Chapter 15 – Brent
I don’t entirely know why I feel weird about it - I mean, it’s not like we had any problems or swore never to see each other again, but still. She’s married, or at least engaged, and I’m not someone who is down with cheating. Plus, even though she’s a cheater, I can’t stop thinking about how fucking hot she is, even though I know I should. This could be weird.
She opens her eyes, and I look away so fast I almost give myself whiplash. Was that too fast? Did she notice you? Well, don’t look back to find out. That won’t help anyone.
I wait, pretending to study the subway ad for a cut rate lawyer that’s plastered above the doors. After a stretch of time that could’ve been ten seconds or ten minutes, I sneak a peek back down the car. Yup, that’s her all right.
Okay, relax. So what if she sees me? I mean, I’m not going to run up to her and say “Hey, remember me? We banged up against that brick wall and I spanked your ass till it hurt…,” but what’s the worst that could happen if we did bump shoulders? A few awkward glances, a laugh or two? Or a blank stare?
The train lurches to a halt with the familiar screech of all New York City subway cars. My stop. Finally, thank God. Ugh, how is it possible that this woman has somehow gotten under my skin so quickly? Maybe she’s a stalker, and wherever I go, she follows. Nope, not gonna entertain that notion. I don’t want to think I just fucked a crazy person. Not that I’m all together sane myself these days.
I practically leap off the train and head for the stairs without a backward glance. Focus on what’s coming, I tell myself. I have no time to dwell on the woman I just saw again in the second strangest place ever, after fucking her in the first strangest place ever just last night. I have to plan my tour of the Crystal Plaza.
What kind of illness does my non-existent fiancée have today? Laryngitis? The flu? Cake poisoning? Ah, that’s it. Food poisoning from one of the many wedding cakes she’d sampled, at the last venue, where we most certainly won’t be getting married, thank you very much, so here I am to tour this one and hope to have better results. I’d make my apologies for my (non-existent) wife-to-be, enjoy the tour, take the free swag bag that better include that crystal swan, and be out of there in time for a late lunch.
It’s a great plan. Until I get to the closest crosswalk and have to wait for the walk signal. At which point I look around a bit and realize Mystery Woman is right behind me. I almost catch her eye again, and look away just in time. I swear I hear a tiny “eeep” from her direction. I thought that was a sound that only existed inside a Hollywood sound mixer’s keyboard.
For half a second I consider making a break for it across the street, and then a taxi (jeez, we still have taxis? I thought Uber put them out of business) blows by me at least twice the legal speed limit, and I think better of the plan. Don’t be a fucking pussy, Brent. Sure, she’s breathtakingly beautiful and you just had hot sex and wanted to see her again and here she is. And she’s married so now you know she’s off limits and you can’t have her, even though you already did. How fucking confusing. But don’t focus on that shit. Just breathe. Look ahead or look at her. Pick one.
I look ahead. After an interminable few seconds, the light changes and I book it across the street. I don’t look back for three blocks.
I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time for any of the potentially ensuing awkwardness. The part of my brain I’m currently refusing to acknowledge, however, is telling me it’s because I’d very much like to do another round of the horizontal (or vertical again, her choice) mambo with the Dancing Dahlia over there. But out in the daylight, she’s more like the married minx. And everybody knows married minx’s mates bite. Jesus, what a terrible line of alliterative sophomore poetry that was. I hate myself a little for it.
Thankfully it’s only a few blocks to the Crystal, and I make it the rest of the way without incident. Inside the lobby of the building, there are about a dozen couples mingling, casting at one another the kind of glances usually reserved for the most loathsome of relatives at Christmas. Why is it that everyone is always mad at their most beloved person on the planet while touring wedding venues? It seems to bring out the bad side of every couple.
There’s no sign of the tour guide yet. Good. Plenty of time to practice my excuse for not having a fiancée with me. And to scope out any free stuff I might get later.
The doors swing open behind me, and I reflexively look for the next embattled couple coming to join the ranks. But it’s not a couple. This person is alone. And she’s all too familiar.
Okay. Last straw. This is absurd and I’m going to figure out why this stalker – gorgeous as she may be, hot as the sex between us may have been – is following me.
I cross the room towards her, and when she sees me her eyes widen. I can’t tell if she’s happy to see me, or angry. Or maybe she’s just as surprised as I am.
“Hey!” I come to a stop in front of her, and she opens her mouth to speak at the same moment I do.
“Are you…”