TREVOR BALKS AT the mere suggestion, his laugh echoing into the cold night air in a plume of vapor. “I was just kidding about the breakfast metaphor.”
“No. You make a good point.” I retrieve my towel with the renewed energy of a bad bitch on a mission. “I don’t switch it up enough. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve never even touched the penis of a dude whose middle name I don’t know. But I hear it’s liberating.”
He follows me out of the hot tub. “It is . . . But you don’t like new things. You said yourself you hate the idea of casual sex.”
“I mean, I’ve never actually tried it. How can I proclaim to dislike something I’ve never tried?”
“But what about your exes? You still have Daniel. What if he’s the One?”
“Daniel is a long-term play. I’m still trying to find a way to track him down,” I say with a dismissive eye roll. As of yet, Daniel is entirely unsearchable online (not even a deceased grandparent’s obituary to be found). I’ve actually contemplated draining my meager savings to hire a private investigator. “I need something more immediate.”
“I guess—”
“We’re going on the prowl tonight. You’re my wingman.” The badass, empowering beginning of “WAP” plays in my mind as I toss my towel over my shoulders like a cape.
He groans, shivering as he pats himself dry with his own towel. “As in going out? Why don’t you just use a hookup app like a normal human?”
“Because. I tried it and it wasn’t for me.”
“Do I even get a say in this?” Trevor asks.
“No,” I call over my shoulder as I head inside. “But it’ll be worth your while. I’ll do all the cleaning for the next two weeks.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he groans.
Turns out, plotting your wardrobe and makeup choices is ten times harder when you plan to end the night getting hot and heavy with a stranger instead of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The half hour spent in the shower carefully shaving and exfoliating better be worth it.
By the time I finally emerge from my room, club-ready, Trevor is still lying on the couch where I left him, his eyes closed like he’s dreading impending doom but is willing to give in. At the creak of the floor under my footsteps, he cracks a lid.
Mouth agape, he gives me a judgy once-over, taking in my trusty little black dress—the only college-era dress that still looks remotely flattering. It’s short, many fingers above the knees, with a daringly low scoop back that prevents me from wearing a real bra. His eyes linger over my bare legs, to which I generously applied a vanilla shimmer cream.
“You look . . . uh, nice,” he says, his tone obligatory as he fights to summon the words, like someone complimenting their granny’s new living room lamp. This only serves to underscore the importance of this mission: to stop having errant sexual thoughts about Trevor. And, of course, sexual liberation and all that jazz.
“Thanks,” I say dryly, chucking my duffel bag onto the floor. I get on hands and knees to search the bowels of the front closet for my black heels. Of course they’re hiding in the very bottom.
“What’s with the duffel bag?”
I stand, trusty heels in hand. “It’s an overnight bag. Brought some makeup and a change of clothes.”
“Why would you bring a change of clothes to the club?”
“Just in case. What if my hookup wants to hang out tomorrow?”
He runs both hands down his stubble in exasperation. “Tara, this is a bad idea. You do not, under any circumstances, hang out the next day. That defeats the entire purpose of a one-night stand.”
I scrunch my face in silent protest.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. Completely sure,” I say with more conviction than I actually have.
“Then put the overnight bag away.”
* * *
? ? ?
THE ZOO CLUB reeks of eau de teenage boy after a hard gym class under the sweltering sun. The burning smell of the fog machine certainly doesn’t help. I haven’t been here since college, but I’m well acquainted with the glittery black rubber dance floor, having once face-planted while trying impress a dude wearing a beanie with a dance move I saw in a music video.
Tonight, the floor is barely visible with the sea of people bumping and grinding to the beat of an electronic Justin Bieber remix. Every square inch of this club is packed with desperadoes searching for someone to keep them warm on this frigid winter night. As I watch from the sidelines, I come to the startling realization that I am a desperado.
For me, dancing with strangers for free drinks in college was easy. I’d make casual small talk about the most random of topics before slinking away to my circle of girlfriends, long before the guy asked to take me home. But searching for a potential man to sleep with is a whole different ball game. The looming reality of swapping bodily fluids with a sweaty rando with shifty eyes and a bad haircut fills my gut with impending doom.
I’m inundated with flashbacks to middle school health class warnings of possible death via sexually transmitted infections. Even my gag reflex is triggered, although it may be the scent of hundreds of patrons’ body odors combined. It’s hard to say at this point.
Paranoia of STIs aside, I need this. My body needs this.
I clasp the thin yet soft fabric of Trevor’s plain white tee as he leads me through the crowd like he’s my bodyguard and I’m a celebrity VIP. Though I’m certainly not the one turning heads.
Women and men alike are eyeing him up and down like he’s a snack. No—a full six-course meal. The appetizer, soup, main course, dessert, cheese, and coffee. And they would be right. Trevor is objectively flawless. The best-looking man in this club, and the asshole isn’t even trying. He didn’t even style his hair after his shower, and yet it’s impeccable.
Despite his thirsty onlookers, he remains cool as a cucumber as I buy our drinks (beer for him, vodka cran for me). The moment we shift into an open space adjacent to the bar, a woman in a tight python-print dress makes her move, introducing herself like a confident queen bee. Trevor doesn’t seem to mind the attention, so I shove down my jealousy and give them some space, inching forward to eye up the dance floor for potential mates.
It’s challenging to accurately assess the possibilities under seizure-inducing strobe lights. Just when I spot a cute guy in a ball cap bobbing his head on the perimeter of the dance floor, Trevor pulls me back by the elbow, shuffling me into a darkened corner.
I frown. “Where’d your friend go?”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?” he asks over the music. I don’t know if he’s ignoring my question or if he simply didn’t hear me.
I level him with a stubborn stare. “Metcalfe, stop treating me like some delicate flower. I’m an independent, progressive, sexually liberated being living my truth. And if we just so happen to connect on a deep level—”
“See, that’s your problem. You can’t expect to connect on any level with a one-night stand. That’s the entire point. No cuddling. No emotional attachment.”
“I won’t get attached. Relax.”
He’s gearing up to argue with me when a heavily tattooed woman who looks like Kat Von D rocks up next to him and shoots her shot. Side by side, they just look like they belong. I picture them ripping around on their respective motorcycles. They’d spend their days doing hard-core things like tattooing each other’s bodies or rocking out to Kurt Cobain. The moment I catch him staring at the thorny rose tattoo on her ample cleavage, I can’t be bothered.
Taking it as my cue to leave, I pirouette onto the edge of the dance floor when an Ariana Grande jam comes on. Eyes closed, arms in the air, I solo dance, feeling the beat. Surely I look sexy and carefree, maybe a little mysterious. Just the type of chill woman all the guys want. The ideal type: with zero emotions and most definitely zero basic needs. Come at me, eligible bachelors.
By the time Ariana Grande abruptly transitions to a Drake song that doesn’t inspire me, not a soul in the crowd has asked me to dance.
Trevor’s warm honey eyes briefly meet mine from the side of the dance floor. He’s still in casual conversation with Kat Von D, but he’s now wearing his crooked, irresistibly sexy smile. The one he wears when he’s trying not to laugh in my face.
His amusement at my expense sparks a flame inside me. I promptly motor to the other side of the bar. Half a song goes by before Trevor finds me. His new friend hasn’t followed him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand, my hand on my hip.
“You were dancing like an injured daddy longlegs. Why did you take off on me?” he demands.
“You were laughing at me. And you were too distracted to be of any value as a wingman, so I’m going solo.”