Two
“I like to go dancing, have a few beers. I like being alone, too. I have days where it's ‘God, get me a shot of tequila.’”
~Justine Bateman
Nadia studied Elliot, finding his peculiar mannerisms refreshing and honest. Her anger toward Ian quelled as the alcohol slowly relaxed her temper.
Right now she didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to escape her problems—how nice that Elliot had offered to help her.
“You work with Asher, right?” she asked, hoping to keep him invested in their conversation, as she didn’t plan to leave until the tequila soaked up the last of her troubles. Not to mention she had absolutely no idea where she would go.
He nodded, his neatly parted brown hair catching the light. Every strand was combed into submission and her fingers itched to rumple such calculated perfection.
“Our company turned thirteen years old this June, but I’ve known Asher since kindergarten.”
Asher’s success loaned itself to Elliot, making him a safe distraction but far out of her league. Perhaps that’s what put her so at ease. Men like Elliot Garnet didn’t date women like her, so there was no threat she might ruin the last salvageable shred of her self-esteem.
“And you do computer stuff?”
He smiled, but the motion seemed tense. “I design monolithic applications based on binary coding that operates via BitTorrents and HBase data storage. I also do some of the in-house accounting.”
Her eyes widened. “That sounds very intellectual.”
“It’s rather simple. Data’s read from log files, separated and clustered every one-point-three seconds. The more popular a piece of data becomes the less real time it is. If a bit becomes raw it’s removed.”
She sipped her drink, not sure what he was saying and certain if she made any comment she’d sound foolish. Maybe she should change the subject. “What do you like to do when you’re not working? I assume you don’t like to dance since you never returned to my class.”
A tinge of color darted over his cheeks as his gaze dropped to the table. “I’m always working.”
“You must have a hobby.”
Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he mumbled, “A few, but they’re not worth mentioning.”
“But I want to know.”
Dropping his hands into his lap, he glanced away and hesitated. “Okay.” He looked around and stood. Moving to the bar he grabbed something and returned to his seat. He held out a fogpiszkáló.
“Your hobby is toothpicks?”
“No,” he said, snapping off the sharp ends and breaking the wood in half so he had two small sticks. “You take this one.”
She cupped the small shard of wood as he pinched the other half between his index finger and thumb. “Hold it like this, tight so it doesn’t slip.”
She pinched her half just as he held his, the wood tips forming divots in the pads of her fingers. “Why am I doing this?”
“Do you have it tight?”
“I think so.”
He took her hand holding the half toothpick and pulled it close to him. “See how there is no way for anything to get past your grip?”
“I could let go.”
“Don’t let go.” He held up his fingers pinching the other half.
“Watch.” Turning his fingers so the two sticks crossed like a T, he tapped his piece against hers.
“One,” he whispered, liquor scented breath teasing her cheek.
He tapped again, slowly. “Two.” Her eyes strained, anticipating something great to come. “Three.” Another tap.
She gasped, as his fingers, still pinching the wood, were now linked with hers on the other side of her toothpick.
“How did you do that?” She pulled and the pieces wouldn’t give, their fingers latched together as the wood held.
“Magic.”
Her lips parted, as she laughed a bit breathless. “Amazing!”
“Now, you count.”
As he tapped her piece from the inside of her fingers she said, “One. Two. Three.” She gasped again, as their fingers were unlocked, his toothpick back on the outer side. Impossible.
He smiled and flushed, tossing the wooden piece onto his cocktail napkin. “It’s just a parlor trick.”
She picked up his half of the toothpick and compared it with hers. There were no splits, no soft spots, yet he somehow made it slide through hers. She pinched them in both her hands and tried to repeat the trick, but couldn’t figure out how he did it.
Frustrated, she tossed the pieces on the table and smiled at him. “Can you do more?”
“Sure.” He glanced at the bar. “Hold on.”
She waited as he left the table to speak to the bartender. He returned a moment later with an unopened beer bottle and a straw. He ripped the top of the wrapper off the straw. “Do you like magic?”
“Yes.” Not that she’d ever met a real magician until now, or given such talents much thought, but she couldn’t stop smiling, both anxious and enthralled to see what trick he would do next.
“Are you familiar with Star Wars?”
She cupped her hands over her ears, mimicking the shape of side buns. “Princess Leia? The girl with the buns?”
“Yes, well, she’s one character. The Jedis—the good guys—believe in a power called The Force. It’s a sort of telekinesis.”
“What is telekinesis?”
“The power to move objects with your mind.” He withdrew the straw from the wrapper and centered it on the cap of the unopened beer. “Watch carefully.”
Holding his palm out, he slowly moved his hand toward the straw but didn’t touch it or the bottle. She sucked in a breath as the straw suddenly pivoted and rotated in a clockwise motion without falling.
“Te egy varázsló!”
He stilled his hands and the straw stopped moving. “What?”
“Varázsló…” she repeated, then translated, “You’re a wizard!”
He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes as he winked. “Jedi.”
That subtle wink accompanied by the dimple in his shadowed jaw unraveled something inside of her. It was so genuine, so sincere. The usual tension she felt around men wasn’t there. This was something new and different. Perhaps a platonic association she didn’t usually experience.
“Do you want to try?”
She drew back, as she’d been hovering over the edge of the table in awe. “I can’t do magic.”
“Sure, you can.” He slid off his stool and rounded the table. “Stand up.”
She stood and he stepped behind, taking her hand in his.
“You have to concentrate.” His voice was low, his breath lifting the stray hairs that escaped from her bun. “Focus on the straw and send all your concentration to the tips of your fingers. Ready?”
Swallowing, she nodded, very aware of her fingers as he lightly angled her palms. Her gaze was fully committed to the straw still balanced on the beer cap. He slowly moved her hands forward.
“Keep your palm open.” His breath teased another strand of fallen hair and she shivered.
She gasped, as the straw shifted, her hand no less than four inches away from it.
“Steady,” he whispered, guiding her palm in a slow circle over the bottle. “Don’t break your concentration. Picture it moving and your mind will move it.”
All of her focus concentrated on the teetering straw. She giggled, in awe. As he directed her hand the straw rotated, picking up speed and twirling like a propeller. It didn’t make sense.
“How am I doing this?”
He chuckled, releasing her hands. The straw teetered and rolled to the table.
She turned and faced him, eyes wide with shock. There had to be some explanation. Her mind wasn’t magic.
“Tell me how it works.”
Gray eyes squinted behind the lenses of his glasses. A tight smirk twisted his lips. “A magician doesn’t divulge his secrets.”
Disappointed, she pouted. “Oh.”
He slid into his chair and she did the same. He continued to watch her. “I’ll tell you.”
Surprised and enchanted, her smile returned.
“It’s an imbalance of electric charges. The straw’s made up of atoms that are equally positive and negative. Before I placed it on the bottle, I used the wrapper to separate the protons and neutrons, causing an imbalance. The neutral charge of my hand repels and attracts the opposite polarity.”
She snorted. “Now, I’m more confused than before.”
“It’s science. Do you ever hold a balloon and your hair stands up?”
“Yes, it tingles and floats.”
“That’s all it is. Static electricity.”
She frowned, still not understanding the method, and teased, “So you’re not a Jedi after all.”
He smirked. “Just a boring scientist.”
She tsked, disliking that he’d think himself boring. She was thoroughly entertained. “You are not boring, Elliot. I think you’re fascinating.”
His grin trembled and he looked away. Unsure why her words would upset him, her own smile faded.
Perhaps he was anxious to leave. Now that she thought about it, he probably had somewhere he needed to be. Maybe someone was waiting for him at home. Reaching for her second drink, she finished it so he wouldn’t feel obligated to stay.
“Thank you for telling me your secret.” She nudged her glass, showing him it was empty.
His attention returned to her, uncertainty playing in his eyes. “Will you go to his place?”
She grimaced. No amount of tequila would change her reality. It was all waiting on the other side of the pub walls, unchanged and unflattering as usual.
“Until I find a better option.” She thought of all the complications she now needed to address. “Lord knows where I’ll be in two days.”
“I’m sorry he did that to you.”
Her smile was sad. “Me too. But I did it to myself. You’re very nice to blame him, though.” Her situation wouldn’t be so hard to swallow if Ian were truly to blame, but, like always, the cause of her problems could be traced back to her.
She could almost pinpoint the exact week their sex life shifted from pleasure to obligation. There was a specific moment in time when her attraction became less about Ian and more about the security he offered, which proved to be no security at all.
From then onward, her sexual appeal seemed a tarnished coin and each time she put it to use her dignity paid the price.
But her looks had always been her most valuable asset—her only asset when it came to persuading others.
It wasn’t the first time she needed to lean on her appearance and it likely wouldn’t be the last if she didn’t start making more money at the studio.