by Staci Hart
The second she took her eyes off the tray to look at the table, it tipped over, and four martinis hit the floor with a crash. The entire table glared at me. One of them looked at her watch with an eyebrow raised.
Bayleigh turned to me with sheer panic on her face. Mine I’m sure was as flat and cold as a marble wall.
“Go get Sheila,” I ordered, and got back to work.
And so my day continued as such. At least Sheila stayed on the floor to help me, keeping me behind the bar making drinks and away from people, which was wise. Very wise.
The rush finally ebbed right about when Shelby came in, and Sheila released me from perdition with a hug and a shot of tequila. My head hadn’t stopped throbbing, that low, dull ache behind my eyes and nape of my neck, and if I thought I’d felt flat as a pancake before, I was now somewhere closer to a crepe.
I slammed that shot of tequila like it was medicine, and Bayleigh watched me before extending a lime. I waved her off.
“That was badass.”
A short, quiet laugh huffed out of me. “No, that was desperate. Nice to meet you, Bayleigh. Sorry I was a horrible bitch today. I’d like to tell you this isn’t usual, but that could prove to be a lie.”
She laughed. “You’re fine, I get it. I’ll see you later.”
I smiled, though it was tired and sagging, then headed to the back to grab my things. I’d been so busy, I realized on my way out that I’d forgotten about Greg again. I grabbed my phone and checked it for messages.
Nothing.
I frowned. And then I decided, probably unwisely, to go to his coffee shop to talk to him. Because putting people on the spot always works out. I rolled my eyes at myself.
The truth of it was that I needed a resolution, and I wanted to apologize to him again. I needed to.
I was nervous and not optimistic as I pulled open the door of the coffee shop where he worked. He stood behind the counter, and I smiled at the sight of him, feeling better for a split second until he smiled back. Something was definitely off, but I approached him anyway, because what else could I do at that point?
I did my best to keep it breezy and cool, which was legitimately the opposite of how I felt. I leaned on the counter. “So, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to swing by. How’s your day been?”
His face told me nothing. “Good,” he answered. “Want a drink?”
“Will you judge me if I get hot chocolate again?”
He smiled. “Never. Nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I wanted to talk, if you have a second?”
“Sure. Have a seat, I’ll bring it over.”
I pulled a ten out of my pocket and tried to hand it over, but he wouldn’t take it, so I stuffed it in the tip jar and took a seat at a small table near the back.
Greg sat down across from me a few minutes later and slid the paper cup across the table.
“Thanks,” I said and wrapped my hands around it.
He watched me for a second. “I’m sorry for bailing last night. But I have to say I felt a little out of place.”
I nodded, feeling like a jerk. “I’m sorry too. I can’t say it enough.”
“I mean, between you getting hauled all over the bar and the vibe between you and your ex, it was a little much for a second date. I really like you, Rose. I had a great time the other day. But it seems like you might have some …” he rubbed the back of his neck, “… baggage to deal with. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Everybody’s got baggage. But yours hangs out at your house and stares at you from across the room in a way that makes me uncomfortable.”
I let out a breath. “I really am sorry, Greg. My situation is more complicated than I guess I realized. I hate that I made you feel like that.”
But he smiled. “Don’t feel bad. I get it. I just don’t want to be caught up in the middle of whatever’s going on between you two.”
I nodded, my mouth so dry that my lips stuck together. I took a hopeful sip of the hot chocolate, but it coated my mouth like paste. I didn’t know what to even say. “I feel like a real asshole. I wanted to come talk to you because I really like you too.”
He smiled, but it was sad. “After all the shit dates I’d been on, you were a breath of fresh air. I’m not mad, Rose. It’s just that I’m not trying to get into something complicated.”
“Yeah, me neither, but it just sort of keeps finding me.”
“Well, if you ever shake it, give me a call.”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for restoring my faith in the dating game.” He stood, and so did I.
I gripped my paper cup. “I’ll see you around, Greg.”
“Take it easy, Rose.”
I kept my chin up and walked out of the coffee shop, embarrassed and annoyed, trying not to hurry away but wanting to leave my regrets behind me.
I shouldn’t have asked him to come to Habits. It was too soon to subject him to that.
I should have known better.
I spiked the hot chocolate into the first trash bin I came across as my embarrassment simmered and bubbled until it was hot and steamy and ready to blow.
DEAL 2.0
Rose
I WALKED TOWARD THE SUBWAY with one word on my mind.
Patrick.
Seven months had passed since we’d broken up, and he was still somehow so present in my life that I couldn’t even date without it blowing up in my face. No, somehow he was living in my apartment. Sleeping in my bed.
I flew down the stairs and through the turnstile, trying to retrace my steps through the choices that led me to where I was as I stepped onto the train.
Except it all started with a choice I hadn’t made — him sneaking in to sleep in my place. Honestly, it had started even before, when he chose to break up with me, and he chose to wave another girl in my face. It was his choices that led us here, which was exactly why he wouldn’t be staying with me anymore.
Deep down, I knew he hadn’t been trying to manipulate me by sneaking in like a thieving bastard. I knew where his intentions lie. I knew it was more complicated than I was making it out, but as I stood on the packed train during rush hour, it didn’t matter.
As far as I was concerned, everything was his fault.
If he would only let me go. If he would just stop looking at me like he did. Why couldn’t he just date? Find someone new? I mean, how many times did I have to say I didn’t want to be with him before he’d leave me alone? Because the once should have been enough.
I told him we were through, and I meant it. But he just wouldn’t listen, couldn’t get the hint. And because of that, because of the position he put me in every goddamn day by making it so painfully clear that he wanted me, I lost a shot with a guy who could have been perfect.
Frustration rolled through me like a rumbling storm as I blew off the train and up the stairs, walking up Broadway and into our building.
I unlocked my door, scowling deeper when I found Patrick sitting on my couch. Again.
I closed the door a little harder than I should have, and he looked over his shoulder at me with an eyebrow up.
“Hey. How was your day?” he asked innocently. I could have punched him in the larynx.
“Fine.” I clipped and set my bag down on the kitchen table. A bowl was in the sink and a pot on the stove, both with noodles stuck to the edges. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was going to clean that up.”
I turned around, knowing my eyes were like death rays. They zeroed in on his boots on my coffee table. “Get your feet off my coffee table.”
He moved them slowly, his eyes still on mine. “Sorry. Let me wash those dishes,” he said as he stood.
My cheeks were hot. “You don’t fucking live here, Tricky. I told you from the start that I didn’t want this to happen, you hanging out here all the time, leaving your shit in my sink, putting your dirty boots on my furniture and your toothbrush in my bathroom.”
His eyes narrowed. “Right, but then you told me
I could hang out. You understand better than anyone why I don’t want to go home.”
“Yeah, well, I take it back. I can’t deal with this, you being here, you sleeping in my bed. I can’t do this, Tricky.”
“What happened?” he asked, his voice low.
I fumed. “You mean besides you scaring off my date last night? Or bringing Seth around? I think he might have been asking me out, as more than friends, or at least that’s the vibe I got.”
His body tightened.
“Yeah. And Veronica came and talked to me, too. I can’t deal with the drama, Tricky. I just can’t. You’ve got to go home.”
He took a step toward me, shoulders square, eyes burning.
I threw my hands up. “Ugh, stop looking at me like that, Patrick.”
He took another step, his eyes smoldering deeper still. “Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me.”
Another step. “I’ll stop when you do.” The words were a quiet promise. One more step. He was just inches from me, stealing my breath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered, my eyes still locked on his.
He slipped a hand into my hair. “I think you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then tell me to leave. Look me in the eye and tell me to go.”
I searched his eyes and opened my mouth to speak as thoughts screamed through my brain like sleet. But instead of saying the word I should have said, I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his.
It was relief I felt the moment we touched, frantic relief as I sucked in a breath through my nose, eyes closed, breathing him in, not knowing where it came from, not caring enough to stop. My arms were around his neck. His tongue passed my lips and tangled with mine. His hands slipped down my waist, hips pressing me against the counter as I pulled him as close as I could, and we bumped into the cabinets with a thump.
It didn’t faze us.
My legs wound around his waist, and he spun around, pinning me against the wall with his hips, one hand on my thigh, the other braced against the wall as he kissed me so deeply I couldn’t get enough oxygen. My back was flush against the wall, hands scrambling blindly for the hem of his shirt, not wanting to stop, not wanting to think. Just wanting his skin, wanting him so badly that my body ached.
Months of wanting him. Months of needing him.
Every reason I had for staying away dissipated and disappeared.
He was the last person to touch me like this, and he hadn’t forgotten a single thing. The way his lips moved, his tongue against mine, his fingers. Maybe it was instinctive, like our bodies were tuned to each other, because I hadn’t forgotten either. But reasons didn’t matter, not in that fevered moment as I pulled his shirt off, and not in any of the moments after.
Patrick broke away for the briefest moment as the shirt slipped over his head, mouth hung open, lids heavy, but his lips were against mine again before it hit the ground.
He spun me again, and I shifted to hang on, knocking him off balance and into the hall table. The lamp fell over with a crash that left us in near darkness, but I barely noticed — every thought was focused on his hand as it slipped up my waist. He pushed off the wall, our lips still connected as he carried me toward the bedroom until he ran into my closed door, pushing me against it. His skin was so hot, so soft, fingers digging into my thigh, hard length pressing against me as he flexed his hips. I moaned into his mouth just as his free hand found the doorknob and turned.
I tightened my arms around his neck, bringing us as close as we could get, our lips a hard seam. He kicked the door closed, and in three steps, he was lowering me onto my bed. My hands found the hem of his jeans, heart hammering so hard it hurt as I felt him shift to kick off his boots. I did the same when he pulled off my shirt and threw it, and our eyes were down, drinking each other in. I looked down his chest at the tattoos running across his skin, my fingers trailing down to his waist and to the buttons, and I looked up and into his eyes just as I slipped my hand inside and wrapped my fingers around him.
His eyelids fluttered, a heavy sigh passing his lips as he flexed, pressing himself into my palm. He took a breath, then took my mouth, hot and wet, lips swollen.
I’d missed him so much. Too much.
He made quick work of the rest of my clothes, first slipping a hand under my back to unclasp my bra faster than I could have, then did the same with the button of my jeans as my free hand pulled his pants over the curve of his ass.
I watched him back away, his eyes dark and deep, locked on mine as he dropped his pants. And just like that, he was naked, right there in front of me like I’d imagined a hundred times. He pulled off my pants in a split second, and then I reached for him, begging him to hurry, before reason found me and I could say no.
There was nothing I wanted in that moment more than him. Only him.
My hands found his length again, my thumb skimming across his crown, down his shaft and the barbell there, remembering what it would feel like to have him inside of me. My body clenched at the thought. His fingers trailed up my thigh, hooked my panties and pulled them out of the way as he licked his lips and dragged the pad of his warm finger up the wet line.
I gasped.
“Yes,” I whispered up at him, and he kissed my bottom lip, biting gently as he slipped that finger inside of me.
My hips flexed against him. Another finger slipped in, curling as he palmed me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, not with him stroking my body like it was his.
My body squeezed his fingers, hips rolling hard. I was close — so close. And then they were gone.
“Not yet,” he whispered, reaching for my nightstand while I panted, pinned underneath him. I could feel the tip of him just against me, and I moaned, rolling my hips to force him in. He kissed my parted lips as he tore open the condom. “Not yet.”
My eyes wouldn’t open, but I wanted to see him, so I pried my lids apart to catch a glimpse of the top of his head, the lines of his shoulders and biceps, his hand gripping his shaft as he rolled the condom on and angled himself to press against me. And then, he looked at me, looked through me as his hand cupped my neck, and mine found his jaw, and our lips came together once more at the exact moment that he flexed until he filled me completely.
Forget all of the moments before or after. In that moment, we were perfect and whole.
His hand squeezed my hip, holding me still as he pulled out slow and slammed in. Then again. And again and again. His hands were on my breasts, in my hair, pinning my arms over my head. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to.
“Harder.”
His hand clamped around my wrists tightened, his fingers on my hip squeezing as he gave me what I wanted, rolling his body, knowing exactly what I needed. And when I opened my eyes and saw him above me — his dark eyes, the swell of his lips, the cut of his jaw — I lost the hold I had on my body, neck snapping into an arch as I sucked in a breath and held it. My heart stopped, starting again with a bang, and I pulsed around him as I let go, squeezing him, holding him.
He was right behind me, kissing me once, deep and possessive, before he took what he needed. A deep thrust, his muscles tight as a soft cry passed his lips, and he rocked his body, filling me as much as he could, as if through the motion he could claim me. As if I was anyone else’s.
As he slowed, he collapsed on top of me, face buried in my neck as he let my hands go. I cradled him in my arms, still too drunk off of him to think. It was a glorious limbo, those few minutes before our minds caught up with our bodies. But when they did, I felt the shift, the wall between us, creeping taller, sprouting barbed wire and broken glass.
He propped himself on his forearms and looked down at me, hands in my hair.
My voice was rough. “That was …”
“I know,” he said as his thumb shifted against my cheek.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I said, willing it to be true.
His eyes were on my lips. “I know.”
And then, I said the thing that would be the final nail in my coffin, pushing my fears aside with false bravado because I needed him. That much, at least, I knew. And I could have him, for a moment maybe. And I’d make that moment last as long as I could.
“Can we do it again?”
He smiled and met my eyes. “Absolutely.”
GO WITH IT
Patrick
TWO DAYS IN A ROW, Rose was in my arms when I woke.
Whatever magic was fueling my luck, I only hoped it didn’t run out.
My eyes were closed as we lay in the dark, her back pressed against my chest, my arm nestled between her breasts and forearm. Our fingers were clasped, shifting slowly as she breathed in, breathed out.
It was early — my alarm hadn’t gone off yet — but I knew there would be no going back to sleep. The difference between that morning and the morning before mirrored in my mind. From my fears and hopes yesterday to today — to the moment that I knew when she woke up that she wouldn’t pull away. She wouldn’t say no. For now, at least.
The night before rolled through my thoughts, and I smiled, savoring the sweet burn of the memory like the first sip of whiskey after a long, lonely day.
The kiss — that first kiss, when she closed her eyes and gave herself to me — was everything I knew it would be. I stepped into her knowing the risk, but I saw it in her eyes. She didn’t want me to stop any more than I wanted to, and instead of telling me to leave, she gave me that kiss, the one that opened that cracked window enough that I could climb in.
Part of me wondered how long it would last. The rest of me told that part to shut up and go with it.
A good while later, when I finally convinced myself to leave, I kissed the curve of Rose’s neck in parting. She shifted against me and hummed.
“See you later, Rosie,” I whispered, and she kissed my fingers before letting me go and settled back into sleep.
I climbed out of her warm bed and pulled on my clothes, grabbing my phone on the way out of her room, trying to keep the smile on my face in check. The broken lamp was still on the floor, the only thing really intact being the shade. I swept it all up and threw it away with Valentino watching me, tail curled around his back paws as he licked his front paw like a prince, then set up her coffee machine for her, leaving a sticky note on the start button.