Lost

by Jennifer Davis

  “No, thank you.” He slides onto the barstool next to me, seemingly done with our conversation. I stare at him, well, as hard as one can through indirect peripheral viewing, to get a better look at his hotness. His wavy black hair is combed back, not like a greaseball, but in a purely sophisticated sense. His navy suit encases a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned on top to allow a slight peek of his olive skin. The suit fits him perfectly, showing off his built but slender frame. And the material is a smooth, vibrant wool, and clearly bespoke.

  He picks up the drink menu, but stares right at me. “I’ll have a Grey Goose martini, please,” he instructs the waiter, all while staring into me.

  “Oh, his drink is on me,” I instruct the bartender, assuming he’s taking me up on my offer. “Oh, and this one too,” I indicate raising my own glass.

  “Pardon?” the bartender asks, a bit of surprise in his eyes.

  The hot stranger spouts something off in French, and both men have a good laugh. I feel my defenses rise when I hear him say the word “champagne,” knowing he’s talking about me and my stupid mistake. I’m in no way mentally capable of being dissed by another man, particularly one this hot and capable of ego-crushing right now.

  “What’s so funny?” I snap, ready to have it out with this French-speaking Italian asshat. I can feel myself ready to redirect some of my Jack anger toward this unsuspecting, but likely worthy, jerk.

  “You speak French?” he asks, his tone questioning if he’s been caught.

  “I remember enough. Enough to know you’re an asshole.” I blurt the words out more loudly than I anticipate, and I see a few patrons pause to look at me. My accusation does nothing but elicit laughter from the sexy victim of my drink theft.

  “Maybe you don’t remember as well as you think,” he says coolly. As he finishes his thought, the bartender sets two new glasses next to us, and begins opening a bottle of Dom. The stranger turns his body toward me, and his eyes burn into me until I raise my defeated gaze. “I said you are beautiful, and that I never let a lady pay for my drinks. And then I ordered us a bottle of Dom.” He gestures to the bottle in front of us, affirming his story. Oops. I didn’t think I could be more mortified than when I stole his seat and drink, until now.

  “Oh,” I mumble, wanting to die for the second time in less than five minutes.

  “Salute,” he says, raising his glass.

  “Salute,” I respond, clinking my glass against his. I take a sip and sit quietly, unsure of what to make of this situation, or what to do next to keep from embarrassing myself for a third time.

  “So what are you running from?” he questions me after a minute of silence.

  “Nothing.” I shake my head, noting it’s an odd question, but realizing my actions likely provoked it.

  “Ok.” To my surprise he doesn’t question me further.

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are you running from?” I ask, and he quickly laughs at my question.

  “Probably the same thing you are,” he says simply, yet metaphorically. “If we aren’t running from something, are we running toward something?” I ponder this question, enjoying his mysteriousness for the first time.

  “Hmm. Maybe so? Cheers to…running?” I propose a toast, feeling myself relax a little for the first time tonight. He laughs and clinks my glass, and I feel the hatred begin to leave my body, and allow his darkness to pique my interest.

  “Do you like running?” he asks, changing the direction of our conversation and keeping it light.

  “No. I really hate it actually. I prefer the metaphorical running,” I say with my best flirtatious smile.

  “Like running away with someone?”

  I laugh nervously. “Depends on the person, I guess.”

  He nods his beautiful head in understanding, then flips his gaze back at me.

  “With me?”

  I laugh at his question, assuming it’s a joke. His slutty stare reveals his truth. Oh. My.

  “Excuse me, I need to run to the bathroom,” I say, giving myself a momentary out to analyze the quickly thrilling and incredibly tempting situation I’ve found myself in.

  “Of course.” He stands in a traditional gentlemanly fashion, grabbing my hand to help me from my seat. I touch his skin and feel the connection pulsing in my veins. We both pause, and his wicked smile confirms he’s felt it too. My cheeks blaze, so I grab my clutch, flash him a smile, then turn around the corner leading to the bathroom.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror, trying to re-center my mind. Jess, you just stormed out on your boyfriend, who you just handed your second v-card to. Are you really going to pass out card number 3 to some insanely hot, probably incredibly rich, and equally as slutty Italian on a whim? I sigh at the thought, knowing that’s not who I am. It’s just a flirtation. Nothing more. I’m not the girl who has one night stands, especially not hours after screwing my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend?

  I re-touch my makeup, adding more strawberry stain to my lips. I wince a little at my reflection, wishing I had skipped those fries last week instead of two morning workouts, noticing every imperfection and of course those unwanted five pounds. I shake it off, deciding I’ve earned a free night of flirting, and simply need the confidence it provides. I give myself a final touch-up before returning to Mr. Lust.

  “Scuzi.” My already anxious heart nearly leaps from my chest at the sound of his voice.

  “Scuzi,” I respond, already feeling myself panting as he inches toward me in the small corridor between the bathrooms.

  “You should apologize for bumping into me,” he playfully scolds me, standing just a few inches from me.

  “I didn’t bump into you. I almost bumped into you,” I correct him.

  “Almost,” he affirms, slowly closing the remaining gap between us. He grabs my hands and holds them gently, but pushes me forcefully backward into the wall. My fingers are intertwined with his, and our bodies are fully connected, everywhere except our mouths. I feel overtaken with desire for him, craving more of his touch.

  “Almost,” I mimic his words again as his lips finally reach mine. The burning heat ripples through me, and I squeeze his hands while his strong, soft lips part to taste mine. I want to touch him, his body, his shiny hair, his five o’clock shadow, anything and everything about him—but I can’t. He continues this exploration of my mouth and I feel my loins dripping, begging to feel more of him, but his hands remain locked in mine, my body pinned against his. I don’t question if this is right or wrong, because nothing has ever felt so good, so right, so mysterious, and so unbelievably hot.

  He pulls his lips from mine, allowing us both a moment to catch our breath. He smiles with a wicked, mischievous, “I want to fuck you” grin, and I know my expression matches his. The question is, could I really do that? Could I really fuck a stranger? The thought’s never crossed my mind before now. Before him. Before passion like this.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out the words as they pass through my brain.

  He laughs and smiles wider. “It’s Max. And yours?”

  I open my mouth to respond but can’t get the words out fast enough.

  “Jess,” I hear Jack’s voice call to me, and I spin my head to see him walking toward me. Fuck. I’m close enough to hear him, but he’s not close enough to see the stranger’s hands in mine. “Baby, I’m sorry I had to take that call. Let’s go to dinner and I’ll explain everything.”

  Max’s knowing grin tells me he understands everything. That this is my semi-boyfriend, and that this adventure of ours is now over.

  “Nice to meet you, Jess.” His stinging words hiss into my ear as he drops my hands, leaving me to pick up the pieces of what remains with Jack.

  six

  “So, what will it be, Jess?” Jack lowers his menu to glance at me, forcing conversation with me for the first time since we left the hotel. “Wine or something else?” I glance around La Monde, our restaurant ce soir, filled
with modern décor and gourmet dishes, as judged by the cascading smells from the kitchen. Jack’s blue eyes are sparkling at me and I start to feel my body pulling me toward him. Stop it! He’s a conniving asshole. What am I doing here anyway?

  “I could go for a martini,” I dictate, still filled with hurt and anger despite my best efforts. I should be having angry hate sex with the lusty stranger right now. Thanks for fucking that up too, Jack.

  “You hate martinis. What do you really want?” I quickly pout and take offense, watching a waiter approach us. Jack is right, I detest the salty hardness of martinis, but it seems to match my mood, as does my obstinance.

  "Bonjour, Madame et Monsieur, les specials ce soir sont—"

  I cut the waiter off before he can finish reading the specials. “Bonjour, deux martinis s'il vous plait.” I rudely interrupt his spiel to make a point to Jack. The waiter looks surprised by my disruptive request, but politely dismisses himself and says he will return with them immediately. I feel Jack’s eyes burning into me without even facing him. I pretend to glance at my menu and ignore his stare, forcing him to break the silence.

  “May I ask what the hell that was?”

  “I told you I wanted a martini, so I fucking ordered one,” I hiss, then promptly resume his silent treatment while I peruse the menu.

  “Ok, Jess. What’s wrong?” Jack asks me, finally acknowledging my blatant frustration. I let out a long sigh, trying to formulate my thoughts and the true source of my frustration. Am I more upset that he spoke to Lela or that he interrupted my lust fest?

  “Seriously? You want to know what’s wrong? Well, how about you kicking me out of our hotel room so that you could have a little chat with your ex-girlfriend? Never mind that you’re on fucking vacation with your current one.” I watch Jack’s expression fade. Is he upset that he was caught?

  “Babe, I’m sorry. But it’s not what you think.” He shakes his head with frustration.

  “Ok. Please. Do tell me how I’m mistaken here,” I let my sarcasm rip through the air.

  “Jess, look, you’re right, that was my ex-girlfriend. She’s been calling me lately, trying to rekindle the flame or something. I’ve been ignoring her, but she hasn’t let up.”

  “Right. So let me guess, you just had to talk to her right then to tell her how madly in love you are with me, and that you’ve moved on?” My sarcastic words snap at him.

  “Well, yeah. Something like that. I did tell her about you. I told her that things are serious, and that she needs to back off.”

  “Bullshit!” I shout practically loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear. “And regardless. I don’t fucking care.” I feel my defense mechanism taking over again. My high IQ does nothing to help me apply logic to matters of the heart. Don’t be so desperate for love that you put up with an asshole. You’re not built for this, Jess. Remember your childhood? I push the thoughts of my parents, and their fucked-up sense of family and love, from my mind. Now’s not the time for unweaving that web of chaos.

  “Jess, it’s not bullshit. Babe, please.” His eyes plead with me to believe him.

  I quickly snap back at him. “Um, except for the fact that she asked you if you were in Paris for work. And you said yes.”

  “What?” Jack looks confused at the accusation.

  “I heard her. Through the phone. Before you kicked me out. And you lied. You are a fucking liar, Jack. You just needed your current girlfriend out of the room so that you could continue whatever bullshit charade you’re conducting with us.” I pause to catch my breath. “Well, guess what, Jack? The charade is over. You and Lela can live happily ever after, and you won’t have me to get in the way of that!” I jump to my feet and speed toward the door.

  “Babe!” Jack’s voice follows me, and I hear him keeping pace behind me. “Slow down, Jess. Please.”

  “Why?” I practically scream at him, turning a few heads at nearby tables.

  “Because,” he pauses, running his hands through his hair with frustration. “Because I’m falling in love with you.” He stops, searching my eyes for a glimmer of hope. My ignorant, yearning heart skips a beat at the thought, but the pain knocks my optimism down.

  “Nice try. You’re a womanizing asshole. I can’t believe I was dumb enough to bring you here. For fucking Valentine’s Day of all holidays.” I choke back the tears. Shut it down, Jess. He isn’t worth your tears! Not even one.

  “Oh, God,” he pauses, his face illustrating the depth of his distress. “Jess. Come on. Please. Just sit back down and hear me out. Nothing is what it seems right now. Just give me two minutes to explain. Please?” I look away, feeling the fury and heartache run through me. If I leave now, where will I go? Back to the hotel room? The next flight isn’t until tomorrow morning anyway. “Please, Jess.” He grabs my hand, and his eyes catch mine. His normally beautiful blue sparkling eyes look a little more gray now. And his stare tugs at the pieces of my heart that still have such strong feelings for him.

  “Fine.” I nod, pulling my hand away from him, begrudgingly walking back to our table, but subconsciously wanting to find truth in his words.

  “Jess, baby, I'm so sorry…” He pauses, waiting to see if I’ll let him finish this time. I remain silent as I sip my salty drink and listen to his side of things. “I swear to you, I told Lela the truth about us. I was trying to get her to back off. The only reason I said I was in Paris for work is because I didn’t want you to have to listen to my explanation. I didn’t even want you to concern yourself with the conversation because she means absolutely nothing to me.” I can see the sincerity in his eyes, but remain silent, forcing him to keep talking. Jack’s face turns even more serious now, and he reaches for my hand again. My daggered heart leaks naïve hope into me, and this time I let his hand take mine. He looks down for a moment and shakes his head before locking his eyes with mine. “I'm so sorry, babe, I really would never do anything to hurt you. You have no idea how much I care about you.” His reassuring words tug at my heart, and my familiar feelings for him flood through me. I want to believe him. I want to be loved. I want him to be mine. Fuck.

  “Ok, so tell me about her.”

  “What?” Jack’s expression turns inquisitive.

  “Tell me about Lela.”

  He shakes his head at my request. “Babe, she means nothing. There’s no reason to discuss her.”

  “If you want me to believe you, then tell me about her. About your relationship, why you guys broke up.”

  “You really want to hear about that?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Ok.” Jack lets out a loud exhale followed by a long drink of his martini. “Well, where should I start?”

  “At the beginning. How’d you meet?” I ask coolly, trying to force myself to listen like the mature twenty-five-year-old woman I should be.

  “Actually I’ve known her for a long time. Our dads grew up together, and our families have been friends for as long as I can remember.”

  “So when did you start dating her?”

  “Not until college. We had seen each other plenty of times at family and holiday get-togethers and stuff, but it started when we were in the same city. She was at BC when I was at Harvard.”

  “You dated throughout college? All four years?”

  “No. I was two years ahead of her. Started dating when I was a senior and stayed together while I worked in New York City after school, and then while I was in business school at Stern.”

  “So, five years?” I ask with surprise, finally realizing how long and serious their relationship must’ve been.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “So why did you break up?”

  “Well, because I was moving to Atlanta.”

  “Jack,” I scold him. “You don’t break up with someone just because you’re moving. Not if you’re in love with them.”

  “Oh, babe,” he sighs. “I thought that was obvious. I mean I wouldn’t have left New York if I had still been in love wit
h her. I had plenty of job offers there after B school.”

  “Well why didn’t you love her anymore?”

  “I don’t think it was one particular thing. It was just time. Time for a change. I guess I just fell out of love with her over time. It was too comfortable. It wasn’t exciting anymore.”

  “Ok. How did she deal with the breakup?”

  “Seemingly well. She thought I was just bored, and needed the excitement of a move or something new. That eventually we’d end up together.”

  “Do you think she’s right? That maybe you do still love her, but just needed something new or exciting for a while?” I fill with fear at the idea.

  “No.” He blinks, and I can’t help but wonder if he really believes his own words. “She was the easy choice. I don’t ever take the easy choice. That’s not who I am. Not in love, not in my career.”

  “What do you mean?” I shake my head, feeling confusion mix with my outstanding frustration toward him.

  “I could have had a good life with Lela. We could’ve stayed together, gotten married, and lived in a big house where I made good money as an attorney in Grandfather’s law firm. Hell, I could’ve run the place someday with my brother. But I saw that path. It’s the same path my father had, and now Wells. But not me. I’m not going to spend the next fifty years fumbling through contracts and paperwork, in a quiet town, slowly succumbing to the life that was painted for me. I need excitement. I need passion. I need to live!”

  “Jack—” I pause his thoughts, for the first time realizing what drives this man. “You wouldn’t be the first person to need something new, just as a test to be sure what you had was what you really wanted. Maybe I’m that distraction for you,” I volunteer with a heavy heart.

  “No!” he scolds me. “Jess. You’re not a distraction. You’re everything that I want. Smart. Sexy. Intriguing. Complicated. Headstrong.” He begins laughing as his compliments digress to my least favorite, but accurate, attributes of myself.

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “Baby,” he says with a half laughing, half pained expression. “Seriously, you’re perfect. Perfect for me.” He reaches his hand across the table and I let him take mine, feeling his sincerity through his touch. “I mean it, Jess. I know our relationship has been, well, fast, but I’ve loved every second. And you need to know how seriously I take it. I’m falling for you Jess—hell, who am I kidding? I’m not falling. I’ve already fallen.” His eyes search mine for acceptance of his words. Those wonderful words, and assurances that I’m the one he wants. Fuck. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s Paris. Maybe it’s my desperate heart, but some combination of them allow me to believe him. I slide across our circular booth to be next to him. He slips his hand around my waist and I feel the emotions crashing between us, and my body drawing me to him. Our faces are just a few inches apart now, and I move my hand onto his leg, giving him a reassuring squeeze. I can’t help but want this to work. This unplanned, nonsensical, but all-consuming relationship.