Burn Into Me

by Leeson, Jillian

  Elle

  Another hour and I’ll finish my shift.

  The café has been busy today, but since it’s almost closing time, the flow of customers has subsided to a trickle. A skinny guy with a nose ring and gauged ears orders a macchiato, giving me a wink when I hand it to him. But the smile on my face immediately vanishes when the next customer appears behind him.

  I can’t believe it. Ryder is standing before me with a smug crooked grin on his striking face. How the hell did he get here? I’m very sure I didn’t tell him where I work. What are the chances of him finding me in this tiny café, one among hundreds in lower Manhattan?

  Dressed in a black shirt, its top two buttons open, under an expensive-looking dark-gray suit, Ryder looks maddeningly sexy, even though I normally detest the sight of men in business suits.

  “Elle, hey. What a coincidence to see you here. It must be fate.”

  Trying to ignore the flutters his deep voice produces in my stomach, I put on my professional barista face. “What would you like?”

  “I’d like to say—you. But that’ll come later. For now, I’ll have a double espresso. Having here.”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I start preparing his coffee. He sits down at a table next to the window, his gaze fixed on me. I plan on walking off the second I put his espresso on the table, but when I do, he grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him, and says, “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  The scent of his cologne find my nostrils, making me giddy.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We still have to discuss the details of our race. I’ll wait for you to finish work.”

  “What if I have plans tonight?”

  “Cancel them.”

  “Maybe I have a date.”

  “I’d love to see who I’m up against. But I’m sure I’ll come out on top.”

  His cocky grin unnerves me, so I try a different tack. “I’m not feeling very well. It really isn’t a good time.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll get you home and take care of you.”

  Aaargh! I don’t know how he does it, but within the ten seconds of our rapid-fire to and fro, he’s managed to make my blood boil.

  I point my finger at him. “There’s only one word to describe you—obnoxious.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer.” As he crosses his arms, I stomp back to the counter. From the corner of my eye, I notice he’s picked up a newspaper. Even so, I feel like he is watching my every move. This is crazy; I shouldn’t feel so self-conscious around him.

  After the night when I left him in the bar, I thought I would never have to see him again. I’d already planned to call off the race, considering how easily I got lost in dancing with him, nearly leading to a kiss—a kiss I’d nearly given in to, were it not that I’d still had a shred of sanity in me left to pull away. Damn him for making me almost lose it; when it comes to men, I’m the one who always stays in control.

  As I’m wiping down the counter at the end of my shift, I make up my mind. I am stronger than this. I will not let myself be intimidated by a man ever again, no matter how persuasive he is. Besides, tonight is a good time to tell him that our race is off.

  Ryder looks up from his paper when I say, “Fine. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll pay for dinner.”

  He chuckles. “You’re on. You can even pay for the entertainment.”

  I frown when he flashes a mysterious smile and says, “You’ll see.”

  Outside, he hails a taxi and directs the driver to an address on the Lower East Side. During the short drive, his hand reaches for mine, but I swat it away in time and narrow my eyes at the smirk on his face.

  We arrive at our destination, “The Two Bit’s Retro Arcade”, and I am pleasantly surprised. Even though I have never been to this place, I’ve always loved playing video games.

  It’s dim inside apart from the back wall, where a giant screen plays a soundless Bruce Lee movie. A familiar array of retro arcade machines are lined up against the walls—Donkey Kong, Pac Man, Tetris, Galaga, Asteroids. Their beeping noises are all but drowned out by Aretha Franklin’s “Freeway of Love” playing over the speaker system.

  “Pac Man!” Ryder’s face splits into a wide grin. “Do you have any quarters?”

  I dig one up from my pocket, and he starts the game while I get more change. When he dies at level 9, he bangs his hand on the machine, after which I calmly insert my quarter and get hold of the controls. Ryder shows me his cheeky grin, but it’s wiped from his face when I pass level 9.

  “You want me to go on?” I ask at level 18, looking up at the incredulous expression on his face. “I don’t mind breaking my record of level a hundred fifty. But we’ll be sitting here for a while.”

  His scowl causes me to throw back my head in laughter, and I abandon the controls. I shove a stack of quarters in his hand, and he tries to compete with me playing Space Invaders and Galaga, which of course I win, too. I almost feel sorry for him when I smash him to a pulp in Street Fighter II.

  “You’re not a bad loser, are you?” I tease as he grunts after his last defeat. “Let’s play Virtua Cop together.”

  We pick up the light guns from the machine and assume our roles as police officers shooting at the bad guys. It’s so much fun that before I know it, we reach the final boss and crash his helicopter, which is followed by the closing credits.

  “Awesome!”

  I throw my fist in the air and lift up my other hand for Ryder to high-five me, which he does with a beaming, boyish smile. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me to the back of the arcade. “Hey, let’s try the photo booth.”

  Still drunk with our victory in the shooting game, I squeeze in the small booth with him. He pulls me onto his lap, and I realize too late how his proximity in this enclosed space affects me: a shiver runs along my spine.

  “Cold?” he asks, pressing his hard chest against my back. I shake my head and try my best to smile, ignoring the pounding of my heart.

  “I think we should try that again.”

  After Ryder inserts more coins into the slot, he starts tickling me, causing me to giggle and squirm in his lap. When the flashes stop, I jump out of the booth, breathing a silent sigh of relief. A few minutes later, two narrow photo strips appear, which Ryder snatches from the machine before I get the chance.

  “Check out how cute you look,” he says.

  The photos show me wearing a variety of idiotic grins, while Ryder’s photogenic face remains irritatingly gorgeous on all the pictures. When I swat him hard on his muscled arm, he hands me the strip of giggling photos while he puts the other one in his pocket.

  He says, “I’m hungry. Shall we go?”

  When we step out, two black teenage boys with baseball caps stand outside the arcade, noses pressed against the window. Ryder casts them a glance.

  “You want a play, boys?”

  Staring at him wide-eyed, they don’t reply.

  Ryder turns to me. “Is that okay, Elle?”

  I nod, so he delves in his pocket and extracts a handful of coins.

  “That’s all I have left. Have fun, guys.”

  “Thanks, man!” Wide grins on their faces, the boys dash past us into the arcade.

  Chuckling, Ryder follows me down the street. On our nine-block walk to Chinatown he shoots me question after question—what I’m studying, what my hobbies are, what my favorite color, movie, book is, which breakfast cereal I prefer, what brand toothpaste I use.

  I don’t understand why he’s so keen to know everything about me. I know what guys like him are after—conquer the challenge of a girl who’s hard to get, after which they conveniently lose her number. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m onto him; I won’t fall into his trap. In the unlikely case that something happens between us, I’ll be the one in control; I’ll be the one who loses his number.

  When we enter Lam Zhou Handmade Noodles—a typical hole-in-the-wall restaurant with an Asian-drinks fr
idge outside—it is the loud noise of handmade noodles being slapped on the marble top at the back of the restaurant that greets us. I study Ryder’s reaction. I expect him to look out of place wearing his expensive suit, but strangely he doesn’t. He looks completely comfortable, carefully studying the 20-item menu on the wall.

  “I hope you like Chinese,” I say.

  Ryder winks at me. “I love Chinese.”

  Is he talking about the food or something else? Does he know I’m half Chinese?

  “So, what would you like to eat?”

  “Anything, I’m easy. Just order for me.”

  As an elderly Chinese couple is leaving, I get Ryder to take their coveted stools on the wooden counter along the grey tiled wall, while I place the order: two bowls of noodles and a plate of boiled pork dumplings to share.

  When I sit on the stool next to him, I say, “I know this may not be up to your usual restaurant standards. But I promise you, they have the best noodles and dumplings in Chinatown. And you can’t beat the price.”

  Having paid a little over ten bucks for our meal, I wonder if he thinks this place is too cheap, but to me it’s all about the quality of the food. I’m happy with my choice—I couldn’t have found a better place for a casual dinner, sitting next to each other at a bar counter, the slapping noises assaulting our ears. It’s perfect for keeping my distance, for preventing this dinner to feel like a date. I still haven’t talked to him about the race, deciding it’s best to leave it till the last minute as he’ll surely try to dissuade me.

  When our food arrives, Ryder digs in with relish. “Mmm…this is seriously good. Try it.”

  He uses his chopsticks to lift up a piece of beef.

  “I’m okay. I’ve had it before.”

  “Try it again. It’s delicious.”

  When he puts the morsel in my mouth, I have to admit that it tastes even better than I remember.

  The tiny restaurant is filling up to the brim, and in the limited space, people are pushing us from all sides. We are now so close together that our thighs and arms are pressing against each other, making this dinner a lot more intimate than I’d planned.

  “Can I try your noodles?”

  Ryder’s tilted head combined with his disarming smile makes something in me melt, so I wrap a nest of my pork noodles carefully around my chopsticks and pop them in his mouth. I laugh when he slurps and sucks in the ends of the noodle strands. He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “That was great.”

  “Glad you liked it.” I surprise myself by using the pad of my thumb to wipe off a smidgen of sauce that he missed from the corner of his mouth, causing it to curl into an amused grin.

  “Thank you. Ready for dessert?”

  I furrow my brow. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Dessert turns out to be pastries from La Bella Ferrara bakery in Little Italy, its glass display shelves laden with a wide range of mouthwatering Italian delicacies. Ryder orders in rapid Italian, and in no time we are outside again with a bag of pastries and two double espressos. When he’s hailed a cab, he tells the driver our destination before I enter.

  “What are you up to?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Winking, Ryder flashes me an enigmatic smile.

  And when he reaches out to take my hand in his, this time I let him.

  Ryder

  I feel triumphant like I’ve just conquered Mount Everest—Elle doesn’t wrest her hand away from me, as I expected she would. It’s about a half-hour drive to where I want to take her, and holding hands with her in the cab, I can’t suppress a smug grin in anticipation of what’s going to happen tonight. An electric energy is pulsing between us in the confined space, but right now I’m reluctant to take it any further than drawing slow circles on her hand with my thumb. I don’t want to scare her off; I have plans for her—for us.

  When we get out of the cab, Elle furrows her brow. “Fort Tryon Park? Isn’t this the place where teenagers go to make out?”

  “Never thought of that, but hey, sounds like an idea.” I chuckle when I notice how her face turns into a scowl.

  The park is quiet and dark but for a single light shining on the winding path up a hill. Surrounded by towering trees we begin our ascent, breathing in the cold, crisp air. Grasping her hand again, I lead her up the path in the semi-dark. The uphill climb leaves us both lightly panting when we finally reach the top. Elle’s mouth falls open when she takes in the glorious view of the Hudson River in the moonlight and the George Washington Bridge spanning it in the distance. Stars are twinkling in the clear sky above.

  “Wow. This is amazing.” Elle can’t tear her gaze away from the view, and I let go of her hand. I open up my bag and take out a picnic mat, a blanket, and a battery operated light that I’d prepared especially for this occasion. I’ve been dying to take her to this special place, one of my favorite spots in the city. Judging from the way she is admiring the scenery, she has also come under its spell.

  I take in the sight of her lanky figure, illuminated by the moonlight, with her impossibly long legs standing slightly apart; the river and the bridge in the background, and the blanket of stars above. I can’t imagine a more perfect sight.

  “Elle, come sit here.” I pat my hand on the spot next to me.

  She swivels around and takes a hesitant step towards me before lowering herself slowly next to me, right where I want her.

  I point at the bridge. “Did you know that the George Washington Bridge is the most traveled bridge in the world? It’s also one of the most popular spots for committing suicide.”

  “Really? I’ll keep that in mind—just in case you turn out to be some crazy maniac. But it’s not likely I’ll be committing suicide, I think I’ll probably toss you off the bridge instead.” Smiling, she pushes her fist into my shoulder.

  “Even if you do, I won’t let you go. I’ll be taking you with me. We’ll go to hell together.”

  “Yeah, that’s where we belong.”

  She laughs, and I join in. This is one of the few times I hear her laugh wholeheartedly—I love hearing that beautiful sound.

  “Cannoli?” I take a chocolate-covered one off the plate and lift it up to her mouth.

  Elle takes a bite and rolls her eyes. “Oh, this is really good.”

  “My aunt’s are even better. She used to make them for me and my cousins when we came home from school. We always fought for the chocolate ones.”

  She raises one brow. “What do you mean? I thought you—”

  “My mother abandoned me when I was seven and my aunt took me in. She isn’t my real aunt, but that’s what I call her. I lived with her and her family in Chicago until I finished high school. I was really lucky; I don’t know what would have happened to me if she hadn’t adopted me. I’d probably still be living on the streets, or more likely, I’d be dead.”

  It was the dead of winter when my mother left me on a doorstep with nothing but the flimsy clothes I was wearing, claiming she had to see someone and would be back soon. When she didn’t return, I was about to go and look for her when my aunt came home. She let me in, fed me a big bowl of her famous osso buco, and I never left.

  I owe my aunt and her family for everything: for my success, for everything I’ve achieved. But that’s not just what I am grateful to them for. It is that they have given me a home—a secure, loving place that I can always fall back on, no matter what problems I’m facing. Even though we are not blood-related, they love me like one of their own and even got me to carry their family name, De Luca.

  “So what happened to your mom? Where is she now?”

  I never talk about my mother. I don’t even think of her, immediately pushing out any thoughts of her when they emerge. But for some reason, I don’t mind talking about her with Elle.

  “I don’t know where she is, or if she’s still alive. In all those years, she didn’t contact me, she never even sent me a Christmas card. I don’t know if I’d even recognize her on the street.”<
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  Elle takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m over it. I have been a long time ago. I don’t even see her as my mother any more; I consider my aunt my mom.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. I haven’t seen mine in more than a year now.”

  Elle mentioned she left home when she was only a teenager; it must have something to do with her parents. I imagine her at sixteen, all alone and trying to fend for herself. I don’t know why, but it infuriates me. I vow to protect her from now on; I don’t want to see her suffer ever again.

  “So what happened? Did you argue?”

  Elle sighs. “We just don’t get along. We haven’t since I was little. It got even worse when my dad died. So I decided to leave.”

  “Was it because she couldn’t get over your father’s death?”

  “Nah, she never loved him. She only married him for his money. That’s all she’s interested in—money. As if it could buy her happiness. Well, it never did, that’s for sure. If anything, it only made her more unhappy, and selfish, and uncaring. It’s so damn right when they say money is the root of all evil.”

  Whoa. I better not tell her what I do for a living yet; it will freak her out. I’ll have to break it to her slowly. Whatever there is between us is already hanging by a thread as it is; a very fine thread. If she finds out, I’m sure I’ll lose her. And I’ll do anything to prevent that from happening. She’s starting to mean more to me than I ever expected. And the only way I’m going to make any progress with her is to take it slowly.

  “So if it’s not money, what makes you happy?”

  “Riding my bike. Looking at the stars.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more.” I squeeze her hand tightly.

  The chill of the wind makes her shiver, so I move closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling the blanket around us. When she leans her head against my chest, her body feels so soft, so right against me. I could sit with her here forever, just the two of us huddled together in our warm cocoon while the stars are glimmering above.