She places a gentle hand on my shoulder before making her way to another corner of the room.
The instant she’s gone, I turn to Talon, flushed and speechless.
“Are you starstruck right now?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Um, yes,” I finally manage. “That’s Lindee Harris. Lindee Harris.”
Talon laughs. “I know who it is.”
“She’s an architectural legend,” I say. “Gold and Harris are the Simon and Garfunkel of the modern architectural movement.”
“Which one’s Simon and which one’s Garfunkel?” he asks. “Answer carefully.”
I give him a playful nudge. “Stop. You know what I mean. I’m too flustered right now to come up with a better analogy. How’d you get tickets to this on such short notice anyway? I saw a sign up front that said tonight was sold out.”
“Made a phone call to one of my father’s old friends …”
We make our way down a hallway, toward another section of the show which has small exhibits set up like various rooms, all of them showcasing the importance of the marriage of functional design and interior style.
“I’m geeking out so hard right now,” I say as I release my hand from his arm and grab my phone to snap a few pictures.
He stands back, hands digging in the pockets of his jeans, his eyes full of amusement as he watches my inner design nerd take the wheel.
When I’m done, he checks his watch. “We’ve only got a few more minutes then we need to head out. I got us a spot at the Ultra lounge.”
“Wait. Ultra? As in ultra-exclusive, impossible-to-get-into Ultra?” I ask. It’s not that I’m impressed by these sorts of things, but I’ve heard all about this place and the man must have sold the rights to his firstborn child to get us a spot there.
“That’s the one.” Talon hooks his arm around my waist, steering us to the next exhibit, leaning down to whisper into my ear. “Told you it’d be the best date of your life.”
* * *
There’s a reason the Ultra lounge is impossible to get into.
Plush seats that swallow you whole.
Celebrity DJ imported from Sweden.
Top shelf liquor.
Cozy, ambient lighting.
Dimmed crystal chandeliers that sparkle just right.
First class service.
It isn’t shoulder to shoulder, overly crowded, or full of college students living their best lives … it’s chill, peaceful, and ambient.
A world away.
“Ms. Davenport. Mr. Gold,” our cocktail server says, depositing our drinks on glass coasters on the table before us. “I’ll be back to check on you in a while. Enjoy.”
She struts off and Talon hands me my drink—an Aperol spritzer.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his tumbler against my martini glass a second later.
We’re surrounded by some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, velvet everything, and the kind of music that puts you in an upscale trance—but it’s the strangest thing.
All I see is him.
“How’s it taste?” he asks after I take a sip of my drink.
I let the bitter orange and sweet champagne bubbles pop on my tongue before swallowing. “Like magic. Yours?”
“Best Korean ginseng whiskey I’ve ever had.” He winks, taking a small sip.
“This place is incredible, Talon,” I say, peering around the room. My attention stops by the DJ booth, where some woman in a white dress is leaning in to request a song. “That woman looks familiar. I swear I saw her on that perfume billboard on Ocean Drive. Is that … is that …?”
I don’t finish my thought because her name escapes me, but that face—I’d recognize that face anywhere because it’s everywhere.
And now it’s here.
In the flesh.
“Probably.” Talon shrugs, not so much as attempting to follow my gaze. “So …”
“Yes?”
“I told you a little about me back at the gallery, about my family,” he says. “Tell me about yours. You’re from the Midwest, right?”
“Missouri,” I say, reaching for the wooden drink menu on the table. “And I highly suggest we find a more enthralling topic of conversation.”
“Your parents, tell me about them,” he says, ignoring my suggestion.
“My mom isn’t an interior designer and my dad isn’t a famous architect,” I say with a wink. “That’s about all I can say about them.”
The music pulses behind us, slow and steady, but my heart is rapid-firing. Talking about my family always gets me worked up, but I’m trying to keep this moment light. Discussing those two will only weigh it down.
“Come on,” he says, half-laughing. “I’m being serious. I want to know all about you, where you came from, what got you here.”
I take a generous sip of my spritzer and fold the drink menu before pushing it aside. “I don’t usually talk about that. With anyone.”
“I don’t talk about my father either,” he says. “But honestly, it felt kind of good talking about him with you earlier.”
I exhale. It’s been years since I’ve talked about my parents, but maybe it could do me some good to unload some of that baggage? Besides, it’s not like my crazy family is going to send him running. It’s not like he’s interviewing the future mother of his child and trying to ensure his future prodigy won’t be tainted with wacko blood.
I decide to give him the condensed version.
“I’ve never met my father,” I say. “And my mother lives on some commune in Idaho that doesn’t believe in electronics and like to pretend they’re still living in the pioneer days.”
Talon almost chokes on his whiskey.
“Since the age of ten, I was shipped from family member to family member until I was thirteen and my mom’s brother and his wife took me in.” I take another drink because I’m going to need it. “I spent my teenage years living in the strictest household in the entire state of Missouri by an aunt and uncle who were convinced I was the spawn of Satan because they caught me listening to Selena Gomez once.”
“That nuts, huh?”
I lift my palm. “Hand to God. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
I leave out a few other details, things that are neither here nor there and not worth repeating—at least not now.
“So how’d you end up here?” he asks.
“Aunt Bette,” I say. “Though technically she’s not my aunt. She’s my uncle’s wife’s aunt. But she needed a live-in caretaker, and she offered to take me in and pay for my schooling if I lived with her. And so I did.”
“You happy you did?” he asks. “Can’t imagine you’re getting the full college experiencing living off-campus.”
“I couldn’t care less about the full college experience,” I say, taking a swig. It’s mostly true. Sometimes I look at people who are able to live so carelessly and carefree and I get that pang of jealousy, but then I look at Aunt Bette—who isn’t even technically part of my family and yet she treats me like I’m her own. Out of everyone, she’s the truest family member I’ve ever known.
“Your aunt was telling me to make sure you had a good time tonight,” he says.
I laugh into my martini glass. “Of course she was. First time I met her, she gave me a peach wine cooler and sat me down to relive her glory days as a strip club manager.”
“No shit?”
“I shit you not.”
“Just checking in,” our cocktail waitress appears out of nowhere. “Can I get you anything?”
We order another round—plus shots—and settle in, our bodies warm and pliable and melting against the impossibly soft velvet seating we share.
She returns within minutes, placing our drinks in a perfect row, and Talon hands me one of the shot glasses.
“To our date,” he says, making a toast. “Hopefully the first of many more to come.”
Our glasses clink and I toss mine back. It
burns like fire on the way down and I wipe a rogue drop from the corner of my mouth with my pinky. Talon watches my every move, and now that I think about it, he’s hardly taken his eyes off me all night.
It’s funny … when I look at him tonight, I don’t see the arrogant quarterback, the man obsessed with screwing me. I don’t see the cruel Adonis with the corded steel muscles and permanent scowl.
I see a man: a devilishly attractive man who knows how to craft a night I’m never going to forget as long as I live.
The DJ spins a new track, this one slower, more repetitious, undeniably sensual. Without thinking, I find myself staring at his mouth. My throat turns dry as I try to swallow the anxious lump that forms. The flurry of butterflies in my middle are quickly overpowered by the ricochet of my heart hammering against my ribcage.
Leaning back, Talon settles into the sofa we share before casually wrapping his arm around the backrest. His body heat radiates onto me and his citrus-woods cologne fills my lungs. My tongue zings with the anticipation of his cinnamon taste.
He’s going to kiss me again.
I feel it.
The buildup …
The anticipation …
Drawing in a careful breath, I pace my whirring thoughts and try to relax, try to place myself in this moment where the outside world doesn’t exist, where yesterday is irrelevant and tomorrow is unwritten.
The song changes again—which marks four minutes of Talon not making a move on me. I glance over at him and he shoots a half-smirk that sets my nerve endings ablaze. With as subtle an effort as I can muster, I bite my lower lip, thinking maybe a hint might move things along … but four minutes pass and a new song plays.
Talon clears his throat, stretching his arms behind his head and getting re-situated.
“I was thinking,” he begins to say, “do you—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish.
Icy cold liquid spills down the side of my head, dripping down my shoulder, and careening down the front of my white sweater. In the ambient lighting, I can’t tell if it’s purple, red, or blue, but it’s definitely not water.
“Oh my God!” A woman shrieks behind me. “I’m so sorry!”
Talon is quick to rise and even quicker to my side. “Jesus, Irie. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, still in shock. He shoots the woman a look, his lips ready as if he’s about to say something, and then our server appears with a handful of cloth napkins.
“These heels,” the woman says, pointing at her feet. “Still breaking them in. Clumsy me.”
I turn to take a look at her for myself, only to find the coyest of smiles on her mouth.
She did this on purpose.
“Bullshit, Alicia,” Talon says, confirming my suspicions. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
The Alicia chick scoffs before redirecting her attention to me. “I said it was an accident.”
Talon snatches one of the napkins from the server, dabbing it against the sticky sweet mess that has become my ruined curls.
“It’s okay,” I say, taking it from him. “I’ve got it.”
“I’d be happy to get some new drinks going for you all,” the server says, but Talon doesn’t hear it. The music is pumping and he’s going off on the girl who spilled the drink.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I say, but no one hears me. People stare as I make my way to the back of the lounge, but I do my best to ignore them. Once inside the rest room, I take a look at my reflection and the splash of cosmo-pink liquor across my white top. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, which is already beginning to reek of dried, sugary alcohol, and try to comb it into place but with little success, so I grab a hair tie from my bag and wrap it into a low, messy bun.
It’s not perfect, but it just might salvage the night—and I want it to.
I’ve been enjoying myself and I’m not quite ready to go home yet.
I return to our reserved sofa a few minutes later.
Talon’s already signing the check.
“They’re not kicking us out, are they?” I ask.
He glances up, placing the pen down. “Nah. Figured we could use a change of scenery after that … incident.”
“So you knew her?” I ask, turning to point to a girl who is clearly long gone.
His nose twitches. “Unfortunately.”
On that note, we leave Ultra. I don’t ask any more questions about Alicia and he doesn’t say another word, and it’s for the best. Bullies are only powerful when you give them power over you.
She doesn’t get to ruin this night.
“Mind if we walk around a bit?” he asks once we’re outside.
“Of course not.”
A gush of tepid wind blows my damp hair over my shoulder as we stroll the downtown sidewalks of Pacific Valley, but I brush it away. We don’t get more than a couple of blocks before Talon slips his hand in mine and pulls me against him.
“You must be freezing in that,” he says glancing at my damp sweater before nodding toward a retail store ahead. “Why don’t we get you something clean?”
Before I have a chance to respond, he takes my hand and leads me through the double doors of an upscale women’s clothing boutique—one I wouldn’t have dreamt of setting foot in before.
“It’s fine,” I say. I’d rather be damp and cold than slap down a line like, “I can’t afford anything in here,” because I know what he’ll do and I don’t need him to do that. Plus it’s late. The sign on the door indicates that they close in fifteen minutes. I don’t want to be that customer.
“Don’t be stubborn. Just grab something you like. My treat,” he says. “If I hadn’t have taken you to Ultra, you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.”
I stand in the middle of a store filled with shoes and bags and jackets that cost more than some people make in a month, paralyzed with indecision.
“Fine,” Talon says. “I’ll make it easy for you.”
He walks to a rack and plucks a leopard-print cashmere sweater off the rack—medium—a safe choice. A correct one too.
“You like it?” he asks.
I reach for the price tag but he yanks it away.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” With that, Talon carries it to the cash register, where a short-haired woman with hair the color of the unstained parts of my current sweater gives us a curious gaze. When she begins to box it up, Talon tells her to stop. “She’ll wear it out.”
The woman cuts the tags and begins to hand the sweater to him, but he steps back, pointing at me.
“Please show her to a changing room,” he says.
The white-haired woman leads me to a small room with a curtain for a door and hands me the priceless sweater before disappearing. Tearing off my wet, ruined top, I tug the new one over my head and adjust it into place. Next, I manage to find a spare elastic in the bottom of my purse and twist my hair into a low, messy bun. On top of that, I happen to spot a tube of vintage red lipstick in a side pocket. I almost swipe it across my lips when I stop myself. No man in his right mind wants to kiss a girl and walk away looking like a clown.
Giving myself a final once-over in the mirror, I rub my palms against the sugar-soft material. If cotton candy clouds were sweaters, this is exactly what they’d feel like.
I will cherish this sweater for the rest of my life, I’m sure of it. Long after it’s out of style, it’ll still be hanging from a velvet hanger in the back of my closet, a souvenir of this night and everything it entailed.
I place the lipstick back in my purse along with the old sweater, and then I step out from behind the curtain. Talon’s seated in a white leather arm chair, reading something on his phone, when he glances up, wasting no time drinking me in from bottom to top.
“Ready?” I ask.
He rises, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“All right. Good as new.” He takes my hand and leads me outside, pulling me against him the instant our shoes hit the pavement.
/> He’s smooth.
And amazingly, I’m kind of okay with this …
There’s nothing wrong with allowing myself to have a good time with him. None of it means I have to sleep with him. All he asked for was a date. Nothing more, nothing less.
I breathe him in as we walk beneath a starry sky, downtown block after downtown block. Soon we’re surrounded by the tail lights of taxi cabs and Lyfts, the humming and whirring of diesel buses, and the aggressive purr of locals in their luxury sports cars.
It’s a symphony of sights, sounds, and smells—one I’ll forever remember long after tonight, I’m sure.
The last date I was on happened at a little café on 9th Street. We drove separately. Endured an hour of stifled, forced conversation. Paid separately. Then went our separate ways. Even the drama major I dated took me on the most unimaginative, zero-effort style dates. Most of the time his idea of the perfect night together was binge-watching Game of Thrones while I sucked him off and he hastily returned the favor. Though I will say that one time we role-played Khal Drogo and Daenerys was kind of hot …
But still. It wasn’t a date. It never was with him.
This date is barely a couple of hours old and already it blows every other date I’ve ever been on completely out of the water.
“You’re quiet,” Talon says after another block. He squeezes my hand. “What are you thinking about?”
If I tell him, I’ll be showing my hand. I’ll be laying down all of my cards and giving him full advantage.
But what the hell.
Maybe Aunt Bette is right.
Maybe I should live a little.
“I’m just thinking … that I’m surprised at how easy it is to be with you,” I say.
Hate the Game Page 9