Julian & Lia

by Maria Monroe

  “I think,” I said, downing the drink and wincing. I had to fight the urge to gag. “I think whiskey is going to make tonight all right. By the way, have you seen that guy over there?” I nodded my head toward the guy, trying not to make it obvious that I was pointing him out.

  Christa looked over. I expected her to say “wow” or “he’s hot” or something else in approval—one of our favorite pastimes was discussing the physical merits of random guys we encountered—but instead, she squinted her eyes and shook her head.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. The thing was, he was already staring at me. Like, I seriously felt like I could feel the heat from his gaze on my body. “He’s looking at me!” I whispered excitedly to Christa, while gesturing Sam over and ordering another shot.

  “I don’t know about him,” said Christa. “I’m getting a bad feeling.”

  “Like a normal-person bad feeling or a psychic-person bad feeling?”

  Christa, my best friend since the sixth grade, is a psychic. She used to work for one of those 1-900 call-a-psychic lines, but she got fired because she always ended up giving out sex advice to the people she talked to rather than telling their fortunes. She said that being fired was the best thing to happen to her, though, because then she started her own thriving practice as a sexual psychic. But it was hard to know sometimes if the advice she gave me was professional or just friendly. And it was hard to know if her premonitions and “feelings” were real or if she just had good intuition. Not that I believe that a person can really be psychic. If anyone could change my mind about that, though, it’d be Christa, because she’s the most honest person I know. I couldn’t imagine her ever making something up just to earn money. Also, she was always trying to give me sex advice, mostly in the vein of “Jessica, you need to get laid.” The truth was, I didn’t spend much time on guys. This was due to the same reasons I mentioned earlier. Small town. Already knew everyone. Also, I had other things to occupy my time.

  “I’m not sure,” said Christa, sneaking a peek at him again. “There’s just something about him.”

  “Yeah. He’s hot,” I said, downing half my shot, which I guess was technically one whole shot since I’d ordered a double again.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t trust him. And what’s he doing here?” She wondered what he was doing in town and also what he was doing at Forty-Four’s, which was a place only locals hung out. Visitors usually went to one of the quaint restaurants or the microbrewery that had recently opened by the river. I had to admit it was strange that he was there.

  I downed the rest of my double shot of whiskey and promptly slid off my barstool. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

  “Jessica,” said Christa in a warning tone. She knew what I was up to. I could never fool her.

  “What?” I asked innocently. “I’ll be right back.”

  She sighed with resignation. I think she knew there was no getting through to me that night. “Fine. Just be careful.”

  But careful wasn’t what I wanted. The bathroom was down a hallway just past where the guy was standing, and as I walked toward him and the hallway, I boldly looked right into his eyes. It wasn’t hard to get his attention; in fact, he was still staring at me, and I smiled just a little as I walked past. I hoped I looked sexy, though in retrospect, I probably just looked like a drunk chick. He didn’t smile; his face was hard, but that didn’t do anything to detract from how handsome he was. His brown hair was almost too long to go with his fancy suit, and it was thick, curling around his ears. He gazed at me with dark, piercing eyes. Evening stubble covered his jaw, which was strong and defined, and I wanted to run my hands over his face and feel his rough skin. I thought about grabbing his hair, pulling his face toward mine, opening my mouth . . .

  I hurried into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. What was wrong with me? I’d never had such a strong reaction to a guy before—not to mention to a stranger—and I knew it couldn’t all be explained by the whiskey, though surely that was a part of it. I was already feeling happy and hazy, and when I started smiling broadly at myself in the mirror, I knew I was probably drunk. “Ooh, sassy,” I said to myself as I struck a pose. I was definitely feeling those shots; voguing in the bathroom was always a sure sign that I’d been drinking, but thankfully nobody else was around to see my performance. “OK,” I muttered, seriously surveying myself in the mirror. I had to look good. I blotted my forehead with a paper towel to make sure it wasn’t shiny and then pushed my medium-length brown hair behind my ears. I leaned forward, looking at my green eyes, which I’d long ago decided were definitely my best feature, and then practiced a seductive smile. Satisfied with my appearance, I took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

  There he was. He had left his spot against the wall and was now standing in the hallway. To get back to the safety of Christa and my bar seat, I’d have to walk right past him. And the hallway was narrow. Every single cell in my body that had any sense left told me to just keep going, back to Christa and probably back home. But I couldn’t do it. The whiskey and my urge to forget what had happened that day conspired and compelled me to walk right up to him, stand way too close, and say in my best sultry voice, “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

  His face was still hard, and I got the impression that if he could have, he would have taken a step back, but he was almost against the wall already, and there was something stubborn in him. He exuded confidence and toughness, suggesting that under his clean-cut exterior he might be trouble. No, there was no might about it. The gleam in his eye and the way he put all my senses on edge proved he was definitely trouble.

  “The only way you know that,” he said, his voice arrogant and low, “is because you were looking at me.”

  Touché, I thought. It was true. I smiled, but he didn’t. He looked angry, but there wasn’t any reason for it, and I felt momentarily confused. This flirting thing: maybe I wasn’t so good at it.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What do people usually do in bars?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen you around. Are you visiting?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he answered. We were standing so close, facing each other. I could hear laughter, music, and the clink of glasses drifting down the hallway from the bar, but it all seemed so far away. I didn’t know who he was or where he was from, but suddenly all I wanted was to feel his body against mine, to pull him by his stupid untied tie toward me and kiss him.

  I grabbed his tie and pulled so that his head bent toward mine. His face, which had been steel before, changed slightly as a menacing grin, small but there, appeared. Desire coursed through me suddenly, so unexpected and strong that I started to imagine leading him into the bathroom—which was more sanitary than bar bathrooms usually are—and tearing off that suit jacket and that shirt. So many buttons—I’d undo the rest of them in a second. I tugged his tie to bring him closer still, but then he resisted.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he said in a low voice.

  “How do you know what I want?” I asked. In an uncharacteristic burst of boldness, I let go of his tie and ran one hand down his chest—then lower still, inhaling sharply as I felt how hard he was already. “It feels like you want it too,” I whispered.

  Suddenly, he pushed me back against the other wall, pinning me to it with his firm physique. His erection was so hard as it pressed against my stomach. A moan escaped my lips. It was hard to breathe. I couldn’t remember ever wanting someone as badly as I wanted him. And I didn’t even know his name.

  “You would regret it so badly if you let me fuck you tonight,” he whispered harshly into my ear. “Trust me.”

  “Why should I trust you? I don’t even know you,” I whispered back. “It’s one night. We both want it. What’s there to regret?” I couldn’t believe I was being so shameless, but I didn’t care; I felt like he was a challenge, and I never gave up on anything if I could help it. I think that mad
e me want him even more.

  “Trust me,” he repeated, but his hand was moving, landing on my waist, barely holding me but so hot even through my shirt.

  “Are you a lousy lay? Is that why I’d regret it?” I couldn’t believe I was talking like this, but the words were out before I could pull them back.

  He laughed, a sarcastic sound tinged with anger. “First of all, I am anything but a lousy lay, which is one reason you’d regret it. Nobody would ever fuck you as good as I could, and you would never, ever forget it.”

  If I was turned on before, those words, as arrogant as they were, about pushed me over the edge. A tingling began between my legs, and I wanted more than anything for him to touch me, just once. I pushed against him, and he pushed back, his hardness grinding into me. I sucked in my breath. He leaned toward me, so close that I could feel his words on my ear. “But you would regret it mostly because—”

  I interrupted him. I didn’t want to hear about regrets. “Admit it,” I whispered. “I can feel it. You want me as much as I want you. I bet you can’t stop thinking about how it would feel to be in my mouth.”

  He groaned quietly. “Jessica,” he whispered, the sound harsh against my ear, his breath on the side of my face enough to make my knees weak.

  “Wait.” I pulled back suddenly and stared into his face, a perfect mix of desire and arrogance looking back at me. “How do you know my name?”

  A corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer. My gaze lingered on that mouth, those lips, imagining the way they’d feel on mine even as I waited for his answer. Then, Christa appeared behind him.

  “Jessica,” she said shortly and grabbed my hand. With a nasty look at the guy, she pulled me away, back into the bar, and out the front door.

  “What are you doing?” I gasped. I hadn’t finished with him—in fact, I had barely even started—and I wanted to go back.

  “You were making a fool out of yourself,” she said, as only a true friend can say.

  “He knew my name, Christa!”

  “I assume you guys introduced yourselves before feeling each other up.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s always telling me I need to get laid.”

  “Yeah, but not like that. Not with him.”

  “He was hot!”

  “There’s something about him that gives me a bad vibe.”

  “But he’s hot, and he’s a stranger. So I wouldn’t be embarrassed when I wake up tomorrow. I don’t know him. I don’t have to worry about running into him again. He’s obviously not from around here.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not going to remember anything tomorrow anyway,” said Christa. “And like I said, I have a bad feeling about him. Come on, let’s get you home.”

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