Chapter 3
I get to Stitch’s early. I drink a beer at the bar, then step outside for a cigarette. Yes—I’m a smoker. Break out the hammer and nails and commence with the crucifixion.
I’m aware it’s unhealthy. I don’t need to see the internal organs of deceased cancer patients on those creepy-ass commercials to understand it’s a bad habit—thank you, Mayor Bloomberg. Making me go outside doesn’t stop me from lighting up—it just pisses me off. It’s an inconvenience, not a deterrent.
But I’m considerate about it. I don’t toss my butts on the street, I don’t blow smoke in the faces of the elderly or children. Alexandra would literally slit my throat if I ever lit up anywhere near Mackenzie. Literally.
I do plan on quitting . . . eventually.
But for now, the long-term damage I might be doing to my lungs falls second to the fact that I like to smoke. It feels good. It’s really just that simple. And you can keep your bar pretzels to yourself, because nothing goes better with a cold beer than a cigarette. It’s as good as a mom’s old-fashioned PB&J.
I snuff out my cigarette on the wall of the building and throw it into the trash can on the street. Then I pop an Altoids in my mouth. Because—like I said—I’m considerate. I don’t know if Dee is a fellow smoker or not, but nobody wants to slide their tongue into another person’s mouth and taste ashtray. And getting Dee’s tongue in my mouth . . . among other places . . . is definitely on the schedule for tonight’s festivities.
I head back in the bar and order a second beer. I take a swig and notice the front door opening. I watch as she walks in.
Did I think Delores was a hottie when I met her this afternoon? I need to get my vision checked. Because she’s so much more.
Her strawberry blond hair is down, curled under at the ends, pulled back from her face with a thick black hair band. A black, tuxedo-like jacket covers her torso, with a low-cut white tube top underneath. Short, white shorts barely peek out from the bottom of the jacket, revealing long, creamy, toned legs. She finishes the look with white sky-high heels. Red lipstick accentuates her mouth.
She’s gorgeous—shockingly stunning. Put her in a black-and-white photo and she could easily be in a Calvin Klein campaign. Her business card isn’t Charlie’s Golden Ticket—it’s the lottery kind—and I just hit the jackpot.
She scans the room and spots me from the doorway. I wave, coolly. She smiles back, revealing straight, shiny teeth.
“Hi,” she says as she approaches.
“Hello—that jacket looks great on you.” You can’t go wrong by starting off with a compliment. Girls love them.
Her smile turns into a smirk as she teases, “Let me guess—‘But I’d look better out of it’?”
I chuckle. “I wasn’t going to say that. I would never give a line that cheesy.” Then I shrug. “I was going to say, ‘It’d look even better on my bedroom floor.’ ”
A rich, deep laugh escapes her throat. “Yeah—’cause there’s nothing cheesy about that.”
I pull out a bar stool and she sits.
“What’s your poison?” I ask.
Without a pause she answers, “Martini.”
“Dirty?”
“I like my martinis just like my sex.” She winks flirtatiously. “Dirty is always better.”
Yes—I’m definitely in love.
The bartender comes to us, but before I can order for her, Dee starts giving specific instructions on how she wants her drink made.
“Two ounces of gin, heavy on the vermouth, just a dash of olive juice . . .”
The babyfaced, plaid-shirted bartender, who barely looks twenty-one, seems lost. Dee notices and stands up. “You know, I’ll just demonstrate—it’ll be easier.” She turns, hops backwards onto the bar, and swings her legs over the top—while I discreetly try to get a peek up her shorts. If she’s wearing underwear, it’s gotta be a thong.
My cock processes this information by straining against my jeans, hoping for a peek of his own.
Dee stands up on the business side of the bar and quickly mixes her drink, explaining every move to the unperturbed bartender. She tosses an olive into the air and catches it expertly with her mouth, before sinking the two-olived toothpick into the clear-liquid-filled glass.
She places it on the bar and motions to it with an open palm. “And there you have it—the perfect Dirty Martini.”
I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a person by what they drink. Beer is laid back, easy-going, or cheap, depending on the brand. Wine coolers tend to be immature or nostalgic. Cristal and Dom Pérignon imbibers are flashy and try too hard to impress—there are many champagnes that are just as expensive and exquisite, but lesser known.
What does Dee’s choice of beverage tell me about her? She’s complicated, with very specific, but refined, tastes. And she’s outspoken, bold without being bitchy. The kind of girl who can send back her steak to the kitchen if it’s cooked wrong, in a way that doesn’t make the waiter want to spit in her food.
The bartender raises his brows and gives me a friendly look. “You got a live one here, buddy.”
Dee swings back over the bar as I say, “So it seems.”
Once Delores is seated back on the stool, I comment, “That was impressive. So, I guess you’re big on the micromanaging, huh?”
She sips her drink. “I bartended through college—it made me very particular about my poison.”
I take a drag off my beer and move into the small talk portion of the evening. “Kate tells me you’re a chemist. What’s that like?”
She nods. “It’s like playing with a chemistry set every day and getting paid to do it. I enjoy analyzing things—breaking them down to their smallest components—then f*cking with them a little. Seeing what other substances they play nice with . . . or don’t. The don’t part can get pretty exciting. Sort of makes me feel like I’m on a bomb squad.”
She stirs her olives in the glass. “And you’re a banker?”
I nod. “More or less.”
“That sounds very unexciting.”
My head tilts left to right as I consider her comment. “Depends on your outlook. Some deals are a high-stakes gamble. Making money is never boring.”
Dee turns in her chair, facing me.
Body language is important. Typically, a person’s movements are subconscious, but understanding the feelings behind them can either guide you to the Promised Land or get your ass locked outside heaven’s door. If a girl folds her arms or leans back, that generally means you’re coming on too strong or she’s just not interested in what you’re selling. Eye contact, open arms, full frontal attention are all sure signs she’s feeling you—and is hungry for more.
Her eyes quickly trail my body, head to toe. “You don’t look like a banker.”
I grin. “What does a banker look like?”
She scans the other patrons at the bar and in the lounge. Her gaze settles on a middle-aged, balding dude in a cheap suit, hunkered down over a double scotch, whose expression implies he’s lost his life savings in a stock market crash.
Dee points at him with her crimson-nail-painted pinkie finger. “Him.”
“He looks like a mortician. Or a pedophile.”
She giggles and downs the rest of her martini.
Leaning close to her, I ask, “If not a banker, what do I look like?”
She smiles slowly and scrapes the olives off the toothpick with her teeth.
“You look like a Chippendales dancer.”
Fabulous answer. I don’t really need to explain to you why, do I?
In a low, seductive voice I say, “I do have some great moves. If banking doesn’t work out, Chippendales is Plan B.”
I motion to the bartender for another round. Delores watches him work closely, and he must not screw it up too badly, because she smiles when he places the drink before her.
Then, she says to me, “So . . . your buddy Drew—he’s been giving my girl a hard time. Not a smart thing to do.”
“Drew has a weird relationship with competition. He thrives on it, but it also pisses him off. Kate hasn’t exactly been taking it easy on him, either. She brings her A-game to the office—I think she can hold her own.”
“Well, you feel free to let him know he should watch his step. I’m very protective of Katie—we Ohioans stick together.”
“But you’re in New York now. We’re ‘Every Man for His-F*cking-Self.’ It’s the second state motto—right after ‘The City That Never Sleeps.’ ”
Her eyes shine as she laughs. And I think the first drink might be hitting her hard.
“You’re cute,” she tells me.
My head leans back in exasperation. “Great. Cute. The adjective every man wants to hear.”
She laughs again, and I’m struck by how much I’m enjoying myself. Dee Warren is a cool girl—unreserved, quick-witted, funny. Even if I don’t end up nailing her, the night won’t be a total loss.
That’s not to say I’m not dying to get her out of here and see what’s—or, preferably, what’s not—under those tiny shorts. But, it’d be like rich icing on an already f*ck-awesome cake.
I veer back toward small talk. “You’re from Ohio?”
She tastes her drink and nods. “Yes, the original Podunk, USA.”
“Mmm, no love for the hometown?”
“No, Greenville was a great town to grow up in, but it’s sort of like the Hotel California. People check in, but they almost never leave. If all you want out of life is to get married and have babies, it’s the place to be. But . . . that wasn’t what I was looking for.”
“What are you looking for, Dee?”
She thinks for a moment before she answers. “I want . . . life. Newness. Discovery. Change. It’s why I like the city so much. It’s alive—never stagnant. You can walk down a block and go down that same block a week later and it’ll be totally different. New people, new sights and smells—the smells aren’t always good, but that’s a small price to pay.”
I chuckle.
Then she goes on. “My mom used to say I reminded her of a dog on a leash that never learned how to heel. Always pulling on the chain, raring to go. There’s a country song with lyrics I like: ‘I don’t want easy, I want crazy.’ ” She shrugs, a little shyly. “That’s me.”
Everything she said—they’re my favorite parts about the city I grew up in too. Life is too damn short to stay safe, to stay the same.
My cell phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Checking your phone in the middle of a conversation, even if it’s with a one-nighter, is just rude. Low class.
Dee asks me what my Zodiac sign is, but I make her tell me hers first. Some people are really into signs—I’ve been ditched on more than one occasion by a horrified Leo or Aquarius when they found out I’m a Capricorn. Since then, I’m not above fudging my birth date if needed.
In this case, I didn’t have to. Dee’s a Scorpio, which is supposed to be super hot with Capricorns in the sack. Personally, I think the whole thing is a crock of shit. But, if you want to play, you’ve got to know the rules of the game. Including potential fouls.
Dee nurses her second drink as the conversation turns toward family and friends. Without getting too deep, she tells me about Billy, her more-like-a-brother cousin, and her single mother who raised them both. She touches on her lifelong friendship with Kate Brooks and a few surprising wild-child incidents during their teen years that are just too embarrassing not to mention to Kate at the office tomorrow.
I fill her in on Drew and Steven and Alexandra and how growing up with them saved me from ever feeling like an only child. I tell her about the coolest four-year-old I know, Mackenzie, and that I would hang with that kid every day of the week if I could.
By the time I finish my fourth beer, two and a half hours have flown by. When Dee hits the bathroom, I whip out my phone.
I have six texts. They’re all from Steven.
Shit. Call of Duty. I forgot.
They vary in their degrees of panic. Wanna see?
Dude ur late—starting without you
**
Come on, man, I’m in the shit and outnumbered. Where the hell r u?
**
Where’s the goddamn aerial support? My men are dying out there!
**
Not going out like this—taking as many of them with me as I can. Ahhhhhhhh!
**
Thanks a lot, dumbass. I’m dead. If you make a move on my widow I’ll haunt you.
And finally, the last one just says:
F*cker.
I laugh out loud and send him an apologetic text, telling him something suddenly came up. Steven’s great at reading between the lines:
You mean your dick suddenly came up. What happened to bros before hoes? You owe me. I expect payment in the form of babysitting hours so I can take my wife out . . . or stay in. ;)
Personally, I think he spends too much time with his wife as it is—as demonstrated by the winky face in his text.
Dee comes back from the bathroom and stands close to my chair. “You want to get out of here?”
Yes, please.
With a devastating grin, I answer, “Absolutely. You want to go to my place? I’d love to show you the view.”
She glances at my crotch. “What view would that be?”
“The kind you’ll never want to stop looking at, baby.”
She chuckles. “I was thinking more along the lines of dancing?”
“Then we’re thinking alike. Horizontal is my favorite dance.”
She runs her hand up the sleeve of my black button-down shirt. “The vertical kind is a nice prelude—gets me in the mood. There’s a club around the corner from my apartment. Their Wednesday night DJ is the shit. You want to come with me, *-boy?”
I put my hand over hers and rub my thumb slowly against it. “I don’t think I like that nickname.”
She shrugs unapologetically. “Too bad. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. You’re *-boy until you give me a reason to think of you as something else.”
I lean in closer. Goose bumps rise on the flesh of her chest as my breath tickles her ear. “By the end of this night, I’ll have you calling me ‘God.’ ”
Her breathing picks up slightly, and the pulse point at her neck thumps faster. I want to put my mouth on it, suck on the skin and experience her taste.
But I don’t get the chance.
Delores steps back, her amber eyes practically glowing with anticipation. And she commands, “You pay the tab, I’ll get the taxi.”
Independence in a woman is damn sexy. Only insecure losers get turned on by a chick who clings like you’re the oxygen she needs to survive. Although it’s obvious Delores is the stand-on-her-own-two-feet kind of girl, I like that she lets me pay the tab. I would’ve insisted on it anyway. Opening a door, paying a bill: These are not digs against a lady’s capabilities. Sometimes a guy just wants to do the old-fashioned thing.
Let us.
Think of it as considerate prepayment against our future screwups, which are pretty much guaranteed to occur.
I take care of the bartender and join Dee on the sidewalk, where she stands next to an awaiting cab. And—get this—Delores reaches out and opens the door to the taxi for me. There’s a playful gleam in her eye that makes me suspect she can read my mind. I just smile, say thanks, and get in.
The club Delores suggested is called Greenhouse, in SoHo. Although I’ve heard of it, this is the first time I’ve walked through its doors. It’s surprisingly crowded. The bar area walls and ceiling are coated with moss and lit up with blue, red, and green spotlights. The dance floor has a cave motif, with long jagged crystals hanging from the ceiling in hues of blue, purple, and pink. It’s dimly lit—shadowy—perfect for some up against the wall action. That’ll come in handy later on.
The music is loud, too noisy for any kind of conversation, but that’s fine with me. Talking is nice—action is better. We get our drinks and grab a table near the dance floor. Dee takes a sip from her glass, puts it down on the table, and gives me a sexy, “watch this” kind of smile before making a beeline for the dance floor.
I sit down at the table, lean comfortably back in the chair, knees spread, content to caress her with my eyes for now. She closes her eyes and rocks her head in time with the beat of the music. Her hips sway, and her arms rise over her head. The blue and pink lights dance over her hair—lighting her up—making her seem magical. The music gets faster, louder, and Dee keeps up. Shaking her shoulders and her ass, bending her knees and sinking toward the floor, before swirling back upward.
She knows how to move, and it makes me want her more. I glance around and notice Delores has gained the attention of several guys—make that every guy—in the club. They watch her dance with appreciative, slimy smiles on their faces and hoping-to-tap-that gleams in their eyes.
I’m not usually a possessive person. I’ve gone to clubs with girls before and ended the evening with both of us leaving with someone else. It’s par for the course.
But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shove the first f*cker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It pisses me off that they’re even looking at her—that she’s fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.
Maybe I feel like this because I haven’t screwed her yet. Maybe I don’t want to share a dessert I haven’t gotten to taste.
Or maybe, it’s because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can’t yet explain. What I know about her, I like—a lot—and there’s a part of me I haven’t consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.
The music changes as I stand. “Wake Me Up” by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.
The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee’s body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket—pulling her gently back against me.
She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it’s me. And she smiles.
She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, which hardened the moment she started dancing.
I think she feels it—she must.
She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.
If feels fan-f*cking-tastic.
I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.
I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a good dancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.
I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind—thank Christ—but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.
Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a f*cking pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.
For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.
The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.
I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.
When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.
The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies move against each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee’s ass, pushing her harder against me.
To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee’s palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.
Meaningful.
I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she’s right there with me, opening for me—warm and wet—taking everything I have to give and kissing me back with equal ardor. Both my arms wrap around her, the dancing forgotten. One hand stays on her lower back, while the other buries in the softness of her hair as our mouths move together. Her hands cling to my shoulders, kneading the muscles, pulling me to her.
Have you ever had a moment when you think to yourself, this is going to change everything? From this point on, there will be a before, an after, and this event will forever divide the two?
Most people don’t. They’re too caught up at the time to recognize the significance of what’s happening.
That’s how I was.
But looking back now—this was it. That first, scorching, perfect kiss. This was the moment that would determine the rest of my life. And nothing after it would ever be the same.