Love Nouveau
Page 4
I check the time on my phone and notice it’s nearly two thirty in the morning, much to my surprise. This party is still going strong and Phoenix and I have been talking with the greatest of ease for hours. It’s impossible not to notice the subtle frown on his face when I glance up from my phone. I want to reach out and caress his face, letting him know that I’m not looking for an escape route, but for some reason, I can’t muster the courage to make a pass at him. Under normal circumstances, the alcohol would have pushed me to make my move hours ago.
But these aren’t normal circumstances.
Phoenix intently looks at the bottom of his empty cup. “Can I get you anything?”
“I kind of want to eat some waffles,” I say, playfully nudging him with my shoulder. While he may take that as a request to have breakfast with him in a few hours, I really do legitimately want some kind of breakfast food.
Phoenix throws his head back in laughter. “I’m fresh out of waffles. And I think you’re a little tipsy,” he says, reaching out to gently touch my cheek with his fingers. His hand is warm and my face instantly melts at his touch. The look in his eyes is so endearing … God, I want to kiss the shit out of him right now.
Yep, I’m tipsy. Maybe even more than tipsy. There’s no sense in trying to deny it.
“And you’re cute,” I slur. “But seriously, eating breakfast food could solve all of the world’s problems right now.” It could help me sober up, for starters. I may need to call for a cab sometime soon if my nerves keep getting in the way of this thing with Phoenix. It appears that Rachel left hours ago, and Cassie is probably lost in a sea of drunkenness, and who knows where things with Phoenix will end up.
“All right. Let’s go get me a refill and see if there’s anything to snack on for you.” He extends his elbow my direction as we stand and escorts me into the kitchen. By some divine force, I’m able to walk upright without tripping over my own feet.
Entering the kitchen, I spot Sully sitting on the countertop with the tan, black-haired girl now perched between his legs like a poodle begging for a treat. His treat. Good grief, desperate much? For one fleeting moment, I realize that is likely how I’ve looked time and time again. God, how pathetic. I will never be that girl again.
We scan the kitchen and there is no food in sight. The hell with it … I grab another Jell-O shot, chasing it with the last of my beer. Jell-O is technically a food, right? And more liquid courage is just what I need to get my nerves in check and make this night a little more interesting, moving from conversation to some action. At this point, I’d just settle for a good old-fashioned make out session. His lips look absolutely delicious and I want them plastered to mine.
Making my way closer to the keg, I catch Sully giving Phoenix a questionable glare, eyes serious. Nix subtly shakes his head no as Sully’s eyes hide a sinister laugh. The silent exchange brings unease, but rather than focus on it, I let my head drift into the fizziness of the last shot. I feel it in my bones that Phoenix is a good guy and there is a shortage of good guys in my world these days.
I turn to look at him and he’s already staring. The feeling that takes over is indescribable. Suppressing a flirtatious smile, he simply says, “Let’s dance.”
“Put on your red shoes and dance the blues,” I sing back, quoting my all-time favorite David Bowie song.
His face lights up with childlike delight as he takes my hand and places it over my heart. “Did you really just say that? I think I may have just fallen in love,” he muses with a twinkle in his eye. “I grew up listening to Bowie.”
It’s as if the powers that be have plucked this guy out from the sky and put him in my presence.
Anxiously, I let him lead me out under the night sky. Oak trees in the backyard are strung with Christmas lights, like twinkling stars winking fatefully down upon us. In my intoxicated haze, they cast an ethereal glow. Phoenix and I move in sync with the bass line of some ridiculous nineties R&B song, our hands exploring each other’s bodies. He smells sexy, like damp earth and musk, and it’s easily the manliest scent I’ve encountered.
The contours of his arms are magnetizing; I couldn’t pry my fingers away if I tried. Beads of sweat snake their way from my hairline, between my shoulders, and pool in the small of my back. It’s difficult to tell if the salt I taste is from the alcohol or my skin melting into itself. I grip my hands around his neck and gently twist his hair between my fingertips. Phoenix rests his forehead against mine, eyes cutting right through to my soul, and I hear a soft groan escape the back of his throat.
I trace my tongue over my lips in anticipation and take slow, deep breaths, committing myself not to screw this up. More than anything I want to know what he tastes like.
Everything about his presence feels right. We fit together is like two pieces of a puzzle. We read each other’s body like we’ve done this before. Phoenix licks his lips and I can taste a sweet blend of alcohol and sweat in the space between us. Heat rises from deep within me and I close my eyes, willing him to make a move.
Kiss me already, damn it!
We get lost like this for a few songs—me, a siren, working to bring him into my possession. I sense him leisurely eyeing my body, inhaling my hair, soaking me in as much as he can. And when his soft lips delicately press against my temple, relief washes through me. He wants this too.
Our gravitational pull is undeniable.
Phoenix traces his tongue teasingly to my jawline before nibbling on my earlobe. I can’t help but moan as the sensation resonates deep inside my body. My pulse quickens and I’m breathless. I need his kiss to fill my lungs with air. I need his touch to make me believe that good guys like him do exist. I need him to …
I need him to get out of here.
My head snaps back involuntarily and my eyes shoot open in surprise. I’m drunk.
So very, very drunk.
And I’m overwhelmingly desperate to get away from this party. The earth shifts on its axis and my sense of security goes askew. I scan my eyes through the crowd, desperately searching for Rachel … Cassie … any familiar face. I have to get out of here. Go home. Sleep the alcohol off.
Now.
“Ivy?”
I hear him call out to me. But his voice is muffled. I’m underwater. Phoenix’s nails dig into the flesh of my arms … my head fills with stars … my legs are lead, but I find myself floating weightlessly, dancing in slow motion.
Try as I might, words fail me. I attempt to respond to him, but each thought is trapped inside my mouth, clinging to the back of my teeth like an insect struggling to free itself from tar.
My body shakes in Phoenix’s arms.
Darkness begins in the corners of my eyes and seeps through, taking over my line of sight. A blank page bleeding ink. The crisp music turns murky.
My brain … slurs.
My knees … buckle.
Give …
Out …
Heaviness …
Darkness.
THE FIRST THING I NOTICE is my pulse.
Behind my eyelids is a furious pushing and pulling of angry seawaters beating against a rocky shoreline with each beat of my heart. The morning sun melts through the blinds, cascading stripes against the far wall, and the aura makes my insides heave as I choke back the rising bile in my throat. Slowly, I sit up and fist my hair.
What the fuck happened last night?
This is easily the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. I know my limits, but more often than not I just simply ignore them. Case and point? This very moment. With the way I’m feeling, I clearly drank half the party.
That’s it. I’m never drinking again.
This time I think I might actually mean it.
I spy my phone on the nightstand, next to a large glass of water. That’s…thoughtful? I chug the full glass in three gulps.
I grab my phone to check the time and notice a text message.
Rachel: Hey, girl! Call me when you wake up and I’ll come get you. Hope you had fun wi
th that lickable blond hottie! XO
I don’t think Rachel could be more awesome if she tried. As for the blond … well, that didn’t go as planned. I quickly fire off a reply.
Ivy: Rescue me. Stat.
Moments later she texts back to let me know she’s on her way. Which gives me roughly ten to fifteen minutes to get my shit together and out of this place.
I examine myself. Clothes, while disheveled, are still on. I look around the room and observe my surroundings and then it hits me—I have no idea where I am. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Raccoon eyes, bird’s nest hair, sallow cheeks … whatever happened once the shots took over must have been fun because I look, and feel, like hell.
I sit up to gather my belongings and find a bathroom. As soon as I’m vertical, sea legs hit and I’m woozy. My thighs throb and my entire body aches, clear indication that a good time was had, although I don’t recall dancing all that much.
When I emerge from the bedroom, the pieces begin to fall into place. Clearly, I crashed at the party, which is rather adventitious of me. I chalk it up to blacking out.
The hallways are quiet and I am certain there’s no one else awake … that is if there is even anyone else in this house.
I open a door, praying it’s the bathroom and not a bedroom holding half naked, passed out strangers on the other side, but all I find are rolls of towels twisted like cinnamon buns with extra bed linens and blankets stuffed along the top. I reach for a washcloth and try the handle on the opposite of the closet with success. Quietly, I slip in and close the door, locking it behind me.
My stomach grumbles, but thankfully it isn’t lurching in the aftermath of a long night of drinking. I ransack the medicine cabinet, searching for something, anything, to help relieve the pounding inside my skull.
When I spy the bottle of generic aspirin, I can’t get the lid off fast enough. I toss three little white pills in my mouth and stick my face under the running faucet. Next, I splash cold water across my cheeks, wiping the mascara streaks from underneath my bloodshot eyes and make plans to beeline it out of this house as quickly as possible.
Creeping back into the hallway, I tip toe my way to the living room so I can sneak out the front door. My efforts are foiled with each passing step as the floor creaks beneath me, and a pair of warm hazel eyes meets mine as I walk through the doorway into the living room.
“Well, well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living. It’s Ivy, of the Wrigley Field variety!”
Shit.
It’s him.
Beautiful, perfect, quirky him. And, of course, he’s sitting there looking like a shiny new penny while I unequivocally look like hell. I should have searched for mouthwash in the bathroom. I would give anything for a breath mint right now, or better yet, a brown bag to put over my head.
It’s clear that I wasn’t wearing beer goggles last night because Phoenix in the light of the morning sun is infinitely sexier than Phoenix after a keg of Wisconsin’s finest cheap beer. I didn’t notice the slight copper tint to his hair last night, or the playful dimple on his right cheek. He’s wearing a vintage Led Zeppelin shirt from when they played Knebworth Festival back in ’79, and it takes all of my willpower not to throw myself at him right here and now.
“Come on over here, Cubby Bear,” Phoenix teases, patting the spot next to him on the couch.
“Oh God,” I groan. “Please don’t call me that.” Rolling my eyes, the motion sears deep inside my head.
“Not feeling so hot?” The dimple on his cheek mocks me as he smirks. How the hell he doesn’t feel the same way I do is baffling. I give him my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ stink eye as I collapse next to him on the faded leather couch. Surprisingly, there is little evidence of last night’s party, save for a few garbage bags full of red cups in the corner.
“So … um … what happened to you last night? You seem like the kind of girl who can hold her liquor, but one minute we’re having fun, and the next I’m carrying a passed out chick.” The look in his eyes tells me that was not how he had hoped our evening would end. God, even in disappointment this guy is hot as shit.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
A tiny worry crease flashes in between his eyebrows.
“We didn’t …” I don’t know how to put this politely, so I give him a questioning look. “You know … did we …” Not that I would have minded, especially with him, but if I’m going to have a romp between the sheets, I would at least like to have the decency to remember the occasion.
“No, no, no. We didn’t do anything. In fact, I was a perfect gentleman.” His smile melts my insides and he marks the letter X over his heart. “After you passed out, while dancing no less, I carried you into the spare bedroom, took off your shoes, and tucked you in. I even slept on the couch after everyone left. It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable arrangement,” he says, rolling his neck around. I notice the heap of a blanket on the floor with a spare pillow and suddenly find myself appreciative of the gesture.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” I beam back at him, the smile hurting my eyes.
Phoenix adjusts himself on the couch so he’s turned, facing me. I refrain from reaching through the space between us and brushing his dark shaggy hair away from his eyes. Fresh bed head is a striking look for him.
The stench of stale alcohol has aired out and the mouthwatering aroma of coffee wafts through the air. Phoenix sits up from the couch and walks into the kitchen to pour a cup.
“Want some?” He lifts the fresh pot into the air as I nod.
“Oh God, yes.” The words slip out in a seductive groan and the sexual intonation is not lost on either of us, but caffeine is exactly what I need to start to jump start my body today.
“Sugar?”
“No, just black, please.” I never understood the point of diluting coffee with sugar, creamers and flavored syrupy shit. Coffee should always be bitter and unapologetic, much like me.
Phoenix presents me with my morning brew in an oversized mug reading “World’s Greatest Teacher,” then sits back down next to me. We sit in comfortable silence as I blow over the coffee, a feeble attempt to cool it off. He chews on the inside of his cheek and looks up toward the ceiling, seeming to debate something internally.
“I’m gonna take you out tomorrow night,” Phoenix says matter-of-factly.
“Oh, you are?” I challenge.
“Yes. Just dinner.”
“Just dinner.” I do my best to mask my disappointment. What would be so wrong with more than dinner?
“Well, we could do drinks, but I would guess you’re swearing off alcohol until you’re forty-two.”
“Forty-three actually,” I reply with a light laugh. The movement rattles my skull.
I look at Phoenix intently for a moment. He has hints of laugh lines tracing his eyes which I find endearing. It is such an attractive, subtle feature, making him seem wise beyond his years as if he’s endured far more than any twenty-something should have.
I certainly wouldn’t mind spending more time with him, although what’s the point for anything other than a fling if we’re both leaving town? The smile playing at my lips suddenly turns down at the corners when I remember that Rachel and I made plans to leave tomorrow after graduation.
“When you’re done thinking, say yes,” he tells me.
“I wish I could, but my best friend and I are leaving to go home to Chicago tomorrow.”
“So? Push your departure back. I’m not leaving until Sunday night.” The hopefulness in his stare is irresistibly endearing.
He makes it seem so easy. And maybe it is? Seeing as how we’re both only in town through the weekend, making myself available is the least I could do. Still, it feels a bit silly to rearrange schedules and commit myself to a date when we’re never going to see each other again.
“Don’t you have bachelor party things to be doing?”
“Meh.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ll catch
up with the guys after we eat.”
I catch my bottom lip in my teeth, thinking of what Rachel’s reaction will be if I ask her to stick around longer just so I can meet up with this guy. Surely she won’t mind. I’ve moved mountains for her over far more petty things.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
I nod my head, fighting a cheesy grin.
“It’s a date!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together once. Phoenix seems like the traditional type, so I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t date. At least not anymore.
“No, it’s not a date. It’s just dinner.” I give him my best teasing smile. I’m certain Rachel won’t care if we extend our stay. She technically can’t even get into her new apartment in Chicago until the middle of the week.
He pulls a bulky black chunk of metal from his back pocket and flips it open. “What’s your number?”
“What is that thing?” I ask, stifling a laugh.
“Uh, it’s a cell phone?” His response comes out as more of a question and less of a statement.
“Um, no. That’s an artifact. That relic belongs in a museum,” I proclaim in disbelief. I haven’t seen a phone like this in well over a decade. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have it firmly attached to his hip on a belt clip. “What is this? 2001? You don’t have a smartphone?”
“Nope, I don’t need one of those fancy things,” he says, looking at me with a ferocious intensity. “I think people spend too much time staring at meaningless screens, updating statuses, and fooling themselves into thinking they’re being social when in reality they need to spend more time actually talking to the person directly in front of them. How can you really connect if you’re too focused on one-way communication?”
Seriously, who is this guy? Is he for real? Everything about him surprises me. Simply being in his presence improves my whole mood, in spite of this wicked hangover from hell.
I take the fossil of a phone from his hands and dial my number, feeling it vibrate from my back pocket. I allow it to ring twice before ending the call.