“So what’s the story?” he asks at last. “Why don’t you like to sing in front of people?”
“Because I just don’t.” I finish off my Manhattan and plop the glass down on the ground, where it promptly tips over and rolls a few inches. “I don’t like attention.”
“Hm.” This seems to excite him, if the exclamation in that one sound is anything to go by. He offers me the other cocktail. Without thinking, I take it. “But I’m giving you attention now,” he says. “You like it, yes?”
Oh, geez. Am I that transparent? Is it obvious I’m not used to good-looking guys wanting to spend time with me?
“Who says I like it?” My voice quivers.
“Well, if you didn’t want to talk to me, you’d have stayed with Mira. You’ve been looking at me all night when you think I can’t see. You didn’t have to sit here with me and drink bourbon if you didn’t like me talking to you.” The way he says it feels like he’s describing a science experiment. Matter-of-fact. Curious. And he’s been observing me far more than I realized.
“You’re creepy,” I tell him. My face is so, so warm. I take another sip of the drink. “And you’re obsessed with me.”
He laughs but keeps his eyes on me.
“Why do you say you don’t like attention?”
“Because I don’t. I feel like everyone’s judging me. If I was up on stage singing in front of hundreds of people per night, I know people would judge me. ‘Why does her face do that when she hits a high note? She went flat there. She sucks.’ You know it’s true.” I wipe at my eyes, just in case some tears have appeared without my consent. They haven’t. “I don’t like to do anything out of the ordinary. I prefer to stay invisible. I don’t want anyone to bother me.”
Quiet conversation continues around us. Classical music is playing over on the terrace—the baroque quartet Mira’s parents hired for tonight. Ren, however, stays silent. Watching me. After a minute or so, I feel uncomfortable and look out across the lake. In a couple months, it’ll be summer, and Mira and I will go out there on a boat and spend an hour doing nothing. It’s a small lake, and only one other house shares it. So sometimes, in the middle of the night, when both houses are shut down for the night, we come out here and skinny-dip. My one act of crazy that even the pressure of my worries can’t ruin.
“The best thing about being an editor,” he finally says, forcing me to look at him again, “is that you do all your work behind the scenes.”
That’s all he says. But I understand.
Renan Vidal is just like me.
“Do you want to date Mira?” I ask, because I don’t know how to finish that conversation.
His smile drops for the second time tonight and he frowns.
“Not particularly. Why would you ask that?”
I shrug. “You two had a thing last year. You’re a good match. She’s happy you’re living out here now.”
“She’s a good friend. Kiev was fun, but that’s in the past.”
“She’s very pretty. Are you sure you don’t want to date her?”
With a smirk, he leans forward and speaks low. A rumbly challenge. “Are you sure you don’t like that bourbon?”
I gape at the drink in my hand. It’s halfway empty. When did I drink all that? And without throwing it all back up? My tummy feels perfectly fine. In fact, I wouldn’t mind drinking a little more.
“You cheated,” I whine. “You gave me a cocktail.”
“With bourbon.” His grin grows as he settles back into the chair, reclining with his hands folded behind his head. “I do believe you owe me some singing, Penelope.”
“How are you sure I don’t hate it?”
“I knew you didn’t after the first sip,” he explains. I can’t take my gaze off his mouth and how his lips shape around the words as he speaks. Everything about him is enthralling. “If you hated it, you wouldn’t have wanted to keep drinking it, hm?”
Honestly, I should have known he would figure it out. Who drinks two drinks if they hate it? He distracted me with his nonlinear conversational tactics and his pretty self. And by holding my hand earlier.
I sigh and stand up, handing off the cocktail to him. He puts his mouth exactly where mine was and finishes it off. My chest heats up.
“I agreed to the bet,” I say. “What would you like to hear?”
“‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.’”
What? “That’s a duet.”
“I know. I’ll join in later.”
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “Didn’t you do enough in high school? It’s fine. I’m buzzed, so I’m not nervous.”
This time when he quirks an eyebrow at me, it sends a wave of heat through my body that has nothing to do with the alcohol I’ve consumed. This man has had me off kilter all night. How’s that? That I would spend an evening with someone just strange enough to get me attached? The entire night feels like a dream. That’s how Ren makes me feel. Like nothing is real.
“I want to,” he says. “Go ahead. First verse is yours.”
I take a few deep breaths, hoping I remember all the lyrics to this song. And then I sing.
My voice is a little huskier than Ella Fitzgerald’s, and I don’t enunciate nearly as well as she did. But she’s one of my favorites to cover. I try to keep my voice quiet so as not to bother the other guests, but since I’m just past tipsy, I can’t tell how loud I actually am. And as I’m not a soprano, I have to get a little louder to hit the high notes.
When I get to the point where Ren should come in as Louis, my jaw drops to the ground.
Ren can sing. He doesn’t sound like Louis Armstrong at all, but that’s a good thing. Ren’s voice is clearer and lighter. Sultry and smooth. Almost like Frank Sinatra or Michael Bublé. He grins at me as he sings, adding unnecessary runs and vibrato. But it doesn’t sound overdone. It sounds… perfect.
I don’t even bother singing my next verse. But he lies there as if he knew I wouldn’t continue.
“You are a liar!” I screech. People were already watching our performance, but now they’re intrigued thanks to my outburst. “I thought you were a horrible singer!”
“How am I a liar when I never told you I was bad? I told you I sang horribly in high school.”
“You did!”
He drops his hands from behind his head and sits up. “Singing well would have intimidated you. I wanted to calm you down. So I made a fool of myself.”
I scoff. I am speechless. This idiot. He went on stage with some girl he didn’t even know and pretended like he was bad at singing so that I wouldn’t be nervous? What do you even say to something like that?
“How can I trust anything else you’ve said to me tonight?” I splutter. “You tricked me into liking bourbon and you tricked me into thinking you’re a bad singer. Any other confessions, Mr. Vidal?”
He does nothing but laugh. So I spin on my heel—almost falling over thanks to the alcohol that’s catching up to me hard now—and storm back over to where Mira and the guys last were.
“Leave me alone, you… deceiver!” I call back over the sound of his cackles.
The croquet lawn is a ways away from the lake. Mira has joined the game. I give her a wave when I get there and she waves back. Even from here I can tell she’s sweaty, and her bun is falling out. Her shoes are off, kicked under the bench I sit down on. It’s looking more like they’re doing parkour out there rather than croquet, but hey, I’m not here to judge.
I set Mira’s heels down beside me and curl up on the bench, wishing I’d at least kept the cocktail.
Chapter Four
“Tonight You Belong to Me” - Nancy Sinatra
I’m woken up with a soft hand on my shoulder.
“Penelope.”
That’s not Mira.
I peel my eyes open and blink several times before they finally focus on the face above me. Ren.
“Where’s Mira?” How long have I been asleep?” My voice is crackly from sleep.
“Still on t
he lawn. I’m not quite sure what they’re playing, but it’s not croquet anymore.”
Rubbing at my eyes, I turn over to look at the group. “They’re playing lap tag,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s hope no one breaks an arm this time.”
“The drinks must have hit you hard. You’ve been asleep since before I came over here.” Once again, he doesn’t go along with the direction of the conversation at all. I think he won’t ever. When he brushes loose hairs away from my forehead, I’m too tired to flinch.
“What time is it?”
“A little after midnight. Are you ready to leave?”
Belatedly, I realize that Ren is sitting on the edge of the bench, his hip against my stomach as he leans over me. This is too close. Too intimate. Maybe he didn’t think I was serious when I told him to leave me alone. Or perhaps he didn’t care. Probably both.
“I’ll leave whenever Mira does,” I say after a yawn. I hope he can’t smell my stank breath from here. “Or sometimes we spend the night when the parties go late.”
“I want you to come home with me.”
My brain goes into alert mode. I scramble up into a sitting position, knocking him off the bench in the process.
“Excuse me?” I stammer. “What makes you think I want to sleep with you?”
“I’m assuming you mean sleep in the sexual way, and that’s not what I’m asking you for,” he says, completely unashamed. “I like you and I want you to come over so I can look at your tattoo.”
On instinct, my hand flies up to touch the top of my shoulder blade. I often forget about the tattoo because I can’t see it. Which means I also forget to cover it up a lot of the time. Mira’s mother isn’t fond of tattoos, so she prefers for me to cover it as best as I can when I come to parties. It’s easier in the winter, because it means a lot of long-sleeved dresses that cover more skin. But right now in the unseasonably warm spring, I’m wearing a dress that shows off more of my back. And of course, I forgot to cover up the tattoo. I think the top few inches of it are on display.
The fact that he noticed it enough to want to see the whole thing? A little exhilarating. I’d have to take off the dress to show him it in its entirety.
“That sounds a little like a proposition, Mr. Vidal,” I say. But I’m warming up to the idea, so I keep my tone light.
His grin kicks up. “I promise I will not try to sleep with you. In the sexual way. But it’d be nice if you stayed the night.”
Never before have I heard of a guy asking a girl to spend the night for platonic reasons after having just met her. Although I suppose we met years before in high school, but I don’t count that because we didn’t exchange more than a couple words. And for all his weirdness, I do like him. And tonight is not a regular night.
“Okay,” I agree, surprising myself. “I’ll come.”
His eyes light up as if he wasn’t expecting me to concede so easily. That boyish smile graces his face again.
“Why don’t you tell Mira?” he says. “I’ll go out to the valet.”
As he wanders away, I put my shoes back on—they must have fallen off in my sleep—and approach the circle of people. Mira is currently in the middle trying to decide a criterion to call out so that the others sitting around can fight their way to be the first to touch her foot. She perks up when she sees me.
“Penelope!” she says. “How was your nap?”
“Good,” I respond. “Hey, I’m going to head out.”
“Oh, okay.” She frowns. “I’ll finish this round real quick and I’ll meet you out front at the valet.”
“No,” I say a little stronger than I meant. “You stay and play your game. I’m going home with Ren.”
Mira stops. “Someone else come in the middle,” she orders. “I need to speak to Penelope for a moment.”
She steps between two pairs of people and grips my shoulders hard enough to make me meet her eyes.
“You. Are going home. With a man?” she whispers incredulously. “Are you sure about that?”
I shrug, though my shoulders barely lift under her bruising grasp. “I guess. We’re not going there for sex, just to hang out.”
“What?” Her brow furrows. “No guy asks a girl over to his place after midnight if it’s not for sex.”
“Sure they do. If they’re just friends. Remember Aaron?”
Mira seems to consider this. Aaron was one of our close friends in college; he moved to California after graduation. Despite what people thought about a straight guy being best friends with two girls, he wasn’t interested in us and we weren’t in him. And we’d regularly hang out at each other’s places late at night, even sleeping over. Never, not even once, did either of us ever cross the platonic line with Aaron.
“Okay,” Mira says slowly. “You’ll call me right away if you need me? For anything?”
“Of course.”
With Mira consoled over my uncharacteristic behavior, we say our goodbyes and I go through the house to gather my purse and unused shawl before stepping out to meet Ren.
The ride into the city is quiet for the most part. Ren listens to the radio, but he can’t seem to commit to one station. We’ll listen to half a song on the Top 40, then he switches to country, and almost immediately changes it to a hip-hop one. I don’t say anything about it, just watch his fingers fiddle with the tuner and sometimes the volume. When we’re entering the city about a half hour later, he lands on a Spanish-language station and lets a song play out.
He sings along under his breath. Even like that, it’s obvious he has a beautiful voice. I’m still a little sore and embarrassed about him making me believe he couldn’t sing. But his voice quietly rumbling out words in Spanish is soothing, and I close my eyes to enjoy it.
Not too long after, we pull into the underground garage for his building.
“You have a garage,” I singsong. “Fancy.”
“We share it with the other two buildings on this block,” he says, as if that’s an answer to why it is or why it isn’t fancy.
He holds my hand again as we go up the dingy stairs into the building. This time, my hands are sweaty for sure. I sort of can’t believe I’m doing this. Entering the apartment of a guy I barely know. What do I wear to sleep? And in the morning? Will I have to do the walk of shame in this same dress? And what about brushing my teeth? Combing my hair? I don’t think he’d have a comb.
“I can feel you thinking,” Ren says as he pries open a metal door once we’ve gone up several flights of stairs. “Relax.”
“I’m just wondering how I’m going to comb my hair,” I confess. My feet drag as he leads me down the hall, past doors boasting various apartment numbers.
“I have a brush,” he offers. “That should work for the night, hm?”
I suppose it could do. In order to completely detangle my textured hair, I have to use a comb. But a brush could get me by for a night. And the thought of using Ren’s brush makes me a little giddy, if I’m completely honest. His hair looks so soft. I wonder how it’d feel if I touched it?
He stops in front of a door and unlocks it, stepping in to turn on the light before letting me in. As he closes the door behind me, I take a moment to understand what exactly I’m seeing.
First of all, this is not at all the type of place I expected him to live. Sure, he’s young and it’s expensive to live in the city. But after everything he told me about his success post-high school and after learning about his expensive tastes in liquor, I figured that he’d be living in some big upscale apartment. Granite countertops, 60-inch television, view of the city, etcetera. Instead, he lives in a snug semi-studio. There is a separate bedroom, but it’s tiny and just off the living room, split off by French doors that look like they haven’t been closed in half a century. The kitchen area in the far corner is little more than one counter, a fridge, a sink, and a two-burner stove. The rest is a mishmash of various lounge furniture.
Which is the second odd thing. Ren has supposedly been here a week already, but the apa
rtment looks as if someone is in the middle of moving out rather than in. Unopened boxes line the perimeter of the room and the furniture isn’t arranged in any cohesive setup. It hardly even appears lived-in, if it weren’t for the hastily made-up bed.
“Not impressed?” Ren guesses, stepping around me to set his keys on the “kitchen” counter. It is impossible to tell if he’s ever offended, except for earlier when I asked if he wanted to date Mira.
“Well, you’re a big fancy editor who drinks bourbon,” I say. “I was picturing a penthouse.”
He laughs. The sound is even louder in the small space. I wonder how thin the walls are here.
“All the money is spent on the bourbon. What’s left over goes to rent.”
This time, I let out an uncharacteristic snort-laugh, not even caring if my crooked tooth is showing. It’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes glint as he takes two steps to reach the other side of the room. I’m so distracted by the soft angle of his chin that it takes me a moment to notice what he’s messing with.
“You have a record player?” I squeal.
“I do indeed.”
I’m barely able to contain myself as I trot over to observe the 1960s-style contraption.
“My grandma had one. In super good condition,” I say. “But after she died, my parents wouldn’t let me keep it and sold it at the estate sale. I’ve wanted one ever since.”
Ren hums as he flips through records in a box balanced precariously on the arm of the futon. “Is that so?” he says. “I thought maybe you’d want to listen to something.”
“I’d love to.” I sigh and nearly swoon onto the nearest armchair, hands on my chest. “That scratchy sound at the beginning of a record? The poor quality? The way it sounds like you’re right there in the studio? I love that.”
I realize I sound like some dreamy teen in those hipster movies, but at the moment I don’t quite care. Tonight is a fairytale.
I watch Ren as he settles a record on the player and lowers the needle. That scratchy sound sends a thrill through me, and then Dean Martin’s crooning voice fills the room. My body starts swaying, out of my control, to the slow, jazzy beat of the song.
Between Hearts: A Romance Anthology Page 48