I hate being a cynic. Maybe I should just go talk to any random girl just to prove that I still can. That I’m not dead inside.
But…well, well. What have we here?
There’s a very attractive woman walking up the stairs to this level. A perfect bouquet of fresh daisies in a room full of spray-painted fake flowers. And she’s wearing glasses. In a nightclub. Not giant Gucci sunglasses with Swarovski crystals because I’m fly like Rihanna, but gold-frame prescription glasses because I’d be blind without them—like a sexy librarian. I nod at whatever this guy’s saying about Ron Howard and watch her sigh as she leans against the railing of the divider that runs between the staircases on both sides of the mezzanine. She may be using that railing to hold herself steady as she scans the crowd on the dance floor beneath her. I can’t tell if she’s searching for someone in particular or not, but her expression would suggest that she’s wondering what the fuck those people are trying to accomplish down there. But I could be projecting.
She adjusts her glasses and combs her fingers through long, blonde hair, frowning. She pulls a phone out, and instead of taking a selfie, she looks at it and curses before putting it back in her purse. Her white sundress hangs loose, but I see those hidden curves on her willowy frame. I see that hint of exposed bare legs between her boots and the hem of the dress, and they are so intriguing.
Why is she alone in a place like this?
What is she even doing in a place like this?
How many seconds would it take me to get her naked if we were back at my place?
She seems uncomfortable and judge-y in a way that makes me respect and relate to her. She’s dressed like she just got back from Coachella, but she seems mad that she didn’t bring a book to read or something. I need to know what’s going on in that brain of hers, as much as I want to see what’s going on under the dress.
While adjusting the turquoise bra strap that slid out from under her sleeveless top, she looks around and catches sight of me staring at her. She does a double take. I suppose I must be smirking. I suppose it’s obvious that I’ve been contemplating her. I hold her gaze from fifteen feet away. She’s a deer caught in headlights for a few seconds, but when she snaps out of it, she lets go of her bra strap, smooths down the front of her dress, and grins as she looks away, turning her back to me. She stays put, though.
I didn’t see any look of recognition in her eyes, but there was interest.
I put my beer down on the table and turn my attention back to Danny, ask him about something that I hope he didn’t just tell me while I was eye fucking the fish-out-of-water glasses girl.
I should just go home.
Nothing good can come of this.
I glance over at the hot, judge-y blonde.
She could be trouble.
But she’s pretty.
And different.
And not too young.
And she doesn’t look crazy.
And that half a beer is making my heart feel half-full.
And yeah, I’m getting a little stiff from picturing her in just those glasses and that turquoise bra and tan boots.
Fuck it.
I’m going in.
3
Alex
Just as I’m leaning in to tell Danny I’m going to go for a little walk, some other guy approaches the hot judge-y blonde. This guy’s wearing a black and silver shirt, his slicked-back hair looks as hard and shiny as the exterior of a brand-new Corvette, and as an added bonus he has aviators propped up on top of his head. I’m not a total cynic—this guy could be perfectly nice. He could even be the guy she came here with—wait, never mind. He’s touched her three times already, and her body language tells me loud and clear that she isn’t interested. I slowly rise, rolling up my sleeves as I stroll over and watch the interaction play out. She hasn’t smiled at him once, but she looks him straight in the eyes when she responds to whatever he’s saying.
By the time I’m three feet away, the guy’s walking off like a kid who just got sent to the principal’s office.
I give her a moment to herself before stepping in to rest my forearms on the railing next to her. I wait for her to acknowledge me. She seems surprised to see me, but one corner of her mouth quirks up and she turns ever so slightly to face me.
“I was coming over to tell that guy to leave you alone, but you did not need my help.”
“I’m definitely capable of repelling men on my own. But thank you for your concern.”
One of the few benefits of being in a place this loud is that you have an excuse for leaning in close to talk to a beautiful woman. We basically have to yell to be heard, and every now and then the bass will kick in or some idiot hoots and hollers, and good luck hearing anything else. But now I need to know more.
“Mind if I ask how that conversation went?”
“He asked me if I’m having a good night. I told him I’d rather be at home reading with my dog. He told me he’s allergic to dogs. I told him I might be allergic to his aftershave. He said we could go back to his place to take a shower and I could wash it off of him. I told him I’d already showered once this month so no thanks. And then I asked him if he’d like a breath mint.” She shrugs, her eyes wide and mischievous. “Blammo. He left. Go figure!”
Blammo. Now I’m thinking about showering with her. I lean in a little closer. “Does your dog know how to read?” I ask.
A really intoxicating smile spreads across her face. “See, now that’s the kind of reaction I always hope to get when I tell people that.” Her eyes are blue and sparkling behind those glasses, even in this crazy lighting, and I like those eyes and I have so many more questions.
It takes me a moment to realize that Barry is calling out to me from his table. “Hey! Alejandro! You want some of this champagne?”
I signal to him that I’m good and ask the lovely lady if she wants any.
Shaking her head, she grins as she asks, “Your name’s Alejandro?”
“Kind of. What’s yours?” I hold my hand out to shake hers.
She stares down at my hand while she shakes it and says something.
“Emily?” I practically shout.
“Emmy,” I think she says.
“Oh, Emmy.”
“Kind of.” She looks down at my hand again, smiling, because I haven’t let go of hers, and I like her smile.
I don’t want to, but I loosen my grip and we lock eyes as she lets her hand slip away.
“What’s a cool girl like you doing in a place like this, Emmy?”
“I’m not cool,” she insists, touching her hand to her chest. “At all. My new roommate—housemate—Franklin… I mean, I just moved in with him, but we’ve been best friends since high school. Anyway, he made me come out tonight and he made me wear this and he made me drink two shots of Jägermeister.” She holds up three fingers and then thinks about it for a second and adds another finger.
Uh-oh.
“And that was after the two boxes of sake at the sushi place. Is that what they’re called? Boxes?”
Yeah, she’s tipsy. Now that she’s only holding on to the railing with one hand, she sways a little and has to catch her balance.
“It’s called a masu,” I inform her.
“Who’s a masseuse?”
I lean in even closer. “The wooden box cup.” I mime drinking from a wooden box cup. “It’s called a masu in Japanese.”
“Ohhhh. Masu.” She appears to be very pleased that I know this. “I like that. Thank you.” She smiles at me appreciatively and laughs a little as she says, “You smell really good.”
“Thank you. You smell really great for someone who only showers once a month. Where’d you go for sushi?”
“It was downtown and really good and supposedly not that expensive for LA, but I thought it was expensive.”
“Sounds like Sugarfish.”
“Yeah, that was it! People take sushi pretty seriously here, don’t they?”
“It’s LA. We take sushi and ourselve
s very seriously. You new in town or just visiting?”
She nods. “Just moved here. My friend brought me out to celebrate. We were going to go somewhere else, but then he got a text from a guy he has a crush on, and he promised we’d only be here for half an hour.” She rolls her eyes. “That was an hour ago. I lost him. And he’s not answering his phone.”
“That’s annoying. You want me to help you find him?”
“How would you do that, exactly?”
“I’d follow you around while you look for him and make sure no other guys ask you to shower with them.”
She studies my face for a few seconds, furrowing her brow. “You’re a rather earnest fellow, aren’t you? What do you do, anyway?”
Shit. I don’t want to bring up being a director yet in case she’s an actress. I shrug. “Little of this. Little of that.”
“Oh my God—same.”
“Yeah?” She doesn’t seem offended by my being vague.
“Yeah, it’s so weird. I never meet people in the exact same line of work as me.”
“Guess that makes us competitors.” I give her a very earnest wink. “Bet you’re good at it, though.”
“It’s important to me to be good at everything I do.” She gives me an exaggerated wink, and I don’t know if she’s insinuating blow jobs, but I’m a guy so of course I think she’s insinuating blow jobs.
She grins, looking away from me, gripping the railing, and I like her hands. She’s swaying again, on purpose this time, to the rhythm of the music. And starts absentmindedly singing out loud, until she realizes she’s singing along to a really dirty song called “Go To Town” by Doja Cat. But instead of covering her mouth and giggling as I expect her to, she continues to sing the words, “If you're down, boy, really down, Baby let me watch you go to town,” and then glances over at me before quickly looking back out at the dance floor, and fuck me, who is this person?
“You like this song, huh?”
“Oh yes. It’s one of my top three favorite songs about cunnilingus.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone make that word sound so cute.
She smiles, shaking her head, then finally meets my gaze again. “You have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She laughs and says, “Like you’re… Like you…” Her expression turns serious, and I catch her staring at my mouth, her nostrils flaring slightly. I’m aware of how her body has tensed up.
And part of my brain is thinking about what I’d like to do to release that tension for her, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have horndog face right now because I’m having all kinds of thoughts and she’s only naked in half of them.
“Like I what?”
She blinks, shakes her head, and wraps one leg tight around the other, as she looks down at the crowd below us. Guess she’s not going to finish that sentence. Ten o’clock is pretty early in nightclub world, so things haven’t gotten insane here yet. But Emmy seems genuinely surprised by what she sees around her. She’s still shaking her head. “Do all those people really want to be here?” She snaps her head to look at me. “I mean…do you? Sorry? I don’t mean to assume that you aren’t a shallow party person.” She covers her mouth. “Shit. That’s judge-y. I can’t assume that everyone here is a shallow party person. I’m not usually this judge-y.” I start to answer her, but she says, “That’s a lie. I just lied. I’m totally this judge-y, all the time. I just don’t usually say this stuff out loud… You were saying?”
“I was saying that I just came here to say hi to a few friends. I don’t think anyone has ever lain on their deathbed and said, ‘I just wish I’d spent more time in da club.’”
“This really isn’t your scene, then?”
I want to tell her that taking my kid to Disneyland is my scene when I’m not working or going to screenings, but it’s way too soon to bring that up and far too loud.
She keeps studying my face, waiting for an answer, but this isn’t the time or the place to get serious answers from people. A quick glance around before saying, “Um…I better go dance and pretend to have some fun for a minute or my friend will murder me. Wherever he is.”
“He sounds like a great friend.”
“He is, actually. In the long-term, big picture kind of way.”
“You want a little help trying to convince him? I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to have a good time at parties and bars lately.”
“That is kind of sad, and I’ve never felt so sorry for someone who’s so ridiculously handsome and confident, but yes. Please pretend to have fun with me.”
“Unless you want to go someplace quieter. Like an Abercrombie & Fitch store. Or an airport runway. You can keep trying to call your friend and tell him to meet you there.”
She seems to actually be considering this option, and even though I’m willing to do a pretty long list of things with her at this point, I really fucking hope she wants to get out of here so we can continue talking without getting laryngitis.
“Will you dance with me?”
Shit.
I hate dancing.
Hate it.
I only ever danced in public with my ex-wife when I was drunk, and even then, I hated it.
But I don’t want hot, intriguing, judge-y Emmy with the glasses to dance or shower with anyone else tonight.
4
Emilia
“What the hell?” he says, not enthusiastically. But he’s agreeable nonetheless. “If that’s what you want. Yeah.”
He holds his hand out, gesturing for me to lead the way down to the dance floor. I reach out and take his hand to pull him along behind me as we venture toward the stairs. I’m not usually the kind of girl who holds hands with strangers, but I’m also not usually the kind of girl who finds herself in some shiny, noisy, high-end LA nightclub, and holy shit this guy is hot.
I feel his hand, briefly, on the small of my back as we wind through groups of people.
Holy shit that felt good.
Brent never danced with me. Not once. Not even at weddings. That’s going on the list. Fuck you, Brent.
It’s because of him that I’m a tad tipsier than I’d planned on being tonight. After dinner I got a text asking if I’d made it to LA safely. Two days after I’d left Paso Robles. Perhaps he was just trying to give me the space I needed, but fuck you, Brent. I sent him a thumbs-up emoji and then agreed to come to this club with Franklin, despite being vehemently opposed to the idea one minute earlier. “If they serve alcohol there, then sure,” I’d told him.
I can’t believe I lost Franklin. I mean, it’s only been about twenty minutes I guess, but still. He kept ordering me Jäger shots as soon as we got here, but as soon as The Guy showed up, I knew I’d have to fend for myself. He seems to have an unusually massive crush on this one, so I cut him some slack. They’re probably huddled together in a corner somewhere, critiquing people’s outfits and not wondering where I am. But I can hardly be mad at the asshole.
Because Alejandro.
He is one tall drink of Sangria, and I would eat pray love all over him, all night long.
Wait, what?
I mean, normally I wouldn’t. But maybe New Me will. Apparently, New Me holds hands with strangers and makes very subtle blow job insinuations. His hand is warm and protective, even though I reached for him first. He squeezes my hand and pulls in front of me as we walk down the stairs. I don’t know if he’s being a gentleman or if he’s making sure I don’t tumble down the steps, but I’m grateful. I am a little woozy. The good kind of woozy. But woozy. And tingly in places that haven’t felt tingly in a really long time. From my head down to my toes, but mostly somewhere in between.
Alejandro can’t be more than five years older than me, but he’s a man. He carries himself like a man. He talks like a man. He looks to me like a man who’s always either just gotten out of bed or he’s about to take someone to bed with him. He looks at me like he knows what I look like naked. Or like he knows exactly what to s
ay or do to get me naked. And I find myself wanting him to know exactly what I look like naked, which is pretty unusual for me.
But probably not unusual for women who’ve just done four Jägermeister shots.
And probably not unusual for any woman on the receiving end of that look.
He leads me to a spot in the center of the dance floor and turns to face me. A Mark Ronson and Alicia Keys song is playing (yeah, I know who Mark Ronson is—I’m not a hundred). It’s loud and mid-tempo, and I can feel the bass vibrating on the soles of my feet and in the pit of my stomach and in my marrow. And my clitoris. My clitoris has felt like the center of the universe for the past ten minutes. And okay, I guess I understand why people do this. I feel like I’m twenty again.
Alejandro stays about six inches from me. We easily find the beat of the song and the rhythm of the people around us. His head is tilted down, his broad shoulders roll forward a bit, and he moves his lower body just enough for it to be considered dancing and I consider it completely sexy. He starts to mirror my swaying shoulders.
My nipples are so erect right now, I drag my hand across my chest ever so quickly to check to make sure they aren’t poking holes through the fabric. I didn’t even know they could get this hard. They’re pointing at this man like Hey you—the idiot we’re attached to—do you even see this guy? Get closer to him immediately and rub us against him!
I look up to find that his jaw has tightened. Those big brown eyes of his are even more hooded now. I take a step closer to him, my hips are coming alive, and I’m close enough to feel the heat coming off of him, or maybe it’s coming off of me and bouncing back off his chest. I wonder if he has a hairy chest. His skin is tanned, the color of honey, and I want to lick him all over.
What?
Troublemaker Page 3