But then he smirks, never breaking eye contact and says, “You’re not the princess, Roxy. You’re the queen.” And with a deep bow, he disappears in the flash of a blinding smile.
The place erupts in laughter, Jerome’s roaring over all the others.
Damnit.
The Bowie invasion continues.
The girl is late. At least by my standards. Late for me is a minimum of ten minutes early. Being a six-foot, one-inch tall female with swimmer’s shoulders, a generous C-cup and a jawline of a dude, I already attract enough of human nature’s curious attention. Some humans are better at observational subtlety, but most are not. It’s best not to draw further attention by being tardy.
The girl, Penny is a friend of one my CrossFit buddies and new to the city. He thought it would be “nice” of me to chat with her and maybe show her around so she doesn’t end up eating bad Chinese at the buffet on Smith Street or dancing at shady clubs.
I told him I didn’t need to be set up. Can get my own date. Fine being single.
“Oh, it’s not like that,” he assured me.
“She’s straight then?” I said, cranking the fire under his hot seat.
“Well, no.”
“Dude.”
“But it’s not a set up. I swear. It would be nice for her to have another friend in town.”
And me being a sucker for helping people, said yes. Now here I sit, waiting for this person who is not a date and maybe a future friend, but is probably expecting something else.
Ten more minutes and then I’m getting my coffee. My caffeine headache decreases my tolerance for decreased punctuality. The new Jack Reacher novel only distracts me for so long.
The door opens and my heart kicks me. My strategic viewing position from the corner table reveals not the red headed girl I am expecting, but four guys in snazzy suits talking and fucking around on their phones.
In my experience, Bowie usually comes in the shop dressed in gym clothes or a ratty T-shirt and jeans. I never envisioned him in suit. But today he wears an expertly tailored maroon one that’s fitted to his lanky, athletic form in exquisite perfection. The skinny pants display the right amount of tight and stop an inch above his bare ankles and brilliant black patent leather loafers. My grandma always said it pays to advertise. And well, he’s a fucking masterpiece of a billboard.
While the suit catches me off guard, his hair is really the shock. Usually it manifests itself in a gorgeous ‘fro, shooting rays of his crazy energy everywhere. It’s pulled back into a small knot at the base of his skull, but it does not extinguish his charm. Only enhances the open depth of his eyes, the height of his cheekbones and fullness of his mouth framed by his full beard. I itch to get my hands on that beard. For no other reason than to shape it into a modern work of art, of course. His presence fills the room, even though he’s only standing in line, long fingers flying over the screen of his phone.
My paperback provides inadequate cover, so I’m forced to keep my head down and hope to avoid any attention garnering eye contact. With Bowie bearing witness, the tale of my humiliation of being stood up would be embellished beyond recognition at Jerome’s. Those busybodies don’t need any more fuel for their gossip fire, especially at the expense of my social life.
My phone vibrates. Not Penny. Just Bowie.
I see u
His profile is visible from my vantage point and his cheek curves up to a one-dimple level, which I know exists under today’s overgrown beard. I flip a couple of unread pages before typing my answer.
Nice suit
Wait.
My finger hovers over the send icon.
Does that sound like flirting? I shouldn’t flirt with Bow. He’s not my type—too shiny and charismatic. And that beard. I may shave them for a living, but they’re not an attractive attribute to me. But the suit is nice, so the statement is merely a compliment. Nothing more.
Send.
Nothing. Not another smile. Not a glance at his phone. Not even a glance at me. He just shoves his hands in his pant’s pocket, which is in extreme defiance of the laws of physics. Shit. I’m looking directly at his pocket region. I mean, I’m clearly not the only one checking out that area. The barista just dropped a giant iced coffee because her eyes have melded with his crotch.
The other dudes trickle out with their afternoon beverages and Bowie waves to them in parting as he veers over to my table in the corner. I gesture for him to sit down because I’m nice like that. And because I want to let him know I’m controlling his presence at my table.
He takes a careful sip from his cup. Double dirty chai latte. Tea and coffee together is completely bizarre. Pick one.
I wait for him to speak. He waits. I wait. The sparkle in his eyes says, mischief, mischief.
“So. . .”
“So. . .”
“So. . .you like my suit,” he says. His white teeth match his crisp white shirt.
“Nice to see you not looking like a slob.” His tie is slim and black with little white dots. I kind of want to wrap it around my fist. I kind of want to wear it. “Who knew?”
“Got a date?” His smile is more of a smirk. Eyes making a quick pass over one of my nicer black shirts, which dips to reveal a bare shoulder.
“No,” I say too quickly.
“You’ve got on your ‘going out’ shirt and do I detect a little lip gloss?” He strokes a lazy finger over the patch of hair just below his lower lip. My tongue tastes my berry bombshell lips.
“Tell me, Mr. Fashion Man, should I have gone with the heels instead of the Chucks?” I ask and take a sip from my water bottle. I probably should make more of an effort at work.
“Heels are always sexy.”
I cough up that sip of water.
“So you got ghosted?” he asks and mops up the water that splatters the table.
“Of course not,” I cough-say, a little defensively.
A red headed girl enters the coffee shop; the bright pink flush of “I’m late” panic stains her cheeks. I wave to her as a rush of relief passes over me.
“Sorry I’m late. I got lost,” she says in a rush. “I’m Penny. So glad to meet you, Roxy.” She sticks out a freckled hand with perfect French tips. Her immaculate eyebrows pull together as her gaze skims over the large hunk of male at the table.
“No worries,” I say, shaking her hand with what I hope is a relaxed smile. “This town is crazy. Glad you found the place.”
Bowie is in full manspread position, legs apart, heel tapping, casually leaning back in his chair as he sips his coffee/tea concoction, waiting for I don’t know what. An introduction? A fucking parade? A live sacrifice?
He smiles the fucking smile—perfect teeth and crinkly eyes and all the dimples. Of course he does. “Bowie Carlson,” he says and extends a hand to Penny, who is clearly captured in his net of charms even though she’s here for me.
“Oh. . .hello. Nice to meet you.” Her eyes dart between the man and me, trying to determine if she’s intruding.
I kick the leg of Bowie’s chair to end this awkward standoff of his presence on my date that is not a date, but probably is. “Don’t you have to go, wherever it is that you go?”
“Yes, yes, back to work for me.” And he struts from the shop like a supermodel in his fancy suit. “See ya later.”
“Friend?” Penny asks a question loaded with unspoken curiosity because I’m clearly engaged in the Bowie Runway Show with more than a passing interest.
“Kind of,” I say and her confused expression matches my thoughts.
I don’t even know what that means. He was initially just a dude who came to Jerome’s. Then my CrossFit classes. Then the bar after soccer games. But recently, he’s more than just taking up friendly space. There’s a level of attraction to which I am not accustomed since I haven’t dated a guy for several years.
“Come on. I know the best place for sushi,” I say. She gives a brilliant smile, where I notice the cute freckles across her nose.
In a shocking turn of events, my not-date turned into a date with Penny, hoping to clear Bowie out of my head.
“Referee, are you going to blow that whistle before this jackbag kills my ability to breastfeed my future children?” I say to the dumbest fucking center ref to ever center ref the game of soccer as my team sets up for a free kick. He ignores me as he walks the players off the ball.
“REFEREE!” I yell again while bodies jostle in the box for position. I wave my hands above my head in an I’mnotdoinganything gesture while the offender pushes both forearms into my girls. “DO YOU NOT SEE THIS!”
Having boobs is usually not a hassle in the co-ed league. But all it takes is one dirtbag getting offended after you make him look like an uncoordinated toddler to start off an avalanche of cheap fouls and crude remarks. Grabbing jerseys, elbowing the gut behind you, shoving in the back is all part of the game. I’m as physical as the rest of them. I just don’t use other people’s breasts to do so.
My teammate signals his kick and I shove the prick off of me. I cut to my spot and jump above another dude and head the ball laser sharp into the back of the net, giving us the lead with only five minutes left in the game.
I’m surrounded in a team hug. A few of the opposing guys bitch out the molester for his poor defensive skills while a couple others grumble in passing, “That’s the only way she can score.”
“No one likes a fucking fish taco,” the dirtbag says.
“That’s not what your girlfriend said,” I say, jogging past. I’m followed by echo of “Oh, shit, man. You burnt.”
A few minutes later, the asshat tackles me causing me to slide along my hip. The pain hints at one hellava turf rash. The ref blows his useless whistle to signal the end of the game.
During the good sportsmen’s handshake line after the game, the jackbag slaps my ass in a supposed “good game” gesture.
I. AM. DONE.
He’s the same height as me, which provides me a perfect angle to grab him by the shoulders and kick my knee into his boy parts. Hard. He drops like a sack of shit, screaming and coughing up obscenities of the unoriginal fucking dyke bitch variety.
“Oh, pardon me for the accidental dick graze, you perverted fucktrumpet.” I step over his crumpled body and pat myself on the back for not crushing his hand with my cleats.
The rest of his teammates as well as mine clear the hell out as I make my way to the sideline. I snatch my bag and don’t even bother to change my shoes. When I exit the park gate, Bowie steps in front of me. His game was before mine and apparently he stayed to watch.
“Holy shit, Roxy.” There’s concern, but also crinkles of humor around his eyes. “You okay?”
“I am not in the mood to talk to anyone with a penis right now,” I say and step around him.
“Wait, Roxy. You’re limping.” He falls in step beside me.
My hip throbs and stings as I lift my slider shorts higher to reveal a four-inch turf burn.
“I hope that motherfucker can’t get it up for a year!”
“Christ, Roxy. You gotta take care of that.” Bowie leans over, basically looking at my ass. It’s awkward and sort of intriguing at the same time—if I wasn’t standing here in public with a gaping wound and smelling like an old gym bag. Oh, yeah and his girlfriend. Must always remember the girlfriend.
“I can just do it at the shop,” I pull down my shorts and adjust my bag over my shoulder. “I gotta stop by there anyway.”
“My place is closer. Come over and clean up.”
I know this is only Bowie being nice. That it’s logical not to wait to take care of the burn. But being in his space. Using his stuff. Seeing where he lives. Feels like stepping beyond this imaginary boundary I set around us.
The wound rubs on my sliders and the friction will only increase the pain the longer I leave it open. And well, maybe I’m a little bit curious about his place.
“Fine.” I try not to notice the little smile on his face.
Bowie’s studio is filled with well, not much—a bed, couch, coffee table, big ass TV, a couple of bar stools at the extended counter that separates the small kitchen space from the rest of the room. His walls are bare, except for a giant black and white photograph of a beach. His bed is half-assed made, gray comforter pulled up over the pile of sheets. There are breakfast dishes in the sink and a covered plate of muffins sitting on the counter. The scent of this morning’s coffee lingers in the air.
Nothing overtly feminine grabs my attention. Interesting. This should not be interesting to me.
“This way,” he says and directs me to the back corner. The bathroom is tiny and modern with gray and white subway tiles patterning the small shower stall. He rifles in the cupboard under the square sink and sets antibiotic cream, bandages and towels on the counter.
“Here ya go,” he says. The walls feel too close. The oxygen content minimal. The scent of his sweat fogs my mind. I only nod.
He doesn’t step away toward the door. “You can shower if you want.”
“Oh, I. . .” Want. “Thanks.” I step toward the counter and unzip my bag for clean clothes.
“No problem.” And after a moment, he exits the room, leaving a little breathing room.
He’s being nice. Bowie’s a nice guy.
It’s logical. Putting clean clothes over a sweaty body is gross.
He has a girlfriend. Though there is no physical evidence of her here.
I’m standing in the same place he showers. Sans clothing.
The two of us could fit in here. Only a slice of space between our bodies. Only room enough for the water to slide between. Only room enough for soap to glide along each other’s skin. Barely room for the citrus scented steam to join us.
“Ouch! Motherfucker, that stings,” I say as the hot water hits my turf burn. The pain overrides the sliding bodies daydream.
I check out his shaving products as I dress and notice the beard oil I use at the shop. Not Jerome’s preferred scent. Interesting. No, Roxy, not interesting.
Bowie stuffs an entire muffin in his mouth when I emerge from the bathroom. “Hmphf” is his attempt at greeting with his mouth full.
I laugh and shake my head. “Pig.”
He shrugs, still able to grin with a mouth full of food. He swallows and takes a long drink from the glass of juice in his hand. “Sorry. You hungry? Muffin?” He extends the plate to me.
“Thanks,” I say and take a normal sized bite. My mouth fills with blueberry and sugar and a hint of lemon. Whoa. “That’s incredible. You bake?”
“Ha! No. The older couple of ladies down the hall make them for me.”
I stuff the last piece into my mouth. “Of course they do. I bet you walk the hallways shirtless and the next day you have pumpkin bread.”
His finger rubs along his chin the way he always does when contemplating an answer. “I just dazzle them with my smile. I think they’d be more interested in you shirtless.”
I burst out in full laughter. “I’m not opposed to flashing the goods. Those muffins are awesome.”
He laughs, but turns to the sink with his glass. “Not sure they could handle that entertainment.” The tips of his ears are pink.
I snatch another muffin from the plate. “I’m taking one for the road.”
“You coming to The Pit?” he asks in sudden change of topic. The soccer crowd congregates there after Saturday games.
“I don’t know. I gotta hit Jerome’s and I’m kind of beat from today.” I’m not really sure if I’m up for The Pit today. Too many dicks—literally and not literally—for my mood.
“Okay.” He fiddles around with covering the remaining muffins.
“Okay, then,” I say and shuffle from one foot to the other. He’s not making eye contact. It’s weird. “Thanks for. . .uh, the use of your facilities.”
“Anytime,” he replies and gives me a half smile that just dimples up his cheek. “See you later?”
He watches me walk down the hallway in a full lean pose again
st the doorjamb. Even in sweaty, dirty, nasty soccer attire, he’s still in fine billboard form.
“Maybe,” I say and give him a little wave as I step into the elevator.
The fresh air of the open street should make me feel free. But my head is crowded with citrus body wash and steamy small spaces and blueberry muffins. I crossed the imaginary boundary and entered his personal space, where he cooks and sleeps and shaves. He’s checked right into Libido’s Campground. I shouldn’t have let him in the tent.
“Hide your jewels, gentlemen!” the bartender roars at my entrance to The Pit. “The Ball Buster has arrived!”
The male patrons cheer and cover their precious manhood, while chanting, “Rox, Rox, kicked his box!”
I high-five my adoring fans on my way back to where a few of my teammates and Bowie camp out. The table is littered with sauce-smeared plates of wings and bowls holding a few left over chips. By the rosy glow on many cheeks, much alcohol has already been consumed.
Bowie’s arm is draped, almost protectively over an empty chair next to him and he nods toward it. “Our hero,” he says, bumping knuckles with me. “That guy has been a dick all season.”
Jerry from my team says, “What did you call him?”
Another teammate chimes in “a perverted fucktrumpet! It was so awesome!”
“I’m sure everyone will be on the lookout for your accidental dick graze,” pipes in Jerry.
“As they should,” I reply. “Now where’s my beer?”
The story of my glorious game grows more hyperbolic as the booze continues to flow. I’m happy to observe and occasionally chime in a comment or two. This is normal. Just Bowie and the guys and beer and wings. Simple.
A couple of girls at the table next to us are fascinated with all the tales from the pitch and join our little group. One short blonde sits next to me and while she keeps asking Bowie questions, her knee presses into mine. He responds, but he isn’t his usual boisterous self. He scans the room and returns to the conversation, constantly engaging and disengaging.