, since I've been genuinely angry with him. He's frustrating, sure, but I understand him.
And I like to think, after everything, he understands me.
"Are you ready?" I ask, looking at Melody. It's well after dark, and we've still got to make the trek to Manhattan.
"Ugh, just like, five more minutes," she says, swinging around to jet out of the bedroom. "I'm almost done."
Five minutes turn to ten, which turn to twenty. Half an hour later, she's finally done. We take the subway back into the city, and Melody seems to enjoy the attention she gets on it, wearing her ridiculous outfit. The eighties are back, yeah, but I guess most of New York hasn't gotten the memo yet. She stands in front of me, clutching the bar, while I slink down on a bench beside two seat-hogging businessmen.
The line outside of Timbers is long when we arrive, but it only takes us a few minutes to make it inside. I hand my driver's license to the guy working the door, a beefy guy that looks like he's carrying a pack of hot dogs on the back of his neck, and scowl when he draws a big black ‘x' in permanent marker on the back of my hand.
Melody, as usual, gets her lime green wristband complimentary of the fake ID she carries. Pretty soon, she won't need it. She'll be twenty-one in just a few weeks. The bouncer glowers at it, though, bending it and studying it, like he knows the thing isn't real.
"You remember that other guy that used to work the door here?" she asks once we're inside. "You know, the hot guy… Kevin or something?"
It was Kelvin.
I remember.
He worked with Naz.
"What about him?"
"I heard he died," she says. "Some of the girls in my class were talking about it a few weeks ago. He got shot or something. Nobody knows who did it."
"That's… wow."
"Right? He seemed like such a nice guy."
I don't have a response for that, but her words nag at me.
Kelvin. Shot.
I don't think that's something Naz would've done.
I don't have a chance to dwell on it, though, as Melody grabs my hand and drags me through the club. Madonna blasts from the speakers, vibrating the floor as energy hums in the air. It's muggy, crowded out on the dance floor, but Melody doesn't hesitate to pull me deep in the crowd, wedging us into a small space in the center. It's some techno remix of Like a Prayer, the bass thumping through my body as I start to move, like it's almost instinct. Melody and I are jumping around, singing at the top of our lungs, screaming the lyrics like our lives depend on it.
Madonna turns to New Kids on the Block, which turns to Michael Jackson somewhere in there, before Madonna comes right back around again. Over and over, a continuous pouring of old songs. It all blurs together in a mix of bass thumping and eighties loving hysteria. Melody disappears to get herself a drink but by then I'm to the point I just don't care.
Bad idea? Pfft, fuck that.
It's been a while since I've had some carefree fun.
I'm dancing on my own, voguing, laughing as I sing along.
Sweat drips down my face.
Jesus Christ, it's hot in here.
Melody's there and back and then there again, guzzling drinks and giggling as she shakes her ass on anybody who comes near her. At one point, she appears, shoving a clear plastic cup at me. "Here."
I take it, stalling as I look at the thing. It's filled halfway with something. Bringing it to my nose, I sniff the liquid, earning a laugh from her as she dances against some gangly boy that probably looks nice with her beer goggles.
"It's just water," she says. "I promise."
Shrugging, I guzzle it down, my throat dry.
It tastes like water to me.
She's busy grinding on the guy, so I slip away, squeezing through the crowd to the nearest trashcan, tossing the empty cup in. I turn around, still signing at the top of my lungs—Paula Abdul now—when I run right into someone standing there, almost knocking them over. "Shit! Sorry!"
Hands grab my arms as whoever it is steadies himself and laughs. I glance up at his face, about to apologize again, when somebody I know greets me.
Well, sort of.
I recognize him.
Leo.
Conflicted feelings run through me. I smile kindly in acknowledgment, because holy shit, Melody's going to be happy, but another part of me bristles at his presence. Because no matter what Naz said, I still can't just shake the weird feeling, especially with him being here.
"Hey!" I say, motioning over to the dance floor. "Melody's over there."
He glances back that way the same time I look. We've got a perfect viewpoint of his girlfriend… backing it right up on the weird dude. Ugh. Not good.
I expect some sort of angry reaction from him, an intense surge of jealousy, but instead he just laughs and shakes his head
.
Okay, that's not like Naz, not at all.
He pushes his way over to her, and I follow his path. Melody looks up, spotting us, and squeals, instantly abandoning the guy she was dancing with, thrusting herself at her boyfriend. She wraps her arms around him, jumping, so the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground is his grip.
Shit, she's really drunk.
He almost falls trying to hold onto her, but he doesn't seem to mind it.
They start dancing together, slowly, not at all on beat to the music playing. I turn away from them, shrugging it off, and start dancing, too. I don't know what song's playing but I remember it from The Breakfast Club, so I sing what I know and just go with it all.
Time passes.
I'm pouring sweat.
My feet hurt and my muscles burn, but it doesn't stop me from dancing.
Melody drinks more.
Leo drinks nothing at all.
Another cup of water is forced in my hand, and I'm grateful for it, because I'm parched. I don't know how many songs have passed, how many hours we've been here, but the crowd has thinned just a bit, giving me more room to move. I'm singing the last verse of Tainted Love when I turn around, my footsteps faltering, lyrics stalling on my lips.
Holy shit.
He's here.
I have to blink a few times, because I can't even believe my own eyes.
Naz.
He promised. He did. But I never actually expected him to show up, to walk his ass on inside the club.
He's not at all dressed for the place, but he's toned it down a bit, taking off the jacket and tie, loosening his collar. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, which, once again, is the hottest thing there is.
He's looking around, looking for me.
He's looking at everybody, dressed in their fake eighties clothing.
He looks utterly disturbed by it.
Carefully, I slip to the edge of the dance floor, watching him, waiting for him to approach. When he's within earshot, I raise my voice, so he can hear me over the music. "Come here often, stranger?"
He turns toward me right away, and all at once I can see the tension leave his shoulders as relief replaces it. Wow, I don't think I've ever seen him look so uncomfortable.
Talk about stepping out of the box.
"Can't say I do," he says, looking past me, at the dance floor, before focusing on me again. "Can't say I'll ever come here again, either."
"But you came," I point out as he steps closer, pausing right in front of me.
"I did," he says. "I made a promise."
The song changes again.
"Dance with me," I say, grinning as I grab his hand and try to pull him onto the dance floor. It doesn't work. He doesn't budge at all. He's a hell of a lot stronger than me and he's infinitely more stubborn.
"Nobody said anything about dancing."
I stall, glaring at him as I let go of his hand. "You remember that time you took me to that dinner party-slash-political fundraiser-slash-whatever the fuck that was at the hotel in Manhattan?" I reach into my shirt, pulling out the necklace concealed in it. "It was the same night you gave me this."
"Of course I remember."
"You told me to dance with you that night, and I hesitated, and do you remember what you said to me? You told me to stop being chicken shit."
He laughs, loud and genuine, when I say that. "I'm not sure I used those words, sweetheart."
"Whatever," I say. "I danced with you that night, so now it's your turn to pay me back."
"Fair enough." He motions for me to go out on the dance floor, but I just gape at him. He conceded way too quickly. I was prepared for more of a fight. I was conjuring a whole argument to win that one. I was prepared to bring out the tears. "Go on, then."
Shaking it off, I turn around and slip out onto the dance floor, him right behind me. I start to turn around when we reach an open space, but his hands grasp my hips tightly from behind, pulling me back against him.
I dance.
Naz mostly stands there, but I can feel him slightly swaying along, in tune with the beat. Two songs pass, or maybe it's three, before the sound of Bell Biv DeVoe rocks through the speakers.
Poison.
I'm surprised he's giving me this much, but I know it won't last, and I'll probably never get a repeat, so I'm going to make the most of it. Pulling from his grip, I turn around in his arms, glancing at him.
He's singing.
Holy shit, he's singing.
Okay, so not really, because not a sound is coming from his lips, but he's damn sure mouthing the lyrics, which means he knows them. He stops when he realizes I've seen it, and he just stares down at me, but it's too damn late.
I caught him.
"Ignazio Michele Vitale," I say playfully, intentionally flubbing the middle name, just to get more of a rise out of him. "I can't believe you were singing a song from the eighties."
"You were seeing things."
"I don't think so," I say. "I think maybe you like that song. I mean, I know it's no Hotline Bling, but..."
His eyes narrow slightly as his hands slip down, around, resting on my ass. "It's also not from the eighties."
"Of course it is."
"No," he says. "It came out in 1990. I was in middle school. I remember it."
I want to argue but he's probably right, and well, I hadn't been born yet, so I certainly don't remember it. "Well, whatever... doesn't change the fact that you were singing, old man."
His eyes darken when I say that.
It sends a chill down my spine.
"Keep talking to me like that," he says, "and I'll fuck your throat so hard you'll never speak again."
There's no emotion in his voice.
It's matter of fact.
Jesus Christ, that's almost terrifying, but for some reason, I get a thrill out of it. "What if I like that idea?"
"Me destroying your voice box?"
"No, you fucking my throat," I say. "Sounds like it could be a good time."
I don't know what's come over me.
Hell, I'm turned on by the thought of it. Goose bumps cover every inch of my sweaty skin. He's always been one to turn away from a blowjob. I've never had him take initiative in that department.
He stops moving and stares at me, eyes scanning my face, like maybe he isn't sure what to say. After a moment, he pulls away, snatching the drink from my hand. He sniffs it just like I did before taking a sip.
"Water," he says, like he thought maybe I'd broken my promise and had been drinking tonight.
"Yep."
Nodding, he downs the rest of it, before grabbing my hand and pulling me off the dance floor, tossing the empty cup in the trashcan as we pass it. I think maybe we're leaving, like he decided it was time for me to go home, and I look around for Melody, to say goodbye, having no idea where she ran off to with Leo.
But once outside, Naz diverts a surprising direction, veering away from the street, instead into a small nearby alley. Oh my god, he can't be serious. He stops about halfway down it, but I've still got a wide-open view of the street, where anyone can walk by anytime and see me.
"Are you...?" I stare at him incredulously as he starts undoing his pants, unbuckling them. "You're serious. You want to, I mean... here?"
"Figured it wouldn't be a problem," he says, "since you like the idea of being watched and all."
Somewhere, deep inside of me, resides a prim and proper lady, one with a sense of modesty, one who doesn't say 'fuck' very much... if ever at all. She's pretty, and kind, and blushes like a virgin at the very idea of ever dirtying her reputation. That girl is frantically shaking her head, shouting that this is preposterous. We can't just do that here. It's completely insane.
But another is holding that girl captive.
This one has a bit of a wild streak.
This one says, "Fuck it."
"You sure about this?" he asks. "I need you to tell me."
"Uh, sure," I say. "I'm sure."
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He gets his pants unbuttoned and grabs my arm, pulling me around, pushing me back against the side of the brick building, into the shadows. He's rough as he shoves me down to the ground, and I hiss when my bare knees hit the filthy asphalt.
Shit, that hurts.
He grabs my head, wrapping crimped hair around his fist, jerking my head toward him as I cringe.
"Open your mouth," he growls, and I'm so damn surprised I can do nothing but oblige. He pulls himself free with his other hand, stroking it, before guiding my open mouth at him.
Whoa.
One thrust, one stroke, and I'm already struggling as he forces me down onto him, sliding the whole way down my throat. I'm trying not to gag... trying... and trying... but he's too big and a hell of a lot harder than I remember him being. I choke as he bucks his hips, fucking my throat, his balls slapping against my chin. I don't want to bite him but my jaw clenches in response, and I can feel my teeth grazing against him, over and over. He growls at the sensation, and I know it has to hurt, but instead of easing up on me, it just sends him into a bigger frenzy.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He's watching me the whole time. I can feel his eyes on my face. I peek up curiously, meeting his stern gaze. There's something in his expression, darkness I can't shake. His grip on my hair tightens as he pulls my head up, forcing it back, opening my throat more to him.
"Relax," he whispers. "Relax your throat."
I try to listen to him, but well, how? How the fuck can I relax when I can barely breathe, when my eyes are starting to water because of it. He looks almost angry, like I'm disappointing him, but I don't know what to do.
I've never done this.
It's only a minute.
Maybe two.
I don't know.
He yanks me off of him, and I inhale sharply, sucking in a gulp of air. I'm breathing heavily, frantically, as he strokes himself, fast and hard.
He's not messing around.
His hand is still tangled in my hair. I watch in awe as he pleasures himself. It can't be more than another minute before he pulls me back to him, again thrusting down my throat.
One stroke, and that's it.
I can feel it when he spills in my mouth. The bitterness gags me, but I force it down. Tilting his head back, Naz groans, loosening his hold and pausing his movements as I suck him.
Target on Our Backs Page 15
