Caleb

I buy Roxie a beer, and watch her lips close around the bottle as she drinks a good third of it. She’s wearing a sleeveless black top. Her jeans are so tight she could have painted them on, and yet her face is flushed and her skin is glowing. Tonight, her lips are scarlet, while her fingernails where they hold the bottle are black. The sleeveless top has revealed a tattoo on her upper arm, a symbol I don’t recognize, possibly Sanskrit text. Her hair is twisted into a knot on the top of her head, but the ends have been sprayed into points and then dyed a rainbow of colors.

This girl is so not my type, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.

She wipes beneath her mouth with the back of her hand and her eyes flash. “Take a picture,” she says, “it’ll last longer.”

I chuckle. When I saw the young kid giving her some lip, I’d gone over to help, but it hadn’t taken long for me to realize she was the polar opposite of a damsel in distress. I watched her dispatch of the guy with admiration and a little pity for the dude who clearly had no idea he’d approached someone with a brain, wits, and some talent for the martial arts.

“So, you play the guitar pretty damn fine.” It’s a huge understatement—her rendition of David Gilmour’s solo would have given me a hard-on even if I hadn’t already had one from watching her.

She shrugs. “I play a bit.”

“I like your Les Paul,” I tell her, describing her guitar. “The sustain on Gibsons is incredibly rich, don’t you think?”

Her eyes widen. “You play?”

“Yeah. A bit.” I smile.

She studies my face, her green eyes curious, appraising. Then she sips her beer again. “It’s only an Epiphone,” she admits.

An Epiphone is the budget-conscious version of the Gibson. Gibsons have higher-quality woods and generally are superior. I can tell by the way she’s lifted her chin that she’s expecting me to comment on that. She thinks I’m a snob. She’s probably right, but I’m also a gentleman, most of the time.

So I say, “Did you know Epiphone has been around longer than Gibson?”

Her lips curve up. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“About twenty years longer. And did you know that in 1941, Les Paul bought a transmitter to play pirate radio broadcasts of his experimental music, stuck his hand in the transmitter, and electrocuted himself. He spent weeks wrapped in bandages from head to toe.”

She laughs, and her whole face lights up. “I didn’t know that, no.” Now she turns her whole body to face me, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re much warmer. “I bought it because Pete Townshend played a Les Paul. He’s a hero of mine.”

“Yeah, me too. Eric Clapton played one as well. So did Bob Marley.”

“Really?” She starts talking about other types of guitar, and we spend a pleasant thirty minutes or so discussing guitars, rock music, and some of the concerts we’ve been to.

Around this time, Seb touches me on the shoulder and says, “We’re off. You want a lift back?”

I don’t look at Roxie, but I shake my head. Whatever happens at the end of the night, I’m enjoying myself too much to leave now. “I’ll catch a taxi.”

“Okay.” His eyes are amused, but he doesn’t comment. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

They all say goodbye to Roxie, commenting on her great performance, and head out. Elen gives me a wry look as she leaves, but doesn’t say anything.

“Are you working tomorrow?” Roxie asks.

“No. Harry and Gaby are having a party. They got married a month ago in Florence, and they wanted to celebrate with their friends back home.”

She nods and finishes off her beer.

“Another?” I ask.

She gestures to the bartender. “Can I have a Jim Beam, please? And make it a double.”

“Make that two,” I tell him. I fish out my credit card, but she’s already passing over her own. I don’t argue with her, even though I probably make five or ten times what she earns in the mailroom. She looks like the kind of girl who’d be offended by me insisting on paying for her.

We have a swallow of our whiskey, and it enters my bloodstream immediately, racing around my body and sending heat shooting up my spine.

I don’t understand why this girl fascinates me, but she does. There’s an energy about her—I feel excited just being around her. She’s dangerous, feral. I realize with some surprise that I’ve never been with a girl like this. Even through school and university, I dated nice girls, or ones who looked nice on the outside, anyway—they’d often had more experience than initial impressions suggested, and not all of them were nice. In fact, a good proportion of them—including my vitriolic ex—were less than beautiful on the inside, so I suppose I shouldn’t judge a book by its black-haired, scarlet-lipped cover. Perhaps Roxie doesn’t have one-night stands. She could even be a virgin, for all I know.

I watch her run her tongue around the lip of her whiskey glass, collecting the drops. She catches me watching her and smirks. Yeah, probably not a virgin.

Not that I’m expecting anything tonight. She looks like the kind of young woman who’s able to handle herself, and I doubt I’ll be able to talk her into anything she doesn’t want to do in the first place.

“Roxie!”

She glances across at the rhythm guitarist and singer. He gestures to the door, and she shakes her head. He glances at me, then back at her, and nods slowly. He holds up her guitar, and she nods, watching him as he makes his way out of the bar with it.

“Your boyfriend?” I ask, not wanting to turn around and find his fist in my face.

“My brother,” she says with a grin. “It’s his band. Their lead guitarist left a few weeks ago, so I’ve been filling in.” Finishing off her whiskey, Roxie slides the glass across the bar, then turns to face me. She meets my eyes and considers me thoughtfully. “So. What now?”

I knock back the last of my drink and slide my glass next to hers. I haven’t done this for a while, and I feel out of practice. “I’m hesitant to suggest anything in case you carry out some Jiu Jitsu on me.”

She laughs. Her eyes are wild, excited. “My place is only a block away.” She shrugs, trying not to look too eager. “If you want. Whatever.”

She’s eight years younger than me, but that’s old enough, and I want this girl more than anything I’ve wanted for a long time. Fuck it. We’re both consenting adults, and I’m not breaking any laws. Her strange blend of sassy confidence and vulnerability intrigue me.

“Come on,” I say, and, taking her hand, I lead her out of the bar.