CHAPTER FIVE
Layla
Saturday night rolls around at an excruciatingly slow pace. Jamie, Shama, and Quinn convince me that showing up at AJ’s right at ten, when the band actually starts, would come across as desperate. It’s...hard, but I have to admit they’re probably right.
That look on his face when he found out I was nineteen just about killed me. And, yeah, I’m not going to pretend I’m not a little disappointed by it. But twenty-six isn’t that old, you know? Seven years. I’ll be twenty in July. The more I think about it, the more it seems like nothing.
But who knows what he’s thinking. I don’t want him to look at me like that again. Like I’m a child. Some kind of forbidden fruit. And to do that, I need to not look like a kid waiting for Santa Claus every time I see him. I need to play it cool. So, the plan on Saturday is to hit up a few bars Saturday night, then saunter over to AJ’s sometime after midnight as if we just “happened” to find the time.
So on Saturday, after pre-gaming with shots of the 99 Bananas Jamie managed to buy off one of the upperclassmen (oh my God, that stuff is rank), the girls and I decide to start the night at Fat Black’s, a dive bar off Washington Square Park where a lot of NYU students like to go. Shama’s boyfriend is a DJ there, so she wants to stop by for a little action.
“He asked me for fifteen minutes in the DJ booth,” she says with a sly grin while we’re getting ready in the tiny bathroom. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Because that’s not desperate,” I joke, elbowing her in the ribs.
I can’t blame her. It’s rough when we’re all hooking up on the single scene, and her guy can’t come too. Poor Shams ends up being the odd one out too much of the time
The small tiled sink is cluttered with tubes of mascara and other cosmetics. We all have our signature looks that play up our best features. Jamie usually focuses on her lips with a slash of red lipstick, while Shama almost always teases her long black hair into waves. Quinn tames her curly hair and highlights her bone structure and lips in shades of pink. I, on the other hand, do my best to pull focus to my eyes, lining them with a lot of black that makes the blue pop, even at night. Tonight I make sure to look my absolute best, taking the time to straighten my thick hair so that it hangs almost to my waist.
Shama ribs me right back while she wraps another piece of hair around her curling iron. “Hell, no. Helps keep things fresh! Maybe you need to invite FedEx behind the desk again, huh?”
I already told her about yesterday’s interlude, when Nico was literally touching the skin two inches above my breasts. They were heaving. My breasts were actually heaving, like I was some idiotic character in a bad book about pirates and fair maidens. Heaving bosoms. Christ.
“You should have pulled his hand lower,” Shama says, obviously reading the memory all over my face.
She winks at me in the mirror, and I can’t help but crack up. Shama has a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and I wouldn’t put a quickie in the DJ booth past her.
We make a damn fine posse. Shama wears a white mini-dress that makes her skin and hair glow. Jamie and Quinn are both dressed in tight jeans and shimmery tank tops beneath their jackets. I’m wearing a short LBD that hugs my body, and a pair of thigh-high black boots that show off my legs. Shama lends me some of the gold bangles she brought back from her trip to India last summer, and I wear a pair of gold hoops to match. I feel sexy and sophisticated—much different from “office” Layla.
When we stride into the bar like we own the place, I know my efforts haven’t been in vain. At least three groups of guys all turn our direction, and at least two of them start preening like peacocks to catch my eye. Normally, I might go over there. They’re cute, in the future-investment-banker kind of way. Spiked hair, striped shirts, tailored jeans, the kind with the weird “whiskers” across the front that everyone seems to be wearing right now. A dime a dozen in a place like this. I pay them no attention while the girls and I find a table. Shama slips away to say hi to her man and returns within a few minutes with a round of beers, which we all accept eagerly.
“Truth or dare?” Quinn points the neck of her beer bottle in my direction.
It’s a game that is a lot more fun to play in a bar when we are half-intoxicated, compared to the seventh-grade versions in my friends’ basements. Okay, so it’s juvenile, but we use it as a way to break the ice with random strangers, plus it’s hilarious watching each other make fools of ourselves in front of hot guys. It’s maybe not the best way to come off as “sophisticated,” but right now I’m thinking we should just get it out of our systems before we go to AJ’s.
After Jamie required Quinn to do the chicken dance in the middle of a slow song for a solid minute, Quinn earned her right to choose the next victim. She’s pointing at me, and I can tell it’s going to be something good.
“Dare,” I say obediently. There is really no point in choosing truth; we tell each other everything anyway.
“All right, Barros,” she says, tossing her brown ringlets over her shoulder. “You’re so hot for FedEx Guy that the pheromones are practically oozing out of your pores. I think you need to expel some of that excess energy before we embark on Mission ‘Court the Courier.’ Your dare, should you choose to accept it, is to make out with one of the men in this room for at least a minute. I’m talking solid tongue twister here, babe.”
I blanch as Jamie and Shama whoop their support for the plan. There’s only one guy I’m interested in making out with tonight (although I’m not planning on it happening for a while longer), and he isn’t present. Spiky-haired business students aren’t doing anything for me right now. But just as it occurs to me how very badly I want that to happen, it also occurs to me that maybe Quinn has a point. It might do me some good to release this pent-up energy.
“Fine,” I relent to the girls’ cheers.
I stand up, smooth my skirt down, and straighten my boots as I survey the room. Who’s half-decent looking and would be game for some fun without getting too handsy? Peering around, I light my eyes on Mike, a guy I hooked up with once at a party freshman year. We made out on a couch for a while before the cops shut everything down. Thirty minutes without going past first base. I smile. He’d be game.
“Target acquired,” I inform my friends, and weave my way to where Mike stands at the bar, waiting for a drink.
I can feel the girls’ eyes on me as I approach him, and the competitor in me relishes the attention. I do well under pressure. But it’s more than that. Am I this girl, deep down, who goes around kissing strangers, especially when I already know there’s only one person I want to be kissing right now? Not really? But sometimes it feels good to be something different from what I think I am. From Layla, the straight-A student. Layla, Daddy’s good little Catholic girl. Layla, future lawyer.
Sometimes it feels good to be a little bad.
“Hey, Mike.” I tap him on the shoulder.
He looks like every other guy in this bar in a striped button-down shirt, tailored jeans, and a carefully manicured chin-strap. His hair is gelled so that it looks like he just rolled out of bed, but it’s sleek, like it’s been covered in oil. It’s actually a look I hate—these kinds of dress shirts look like pajamas, and I can’t stand to touch hair with more product in it than mine. Every douchey investment banker and business student in Manhattan likes this look; it’s about as generic as you can get.
Mike turns around with a puzzled look on his face, which evolves into mild recognition.
“Layla,” I prompt. “Remember, we met at that party last year in Brittany Hall…”
His recognition clearly grows, and his brown eyes widen with appreciation as he looks me up and down. If I didn’t already know I look good tonight, Mike’s expression would tell me.
“Yeah,” he says. “I remember. How’re you doing? Been a while.”
He’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath. His eyes are a little glazed, and the tip of his nose is red. Good, he’ll be more likely to play along.
“I’m good, really good. So listen,” I rush on before he can ask me another inane question. I’m not interested in flirting, just getting my dare over with so we can go. It’s almost eleven, and Quinn wants to go to another bar before AJ’s.
“What’s up? Can I get you a drink, by the way?”
“No, thanks. I have one at my table,” I say. “But I do have a favor to ask.”
Mike cocks an intrigued eyebrow. “Sure, what’s the problem?”
“Well, I kind of made a stupid bet with my friends. See, I told them you and I kind of hooked up at that party, and they don’t believe me because they thought you were cute. I sort of bet them twenty bucks that you maybe wouldn’t mind doing it again right here.” I lower my eyelids in that come-hither look that works so well with guys like him. “Right now.”
Mike gulps visibly, and I’m satisfied to see a familiar hunger as he stares at my lips.
“Could you help a girl out?” I step closer and float a hand up his arm.
He looks at it, and then looks back at me.
“Uh, sure,” he says after taking another big gulp of his beer. He wraps a slightly awkward hand around my waist and tugs me close. “I think I could do that. If you give me your number this time.”
I don’t say anything, just give him a sly smile. He leans in for the kill, setting his lips on mine and pressing his tongue into my mouth. It’s pleasant—I remember it from last time. Enough to stir some tingles in my toes and make my breath come up short. But if I can still count the seconds in my head to a minute without hesitation, the guy isn’t that good of a kisser. That’s the thing about a great kiss: when it happens, you shouldn’t be able to think at all.
And fifty-nine, and sixty! I pull away.
“Thanks again,” I say, leaving him slightly confused and catching his breath. “Why don’t you write down your number and I’ll call you some time?”
“You’re going so soon?”
He’s obviously disappointed; I step beyond his reach before I start to feel the evidence of his excitement against my leg. Yeah, no thanks.
“Girls’ night,” I explain, raising my hands as if to say, “What can you do?” He nods as if he understands entirely, then scribbles down his number on a bar napkin.
“Call me,” he says. “We can hang out again. For more than just a minute.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I tuck the napkin into my small black purse and give him a quick salute before I weave back through the crowd to where the girls are all cackling like crazy into their drinks. Their triumphant expressions make it easier to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, like I’ve just done something wrong.
“Happy?” I ask Quinn with a pointed glare as I sit down again. “That poor guy thinks I’m actually into him now.” I pull out the napkin and push it on the table to Quinn. “Maybe you could use this instead.”
Her face is bright red from laughing so hard, and she fights to catch her breath before she answers. “Oh, God. That was so worth doing the chicken dance. So. Worth. It.”
I just take a large gulp of my drink. I’ve made out with my fair share of guys––I’m in college, for crying out loud––but for some reason I feel kind of dirty. It was just a kiss, fairly innocent, but still. I never believed in soulmates before—you wouldn’t either if you’d grown up with my parents, two diehard Catholics who would rather throw themselves off a cliff than get a divorce. But right now, I have this distinct feeling that there is someone out there really meant for me, and for once, I don’t want to share my kisses with anyone else.
A pair of twinkling black eyes under a curved brim flashes through my mind. Suddenly, I want to get out of this bar right now.
“All right, babe, your turn,” Quinn interrupts my brooding. “You earned it, that’s for sure.”
I drain the rest of my beer and set it down on the small table. “I think I’m going to reserve my call for next time,” I say. “Shama saw her man. Can we go?”
~