Chelsea
“So is this the kind of place you frequent?” he asked her. The Gin Bar was still hopping. In fact, it seemed to be getting more and more rowdy as time wore on.
The song changed, suddenly louder.
“Not really.”
She watched his lips. He mouthed, “What?”
“Not really!” she said, loudly enough this time.
“Yeah, well,” he said, speaking closer to her ear, close enough to show that he wore good cologne, “first of all, I’m straight, so.” He gave a there’s that gesture. “But in general, I’m not really about the kinds of places where you feel like you’re in the middle of a full-fledged nightmare.”
“Oh, going blind and deaf isn’t your thing?” She smiled and held a hand up at the startlingly white lights that strobed over the crowd now. “That’s so weird of you!”
“Man,” he said, drawn out. “This is hell.”
Chelsea laughed, the sound drowned out in the repeating beat. Too much for a small space.
She glanced over at Andrew to make sure he was okay, but he looked fine.
“You want to do a shot?” He shouted it at her, and Chelsea heard him, but he leaned closer as if maybe she hadn’t. “I feel like the only thing that’s going to get me through this is a shot or two.”
She nodded. “Sure!”
A few seconds later, a bartender was pouring deep brown liquid from an ornate round bottle into two shot glasses. Dammit, she thought. She should have specified.
Lee took both and handed one to her. “What should we cheers to exactly? Hating our lives right now?”
“Um”—she looked around—“the last night of our most useful senses? Saying good-bye to hearing, voice, and vision?”
He laughed and clinked his glass against hers.
She let the liquid trickle and burn down her throat, then set the glass down on the counter, trying to show no reaction whatsoever. God, she hated that stuff. It always seemed to get her drunker, too.
His eyes did a quick flick from hers to somewhere indistinct on her body. “You’re something.”
She shrugged. It wasn’t actually so bad, she thought. Getting attention, even just a little flattery, might be just the thing to bring her out of her funk.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising her. “I don’t want to make it seem like I’m hitting on you or anything, because I’m really not. You just seem awesome, and I’m here to kinda, you know, babysit my idiot friend more than anything else.” He pointed.
A balding man was dancing with a younger guy probably breaking into his thirties. He was narrow and looked like he might have a Thing for older guys.
“Looks like he’s doing okay,” she said.
“Yeah! I’m glad; he’s been in a rough spot.”
There was something in his expression then. Something that cued Chelsea in to thinking he had a lot of consideration around the situation. There was a kindness there.
“How about another shot?” she asked. “This one’s on me.” That way she could make sure it was vodka.
“Another shot, sure, but on you, no.”
She started to argue, but her voice was lost in the noise. She pulled on the back of his shirt as he reached over the bar to order, but he ignored her. She laughed. The last shot was starting to go to her head in a blissful, freeing way.
Two shots were placed in front of them. This time they were pink and fruity-looking. She looked him right in the eyes and had a moment to appreciate the smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“To this not being whiskey,” she said, holding up her glass. “Let’s keep it that simple.”
He laughed; they clinked. Again they drank.
The night evaporated for a bit then. Chelsea lost track of Andrew. She lost track momentarily of her clutch. She couldn’t find Andrew. That asshole, he really left her?
Not worth being upset over, she decided. She could get home.
She emerged from the bathroom, thinking at first that the guy she had been talking to—Lee, right?—was also gone. But he wasn’t. He was standing against the pillar where she now remembered she had left him.
“You feeling okay?” he asked.
“Oh, no, I’m fine.” She heard her own tongue tangling now, and recalled the girl from the beginning of the night. The one she had felt smug and sober in front of, even though she liked her.
“Do you want to get some fresh air?”
She nodded yes, meaning it.
Once out onto the street, in real lighting, she could see that he was actually better-looking than he had seemed in the bar—almost never the case.
He had good bone structure and a broken-in face that told you exactly what he’d look like for the rest of his life, but also told you what he’d looked like before age began to take hold. She pegged him for late thirties.
They got food from a taco truck, which surprised her. He rolled up his sleeves and enjoyed every bite of the dollar-fifty taco that his suit would suggest he might not. He sat with one leg slung over each side of the picnic table bench, with a healthy distance between them.
After that he offered to walk her back to her apartment.
“I’m at least four Metro stops up. Really, I’ll be okay. I’ll probably just Uber—dammit.”
“What’s wrong?”
She slapped a hand to her forehead. “I left my phone in my friend’s car.” What a stupid gesture that had been.
“I would be happy to call you an Uber if you want. Otherwise, I’m staying in a hotel right around the corner.”
She gave him a look.
He held up his hands. “No strings attached. I’m probably getting a pay-per-view movie and having hangover breakfast in my room tomorrow morning. If you want to come, there’s no expectation. But you’re a good girl, I wouldn’t mind spending more time with you. Tonight or some other time. Whatever you want.”
He was hot, she decided then. A crooked smile, honest eyes … she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. And he was nice. There was something about the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, that made her believe him.
“No funny business,” she said after considering, with a pointed finger and a set of narrowed eyes.
“No.” He laughed, and she felt comfortable. He seemed more in control than she felt. Honestly, the risk of her trying to get home on her own in this state was probably worse.
The fact that she was so completely hammered was a whole other issue, of course. But it had been awhile, she hadn’t eaten much, and she’d had drinks all over the spectrum. That was a conversation she’d have with herself in the morning. She downed the Mexican Coke she’d gotten from the food truck while he got her a water, too.
Their walk in the slightly chilly fresh air, mixed with the caffeine, food, and hydration, made her feel infinitely better. Not stumbling. Not sleepy. Drunk and silly, yes. But she also didn’t feel like going home with him was all that big a deal. She was glad sobering up hadn’t made her aware that she was making a huge mistake.
It turned out that he was staying at the Paramount. The big, grand hotel right downtown that she’d always walked past and wondered about. Ornately carved pillars, golden light pouring out of the lobby, expensive cars in the roundabout, and doormen who looked straight out of an old movie. She was suddenly thrilled at her choice to stay with him. She was probably going to hook up with him (could you say “hook up” when he was that much older?), but that was fine. She hadn’t done something this foolish in awhile. Why not live a little?
And at the Paramount, of all places?
They went in, passing the check-in desk, and went to the elevators. She got a little flicker of pleasure when she saw their reflection together in the mirror. He looked like a real man, and he made her look slender, pretty, youthful. She hadn’t felt that way for some time. Something she knew was stupid.
He asked her if she’d drink a glass of champagne if he ordered one, she said yes (she knew she probably shouldn’t, but a few sips couldn’t hurt), and he called room service and asked for a bottle of Moët & Chandon.
He was practically Cary Grant, she thought, as she reclined on the luxurious king-sized bed.
Some silly part of her felt like she was just acting. Like they were in a scene, and he was her husband. They were just getting home from a night of entertaining. All he wanted was to unbutton his cufflinks, and all she wanted was to unsnap her garters … the dreamy sort of vision she secretly had of men and women together.
She smiled as she leaned back on the pillow, laughing at her imaginary scenario. Her ever-outlandish mind.
When suddenly imagination became reality. He was upon her, his weight depressing the mattress at her side, just a little. His lips kissing her shoulder, her neck, and her jaw.
She laughed again and let it relax her even further.
It felt like no time until the knock on the door came. Yes! The champagne!
When had she pulled down the straps of her dress? Had she not worn a bra tonight?
She rolled over so the room service guy didn’t see her. Something Lee didn’t seem to be worried about.
“Champagne?” he asked, bringing over two glasses.
She had never had Moët. She’d always wanted to. How could she say no?
“So good,” she said, but all she noticed was that it quenched the thirst of her dry mouth.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Some gap in moments passed, and then he was asking if she wanted him to help her. She became aware that she was trying to pull the zipper down on the back of her dress. She nodded.
It was off.
Then she was on her back. He kissed her. It was amazing. The kiss was incredible. Practically morphine. She could have done it all night. But that didn’t seem to be up to her … Was she being driven by him or by her desperate desire?
It was like being a teenager again. Racing hormones. The tearing at each other’s bodies. She wanted to kiss him, kiss him hard, pull at his shoulders, but then, no—
No …
She had pushed back on him, to flirt a little more. She didn’t want to go tearing into this part of the evening already, even if she did end up doing it. Right now, she didn’t want to go that far, maybe not at all. She pushed back on his chest with her palms, and he held her down with his forearm, right across her breasts.
Whoa.
Chelsea struggled to remember his name. “Wait, no, please, I don’t want—”
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, because that part was okay. That part was fine, it wasn’t that part …
She pushed back on his lower abdomen—bare, she noticed now with a gasp—his muscles were strong, and she still tried to rationalize, noting that his body was better than she’d expected.
She tried to get into it, but she couldn’t. This wasn’t desperate passion. This was force. But he couldn’t know that, surely. He must think they were both feeling this into it.
And yet when she pushed back or tried to speak, he pushed her back and covered her mouth.
The words to express what she needed to would not come. The bubbles from the champagne filled her head, and the pain between her thighs became something she couldn’t bear, as she slipped off into unconsciousness.