Date Night
If there was a silver lining to Riley’s decision to move out of his condo, it was those Monday nights they spent together in her studio apartment. There were no dinners out to Michelin award-winning restaurants or mingling with industry friends at members-only clubs; clubs into which Riley believed she’d never have been admitted without Paige or Ashe by her side. That wasn’t true, though Ashe understood why she thought so. It just wasn’t her scene, as Tessa would have put it.
Riley’s scene involved quiet nights at home, which happened to suit Ashe as well, especially while Coriolanus was in the middle of its run. He couldn’t afford to do anything that might strain his voice or affect his performance; that included late-night parties and most alcohol, though he did indulge in a glass of wine now and then.
For their Monday date nights, Riley usually prepared dinner while Ashe brought the wine and sometimes dessert, maybe fruit or a tub of ice cream (which he wasn’t supposed to indulge in but sometimes did). After dinner and washing-up they’d sit on the couch and talk, though never about personal matters. Riley usually steered the conversation to his work, whether it was being the face of a high-end brand of sunglasses or a fashion editorial spread Betty had signed him up for on some popular men’s magazine. Ashe didn’t want to talk about himself; he just wanted to talk about her, including her renovation plans for the Library Café.
She’d agonized over what to change from the moment Allen, her business partner, had sold her his share of the café. For one thing, she knew, the books had to go.
It was a tough decision, but after last year’s episode when Isobel, in an anonymous review, falsely claimed to have spotted a rat in the coffee shop, Riley had realized that the books would eventually have to go. If not rats or mice, it would be some other problem: termites, maybe, or a fire hazard. She’d keep one bookcase, but now it would carry brand-new books, preferably by local writers or her book club choice for the month.
They talked about other things besides work. Sometimes it was music. Last week, before he left her for the evening, Riley had asked him to bring along one of his favorite vinyl records, a 45 RPM instead of an LP, on their next date; only one, for she knew he had a full collection and would otherwise bring as much as he could carry.
The moment Ashe walked into her apartment that evening, he saw it. His brow furrowed quizzically at a new addition to her decor. She had a small apartment, already cramped as it was, and she’d had no place to tuck her surprise anywhere but in front of the built-in shelves facing the couch. It was a stand-alone jukebox that played 45’s, and it was stocked with colored vinyl records.
“If you like it, we can have it moved into your condo,” she said softly, watching him.
“Like it? I love it, petal.” He loved it so much he could barely speak.
“Why don’t you check it out while I set the table,” she murmured. “I know you’re dying to.”
She was right. He was dying to switch the bloody thing on and play all the records for the rest of the evening if he could. Ashe let go of her and hurried toward the jukebox, taking his time to study it. It was a German-made NSM ES160 II from the early 80’s. The top portion featured the titles of the 80 records arranged behind the glass, some of them multi-colored and, as Ashe could only guess, rare editions. He switched it on and browsed through the selection of songs. He couldn’t help but feel like a child on Christmas morning, all his worries forgotten.
Minutes later, he felt Riley standing behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his back. “So you like it?”
“I love it, petal.” Pulling her to stand beside him, he read the titles out loud, wondering how she’d managed to find the jukebox in such perfect condition. He chose a song and pressed a button, and they both watched as the carriage mechanism moved from the right of the illuminated glass front to the center where a red vinyl record was deposited between two curved bars.
The Four Seasons’ Let’s Hang On began to play from the original speakers and for a few moments, Ashe was still, his brow furrowing as if deep in thought. Then he turned to face Riley dramatically and began lip-syncing the words, something about hanging on to what they got. With an Elvis song set next in the queue, he didn’t care if he’d let his secret Elvis impersonator-self slip through; for her, he’d act silly. She laughed and took his hand as he pulled him to her and they began to dance, Ashe still lip-syncing.
They danced to two more songs until the timer on the crockpot beeped, a reminder that dinner was ready and that Ashe should stop thinking about the jukebox and where it would fit in his condo. He’d worry about it next week. It was date night, the one night he looked forward to each week and as an added bonus, there were enough records behind the glass partition to last them the night.
Since she’d had to check out coffee roasters in the Hudson Valley over the last two days, Riley hadn’t had time to prepare anything fancy as she had done on previous nights. Despite Ashe’s reassurance that he didn’t care what she made for dinner as long as they were together, she apologized for the crockpot minestrone soup served with salad and garlic bread. After they finished, they rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher, and after turning off the kitchen lights, they settled on the couch.
“How are the renovations?” he asked as she settled in his arms.
“I still have to pick out the carpet, flooring, colors for the wall and the panels. Wayne could only do so much before he had to leave for Oregon to visit his son.”
“Would you like me to come along?”
Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you busy with work? Everywhere I turn these days, there you are; in the subway, the taxicab and even Times Square.”
He shrugged, sheepish. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m joking,” she said, laughing. “Paige always warned me about your career and wondered whether I’d be able to handle it. Maybe I’m just jealous that anyone can talk about how much they love your ass, while I’m on the train and I can’t say anything.”
“You should tell them it looks and feels better in the flesh.”
She giggled. “You’re so vain. Now, about the paneling and so on: can you do tomorrow?”
“I can do it before three. I have to be at the theater by four at the latest.”
“That would be great,” she said. “I need a second opinion on the specific shade of purple I’m going to paint the walls.”
Ashe stared at her, horrified. “You are not painting—”
“Gotcha!” she laughed, handing him the record. “If you’re coming with me, I guess the walls won’t end up purple. They’ll be a sensible beige with brown accents.”
“I’ll be wherever you want me to be, Riley, with bells on,” said Ashe, grinning as a Bob Dylan song began to play.
“I was maybe six or seven when I first heard his songs through my mom, though this particular album is my own discovery,” Riley said, leaning against Ashe’s chest as they reclined on the couch. Miss Bailey was sleeping on the armchair, and outside a soft rain had begun to fall. It was perfect, thought Ashe as he pulled her closer.
“Bob brings back good memories of her and so I like it, even if he whines more than he sings.”
“No! Surely not Bob! Are you calling him a whinger?” chuckled Ashe, using slang that always made her giggle as she did then.
“It made me remember how we used to go around Manhattan on our own. We used to accompany Paige whenever she had a shoot, just before she hit the big time. It would go on for hours and Paige would always tell us to go shopping and come back in two or three hours.”
“Paige was what age then, sixteen?”
“Seventeen, and already bossy as hell. The next year, she moved out and lived in Paris for a while, then Milan,” said Riley. “It was more interesting than sitting there waiting for the shoot to end, so Mom and I would explore Manhattan. I remember she’d show me houses, the brownstones, although I don’t remember exactly what she said; she talked about who lived there and what they liked to do in the mornings, and if they had a daughter or son my age. She loved to make up stories. It was our game.”
“Where did you usually go?” Ashe asked, twirling her hair around his finger.
“The Lower East Side,” replied Riley. “She knew a lot of people there and they’d say hello to her. She must have grown up in the area.” Riley grew silent as if lost in thought and Ashe was reminded of Paige’s story.
“What are you thinking about, petal?”
“The man who drew my book. That’s where we met him first. After that he came to the photo shoots to visit. He knew Paige too.”
“Are you sure?”
“She called him Uncle … something,” said Riley, slipping out from his arms and taking the picture book from the shelf next to her mother’s collection of old hardcovers. She returned to the couch and nestled next to him. “You must be tired of seeing me look at this thing and listening to me talk about it.”
“Why would I?” Ashe asked. “It’s a very special book and it stars you; why would I get tired of that?”
Riley kissed him softly on the mouth and Ashe held his breath. Though they’d kissed and made out on her couch the last two nights he’d been over, they hadn’t had sex in more than four weeks. He ached for her so much that he dreaded going back to his condo, knowing another week would go by without their making love.
If Riley noticed his body tense as she kissed him, she didn’t show it. Settling herself back in his arms, she opened the book.
“Is this the man who reminded you of Cary Grant?” asked Ashe, forcing himself to think of other things before his body betrayed him.
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Do you know his name?”
She shook her head, frowning. “Ever since you told me that my dad said I’m not his daughter, I’ve been wondering if that man is my real father. It’s all I’ve been thinking about lately, but that’s only because there’s no one else to share the little things with since Paige and I stopped talking.”
“You can share anything with me,” he murmured.
“I know, but it’s not the same,” she said. “Don’t you get days when you just want to call home, talk to your mom or dad or even Rowan and tell them how your day went? You’d like to hear how proud they’ll be when you tell them, ‘Hey, I scored this role!’ or ‘I made a million!’ or, in my case, ‘I cleaned the bathroom on my own without accidentally mixing bleach and ammonia.” She sighed. “That kind of thing. I guess it’s family I’m missing.”
“I’m sorry, petal.”
“I miss Paige, despite what she did,” she continued. “I miss our arguments and our weekly dinners. I remember how she promised Mom so many times that she’d take care of me, and she tried to. She married a man much older than her because he promised to take care of me too. I mean, she’s not perfect and she did sleep with Gareth and kept it from me all these years but,” her voice caught, “she’s still my sister and she’s all I have left.”
Ashe didn’t say anything. He stroked her hair and held her.
“Maybe that’s why I’ll always love working behind the counter,” she continued. “It’s like they’re my family coming to visit, especially the regulars. They tell me what’s going on in their lives, even if they’re just there to get coffee.”
They sat for a few minutes without speaking, Ashe simply holding her while she leafed through her picture book. Sometimes her fingers would follow her mother’s written words, and other times she’d trace the hand-painted version of herself.
“I was wondering,” said Ashe as he remembered the paparazzi parked outside the Library Café, “is there anyone who comes in for coffee around eight-thirty or nine in the morning, someone well-known?”
“You, although you’re never there so early these days.”
“True, but that’s only because I have no one to stalk at nine in the morning. She comes in after the noon shift, I hear.”
“Stop that,” she said, laughing. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’d just like to know who’s stealing my thunder.”
“You’re hopeless,” she giggled, then thought for a few moments. “Let’s see: as far as the regulars are concerned, there’s Percy the blogger who doesn’t show up until ten, so he’s out. There’s Maggie the writer, who usually waits for the morning rush to die down, and Lee the Australian surfer who’s just moved to New York. What about him?”
Ashe shrugged. “Anyone else?”
“There’s Mr. Kyle, who always shows up in his tailored suit with the perfect handkerchief in it.”
“Pocket square.”
“Whatever,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “He’s been out of town for the last three weeks, though; at least, I hope so. He hasn’t been around.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know, but a service car drops him off and parks somewhere while he has his espresso. He could take it with him, but he likes drinking it in a demitasse cup. He’s a little formal. One of the girls said he comes from old money.”
“Maybe he just likes to enjoy his coffee the old-fashioned way,” said Ashe. “It’s more eco-friendly that way, don’t you think?”
“Could be.” Riley sighed and Ashe felt her slump against him. “Anyway, going back to my dad, I don’t know why I brought that up. For all I know, he might have said I wasn’t his just to mess with your head. Who knows? With my luck, I’m just a mutt.”
“If it’s any consolation, Riley, your pedigree has no bearing on how I feel about you. I love you, no matter who or what you are,” Ashe said. “Look at me, for example: I’m just a country boy really, a sheep farmer. I’m not even from the city like you.”
“A farm boy with his face plastered all over Times Square?” Riley laughed. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It made you smile,” replied Ashe.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and they grew quiet, their attention on the rain pounding against the window just beyond her bed, at the far end of her studio apartment. Ashe was glad that she hadn’t disposed of her furniture when she’d moved in with him, now that she’d moved back in so soon. Her brass bed was still there behind the Balinese carved divider she’d picked up from a flea market, and her couch, where they’d spent every Monday night since she’d moved back. They hadn’t made it past that damn divider. He almost laughed at himself, realizing he was behaving like a sex-crazed teenager.
Here he was, Ashe Hunter, with his face and naked torso all over Times Square and Broadway; he had women lining up to get his picture and autograph, and often found underwear tucked next to bars of chocolate inside the gift bags they left for him backstage. How ironic that he couldn’t even make it past a carved divider that separated the rest of Riley’s apartment from her bed. Thank God for privacy, he thought; the last thing the world needed to know was that Ashe Hunter couldn’t score with the girl of his dreams.
“What are you so glum about?” Riley asked, poking him in the ribs.
“I was just thinking that your bed might as well be a million miles away,” he replied as Lay, Lady, Lay began to play. “And Bob Dylan’s not making it any easier.”
“That’s my favorite song of his,” Riley said, interlacing her fingers with his.
“Mine, too.”
“He’s not whingey here,” she said, chuckling. “Look what you’ve done, Ashe. You and your slang are starting to rub off on me, though I know you try to avoid using it here.”
“Necessarily so,” he said, chuckling. “People barely understand half what I say when I do, even if I don’t speak in my own accent.”
Riley watched him for a few moments, her eyes slanting. “Well, you may be holding back on your idioms, but your body is holding nothing back right now.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” he said, shifting his position. His jeans were growing tight in the crotch.
“It’s quite … hard not to notice,” she said, smiling mischievously and Ashe found himself getting even harder. Why did he wear such tight jeans?
“I’m only human, petal,” he murmured as she turned to face him. “I’m afraid I can’t take another make-out session before you send me home.”
“Hush,” Riley said, placing her finger on his lips. Thunder boomed in the distance and the rain came down harder than before. She traced his lips with her index finger. “It’s wet outside.”
“Maybe I should head home.“
“I know another place that’s wet.” She bit her lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him.
“You’re torturing me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, leaning away from him to set the book on the coffee table before returning to his arms. She turned to face him. “That’s because I want you to stay the night.”
Ashe looked at her but said nothing, knowing he should take her in his arms right now and end all the talking. He needed her so much, but he had to know that she was really ready to allow him back into her life in that way. Wasn’t that what all this had been about: the date nights, the lunches, even the make-out sessions on her couch which never went all the way, as if they were still in school?
“Did you hear what I said, Mr. Hunter?” she asked. “Are you playing hard-to-get now?”
“I heard you, Riley-I-Am,” replied Ashe, his throat suddenly dry, “and I doubt I could play hard-to-get at the moment. Hard, definitely; not the ‘get’ part.”
“I know I told you I needed time, but I think enough time has passed and I don’t want to play games. I’ve had enough of just making out too,” she whispered.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure … and my vibrator’s out of batteries.”
Ashe kissed her then, deep and long and hard; all teeth and tongue, stealing her breath away. His hands were twined in her hair and her fingers dug into the skin of his shoulder as she clung to him. When he withdrew she was out of breath, her eyes glazed.
“I’m way better than any vibrator out there,” he murmured.
“Well, now that you mention it, my vibrator’s never kissed me like you just did.”
“If it did, I’d be very worried,” said Ashe, arching an eyebrow. “Would you like me to kiss you some more, and put this vibrator permanently out of contention for your affections?”
“I love how you talk dirty to me, my not-so-posh Yorkshireman,” she said, blushing, the color drifting from her cheeks to her neck and chest. “And you could certainly try.”
That was all Ashe needed to hear. He didn’t care about being smooth or debonair in his love-making. This time he wasn’t Ashe Hunter, the posh actor who could recite love poetry at the drop of a hat or quote the Bard. He was just a man, and right now, a man needing to get laid.
Riley shrieked with laughter as he stood up and tossed her over his shoulder. Then he headed toward her bed, past the carved divider that had taunted him for the last few weeks.
He didn’t care if they woke the neighbors, if the sounds they made competed with the thunderstorm overhead and the rain hitting off the window. Neither, it seemed, did she, whose laughter was like an aphrodisiac, whose moans and whimpers drove him mad for her. He could make love to her all night, if he had to summon every ounce of strength in him, for she was his Delilah, his goddess, his weakness. Only when he felt her shatter beneath him did Ashe relax his self-control and give in to his own release, his mouth sinking into her skin, marking her like he always did. She clung to him long after her body stopped trembling.
Afterward they lay, catching their breath, on the rumpled bed. Riley giggled.
“What’s that for?” he asked, his voice cracking; he hoped he hadn’t strained it.
“I can’t believe you actually felt threatened by a vibrator,” she chuckled.
He rolled his eyes. “Did not.”
“Did too,” she giggled, turning to face him. “Guess what?”
“What?” he asked, rolling onto his side to watch her, flushed from their lovemaking. The worry had faded from her face and she taunted him with her eyes and grin.
“I don’t have one,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Not yet.”