by Jean Haus
Her hand tightens around the coffee cup between us. She holds it like a shield. “I work Saturday.”
“Until…”
“Ten.”
I step back. “Then I’ll pick you up at the shop.”
Her chin drops. “I didn’t say I’d go.”
“You were going to.”
She takes a long sip of coffee as those guarded eyes study me. “I can’t stay out late.”
To say I’m relieved she has agreed to go would be an understatement. “I’ll have you home before the Beemer turns back into a pumpkin.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll have to take me back to my car, so how about I meet you?”
Her reluctance sets me on edge again, but instead of acting pissy, I blurt, “You’re killing my ego here.”
She sighs. “All right, you can pick me up.”
I rock back and forth in my Chucks. “Since I screwed that up,” I gesture to the coffee shop with my chin, “let me walk you to your car?”
“Um…sure,” she says slowly.
Her hesitance is the snap of a whip to my confidence, and it leaves a welt and a sharp sting.
As we walk together toward the parking lot, I consider whether her reluctance has to do with Trevor—or my reputation. I’m not sure which would be worse. Either I’m a prick or a jealous prick. And either I have to beat Trevor out or convince her my rep doesn’t matter.
This is going to have to be one hell of a date. My brain flips through some ideas as we walk.
“So tell me,” I say as we pass the circular fountain in the middle of campus. “You like wine?”
“It’s okay.”
“Red or white?”
“Ah…either.”
“Sweet or dry.”
“Sweet or dry what?”
“Wine.”
“Oh.” She glances at me. “Guess I should be honest. I don’t know crap about wine. Rarely drink it.”
I could bring up sparkling gummy worms, but except for our hot kiss, between her tears and my temper that night is best forgotten. “All right. How about chocolate? Milk or dark?”
“Chocolate?”
“You know the rich, smooth candy that sometimes comes in a bar.”
Allie’s lips curve into a soft smile. “Both.”
A couple of girls walking toward us stare, then stop and whisper like schoolgirls. As we get closer, I realize I’ve slept with the taller one. Though I don’t recall her name, I remember her long legs.
“Hey, Justin,” she says. I nod. She gives Allie the once-over. “I’m still waiting for that call.”
Fuck. Of course, this shit would come up now. I keep walking. “Sorry. Must have lost your number.” Once we’re past the girls and on the asphalt of the parking lot, Allie gives me a pointed look. Hands still in my pockets, I roll out a stiff shrug. “I can’t help who gives me their number.”
“Ah, girls throw their numbers at you?”
I shrug again. “Comes with being in a band.”
“Sounds high schoolish.”
Bitch slap to the ego. My confidence stinging from the snap of her whip. I let out a deep breath. Stay calm. “Yeah, sometimes it feels that way.”
Allie stops behind a black midsize sedan. I’d expect something flashier, what with her owning a business, and a tattoo shop at that. She turns to me. “Well, I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”
I pluck my glasses from my shirt collar. “Pick you up out front?”
“No. There’s a parking lot behind the shop.”
“All right. Dress warm.”
“Warm? What are we doing?”
I give her a slow smirk. “You’ll find out Saturday,” I say, turning back toward the dorms. Though I want to, I don’t look back. A man has to have some pride. Pulling out my phone, I check the time. My walk turns faster. Jade and Bridget, a cute pair of freshman girls, are probably already outside my dorm room, anxiously waiting for my dirty clothes. I haven’t done my own laundry in over two years—a bit of flirting and a few free tickets gets a girl every time. I start jogging. I’m not about to start doing laundry.
Chapter 13
Allie
Todd waits while I set the lock and timer. We walk together to the parking lot. As usual, he asks me about Holly, who I just spent two hours tattooing because she couldn’t wait another Saturday to reschedule. He always asks me about Holly after she comes in. He knows she’s very taken, but he still asks. I’m not sure if it’s the boobs or the tattoos. Most likely both. I rarely take time out to chat with him about anything, much less my roommate. When it comes to the shop, I’m all work and no play.
“You know, Todd, she’s never even home,” I say. “She’s always at Jake’s. They pretty much live together.” I don’t mention that she refuses to officially move in with him until there’s a rock on her finger. Of course, Holly would not shut up about Justin for the entire time I was inking her new palm tree—she wants Jake to propose somewhere tropical. I can’t imagine what she would have been like if I’d told her I was going out with Justin after work tonight.
Todd pulls his beanie low over his forehead and shrugs. “She’s out of my league anyway.”
Smacking his arm, I say, “Holly’s not like that. She probably would have gone out with you.” I knock his shoulder with mine. “If you would have asked her last year.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but the crunch of gravel interrupts as Justin’s Beemer comes into view. Todd frowns at the car. “Al, as a guy, I like him, but you’d better watch yourself.”
Though I have my own reservations about Justin—some have to do with his one-night-stand merry-go-round—I’m refusing to overthink it. I don’t want to become a jealous shrew ever again. I used to give girls around Trevor dirty looks. If he touched the door handle, I asked him where he was going. I called his phone constantly. None of it helped our relationship—actually, probably hurt it. And I became a crueler person with every look, question, and call. Even though this is only a date, I’m not going down that road ever again.
“Slow down,” I say. “He’s not proposing or anything. We’re just going out on a date, having fun.”
Todd twists the gauge in his ear. “Fun, huh? You’re not that kind of girl.” He nods toward the Beemer. “But he’s that kind of guy.”
I let out a huff. “I can date a guy and have fun.”
Todd’s chin lowers as he gives me an even look. “Since when?”
“Since now.” He frowns at me. “Relax. I’m a big girl.”
“Who hasn’t really dated since she got a divorce.”
Justin gets out of the car. As usual, even dressed in jeans and a dark blue windbreaker, he’s hot enough that I want to push my hands into his messily styled hair and attack.
Todd leans closer to me. “Just beware of going from zero to sixty in like three seconds,” he says before walking off and giving Justin a wave.
My teeth grind. If I can be strong with Trevor, surely I can keep Justin at arm’s length. Forcing the tightness from my face, I move toward Justin.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “You look great.”
Because of the chill still hanging in the March air, I’m wearing jeans, my usual boots, a hoodie, and a pink beanie. Hardly great. “Um, thanks.”
“What was that about?” He nods to where Todd is getting into his car.
“Nothing, just work stuff.” I slide into the seat. Hoping to end his curiosity, I add, “And I’ve had enough of work.”
“Then no more shop talk tonight,” he says, closing the door.
After he backs out of the lot and onto the street, I ask, “So where are we going?”
His sideways glance is smooth. “It’s still a surprise.”
I roll my eyes and he shifts the car into drive. He only goes about ei
ght blocks, passing the center of downtown and parking on a side street near the river in front of a loud bar. I give him a questioning look. Drinking with a bunch of beer-swilling college kids is hardly a unique idea for a date. He had me all nervous for nothing. And what was with the warm clothes request?
Once we’re out of the car, he grasps my hand and we head toward the bar. “Hope this is a first for you.”
Confused, I let him lead me across the sidewalk. A sarcastic remark about this date being a rerun since we’d met in a bar last week almost escapes my lips. But a moment later, he surprises me. Instead of going into the bar, we enter a door on the side of the building and climb a long flight of stairs. At the thought of going to his apartment, I’m getting nervous again.
“You live up here?”
“No. I live in the dorms.”
He clearly isn’t in the mood to explain.
We round a landing studded with several apartment doors and climb another staircase. At the top, he unlocks then opens one of three doors, and more stairs come into view. Since this staircase is extremely narrow, he waits for me to go ahead of him. With him at my back and the unknown dark at my front, I move cautiously.
When my feet connect with a flat surface, I turn to him. “Um…”
A light flicks on.
We’re standing in a small room filled with stacked chairs.
He smirks at my baffled expression. “Almost there.”
I follow him past the towering stacks of chairs to a ladder screwed into the wall. As he climbs the ladder then pushes the hatch above it open, I realize that for whatever insane reason we are going on the roof.
Near the top of the ladder, he holds out a hand for me, and I’m raised into a deep blue starry night. “Oh,” I say in awe. Watching me and not letting go of my hand, he tugs me closer to the edge.
“Oh,” I say, stunned again as a cool breeze hits us.
The river, its surface dark and oily, is below us. To the right, the docks are lined with bobbing boats, more riverfront bars, and old warehouses turned into condominiums. Their brightly lit windows reflect off the water, casting long shimmering columns of sparkling yellow light. To the left, the town’s biggest bridge spans the black water, and the headlights of cars moving across it gleam in the night. Above everything is the clear night sky riddled with bright stars.
Justin’s thumb rubs the top of my hand. “The surprise. Your own Starry Night,” he says, referring to van Gogh.
“Starry Night Over the Rhone,” I say, recognizing the similarities.
“Yes,” he agrees, his thumb still rubbing my skin. “I saw it at the Musée d’Orsay.”
Feeling overwhelmed, I study the stars above us as the wind off the water ruffles my hair. My gaze goes back to the view of the river and bridge. “It’s beautiful. Who would have thought a view like this existed in our city? I’m not sure which would be better. This or seeing the actual painting.” I imagine the strings he had to pull for this. “Thank you.”
His eyes are soft and liquid in the shadows of the rooftop. “You’re welcome. But having had both experiences, I’d say this is far better.”
My heart picks up speed as he stares at me. Feeling overwhelmed again, I turn back to the view. “Because?”
“You’re here.”
Geesh. Being with me is better than being in France? Desperate to lighten the mood, I say, “Where’s the cheesy romance music?”
He inches closer to me. “Tonight’s about art, about you.”
Afraid of what he might reply next and that leg humping will ensue, I stay silent.
We stand, taking in the lovely view for several minutes until he says lightly, “There’s another surprise over here.” He motions behind us.
On the curling tar of the roof lies a spread-out sleeping bag. He pulls me down and we sit with our backs against the rough chimney. The ledge is less than five feet from us, leaving nothing to separate us from the incredible view.
There’s also a duffel bag, which he is rummaging through. He sets a small battery-operated lantern on the blanket in the few inches between us. “Not especially romantic, but during the test run the wind blew the candles out.”
My fingers pull at the material of the slippery sleeping bag. “Test run?”
“Hey, I’m going for perfection.”
I watch him open a bottle of wine and don’t say aloud that his version of perfection has seduction written all over it. It’s also possible that he’s trying to take things deeper than simple seduction. I’m not sure which would be worse.
He hands me a plastic cup of wine, then lifts his own and knocks it with mine. “To van Gogh.”
“And starry nights,” I say, lifting my cup.
“I’m damn lucky that it’s a clear night and not raining or cold,” he says, looking at the sky. Then he holds the cup under his nose and takes a long whiff. “Tell me what you smell.”
I take a sniff. Then another. “Wine. Is it red?”
“You can do better than that.”
I take a longer sniff. “Berries?”
He nods.
Sniff. “Cherry?”
Another nod.
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. “Maybe a touch of something woodsy?”
“Ah, the only thing you missed is the hint of currant.”
“Currant? I have no idea what you’re talking about. And if this wasn’t in a plastic cup, I’d think you were a wine snob.”
His teeth gleam when he smirks. “Oh, I’m a wine snob. You can’t go to Europe for three summers and not become a wine snob. I’ll drink any crap beer but never crap wine.” He takes a sip. I watch the shadows along his throat as he swallows it. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”
Dragging my gaze from his throat, I take a sip. The liquid’s warm and rich and fruity. “It’s good. A little dry.”
“Good thing I went mild.”
“Mild?”
“If it were too sweet, it wouldn’t go well with these.” He opens a box and I’m staring at chocolates lying in silver little cups. He sets the box between us, then reaches for one. He lifts it to my mouth. “Take a bite.”
Seriously shy to be eating from his hand, I take a tiny nibble. It’s good. Dense. Creamy.
“Now take a sip of wine.”
I robotically follow his orders, but when the wine hits the chocolate, smooth and dry meet rich and creamy—then meld into intense. “Holy crap! It’s amazing.”
His laugh causes his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “Wait until you taste it with the dark chocolate.” He pops the bitten candy in his mouth, takes a drink of wine, and holds out another chocolate for me to bite. “Dark.”
With another shy bite, my lips touch his finger. A jolt from the contact has me sitting back and gulping wine.
A boat horn sounds somewhere echoing along the river.
“Good?” he asks in a husky voice.
“Very. Better than the last. So,” I say, still holding but setting the cup on my thigh, “I’m curious. How did you come up with this?” I gesture to the roof, then the view.
“It’s kind of embarrassing.” His eyebrows knit together as he takes a sip.
The wine and chocolate in my stomach turn as I wait for him to admit he’s had sex up here or something.
“Romeo, our guitarist, has been pushing the indie route lately. We’ve been searching for places to shoot a video. This roof is on the list.”
All thoughts of sexual escapades fly out of my head. “Why is that embarrassing?”
He shrugs and crosses his arms over a lifted knee. “I don’t know. I guess going live on YouTube seems over the top. I like to perform. Going national or international or whatever was never part of what I expected. We’re big around here. That’s always been enough.”
“No dreams of filling a stadium?”
�
�I…” He runs a hand through his messy hair. “Obviously I can’t speak from experience, but I imagine the connection I have with the crowd won’t be the same in a huge concert. And that connection is what keeps me going sometimes.”
Maybe because of his gorgeous exterior, his obvious wealth, and the harem that’s apparently available twenty-four seven, I’m always surprised when he deepens the conversation. Like when he talked about his connection to the audience at his shows in the tattoo shop. My cynicism and reservations about him fade into the background. “Except for the glimpse of temper at the coffee shop, I imagined your life carefree.”
He turns to me, resting his back against the brick of the chimney. “Everyone needs a bit of light to keep them from the dark, even when they live in a perfect world like me,” he says with a trace of sarcasm. “But I like hearing that I’m in your imagination.”
“Don’t get too excited. My imagination isn’t all that wild.” I’ve become good at keeping it in check. In fact, Justin is the only guy I’ve met since Trevor who breaks past the barriers to enter my imagination.
Setting his cup at the edge of the blanket, he leans closer and the breeze is full of his dark, earthy cologne. “Well, I can’t say the same thing.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Please don’t tell me I’m running naked through your head.”
“Sometimes,” he admits as his lids lower and his gaze rests on my lips. “Right now my imagination is tamer.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly and a little breathlessly as I pull a strand of windblown hair from my cheek. He watches me as if giving me time to grasp the purpose in his eyes. I could turn away from his sensual gaze, look at the view, and end the excitement lurching in my stomach, but I don’t want to.
“What I’m imagining right now is this,” he murmurs. He bends and his lips brush against mine. Our odd angle against the brick, with my cheek almost brushing the chimney and him shouldered against it, means he can’t kiss me fully. Still, his lips press against the side of my mouth with a slow burning heat. The rest of my body hums with anticipation, waits for him to drag me closer and deepen the kiss, but he keeps his hands still, touching me only with his mouth. The slow tantalizing caress of his lips is the drip of a powerful drug drawing me into a cocoon of lust.