by Jessica Wood
Two hours later, and midway through my second coat of paint, the intercom buzzer went off. I got up quickly and immediately felt a little lightheaded from the paint fumes. As I stumbled, I reached for the kitchen counter to regain my balance. But instead of grabbing on to the counter, my hand fell into the paint tray, causing the entire tray of gray-blue paint to flip over and splash all over me.
“Shit!” I exclaimed as paint dripped down my hair and arms. “That’s just great!”
The intercom buzzed again.
I ran over to the intercom and pressed it. “Hello?”
“FedEx,” said a man’s voice.
“Okay, I’ll be right down,” I said into the intercom. It must be the books I ordered from Amazon.
I ran to the kitchen sink to wash off the paint from my hands and face before frantically going through my things for a change of clothes. What a hot mess, I thought as I hastily threw on the first t-shirt I found.
Then the intercom buzzed again.
“Hello?” I called into it as I pressed the intercom again.
“Miss, are you coming down to get this package?”
“Yes! I’m really sorry. I’m coming!” I ran out the door and down the stairs to take my package.
“Thanks for waiting,” I smiled to the FedEx man when I got to the door. “I kind of had a paint incident,” I laughed.
The man looked me up and down and made a face before chuckling. “Looks like it. Have a good day.”
“You too!” I responded cheerfully. Why did he laugh? I thought I washed everything off.
I shrugged and then looked down at the package and smiled, quickly forgetting about the FedEx guy’s response. I loved getting packages in the mail, and I had been waiting for these books ever since I ordered them right before I left Iowa.
But when I walked past the glass doors of the bar, which faced the bottom of the staircase, I saw in the reflection what the FedEx man had laughed at. My hair was up in a disheveled ponytail and half covered with the gray-blue paint. It wasn’t until now that I noticed that I had put on the old baggy Mickey Mouse t-shirt that used to belong to my dad. He had worn it when it was cool in the ’70s, and it was now old and tattered. I still remembered the day I had found it a few years back when I was digging through my parents’ belongs. It was in a truck with a number of my dad’s things from college. The t-shirt had the type of softness that only came with a well-worn shirt, and when I pulled it out of the truck, I had caught the scent of my dad’s aftershave and memories of him flooded back to me.
I was thinking about the last time I saw my dad when I got to my front door. I turned the doorknob, and my heart sunk. The doorknob didn’t budge.
“Shit,” I said out loud. The door was locked. I dug through my pockets for my keys as needle pricks of panic spread through me.
Nothing. A wave of dread washed over me as the gravity of my dilemma finally hit me.
I hadn’t cried when I broke up with Chris for cheating on me. I hadn’t cried when I left Iowa—the only place I’ve ever known—two days ago. But as I sunk down to the ground and sat against my locked front door, I felt hot tears fall down my cheeks.
It was only my second day in a completely new city and I’d managed to lock myself out of my own apartment where I’d left my cell phone. I was over two thousand miles away from anyone I knew and I had no idea how to get around this city to find help. And the cherry on top of this mess-of-a-sundae—I was covered with gray-blue paint that was starting to dry and itch against my face, hair, and clothes.
Maybe moving to San Francisco was all a gigantic mistake, I thought grimly as feelings of regret filled me.
Just as despair seemed to have engulfed me completely, a thought popped into my consciousness. The bar! I could just borrow their phone!
Feeling slightly calmer, I pulled myself up from the floor, filled with a renewed sense of determination to overcome this first hurdle I’d encountered in this new city.
I headed back down the stairs and walked through the door into the bar. A pretty, busty brunette who was wiping down a nearby table looked up and saw me. She was wearing a body-forming t-shirt with “Damian’s” written across her chest. Wow, she has an amazing body, I instantly thought.
She smiled. “Hi, welcome to Damian’s. Table for one or would you like a seat by the bar?”
“Um, actually neither. I just moved in upstairs and accidentally locked myself out when I came down to get a package,” I explained as I gestured at the box I held in my hands. “Could I use your phone to call the landlord or a locksmith?”
“Oh no! That’s awful, hun,” she sympathized. “I’m sure you can use our phone. You can ask the owner of the bar. His name’s Damian. He’s over at the bar right now.”
“Thanks so much,” I said thankfully as relief washed over me. I turned and headed over to the bar, where I saw a man with his back to me wiping down the bar.
“Hi. Are you Damian?” I asked when I got to the bar.
“The one and only,” the man said as he turned around.
When I saw him, my heart stopped. I noticed the intricate arm-length tattoo down his left arm—the same tattoo that was on the guy in the stairwell.
“Oh it’s you,” I blurted out. Our eyes locked onto one another and I was transfixed by his piercing blue eyes that were illuminated against his dark, bronze complexion. I felt myself shift slightly as a ripple of anticipation overcame me. Was it even possible that he actually looked even more gorgeous than he had the other day in the stairwell?
So his name’s Damian.
CHAPTER FOUR
Damian
“HI. ARE YOU DAMIAN?” I HEARD a female voice ask from behind me. Something about her voice sounded familiar—familiar enough that I felt a twitch and hardness grow against my jeans. This must have been a good bang, I thought.
“The one and only,” I said seductively as I began to turn around to face her, ready to put on my charm. I was surprisingly free tonight, and I wouldn’t mind a Sunday fuck session. Sundays were great for that because there was less of a chance the girl would try to stay over due to the start of a work week. The thing I hated almost more than an attached girl was a girl who wanted to sleep over and cuddle. It was called a fuck session for a reason: it was reserved for fucking only. If I wanted a sleepover, I’d be a fucking girl with a mani and pedi obsession. Cuddle sessions were for those who wanted the big C, and I’d always been clear that I wasn’t one of those fools.
I turned around to see who it was. To my surprise, it was that girl from the other day—the one with the stain on her shirt, the one the hot blonde had felt threatened by, the one who I had imagined had those delicious breasts that made me come the other night.
“Oh it’s you.” I saw her eyes move down my body as she took me in. I smiled, knowing what she must have been thinking.
“Yes, it’s me. At your service.” I gave her my signature smile. “I see my reputation precedes me.” I knew she must have heard about me, the infamous owner of this self-titled bar. Maybe tonight I wouldn’t be just imagining how those breasts taste. Maybe tonight I’d get to taste them and more. I felt the hardness grow even more.
“What reputation?” Confusion filling her eyes.
“I—” For a brief second, I was left speechless as I felt the wind get knocked out of me. Yes, I, Damian Castillo, am speechless. What the fuck.
What reputation? That was the last thing I’d thought she’d say and certainly the last thing I’d wanted her to say. The growth inside my jeans disappeared and I looked at her, at a loss for words.
Who is this girl? I thought as I cocked my head and surveyed her—with clothes on this time. It wasn’t until then that I noticed that she looked like a mess—a hot mess, but a mess nonetheless. She was wearing some old t-shirt that looked like a mangy dog had treated it like it was his favorite bone. Her light brown hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail, several loose strands falling down her face. There was what looked like gray paint all o
ver her hair and clothes, like she had just taken a shower in it. I instantly wondered what that’d look like—paint drizzling down her naked body—and my hardness immediately returned.
“Hello?” She broke through my thoughts. I blinked and saw her looking at me expectantly.
“What?”
“Um, you stopped responding. Are you okay?” She gave me a puzzled look.
“Oh. Right, I was just—what can I get for you?” I looked away from her, trying to think clearly.
“Sorry, I don’t need a drink, but can I use your phone?”
“Oh?” That’s a new pick-up line.
“Yeah, I need to call the landlord or a locksmith.”
“Oh.” Okay, so maybe that wasn’t a pick-up line. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, I accidentally locked myself out of my place.” She looked at me with an anxious look in her hazel eyes and I immediately felt a compulsion to help her.
“Shit, that sucks.” I grabbed the cordless phone from under the bar table and handed it to her. “Do you have Roger’s number?”
“How do you know Roger?” she asked and gave me a hesitant look.
I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not some psycho. He’s the owner of the entire building complex, including the bar. So he’s my landlord too. Plus, I also live in the building. Unit 605, in case you’re wondering.” I smiled at her suggestively.
“Oh sorry.” Her expression relaxed. “I don’t have his number with me, so that’d be great if you could give me his number,” she said gratefully, completely ignoring my subtle invitation.
She must have a boyfriend, I told myself. There’s no way she would brush me off like this if she were single.
“Not a problem.” I dialed Roger’s number and handed the phone to her. I smiled at her—not my signature smile I normally flashed to a hot girl, but a genuine smile. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something about her that was comforting and real.
“Thanks.” She took the phone and smiled back at me. There was a twinkle in her eyes and the way her lips moved when she talked that drew me in. It was hard for me to look away, and I felt a twitch in my pants in agreement.
I watched her as she waited for Roger to answer, her hand absentmindedly removing some dried paint from her hair. I observed her in amusement. She seemed completely comfortable in her skin—something I almost never saw in girls. At least not the girls I usually met, and certainly not when they were in front of me.
“Is he there?” I asked as I watched her.
She shook her head. “I’m getting his voicemail,” she whispered to me.
“Just leave him a message. He’s usually prompt about responding.”
After she left a message, she handed me the phone with a look of despair on her face.
“Hey, crying’s not allowed in my bar,” I teased playfully, hoping to cheer her up.
“I’m not going to cry,” she responded defensively, but I could tell she didn’t believe herself either. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I’m not usually rude like that.”
“Don’t be. You seem like you’re having a bad day. Can I get you a drink? On the house.”
She smiled at me. “Thanks. You’re sweet.”
I chuckled. “Trust me. There’s nothing sweet about me.”
She cocked her head. “I’m pretty sure that the last time I checked I could think for myself,” she shot back at me, “and right now, you’re sweet.”
I laughed. Damn, she’s feisty. I found myself instantly turned on by her.
“Plus,” she continued, “weren’t you the same guy who helped me carry my ridiculously large suitcases up the stairs the other night? That’s what I’d call sweet.”
She flashed me another smile, and I felt something flip at the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the hardness in my pants.
“You’ve been warned,” I teased as I ignored the unfamiliar feelings that whirled inside me.
“I’ll take my chances,” she said with a daring smile. “Besides, what’s life without a little bitter and sweet?”
I laughed again and found myself liking her more with each passing minute.
“So what will it be?” I grabbed an empty glass and motioned to the rows of liquor bottles behind me. “What’s your favorite drink?”
“I like Sex on the Beach.”
I wouldn’t mind some sex on the beach with you, I thought as I eyed her. “Coming right up.”
“Thanks, Damian,” she said gratefully as she placed the box she was holding on the bar and sat herself down on a stool in front of me.
“So what’s your name?” I poured the vodka, peach schnapps, grapefruit juice, and grenadine syrup in the glass before adding in a scoop of ice. “I didn’t catch it the other day.”
“Alexis. Alexis Blythe.”
“Pretty name.” I handed her the Sex on the Beach. For a moment, our eyes locked and I realized that I wanted to know more about her.
“So are you new to the building, Alexis? I know I would have remembered you if I’d seen you before,” I flirted.
“Yeah, I moved in the other day when you helped me with the suitcases.” She took a sip of her drink, again dismissing my flirtatious comment. I watched—feeling slightly frustrated—as her delicate pink lips moved around the straw, and immediately, I felt a jolt of excitement rush down below.
“Oh, I thought you had just come back from a trip or something. Was that all you had?” I thought girls had a shitload of stuff.
“Yeah. I didn’t keep too many things when I moved.” There was something in her voice that made me wonder what she’d meant by that.
“How come your boyfriend didn’t help you move?” I deliberately asked to test the waters.
I thought I saw a pained expression flash across her face, but when I studied her face, it was gone.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said almost curtly.
“Oh.” I was surprised by her response. I felt an odd mixture of relief and confusion twist inside me. I was relieved that she was single but confused that she hadn’t responded to my advances like any other single woman would. “So where did you move from?” I tried to ignore the sting to my ego.
“Iowa.”
“Damn, that must be a huge change.” I looked at her and found myself wanting to figure her out. There’s something about this girl.
She laughed lightly. “Yeah. I have to admit, I’m definitely experiencing some culture shock.”
“I’ll bet. Well, welcome to San Francisco. If you have any questions, just ask.”
“Thanks. I may take you up on that sometime.”
“And if you ever want a fun night, just ask.” I gave her my signature wicked smile.
She looked at me with furrowed brows. “Excuse me?”
I chuckled. “You know what I said.” I shot her a wink.
“That’s a bit presumptuous of you.”
From her expression, she appeared to be offended. That’s odd. “Is it?” I challenged. “I see the way you look at me.”
Then her reaction again surprised me. She rolled her eyes and pushed her half-finished Sex on the Beach towards me on the bar counter. “Okay, thanks for the drink. I’m going to go back upstairs. Can you tell Roger when he calls that I’m waiting by my door?”
“Hey—come on. Don’t be like that,” I said, trying to stop her from leaving. “I just thought you were interested.”
She looked at me with a look I couldn’t comprehend. She shook her head but didn’t say a word.
I knew that if I didn’t say something now she might never talk to me again, and that was something I knew I didn’t want to happen. “No. Stay,” I heard myself blurt out. “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I tried to explain. Shit, why am I apologizing?
“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just surprised that you said that to me. I don’t even know you.”
“It must be because you’re from the Midwest. I haven’t had a girl surprised by wh
at I say before.”
She glared at me, and from the look on her face, I knew I had offended her again.
“What does being from the Midwest have to do with anything? And are you saying you pull this act all the time?”
Damn. Why is she so upset? “Well, it’s just that you’re kind of innocent and not like most girls I’ve met. And it’s not an act.” I felt a bit caught off guard, which was uncharacteristic of me.
“So you’re saying you’re always sweet one second and a creeper gigolo the next?”
“Gigolo? Hey, I take offense to that,” I said with a laugh, trying to lighten up the mood. “I don’t get paid for showing a girl a fun time. I like having fun on my own terms.”
“You win. You’re right about one thing.”
Booyah! The conversation is back on track! “What’s that?”
“You’re not sweet at all. You were just trying to take advantage of the situation when you offered me a drink.” Her voice was sharp and cutting. “And don’t you have a girlfriend?” She looked at me in disgust.
“I—” I was again caught off guard by her. “Well shit. Way to bust my balls, Alexis.” I felt a need to defend myself, and this was a feeling I wasn’t used to. “First of all, I don’t have a girlfriend. That blonde you saw on the stairs the other day was just some random girl I fucked. Second of all, when I offered you the drink just now, I was honestly trying to be nice. You seemed really upset and you’re covered in dried paint, so I figured you were in need of a drink.”
I paused and looked at her. She was now silent and watching me. It looked like it was her turn to be caught off guard.
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” Her tone was no longer sharp. There was no hint of disgust or hostility in her voice anymore. There was a spark of curiosity in her eyes. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt happy that she was no longer upset with me. Why do I even give a shit?
Against my better judgment, I gave her a warm smile. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh,” she simply said, and nothing else. I could tell she was thinking things through. Then she looked into my eyes, her expression softening, and she smiled back at me. A cute, tiny dimple above the left side of her lips appeared, and I felt instantly drawn to her.