ACCIDENTAL TRYST

by Natasha Boyd

  * * *

  Then I felt a little on my high horse.

  * * *

  But also, take no shit. Gotta go.

  * * *

  Armand grew exasperated. "We should go home," he moaned. "Actually, better idea, let's walk back two minutes and you can have this conversation with him in person."

  "No way," I said, and at that moment our Uber arrived. I shrugged at Armand then got in the back seat. "Anyway, he's with his family. I promise as soon as we get there, I'll put it away and not think about it."

  He climbed in behind me, and the car began moving. "Do you want to hear from him again?"

  "I—" I looked out the window as the sidewalks flashed by. "Yes. No. I don't know."

  "Let me help you. The answer is yes. So stop brushing him off."

  I glared at him. "He's a man-whore," I hissed.

  Armand shrugged. "Why do you say that?"

  Pulling up all the dating apps, I started reading them out loud. "Why does this not bother you?" I asked when I got to the end.

  "Because I don't think it's a big deal. So he dates? So what? That's what normal hot-blooded single people in their thirties do. It's what I do."

  "So you're okay if I show up sobbing into my granola in your restaurant with a broken heart," I snapped.

  "Oh, mi amor. Listen to yourself."

  "What? Okay, maybe not a broken heart, but you know what I mean. A very bruised ego. I'd like him way more than he’d like me, and then he'd be gone, and I'd be here."

  "So you should stay in your safe castle with your kitty cat. No chance of getting hurt. Or having fun." Armand shook his head at me.

  "Stop looking at me like that!" I turned my head away in irritation. "I have fun."

  He shrugged. "Sure. How long has it been again?"

  "Ugh. I haven't found anyone I could be bothered to get naked for." Until Trystan, I added in my head.

  "Well, let's hope he's as taken with you as you seem to be with him. Because one of you needs to take the first step, and I guess it needs to be him."

  * * *

  The beat of the Latin music spilled out onto the night air outside the club. Annie, Armand, and I had been coming to Django since we were friends in college. Being from Colombia in South America, he'd sought out any flavor that reminded him of home. But the lines on Friday and Saturday nights had become annoying. Not enough to stop coming, obviously, but still.

  "Remember when this place was uncool?" Armand grumbled.

  "Was just thinking the same thing. It's like when your best-kept-secret breakfast place three doors down is suddenly seven deep at the counter when you're late for work and only want a coffee." I looked at Armand pointedly and slipped my arm through his. Heads of all genders swiveled as we passed because Armand was basically a dead ringer for Enrique Iglesias with slightly longer hair.

  "I told you I can have a cappuccino ready to go at the same time every morning. You just need to get into a routine."

  "I know, I know." I was chronically disorganized in the mornings.

  Greeting the guy who'd worked the door as long as we'd been going, we then slipped through the rope and into the darkness and the swirling sultry beat.

  Keeping my promise to Armand, I handed him my phone since I had no evening purse. It lit up as he took it.

  "What?" I shouted.

  "Nothing," he mouthed and slipped the phone into his back pocket. Then he made a let's get drinks motion, and I followed him to the bar.

  31

  Emmy

  Annie, Armand, and I had decided long ago that there was no point standing around drinking fancy drinks here because you couldn't talk over the music. So we either took a shot of Patron or drank water, and then we danced. It made things easier. Armand mimed short or long with his fingers to distinguish the two drinks. I held my thumb and forefinger out in an approximation of a shot glass. Smiling and nodding at regulars we knew, I scanned the bar area. There were lots of new faces and several men looked boldly at me, trying to catch my eye. Their gazes dropped away as Armand came back to my side.

  We both took a shot and made it onto the dance floor as the DJ began spinning a classic Colombian cumbia beat in with the dance music. Armand's mother had insisted he learn to dance as a child, and I for one was thankful. The man's hips did not lie. He was a sensual and beautiful creature when he danced, and he made me look freaking awesome. We swirled, sidestepped, ground together, swayed, and danced ourselves into a sweaty stupor for the next hour. We moved together so well we often drew a small crowd. It was a high like nothing else when we were absolutely nailing it like this, it was like having pure sexual heroine running through my veins. It made me feel powerful and strong.

  The DJ dropped the beat and slunk into a bachata rhythm and some people we knew whooped and cheered, knowing this was our favorite. Especially because Armand was so freaking gorgeous and his hips were a continuous writhing, fluid, pulsing attraction all on their own. The bachata, to me was the sexiest Latin dance of all, maybe even over the tango. Armand and I goofed it up and over-performed for the bystanders, convincing pretty much everyone who didn't know us we'd be doing this naked later that night.

  Balanced astride Armand's thigh, I let him arch me backward. I hung loose with his arm under my back even as our hips moved, my hair almost grazing the ground. He ran his hand from my throat down my front, making people hoot and whistle. My view of the club was upside down and there was a brief millisecond gap in the crowd. I swear I thought . . . my insides went into free-fall, and I lurched upward even as Armand pulled me back. He looked at me in concern, then brought his face to my ear. "What happened?" He had to almost shout in my ear.

  "Trystan?" I yelled. "Behind me?"

  Armand looked over my shoulder, his eyes scanning. Then he shook his head.

  Weird. But our flow was compromised. I mimed I needed water, telling him he should stay. He wouldn't have a problem finding a new partner. He nodded and handed me my phone so we could find each other easily.

  I wove through the people, dodging a few handsy ones who thought I might be free for a dance, and headed for the end of the bar. Out of the crowd, I appreciated the movement of air against my hot damp skin.

  I managed to squeeze between two couples and nodded to the nearest bartender to let him know I was waiting as he mixed some drinks, then I looked past him and my heart stopped.

  Trystan was at the opposite end of the bar, his sharp gray gaze skewering me from twenty feet away.

  I took a surprised breath, but it caught in my chest.

  He was leaning forward, resting his forearms on the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. His white shirt, poking out of the collar of his black jacket, was stark against his skin.

  Oh my God, he was so damn gorgeous. Memories of his voice and the sound of his breathing as he brought me to orgasm last night streaked through my head, and my sweaty body suddenly felt too sensitive in my dress. My skin prickled. Why didn't I want to see him again? For the life of me I couldn't remember why I was avoiding him.

  Then the bartender was in front of me. I shook my head to catch up with my new view and ordered water. When Trystan was in eyesight again, I saw him take a sip of his drink and then pick his phone up from the bar in front of him and type something. Then he laid it down just as my water appeared. He'd made no move to come over to where I stood, and I knew I wasn't going to go to him.

  The phone in my hand vibrated. And like a perfectly trained pet, my stomach swooped. I wondered if my body was now permanently conditioned to react to phone notifications. My embarrassed feeling from waking up this morning after what we'd done had apparently evaporated.

  I drank thirstily, delaying the gratification of looking to see if it was him texting me.

  Trystan narrowed his eyes.

  I grinned, because I couldn't help it, then looked at my phone.

  Suit Monkey: You are absolutely stunning.

  I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth, trying to play it
cool, even though I felt like grinning like an idiot. I was a sweaty mess, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, probably curling at my temples, my breathing still exerted, my skin hot. He had a funny idea of stunning.

  You stalking me?

  Suit Monkey: Yes.

  He lifted a shoulder in a gesture of helplessness. He typed something else into his phone.

  Suit Monkey: It's a good thing I know Armand is gay.

  I looked up at Trystan with an eyebrow cocked and wondered how long he'd been watching us and if he'd liked what he saw. I'd seen others dancing like us. I knew it was hot. I texted back as Trystan picked up his drink and took a sip.

  Armand is gay?

  Trystan froze mid swallow, or maybe his throat suddenly closed, because from where I was standing, he choked. A big swarthy man next to him, wearing a tank and a bandana saw what happened and gave Trystan a massive thump between the shoulder blades, causing him to lurch forward.

  I slapped a hand across my mouth in alarm, even as I lost control of the giggle that burst out of me.

  OMG. Are you okay? Lol

  Trystan thanked the guy next to him and then looked at me, smiling and shaking his head, his eyes watering. I was still laughing, but I laid a hand to my chest indicating I was relieved he was all right. Even while he laughed, semi-embarrassed at himself, his eyes became serious.

  Suit Monkey: You and Armand?

  Never. We're friends.

  Suit Monkey: Ever?

  No.

  Suit Monkey: Almost?

  I rolled my eyes. No!

  Suit Monkey: Impossible. Watching you dance was the hottest thing I've ever seen. That's why I had to find a spot against the bar. Apart from the fact I can barely stand, I thought my hard-on might get me arrested.

  It was hard not to imagine Trystan's erection, and my mind flew back to last night and knowing he was bringing himself to relief as he listened to me. God, just thinking about it for a second had me so turned on I was aching.

  I licked my lips.

  Suit Monkey: Don't lick your lips. I won't be able to walk.

  I laughed.

  Sorry. I was imagining your erection.

  Trystan dropped his head down on the bar, earning a concerned look from his previous savior, who shook his head in despair.

  God, Trystan had beautiful thick hair. I wanted to grip it in my fists. I wondered if it was soft or coarse.

  The bartender popped up in front of me. "Anything else?"

  "Uh," I managed, reorienting myself to time and place. "A shot of Patron for me and one for that suit monkey at the end of the bar. Thanks."

  The bartender swiveled his gaze down the bar. "Lucky guy," he said and grabbed two shot glasses.

  Suit Monkey: Where'd you learn to dance like that?

  Here. Every Friday night.

  A shot appeared in front of me. Then the bartender delivered one down the bar, letting Trystan know it was from me. I held mine up in a toast.

  He looked at me, bemused. Then he lifted his shot glass and we saluted each other. I slammed the drink back and grimaced against the fiery burn.

  Suit Monkey: That would have tasted better if I could have licked the sweat off your skin first.

  My mouth dropped open. The lines of text sank through my stomach and lassoed my libido. It wasn't possible to be this aroused by someone surely?

  Why are you here, Trystan?

  Suit Monkey: You really asking me that?

  You want your phone back.

  Suit Monkey: That's not why I'm here.

  I blew out a breath and summoned the common sense that had made me walk out of his hotel room this morning. I willed it to stamp all over my flaming libido and snuff it out.

  I can't be one of your hookups.

  A crease crossed his brow. His mouth flattened to a serious line. He closed his eyes. When he opened them his gaze locked with mine. The lights at the bar accentuated the piercing gray-blue. I wondered what they really looked like close up. Would I see all the shades of blue and silver?

  Suit Monkey: I've thought of nothing but you all day.

  I took a deep breath. Same. But . . .

  Suit Monkey: Are you scared what we have won't translate to real life?

  He was frowning—legitimately trying to understand my hesitation. I guess he was used to these situations being certain. Uncomplicated. Easy.

  I wasn't. So far from it. I couldn't do one-night stands. I'd tried a couple of times at college between boyfriends, and I simply wasn't wired to lay myself bare with someone, no pun intended, and find I'd left them with a part of myself they had no care for. I felt like I’d lost something valuable, something I could never get back. I realized it was a little how I'd felt this morning. No matter how much I liked this man, I simply didn't think I was designed for the likes of him. It wasn't that I had to be in a long-term relationship with men I slept with necessarily, I just needed to know I wasn't only a vagina.

  Trystan: Wish I knew what was going through your head right now.

  I'm thinking how much my feet are killing me in these high heels. I typed out the lie and hit send.

  His lips quirked. Trystan: I bet. Please. Talk to me. He wasn't buying it. My shoulders dropped, and I decided to be honest.

  I woke up in a hotel where I realized all your hookups happen. I felt like I was another one. I didn't like it. I felt manipulated. Like you planned it.

  His gaze flew up to mine, and I lifted a shoulder.

  Trystan: God, Emmy. No.

  He scrubbed a hand down his face then straightened from the bar for a second like he was going to come to me.

  I stiffened.

  Don't I typed.

  Suit Monkey: Do you think we'll ever be able to talk to each other face to face?

  I don't know. I feel like I can tell you anything like this. Like it isn't real.

  Suit Monkey: You don't want this to be real?

  I don't know.

  Suit Monkey: So tell me something you can't say to my face. Because I really like you, Emmy.

  I like you too.

  Suit Monkey: But you think I'm a bad guy.

  No. Yes. Maybe?

  Trystan's mouth pressed together.

  Suit Monkey: Because I woke up on top of the world this morning. Even P!nk is starting to grow on me.

  My chest grew tight as my heart felt as if it swelled. This guy was good. You listening to my music?

  Suit Monkey: There's a guy behind you who has memorized the shape of your arse. He's about two seconds from building up the nerve to touch you. Now might be a good time to employ those heels.

  I straightened and looked over my shoulder. Sure enough there was guy right behind me, and his face broke into a leery grin, eyes bright with imbibed courage.

  "Sorry, I'm not interested," I yelled at him over the music, shaking my head.

  He stepped closer, his hand coming around my waist, and my heart leapt to my throat.

  Then he wasn't there, having been jerked back by his collar. The guy lost his balance and stumbled, knocking into several people and their drinks, and Trystan who hadn't let go, helped him right himself.

  They exchanged words I couldn't hear. Then Trystan was in front of me, and the man was forgotten.

  He looked down and pinned me with his intense stare, and my pulse pounded in my throat as I was consumed by it. I remembered the energy that had oozed off him at the airport. This simply wasn't a man anyone could ignore. I wanted to breathe him in, but the sweating humanity of the crowded club made it impossible unless I touched him. He was taller than I remembered.

  We were inches away from each other. One bump by the crowd and I'd be plastered against him.

  Around us people communicated by getting close and pressing their mouths to each other's ears. I envied their ease. That was too monumental for us.

  "Emmy." His mouth formed the word, but I couldn't hear it.

  "Thank you," I returned. His eyes watched my mouth.

  So many t
hings seemed to pass over his face—concern, questions, happiness . . . hunger. He also looked a little stunned. I guess I understood that feeling. Less than a week ago I didn't know he existed, and now I could barely believe how intense it had gotten between us.

  Unsure of what might happen next, I held my breath. I looked down from his shirt and jacket to his jeans.

  You're only wearing half a suit, I texted and narrowed my eyes at him, accusing him of not living up to his suit monkey persona. Last night's bare-chested display notwithstanding.

  His eyes roamed my bare legs down to Annie's high-heeled lace up shoes.

  Suit Monkey: You're only wearing half a dress

  Then he took a step back from me, and I almost swayed toward him. His eyes didn't miss it.

  He typed something into his phone.

  Suit Monkey: I want to touch you.

  Suit Monkey: But I don't want the first time to be here.

  Suit Monkey: You should come home to your own bed tonight.

  Will you be in it?

  Suit Monkey: I'd like to be.

  God, I wanted him to be too. I was frozen with indecision. On the one hand, I hadn't had this much chemistry with someone in forever. Or ever. And I didn't mean just the sexual kind, though that had been incendiary. On the other hand . . . one-night stand.

  Was this what it would be? Maybe I'd only ever had the wrong kind. Of course, I wasn't dumb enough not to realize that part of me hoped it wasn't a one-night stand, and that was the part I had to be most careful of.

  Suit Monkey: We'll always wonder.

  I nodded. Yes.

  He closed his eyes. Then he typed with a cheeky smirk.

  Suit Monkey: What if I'm too scared of the ghost to stay there alone tonight?

  Nice try.

  Suit Monkey: For what it's worth, I don't think one night would have been enough for us anyway . . .

  Armand chose that moment to materialize, sweaty and out of breath, his hair slicked back.

  Trystan shook his hand, and I was jealous of the touch. Then Trystan gave me a long look and held out the phone in his hand.