by Ava Moore
“No, I’m okay. It’s just the alcohol. I think just getting up on my feet helped. You know when you drink too much sitting down and then when you stand up, it feels like all of the blood flushes out of your head and down to your feet? I think I just dropped. I’m good. Let’s go back,” I’m doing my best to convince her and I want to believe that it is working but she remains stagnant in front of me.
“Well, we are going to move to another booth so you won’t have to deal with him again, okay?”
I nod and accept it. “Sounds good.”
“Now that we are here though, I think I’m going to use the little girls room. You are right about the amount of booze and sitting for too long. I have to piss like a racehorse!” We both laugh and the tension of the situation starts to melt away. “Do you want to come with me?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m fine. I’m just going to head back towards the girls. I’ll meet you there?”
She hesitates and I can tell what is coming next. “I think you should come with me because of that guy. I don’t want him to ambush you.”
I should know better; Cris is infamous for her rhetorical questions, which eerily reminds me of my boss Jane. “You know I can handle myself. I’m a New Yorker after all,” I wink at her and bring my two hands up to my face, pantomiming some sort of boxing stance, which I know looks pathetic, even if I were sober.
Cris takes it in and starts to laugh. “Yeah, okay Manny Pacquiao. Just try not to get kicked out.” She turns around and heads in behind the never-ending line up of women. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn around to head in the other direction, but am stopped mid stride. I focus my vision on the figure in front of me, which is a hard as rock chest and I have to continue looking up to see whom it belongs to him. It’s him – the guy from across the bar.
“Those looked like some sexy boxing moves,” he begins, his voice raspy, deep and oh so sexy. It’s hotter than I could have even imagined and full of even more mystery.
I am so flustered I can’t even form a sentence and my jaw must have dropped because his next move involves him bringing his fingers up to my chin and gently closing it shut. He smiles as he does so and the moment his fingers touch my skin, I literally feel as though my knees are becoming so weak, I could drop on the spot. I turn around so quickly to ensure that Cris isn’t looking and thankfully, I can’t even see her in the sea of patrons. “What are you looking at back there? Don’t want to get caught by your friends?”
I am still rendered speechless and I fucking hate it. I’m usually so quick witted and fast on my feet when it comes to dealing with men. I have such a sharp tongue that I swear to god, I can cut concrete with it but not now; all I can do now is stare at him like he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, which I hate to admit it, but it is most certainly the truth.
He smiles at me with perfect pearly white teeth and the smallest movement in his stance releases an aroma of his cologne that I’m able to drink in with my nostrils. “You know, not a lot of women can make me blush like this. There has to be something special about you,” he playfully bites on his lower lip and runs his fingers through his jet-black hair, teasing me and toying me wholly.
I continue to stare at him until I realize what I’m doing. I snap out of this daze he has put me in and try to collect myself, which consists of a lot of heavy breathing and missed heartbeats. “I have to go,” I excuse myself from what I can’t even call a conversation and walk right past him, but he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he stops me dead in my tracks with his left hand and places it right on my shoulder. It is the same hand that was just between the legs of his female suitor. I don’t know if this is done on purpose to tantalize me further because he knows that I’m sick enough to like it or if he did it by accident. Either way, I feel my heart skip a beat in my chest as soon as his warm fingers make contact with my skin. He doesn’t force me to turn to him and allows me to face the opposite direction. All he does is simply lean in and whisper into my ear, “Just tell me your name and I’ll let you go.”
I can’t even muster the valor to look at him in the eyes and all I can do is say, “Trish,” before I can feel the resistance of his hand on my shoulder weaken. I sway back and forth slightly, feeling as though the wind has just been stolen out of my lungs before I’m able to step forward to regain my strength.
“Lovely to bump into you Trish and I hope to do it again sometime, only for longer,” his breath lingers on my skin as he whispers in my ear again, his voice penetrating deep into my core. With his provocative and very risqué presence, it feels like I’m doing something naughty just talking with him, even though I am barely able to even say my name.
I stand there, next to him for a while, trying to get my breathing back to a normal level before I pass out. I take in deep breaths, my entire body quivering just from his voice and his touch. He is able to make me feel more sexual power and energy in a brief conversation than most men have been able to do during the duration of an entire long-term relationship. I look up to him but as I should have expected, he is gone. I turn and twirl around, trying to locate him with my stare, but I see nothing. All I do see is a stampede of females rushing in the direction that I’m certain he headed. I’m not surprised that he fascinates all of the women in this bar and why he stopped to talk to me of all, baffles me the most.
“Hey, are you okay?” Cris’ voice snaps me out of the trance I’m in and pulls me back down to Earth. “I thought you were going back to the girls?”
“I…uh… yeah I was, sorry.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? What happened?”
C’mon, Trish! Snap out of it! I give my head a shake, hoping that if I rattle my brain around in my skull it will snap some sense back into me. “I’m good. I just ran into someone from work.” Work. My column. Shit. I start to feel nervous again but this time, for a different reason.
“C’mon, let’s go find the girls.” I can’t even reply before Cris is in the first position again of our two-woman convoy, dragging me through the slew of intoxicated animals. All I can do is look back over my shoulder, hoping to catch another glance of this arcane devil that literally just turned my whole world upside down but there isn’t a single trace of him.
We reach the girls at a new table, farther back in the bar with all of our belongings in tow. “Hey Trish, are you okay?” Tanya and Jess ask, concerned.
“I’m good. I’m good,” I think I repeat it to try to convince myself that I have my shit together even though I’m befuddled beyond belief. “How much do I owe you guys?” I figure we have to clear up our tab with our previous server before we can start a new one.
“That was taken care of. Thanks ladies,” the server walks up behind me and hands me the bill, which I just stuff into my clutch, not even thinking about it. I’m still so caught off guard, I can feel my hands trembling.
“Taken care of? By who?” Cris asks, fearing the worst.
The server just smiles and begins to walk away. “Thanks for coming to Blush. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Ew! That pervert paid for our tab! This is not okay!” Jess exclaims, completely and utterly disgusted.
“What? It’s not like his money is dirty,” I don’t mean for it to sound like I’m defending him but I know that is exactly what it sounds like.
“How do you know that those girls weren’t prostitutes?” Jess whispers to us, her eyes darting around the perimeter of our booth, ensuring that no one else can hear her.
I can’t help it but I start giggling. I think it is because I’m nervous and I have no other way to try to cope with emotions flooding my body. Either that or it’s due to the fact that anything that has to do with sex, especially taboo sex, makes me giddy. Cris doesn’t like it. “What’s so funny? I thought you were offended by him?”
She sure knows how to shut me up immediately.
“Cris is right. I think we all are a little offended right now. Sex in public is wrong and it’s horrible we were all just sub
jected to it without consent,” Tanya states, directing it towards me I’m sure.
Boom! It suddenly hits me like two dicks slapping me across the face. My column! I have the perfect idea for my column! “I have to go!” I practically yell and gather the rest of my belongings, which consists of my faux fox collar. “I have to go!”
“Where?” Cris asks as her eyes fall. I know these nights mean the world to her but the thing with writing is, once you have an idea, you need to get it down on paper and as soon as possible. If you don’t, you run the risk of losing it forever and being confined to another enduring stint in the hell that is known as writer’s block.
“My column! I have a column due at 9:00 am tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday night?” Cris, Jess and Tanya all focus their attention on me now, forming some kind of a human polygraph test.
“It’s the September issue! The big one!” I start to sound like the one woman I resent the most, Jane. Gross!
“Okay, well, good luck!” Jess tries to be positive about my premature departure and sends me on my way with a kiss on the cheek.
Tanya follows suit and gives me a warm hug followed up by a kiss on the cheek as well. “Well, thanks for everything tonight! I hope we can do this again!”
I nod. “Definitely. Love you girls!” I turn to head towards the door but Cris stops me, forcing me a few feet behind the table so Jess and Tanya can’t hear her.
“Are you okay? What’s going on?” she asks, steadying herself on pins and needles around me.
I place my hands on her shoulders to reassure her. “I’m fine, mom, I promise.” I try to make the situation feel more light hearted but it flies right past her and she keeps the same stern gaze on me, never wavering for a moment.
“Seriously, Trish. What’s going on?” I love Cris for her compassion and ability to care so damn much but sometimes, especially in this instance, it is all too much for me to take. I just want her to get off my back and stop interrogating me. She needs these nights out more than I do and I know she will still have fun without me.
“I’m good. I promise. I just need you to believe me and to make sure that Tanya doesn’t take her top off tonight, okay?” I smile and thankfully, she reciprocates.
“I’m going to call you tomorrow,” she says, trying to provide me comfort but I know she is doing it for her own sanity more than anything.
I nod and plant a juicy one right on her cheek, leaving a crimson red lip stain behind. “Try to have fun!” I turn and hasten my way to the exit, cautiously moving through the hoards of elevated libido. The sexual tension in this place is palpable and I can feel it surge through my body at the simplest thought of him. I can’t help but scan the place, looking for him, yearning for him. I walk past the booth where he was previously situated but it is now occupied by a new group of partygoers, none of which even match up to him.
The cool, bitter, twilight air stings as it hits my warm flesh the instant I’m outside. The lineup to the bar is nearly three blocks long, which is unfortunate for anyone hoping to get inside with only a couple hours of ample party time left in the night, at least of the public variety. Favorably, the surplus of people results in cabs flocking the outside of the club, making it effortless to find a ride home. I find myself in the backseat of a cab, heading towards my apartment with butterflies in my stomach, something I haven’t experienced in decades. It’s mind-blowing how someone I knew so little about and who turned my stomach at the first sight of, was able to negate my previous assumptions of him with one small encounter. Never before have I been so enraptured by a man or anyone for that matter. He pulled something out of me that had been hidden for so long and it was absolutely terrifying.
During my ride home, I try to shake off the vision of him and his ability to render me powerless but it’s damn near impossible. I feel unsettled in the back of the cab, as though my skin is crawling but in a good way. Every neuron inside of my body is igniting, causing my entire body to burst into flames. I feel high and I feel euphoria.
I squeeze my clutch close to my chest and let out a deep sigh. Then, I remember the receipt from the evening and whip it out, feeling as though it is the only thing I possess that will allow me to treasure him. I withdraw the shriveled up paper when I see through the underside that there looks to be pen scribbling on it. I can’t unfold it fast enough but do my best to delicately pace myself as not to tear the paper. I hold the receipt up to my eyes and am able to read it through the intervals of the city streetlights. “Trish, let’s lock eyes again 212-555-1564.”
It is him. It has to be him.
The cab driver pulls up to my front stoop and I hand him a twenty, generously prompting him to keep the change, when in reality, I just can’t wait for the money back. When my feet hit the pavement, I can feel my body sway back and forth, as though I’m floating on air. I ponder if the lightheadedness is due to the alcohol or the fact that he has made me so wet between my legs, I’m suffering from dehydration. Nevertheless, I do my first-class effort of flying up the flights of stairs to the safety of my apartment, my head spinning, my body dripping and my fingers eager to write. For the first time in the longest time, I feel inspired, along with a smorgasbord of other emotions.
CHAPTER THREE
We don’t usually work at the magazine on Sundays, well I never work at the magazine to be honest, but this is a huge issue and we have to get it to print by midweek for the release the week after. I hate this time of the year. Star Struck is not a big magazine like People or Time. It’s not like I’m writing fashion columns or even a sex column in a big time magazine. I’m working for Star Struck. How are we supposed to plan what is going to happen this week or next month in Hollywood? Those actors are little shit disturbers and firecrackers – trying to plan their next move is like trying to dissect Houdini’s magic tricks. It is impossible.
Regardless, I was up all night working on my column and did I ever feel great about it. Everything poured of me with fluidity and ease, but then again, maybe that was just the booze. It was probably just the booze. I contemplated writing it slightly tipsy and if that was the best way to do it but I really had no choice. Leaving the bar at 1:00 am, cabbing back to my apartment took at least fifteen minutes and then I wasn’t left much time for writing, proof reading, editing and printing. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep and I was okay with that. Writing at night was easier, especially in the summertime. Having my apartment cool off at least ten degrees was nice and no longer was I worried about my fingers melting on my laptop. Plus, I had no idea how I was going to sleep with the sight of that sexpot stimulating that girl to orgasm just hours prior. Not only that, but the fact that he had put the moves on me and even left me his number astounded me. The thoughts were still fresh in my mind and his number was staring me in the face. For a long time and between bouts of writing, I highly debated texting and trying to meet him for a late night rendezvous. It wasn’t my style but then again, I had no idea what my style was after I found myself so taken by him. I was shaken to my core and forgot everything I had taught myself in regards to what my morals, values, wants and needs were. Last night, all I wanted was his rock hard body inside of me and it was hard for my brain to bypass that craving.
I sit on the subway and head towards the Upper East Side on this early Sunday morning for a meeting I could give two shits about. For such a trashy magazine, we work in such a beautiful part of the city. I always feel like it is wrong, like maybe we should be writing about celebrity gossip in a basement suite in Soho, Alphabet City or my apartment. I guess we work in a field that pays big bucks; I just wonder why none of that translated to money in my bank account or why I am forced to work in confinement.
The stale coffee in my hand is only a reminder with each sip of how tired and hungover I truly am. Yes, still freshly un-showered as well. Don’t judge me. I couldn’t pull myself away from my computer long enough to even have a snack, let alone take care of my hygiene. Someone made dry shampoo and deodorant for a reason
, right? That’s what I thought too.
The duration of the subway ride gives me plenty of time to ransack through my thoughts, which almost always leads to some sort of self-destruction for me. That overactive imagination thing is something I can do without, especially when my job is basically riding on the five papers in my hands that is my column.
I constantly keep thinking about him and when I do, I get nervous. I want to believe that the feeling of nausea is courtesy of my hangover and not due to butterflies, but to be honest, it has been so long since any man made me feel anything other than repulsion so it is almost a foreign feeling to me. I don’t know exactly what it is about him that has me so consumed. Maybe it’s his cerulean eyes or his perfectly groomed hair. It could also be his rippling chest, perfect smile, voluptuous lips and intoxicating aroma. He is just so brazen and so I-don’t-give-a-fuck. Just like me, or that’s how I like to perceive myself. Maybe him and I will eventually live in a perfect I-don’t-give-a-fuck-finger-fucking-under-a-table heaven? Is it weird that sounds so romantic to me? Probably. It might be the most comforting thought I have had in a while.
I whip out my phone from my purse, sending random forms of garbage debris cascading along the subway floor with it in true Tricia fashion, including the receipt from last night. After retrieving it from the floor, I stare at it and then my phone and continue to repeat this process until my eyes moving back and forth only adds fuel to the migraine fire in my brain. Is texting him before 9:00 am on a Sunday morning inappropriate? Then again, what he did last night was pretty inappropriate too so maybe he would appreciate my early morning unconventional flirtation efforts. I can feel the sweat pooling on my brow. If I am this nervous to text him, I can’t even grasp the thought of actually talking to him, going on a date with him, kissing him, tasting him, or fucking him.