by Hope Irving
Who cares if the nearby patrons are staring at me? Lucas can be such a PITA sometimes. I tune them out and check the time on my phone. Tapping my foot on the floor, I hope Leroy will get here soon and put an end to this nonsense. I refuse to admit that he’s let me down yet again. Ignoring my friends who, as far as I know, may very well still be discussing me, I scroll through all my notifications, only to realize that I have one missed call—not from Leroy.
My heart speeds up as I listen to Alie’s voice; she always texts before she calls. Always. It’s great that she broke the rule, because I hate absolutes like always and forever.
Alie G: Call me back whenever you get this. Don’t worry about it being too late.
I glance back at my friends; they’re engrossed in yet another topic that I don’t waste my time following. Instead I grab my coat, mumble that I’ll be back, and leave the booth in search of a quiet spot and some fresh air.
Once I’ve tugged on my beanie and winter coat, I find her name, press the call button, and open the front door to dash outside. A wall of freezing cold air slams into me, and I start meandering down the block to warm up. I can’t complain since it’s not raining or snowing today, but I wish I had a scarf. I heave a heavy sigh when I hear it ring several times, convinced that she isn’t available.
“Hey there.” At the sound of her voice, I stop dead in my tracks. That hoarse voice that’s so atypical for a woman. That hoarse voice that had me distraught the first time I heard it. That hoarse voice that confirmed that she must be a bit older than me. Warmth spreads down my spine and shoots straight to my dick.
“Hey, Alie. I’m not waking you, am I?” Now that I’m stationary, I realize that the icy wind’s picked up. Fumbling for my gloves in my coat pocket, I quickly put them on and zip my coat, then start moving again to keep from freezing to death. The wind hisses through the speaker.
“Nah, you’re good.”
The noise reverberates on her side as well; I mustn’t have a great connection tonight. My frozen self forgets all about the wind and cold when I picture Alie lying in bed, half-naked. I inwardly laugh at myself when my body sends me a warning sign. I’m attracted to her voice. I’m attracted to her words. I’m attracted to her… and our mundane conversation has me sporting a semi within seconds. The urge to fuck overwhelms me, and I grunt in frustration, hoping that she won’t hear it over the blustering wind.
On top of the protection it offers from the weather, I congratulate myself for wearing a long coat that conceals the wood I’m sporting!
“What’s going on? Your text got me a little worried…” I shove my gloved hand in my coat pocket to try and readjust my suddenly tighter black jeans. Now, I’m pacing like a nervous wreck, heading back towards the bar. So much for being more relaxed, Chloe! I raise my voice to be heard. “It sounded… I don’t know… urgent?” I watch the people around me—wrapped up in their winter clothes, wrapped up in their own conversations, wrapped up in their own worlds—as I wait for her response. They look as cold as I feel. With their hats, hoods, and scarves, it’s hard to see their faces, but the hunter that I am still notices a couple of pretty faces with ruddy cheeks. All of them are oblivious to my excitement.
“I’m here is what’s going on.”
“What do you mean you’re here? You can’t be anywhere near my bar. I would have noticed you.”
“Your bar? You own a bar, now?” Her snarky comment gets me even harder than I already am. What has this woman done to me? It’s been fun using my hand to the sound of her filthy commands, but I’m ready for more. She’s unlike any of the women I’ve hooked up with, but I’d definitely bang her senseless if I had the chance.
“Come on, I mean my favorite place to hang out.” The feedback noise hasn’t stopped, and I’m about to ask her what she’s doing, only she beats me to it.
“Right. But even if I were in your bar, you wouldn’t recognize me. I hate to break it to you, Tig, but you’ve never seen my face.”
“But I know your voice and the way you move.”
“Do you now?”
“Yup. Trust me, I’ve watched enough videos on your YouTube channel to be able to recognize you. But anyway, you’ve got me sidetracked. What did you mean when you said that you were here?”
She lets out a throaty noise. “Mmm… Let’s see, where should I begin? I’m no longer in Paris, Tig.” At the implication of her words, my face heats up along with my body. “I crossed the ocean because I’m sick of not seeing you… in person.”
“You’re in the U.S.? For real?” My questions come out in a shaky voice, and my heart accelerates. My hand is buried inside my coat pocket and makes quick work at stroking my painfully hard dick as discreetly as possible. I need to stop, otherwise I’ll cream my pants like a teenager.
Damn, woman! See what you’re doing to me? Now, I need to go back inside and finish the job in the bathroom.
Approaching the bar, I fight against the harsh wind, and my teeth chatter.
Meanwhile, my French obsession continues her teasing. “Here’s a test for you: come and find me, Tig de Luca.” The irritating sound from a minute ago has been replaced by background voices and music; she must be at a party.
“Hey, I’d love to, but that might be difficult considering that the Big Apple is… well, big.”
“Please… you bragged that you’d recognize me anywhere. Come and find me here… in your bar, big boy.”
I’m about to ask what she means as I pause in front of the establishment. My left hand mindlessly goes to my head and my beanie slides downward.
Stupid fuck!
Cursing at myself, I stoop to pluck my hat from the sidewalk, shove it in my coat pocket, and push the front door open, letting it slide shut as I step inside.
Thank fuck! Early February in New York can be brutal!
Awkwardly, I unzip my coat and run my fingers through my growing hair; my brown curls are making a comeback with a vengeance. Shaking my coat-free shoulders, I welcome the comforting warmth and the friendly atmosphere; going outside to call Alie was a bad idea.
Fuck, Alie!
I growl at the short but perfectly dirty clip that abruptly pops up in my mind, blurring out the busy bar for a split second. I want nothing more than to fuck her, but that’ll have to wait awhile. First, I slide my hand in my pocket and readjust myself for the millionth time. Then, “Alie, you still there? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”
I stay put like the moron that I am, incapable of movement. There’s no more whistling sound in my ear. There’s no more wind blowing in my face. There’s no more cold weather to endure.
“Sorry, Tig. I got distracted by a shiny new toy that just captured my attention.” Her girly giggle is tinged with an edge today. “It’s playing with its magic wand.”
“What?” I shift my balance from one foot to the other, trying to dispel the nasty sensations from my frozen body and get my blood pumping.
“Never mind.” Understanding that I’m at a loss, she explains, “What I meant to say is that you’re it, Tig. My shiny new toy, silly!” If I were facing her, I bet I’d see a smirk.
At last, it all registers. The wind. The people. The music… It resonated in my ears. They resonate in her phone. It resonates around us. We’re in the same bar. It’s been a while since a woman has rendered me speechless.
Mike notices me from behind the bar and acknowledges my presence by offering his signature smile. I chuckle at that. Lucas’s right; the bastard does look a lot like Channing Tatum.
“Now there’s one thing left for you to do.” She pauses. Her breathing comes out ragged. Then she dares me in a commanding yet pleading voice.
“Find me.”
Chapter Twelve
Buttons
Aliénor
With my phone in hand, he’ll guess who I am in no time, and that’s not part of the plan.
“Hanging up now.” I disconnect before he can protest and leave my phone face down on the counter to eliminate the
temptation to listen to Tig while he searches for me. Seated on a high barstool to the left of the bar—a spot that I carefully selected so that Tig wouldn’t see me but I could see him—I let my eyes wander. Patrons are unwinding prior to starting a new work week, attempting to warm up by imbibing various types of alcohol, and dancing to music pouring from an ancient jukebox that’s situated in the back corner. Thanks to my newly acquired impeccable stalker tendencies, I know about his routine Sundays at this bar; I had to be prepared for the task at hand, right? The bar is busy. The bar is homey. The bar is trendy… sort of.
My coat is safely stowed away in the tiny cloakroom by the door. I was told it’s one of the perks of sitting at the counter: no need to bother with your coat. For now, I’m waiting for the shot of vodka that I ordered and admiring the bottles of liquor that are artistically displayed around the large glass pillar that sits in the center of the square counter.
I register that I’m nervously biting the inside of my cheeks to keep my impatience in check while waiting for a man that I’ve never met before. Since arriving, I’ve been flirting with a hot bartender who’s the spitting image of Channing Tatum to keep me entertained; he boasted about being the clever one who came up with the idea for the cloakroom.
“Here you go, miss. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
There are quite a few things that my naughty mind envisions, yet I keep them to myself and drain the glass. “Another one would be welcome, actually.”
He offers me a broad smile, then inquires in a supportive voice, “Liquid courage?”
“Am I that obvious?” I tap my right foot on the stool’s footrest.
“Let’s just say that I’m good at reading people.” He swivels so that his back is to me. “Must come with the job description.” All the while, he moves to the right and takes someone else’s order. Meanwhile, I have a front row seat to appreciate how perfectly his black pants hug his rear end.
Behind the counter, he stands in front of me again. “You’re right.” I move my chin and point at the glass. “Liquid courage… Blind date.” Why am I telling him this? It’s far from being a date. My intentions aren’t blinded by anything, and I’ve already seen his face, so if one of us is likely to recognize the other, it’d be me.
He serves another customer, and the moment that he faces me again with my refill in hand, he encourages me, “Don’t stress about it. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He holds his own glass that’s full of a transparent liquid that I guess is non-alcoholic; we clink our drinks. “Cheers.”
Soon after, another cute bartender approaches us, welcomes the newcomer that I am, and addresses Channing. “Claire wondered if we wanted to meet them after work; they’re heading to Studio 45. I know you’re exhausted, but it might be fun…” The shorter guy trails off and stares at the other bartender. Nah, scratch that. His eyes linger. Thoroughly linger.
Great, I’ve been flirting with a gay guy!
I shake my head and watch Channing agree to his boyfriend’s proposal. The alcohol has done little to loosen my shoulders. So much for taking the edge off.
I’m being ridiculous. There’s no reason to stress over this.
Trapped inside my overthinking mind, I miss most of Channing’s next line that’s followed by the sound of a familiar voice. A voice that I’ve heard time and time again. A voice that’s led me to do all sorts of dirty things over the phone. A voice that belongs to a man that I’ve been scoping out since setting foot in this country over a week ago.
“What can I say? I missed you too much, baby!” Words that are audible over the music. Words that end with a bark of laughter. Words that could have been addressed to me if the circumstances were different. But it’s the last one that triggers the awareness of his closeness.
I subtly tilt my head to the right, making a point to avoid eye contact while Tig de Luca stands there, joking with a guy who’s undoubtedly his friend. His heavy winter coat is folded over his right arm, giving me the perfect view of his all-black attire and matching tattoos on his neck.
The tattoo artist is grinning and frantically scanning the room to do as he was told—find me—but that doesn’t stop him from making small talk with the couple.
The thing that strikes me the most is that his appearance doesn’t match what I’d anticipated. I’ve seen older pictures when I Googled his name last summer; there were no recent ones. I’ve seen videos on YouTube, but he never showed his face. I’ve seen his abs, but they are hidden under layers of clothes today.
He doesn’t spot me. He’s barely recognizable, based on his outdated pictures. His brown hair is wavier. His face is fuller. His body is better… so much better than the last time I saw one of his videos on the history of tattoos. If I didn’t despise everything that he represents, I could almost find him attractive. Apart from the hideous tattoos that he adores.
He doesn’t spot me. The other patrons render me invisible to him, which I’m grateful for. This is it; there’s no turning back. Tig and I are in the same room. Tig and I are feet away from each other. Tig and I are still worlds apart. At the realization that this is really happening, my brain short-circuits and my breath catches in my throat. Annoyed by my reaction to his nearness, I grunt and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my light grey cashmere sweater. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing foundation.
He doesn’t spot me. He swore that he’d recognize me, and he doesn’t. A disappointed sigh escapes my mouth before I can stop it, only my disappointment is mixed with relief. I wouldn’t want him to have the upper hand. I need to stay at the top of my game. Seduce him. Have him fall for me. Discard him because he doesn’t matter and deserves to be treated like he treats women: carelessly.
Drying some glasses with a towel, Channing chortles at Tig’s teasing comeback while his boyfriend fills a pitcher with beer. “If it’s any indication, your red face tells me that it’s even colder than when Mike and I got here this morning.” Oh! Apparently Channing’s real name is Mike.
“The wind’s picked up. It’s fucking brutal,” Tig confirms from a distance as he ambles towards the bartenders. Spying on their exchange incognito, I embrace my newfound stalker status.
“Troy, can you bring a vodka to the booth, please?”
His voice sounds closer, so I stare alternatively between the counter and the hot guys in front of me instead of Mr. de Luca.
Mike’s boyfriend’s brows furrow before mimicking one of my favorite expressions. “Are you serious right now?”
“Never been more serious. I need it. Badly.” Mike shrugs at his man. “Let me check out the improvements first.” The bartenders shoot him a knowing look.
And that’s when his arm brushes mine. By mistake, for sure. A surge of heat rushes through my body, sending tingles to all the right places. And more. Places where I’m usually the only one capable of igniting such sensations so quickly. This doesn’t make sense. At all.
Because the touch is coupled with his caressing voice addressing me. “I’m sorry, miss.”
His voice. Our proximity. My reaction. Despite my clothes acting as a barrier between us, Tig’s touch overrules everything. My ridiculous flirting. The great music. People’s loud voices. Inappropriate heat. Unexplainable want. Irrepressible urges.
Sipping my drink, I mumble something incoherent in return and force myself to keep my eyes on my glass, but I needn’t bother. He’s already left my personal space. I wriggle in my seat with widening eyes as I’m now free to follow his every move again. He roams further into the packed place, stopping to make a selection at the juke-box.
The electro music ceases at once, and an old tune plays through the speakers. Waiting for the Miracle by Leonard Cohen.
Ohhh, he has good taste in music. Is it me, or does Tig’s velvety voice sound like the singer’s?
My heart pounds in my chest, and my hand flies over my mouth to suppress the sudden need to throw up. I didn’t understand my initial reaction to him, and I surel
y don’t understand this one either. To keep from racing to the bathroom to empty my stomach, I inhale deeply and focus on the counter’s wooden grain.
“What’s gotten into him?” The evident worry in Mike’s question is unmistakable. My eyes land on the cute bartender. He shrugs at his boyfriend’s question as I welcome the slight burn of the liquid going down my throat; I drank the first shot too fast to notice.
Thoughtful, I can’t get around the fact that I’ve finally seen Tig—Mr. Manwhore himself—in the flesh.
“No clue. It can’t be good, though. Listen, I’ll fix his drink, but please check on him first. Make sure he means it; if not, give it to Leroy, who just got here. I wouldn’t want our friend doing something he’ll regret afterwards. Either way, it’s on the house, okay, T.?”
“Got it.”
With Troy gone, I peek up at Mike, unable to stop myself. “What’s his deal? One vodka is harmless, right?” I grab the shot, as if trying to convince him.
“Not sure. He’s anti-alcohol and always orders seltzer.”
I’m speechless and nod, then watch Tig create some more distance between us. All these months, what we’ve covered has been shits and giggles. Apparently, we both danced around certain aspects of our lives. His alcohol. My cancer. Our weaknesses. I’m not sure whether social media is responsible for the tendency to show the best sides of ourselves. I guess it’s just human nature and it must be why we clicked so easily.
Painfully, I swallow the lump that’s started to form in my throat from prying about a man that I once thought I knew rather well. But do I? This simple question renews my ulterior motive. I’m here to uncover everything there is to know about him and use it to my advantage, so I’d better start moving.
“Do you mind if I bring him his drink? I mean, unless you think it’s a bad idea.”
Mike’s brow spikes up. “Ohhh… You found someone more interesting than your blind date.” He winks, a playful grin on his flawless face.