~ 4 ~
I gasped. Literally. In all my naïve shock. Which made him laugh at me. He clinked his glass against mine, sitting on the bar. “Cheers, luv.”
Horribly self-conscious, I picked up my glass for something to hold, not sure which was worse—what he’d said to me or how I reacted. Of course guys flirted with girls this way, just never with me. Jeez, Charley had made herself come riding a carousel horse while Daniel watched. Then she’d told us the whole story, with Ice and Amy pumping her for details. Daniel had appealed to Charley’s wild side that way.
Damien would appeal to mine, if I had one.
Of course, he didn’t expect me to be a virgin at my age. No one did because, really, who made it this long anymore? I know I hadn’t expected to. I’d been so sure I’d meet the One in college, we’d get engaged senior year and married in June a year after graduation, giving us time to get settled in jobs and maybe even save for a down payment. Julie would have been my maid of honor and the others my bridesmaids. I’d even found the perfect pink gowns for them.
I’d just never quite met the actual guy. And now it would be two years out from graduation in the spring, and he still hadn’t come along. I’d been waiting for nothing.
“Shocked you silent, did I?” he finally said, giving me a dubious look.
“Why ‘meet beautiful’?” I asked, instead of answering that, since I obviously wasn’t going to confess the truth. He’d fall off the barstool laughing at me.
“Seemed apt. See—this pal of mine is a screenwriter, and she says when a couple first encounter each other in a flick, it’s called a meet cute, and—”
“I know what a meet cute is.”
“There you go, being a haughty schoolteacher again.”
I winced. Had a healthier sip of whiskey. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He reached between his spread legs, grabbed the edge of the barstool, and hitched it closer so our knees bumped. “It works for me. Hot, in a femme dom way. Just like the boots.” He cupped my calf over the thin material of the boot, the touch shocking in its casual intimacy. Holding my gaze, he massaged a little, squeezing, then left his hand there.
My mouth had gone dry—and, Good Lord, I’d gone wet—so I sipped at the whiskey. “Can I get a glass of water?” I called to the bartender, who glanced over and nodded, like nothing was going on with me and Damien.
Which, really, it wasn’t, right? I mean—he was flirting, sure, but putting a hand on my pleather-covered calf hardly counted as even first base in anyone’s book. Belatedly, it hit me that I’d agreed to a date—it wasn’t really an actual date, but the rest of the Fab Five wouldn’t see it that way—without even counting up the points. The way my head was floating, I wouldn’t be able to any time soon, either.
The bartender set down the water and I grabbed it gratefully, putting down my now empty whiskey glass. “Have another?” Damien asked, dipping his chin at the empty, idly stroking my calf over the boot.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I…” I trailed off when he took the water glass from me, turning it so he drank from where I had, giving me a sexy little grin with it. What would those lip rings feel like? I wanted to touch one with my tongue.
“Have to go back to work,” he prompted, handing the water back to me.
“Yes.” I did. I really did. What time was it? My phone was in my bag under the ledge and I didn’t want to scramble for it because then maybe he’d move his hand and I really didn’t want him to. I wanted him to move it higher, to touch the skin behind my knee. I wanted to spread my legs and feel—whoa. What was I thinking?
As if he knew what he was doing to me, he leaned in, and—heavens—kissed my temple. Then, warm and moist against my skin, fragrant with the whiskey, he breathed the question, “Are you always a good girl?”
“Pretty much, yes,” I answered, then bit my lip.
He laughed softly, but sat back again. “Be a little bad then, just for practice.”
Could I? I was still chewing on my lip and, figuring I looked adolescent doing it, made myself stop.
“One more,” he coaxed. “I’m having one. Then I’ll walk you back upstairs to your good girl worker desk.”
“Okay,” I said, before I knew I’d decided. Not responsible, but… For the first time, I could understand why Charley had wanted to come for Daniel on the carousel horse. I felt alive and free and—and wild. Sexy. This was what sexy felt like. “Sure,” I said, tossing my hair a little. It didn’t work as well with my shoulder-length bob, but whatever. “Hit me.”
He waited until we’d both raised our refills. “Meet beautiful because ‘cute’ is not the right word for a woman like you.”
Oh. Well then. I drank, and it went down even smoother this time. My stomach felt all warm and relaxed, the girl of the wilted salad and tears behind the potted palm far away. The pub had carols going, too, playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” the Leon Redbone/Zoey Deschanel version. Zoey was protesting that her sister would be suspicious. I wanted to be Zoey, the manic pixie dream girl, not the suspicious sister.
Damien, one hand still on my calf, leaning on the bar with his other elbow, whiskey glass dangling, watched me with a disconcerting little smile on his mouth.
“Why all the boxes?” I asked, gesturing to the pile.
He didn’t even glance at them. “Delivery. One of my jobs.”
“Oh. I hope there was nothing breakable.”
He shrugged his shoulder, moving his hand up and down my calf. “The company packs well.”
“What other jobs do you have?”
“Uh-uh, luv.” He straightened the index finger from his glass to point at me, the whiskey rolling up the sides a little. “It’s my turn. What’s this amazing job you’re so het up to get back to?”
“Oh.” Thinking about work made me feel guilty for sitting there, and I didn’t want to feel bad. “I don’t really like talking about my flair,” I said, and giggled.
“Office Space.” His smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek, an angelic touch at odds with his hip, bad-boy piercings. “Grand movie.”
“I’m impressed you know it.”
“I’ve spent my time in the cubicle farm.”
“Really? You don’t look it.”
“Well, appearances are deceiving, aren’t they? I mean, look at you with your schoolmarm glasses and this long skirt.” He tugged at the hem pulled tight between my knees, then slid a hand up the outside of my thigh. Not too far, not enough to set off alarm bells and over the cloth, but lordy, I nearly moaned.
“But that’s who I really am,” I said, breathy as Zoey could ever be.
“Ah, now good girls don’t tell lies, do they?” He stroked down my thigh to my calf again, gaze dropping to follow the movement. I watched, too, mesmerized. “Will you slap my wrist with a ruler if I try for more?”
“Depends on how bad you are.” Exhilarating, being naughty like this.
“Never can resist a challenge.” This time he slipped a finger under the hem, touching my knee over my pantyhose. “Stockings?” he asked, raising that one brow, the ring winking.
“Baby, it’s cold outside,” I sang, and giggled again, then focused on the short fuzz of the shaved side of his head. “Is it soft?” I asked, then realized what a non sequitur that was.
Amazingly, he followed my train of thought, turning his head so it tilted toward me. “Have a feel.”
I wouldn’t have done it without the whiskey courage, but I ran my fingers over it. Soft, yes, with a slight prickle, like going against the nap of good velvet in one of the samples Amy brought home. I traced the whorls of the tattoo on his velvety skin. “What is this design—a bird?”
He caught my eye, the aqua startling as ever, though the look in them was somber. “Yeah. Birds are a symbol of a departed spirit, you know? I got it when my mum passed. A remembrance.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My dad died.” I realized as I said it that it was a lie, but how to take that one back? And he’d already turned his cheek into my palm, then kissed it, the ring cool compared to his mouth.
“I’m sorry, too, luv. Is that why you were crying, having a shitty day?”
I pulled my hand away on pretext of reaching for my whiskey glass, heaving a sigh of disgust at myself. “Heavens, no. I misspoke.” Seriously misspoke. “It was a long time ago. My bad day has nothing to do with that.”
“What does it have to do with?” He slid his hand to my calf again, kneading it, looking as if he was actually interested.
“I had a fight with my mom.” Kind of. “Shit! How insensitive of me, with your mom… dead, and all.”
He laughed, dipped his chin and looked me in the eye. “That was a long time ago, too. And my dad is around and we fight like cats and dogs, and I end up angry every time, so I get it.”
“What do you fight about?”
He lifted a shoulder and took a sip of whiskey, rolling it in his mouth. “He doesn’t like my lifestyle. ‘Grow up. Get serious. Quit wasting time.’ He’d be a lot happier if I was hitting the cubicle farm every day.”
“Like me.” Some of the glumness settled over me again.
Damien tugged at my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Nah. I can tell you like your job, even with the flair.” He twitched a smile at me. “I bet your mom is proud of you.”
With a strange wrenching sensation, I realized that I didn’t think that was true. I wasn’t at all sure what would make her proud of me, except getting married and hooking my man for life, maybe.
“You know—you have really pretty eyes,” Damien said, breaking into my thoughts.
“They’re brown.”
One side of his mouth quirked and I realized I’d used that schoolmarm tone. “Yeah, if you want to be prosaic. But I’d call them caramel. Or whiskey. They have this kind of goldy-amber light in them. Tiger eyes. They’re pretty with your blond hair.”
“Also brown,” I said, though the compliments made me giddy.
“And they claim guys are bad about color.” He snorted, studying me. “Your hair is…bronze.”
Knowing I was blushing, I sipped at my whiskey, turning the glass upend, but still not getting any. I stared into the empty glass, puzzled. I beckoned Damien closer, “I think the bartender stole my whiskey.”
He laughed, leaning his forehead against mine. “Oh, luv. I lied to you.”
“What?” I snapped upright, stricken.
“Not like that.” He took my hand and curled warm fingers around mine, lovely and oddly familiar. “I did get you drunk.”
Oh God. I was drunk. “What time is it?” I yanked my hand away and scrabbled in my purse. After three-thirty. And my boss had been texting me, asking if I was all right. Julie, too. “Shit!”
He peered at the screen. “Your boss? Sounds more worried than mad. Say you got sick.”
“Lie?”
“Well,” he closed one eye and peered at me like a specimen. “Another whiskey and you would be, so it’s not far from the truth.”
“Oh God.” I leaned my elbow on the bar and put my forehead in my hand. It felt really good to close my eyes.
“No, no, none of that. You need to walk it off.”
“What?”
“Here.” He slipped the phone from my unresisting hand. I blinked at him as he quickly typed a reply, using both thumbs. “I’m saving you from yourself, luv. We’re closing the tab.” He signaled to the bartender.
“What did you send?”
Damien pulled me to my feet, put my bag on my shoulder and slipped the phone inside. Then he picked up his stack of packages one-handed, apparently not drunk at all, and offered me his elbow. “I said you ate a bad sandwich at the food court and got sick. I told ‘L.P.’ that you’re sorry to have worried him. Or her. But that you have to go home.”
“Her.” I fumbled for my phone. A text reply telling me to feel better, with a sad emoji face. I groaned.
“Not gonna be sick for real, luv, are you?”
“No.” I hoped not. How humiliating that would be. My mouth tasted funny. I clicked my teeth together. “I can’t feel my teeth.”
“Oh, boy,” Damien muttered.
“Is that bad? Alcohol poisoning!”
He laughed. Then I was sitting on a bench at the foot of the escalators. “You’ll be fine. Now be a good girl and sit here a mo.”
“I’m tired of being a good girl.”
“Amen to that.” He cupped my cheek and kissed my forehead. “Just a few minutes, until I get back. Then you can be as bad as you like.”
“You’re going away?”
“Just to drop this delivery. Then I’ll take you home.”
“I can’t go home!” The others would never let me live it down. Getting drunk with a strange guy—one with weird hair and piercings!—leaving work early. “I don’t have my coat.”
“Which is your office? I’ll get it for you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can. I’ll say I’m your friend you had lunch with and stayed with you while you got sick and now I’m taking you home, so I need your coat.”
I stared at him. The soft black leather jacket, the rough jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. The hair, all of it. They’d never in a million years believe I’d had a lunch date with a guy at all, much less this one. “No. Forget the coat. I’ll spring for a cab.”
I let my head fall back on the bench. The atrium went up really super high. And was spinning slowly. Like a carousel.
Damien leaned into my field of vision. “Promise to stay put? No wandering off.”
I nodded, pretty sure I couldn’t stand on my own anyway. My hand buzzed, and I realized my phone was still in it. Julie, texting me again.
Are you okay? Where are you? Called your office and they said you went home sick but you’re not here!
Oh, ugh. I started a text to say I was okay, which autocorrected to “Indignant” and then “A mobster,” so I gave up and just called her.
“Marcia!” she answered immediately. “Where are you?”
“I’m okay. Still at Holt, just not, um, actually at my desk.” So not at my boring desk. I giggled.
She paused. “Are you… drunk?”
“Yes.” I giggled again. Tried to stop, and it turned into snort. Which made me laugh harder. “I had whiskey. With a guy.”
“You did not!”
“I did. He has piercings even. I am a bad, bad girl.”
“Ho-kay. I am coming to get you.”
“No, you don’t have to. I’m fine. I mean, Damien is bringing me home.” Again that pause. “Hello?”
“Who is Damien?”
“This guy.”
“I get that part. How much whiskey did you drink?”
“Two.” It was only two, right? “But they were really good.”
“Marcia. Listen to me. I want you to focus. I think he put something in your drink. You’re not safe. I’m coming to get you. You’re not going anywhere with this guy, do you understand me?”
“He didn’t put anything in my drink. Not even Coke. Or ice.”
“Great. Just great.” She said something, muffled, about it taking too long to get there. “Marcia, honey?”
“Yes, Julie, honey?” I snorted at my own joke and she sighed.
“Tell me exactly where you are.”
“Exactly on a bench. Exactly on the left side.”
“And the bench is where?”
“By the escalators from the food court.”
“You’re still at Holt? Okay. Sit there. Charley is calling Daniel.”
“Daniel Holt? Wait. No—I’ll get in trouble.”
“No, honey. No, you won’t. It’s okay. Just talk to me. Tell me about Damien.”
“Oh, he’s… wow—like no one I’ve ever dated. Oh no!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I had drinks without counting points. I went on a fucking date. I’m so sorry.” And tired. I was so tired. I laid down on the bench. That didn’t count as going anywhere.
“It’s okay. No one is mad at you.”
I blinked up at the uniformed cop standing over me, scowling. “Oh, I think this policeman is mad at me.”
“Lady, what’s going on here?”
“I’m drunk,” I told him. Julie was saying something in my ear, but the sound was just annoying, so I hung up.
“I see, ma’am. Why don’t you sit up and come with me.”
“Bruno—is there a problem here?” Daniel Holt came into view, clapping the policeman on the shoulder. I struggled to sit up, which made my stomach lurch. Shit. Shit shit shit.
“Mr. Holt, sir. No problem. This lady appears to have had one too many.”
Lady. Ma’am. “I’m not a matron,” I told them.
Daniel raised a brow at me. He’s really handsome in his nice suits, all lawyerly and clean-cut. “She’s a friend of mine. I’ll take care of it.”
“Absolutely, sir. You have a good day. Ma’am.” He tipped his cap at me.
Daniel held out a hand to me. “Come on, Marcia, let’s get you home. I’ve got a car outside. Where’s your coat?”
He helped me to my feet. Daniel always smells like Excelsior, Holt’s premier cologne and aftershave collection for men. He’s such a nice guy. “Do you have any tattoos?” I asked him.
We went through the revolving doors, which made my head spin more. “Not a one. Do you?”
“Are you kidding?” I snorted, and my stomach lurched. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Right here, honey.” A trash bin was in front of me and I hurled into it, vaguely aware that I was on a city street in downtown Chicago, with Daniel Holt bracing me. “Oh God.”
“Water.” He pressed a plastic bottle into my hand that crinkled. “Rinse and spit.”
I obeyed and felt marginally better.
“Can you get in the car, or should we wait here a few minutes more?”
The garbage can reeked, stale and sour, including my own vomit. If I stayed there I’d be sick again. “Car, please.”
“This way. I have your bag. Handkerchief for you.” He pressed one into my hand and I wiped my face. Then drank the water. Daniel sat in the back with me, telling the driver where to go. The car heater was blasting, nice and warm.
“My phone,” I said.
“In your bag.”
I sat back, gazing up at the tan leather lining of the car roof. Expensive. I would not hurl in Daniel Holt’s expensive car. I rolled my head to look at him. He was watching me with concern. “Doing okay?”
“I promise not to puke in your car.”
“Good to know, but if you do, we can deal. Nothing that can’t be cleaned.”
I groaned, closing my eyes. “You’re awfully good at dealing with puking drunks.”
“Well,” he sounded amused, “I was in a fraternity, you know. Life skills.”
“Am I fired?” I had to ask the question. Maybe I’d be back in Spring Creek after all. My mom would be happy at least. Oh wait, no, she wouldn’t. Not now that she had George.
“No, Marcia. I’m not here as a Holt. Just Daniel, boyfriend of your housemate.”
“Why are you here? Not to be rude,” I added, though obviously that was rude.
“Julie called Charley who called me. They were worried you’d been roofied. Tell me about this guy.”
“He didn’t roofie me. I’m just a sucky drunk.”
“Still, maybe mall security should look for him. Check him out.”
Mall security. That hadn’t been a policeman. Stupid, Marcia. This was why I didn’t ever drink. Why it had seemed like a good idea at all, ever, had me boggled. Still, Damien hadn’t put anything in my drink. He’d just been nice to me, for no reason at all. And flirted with me.
You have really pretty eyes.
“Marcia?”
“It’s fine. Just take me home.”