2. Taco Truck at Two a.m. Girl
TACO TRUCK AT TWO A.M. GIRL
WILLA
“Willa!” My best friend screams, jumps out of the Uber, and runs straight for me. She doesn’t run fast. She’s in wedges and a short, ruffled skirt that no one can pull off except for Jackie. Her huge tote bounces as she runs, and her oversized sunglasses almost dip to her lips.
“Action Jackson,” I holler and throw out my arms, pulling her tiny frame in for a hug. “I’ve missed you so much.”
It isn’t fair for best friends to be separated. I say that, but it’s totally fair. It just sucks.
Austin is home for me and has been for the last four years. Jackie found a way to make it in New York City as a social media influencer, of all things. I’m thrilled for her but miss her like crazy.
I loop my arm through hers, pretend our six-inch height difference is nothing, and wander through downtown, avoiding pedestrians and cyclists alike.
The tourists are lining up on Congress Street Bridge to wait for the bats.
It’ll be an off night. You can tell by the weather.
The flight will be short and light, but they’ll never know the difference.
“We must go to the Roosevelt Room,” she coos.
“Oh, must we?”
“They contacted me and will pay to have me drop a mention or two.”
“Must be nice.”
“I’m not complaining.” Her trendy outfit and my practical one are as opposite as we are. She’s petite and thin in the extreme. Her makeup always mirrors the latest trends, and her white-blond hair is sleek and freshly cut. She’s cute.
No one would use that word to describe me. They’d say edgy, instead. I’m tall, with long, dark hair, and live in the long-sleeved black tee, dark denim jeans, and tall boots I’m wearing. We’re the definition of yin and yang.
We enter the Roosevelt Room, a swanky cocktail bar with a 1920s feel. I’ve never been here before, and it’s stunning. The architecture, the design, the use of glass and light. You almost want to watch for Jay Gatsby or Daisy to walk through with its exposed-brick walls and dark-wood paneling.
“Jackie James, party of two,” she says to the host, who studies his tablet, tapping along it, before looking me up and down, pausing slightly. He nods to Jackie and walks with perfect posture and two menus to a round two-top table in the middle of the room.
“Oh, no. This won’t do. We need more privacy. A booth, please.” It’s a demand, but Jackie makes it sound like a request.
“But, Miss James, the owners—”
“The owners asked me to come. They do not dictate where I sit. Please, show us to a booth.”
The man, who is so erect it looks painful, dips his chin as if bowing to her, and leads us to a three-quarter booth, with seating for six or more and audibly sighs as he walks away.
It’s the only time he breaks his facade.
Or, maybe, he’s truly that rigid. His expectation of his own authority makes me want to annoy him just for the fun of it.
The power to accept or reject a guest must’ve gone to his head.
We study our menus and, at some point, I find my head resting on Jackie’s shoulder. “It sounds cheesy, but I miss you. Thank God for FaceTime, but this is so much better. What are you having?”
“I’ll let them send the drinks over.”
“Seriously? This is your life? You’re a long way from Midland, that’s for sure!”
“I’ll toast to that! So tell me—”
“Ladies…” The waiter lets it hang in the air.
I want to say, “Yes…” and let it hang back with an overly long, awkward pause, but this is Jackie’s gig, so I watch in amazement and awe as my childhood friend, who grew up in dusty Lee jeans and hand-me-down tees, dispatches this man to do her will.
My wry smile is the first real one since we got here.
“And for you, miss?”
“I’ll have your best rum drink.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll return momentarily.” The turn on his heel would be almost military if it didn’t include a sashay and head fling.
“I’ll return momentarily,” I mimic, rolling my eyes. “You know I love you. But I’d be in a taqueria with tequila shooters any day over a stuffy, pretentious place like this.”
“At twenty-five dollars a cocktail, they earn the right to be pretentious.”
“Twenty—” I begin but I’m cut off by a deep grumble of my name. “Willa?”
“Jon?”
I stand and extend my hand, but Jon Barret comes in for a peck on the cheek. Inappropriate for a client, so I pull back, eyeing him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that’s not okay. “Good to see you. Jon, this is my friend, Jackie. She’s in town from New York.”
When he turns to introduce himself, I’m struck dumb.
A handsome, shrewd face greets me. The man with Jon is taller than me, and must be at least six two or three.
He’s drop-dead gorgeous with chocolate-brown hair, stunning dark-hazel eyes, a jawline you could cut glass on, and a full upper lip I’d like to…
I extend a hand. “I’m Willa.”
“Exton Ranger. Nice to meet you, Willa.” His palm is warm and lingers a bit longer than a typical handshake. When he lets go, I see that Jon has slid into the booth with Jackie and has made himself at home.
“Hope you didn’t want privacy with Jon. Looks like our plans just changed,” I offer.
He holds my gaze—his mouth firm and his eyes serious, searching mine. “Works for me,” he says, a small smile playing there, and extends his hand, inviting me to retake my seat, and effectively trapping me inside the booth.
Exton
“What do you do, Willa?”
The woman in front of me is stunning. She’s tall with an inquisitive face. Her dark hair cascades down her back. The tips are teal and almost match her turquoise eyes. Those are an unusual color—light green surrounded with a blue ring. They’re mesmerizing.
“I’m an artist.”
“What’s your medium?’
“Flesh.” A grin pulls across her face. “I’m a tattooist.”
I did not expect that. But it plays into her look. This place doesn’t fit her. She can do it, put on the show and probably sell the hell out of it, but it’s not her comfort zone.
“Do you have a specialty?” I might as well be interrogating her and realize I am. I’m leaning toward her, boxing her in, asking question after question. “Sorry. Long day. Didn’t mean to come off like a job interview or something.”
I lean back and rest my shoulder blades on the booth wall, trying to be less imposing, less intense, less like a government interrogator.
Less like me.
What she does next surprises me. She leans forward and reaches out, running her fingers across the hand I have resting on the table. “Don’t be. It’s all good.” She lifts her hand and rests it back on her lap as the waiter drops two drinks and large wooden platters of food in front of us.
“Gentlemen?”
“An old fashioned,” Jon tosses, already turning his back on the man, refocusing his attention on the blonde next to Willa.
“Beer,” I say and hear a little groan from beside me.
“Lager? Cider? Pilsner? Stout?” the man above us queries.
“IPA.”
The low moan escapes again.
I tilt my head and watch Willa almost imperceptibly lick her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I like my rum, but it didn’t dawn on me to not order some frou-frou, fifty-dollar, girly drink. Beer sounds better.”
“This isn’t your kind of place?”
“Uh, no. It most certainly isn’t. I’m a beer girl.
Tequila shots girl. Taco truck at two a.m. girl.
I’m most definitely not a speakeasy girl.
They wouldn’t let me in here if I weren’t with Jackie.
” She leans in and stage-whispers with a wink, “She’s famous.
They want her here for publicity. They’re stuck with me since I came with. ”
She leans back and, seeing my beer, lifts her drink in a toast. “To a cold beer in a frosty glass. And Monday Night Football.”
“That’s an odd add-on.” I wonder if she recognized my name and is fishing about my brother.
“Spring in Texas is gorgeous. But give me autumn, anywhere, and the crashing of helmets. I’m one happy girl.”
“What’s your last name, Willa?”
“Jayne. Why?”
“Willa Jayne, you are an interesting girl.” I lift my drink, return her toast, and let the crisp hops and cold brew slide down my throat. I’d love for it to erase my shitty day, but the night has gotten interesting, and I want to see where it goes.
Her corresponding grin is genuine. “Nah, I’m just a normal girl, who’s okay being normal, and doesn’t need to sell some sanitized—or worse, filtered—version of life. What I have is good.”
I want to disagree. She’s not normal. Normal is rarely self-assured or grounded. Willa Jayne is proving to be exceptional. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s stunning.
We talk and we flirt. Willa isn’t in your face. The sensuality she oozes comes from confidence in who she is. She isn’t selling me images. She’s not trying to be sexy and use moves she thinks will sway me. She’s interested and she’s telling me so, but not in a garish way.
I like it.
A woman who knows who she is and what she wants is a hell of a turn-on.
“You never did say if you specialize in something.” I tilt my beer to her.
“I don’t.” She smiles. “I know amazing artists who do watercolor or heavy gothic. I like the art. I have no interest in doing a yin and yang on someone’s ankle, though I will.
I love the medium. But bringing something to life, bringing it to life from the blank canvas…
I love that. Give me that—whatever that is—and I’m having a good day. ”
“Do you have any ink?” she asks, eyes dropping to my chest, as if she can see through my shirt.
I shake my head slowly. “Blank canvas here, Miss Jayne.”
The devious grin that breaks across her face might as well mimic the Cheshire cat’s. But she licks her lips, and that seals the deal.
Fuck.
I want her.