5. Klein
“Get home safe.”I tap the hood of the white Honda Civic.
The driver, Saul, gives me a two-fingered salute and pulls away from the curb. The woman, safely tucked inside, waves from the back seat.
I’d like to order a desert beetle is code for I’m on a date and I don’t feel safe, please escort me out.
It’s posted on the inside of every stall door in the ladies’ restroom. We are under strict instruction from management to drop everything we’re doing, no matter what it is or how busy we are, and help the person out to their car.
Tonight was the third time this has happened to me. The woman, Annie, didn’t have a vehicle to drive home, so I waited with her until the Uber came. Luckily there was one nearby, and the wait was only seven minutes.
I’m stepping back into the restaurant, preparing myself to address Paisley’s sucking face comment, just in time to catch Paisley’s beautiful face with her eyebrows drawn, stiff pointer finger extended, say to a group of young guys, “Nice matching hairstyles. You know who else gets perms? Your great-grandmas.”
I pause long enough to rake a hand down my face and push away the reluctant smile tugging at my lips. She’s not wrong. All five guys probably turned twenty-one in the last year, and all five sport matching unnaturally curly hair.
Hustling to the bar, I place myself between Paisley’s indignant eyebrows and the death stare she’s sending their way.
“Pais,” I start but she transfers her ire to me.
“Do not call me that,” she thunders, a storm brewing in her blue-green eyes. There’s a softness there too, a fragility that tugs at my chest, stirring me.
I hold up my hands. I’m not interested in pissing her off. Not any more than I do simply by existing. “No problem.”
I hurry around the bar and return to where I’d been standing before the blonde showed up. Peeking at the tab in front of Paisley, I see Halston has added a third glass of wine.
Wow. Ok. Paisley is probably pretty drunk, and I know she had at least one lychee martini with dinner.
Her arms cross, her eyebrows tugging together. “Those guys?—”
I wave off her explanation. “They’ve been mouthy since they arrived. I’m sure they deserved it.”
Leaning her elbows on the bar, she rubs at her eyes and admits, “I’m drunk.”
Pushing down my laugh, I say, “I know.” To busy myself, I grab a towel and wipe down the bar beside her.
A loud breath vibrates her lips, and she says, “My sister is marrying my ex-boyfriend and I’m her maid of honor.”
My cleaning halts. “Why did you agree to such a thing?” Why would someone put themself through that? Doesn’t Paisley have the word ‘no’ in her vocabulary?
“Because I’m the floor,” she wails, dramatically tossing a hand in the air.
Wow. She’s really drunk.
Paisley’s elbow connects with the bar top once again and she catches her forehead in her hand. I use the opportunity to snatch her wineglass and pour a majority of what’s left in it down the sink.
“Can I get you a ride home?” I ask.
She straightens up, squinting at me suspiciously. “Where did you go with that woman?”
I pull a face. “What woman?”
“Busty McBusterton.”
Alright. Something besides wine and lychee martinis is in this woman. She’s hallucinating.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She sends me an exasperated look. “The woman who ordered a bug.”
Ohhhh. Paisley’s lower lip puffs out the tiniest bit. Is she jealous?
Busty McBusterton. I smash my lips together to keep from laughing in Paisley’s face. Ok, yes, the woman had what my mother would call an ‘ample bosom’, and anybody with two working eyes would see it because there wasn’t a lot to that dress.
“I was helping her get a ride home.”
“Sure.” Paisley crosses her arms, making a face that demonstrates how little she believes me. “You probably took her out to your car for...for...lascivious acts.” Her nose scrunches on the word ‘lascivious.’
I scoff, only to cover up my intense desire to roll on the ground and laugh until my sides ache. “Are you a fiction writer? Because you should be. That’s a great story you just dreamed up.”
Paisley looks like she wants to come over the bar and knee me in the balls. “I quit my writing career before it ever started because someone took a torch to my very first story.” She sniffs. “You ruined my career.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. I did not ruin your career. You ruined your career when you let one person hurt your precious feelings. If anything, I did you a favor. If a critique of your first story hurt your feelings this badly, you’d never hack it in the writing industry. You don’t only need thick skin, Paisley, you need calluses. So”—I step back and bend at the waist, sweeping one arm sideways and bowing—“You’re welcome.”
When I straighten, Paisley is dragging her purse off the bar and sliding from her stool. She steps away and wobbles.
Shit. Shit shit shit. That was too harsh. My bad news from Dom has me acting out.
I whip around, keying my employee number into the computer. When I’m finished clocking out, I yell to Halston on the other side of the bar. “I need to walk someone—” Does Paisley have a car here? If so, she can’t drive. “—somewhere,” I finish.
Halston rounds the curved part of the bar, eyebrows tightly drawn, hands glued to her hips. “I hate closing alone. You owe me.” Funny, it’s the second time tonight a woman has said that to me.
“Eternally,” I confirm, already chasing down Paisley.
She’s striding through the front door of the restaurant by the time I catch up to her. From behind, she looks like my type. Long blonde hair, athletic legs, and an ass that makes me want to bite my fist. Paisley sounded envious of that other woman’s chest size, but I’d take Paisley’s backside over?—
Nope. Not even going there. Those thoughts have bad idea written all over them.
She doesn’t know I’m behind her, and that makes me feel like a creep until she stumbles walking down the three concrete steps leading to the sidewalk on the main road.
One quick jump to the pavement and I’m there, catching her before she can fall. Paisley doesn’t know it’s me, so she screeches, a banshee in close proximity to my face, and attempts to hit me with her tiny excuse for a purse.
I bat away the less-than-accurate attack. “Calm it down, She-Rambo. Your face almost kissed the pavement.” I step back, but keep a grip on her upper arms. “Where are you headed?”
“Agave.” She squints one eye and points in the wrong direction. “It’s that way.”
Of course she’s staying at Agave. It’s the newest, swankiest luxury resort in downtown Scottsdale. Phoenix hosted the Super Bowl last year and guess where one of the teams stayed? Agave.
I rotate her shoulders the right direction and release her. “Lead the way.”
She makes a face. “Why the hell are you following me there?”
“Accompanying,” I correct.
One hand on her popped hip, head swaying as if on a pendulum, she sasses, “Again I ask, why the hell are you following me there?”
So damn stubborn, this woman.
“You’re drunk, and I don’t want you walking alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m going to find my sister.” She takes her phone from her purse and brings the screen too close to her face. After reading something, she frowns and puts the phone in her bag. “They’re back at the hotel.”
How nice of them to leave you behind.
I gesture out with an open palm. “Start walking.”
Paisley says something I can’t hear, stares at me for three full seconds, and then, at long last, marches away.
Agave is close by, and it takes all of three minutes to reach it. Paisley’s navigation of the sidewalk is impressive, considering she is both drunk and wearing at least three inch heels. Maybe four. Who the hell knows.
She reaches the sliding glass door entrance, flanked by potted desert flora, and whips around to face me. “You owe me a flashing penis ring.”
My gaze goes to the teenage valet to see if he’s overheard. He’s looking away pointedly, so I’m going to assume he did. I blow out a gusty sigh and answer. “Never going to happen.”
“You”—Paisley steps closer and pokes my chest—“are just jealous because yours doesn’t light up.”
With one eyebrow cocked, I look down at her. “How do you know it doesn’t?”
She gasps and takes a step back, her palm pressed dramatically to her chest. “Was that a joke, Mr. Serious?”
“I would never joke about phallic light shows.”
She releases an annoyed breath. “Literally cannot tell if you’re joking, because your face looks ten kinds of stern.”
“Paisley, there is only one kind of stern. Stern. That’s it.” I hold up a finger. “Just the one.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re as repugnant as you were back then.”
That actually hurts, but I’ll be damned if I show it. Mental note: use the word repugnant in my next novel.
Her chin juts out, head sideways. “I made it in one piece, so yay. Bye.”
Her dismissal sits between us. She doesn’t move, other than to cross her arms in front of herself.
There’s no reason to prolong this, to offer a perfunctory but well-meaning call me sometime. She knows where I work. If she wants me, she can find me. Not that she’s going to want me at all, for any reason, ever. She is under the impression I ruined her future, and why work to disabuse her of the belief? I probably won’t see her again after tonight.
With my hands crammed into my jeans pockets, my shoulders reach for my earlobes in a silent There’s nothing left to do here but go motion.
Paisley says not a word as I turn to leave. I’ve taken two more steps away when there’s a commotion at the hotel entrance.
A group of women pour out the sliding glass doors. They’re dressed in expensive clothing, talking over one another. One holds her phone in the air and makes face after face as she snaps selfies. Another woman catches sight of Paisley and halts, obviously relieved. “Where have you been?”
Paisley’s gaze falls on me, as do five other pairs of eyes. Everyone looks curious except for the woman wearing the ‘Bride’ hat. She looks delighted.
She approaches, peering at me and clapping her hands twice. “Pais, you didn’t have to get me a stripper.” The fact that she belts out the word ‘stripper’ as if she’s in a Broadway musical takes the horror of this moment and makes me want to find a hole to crawl into.
I wait for Paisley to correct this woman I’m assuming is her sister, but the correction must be stuck inside her throat, because she isn’t saying a word. Paisley’s sister circles me, a lioness preparing to leap at a gazelle’s jugular.
“Paisley, do you think I could hang from his arm if he flexed? This guy is jacked.” She paws at my arm, peering at her sister. “Good choice.”
“Hello?” I urge Paisley. I could make the correction myself, but I don’t want to embarrass her sister. Did she just squeeze my bicep?
Paisley grins, enjoying this show far more than she should. “Hi.”
I release a hard breath of annoyance and shake my head. If Paisley’s not going to make the correction, I will. Holding up my hands, I step away from Paisley’s prowling cat of a sister. “I’m not a stripper, I’m?—”
“He’s a police officer,” one of the girls in the group yells, jumping up and down and pointing at me. “He’s here to arrest you, Sienna, because you’ve been bad.”
Someone else hollers, “Watch out for the long arm of the law.”
The group of women cackle. I snap my head at Paisley. Her hand presses against her mouth, eyes sparkling like this is a comedy skit.
Fine. She wants to leave me out here to fend for myself? No problem. Two can play this game.
Gently, I remove Paisley’s sister’s hands from my forearm. “Actually,” I say, my voice raised enough that it gets their attention. Closing the space between me and Paisley, I place my hands on her hips and roughly haul her into me. Her hands land on my chest, and before she can protest, I say loudly and with confidence, “I’m Paisley’s boyfriend, and my strip shows are meant for an audience of one.” Then, to really add to the moment, I boop the end of Paisley’s nose.
Murder flares in her eyes, and that should be a warning sign, but I’m distracted by the ocean color of her irises. They are probably even prettier when they’re not shooting death rays my direction.
“Paisley?” An older woman steps around the shocked group.
I release Paisley, but only enough so that she can turn and address the person I’m assuming is her mother.
“Yes, Mom?”
The woman’s gaze darts from Paisley to me and back again. “Is this true?”
Any moment now Paisley is going to spin this into a joke, so I’ll just wait.
Paisley’s gaze lingers on my face, and I can tell somewhere in those eyes she’s making a decision. She looks back at her mother. “It’s true.”
What? Panic shoots through me. Now what do I do?
I’m still looking down at the top of Paisley’s head, but I feel her mother’s eyes burning holes into my temple. An automatic smile appears on my face, but it is tight-lipped and tense.
Why is Paisley lying? I honestly didn’t know what I was thinking when I decided to slot myself into the boyfriend role, but I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I’d assumed there was no way Paisley would go along with it. It’s not like I gave it that much thought or consideration before I opened my big mouth, but the real question is why Paisley is letting the lie exist?
I could be a real dick and announce the lie myself, but contrary to popular belief, I’m not an asshole.
So, I smile at Paisley’s mother and offer my hand. “I’m Klein. It’s nice to meet you.”
Her mother eyes me suspiciously as she takes my offered hand. “Robyn. Why am I just now hearing about you?”
“It’s new, Mom,” Paisley answers from beside me.
Paisley’s sister pushes in. “I’m Sienna. Sorry about the bicep fondling.” She looks different from Paisley, despite sharing a vague similarity. It’s the eyes, I think, and not only that they’re different colors. In Paisley’s eyes is a depth that does not exist in Sienna’s.
I’d like to ask her how she justifies marrying her older sister’s ex-boyfriend, but it’s not appropriate. I won’t lie though, I’d like to know. My sister has thoroughly educated me on girl code, and I’m positive this goes against it.
“No worries,” I answer. “Just to be certain, are you expecting a stripper?” If so, I’d really like to be absent for the entertainment portion of the evening.
Paisley shakes her head. Sienna looks relieved. “Phew. I told Shane there wouldn’t be any of that happening this weekend. He’s so possessive.” She grins slyly, telling everybody she likes this facet of his personality.
Lexi’s complaint from earlier comes back to me. She’d said the bride wouldn’t stop gushing about the groom. But now I know the groom is Paisley’s ex, which probably makes comments like the one Sienna just spoke pretty hard on Paisley.
Without giving it too much thought and talking myself out of it, I thread my fingers through hers, squeezing her hand lightly. She flinches like I’ve caught her off guard, then relaxes and I feel the tiniest amount of pressure against my hand.
It’s...nice.
So is that scent of hers, the orange peel and vanilla that makes Paisley smell too damn good.
“We’re headed to a diner a couple blocks over,” Robyn says to me. “If you’d like to join us?”
“He can’t,” Paisley rushes to say. “He needs to get back to work.”
I don’t tell her I clocked out. What’s the point?
“Oh?” Robyn raises her eyebrows as much as she can. Her forehead is stiff. “What do you do for work?”
It’s clearly a test to see if I’m good enough to be dating her daughter. That’s laughable, considering the last ten minutes have been nothing but lies. Briefly, I consider telling her I am a circus clown, but decide not to, because that would probably only serve to embarrass Paisley. And even though I started all this with the goal of embarrassing Paisley, at this point, I’m beginning to feel sorry for her.
“I’m a bartender.”
Robyn nods curtly.
If I were actually dating her daughter, and cared what she thought, that would sting.
It’s annoying, though, so I add, “I’m doing that while I wait for my agent to sell the publishing rights to my novel.”
Paisley’s gaze bores into the side of my head. Considering she believes I am at fault for ruining her illustrious future writing career, she’s probably not super happy to hear I’ve written a novel.
Robyn does not appear to be impressed. “Hmm. A starving artist. How... artsy.”
What the hell? I’m not over here painting a rock the color red and then calling it a masterpiece. I poured over that manuscript for years. I skipped social engagements, typed bleary-eyed scenes at two a.m. only to delete them eight hours later when I woke up.
The group is silent, and it seems to clue Robyn in to the fact that she has been rude. She scrambles, saying, “Are you working with Paisley’s marketing firm?”
Marketing firm? Now that’s interesting. Marketing happens to be the thing I’m worst at. It pains me that I can write all those words, but I don’t know how to talk about them.
“We’re working out the details,” Paisley answers, sounding like she can’t wait for the end of this conversation. “Anyway, Klein needs to go back to work. And there’s a plate of onion rings with your names on it.”
The group waves goodbye, but Sienna turns back, forming a megaphone around her mouth and yelling, “I’ll see you on Bald Head Island, Klein.”
I scratch the back of my head with two fingers and try to figure out what Sienna is talking about. I come up empty. Paisley’s eyes are wide, saucers, telling me she’s horrified by what her sister said.
Paisley watches the group disappear down the street. “Obviously she’s not going to see you on Bald Head Island.”
I shrug. “I don’t even know what a Bald Head Island is.”
Paisley shoots me a withering look. “It’s a place.”
“A noun, in either case.”
The corner of her mouth quirks, but she bats away the tiny semblance of a grin. “I’m dead on my feet. I need to rip off these high heels immediately and fall into bed.” She points down to her feet. “Unless you want to come upstairs and keep playing the role of boyfriend and rub my feet.”
Does that sound appealing to me? Yes it does.
I’m not a foot guy, but I’m also not not a foot guy. I admit, the idea of caring for Paisley intrigues me. She was joking though. Of course she was.
Taking the hint, I say, “See you around, Paisley.”
She steps away, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “See you around, Klein the stripper.”
Laughter steals up my throat. I like her dry, teasing sense of humor.
She disappears into the fancy hotel, and I’m left out here on the sidewalk shaking my head.
Tonight has to be the most confusing night I’ve had in a very long time. Possibly ever.
Even more confusing is the overwhelm in my chest, the odd feeling of loss.
Paisley has never been mine.
There was nothing to lose.