12. Mia
TWELVE
Mia
After Elias shut me down this morning, all I want is to make him regret it.
Forget best-friend’s-little-sister Mia. Forget girl-next-door Mia. Forget classy-sexy-Brooklyn-Mia. The reaction I got for her was fine, but it pales in comparison to what I want from him tonight.
So I decide to go full on so-hot-it-borders-on-trashy Mia. Sex hair. Full makeup. A dress that puts the “little” in Little Black Dress. Heels. Well, wedges really, comfy enough for walking long distances, because let’s be real, twenty-nine-year-old Mia’s feet are no longer the same as twenty-one-year-old Mia’s feet.
In the elevator down, I give myself a pep talk. Walk confidently. Chin up. Shoulders back. Tits out . I’m so distracted I don’t even notice the cute man standing next to me in the elevator.
“Hey,” he says.
I stop my mental checklist for a second, wondering who he’s talking to. Oh. Me. He’s talking to me. “Hi,” I tell him.
“Going out?” he asks. He’s cute. Tall. Angular face. Dark features. Seems nice, I note vaguely.
“Yep,” I answer. The elevator doors open, and I march out, cute elevator man already forgotten. Chin up .
I spot Elias’s curly hair from across the lobby. Tits out . He’s seated at the bar, on a stool, facing… wait . I march a little closer, and my heart drops.
He’s facing a gorgeous blonde woman. I stop my stupid Hot Girl march, right there in the middle of the lobby. They’re so close together that she’s practically standing in between his spread knees. He’s grinning that panty-melting grin of his, Dimple and all, beautiful green eyes laser-focused on her, like she’s the only person in the room. I feel myself shrinking, chin moving down, shoulders slumping. Why are you surprised? a tiny voice in my head asks.
A cough from somewhere next to me. I turn my head. It’s the guy from the elevator. “Hey,” he says again, and a part of me is irritated that he doesn’t have a broader vocabulary.
I take a deep breath. What are you doing ? You can’t expect anything from Elias. He’s your older brother’s best friend, you’ve known him your entire life, and he’s never going to cross that line, even if it may seem like he wants to. Even so, he’s just going to jump happily from blonde to blonde for the rest of his life, and that is not your fucking problem, and it has nothing to do with you. Take the help he’s giving you and get over it.
Fine.
With that, I pull my shoulders back, and I push my chin up again.
I smile at Cute Elevator Guy. “Hey,” I reply. “It’s you again.”
He smiles back. His eyes are a pretty hazel. “What are you up to tonight?”
I shrug, pretending to be cool and coy and nonchalant. “Hopping around. Why?”
“Can I buy you a drink on one of those hops?” he asks.
I attempt an approximation of the Elias grin, hoping I don’t look deranged. “Absolutely. Give me your number.”
He grins back. He really is cute. “You’re not on your way to meet anyone, are you?” he asks me, as he pulls out his phone.
I have the urge to look back at Elias. And well, well, well. What do you know? Elias is looking directly at me, and he is destroyed . He is fucking wrecked , like he wants to devour me whole and is miserable about it, and I let myself preen for the moment I deserve, before I squash it all down.
“Nope,” I tell Cute Elevator Man, popping the p sound, like Elias does. “No one.”
We exchange numbers. I learn his name is Ben. He has dinner plans with a friend, but would love to meet me for a drink after. I put him in my phone as Cute Elevator Ben, promising to text him later. He winks at me as he walks out of the lobby.
I begin my little Hot Girl march all over again, this time beelining directly to the blonde who’s all but ready to suck Elias’s dick. Not that you’re much better, Mia , but whatever. We’re over it, remember?
“Hey,” I say brightly. “I’m Mia,” I tell her.
Elias’s stupid green eyes are bouncing back and forth between the two of us. “Mia—” he begins.
“Hey,” the woman says tentatively. “Sorry, are you two?—”
I bark an obnoxious laugh. “No way. I’m basically his little sister,” I sneer towards Elias. Oh, how good it feels to be petty.
She relaxes. “Cool. I’m Lana. Nice to meet you,” she says, and she sounds very nice. I feel bad for being all judgy-pants. Elias is the only one who sucks here.
“Want to take a shot with me, Lana?” I say, gesturing to the bartender.
She laughs. “Sure, why not?”
“Two shots of your best tequila,” I tell the bartender. I cut my head to Elias. “He’s paying.”
Elias is uncharacteristically silent. I look over at him when the bartender hands us our shots, and he’s a mess, a mix of pissed and miserable. “Cheers,” I smile at Lana.
My new best friend Lana tells us she has to go. We all exchange numbers, and I promise to text her later. She leaves with a lingering glance at Elias, but he doesn’t notice, because he is too busy looking up and down my body.
“I really liked this Blonde Brigade candidate,” I say after she leaves. “My eyes are up here,” I remind Elias brightly, as he is currently focused on my tits. I love this dress. “Now we both have someone to text when we’re out later.”
His eyes finally meet mine. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Who was that guy?”
I shrug. “Hot Ben. I met him in the elevator.” I smile. “I think he liked my Hot Girl outfit.”
Elias scrubs his mouth with his palm, making a strangled noise.
“Well, let’s go get hammered,” I tell him, turning on my heel and walking away before him, just so he can watch my ass.
We both get over our initial discomfort around our fourth or fifth drink, and by then, I remember that Elias is actually one of my favorite people on the planet.
“Agent Ethel Anderson?” I giggle into my beignet, exploding a puff of powdered sugar into the air and all over my black dress.
“Our lord and savior herself,” he grins, and it’s big and goofy, his fifth beer making him loose but not as drunk as me, considering he’s twice my size. “She’s my absolute favorite client. She brings me home cooked food most times. Her macaroni pie is—” he mimes doing a chef’s kiss. “She also makes us practice waltzing for the last five minutes of our sessions. She loves to waltz, and it keeps her loose.”
“You know how to waltz?” I ask, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk.
“We all know how to waltz, Mia. Our parents made us take those dumb ballroom lessons,” he reminds me, catching me by the elbow.
He stops me right in the middle of the sidewalk then, and surrounded by wrought-iron balconies and people with yard glasses, he sweeps me into a waltz to the beat of a street performer somewhere down the street.
His giant body is more graceful than it seems, but it’s still hilarious to see him hold the upright posture required of the dance. He leans into it, too, holding himself with an exaggerated air of regality, and it’s too funny. We break apart because I end up doubling over in laughter.
He bends into a deep bow. “You look like Al Pacino in Scarface ,” he tells me, waving at the powdered sugar all over my face and dress.
“Hot Girl, Allie Pacino,” I correct him, brushing the sugar off as best I can.
We keep wandering aimlessly, taking in our surroundings.
“I love the architecture here,” I tell him.
He nods. “I read a little about it. Those,” he said, pointing to the wrought-iron balconies and arched windows, “are French and Spanish colonial details. The types of buildings you see around here, the sort of narrow, multi-story structures with the balconies overlooking the street, those are known as Creole townhouses.”
I stop and frown at him. “Are you making that up?”
He takes his thumb and smooths the spot between my eyebrows. “I know you think I’m some sort of himbo, Mia, but I do know some things.”
I keep walking. “I don’t think you’re a himbo,” I shoot back. “I know you can read,” I tell him, smirking.
He playfully tugs on my hair. “My comprehension is shit, but I can decode like a maniac.”
We pass by a bar packed full of people, funky soul music blaring through its wide-open doors. Trumpet, trombone, tuba, the sounds of brass fill the street. I stand on my tiptoes to see inside and see a huge brass band of maybe eight or nine members crammed onto a tiny stage, see a mass of people dancing with their limbs all over the place.
I turn to look at Elias with wide eyes, bouncing on my toes. He looks down at me with one of those soft smiles again, the one that I want to touch. “Let’s do it,” he says, linking his pinky finger with mine and leading me towards the front door. He pays for our cover and brings us straight to the bar.
I turn to watch the band while he places an order for two shots and two beers. Elias tugs on my pinky again, handing me a shot.
“One, two, three, eyes on me,” he says into my ear to be heard over the music, his breath tickling strange synapses. Fuck it, let me hear you .
“Three, two, one, down and done,” I mouth back. We cheers and slam our shots down. He hands me my beer and drags me into the middle of the crowd, the two of us taking healthy gulps of our drinks so we don’t spill any on ourselves on the way over.
The band is good , amazing, really, a rhythmic and melodic blend of soul, jazz, funk, and hip-hop. I understand the dancing with the limbs all over the place. The music just makes you want to do that. They play through a few songs, the crowd jostling us left and right with their movement and energy, and I love it.
Suddenly, they break into a cover of an old song from the eighties. One that I, that we, know very well. Sweet Dreams , by Eurythmics. The first few notes play, and Elias and I whirl around to stare at each other, breaking into grins at the same exact time. I probably scream. We both chug our beers to free our arms up, and then automatically, simultaneously, we break into the dance we choreographed to this song when we were kids. I’m almost crying with laughter, as neither of us misses a step, all angular vogueing and head bobbing and walking like an Egyptian. We crash into each other on one misstep—“ you’re supposed to go that way,” our elbows and knees smacking into one another, and I’m dizzy and breathless by the time the song ends.
“I can’t believe we remember that,” he tells me, his green eyes radiant and shining and also a little bit glazed, his face one big Dimple.
I push it with my finger. “I’m not.”
He takes my finger. “Drinks?”
“Let’s do it,” I say, and he drags me to the bar by the finger.
He’s ordering us another round when I remember Cute Elevator Ben.
“Elias,” I try very hard not to slur at him. “Let’s text our new friends.”
Something flickers behind his eyes, but maybe we’re just wasted. He shrugs. “Okay.”
I close one eye to see my phone, squinting the open one. Meet me at le boss temps route, it says, but I think that’s AutoCorrect fixing all the French. “I can’t see my phone,” I tell Elias. “Can you do it?”
Elias takes my phone, but I think he puts it in his pocket. He hands me another beer. I take a gulp, and Elias is suddenly the only thing in my vision. A tunnel. Tunnel vision. His green eyes and crow’s feet and fading freckles and Dimple and full, beautiful mouth. Fuck it, I wanna hear you , I think, as he smooths his thumb across my lips, and that’s the last thing I remember.
Even through the nails currently being hammered into my brain, I am acutely aware of where I am. Or, at the very least, of who is holding me.
It’s still pretty dark out, but I know whose Hercules chest my face is currently mashed into without needing to open my eyes. I know whose strong arms are wrapped around my entire body, whose abs my bare boobs are pressed against. I know whose tree trunk thigh is wedged firmly between my legs, against my…
… fucking panties, thank god . I know whose dick is pressed against my stomach. Still clothed in boxers, thank fucking god.
Through sheer force of will, I manage to open my eyes, almost crying from the pain of my eyelashes dragging against his chest.
“Elias,” I whisper into his chest hair.
He grumbles. “Mia,” he says, squeezing me impossibly closer.
“We’re naked.” I inform him of the news.
“Not entirely,” he murmurs.
Did we have sex? I wonder in my head, or maybe I do out loud.
“I don’t think so,” he rasps, voice like sandpaper. “Is your vag sore?”
I focus what little energy I have down there. “No.”
“Then, no,” he says. “Too hungover to panic,” he mutters into the top of my hair. “Sleep.”
“Okay,” I say, and I fall back asleep.
It’s way brighter in the room when I wake up again. We haven’t moved positions. The only difference now is that Elias’s massive erection is pressing into my stomach.
“He’s extremely happy to see you,” I feel Elias murmur into my hair.
My headache has improved a bit. Now it feels like the blunt force of a hammer into my brain, rather than the sharp stabbing of nails. “What happened?” I whisper into his chest hair.
I try to get my addled brain to remember. I get flashes of a full mouth dragging across my skin, of muscle under my fingertips. Strong hands. Whispers across my body.
I focus on my vagina again. She’s definitely untouched. Damn .
He’s silent for a moment. “I think we just touched a little and passed out,” he finally says. His rough hands are dragging up and down against the expanse of my back as if they are trying to remember.
“What happened to no touching?” I croak, asking about last night, and perhaps right now, feeling nauseous about the impending answer.
“Too late,” he says simply. “Pandora’s box.” As if that’s the answer and that’s all he needs to say about this.
We’re quiet for a while.
“Can I touch you now?” he asks then, shifting his thigh up so it rubs against my clothed pussy.
“Yes,” I sigh, or maybe beg.
He pulls back a little, like he doesn’t know where he wants to start, hyper aware of all these new parts of my body. I feel the same way. I have no idea where to start.
“You have to tell me what you like,” he murmurs.
“I just want you to touch me,” I breathe.
“Not specific enough, but you’ll get a pass for this lesson.” His fingers start at my mouth, tracing the outline of my lips. They move down, so gently, down my neck, across my collarbone, before finally cupping my breast in his giant hand. He groans, a small sound. “Look at these. Perfect,” he murmurs with reverence. “Looks like I’ll have to make new memories,” he says, rubbing his thumb in slow circles around my nipple, and I shiver with pleasure.
I’m about to touch Elias myself, finally feel the sandpaper of his stubble against my hand, the softness of his mouth, when I’m surprised by a second wave of sudden, genuine nausea. My body locks up. I rip myself away from Elias, and I make it to the bathroom just in time for me to projectile into the toilet.
What feels like gallons of beer empty out of me, my eyes tearing up with the force. Nooo , I think I moan.
Out of the corner of my eye, with my head buried in the toilet, I see Elias walk into the bathroom in just his boxers, half-hard erection tenting the fabric. He walks over to me and gently pulls my hair back, away from my face, just in time for a fresh wave of spew.
“I’m sorry,” I think I say, not sure what I’m referring to.
“I’m not, Gorgeous,” I think he says, kissing my shoulder.
Eventually, maybe minutes or hours later, I run dry. Elias helps me brush my teeth and gargle mouthwash, then half carries me back to bed. He deposits two painkillers in my hand, along with a full bottle of water.
“Take these and finish the water,” he tells me, and I do as I’m told. He tucks me in again, brushing his lips against mine. Our first kiss, at least one I remember, and it happens immediately post-vomit. “Sleep,” he says, and I do.