7. Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAVEN
Restlessness crawls beneath my skin like a thousand eager spiders, each one testing the boundaries of my patience.
I pace the insignificant length of my apartment—five steps in one direction, turn, five steps back—a caged animal trying to exhaust itself.
The Saturday night quiet should be comforting, and instead I cannot breathe.
The hairs along my arms raise all at once, responding to a chill that isn’t present in my overheated body. A prickling awareness glides over my neck, as if someone’s watching me spiral, which is ridiculous because I’m alone. Always alone. Except in my sleep, where he waits.
But I haven’t been able to sleep today. Not since I arranged the crystals from the shop in their respective new homes. Hours of watching them flicker with the weak winter light.
Maybe I just need to get laid. It’s been, what, a year?
Longer? Not since that comedian in Boston who didn’t ask questions when I said I wasn’t looking to get his number, just company for the night.
He’d served his purpose. For a few hours, at least, the constant hum of emptiness had quieted under the weight of another body against mine.
I groan. Should I download a dating app?
My lip curls at the thought. Sifting through profiles, hyper-edited photos, and making small talk is the perfect recipe to have me throwing my guts up from the discomfort.
Besides, those apps are for people wanting connections, not just an expectation free night.
A bar, then…somewhere I can order a drink, make eye contact with someone who looks equally desperate for distraction, and be done with the whole thing before sunrise.
I’m not about to trek across the city, though.
Not in this cold, and not for something as disposable as sex with a stranger, which leads me to my search.
Wincing at my phone’s screen brightness, a quick search reveals three bars within walking distance, all of them with acceptable reviews.
I choose the closest one—a place called The Black Door that promises ‘craft cocktails in an intimate speakeasy setting.’ Whatever.
As long as they serve alcohol and attract men horny enough to overlook my general aura of misery, it’ll do.
Even a quick shower isn’t enough to relax the coiled tension in my muscles. A shadow shifts behind me through the steamed glass, and I whirl around, heart slamming against my ribs. The bathroom is empty, of course it is.
Just nerves. Brain playing tricks on me, trying its best to convince me not to leave the safety of my apartment. Well, fuck that. Everything is too much today—I need something new.
I snatch the only thing in my metaphorical closet that is acceptable for a night like this: a mid-length black dress with a low neckline and thigh-high boots. Simple and enough to draw attention. My fingers shake as I line my eyes with black, accentuating their gray.
The finished product isn’t half bad…the kind of woman who knows what she wants and refuses to be too afraid to go after it. A convincing mask for someone who has no idea what she’s doing or why she’s suddenly so eager to do it.
The bar is just around the block, which is an immeasurable blessing. Even with my heavy coat wrapped tight, cold slithers into every crevice, biting at my ears and nose. I hunch forward against the wind, regretting this decision with each step.
But turning back is impossible. The apartment that waits for me, with its crystals and dead flowers, is not something I can bear alone tonight.
The Black Door lives up to its name; a simple ebony entrance tucked between a closed bookstore and cafe.
No formal sign, just the door and a nearly imperceptible brass plaque beside it etched with the bar’s name.
I push my way inside, welcomed by a gust of warm air scented with a nice blend of cinnamon and citrus.
Inside, the ceiling hangs low, making the space feel both intimate and slightly claustrophobic. Vintage light fixtures cast a honey glow over wood tables and leather booths. It’s busy but not packed—groups of friends clustered around tables while a few solo patrons at the bar.
I shed my coat, draping it over my arm as I approach the bar to an open seat at the far end, settling onto the leather stool with as much grace as I can manage. The bartender, a woman with sleeves of intricate tattoos, raises an eyebrow in question.
“Gin and tonic,” I say, placing a twenty on the bar. “Double.”
She nods and prepares the drink. I scan the room, assessing potential candidates.
Not the group of businessmen in the corner, laughing too hard at their own jokes.
Not the guy nursing a beer at the center of the bar, wedding ring gleaming under the lights.
Maybe the man two seats down, dark hair cut close to his scalp, shoulders broad enough to suggest he spends time at a gym. That one could work.
The bartender returns with my drink, placing it on a small napkin before collecting my money. The first sip burns pleasantly, and I take another, longer this time, savoring the alcohol as it warms me from the inside out.
I keep my gaze down, studying the wood grain of the bar as if it holds the secrets of the universe. This is the tricky part. I need to make myself available without looking desperate. It’s a dance I’ve performed before, but tonight my steps feel clumsy and agitated.
After fifteen minutes and half my drink, I feel eyes on me. I peer to the left, meeting the gaze of a man at one of the tables.
He’s objectively handsome—early thirties I’d guess, stubbled jaw, eyes that might be blue or green in this light.
His hair falls in waves to his collar, and his button-down shirt hugs a frame that suggests regular but not obsessive exercise.
When our eyes lock, he smiles with confidence.
For a flickering second, I swear there’s a sheen of static around his edges.
The gin. It’s the gin playing tricks.
He stands, drink in hand, and approaches. My heart rate kicks up, palms suddenly damp against the cool glass in my hand. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Why the alarm bells?
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty stool beside me.
His voice is pleasant enough. Not deep, not like—
No. Don’t think about him. Not now.
“It’s all yours,” I reply, sipping my drink to hide the catch in my voice.
He slides into the stool with fluid grace, extending a hand as his lips curl up. “I’m James.”
“Maven.” I hesitate before shaking, his palm warm and dry against mine.
“Unusual name.” That million-dollar smile widens. He has quite the perfect set of teeth. “I like it.”
“Thanks.” I withdraw my hand quickly, wiping the lingering sensation of his touch on my dress where his eyes cannot see.
James signals the bartender, ordering another of whatever he was drinking—whiskey, by the smell of it—and a refill for me.
A kinder person would argue and insist on paying for their own drink.
I don’t. Instead, choosing to finish what’s left in my glass, welcoming the dull buzz spreading through my limbs.
“New to Montréal?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You have that just-arrived look. Like you’re still taking everything in.” Interesting. I trace a droplet of condensation down the side of my glass, considering. “What brought you here?”
Fresh drinks slide our way, saving me from answering immediately. I lift the gin and tonic to my lips to buy time. This is the part I hate—the questions and pretense of interest in my life story. Can’t we just skip to the physical part, where words aren’t necessary?
“Work,” I answer after a few moments. Not a complete lie. “Got offered a position I couldn’t refuse.”
He raises his glass in a mock toast, his eyes scanning my face. “Lucky for Montréal,” he replies. “And for me.”
Such direct conversation should be refreshing, but something about it sets my teeth on edge.
I don’t want his compliments or lingering gaze, yet my body remains seated.
I came here for a purpose, and James is objectively perfect for it; he’s attractive, interesting enough, and a complete stranger I’ll never have to see again.
“So, what do you do, James?” The question feels like wood scraping my tongue. A rogue line from a script of how normal people act.
It works, though. He launches into a description of his job in finance, something about market analysis and investment portfolios. I nod at appropriate intervals, noticing how he never quite looks me in the eye when he speaks, his gaze drifting to my lips and neck. Lower.
Two drinks become three. The bar grows louder, or maybe that’s the blood rushing in my ears. My companion scoots his stool closer, a knee brushing mine accidentally at first, then with more purpose. His hand grazes my back as he leans in to be heard over the music.
“Want to get out of here?” he asks, hot breath coating my ear. Cringe.
At least the gin has fucked with my head enough that I don’t care.
It’s that thought that pushes me forward, knowing I couldn’t give a fuck about politics or whatever mundane topic he might bring up next.
I want to feel something—anything—other than the restless electricity that’s been building under my skin all day.
“My place is two blocks away.”
His eyes widen before that smile returns, wider and hungrier. “Lead the way.”
Most of my buzz clears when we step outside, and I silently beg it to come back as James drapes an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. His cologne is too strong.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he prompts as we navigate the slushy sidewalk. “What do you like to do for fun?”
I roll my eyes under the cover of darkness. We’re already leaving together…why continue the charade? “Not much. Just read and collect things.”
“What kinds of things?”