by Holly Hall
The usual crowds are out tonight, packs of laughing girls and raucous guys, a bachelorette party parading past, turning onto Broadway and waving their penis-shaped paraphernalia like there’s no better way to celebrate anchoring yourself to one partner for the rest of your life than by surrounding yourself with plastic dicks. Damn. I forgot it was Saturday. The days blur together when none of them have meaning.
Almost as soon as I think it, something across the street catches my eye; something that somehow stands out from the blur. A lush mane of hair so dark it’s almost black, just a flash so quick it could be a trick of the neon lights. I pick up my pace down the sidewalk, finding her again in the crowd. She’s almost unrecognizable in a little teal dress, but I could pick her out anywhere. Plus, she’s carrying her shoes. Seems like something she would do, and I don’t even know the girl.
She’s part of a trio—a darker-skinned girl with stick-straight hair is linked on one arm, dragging her along, and there’s another girl in a bright yellow dress—but neither of the other faces ring a bell. Not that they would. Making a split-second decision, I cut through the flow of traffic, jogging across the street to catch up. I’m not sure of my next move, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
When Lindsey drags her friend to a stop and starts dancing in place to the music filtering out the door of one of the bars, my steps falter. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve stopped breathing. The effortlessness of her moves combined with the swing music makes everything else kind of fade into the background. What a stupid thing to think. I don’t know if she’s beautiful despite her surroundings or because of them, because she melds so seamlessly with the nightlife yet draws attention like moths to a flame. Fuck, this is a bad idea.
But, like the moth I am, I follow them.
Lindsey stumbles a bit on her bare feet, throwing her head back to laugh, and she pulls on her shoes just as they draw even with Crazy Town—one of the more popular bars on the strip. Then they disappear inside and I have to cut through the line to keep up.
The door guy examines me closely when I flash him my ID, and I get the feeling he recognizes me. He doesn’t look at my license long enough to read my name and confirm, though, because I’m sliding it into my pocket as soon as he starts to nod. I’m met with a wall of humidity and sweat, the smell of spilled beer and body odor assaulting my senses the second I’m inside the bar. The crowds and noise reawaken my anxiety, and along with that, the realization that what I’m doing could be perceived as creepy. I could use a drink or ten.
I duck my head and shoulder my way to the bathroom, considering calling off this foolish mission. I don’t even have to piss. I wash my hands and run them through my hair before replacing my ball cap, dabbing my forehead with the hem of my shirt. It’s hot as balls in here. I don’t know why anyone withstands it when there are other places that aren’t packed shoulder to shoulder. But whatever, my curiosity’s been whetted, and I’m hungry for answers from a certain brunette.
I don’t see them at the bar when I step out, and I assume I’ve lost them to the upper floors or some money-flashing douchebag. I drop by the bar and wedge myself between two groups of distracted patrons to order a double whiskey, sliding over some cash and finishing it in two swallows, before tossing a stick of spearmint gum into my mouth.
“Ooh, can I have a piece?” a voice from beside me says, and I have to look down, and down, and down to find a tiny girl looking up at me, wearing some kind of fishnet shirt with pasties on her nipples. I go to reach for the pack because I’m not an asshole, all the while sweeping the dance floor for the girl who led me here, but the distraction wraps her tiny hand halfway around my arm and shakes her head.
“I don’t mind ABC gum.”
“What?” I call distractedly.
“Already been chewed,” she says with a coy giggle.
Then I see the swing of a teal dress across the room, above ground-level, and the world seems to shrink around me again. I pry the girl’s hand off me and place a stick of gum in it instead, then gravitate toward the thick of the crowd—the last fucking place I want to be, but I can’t help myself. Lindsey’s dancing up on the stage where a live band is playing. Of course she is. Why would anyone dance on the floor when you look like she does and there are elevated surfaces around? I have the fleeting urge to take her by the waist and sweep her out of here, but who am I to do that? She’s not mine to whisk away from invasive eyes. Hell, she might be someone else’s for all I know; I remember the way she was watching for someone at Tripp’s the other night.
My eyes linger on her lithe form, transfixed. I’m helpless to do anything but bob my head vaguely to the music and watch the scene unfolding before my eyes. Lindsey dances with a precise carelessness, like she has no worries where her limbs will end up because they know what they’re doing all on their own. And it works for her. I follow the roll of her hips, the shimmy of her shoulders, her feet as they stomp to the music.
And then, from seemingly out of nowhere, a chord sounds in my head, clear as day amid the stifling, cramped bar. Bodies sway against mine, a sharp elbow contacts my ribs, but I’m powerless against the music—her music. Another chord arises, then another, until an entire riff is playing out in my mind. I recognize it even after spending so much time away from creating. A song is taking shape, or at the least the beginning of one; a little of her making and a little of mine. Not only can I hear the tune she’s spinning in my mind, I can visualize it. Feel it. Like it’s as natural as something that’s bled from my own veins.
This is how my music is born. I don’t quite have the words yet, but I’m sure if I had my guitar and notebook with me, they’d scratch themselves out on paper. But writing them down is pushed to the back of my mind as Lindsey twists her hips to the ground and flicks her hair over her shoulder, making sudden, jarring eye contact with me. Her eyes narrow briefly in recognition, but she carries on dancing without missing a beat. I’m busted, but I’m more than willing to watch the music I’ve spent so long evading play out in front of me.
When that song fades into the next, Lindsey hops down from the speaker and makes a purposeful beeline through the crowd, straight for me. If I wanted to avoid her, now would be the time to go. But I’m mesmerized and a little tipsy, on her and on whiskey, and at this moment all I want to hear are the words that are waiting on the edge of her lips.
“Hey, whiskey,” she greets me, coming to a stop when we’re almost toe to toe. She pulls her hair to the side, fanning her neck, and I try not to follow the bead of sweat trailing between her breasts.
“Hey, lovely.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Lovely?”
“You caught me on short notice.”
“Is this another ambush?”
I cross my arms, pleased. She’s sassy today. “No, this is fate.”
Cocking her head at me, she wipes the sweat off her collarbone. Instead of responding to that, she says, “Enjoy the show?”
“Every bit of it.”
“It felt good to get that out.” For the first time since she found me, her gaze dodges mine, drifting over the crowd.
“Get what out?” I ask, but the beat drops at the same time and the walls shake with the bass. She gestures to her ear and shakes her head. I try repeating myself, but there’s no point. “Come with me,” I mouth, taking her hand. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away.
We make for the door, wedging through the crowd, then we’re out in the night. Cutting down a small side street, I lead the way to a less-traveled side of the strip nobody really sees unless they take a wrong turn. It’s like the underside of the world. Industrial bulbs outside the business’s back doors light our way with a sickly glow. I walk with purpose but without a specific goal in mind. There’s a set of steps behind a place that must be closed in the evenings—all is quiet on this side of their door.
I turn and take a seat, watching as she approaches. Her eyes are filled with the questions she won’t ask. Either she doesn’t want me to know she’s curi
ous or she just doesn’t care to know why I’ve brought her here. She sits one step above me and immediately gets to work untying the laces of her heels, the kind that wrap around the calves and are sexy as hell. Once she’s freed her feet, she stretches her legs and leans back, shameless of making herself comfortable sitting on bare concrete.
“What are we doing out here?” she finally asks, looking around. Somewhere between the bar and these steps, she’s fastened her hair on top of her head. A tendril hangs loose, curling around her face. I have the urge to push it behind her ear, but I don’t.
“You’ve given me a song, and now I need to write it.” I don’t have a pen and paper—how I prefer to jot down my ideas—so my phone will have to suffice.
“Mmm,” she says, drawing up her knees. She wraps her arms around them, trapping her velvet dress against her legs.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“This can’t be the first time you’ve said that to a woman, Jenson. I won’t make the mistake of thinking I’m special.”
My laugh is abrupt, a mixture between a scoff and a chuckle. She tells it straight, I can’t fault her for that. “True, this isn’t the first time. And you probably won’t believe me when I tell you the only other person I’ve written anything for was my wife, and everything since has been incredibly depressing.”
A sardonic smile. “You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“Fine. But can you just sit here for a sec until I’m finished?”
Something dances in her eyes. I guess I amuse her. Amusing a woman who can serve your ass on a platter is probably not a good thing.
“Okay.”
My fingers fly over the screen, typing out the lines I envisioned in the bar. Every so often I stop and stare aimlessly at something until the word I’m reaching blindly for appears. Then I’m staring at her hair because I’m struggling over ways to describe the shade. Brown just seems too lackluster of a word, but I don’t know if mahogany is something elderly women say as a jazzier substitute. And the ends are lighter, faded.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Did your hair used to be a different color?” I ask.
She wraps the loose strand around her finger and looks at it accusingly. “It used to be silver, but it was hard to keep up with. So I dyed it dark. Still, the ends always seem to fade.”
“A silver lining,” I murmur, the creative half of my brain whirring again.
“Yeah, something like that,” she says, her sparkling eyes on me. Then she’s looking around again, as if on the lookout for someone. “I’m hungry, do you want to get out of here?” she asks, and I almost miss it because I never expected that question to come out of her mouth.
“Sure. But will you stay until I finish this?”
She bites back a smile, and her voice lowers. “Okay. I don’t mind being your inspiration.”
I can’t suppress my grin as I type out the remnants of the chorus. I’m way past the point of playing it cool. But the words have dried up, and I know better than to be greedy. They’ll come back when the time is right. I shove my phone in my pocket and stand, reaching out to help her up. “You might want to put your shoes back on. No telling what’s on the ground back here.”
She’s about to blow me off and skip ahead, when I catch her hand. “Or I could carry you,” I offer teasingly, and I would, but she jams her feet back into her shoes with a wince. Stubborn. “Where to?”
“I know of this great twenty-four-hour Thai place. I love their dumplings. That okay?”
I nod and wedge my hands into my pockets, letting her lead the way. I’m more of a steak guy, but food is the furthest thing from my mind. “Fine by me. Can we walk?”
“Yeah, it’s right up the street. Down a couple blocks.”
We end up walking far longer than “right up the street and down a couple blocks,” but I don’t complain. Instead, I add my input to her running commentary about this building or that person. She seems to have something to say about everything, whether it’s a stray cat on a stoop or the ugly fur jacket some girl is wearing. Then we’re standing in front of the restaurant before I realize it, and I look up when I notice the frown on her face and the firm plant of her hands on her hips.
There’s no sign, only a grimy outline on the wall where one must’ve been. A placard in the window says the space is for lease.
“This cannot be happening,” Lindsey says, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering into the shop.
I rock back on my heels, palming the pack of cigarettes in my pocket. My whiskey buzz is wearing off, but up until now, she’s served as an excellent distraction. “I think it’s happening. When’s the last time you were here?”
“A week ago! Maybe two weeks. Or a month. God, I don’t know, I’ve been so busy. Fuck!” Her hands drop to her sides and despair rises in her voice, like the last thing she’s put any hope in has let her down.
“It’s all right. We can find somewhere else. I’m sure there’s another Thai place.”
“No. There aren’t any good ones left, you know? This place was run by a family who made the best yellow curry I’ve had in my entire life.”
“Okay, well, I can’t make curry, but maybe we can get some pizza. Antonio’s makes a damn good meat lover’s.”
She looks at me and bites back a grin. “You men. Always quick to replace something good with something mediocre. It’s just too easy to move on for you.”
It looks like she meant to be teasing, but her eyes are sad. “Maybe not as easy as you think.”
“Let’s go. My apartment is close, and I might have something there.”
Her place. Though I’m thoroughly shocked by this turn of events, I erase my jolted expression and replace it with something more casual before she realizes it. “All right.”
Chapter 7
Jenson
Her apartment is a crumbling stucco-and-glass building that looks like it could’ve once been a complex of luxury condominiums decades ago. The hallways are sienna tile, and yellow bulbs above turn everything sallow. We go up the rickety elevator to the seventh floor, and then she’s fishing for her keys in her clutch. It seems like such a small purse to lose something in. Again—the mysteries of a woman. I finally get a good view of her tattoo through the straps of her dress as she focuses on getting her key into the lock. An intricate dream catcher spans the space between her shoulder blades.
Upon swinging the door open, we’re met by the sounds of gunshots and shrieking. The latter only stops when whoever it is doing it realizes Lindsey’s not alone.
“Jenson, this is Yan and Sebastian,” Lindsey says unceremoniously, her keys clinking against a piece of pottery she drops them into.
I squint through the glare of the television in the darkness, lifting a few fingers in a wave to the two lumps on the couch who I assume are her roommates. They barely take their eyes off their video game to nod at me. I go to catch up to Lindsey, following her around the corner and into a nook that houses the kitchen. The lights buzz to life overhead, and she frowns at whatever she finds in the pantry.
“Those your roommates?” I ask.
“Two of them. I have three more.”
“Six people? Is that even legal?”
She flaps her hand as if to fend off my pesky questions. “Flight attendants do it all the time.”
“Are you also a flight attendant?”
“No.”
She emerges from the pantry with one of those bags of organic, fancy-pants popcorn and a bottle of wine, tossing them onto the counter. “Are you trying to romance me?” I tease, bracing my hands on the laminate.
“Yes. Is it working?”
“Popcorn and wine will get you everywhere.” Glancing around, I notice the absence of a dining set. A few stuffed trash bags occupy a slice of vinyl flooring where a small table and chairs would go if they’d had them.
“No table, unfortunately. We’re classy like that.” Then she’s hoisting herself onto the counter to
p the way she did at my place, little dress and all. Rubbing the space beside her, she raises her eyebrows at me.
“Bottle opener?” I ask.
“Twist off. Like I said, classy.” Unscrewing the lid on the bottle of wine, she takes a swig and hands me the popcorn. I hoist myself up beside her, taking a handful and munching on it.
“So why haven’t you been able to write, Jenson King?” she finally asks, dropping her head back against the cabinets. When she hands over the wine, I take a measured gulp. Probably not the best idea to get wine-drunk and embarrass myself. Then I grab another handful of popcorn to stall my answer.
“I’ve been able to write, but after . . . the past year, it’s all been doom and gloom. Everything comes out through your art, you know? I’m sick of marinating in it.”
She doesn’t seem to have a response to that. “You were married less than a year ago,” she says, her tone even, non-judgmental.
The kernels stick in my throat. Meeting someone new, you wonder when your baggage will come up. I didn’t even have time to wonder that with her, I didn’t think I’d have the chance.
I swallow roughly. “You learn that from Google?”
She gives me a look. “I don’t have time to stalk you. It’s common knowledge.”
“While you’re at it, can you give me my social security number as well? I can never remember it.”
“Stop.”
“No, seriously, what all do you know? Fill me in.” I feel caught off balance, as if she, along with the rest of the world, has leverage against me. I remember that this is the reason I’ve resisted seeing the same girl multiple times. Hookups work for me because I don’t have to answer to anyone. I can stay detached. Lindsey and I haven’t even kissed, and yet I’ve spoken more truthfully to her than any female since my wife.
Lindsey holds up her hands, eyes apologetic. “Look, defensive, all I know is you got a divorce not too long ago, your wife’s name was Raven, and there was something about a fire you started on accident . . . allegedly.”