by Lexi Whitlow
Once inside she kicks off her shoes, drops her purse, and pulls me forward into the living room with both hands. She falls back onto a plush couch, inviting me to join her. I drop to a knee, facing her, seeing the bright glow of alcohol in her face, seeing the watery blur clouding her vision and her judgement.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
She reaches forward with both hands, seizing the lapels of my jacket, pulling me down onto her, her lips seizing mine. I return her kiss, giving the effort of my best attempt. She’s not a bad kisser, but her lips don’t inspire me. Mine, apparently, inspire her. She pulls me closer, slipping her hand around my nape, another dropping to my belly, slipping down to my belt.
“Easy,” I whisper, breaking the kiss, nuzzling her neck, then pulling back. “Take a second.”
Her hand keeps working at my belt. I drop mine to hers and stop her. She frowns.
“Liza, you’ve had a lot to drink,” I say. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m fine.” The thickness in her diction says otherwise.
I pull all the way back, sitting down, a leg crossed under me, relaxed, facing her.
“You’re not.”
She leans forward, coming at me again with hungry lips, open mouth, and seeking hands.
I catch her wrists and pull them to safety. I nip her lips and speak in a low, husky tone. “Liza, if you want me to fuck you, I’ll oblige. But tomorrow you may regret it.”
I touch the top of her ear with my nose, breathing against her skin. “You’re a beautiful woman, but honestly, you’re my boss, and the age difference… it’s not my thing. If I fuck you, I’m going to fuck you thinking of somebody else, someone younger.”
She stiffens and draws back.
“It’s not that you’re not beautiful.” I take her hand in mind, kissing her fingers gently. “You are. But so is my mother. And, Liza? You must know that if we do this, it’s going to hurt our professional relationship. Because it won’t last. It can’t last. Our colleagues would have a field day with it. You’re looking for a little gratification, and I’m looking for the same thing every twenty-four-year-old guy is looking for.”
“And that’s what?” Liza asks, her tone gone cold.
I return her hand to her own lap. “Someone I actually like,” I admit, because it’s the truth.
She laughs at me. “That’s sad,” she says. “That kind of thing doesn’t exist. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I’ve got to try for myself.”
She’s bleary with drink.
“I’d love nothing better than to spend time with you on my way to that. I bet you could show me some stuff.”
“I could,” she assures me, her confidence waxing, the gleam in her eye returning.
Now yank, hard.
“Not until you make that decision soberly.” I reach up to her head and tenderly push an errant lock of hair back into place. “Think on it. You’re a department head. You earned that. I’m just the eye candy, over-achieving junior on your team. A lot of your colleagues would find you ridiculous for even considering it. It’s beneath you.”
I kiss her on the forehead, stand, and move toward the door as she watches me with a confounded, hurt expression.
“I’m saving you a world of trouble,” I say.
I show myself out, relieved to feel the early autumn air chilling my skin, putting a brisk skip in my step. I’m happy to be rid of Liza Johnson. Hopefully, my Oscar-worthy performance put a nail in that coffin and buried it.
Back in my car I punch the address for Little Mexico into Navigator. There’s someone I need to see before this night is put to bed.
Chapter 9
Chloe
It’s Friday night and the bar is busy. I’ve been on my feet without a break since six, and judging by the crowd still coming in, there will be no rest for the weary until last call. Paul, Greg, and a handful of other old housemates got here early and are camped out drinking, having a big night of it.
I pull two pitchers of beer, sliding them down the bar to Troy, who’s handling half the crowd by himself. He’s got food up and the kitchen is screaming for him. Lisa, who’s covering tables out front, is waiting on a pitcher of margaritas, a sangria, and assorted bottled beers. It’s mayhem and I’m right in the middle of it.
I grab a pitcher, mixing the margaritas and ice, then retrieve a pre-chilled decanter of fruity sangria from the cooler. I spin those to Lisa while grabbing one of the trays of plated food for Troy, delivering it to his table before it goes cold. He nods his appreciation, then passes by, dropping another fistful of drink order tickets in my basket.
We’re barely keeping up.
I’m capping beer bottles and setting them up for Lisa’s table, when—out of the corner of my eye—I see Hayes approach the end of the bar and sit down. He’s by himself. He’s also the last person I expected to see tonight. I keep my back turned, but I can feel his eyes on me. I’ve managed to dodge him since running away from him last night. I know at some point we’re going to have to talk about what happened, but this isn’t the time or place.
It takes me a few minutes to get caught up enough to turn back to the bar. There are three others ahead of Hayes, waiting on drinks. I fill them, then head down to the end, where Professor Chandler is waiting patiently, his eyes fixed on me without expression.
Let’s keep this professional.
“What are you having?” I ask him, trying to ignore the fact that I’m blushing while wiping down the gleaming hardwood counter. I place a clean coaster on the bar top.
He smiles. “Dos Equis,” he says. “And nachos.”
I nod. “Coming up.”
Jesus. Just being in his presence makes my temperature rise. I just broke out in a sweat.
“Still waiting on two pitchers of margaritas,” Troy calls from the far end. “And a bottle of Jack with six glasses.”
I put Hayes’ beer in front of him, sending his nachos order to the kitchen. Then I return to the deep weeds of Friday night in Little Mexico.
What does he want with me? Why here? Why now?
I try to ignore his presence, holding down the end of the bar like an anchor, but it’s impossible. He’s watching me spin, juggling trays of drinks and baskets of food like a carnival clown. His eyes move with me from customer to tap and back again. When his nachos come up they wait in the window a minute while I mix a handful of drinks and pull two more pitchers for Lisa. When I finally set his plate in front of him with a napkin and silverware, he looks up at me with a question.
“Is it always like this?”
I shake my head. “Just weekends,” I say. Throwing him a bone, I follow up: “You need anything else?”
He says he doesn’t, giving me leave to return to my beer, glasses, and pitchers.
Maybe he’s just going to eat and leave. Maybe he’s not trying to scare the shit out of me. Maybe he just wanted a beer and some nachos.
Twenty minutes later there’s a lull in the storm. I look down the line and see empty bottles on deck. I clear them, then I see Hayes lifting his for a refresh.
I bring a new beer, taking his empty, asking if he needs anything else.
“What time do you get off?” he asks.
Shit.
“Late,” I tell him, pulling back. “And then I’m going to the studio. I have some darkroom work tonight.”
He nods. “What time is ‘late?’” he asks me.
“Last call is two,” I tell him, hoping that will put him off. “I probably won’t get out of here till three or so.”
“Okay,” he says. I have no idea what he intends.
Another wave of crazy hits a few minutes after I close out Hayes’ ticket, returning his credit card to him. I expect him to leave, but instead he camps out, playing with his phone as minutes tick by, then an hour passes. I come up for air a few minutes before the kitchen closes, asking him if he needs anything else. He says he doesn’t, but he doesn’t move, instead just giv
ing me an enigmatic smile while watching me line up shots for a group of frat guys who just wandered in.
I see Paul waiting at the other end of the bar, trying to get my attention. I finish what I’m doing and move in his direction.
“What’s he doing here?” Paul asks, nodding toward Hayes.
I shrug. “Not sure. Having beer and nachos.”
“Which he finished an hour ago.” Paul scowls. “He’s been staring at your ass every time you turn around.”
I smile, trying my best to make light of it. “I’ll put you to work running glassware from the back, and he can stare at your ass too,” I offer.
Paul cocks his head. “Looks to me like he’s waiting for you to get off work. Is he bothering you?”
Where is this coming from?
“If he is, I’ll handle it,” I say. “What’s got in to you?”
His gaze moves to Hayes then back to me. Hayes is watching us, probably aware we’re talking about him. Paul leans in close and drops his voice. “In the office, they’re talking a lot. He’s apparently going out with students, and someone said he’s seeing Liza. You don’t want to get mixed up with—”
“I’m fine,” I say, cutting Paul off mid-sentence. “When have you ever known me to get mixed up with anyone?” I haul in a breath, pulling a pitcher of beer for Troy. The keg runs empty, filling the pitcher with foam.
“I need to swap kegs,” I say to Paul. “Gotta get back to work. See you in the morning. Don’t be late.”
I’m gone from the bar less than three minutes, but when I come back, hauling the heavy keg on my shoulder, Paul, Greg, and the rest have gone, leaving a big table filled with dirty dishes, empty glasses, and trash.
Hayes watches me clear the mess, then send out another round of pitchers before the final wave comes at last call. Other than following me with his eyes everywhere I go, he hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” I ask him before I start closing taps and restocking glassware.
“I’m good,” he replies. “I’ll give you a ride to school. You shouldn’t walk across town this late by yourself.”
“I walk across town this late all the time. Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
“You will be fine, because I’m driving you.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave. Anyway, we need to talk about last night.”
His demeanor is so business-like, so certain. He’s infuriating. It’s impossible to argue with him because I don’t have the time to debate him, and I know it’s like arguing with a stone wall. He’s made his mind up. He’s already committed two hours to camping out. What’s another hour? I can tell by his expression he’s patient, and determined.
“Suit yourself,” I say. “It’s gonna be awhile.”
True to his promise, Hayes is waiting in the parking lot when we turn out the lights and lock the doors. I walk toward him, feeling the tension in me rise again, feeling my temperature tick up. He’s leaning on the hood of his car, his arms crossed, a pleasant smile charming his altogether too-pretty face.
“You’re really going to the dark room?” he asks. “This late?”
I nod. “I have six rolls of film to develop, and at least two tanks of sheet film.” It’s going to be a long night. “They need to be dry by tomorrow so I can print them. If I wait, I won’t get it all done this weekend.”
He hauls in a heavy sigh, dropping his arms to his side. “Alright. Get in.”
Settling in to the plush leather of the low-riding coup, a remotely familiar scent catches in my nostrils. Perfume. It dawns on me that the scent is the same as Liza Johnson’s; she douses herself in it. Then I remember she and Hayes had a ‘date’ scheduled for this evening.
“Why are you here?” I ask him, instead of asking about Liza. Maybe he’ll gratify my curiosity on that subject later.
“I’m here because I’ve been looking for you all day. And last night after you left,” he says. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I just needed a little space.” That’s the truth.
“And I just need you to know that you don’t need to avoid me, and that I’m sorry about last night. I was way out of line.”
He slows to a stop at Park Avenue, then pulls off to the right toward school. I know he was out of line, but I almost hate that he’s sorry, because honestly, I’m not sorry.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him, feeling the uncertainty in my own voice. “I avoided you today because I needed to think. Because you surprised me, and scared me. But not because I was mad at you. Maybe more because I was mad at myself and embarrassed by how I reacted.”
He takes a left on Harrison, approaching the art building. I glance to him, because he hasn’t said anything. His expression is blank—maybe stunned. He circles the art building, pulling in to the faculty lot at the back. After parking, he stares straight ahead for a long moment, then, blinking, he turns to me.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
How to answer? Is he going to make me say it?
I bite my lip, my fingers fiddling nervously with my rings and bracelets. Usually it’s not difficult to find words, but I’m not skilled at all talking about feelings like this.
“I… I… liked the way you kissed me,” I say, my voice catching. “And I like the way we talk together. And I like the way you cook. And I like… that you like me.”
He sits back in his leather bucket seats, slack-jawed, considering what I’ve said. His mind is turning. His eyes are fixed on some point outside the car’s windows. Finally, he speaks.
“I do like you,” he says. “A lot. But this is complicated. And against the rules.”
He’s right about that. But I doubt either of us ever played by the rules before. I had all last night and all day to think on this, to think about how it might work and not blow up in our faces.
“Let’s just acknowledge to each other that there’s something here, and leave it right there for now,” I say. “Just because we know it’s there, doesn’t mean we have to do anything with it. Let’s just let it be, and see where it goes.”
He turns, raising his eyebrows with question. “What the hell, Chloe? What does that even mean?” He looks like a fifteen-year-old boy again, thoroughly confused and impatient.
“Let’s just get through the semester,” I say. “It’s not that long.”
His head drops to the headrest behind him. He stairs up at the padded roof of the car. “You’re going to kill me, Chloe Harvey.” He turns, looking straight into my eyes. “But at least I’ll die in the pursuit of something worthwhile.”
It’s everything I can do not to lean forward and kiss him. Every cell in my body begs for it. But I know exactly where that would go and the truth is, I’m not ready to go there. That and I really do have work to do in the darkroom tonight. The film is not going to develop itself.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say, slipping my hand to the door handle. “I’ll see you this weekend sometime.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll help you get your work done, and drive you home,” he says. “It’ll go faster with two of us working, and seriously, you take way too many risks walking around this city by yourself at all hours. It’s not safe.”
Part of me wants to argue, but another part is happy for his company. The art building is open all night long with very little security. Occasionally people who don’t belong there wander in. I’ve had some sketchy, scary experiences on weekend nights when few other people are there.
“Okay.”
“Have you been in there?” I ask Hayes, my plastic tool bin filled with boxes and containers of film, bottles of chemicals and the like, ready to go.
“Just once before,” he says. “On a tour, during one of my interviews. I know my way around a darkroom pretty well though.” He’s taken off his jacket and tie, dropping them across the back of my desk chair. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing delightfully muscled forearms.
Yeah. I bet he really does know his way around.
“After you,” I say, rolling the door open.
He steps in and I follow, occupying the narrow space with him. We’re face to face, regarding one another curiously as I roll the door closed, shrouding us in pitch black darkness. In the dark I can hear his breathing. I catch the scent of his aftershave rising above the chemical smell of developing solution and acid fixer; it’s something expensive and subtle. Plus, there’s a hint of salt sweat, adding a knee-weakening musk to the heady mix of him. He smells good.
When the door rolls open on the other side, the corridor ahead is a wash of dim, red light.
The overhead bulbs, shrouded in gel filters, cast eerie shadows on the walls and floor as we step out. The place is either spooky or oddly seductive depending upon your particular bend. No two people react the same way to a space like this. It’s like going underground, or out into space.
I lead Hayes down the corridor to the far end, then show him into one of the work rooms. It’s small, efficient, and intimate. It hosts three enlargers set on counters, separated by half walls between them to shield the light. On the opposite wall is a wide, flat sink with stations for the three stages of print developing
I unpack my supplies and start the water, dialing in the precise temperatures for developing four hundred speed black and white film.
While the water runs, heating up, we move to the black room to load film into tanks in zero-light conditions. The room is just large enough for two people to together, work back-to-back.
“You want to do the thirty-five millimeter or the four-by-five?” I ask Hayes.
In the odd light, I can’t gauge his expression. He’s wrapped in a blood red bath of mystery. Still just as lovely, but in an odd, alternative universe way. Being in the dark room is like being on a submarine. All sense of up and down, left and right, day and night, goes sideways. People look different. You look different to yourself. Things occur to you that you’d otherwise never contemplate.