6. Into You, Ariana Grande
"Into You," Ariana Grande
Cruz
Yet another going away party. My sixth in three months.
It felt like every week, somebody left for their next deployment or moved on to the next phase of their life:‘real’ jobs, marriage, kids. Meanwhile, I was treading water, trying to figure out what my “next phase” was.
At least Pike had chosen Donnelly's, my favorite bar. I'd been here last night, sitting in behind the drum kit for a chill acoustic set. Singles mingled at the mahogany bar for Happy Hour while couples chatted with heads close together at candlelit tables. We barely made it off stage before the bartender shoved fresh beers into our hands. By the time the DJ came on, I’d already packed up the drum kit, watching from the bar as the energy shifted—the bass kicked in, the lights dimmed, and the dance floor filled with people ready to lose themselves.
By the time I arrived tonight the place was already buzzing, music loud enough to feel the rhythm in my ribcage. I took the stairs to the mezzanine, expecting to find Pike and Rodriguez in the lounge, where there's more comfortable seating and stronger cocktails, but they were nowhere to be found. I recognized a cute blonde who'd taken me home sometime last year, so I winked. Her cheeks flushed and lips twitched as she fought a smile.
Gripping the iron railing to scan the lower level, I caught Pike's awkward head bob going strong. He and Rodriguez lingered near the dance floor, a cold bucket of long necks on their high-top. I wove through the crowd, tapping my thigh to the rhythm of the EDM remix of Robyn's 'Dancing with Myself.’ Last night, I lost myself in the creation of music, that glorious harmony of musicians locking into a groove to create something stronger than any of us could individually.Tonight, instead of creating the experience, I was consuming the heat and motion, bodies moving together in a space that felt charged with potential, like anything could happen.
Pike pulled me into a firm bro-hug, then handed over a cold beer, and said in a bittersweet tone, “Glad you made it, man.”
"Wouldn't miss it," I replied, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “To Pike, who is voluntarily returning to 18-hour days of no sunlight or pussy.”
Pike added, “To a consistent paycheck and a final night out.”
Rodriguez laughed as he clinked in agreement to both our toasts. He’d been our nuclear reactor instructor years ago when Pike and I had been students, then decided to stay in Saratoga after his final shore duty. He’d bought a condo in The Gramercy and sent me the job posting when he heard I was separating from the Navy … and then when his band’s drummer broke his arm a few months ago, he asked me to fill in.
Before I could even sip my beer, Joanna appeared at our table, her low-cut scarlet dress hugging her curves, and pressed her ample chest against me.
"Are you playing again tonight?" she moaned, aiming for sultry but coming off winded. I shook my head, gently steadying her as she wobbled on her precarious heels, then took a subtle step back. She closed the gap I'd created, leaning close enough to smell the appletini on her breath. "Let’s dance, then maybe we can have a repeat performance after all."
"No thanks," I nodded toward Pike. "I'm here for a going away party."
Rodriguez, the opportunist, stepped forward with a grin. "You saw the show last night? I'm the bassist.”
"You're in Your Local Phantom?" she asked with renewed interest.
"A full-fledged member," Rodriguez confirmed, puffing out his chest. "Cruz was just filling in."
Joanna glanced at me for confirmation. I nodded, adding, "The afterparty at The Gramercy? That’s his place."
"Yeah?" she said, her gaze shifting back to Rodriguez, a sly smile curling her lips. "You want to dance?"
As they moved toward the dance floor, Pike muttered. "So much for the bro code. And further proof that women prefer guitarists to drummers."
"Bullshit, bassists barely count as guitarists," I retorted, and he clinked his beer bottle against mine in agreement. "Plus, you're clearly trolling for action if you're down on the dance floor. Why aren't we up in the lounge?"
Pike's eyes flicked toward the dance floor. "Because she's here.”
Following his gaze, I recognized the group instantly: Kate’s wild dark waves flew as she pressed her ass into her best friend Mallory, wearing a form-fitting cotton candy pink dress. On her other side was Grace, Mallory’s shy shadow, her slim frame in a conservative dress in front of the big guy with his hands on her hips: Alex Clarke.
And man, was he a shitty dancer. It wasn’t just the white guy overbite or the off-beat head bob. It was like Elaine from Seinfeld, all elbows and thumbs.
I’d previewed his awful moves two months ago, when Grace brought him to my self-defense class. The Foo Fighters had been blasting as students paired off to practice arm blocks … until the music cut off abruptly.
The same elegant redhead I’d seen on the porch with Mallory stood beside the speakers, power cord dangling from her fingertips, a bored expression on her gorgeous face. When she said, “I’m here for Alexander Clarke,” that prick followed her with his tail between his legs.
I’d wanted to follow her too. The effortlessly dominant tilt of her chin haunted my fantasies, imagining that when she’d stormed into my class, she demanded me instead of him.
Now in the club, Alex pulled Grace to his chest just as Mallory tugged Kate’s hand. The space between them parted.
There stood the redhead, looking as gloriously pissed off as my dreams.
“Who is she?” I murmured.
“You’re kidding, right? You know Mallory Clarke is my dream girl,” Pike nudged me, eyes pleading. “I overheard her say she’s out for girls’ night. I leave tomorrow, this is my last chance. Please, Cruz, you’ve gotta help me.”
Ugh, Pike reeked of desperation. When Kate’s face lit up in recognition and she waved me over, I clapped him on the shoulder to follow me.
“You know Bobby Pike, right?” I hollered to Kate. She locked eyes with Pike, who flushed at her attention. “He leaves tomorrow for three months without sunshine or women. All he wants is a chance with Mallory. Think she’s up for her patriotic duty?”
Kate laughed. “Normally I’d say yes, but Mal’s committed to a fun welcome party and our guest of honor’s still hung up on her ex.”
From a few feet away, we watched Mallory grab the redhead’s hand, coaxing her to loosen up. Red pulled away and crossed her arms, gaze lingering on Alex.
“If you can melt the ice queen, I’ll play wingman for Pike,” Kate offered with a troublemaking smirk. “But she’s so far out of your league, I’m not sure you’re playing the same sport. You’re bush league, and she’s—Jesus, Cruz, she’s first ballot hall of fame.”
“Keith Hernandez?” I asked, a comparison to legendary Mets’ first baseman.
“Derek Fucking Jeter, if he wore Chanel Number Five.”
“Really? She doesn’t look evil.” My dramatic grimace made Kate laugh.
“Looks can be deceiving,” she said, clapping a hand on my shoulder for a pep talk: “Batter up, Cruz. Swing for the fences.”
“You gotta give him a reason to notice,” I said to Red, just loud enough to be heard over the music. Mallory met my eyes with a competitive dare as Kate tugged her away.
“What?” Her tone was as posh and polished as I remembered.
“You want him, right?” I nodded at Alex, and her chin dipped. “So who’s that with him?”
“His mid-life crisis.” Red turned to glare, nostrils flared like she was ready to strike … then when her attention landed on my face, she reached up to smooth back her perfect bun.
I held out my palm in invitation. “Let’s make him jealous.”
The corner of her lip lifted. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she led the way to the dance floor. She brought her hand to my shoulders like she was ready to foxtrot. “What’s in this for you?”
I rested a hand on her hip and pivoted so she could look over my shoulder. “Dark hair, red dress, two o’clock.” I’d all but forgotten about Joanna, but she was a good excuse. “I’m not interested, but she couldn’t take a hint if I handed it to her in a takeout bag.”
The lights flashed across her face as I read her lips to make sense of her yelling over the music. “Your solution is fundamentally flawed. You’re assuming the same input will yield opposite results.”
This was the most logical conversation I’d ever had at a club. Usually, it's groping and grinding followed by ‘Your place or mine?’
The answer was always hers. It was easier to leave than to be left.
We navigated between sweaty bodies, the pulsing music almost drowning out her question. “Why would our dancing attract him but repel her?”
“You have history with your guy, but she just wants me for sex and knows about my policy.”
“What policy?”
“One night, no repeats.” I held up one finger, tracing down her arm. Goosebumps erupted on her bicep as her scowl deepened.
She leaned away, bumping me into a woman who shot a jealous look at Red.
“Is that a policy? Or is there not enough demand for a second night?”
Ooh, this kitty has claws.
I flexed my pecs under her palms, and her fingers twitched. I leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “Trust me, baby, I leave them satisfied.”
Most times that does it, we leave immediately. But her copper brows drew together. “Were your terms clearly articulated or implied? Did she engage in a handshake agreement—”
“Hands were involved …”
“—or was there a contract?”
I bit back a laugh. “You expect me to have a sex contract?”
“I expect you not to judge her behavior when the terms weren’t clear. Now instead of honesty, you’re dodging her. Very mature. Then again, you’re what, 19?” Her lips pursed and she looked away, gaze scanning over the crowded dance floor to the bar.
“I’m 26,” I said, curious how she’d misjudged it but knowing better than to ask a woman her age. “So you recommend I ask women to sign a pre-sex contract? Is that what you do?”
“No, I don’t engage in such short-term pursuits.”
I took in her pearls, her coiffed hair, her steely gaze. “Aaah, you’re a girl who needs to be wined and dined before you—”
“I’m a woman who doesn’t waste time,” she said, gaze traveling to Alex.
I held back my groan of frustration, that she was planning years into the future when I didn’t know what I wanted for breakfast. Meanwhile, Joanna watched over the rim of a fresh appletini, ready to swoop in if Red brushed me off.
“I get it. You’re not interested, but people are watching. Let’s get your man's attention, get my hookup to back off, then you can go your own way.”
Her eyes lingered on my mouth, reading my lips. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. I positioned her within his eyeline, then spoke into her ear, “He’s looking. Pretend to laugh.”
“That’s unrealistic.”
My lips quirked at her deadpan delivery. “What’s unrealistic?”
“You don’t strike me as funny.”
“You’re always this serious? Even when a man has his hand here?” My hand slid lower, gently squeezing her ass cheek. When I angled our bodies to shift my leg between her thighs, she let out a soft gasp. “You’re doing great, Cobrita . Is Joanna watching?”
Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, then she nodded.
“Do you trust me?” It’s a question I asked to put my training clients at ease.
For the first time, I felt the full weight of her intense gaze, her cool eyes acting as a mirror to dispassionately cast away the flickering club lights.
I wanted to lace up, grab her reluctant hand and glide onto her skating rink eyes. If I could melt the icy exterior, I’d toss her in fully clothed, jump in head first after her, and backstroke in her glacial stare.
I would risk frostbite for a night with her.
“No,” she took a sharp breath. “I don’t trust you.”
I touched her hand, still stiff on my shoulder, and slid her palm to my chest. “You don’t trust me? That’s ok, baby. Then you’re in control.”
She made a valiant effort to keep her expression reserved, but her pupils dilated, black overtaking silver. She liked being in control.
Good, because the idea of her bossing me around turned me on.
A cheer rose when the song changed. Over the pulse of a thumping beat, Ariana Grande sang about being so into her guy that she could barely breathe, and how the crowd was watching so he should stop talking and make a move.
“Touch me wherever and however you want,” I murmured, feeling her shiver when my mouth grazed her earlobe. My body was my business, so I kept it in prime physical shape, which often led to objectification—people assuming that since I was hoping to strengthen their bodies they had access to mine—so it wasn’t an invitation I gave lightly.
On the rare chance I made this offer, I expected hands to trail south from my chest to my abs, and in a perfect world, my dick. A preview of the invitation back to her place.
But she surprised me, her head tilting a fraction like a curious dog. Her fingertip ran past my collarbone and up my neck, lingering where a tattoo peeked out from my collar. With focused precision, her fingernail skimmed into my beard, like a forensics team collecting a trail of fingerprints.
As her palm lingered on my jaw, my attention channeled into my hands on her ass, shifting in perfect rhythm to the thumping beat. Her assessing ice-rink eyes dropped to my lips. I mouthed, “You should kiss me.”
She lifted on her toes and I lowered my mouth, my lips brushing hers. She let out a soft sigh, hands fisting my shirt collar to prevent my retreat. It was permission to savor, running my tongue along her full lip.
When her lips parted with a gasp, I slid in, where our tongue sparred. Her hands ran into my hair, messing up my bun, forcing me out of her mouth, her tongue delving into mine.
When I finally broke away, her eyes drifted open. Our gazes locked for two panting breaths, then three, intensity curling between us. I hadn’t had a first kiss that hot in … fuck, never.
Her gaze tracked over my shoulder. “Your girl looks pissed.”
Right. It wasn’t a real kiss, just a ruse to incite jealousy.
Behind her, Alex’s head snapped away. Kate made a bat-swinging gesture as her fiance Paul lifted her jacket to take her home. Pike’s hands rested on Mallory’s hips as she ground into him, eyes wide with disbelief. At least one of us was living his fantasy tonight.
“Mission accomplished,” I said, not ready to release her ass, which still pulsed to the bass. “Lead me out and catch a cab. I’ll walk home.”
A jolt of energy burst up my arm as she interlaced our fingers. She collected her coat then the little minx glanced over her shoulder with a coy smile. Her expression darkened before she led the way downstairs to the cab stand.
She shivered in the cool winter air, tugging the coat belt tight. When I stepped closer to block the wind, she shifted away and looked at the clouds. I guess assessing the risk of snow was more interesting than my company. Under the overcast sky and street lights, her eyes gleamed silver with hints of pale green.
Her gaze flickering above us reminded me of that Fleetwood Mac lyric about silver with blue-green colors flashing. Stevie Nicks’ voice is so sweet and pure in the first verse then devolves into a haunting threat, raw and emotional … sort of like the voice in the vents earlier this week.
The redhead’s attention dropped to my face. She’d seemed annoyed before, but with furrowed brows and a tight frown, she bordered on furious. “Is that Fleetwood fucking Mac?”
Oh, guess I’d been humming along with my thoughts. A song by a woman jilted by her long term lover might be tacky. Whoops.
Her ferocity surprised me. She’d worked to appear indifferent all night, yet humming set her off. “You don’t like Fleetwood Mac?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The cab pulled up. She scooted across the leather seat with legs crossed at her ankles. Back to being closed off, whatever emotion the humming triggered locked away. “Drive around the block, I’ll give you my address when he leaves.”
Even though this plan had been my idea, I tried not to take her secrecy personally. After I climbed out, cab turned north and I headed in the same direction, cutting through an alley into the building’s back entrance. In the lobby I glanced into the open elevator, where the redhead slumped, her forehead resting on the mirrored wall, ready to cry.