Kiss Me, Chloe

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  I snorted. “Get me one while you’re up, please?”

  “Sure thing.” She started toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned back to me. “Promise you’ll give him a proper snog next time. There will be a next time, won’t there?”

  “Yes. This coming Friday night. And I dread to think what you consider a ‘proper’ kiss.”

  “Tongue,” she said. “Lots and lots of tongue.” And then she sashayed out of the office and down the hall. I shook my head. Thank goodness there were only two of us in the office. I dreaded to think what the rest of our colleagues at the Trust would think of our conversations on dating and kissing.

  My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the caller ID. Derek. A small smile stole across my face. It had been a good kiss. And other than his lateness and probable exaggerations about his career—and let’s face it, most people exaggerated on first dates—the evening had been really good. The best I’d had in a long while.

  I accepted the call. “Hi, Derek.”

  “Chloe. Good morning. How are you?”

  He sounded excited. “Well, thanks. Busy. What’s up?” Taking personal calls wasn’t a big deal as long as it didn’t interfere with work, but I didn’t like to take advantage.

  “I have the best news. You’ll never believe this.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve just got a new part in a play.”

  “That’s fantastic. Congratulations. Where is it?”

  “A small theater in Soho. Unfortunately, practice starts this week. I’m going to have to reschedule our date.”

  “Oh, no worries. I understand.” And I did. I was disappointed we wouldn’t be going out Friday, but I was happy for him.

  “I promise I will make it up to you, and you’ll get the very first ticket to the show.”

  “Thank you. That would be fun. Who else is in the play?”

  He paused, and I heard paper rustling. “You’ve probably never heard of them. They’re not well known in the mainstream.” Oh, great. Was this one of those avant-garde things? “The star is Tiger.”

  “What kind of a name is Tiger?”

  “Oh, you know how some of these artists are. They think using some ridiculous name will get them noticed.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” I used one hand to bring up the internet and plug in a search for Tiger. All I came up with were a bunch of results on actual tigers and one for some Jamaican musician from the ’80s.

  “He’s new, young, just breaking the scene. Gwen Powers is a veteran though.”

  A quick Google search revealed a teenager in the US. Probably not the same Gwen Powers. “What’s it about? The play, I mean.”

  “The Emperor Caligula,” he said. “That’s history stuff. Right up your alley.”

  It sounded like a classic. “I look forward to seeing it. When’s the first night?”

  “Two weeks. It’s a rather quick turnaround, so I’ll be practicing non-stop. But like I said, I will make it up to you once the play is over.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The Wanna Be

  “HOW ABOUT WE HAVE A nightcap at my place?”

  Did people still have nightcaps? I glanced at my date. Diego was ridiculously good-looking and had treated me like a queen so far. After Dave, the crazy actor, Diego seemed stable to the point of boring. I gave a mental shrug; why not? You only live once.

  “Sure. Sounds great.”

  Diego lived in a small cottage in the Hollywood District of Portland. It was a charming white with red shutters and a matching door, like something out of a fairytale. The lawn was perfectly manicured with rows of lush roses marching along the front walk.

  “This is lovely,” I said, unable to keep the slight hint of surprise out of my voice.

  “My parents own it, but I rent it from them. Good investment for them and saves me a lot on rent so I can put it toward the things that really matter.”

  “Oh, like what?” I asked, curious.

  He grinned, his white teeth flashing against dusky skin. “Let me show you.”

  He let me into the house, and I followed him to the living room. It was simply decorated with a plush beige couch and simple oak coffee table. Modern and almost Spartan. “This way.”

  He pushed open another door and stepped through. I followed, stopping abruptly with a gasp. The charming exterior and plain living room hadn’t prepared me for what I found behind Diego’s bedroom door. Because what I found was the Bat Cave.

  I’m not kidding. It looked like he’d knocked a wall down, turning two smaller bedrooms into one large room. The walls had been finished with some kind of faux effect to mimic the look of cave walls. The center was taken up by a platform on which sat a king-sized bed with a duvet cover of the bat signal. The headboard was also carved with the Batman symbol. Another giant symbol was painted on the ceiling. In one corner was a large glass case, which contained an honest-to-god rubber Batman suit.

  “Oh my God.” It was all I could manage.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “That’s certainly the word for it.”

  He waved to a large piece of artwork hanging on the wall opposite the bed. “I drew that.”

  “Um. Wow.” It was a picture of himself as Batman. “I thought you were an electrician.”

  “I am, but my dream is to be an artist.” He stood back and admired his own image dreamily.

  Oh dear heavens. Not another artsy type. The man was at least three eggs short of a dozen.

  “I just remembered I have to get home. I’ve, uh, got an early day tomorrow.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said, instantly drooping. “Maybe next time we can sit in the Batmobile.”

  Sweet heaven, the man was nuts. I mean, I love Batman, but this was a little over the top even for me. “Yeah, maybe.” Sometimes living in the moment was overrated.

  Chapter 4

  I ARRIVED AT THE TINY theater in Soho promptly at seven o’clock the following Thursday night. I didn’t know what I’d expected—something more West End, maybe—but itty bitty theater tucked down a back alley was definitely not it. It totally got my creepy vibe hackles up. But the small playbill with “Caligula” scrawled across the top and Derek’s name below assured me I was in the right spot.

  A hipster couple walked past me and slipped through the door, quickly followed by a second couple, one of whom was flamboyantly dressed in flamingo pink trousers and a vintage pink and yellow-striped knit shirt. And I’d thought I loved color.

  I opened the heavy steel door and stepped inside the tiny vestibule. The entry was like that of any other office building the world over. A reception desk with one of the cheap, Formica faux-wood tops stood across from the door, empty except for an old rotary phone. A stairway leading up stood to the left, and a hallway, dimly lit, stretched to the right. I nearly tripped over the brown mat in front of the door. Somebody had kicked the corner of it up into a curl. I kicked it back down.

  On the wall next to the staircase was an office directory enclosed in clear plastic. Next to that was another Caligula playbill with an arrow pointing up. I took the stairs cautiously, my footsteps ringing against the metal treads. What the heck sort of theater was this? Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  At the top of the stairs was a long hallway carpeted with cheap blue carpet squares covered in stains and what suspiciously looked like cigarette burns, even though smoking in offices had been outlawed years ago. Music was coming from the other end of the hall.

  I frowned as I drew closer. It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected to hear. Instead of classical music or something of that nature, there was a twangy, synthetic sound with an almost ’70s vibe. The sign next to the door proclaimed this to be “Bodrum Theater.” Weirdest place for a theater I’d ever seen.

  I pushed open the door and scanned the room. Sure enough, there was a small stage down in front, completely bare except for a gold chaise longue. On three sides of the stage, risers stretched toward the ceiling, li
ned with cheap, plastic chairs in mustard yellow. They were totally going to clash with my rust and turquoise mariposa print dress.

  “Hey, you here for the play?” the hipster in the flamingo pants asked, peering at me through glasses with thick, black frames.

  “Yes. I am.”

  He gave me a strange look. “You don’t seem the usual type for this place.”

  I saucily propped my hand on my hip and asked, “And what is the usual type?”

  “Well, uh, you see.” He nodded behind him, and I realized nearly all the audience members were male. There were only about half a dozen women, and they were a lot older and more hippy-looking than me.

  “One of the actors invited me,” I explained.

  “Oh. Did he tell you about the play?”

  “Just that it’s a classic.”

  He gave me a funny look. “I suppose it is. I recommend a seat near the aisle. You’ll get a better view.” He gave me a kind look and then hurried to join his boyfriend. I thought it was odd since usually the best view was from the center of the audience, but I shrugged and took his advice. After all, he was the one who’d been here before, not me.

  After a few minutes, the house lights went down and a spotlight shone on the chaise longue. A dark figure appeared at the edge of the stage and made his way to the chaise longue. As he took his seat, my eyes widened to approximately the size of saucers. Other than a crown of gold laurel leaves, the man was buck naked. As he sat with a flourish, his junk dangling for the world to see, the audience politely clapped.

  Caligula—at least I assumed that was who he was supposed to be—burst into a long soliloquy about something. I had no idea what. I was too busy trying not to stare at his family jewels. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen a naked man before, and I wasn’t a prude, it was just so... unexpected.

  About the time I got used to having a naked man spouting something vaguely Shakespearean at me, another man strode out on stage, also buck naked. Holy crap. Did anyone in this play wear clothes?

  Fifteen minutes into the play, four more characters had appeared, each one naked as the day he was born. To say it was distracting was an understatement. I think Derek was supposed to be some kind of manservant, but it was hard to tell (pun intended) what with all the junk flying. Other than Caligula, I had no idea who anyone was supposed to be other than naked eye candy.

  By the halfway mark, the play had turned from something random and avant-garde to something more in line with soft porn. I desperately did not want to see what I was seeing. I wanted to go home and scrub my brain with bleach, but I seemed to be stuck to the chair. The lights suddenly went out and someone called intermission.

  “How do you like it so far?” Flamingo Pants interrupted my state of shock.

  “It’s...interesting. Are all the plays here...naked?”

  “Mostly.” He eyed me carefully. “I think you might need a drink. Something very strong and very alcoholic.”

  “You have no idea.”

  I managed to get down the stairs and out of the building before I burst into semi-hysterical laughter. A few people stared at me oddly and scurried away. I pulled out my phone and dialed the one person I knew who might be in the know.

  “Hi, Kev. Do you know of a theater called the Bodrum?”

  There was a pause. “Please tell me you didn’t go see a play there.”

  “Afraid I did.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” he said. “You need a stiff drink.”

  “Don’t ever use the word ‘stiff’ in my presence again.”

  THE DOVE AND THISTLE was heaving by the time I got there. Standing room only and three deep at the bar. I loved being around people, but all of a sudden I felt like turning around and walking out the door.

  “Oh, no you don’t, sweetie.” A hand grabbed my arm.

  “Kev. How’d you know?”

  He grinned. “I’m psychic. Now come on. I want to introduce you to some people.”

  I was not in the mood to plaster a smile on my face and pretend things were fine. I wanted to eat a pint of chunky chocolate ice cream and watch cheesy ’80s flicks with happy endings while pretending tonight had never happened. I wondered vaguely if I still had Cheetos left. Cheetos were hard to come by in London. You had to go to a specialty shop and pay through the nose. Still, it was worth it to sooth those occasional cravings.

  I followed Kev through the crowded pub, occasionally using a gentle elbow to nudge someone out of the way. He led me to a high table surrounded by half a dozen people suited and booted as if they’d just come from work. One of the men waggled a beer bottle at Kev.

  “Another?”

  Kev nodded. “And one for her,” he said, stabbing a finger in my general direction.

  I started to refuse, but the guy was already gone, disappearing in the crowd between us and the bar. Well, crap. I hated beer.

  Kev leaned in and practically shouted in my ear, “Don’t worry. It’s ginger beer. Alcohol, but yummy.”

  “Sounds delish.” I still hadn’t tried the stuff, though there were ads for it on the telly every five minutes. Now was as good a time as any.

  Kev introduced me around, but between the loudness of the pub and the number of people, I soon lost track. There was a raven-haired beauty who looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. She gave me a cool look and turned back to chatting with some guy in an expensive suit. I was pretty sure Kev had called her Esmerelda, which sounded like something out of a Disney movie. Surely I’d heard wrong. The expensive suit guy was Harry. Or was it Larry? Barry, maybe? The others were, frankly, a blur. There might have been a Tom and a Jane.

  Drinks guy arrived back at the table juggling bottles of ginger beer. As he handed them out, he introduced himself.

  “You must be Chloe,” he all but shouted. “I’m Rowan, Kev’s best friend. We grew up together. Has he told you about the time he dyed his sister’s hair hot pink? They were six.”

  “Kev has a twin?”

  “Oh, yeah. Pippa.”

  “Oh, gosh, Row, you’re not telling the hair dye story again.”

  Rowan grinned, his almost ordinary face suddenly becoming attractive. He swept a lock of light brown hair out of his eyes. “Among other things.”

  Kev groaned. “Chloe did not come here to hear about my childhood mishaps. She’s here to drink away her sorrows.”

  “The play wasn’t that bad,” I insisted. Well, it had been pretty bad, but I didn’t care enough about Derek or the play for it to be more than a temporary blip on my radar. Mostly I was embarrassed I’d fallen for yet another flakey nut-case of an artist.

  “Dating horror story?” Rowan looked half sympathetic and half eager. “Do tell.”

  “Not exactly a date.” I gave them a quick rundown of the naked play. “Honestly, I have never seen so many dongs in one place in my life. I might never recover,” I finished dramatically. Now I was sounding like Emma. “I must have been crazy to go out with him in the first place.”

  “I wouldn’t say crazy exactly,” Rowan said sympathetically.

  Kev snorted. “Naive maybe.”

  I pouted. But he was right. I’d been stupid to ignore my instincts. It was all so obvious now I thought about it. Well, maybe not the naked, but the tacky play and the dodgy theater. But I had to admit it had been flattering to have such a good-looking guy interested, and I was always up for trying new things. No one would ever say I hadn’t lived life to its fullest.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me the two of you have never had a bad date.”

  The two of them exchanged glances before bursting out laughing. “Cari Shields,” they chimed in unison.

  I glanced from one to the other. “Excuse me?”

  “We were in sixth form, and Kev hadn’t figured out he was in the closet yet,” Rowan told me. “Heck, I don’t think he realized there was a closet.”

  “Yes, I did,” Kev muttered. We both ignored him.

>   “Anyway, I had this god-awful crush on a girl, Cari Shields. She was possibly the most attractive girl in our class, if not the whole school. Being best friends, Kev decided he liked her, too.”

  Kev took a slug of his ginger beer. “Please. I liked her before you did.”

  “Yeah, but I actually wanted to sleep with her.” Rowan turned back to me. “Anyway, we both asked Cari to the movies. The same movie, by the way. And she said yes to both of us without either of us realizing. So we both showed up to the movie.”

  “And let me guess. She didn’t.”

  “No,” said Rowan with a sigh. “Turns out she was shagging the head footballer from the opposing school.”

  I grinned. “Oh, come on. Everybody has that story from high school. Except maybe the popular kids. Of which I was not.”

  “Neither were we,” Kev admitted. “Although we’ve come a long way, don’t you think?”

  “A very long way.” Rowan grinned. “Ran into Cari a couple years ago. Turns out she married the footballer, and now they live on a council estate with their four brats, surviving on beans and toast. And the footballer is fat and bald.” He grinned gleefully.

  “While you’ve got a decent physique and a full head of hair,” I said.

  “Hey, be nice. I work hard on this physique.”

  Kev and I laughed as Rowan pretended to flex his muscles. He had some nice ones. Not big, but well-proportioned. A swimmer’s body.

  “What Rowan didn’t mention is that he’s making six figures,” Kev pointed out. “Eat your heart out, Cari Shields.”

  We laughed again, and I watched the sparkle in Rowan’s eyes. He was nice, easy on the eyes, especially when he smiled, but there was no spark between us. Too bad, because I was pretty sure he wouldn’t invite me to a porno play.

  We continued chatting and laughing, and were just starting in on our second bottles of ginger beer when I noticed Kev’s attention straying. I turned to see what he was looking at.

  A couple tables over, I caught sight of someone looking at me. He was handsome, with finely chiseled features. Dark hair that was a little too shaggy fell into his pale eyes. I couldn’t tell from this distance whether they were blue or green or something else. He looked familiar. I’d seen him somewhere before, and recently. I just couldn’t recall where or when. He gave me a quirky half smile that sent shivers down my spine, and I knew. It was Bram from the jazz club. Before I could return the smile, Kev interrupted me.