Tequila & Curtain Confessions
Chapter nine
Marlow
That one night in Las Vegas
This is stupid. Right? Of course it is.
No woman who graduated top of her class at North Kensington, spent a year backpacking Europe, and can recite every line of The West Wing in order would voluntarily enter something called a pod and expect to walk out with a soul mate.
An STD? Maybe.
A hangover? Most definitely.
But a soul mate?
“So… are you dating anyone?” the first guy asks.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
I look around at the setup—dim lighting, plush seating, and a weirdly cozy scent that smells like warm vanilla and that one night I spent in an Amsterdam hostel. Don’t tell my dad.
It’s meant to feel intimate, romantic even, but the pod gives more “emotional detention” than “love connection.” It reminds me of those sad, windowless metal trailers schools used when they ran out of space—smelled like anxiety and Lysol, lit with an artificial glow that made everyone look vaguely ill.
It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. The air feels too still, too heavy.
And the “curtain” separating me from the stranger on the other side is barely thicker than a hotel shower liner.
I can hear everything—every breath, every shift, every creaky lean—and I suddenly feel like I’ve signed up for a glorified hostage situation.
Only instead of ransom demands, I’m being promised true love if I can emotionally connect with a stranger through this adult-size pillow fort.
But hey—at least I have tequila.
I glance at the bottle I insisted on bringing in. My emotional support beverage. The producers thought it was cute. I thought it was the only way I’d survive this circus without committing a felony in front of witnesses.
Let the trauma bonding begin.
“Like, are you single right now?” My date clarifies.
I take a long, slow sip from my bottle. “I’m sitting in a pod. Talking to strangers through a curtain. What do you think?”
He laughs, like I’m flirting. I am not.
“I mean I feel like, if I meet the right person in here, my girl at home would have to understand, you know?”
He sounds like he mixes his cocaine with his creatine.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
I grab the bottle and take a much larger gulp.
By the time guy number two starts talking about how his ex is still his best friend, and guy number three asks me how I feel about polyamory “in theory,” I start plotting my escape route.
I distinctly remember the guy out front saying I only had to meet three of the men.
But then—then comes number four.
His voice is low, slightly rough. Warm. Like velvet and smoke and some kind of accent I can’t quite place.
He clears his throat before speaking. Doesn’t launch into a cheesy pickup line or ask me what my sign is. Just says, “You sound tired of this.”
I laugh, maybe too loudly. “What gave me away?”
“You sighed when I sat down.”
“Maybe you just sat down hard.”
“Maybe,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “Or maybe this whole thing feels a little ridiculous. And you’re smarter than most of the people in this room. And you’re trying to figure out if this was a mistake.”
I blink.
I pause.
Because… okay. That’s not a terrible read.
“What makes you think I’m smarter than most of the people here?”
“You didn’t laugh at that guy who said he’d leave his girlfriend for the right stranger in a pod. You told him to go to therapy.”
“…you were listening?”
“I was waiting.” He pauses and I nearly throw my panties across this partition when he says, “For you.”
Oh damn.
Danger.
I sit back, bottle in hand, smiling for the first time all night since I sat in the pod.
“Okay,” I say, leaning back with a smirk. “Now, you’ve got my attention.”
“Only now? What did it for you?”
I pause, the corners of my mouth curving despite myself. “I’m not sure. Something about you,” I say, softer. And for some absurd reason—I blush. “I can tell you’re different.”
“And I can tell you have a beautiful smile.”
“How do you know I’m smiling?”
“Your voice changes when you do. Gets warmer. Softer.” I hear the shift of his body on the other side of the curtain, the faint rustle of fabric. “I’d even bet the beautiful American girl is blushing right now.”
Geez, how does he know? Can he tell my panties are wet, too?
I’m no stranger to men. I’ve dated plenty. Had a very questionable semester during sophomore year in undergrad. Again, please don’t tell Daddy. I’ve been around the block—hell, I’ve probably mapped half of it.
But this. What I’m feeling, experiencing, through a goddamn plastic divider?
This isn’t some guy.
This is a man.
And whether it’s the tequila talking or my libido making executive decisions without me, one thing is certain—I don’t want to date anyone else in this ridiculous excuse for a dating experiment.
I want this one.
“Have you done anything like this before?” he asks.
“Never. You?”
“No. Closest I came was signing to a new football team sight unseen.”
I laugh. “Ha! Pun intended?”
“What?”
Right. He’s not American. The joke doesn’t land, and before I can continue, we speak at the same time.
“Tell me what you look like, Americana.”
“Where are you from?”
“You first.”
“Why me?” I ask, playing coy.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just lets the question hang—like he’s waiting, like he knows I’ll fold. And I do.
“What do I look like? I’m not very tall. Five four, give or take.”
He makes a sound. A moan? Approving. “Do you wear those high heels, Americana?”
“Are you really going to keep calling me that?”
More silence. More heat.
I let out a sigh. Because this isn’t my show. It’s his.
“I do wear heels,” I admit. “I work around a lot of men and—” I pause because did he just growl? “And they tend to take me more seriously when I’m closer to their eye level.”
“If you were mine,” he says, no hesitation, no doubt, “I’d keep you too fucked and too fed to give a damn what other men think.”
My breath catches. My thighs tighten.
He says it like a threat without my permission. Like he’s already claimed me and is just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
Waiting for me.
And suddenly, this stupid pod feels like the only place in the world I want to be.
That—or on top of him. I can’t decide.
My brain is trying to act right, trying to be logical, but my body is already halfway to “fuck it.”
I shift in my seat, the plush cushion sticking to my thighs like even it knows I’m hot and bothered.
“You’re really confident for someone I can’t even see,” I say, trying to regain some kind of power.
“Not confidence,” he replies. “Certainty.”
Jesus. Did I just come?
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Certain.”
“Never before.”
“And right now?”
“I’m certain I want you.”
And just like that, I forget my name.