by K. L. Kreig
I pluck out an eyelash and blow it to the ground.
I pull at a stray thread in my hem, not realizing it’s a bad idea until it’s too late.
Finally, I can’t take it any longer. I have to know if he’s still there. Still watching.
When I turn my head his way, I am surprised to find he is. He absorbs my confusion.
Of course, there is doubt, gorgeous stranger. I am wearing mustard and you look like a ketchup kinda guy.
A slight smile upturns the corners of his plump lips. They resemble delicious ballpark franks. Almost makes me rethink my aversion to hot dogs.
I want to smile back, but he can’t be flirting with me. Can he? Though who else would it be? It’s definitely not Carmen this time.
Because of the way this room is narrowly shaped, Carmen sits at a forty-five-degree angle to my right, facing the stage. If she kicked out her foot, she’d almost kick mine. And I face the bar with the stage to my left. I face the stranger. There is no one behind me. I know this because my seat is flat against a brick wall that my long hair keeps getting stuck to.
Still, I have to weed out all other possibilities, so I glance to my left knowing very well the only one there is the hot pianist, and while hot pianist is quite attractive, I’m pretty sure he’s not this man’s bailiwick. Carmen’s to my right, and as we’ve already established, she is out of the question for once. Out of stupidity or insecurity, or both, I turn around and stare at the wall behind me. Still brick. I slowly return to the stranger. He’s laughing as he tips his half-empty glass of beer in my direction.
A mock “cheers.”
My face burns hotter than the engine of Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s race car after five hundred laps at the Daytona 500. Instinctively, I reach for a drink that I still don’t have yet.
“Where’s that waitress?” My taste buds water wildly. I am so thirsty my mouth hurts.
My beautiful stranger—my, as though I’ve claimed him already—stands up from his place at the bar and begins walking in my direction.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Seriously?
I start chewing on a nail.
What is he doing? What am I going to say? Why am I so nervous?
I wince when I take out a chunk of flesh with nerves still very much attached. I shake my hand before twining all ten fingers together, clenching so hard my knuckles cry out.
Why are you acting like a zit-faced schoolgirl, Laurel? Get a grip.
I’m so busy practicing hellos and how do you do’s and who, me? in my mind, that it’s not until he’s nearly upon me that I notice Manny is right behind him.
I deflate faster than a sliced balloon.
“Senorita.” Carmen’s boyfriend greets me with a quick kiss to the back of my hand as he always does. He doesn’t look contrite in the least, and neither does Carmen.
This is a setup. I should have known.
Gorgeous stranger isn’t into me at all.
I am angry. Humiliated. My breaths are shallow. I feel like I’ve run a marathon and fell just short of the finish line, unable to cross.
“What are you doing here?” I spit.
I direct my irate question to Manny, but the stranger’s gaze hasn’t let me go yet. It’s warm and inviting and…unnerving how much I like it, even if he was forced to be here.
“May I?”
Stranger waves to my seat but doesn’t wait for a reply before he proceeds to turn his body and bend his long legs until he’s perched in the chair with me. With me. I am now squashed between his warm, firm thigh and the arm of a chair that’s roomy enough for one but is definitely not made for two.
He pitches an arm around the back of our chair—around me—and wedges his muscular self in a bit further until he’s nice and comfortable. As if we are lovers or it’s date night. As if we’ve known each other our whole lives and haven’t just met.
And what can I do? We’ve already garnered enough attention that I’m worried we may be asked to leave, so there I sit. Fuming. Flustered. My face on fire and my body quickly catching up.
“I’m Ross,” stranger says, leaning over to whisper in my ear.
Ross. Stranger’s name is Ross. I had a great uncle named Ross. He would tap me on the patootie whenever I walked by.
“This is the part where you tell me your name,” he jibes.
“Uuuhhh…” Hot as you are, I can’t date someone with the same name as my creepy great-uncle Ross. Sorry.
He waits, expectantly. Damn, you smell a-freaking-mazing, Ross.
“Uummm…” I swallow, hard and awkwardly loud. Maybe Ross wouldn’t mind being called by his middle name? Unless his middle name is Johnny. Or Ace. Or Wallace. Like you have so many men lined up you have a right to be picky, Laurel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Carmen watching me, once again shaking her head in pity, as I search for appropriate words to string together that won’t me look a) like an idiot, or b) desperate. But when I remember the circumstances of why Ross is practically sitting on top of me those words are misplaced, along with my manners, because I don’t offer my name. No. Instead, I turn my back to him in favor of piano man, who now has his gaze squarely fixed on me.
Of course.
The edges of my mouth turn up wryly.
His turn up in amusement.
Stranger—Ross—shifts beside me, reminding me he hasn’t gone anywhere, like he isn’t aware the waft of his subtle, spicy cologne hasn’t already hypnotized me.
“Tonight is a night for lovers, old and new,” piano man says to me, fingers caressing his keyboard as lightly as if he’s running them down the spine of a woman’s back.
Good Lord.
I choke on the lake of spit now pooling in my mouth.
Ross slaps me on the back a few times as the crowd whoops and whistles. He genuinely seems concerned.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assure him, my voice wheezy. I wave him off, but when I lean back, it’s right into his open arms. I fit as if I belong there. His palm curls around my shoulder and gently squeezes before retreating. I stiffen and manage another look at piano man. He winks. I’m sure he’s playing me now, or perhaps he’s playing Ross.
“Hardin, why don’t you turn the house lights down for this next one.”
No. Please no.
The lights go low, the music kicks up, and piano man starts crooning about the heavens and a rare night for romancing, but when he sings the title of the song, “Mind if I Make Love to You,” I feel like I’ve been inserted into an episode of Friends.
And Ross and I are in the spotlight in this one.
Literally.
There is a wall sconce smack over our heads, which seems not to have dimmed in the slightest. Heat from the lightbulb is singeing the crown of my head. Half of my hem is hanging loose, and my thumb is now bleeding from where it’s chewed to the quick.
I am a hot, bloody, unkempt mess.
As if Ross is only now understanding the horrible predicament he’s let himself be talked into, he starts chuckling. And as the song goes on, with the day of our meeting and how time is fleeting, circling back around to the main lyric about making love, his body shakes with suppressed laughter.
I use the span of my right hand to cover my face in shame, hiding myself from Ross. But he’s not having it. He peels my hand back and says lowly, “Your virtue is safe with me.”
See? This is where I should have taken two seconds to interpret what he meant, which really was, “I’m a nice guy, not a dick who will try to get into your pants on a first date,” but nooo…I went all exorcist on him instead.
I whip my head toward him, my wrath as pungent as spewed vomit. “Why? You don’t find this attractive?” I swipe down the length of me, lingering on the frayed edges, which in truth felt like every inch of me. I detest mustard. “Ketchup more to your liking?”
“What?” he says on a barked laugh, his brows furrowing in wary confusion…or perhaps fear.
“Ketchup? Do you like ketchup?”
My c
hest puffs out, my eyes feel bugged, and my jaw is clenched tight. I’m quite sure I resemble eleven shades of crazy.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He scratches the stubble lining his jaw, clearly contemplating his options. Save yourself, I think. But he doesn’t flee like a sensible man would. He starts to say something, only he’s interrupted by the waitress finally handing me my cocktail. She holds out a small goblet with a mint leaf floating in tannish liquid. It looks as if it came from the bottom of a well. I take it and sniff. It smells like the bottom of a well too.
“What is this?” I ask, turning my nose up.
“The house special,” she answers me with a slight snap, but when she notices Ross, she becomes sweeter than rock candy. “It’s called the Maiden Voyage.”
I am in the middle of taking a sip when she announces this. Unfortunately for me several things happen in quick succession, none of them good.
I inhale a mouthful of the Maiden Voyage, which is made almost entirely of gin and ginger beer, neither of which I care for. I choke for the second time, and between my sputters and attempts to expel this sludge from my lungs, I faintly register the groan of the chair Ross and I are squeezed into. The groan turns into a creak, which morphs into the echo of wood splintering under too much pressure.
The legs beneath us give way and we crash hard onto the floor before we tumble in a heap of flailing arms and legs.
The music stops cold.
A hush comes over the crowd.
Once again, we are the center of unwanted attention.
“Are you okay?” Ross asks, running his hands over my hair, my face.
“I—”
There is commotion all around us. Strangers rush over. Concerns rain down on us. Several drops of liquid roll from my hairline down into my ear. I smell of pine and humiliation.
“Christ, are you hurt anywhere?” Ross pushes himself up on his forearms and washes a frantic gaze over me.
“I—”
“Talk to me,” Ross demands when I don’t finish.
I can’t. I’m still gasping for air, but it’s no longer because I’m choking, it’s because Ross is squarely on top of me. And the man is thick, solid muscle.
Over Ross’s shoulder I spot Carmen and Manny. Carmen appears slightly alarmed. Manny, however, is laughing his butt off, though he’s trying to cover it up with his drink.
“Chica, you hurt?” Carmen asks.
“I’m fine,” I rasp. I set my hands to Ross’s chest to push him off of me, but holeeey cow. He is built like a brick wall or a linebacker in training.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, my palms still stuck securely to his pecs. They are unreal. Warm. Firm. Wow.
“You can move now,” I tell him, licking my lips.
“You’re sure?” With a grin and a wag of his brows, he flexes first one pec, then the other. I gasp, pretending to be affronted. We both know I’m not. More than moderately turned on, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Lord, take me home now. I’m ready. Please, I’m begging you. Open your pearly gates and let me on in.
Ross laughs before standing up with ease. He holds out a hand to help me up but just as I’m noticing the cool air on certain lady parts, Ross’s gaze zeros in on my utilitarian, white, pee-stained underwear.
Sweet baby Jesus in a cradle. Why me? Perfect way to round out a first fake date.
“Here.”
He bends down and covers me back up, like I am his to care for. The move is so tender, so gentle that I can’t breathe. My eyes sting. Why would he do that? He didn’t laugh. He didn’t make fun of me. He didn’t seem appalled by my lack of lace or a string splitting my butt cheeks. As I let him help me up from the floor, he tries to catch my eye, but I refuse to acknowledge him.
By this time the manager has rushed to our side and is babbling about drinks on the house for a year, apologizing profusely as they clean up the mess we made. Ross assures him we are fine. He says something to the band, which I don’t catch, and they begin playing “September.”
Ross brushes off some stray wood splinters from the front of his cabernet-colored button-down. I take the time he’s using to right himself to really look at him. I would put him at well over six feet. He’s handsome, but not as handsome as he is beautiful. And there is definitely a difference. His sandy brown hair is short but stylish, curling a drop below his ears. His jaw is square and rugged, and his hazel eyes are lined with bushy, manly brows that are neatly trimmed. His nose might be a tad big for his face, but the longer I stare, the more I decide it’s perfect too. He is the perfect specimen of a perfect man and I am…well I’m bumbly and awkward and insecure. And to top it off, I’ve no doubt given him the impression that a thirty-day “vacation” in a hospital that specializes in the unstable would be well worth my while. I’m sure he will chalk this up to a bad attempt at a blind date and carry on his merry way.
Mi amado, my ass.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asks one more time.
“Just my pride,” I answer quietly, gazing around the room. Most people avert their eyes, some to where my undies are now hidden. “I need to go.”
I swipe my purse from Carmen’s hand and without so much as a goodbye to anyone, I head down the ramp that leads to the front door. The door attendant asks if I’m okay and I stall long enough to assure her that I am. Then I shove my way out.
Cool, crisp air hits me as I walk into the winter night. Wishing I’d brought my jacket, I make haste toward the direction I parked my car, two and a half blocks away. I walk through a wash of cigarette smoke from a couple leaning against the side of Rudy’s. I heard cigarettes give you a quick buzz if you’re not used to the nicotine. I almost stop to bum one, but I won’t be able to stomach one more leer of pity.
I’m only half a block from ground zero when I feel, more than hear, someone on my heels, and I may be incensed and embarrassed, but I am not stupid.
I spin around, shoving my hand in my purse like I’m palming a weapon. Tennessee is a conceal-and-carry state, and I have often thought of getting a small gun for protection, but I haven’t taken the time to do it. So, most of the time that simple action of acting like you’re carrying is enough.
“Youuu…” I can barely look him in the eye as I drag out the word longer than I need or intend to.
Ross squeezes his brows together before widening his stance. He crosses his arms. It stretches his shirt over his biceps very, very nicely.
Damn him.
“Boy, I was under the impression that Southern women were genteel and sweet.”
It’s obvious he doesn’t have a lick of the South in him. I’d peg him as Midwestern. I want to ask, but I don’t.
“If by that you mean pushover, someone has misinformed you.”
That draws a bark. It’s so loud, the smoking couple is now eyeing us, puffing away. I am tired of being tonight’s main event.
“Goodnight, Mr.…” I let it hang because not knowing his last name kinda ruins my haughty exit. I give Mr. Beautiful my back and double-time my pace.
In a flash he’s beside me. I want to tell him that I am fully capable of getting myself home. Yet I keep my mouth shut. Shocker, I know.
It doesn’t last long, though. “Didn’t get enough in round one, Ross?”
“Ross? Who is Ross?”
He’s so close to me that when I stop suddenly, he runs into me and I stumble a step or two forward before spinning around to face him.
“What do you mean who’s Ross. You’re Ross.”
“I assure you”—he chuckles—“I am not Ross.” All five fingertips on his right hand come up to rest against the center of his chest. They’re long and lean. I wonder what they’d feel like running down my back.
“But you told me your name is Ross. In there.” I point dumbly to the club.
“No.” He takes a full step toward me and I have to crane my neck to keep eye contact. “I told you my name is Roth.” He punctuates the “th.”
As if he didn’t make his point clear enough, he goes on to spell it out for me. “R. O. T. H. Roth Keswick.”
Roth. Roth Keswick. I almost laugh. So much better than pervy great-uncle Ross.
“What’s your middle name?” I blurt, because that’s the next most logical question a person could ask, right?
“Uh, Warren. It was my grandfather’s name.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he needs to rationalize the most regal name I’ve ever heard.
Roth Warren Keswick.
Well, that changes things, doesn’t it? a little voice whispers in my ear.
No. No, Laurel. That doesn’t change a thing. Even if he wasn’t a setup, he’s out of your league. Utilitarian, stained, tattered underwear is pulled up past your navel and you don’t even mind. And Roth seems like a ketchup-loving, sexy-panty type of guy.
“Roth,” I parrot.
He nods slowly, as if silently congratulating me. I don’t even have steam left to be indignant about it.
We stand in silence for one breath, two, and with a flourish of his hand, Roth motions in the direction we were originally headed, so I begin to walk again, with him by my side. I won’t realize how profound this small, seemingly inconsequential gesture is or how much I will come to rely on it over the years ahead of us. But I will learn in my weakest moments that this man’s tenacity is the unshakable foundation that allows me to face each and every day, especially the ones you can’t bear to face at all.
“You carrying?” he asks, noting my left hand still tucked inside my handbag.
“A woman can’t be too…”
“…careful.”
“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” we both say simultaneously again.
I give him a side-eye. His broad, genuine grin gets to me. I’m not even going to pretend it doesn’t. His gaze drops to my lips, lingering on them, and my heart skips a half beat. What is he thinking? While I am distracted ogling my best friend’s boyfriend’s friend, the toe of my sneakers catches a crack in the sidewalk and the next thing I know I’m pitching forward toward the ground.
I’m bracing for impact when a thick arm snakes around my waist and breaks my second fall of the night. I am momentarily suspended in midair by strength and what has to be pure will, because light as a feather I am not.