by Fox, Logan
Trust my dad to get an office at the top floor of a fifty-story building; this elevator ride’s been going on forever.
Doesn’t matter how close I stand though, I can’t catch a whiff of him. I toy with the laces on my vest, glancing at Joshua from the corner of my eye. He’s put on his suit jacket — the suit’s black, his shirt is black, and that tie is black.
“You have a funeral today?”
He frowns, looks at me, and then hurriedly faces forward again. One hand goes in his pocket, the other tightens around his black briefcase.
Black, black, black. Ugh.
“Why, do I look sad?”
“You look like you just came back from one,” I say.
He looks down at himself, frown deepening before he forces all expression from his face. “You look like a gypsy,” he mutters.
I laugh. “Just what I was going for.” I dart forward, yanking his hand from his pocket and turning it over. “I can read palms, too. Wanna know what yours says?”
His hand is surprisingly warm, deliciously dry, and so, so smooth. I trail my index finger over the creases in his palm, reveling in the feel of his satiny skin.
So he obviously doesn’t work out — not with such soft hands — but he also doesn’t look like he eats enough.
His hand twitches in mine as if he wants to pull away and then reconsiders. I don’t look up at him — I’m watching that bulge in his pants to see if I can get a reaction out of him. A quick glance to the side; I have another twenty-three floors to go.
The race is on.
Joshua
Holly is staring at my hand like she really can see something written in those familiar lines. Which she can’t, obviously — otherwise she wouldn’t be touching me. Because trust me, if she knew what I was thinking?
Her father really shouldn’t let her out of the house wearing clothes like that. The fabric is so thin it’s almost translucent. There’s another tattoo on her thigh — something serpentine like a dragon or a fish or something — that shines through the fabric.
This close, her smell permeates the air. That sharp, exotic miasma of before is still there, but something softer — something floral — weaves through it now, as well.
How will that smell change when I push aside that skirt of hers? When I spread her legs and run my thumb over her sex?
She chews on her gum, her lips parting as she exhales. I can feel that breath on my palm, that warm air fluttering over my wrist.
Can smell watermelon gum on her breath.
God, would she taste like watermelon, if I were to push her up against the elevator wall and grab hold of her jaw and just—?
“Four kids? Rock on, dude.”
“What? Four?” I twist my hand, trying to see where this outright lie has been etched onto my skin.
“Two marriages. Your love line is quite twisty. Means you’re a passionate lover.”
Her eyes flicker up. They’re such a dark brown, they almost merge seamlessly with her pupils. Gleaming out between her alabaster skin and that ludicrously multicoloured hair, she seems — in that moment — elflike in her beauty.
Yeah, I read Lord of the Rings. I won’t lie: put a pair of pointy ears on her, you got yourself a very lucky geek.
An elf that chews watermelon gum…
I shift and have to start thinking hard about valuation comps. My eyes flash to the side: fifteen floors to go.
Dear God, what did I do to deserve this punishment?
Holly
Why the hell is he staring at me like that? Do I have something in my teeth, my hair, up my nose? Nice eyes though… I can see his contact lenses — a tiny, almost invisible line that extends just outside of those chocolately-brown irises.
He tugs his hand away and drops his eyes a second later. Was it something I said? That thing about the kids? Maybe he’s sterile… shit, wouldn’t that suck?
The elevator chimes and opens for us. Well, either way, I didn’t get a rise out of him. It was probably his paperwork that got him that hard, not me. He seems the type that spends more time at my dad’s office than he does at home. Probably why my dad seems to like him so much — and why my dad knows him well enough to let his little pumpkin out with an employee.
Then again, I’m sure Daddy knows where the guy stays.
II
Catsup & Tequila
Joshua
The restaurant comes into view. It’s cold out, but luckily it isn’t snowing like last night. I was drenched by the time I got on the subway to get home. And I hadn’t dried off by the time I got home, either.
Holly’s been quiet ever since I pulled my hand away.
What, was I supposed to let her keep holding onto me while I played out another visceral fantasy in my head of what I’d rather be doing to her?
I clear my throat, holding open the restaurant door for her to walk inside. She seems a bit surprised at this, glancing at me with a frown, and then pushes past with a twist of her lips.
Did I do something to upset her? She seems so stiff now, those bony shoulders held back and her chin up several defiant inches.
Probably just as well. I mean, who just grabs a complete stranger’s hand like that? Has she never heard of personal space? Did her father never—
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter.” It’s the usual guy — I think his name is Michael — that comes to greet us. “Good to see you again, Sir. Table for two?” the maître d’ asks, and then does a double take when he catches sight of Holly.
Yeah, I’m sure we make quite the odd pair, with my apparently funereal suit and Holly’s the peacock haired gypsy. Not to mention the obvious age difference of at least what, ten-twelve years? It’s impossible to tell, with her. At first, I’d thought she couldn’t be older than twenty, but when she was holding my hand and those dark eyes had flashed up to mine, I thought maybe she was closer to twenty-five? That would make us only—
“Hey, guy, he’s asking you a question.” Holly’s voice snaps me out of that line of thought.
God, I’ve been staring at her confounded hair again. “Uh, what?”
“We are fully booked tonight, sir.” This with another calculating glance at Holly. “Could I seat you at the bar until a table—?”
“They got nuts at the bar?” Holly cuts in.
The maître d’ gives her a faint nod, and she spins around to me. Her necklace — something pagan-looking — takes a second to settle around her swan neck.
“Good with you, Josh?”
Josh?
“Uh, sure. Though, how long—”
“Ugh, does it matter?”
She seems to have forgotten her earlier reservations about touching me. That dainty hand of hers darts out, snatches up my wrist, and tugs me along after her.
We have to detour when the maître d’ rushes out in front of us to lead the way.
The bar looms up ahead — it’s darkly lit, but with the amount of burnished gold decorating the counter and chairs it gleams like a golden ring catching firelight. Christmas lights glitter from the ceiling beams and along the edge of the bar. A massive Christmas tree sits in one corner, almost as bedazzling as the restaurant with its golden baubles and angel.
Holly comes to a stop. “Wow.”
I barrel into her, almost knocking her tiny frame over. On instinct, I grab her shoulders, tugging her up straight as I regain my balance. My briefcase falls to the floor, striking the dull yellow tiles just right and springing open. Papers, pens, and a packet of breath mints scatter over the floor.
“Fuck, sorry Josh.” She yanks her shoulders free — in my shock, I’d forgotten to let go of her — and falls to her knees, dragging my papers closer with a jangle of bracelets.
I go down beside her, our hands knocking against each other as we try to scoop together the breath mints.
She giggles, plucking her hands away and gathering up my pens instead. We look up, spot a pen that’s rolled under a nearby table, and knock heads turning to look at each other.
Holly
Shit, that hurt. I press fingertips to my forehead where Josh’s head connected with mine, trying to grin through the stab of pain. It’s gone in an instant, but the smile that crept up onto his lips stays behind.
What’s he finding so funny, exactly?
I scowl at him, but this just makes that smile inch up.
It’s a nice smile, but for fuck’s sake, I’m on my hands and knees here and this isn’t getting food in my belly any sooner. I’m already lightheaded and now possibly concussed too. I scramble over the floor, shove my hand under the table where his pen rolled, mouth an apology up to the startled couple above me, and stand. I brush my clothes off, watching Mr. Prim and Proper as he does the same.
“Bar?” I ask, handing him the pen.
“Bar.” He sounds like he’s looking forward to having a drink. Or nine.
We get there, but then I remembered why I’d pulled up short in the first place.
“Hey, can we sit over there?” I ask, tugging on the host’s sleeve.
The man pulls his arm away, giving me a scandalized frown before his eyes slide away to where I’m pointing.
“Certainly,” he murmurs. He changes direction, and I grin over my shoulder at Josh.
“I see why they call it the Golden Goose.” I point at the alcove we’re headed towards. “Looks like a gigantic freakin’ egg, doesn’t it?”
Josh looks past me, to the golden-bright alcove we’re headed to. He manages a nod, and his eyes start glazing over again. That seems to be happening a lot, tonight.
If I didn’t know any better — like if he wasn’t wearing that crow-black suit and that slicked back hair — I would’ve thought him a dreamer. He definitely seems to be slipping into sporadic daydreams.
Maybe he’s just tired.
Joshua
I set my briefcase by my feet, perching awkwardly on the baroque seats nestled into the golden alcove. Holly plops down beside me, making me bounce once before her weight settles. She has a wide grin on her face as her fingertips skim down the surface of the seat.
“Ooh, soft,” she mumbles, falling back into the seat with a sigh. Her dark eyes flash to me, a strip of pastel-purple hair sliding free from her braid and falling across her cheek. “God, you look uncomfortable. That spine of yours bend at all?”
I purse my lips, realize I probably look like a prude, and shift back until my back touches the seat.
I’ve been to the Golden Goose more times than I can remember, but I’ve never been seated in these alcoves. Then again, I’d never been here in company before.
“The usual, sir?” Michael asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I turn to Holly, who has her head tipped up to study the golden curve of the wall behind us. “And for you?”
She doesn’t reply. Her mouth is slightly open, her braid shifting as she twists her head left and right to study — I assume — the play of light on the golden paint.
“Holly? Holly!”
“Yo, what?” She straightens, grins at me, and then focuses on the maître d’. “Ooh, yes, a gigantico plate of fries. With catsup. And… get me a Millers.”
“Are you old enough to drink?” I whisper, leaning in close so the maître d’ doesn’t hear me.
Holly’s eyes fix on me with wide-eyed incredulity. “Am I old enough to drink?” she repeats, unnecessarily loud, and then barks out a laugh.
I throw Michael an embarrassed glance, but he’s a stony-faced as ever, hands folded at his waist as he waits for Holly to confirm her order.
Holly snorts and tugs something into her lap. Shockingly, it’s a bag. I hadn’t thought she even had one with her since it blended so seamlessly with her shabby clothing. She plucks out a student ID, waves it in my face and then in the general direction of the maître d’, and shoves it back inside with ill-concealed grace.
“You know what, make that two tequilas and a Miller.” She gives me a brief, fiery glower. “I’m suddenly real fucking thirsty.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Michael says, taking this all in stride as he disappears into the restaurant.
“Ma’am,” Holly murmurs, snorting. She turns to me, shaking her head. “Am I old enough? Seriously?”
“You just—I wasn’t sure—” I cut off, realizing that I sound like an idiot.
“Man, you got some nerve.” Holly props her head on the back of the couch, staring up. I glance up — just in case I’ve missed something — but it’s the same golden curve as before.
Anyway, I prefer looking at her.
Sitting like this, inches away from me, her smell is intoxicating. And the light shining on her skin makes her seem more ephemeral than before. She looks copy-and-pasted on the seat as if she’d been taken from a faded color photograph and photoshopped onto the Golden Goose’s interior.
With her head thrown back like that, the curve of her neck is perfectly silhouetted against the golden wall beside her. Her pointed chin, her long nose. Her pouty lips.
Her hair looked so soft when it slid into her face. Would it feel like that to touch? Slippery and dry… I have an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and grab a shank of it, that same section that’s nestling against her ear, to see how it contrasts with my skin when I twine it through my fingers.
I force my eyes away, aware that I’m staring again, but they refuse to move past her legs. Her dress drapes between them, outlining their shape. Her knees are apart in a very unladylike way. That fabric clings to her as if a static charge has built up, cleaving the dress to her skin. Even the slope of her stomach and that even stretch of skin by her pussy is outlined.
“Take a selfie, it lasts longer.” Holly’s voice tugs my eyes away.
Heat flashes into my cheeks, and I sit forward in a rush.
But not fast enough. Her arm snakes out, sliding around my shoulders and tugging me back.
She obviously has no issues with personal space.
Before I have time for more than a strangled protest, Holly presses her lips to my cheek, points her phone at our faces, and snaps a picture.
Then her warmth is snatched away as she slides to the side and dips her head, bringing up the photo to show me.
She’s perfectly photogenic, of course. I look like I’ve swallowed a bee.
Holly
“Gimme your number, I’ll send it to you.”
“What?” His voice sounds strangled. “No, delete it.”
“You’re embarrassed of me?” I throw him a shocked look.
Josh shakes his head, stammering in his effort to get out a denial. But before he manages this, our drinks arrive.
“Yeah, finally.” I sit forward, bumping knees with him.
He’s one of those guys that can take up an entire bench with the way they spread their legs. It’s always fascinated me when guys do that. I mean, don’t they feel self-conscious about their junk being exposed? I mean, I’ve never gotten the hang of crossing my legs — fuck knows, my mom tried for years and finally gave up — but I don’t exactly go around spreading them like a crack whore in need of a fix. But here he is, this quiet, unassuming guy, with his legs about as far apart as they can go.
The waiter puts our drinks on the table by our knees, giving me another confused glance. He obviously knows Josh, so I guess it’s quite a surprise to see me.
Or… is he surprised Josh isn’t here with his usual partner?
I give Josh a furtive glance from under my lashes. “Thanks for taking me out, by the by.”
Josh looks askance at me, for a moment seeming at a loss for words. Then he gives me a gracious nod, taking his eyes from me as he accepts a tumbler from the waiter.
“Sure your wife doesn’t mind you hanging out with another girl?”
That hand pauses.
Josh glances at me, startled.
And then the waiter — eyebrows reaching for the sky — mumbles someth
ing about checking on my fries and hurries away.
“Whoops.” I say this into my beer, trying — and failing — to hide my grin.
Josh, on the other hand, runs a hand over his perfectly coiffed hair and manages a disarming smile my way.
“I, uh… I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Oh.” I can’t stop the disappointment in my voice. Damn. So much for that, then. I point at the tequila, exchanging my beer glass for the other shot.
“That one’s yours.”
“Oh, I—”
“I’m sorry, Josh,” I interrupt, my voice comical with faux-surprise. “Were you planning on going back to work and putting in another few hours this fine Christmas Eve?”
There’s a long silence after that. I squirm inwardly, wanting to break our frank eye contact, but I don’t want to give Josh even that small triumph. But he’s just staring at me until I can’t take it anymore.
I look away and down my drink.
He’ll pay for this.
Joshua
I down the tequila without grimacing — no small feat, let me tell you — and set the glass down with a hard tap on the table. My whiskey sours seems tame in comparison with that oily fire I just tossed into the back of my throat.
God, this girl was getting under my skin. Or maybe I’m just out of my element, I don’t know. Because I don’t want to be here anymore, sitting next to her, watching her watch me with those black, inquisitive eyes.
And I know she’s trying to rile me up. I can almost see the cogwheels churning in that pretty head of hers as she tries to figure out what’s going to send me off into a murderous rage.
No wonder her father’s gone prematurely gray.
Her plate of fries arrives a few minutes later and she begins devouring the things. The Goose makes good food, but there’s nothing to be done with fries — they’re just strips of deep fried potato. Slapping ketchup — catsup, really? — on it never improves matters. Except Holly seems to think it does.