I smile and say, “Well, bye.” I lean up and kiss his jaw, close my eyes and inhale his scent, then wave as I step outside.
His eyes are tender as he crosses his arms and watches me with great interest, as if he knows I was lying through my teeth.
I sit in the back of the cab, wanting him. Wanting to be the girl beneath him. I don’t remember wanting anything this much except once, when I desperately wanted Paul to take back the words I don’t love you.
I call Rachel.
Get voicemail.
She’s traveling to Timbuktu or I don’t know where, and she’s sent me a few emails and texts. She probably steals a moment, connects with all of us, and goes back to being Mrs. Saint on her honeymoon.
I stand, in my panties and my trench coat, on the sidewalk just in front of my building. I call Trent.
“Hey, is there somewhere we can meet so we can properly finish what we started?”
*
We meet the next day at a club that Rachel has mentioned is the new “it” spot.
“I was glad you called. I’m sorry I freaked out,” he says sheepishly, rubbing his freckles.
“At least I learned one new thing about you. Never to trust you putting on the condom.”
He laughs. “Try me once more,” he begs.
And I take his sweet face and kiss his lips and whisper, “Maybe tonight.” I bite my lip at the look of excitement in his eyes, laughing softly.
I’m happy—happy that I called Trent—when Tahoe arrives with Callan and another guy I don’t know. He looks at me from across a roomful of people, the music at full blast, and then he looks at Trent.
He looks so thoughtful all of a sudden, scowling a little bit.
I’m breathless and I finish off my drink to try to hide it. Someone slaps his back, drawing his attention.
“What’s his problem?” Trent complains. “He thinks he’s king of the world, man. Hate guys like him.”
“You were happy last weekend when he paid for our dinner, and before that when you went to his party.”
“Sorry, it’s just that…I don’t like the way he looks at you. Can I get you another drink?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He heads off when “All We Need” by Odesza starts playing. Tahoe stares at me. I stare back at him, my heart pounding when he starts making his way toward me.
He walks the walk, this guy. It feels like the crowd parts to let him pass.
His lips start curling. A foot away, he extends his arm a little mockingly and opens his big palm. “I believe this is our song,” he says, flat and no-nonsense, very unlike the socially playful Tahoe I normally see at the club.
I want to laugh but he looks serious.
“It is, isn’t it?” I say, playing along.
He’s lying. We have no song. But I’m bored and it looks like he is too. I give him my hand like a lady, laughing, and let him draw me onto the dance floor. He smiles and looks down at me as he finds us a spot and leans in close, his body heat crackling all around me.
“He the one?”
I nod, lift my arms and lock my wrists over my head, and start moving to the music.
He moves sinuously, like a wildcat, and as he does, he looks at me again, longer this time. “So how are you?”
“I’m good.”
It’s hard to concentrate when my body is so close to his.
Shivers run down my spine and I think he feels it because he drags a hand across the back of my neck and down my back. “Why are you even giving him the time of day?”
“He’s my booty call.”
His eyebrows pull into a frown and mischief sparks inside his eyes. “Getting a condom stuck inside you not enough of a cockblock for you two?”
He takes my wrist in his grip and leads me off the dance floor, and I’m puzzled as I follow him. “Where are we going?”
“Anywhere else.”
He leads me to the elevators, ushers me into the first one that opens, and pushes the T button, where the word Terrace is engraved beside it.
I’m not prepared for the view. It’s spectacular. Wind slaps us as we step outside, and I’m surprised to find speakers on the terrace, playing the same music that had been playing downstairs. Several empty seating areas are scattered beneath the night sky. I suppose during the summer people like coming up here, but we’re heading into the holiday season and Chicago has been cold for weeks.
Sam Smith’s “Like I Can” starts playing, and he says, as we take one of the empty lounge seats, “Maybe that’s his song for you. Think he likes you like that?” He shifts forward and props his elbows on his knees as he studies me.
Sam Smith sings, “He’ll never love you like I can…”
“Oh, no.” I laugh, reaching up and trying to control my hair.
He’s still thoughtful. “Why so certain?”
“Because nobody can like me like that.” My smile fades. I can’t believe I said that.
We stare at each other for a long moment. Not a breath leaves me, not a sound. It’s as if I’m absorbing every part of this moment—the song lyrics, the shade of his blue eyes, the line of his jaw and the slits of light caused by the angle of the moonlight.