“Does it matter?”
“Oh yeah. It matters.”
Oh Schmidt—he has tattoos. He has a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm.
“Um. I think I’ll just get gin and tonic. Thanks, though.” The alarm that’s going off in my brain is cautioning my feet to step away from him, but they are not listening. They’re concentrating too hard on not letting me fall over while I squeeze my things together.
“Oh hell no. G and T?” He wrinkles his brow and steps a little closer to me. “At eight o’clock in Brooklyn? Alone on a Monday night? I don’t think so. Gin and tonics are for sipping on your yacht at the Hamptons while you’re watching the sunset like an asshole.”
“Oh, well, I guess that’s what I’ll be drinking tomorrow, then.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and face him, wrinkling my brow, mirroring him. “I’ve never watched a sunset like an asshole before. What exactly does that entail?”
He shrugs. “Loafers, no socks, if you’re a guy. Staring at your phone the whole time and twirling your hair if you’re a girl. You don’t seem like a gin and tonic type to me. Not right now, anyway. You look like you need something with a little more personality and muscle.”
I finally take a step away from him. “Uh-huh. You know what… I think I’ll just grab a bottle of merlot and call it a night.” I start to wander toward the wine section.
He follows me, not too close. “Oh God, not merlot.”
“Why? Is that what assholes drink in Miami at midnight?” Now I’ve said “asshole” out loud twice in one night. Who am I?
He releases a quick, surprisingly boyish laugh—so unexpected from a guy like him. “Not even close. What’s your name? I’m Vince.” He holds his hand out.
“Hi, Vince. I’m…Susan.” I shake his hand. It’s strong and a little bit rough, and he could do a lot of fantastic filthy things to me with that hand. Wait—what?
He lets me pull my hand away and shoves his hands casually into his front pockets as his gaze travels slowly down to my shoes and back up to my glossy, pursed lips. “Hi, Susan. What’s your real name?”
Oh, what the heck. “It’s Nina.”
“Nina.” He nods, accepting that answer. “Hey… How about this? There’s a bar two blocks down, called Bitters. You know it?”
“Yeah, I walk by there all the time.”
“I used to work there. Why don’t you let me make you a drink? I think I know what you need…”
I bark out a laugh. “Well, thank you for the offer, Vince, but I’m not in the mood to get raped or murdered tonight, so… No thank you.”
Judging from the look on this guy’s freakishly sexy face, no one has ever foregone the opportunity to get roofied by him before. Hey, I get it. He’s very attractive. I would love to stare at his face and other parts of him all night. But I also don’t want to get raped or murdered.
A smile slowly spreads across his face. “Good call, Nina. You don’t know me. Let’s be clear about this—you can watch my hands the whole time.” He holds his hands up. His strong, slightly rough, very capable hands. “I’ll make sure you can see exactly what’s going to be going in you before you decide if you want it or not. Sound good?”
Gulp.
“Hey, Stan!” He calls out to the man behind the counter, hands still raised in front of his chest, eyes still fixed on me. “Tell Nina here that I’m a good guy.”
“Enh. He’s a pretty good guy.”
“Thanks a lot, Stan.”
I can’t help but smile. Charisma. That’s what this guy’s got.
He turns his head toward Stan, body still angled toward me. “If anything happens to Nina tonight, you can tell the cops where to find me. Right?”
“Leave me outta this, you.”
“You got it.” He smiles at me. He’s got one beautiful smile, this guy, and it fades so fast I have a feeling not many people get to see it. “What do you say, Nina? Two blocks. Neighborhood bar. One drink?”
I wrinkle my nose. “So…people do this? Meet in a store for the first time and then go get a drink?”
He laughs, that brief, surprised laugh of a boy being tickled, before going back to being seriously hot. “Some people. Sometimes.”
I mean…I guess that sounds like more fun than drinking vodka from a bottle alone in my apartment while belting out Patsy Cline songs.
2
Nina
“I have some conditions,” I say as I follow him toward the door, past Stan at the cash register.
If Stan is wondering where the tall, serious man I’m usually with is, he certainly doesn’t show it. And at the moment, I genuinely do not care.
“I’m all ears,” says Vince. I assume that’s his real name.
“I need to take a picture of you. To send to my friend. So she can identify you, in case you do rape and murder me.”
He laughs. “Okay. But only if you get my good side.”
“Do you have a bad side?”
“Yes. But it’s more of an internal thing.”
I hold my phone up and snap a picture of him as he raises his eyebrow, grinning. If that’s not his good side, I don’t think I can handle the better one. I close the camera app on my phone, slip my phone back into my bag, and nod. I’ll wait until later to text Marnie.
“We good to go?”
“Lead the way.”
He opens the door for me, placing his hand ever so gently just above the small of my back as I pass in front of him. Instead of making my knees give out, it seems to give me more confidence—which is surprising. I have a feeling this is the fourth of many pleasant surprises tonight. The first was that this guy started talking to me. The second was that he invited me to have a drink. The third was that I am actually going with him.
“Have a good night, Stan.” Vince salutes him.
“Thanks for stealing my customer, you jerk.”
“I owe ya one.”
I wave to Stan and make an apologetic face from the sidewalk as the door closes.
It’s still kind of warm, and the sun hasn’t set yet. There are plenty of people walking around. It doesn’t even occur to me that I don’t want to run into my ex. All I can think about is how flipping flapping glad I am that I put some effort into not looking like a hobo.
A mere ten minutes ago, I didn’t think I was the kind of girl who went for drinks with sexy tattooed strangers. But right now I am just putting one foot in front of the other and trusting that my twenty-seven-year-old life of being smart and safe isn’t about to end—it’s just going to get more interesting.
Vince walks in step with me. The two-inch space between us is both appropriate and filled with possibilities. I can see Bitters a couple of blocks ahead. A few people are milling about in front of it. I take a deep breath and a quick glance at this beautiful man who’s staring at me like I’m a pop quiz and he’s got all the answers in his pocket.
“So, you walk by Bitters all the time, but you’ve never been in before?”
“I’ve never really been to any bar in Brooklyn, actually.”
“Really?”
A sad kind of chuckle escapes my throat. “It’s weird, saying that out loud.”
“You new to the area?”
“Kind of.”
“When’d you move here?”
“About three years ago.”
He laughs and then looks back at me and realizes I’m not joking. “Jesus. What the hell have you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh, I go to restaurants. Bar and grill-type places. I mean, I did. With my fiancé. Ex-fiancé. He’s older. He wasn’t into the bar scene.”
For a split second, it’s like the shadow of a cloud passes over Vince’s gorgeous sexy face. He blinks and shakes his head. “Older ex-fiancé, huh? Now I think I know why you need a drink.” We arrive at the entrance to Bitters. He reaches for the door and leans into me, so close I can feel his breath in my ear. “Welcome to Brooklyn, Nina. I hope I can show you the good time you deserve.” One wink as he leans away
, and I have no doubt that he can. I just wonder if I’ll let him.
Bitters is not too big, not too small, not too crowded. It greets us with dim lighting and the crooning of a raspy-voiced, guitar-playing singer-songwriter whose name I don’t know, but I hear him from speakers all over Brooklyn. Maybe this is the summer I’ll learn the names of alternative singers and actually become cool enough to live here.
“Vince!” yells out the bartender. “You asshole! Where’ve you been?”
Vince raises his hand in the air. “Everywhere!”
The bartender is cute and bearded and tattooed. He tosses a dishtowel over his shoulder and saunters over to the front of the bar. They clap hands, and Vince gestures for me to join him. “Nina, this is Denny. Denny—this is Nina’s first time through that door.”
“Hey there, Nina.” Denny grins. Denny’s a flirt. “Hope it won’t be your last.”
“It’ll be your last if you don’t watch it.” Vince points at Denny.
“Nice to meet you, Denny.”
Vince leans over the counter and says something in Denny’s ear. Denny looks me up and down, smiling. He nods and lifts the flip-up counter for Vince.
“Take a seat, young lady,” Vince says to me. He nods at the two women at the bar who have been ogling him since we walked in, shifting his attention right back to me. “One not-too-girly-not-too-fruity drink with an edge, coming right up.” He holds up a very large glass.
“Just one?” I ask. “You aren’t going to join me?”
“I’m having a beer.”
I give him a stern look, the kind that my principal ex-fiancé gives students when they say the wrong thing.
“I’m not having a beer?”
“That’s another one of my conditions. You’re having what I’m having.”
Something flashes in his eyes, and it gives me the kind of buzz that makes me wonder if I even need alcohol anymore.
I think I’m already drunk on him.
“I’m starting to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into here, Nina.”
“We’re on the same page, then.”
He smiles and shakes his head as he grabs one more of those glasses.
“That’s a pretty big glass.”
“It’s a pretty big drink.”
He starts reaching for bottles on the shelves behind the bar, and I’m not the only one who’s enjoying the view of his backside. Those two other women eye me with jealousy, and it’s strangely satisfying. The folk-rock song transitions seamlessly to a dreamy sexy techno ballad, and my body starts swaying a little, as if it comes to bars like this and sways to music all the time.
I consider sending a text to Marnie to let her know where I am. But I don’t want to take my eyes off Vince’s hands, as per our agreement. He watches me watch his hands as he pours and measures and shakes and strains. The final product is blue, and the cherry garnish does absolutely nothing to make it look less devastating. He places both glasses on the counter in front of me.
“Hang on,” he says. “We’ll get a booth. Don’t drink it yet.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
He doesn’t make eye contact with me again until he’s finished cleaning up, clapped hands with Denny, and come around to my side of the bar. He’s very focused and he cleans up after himself. I like it.
“We don’t have to pay for these?”
“Nah. That guy owes me so many favors, I could drink for free for the rest of my life.” He picks up the glasses and nods toward a booth. “Care to join me?”
“Those drinks look like they’ve got more than a bit of an edge.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” He gestures for me to slide into the booth and sits down next to me. He sits close enough for the side of our thighs and arms to touch.
I look over at him through heavy eyelids. I may be giving him bedroom eyes, and I’m not even trying. It’s like my body has been waiting for this opportunity for years and it’s not going to let my brain screw this up by thinking my usual thoughts.
“So what’d you make us?”
“It’s called an Adios Motherfucker.”
My hand immediately goes to my mouth to cover up an explosive laugh.
He raises his glass. “Bottoms up.”
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” I clink glasses with him and take a sip from the two slim black straws. For a blue drink with at least six forms of alcohol in it, it tastes pretty innocuous. He watches me the whole time, removing the straws from his glass and drinking directly from it.
“Not bad, right?”
“Wow. Not too girly, not too fruity. Just the right amount of edge. Well done.”
“I aim to please.”
“I bet you do.” Did I just say that out loud?!
He licks his lips and places his glass down on the table, resting his elbow on the edge and leaning languidly into it as he shifts his body toward mine. “I bet you do too.”
“Hah. Couple more of these and I might.”
“Oh, I think one of these will be quite enough. Take your time. Enjoy it.”
“I will.” My lips find the tips of the straws again, and I take my time, enjoying it while he studies me. Suddenly, I’m feeling self-conscious. I clear my throat. “You said you used to work here?”
“Few years back. Like, six years ago now, actually. When it first opened.”
“You a bartender somewhere else now?”
“Nah. I just worked here and some catering jobs. It was fun but not really my calling.”
“What is your calling?”
He takes another sip of his Adios Motherfucker and then drags his thumb back and forth under his lip. “Well, I guess you could say I’ve had a lot of callings. I was a bucket drummer when I was still in high school.”
“No way.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Like in the subway?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes around Union Square. Occasionally Times Square. But street performers can be pretty territorial.”
“How’d you get into bucket drumming?”
“I knew a guy who was doing it and it looked cool. He showed me how it was done. We made a shit ton of money. You’d be surprised.”
I would not be surprised.
If I saw him banging anything, I would throw all my money at him.
“I was a handyman for a while, a house painter, a property manager, a DJ.”
“Like at parties?”
“Yeah. Parties, raves. Then I became a salesman.”
Oh God. I bet he was a good salesman. “What did you sell?”
“Well first I knew a guy who made a lot of money selling women’s shoes at Barneys.”
My jaw drops. “You sold women’s shoes at Barneys?”
“Yeah. You’re a size seven, right?”
“Yes. Why—do you have any size seven Manolo Blahniks leftover?”
“No, I was just trying to impress you with my ability to guess your shoe size. Impressed?”
“Totally.” That’s a lot of jobs. He can’t possibly be over thirty.
“I’m twenty-eight,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Case you were wondering.”
“Why have you had so many jobs?”
He shrugs. “Just wanted to see what they were like.”
That is fascinating. I’ve known that I wanted to be an elementary school teacher ever since I was in elementary school. It never even occurred to me to see what other jobs or lives were like. He fascinates me. Or maybe I just think he’s hot. Or both. It’s both. He doesn’t ask me about my job history. I guess because this isn’t a date and he’s fine with just thinking I’m hot.
There’s a pause in conversation when we’re just smiling at each other, and the song that’s playing fills the space with a slow, sexy rhythm that makes me sway my shoulders and hips again. He lowers his chin and his nostrils flare the tiniest bit. I give myself a mental high-five for managing to hold his gaze until he finally looks away and takes another drink.
“So what else
did you sell?”
“Cars. I worked at a luxury used car lot in Queens. Buddy of mine’s place. Only did that a few months. Didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t get to hold as many women’s feet at that job. Didn’t see the point.”
“I would have let you hold my feet if I was car shopping.” Wow, this drink is more potent than I thought it was.
Vince smiles. “And I would have taken you for a nice long test drive.”
Wow. He did not miss a beat. Again, it doesn’t make me feel intimidated. It makes me feel better about myself. Still, I think it’s time I say “adios” to my Adios Motherchucker. There’s about a third of it left, and if I finish it, I might actually let him take me for a nice long test drive right here in the booth.
“I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room for a minute. Excuse me.” Do not say you have to tinkle. “I have to tinkle.” Schmidt.
“Sure.”
He slides out of the booth and holds his hand out to help me up. He doesn’t step out of the way when he pulls me toward him. I stand with my face one inch from his neck, afraid that if I look up at him, I’ll fall backwards. And then I realize he’s just making sure that I can stand on my own. “You okay to walk?” he asks playfully.
“I’m pretty sure I’m okay to fly.”
He laughs. “You want your purse?” He picks up my purse and hands it to me.
“Oh. Yes, I do. Thanks.”
“The ladies’ room is back there past the bar.”
“Got it.”
I put one foot in front of the other and walk, in what I’m pretty sure is a straight line, in the direction of the ladies’ room. A couple of guys who are standing near the end of the bar step aside to let me pass through them, saying “hey” to me.
I feel one of them put his hand on my elbow. “You okay there?”
I guess I’m wobblier than I thought.
“Yup. Thanks.”
The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends: a collection Page 2
