12. Ashley
TWELVE
ASHLEY
How’s it going? Just got back from a run.
SketchArtistCP:
Well, you’ll be running around my mind all day.
You’re making my heart race.
But I can think of other ways of making you sweat.
You’re killing me.
SketchArtistCP:
Are you my training plan? Because I’ll go for as long as you tell me to.
What can I say? Endurance athletes do it for longer?
I skim through my text thread with Clint, a tall, sexy architect—if his profile is to be believed—that I matched with a few days ago.
Our text thread has been heating up all week, a nice distraction from Laurel freaking out about her trip up north and what Cal’s parents think of her.
Stevie’s been giving in-law pep talks. I have nothing to contribute, so I’ve been sending racy puns to Clint instead.
He suggested we meet at a swanky club downtown.
It’s not my usual vibe, but I’ve had enough of mini golf, bowling, and various quirky outings lately.
Grabbing a regular old drink on a Saturday sounded like a reprieve.
Now I need to pull myself together or I’ll be staring dreamily at his ab selfies until it’s time for me to leave.
The group chat with my friends is on fire while I’m getting ready—my phone might explode from how often it’s vibrating.
Laurel is checking in while she gets ready for pub night with Cal’s friends in North Bay, and Stevie is probably ignoring her children to filter through 700 outfit photos between the two of us.
Laurel sends one in tight jeans and a slinky silver tank top.
Laurel:
Is this too much skin? IDK if I want to be super sexy but I also don’t want to be matronly. Plus it’s freezing here so my outfit needs to go with a parka. Help?
Stevie:
Why not sexy? You’re hot as hell.
Cal loves that shirt, so why not?
I know way too much about which clothes Cal likes on my best friend, or rather likes taking off my best friend.
Laurel:
Yeah, but for drinks with his closest friends AKA the groomsmen at his first wedding? The ones whose wives are still close to Cal’s ex??
Laurel:
They’re always asking when he’s moving back here. I feel like they hate me for keeping him tied to Toronto.
I didn’t realize how nervous Laurel was about this trip until the past few days.
To be honest, I was short with her when I popped by to say happy birthday yesterday and only wanted to blab on about Clint.
Maybe I’ve been so focused on how perfect her life seems, I missed that adjusting to a long-term relationship isn’t always so smooth.
That’s stressful.
Stevie:
Let those people judge all they want. If they can’t see how happy he is with you, they can… well you know.
Stevie’s out of fucks.
Stevie:
Always. Be your hot self.
Laurel:
You’re the best.
Opposite problem. Is this sexy enough?
I send a photo of a hot pink mini dress. I’m hoping tonight will make up for all the boring dates I’ve been on lately.
Stevie:
Damn, girl.
Laurel:
Very hot. I hope you’re not planning on wearing it for too long.
Laurel:
Which shoes are you wearing?
After a lengthy back-and-forth and a lot of shoe photos, I go with high heeled booties because it’s still winter, then I’m finally ready to head downtown.
As I get close to the club where I’m meeting Clint, I drop another selfie in my chat with the caption “Wish me luck!” Laurel sends me back a bunch of shamrock emojis, and I get out of the car with butterflies of anticipation in my stomach.
Here goes nothing.
I notice Clint immediately, leaning against the bar and looking fine—tall, dark brown hair, strong jaw, and ice blue eyes.
He looks like a brunette Ken doll come to life.
I almost drool over his broad shoulders and the way he towers over me.
I’ve always had a thing for large men, the kind who look like they could easily throw me over their shoulder.
I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed that move in the past. I shiver a little as he eyes me.
“Ashley, great to meet you.” He kisses my hand. It’s kind of corny, but I almost swoon.
The club isn’t busy yet, so we sit at a small table and he orders us some cocktails that I’ve never heard of.
They come in highball glasses with fruit garnish, and they taste dangerously delicious.
We chat over the beats of the music, basic getting-to-know-you stuff mixed with the kind of innuendos that lit up my inbox all week.
“So what brought you to Toronto in the first place?” Clint asks when I mention my family in Waterloo.
“Work, I guess, but I was also following a boyfriend,” I admit. “The relationship didn’t last long, but the job did, and by then I was hooked on big city life.”
I don’t mention the stress or loneliness of those first two years, when I had no real friends.
I shared an apartment with a revolving door of roommates tangentially connected to one of the girls initially on the lease.
I also skip how I quickly found out my boyfriend Ben didn’t actually want me to move here because he wanted to keep casually hooking up with other women.
Eventually, though, I found my footing and found the Milers.
But I don’t want to go down memory lane tonight, so I smile at Clint and add with a wink, “The larger dating pool didn’t hurt. ”
He gives me a knowing look. “So, you’d already gone through all the available candidates back home.”
I give him a sly smile. “I can’t say I’m that prolific, but let’s just say I made my way through a good portion of the list.”
That’s not even close to the truth, but I doubt he wants to hear about my dateless adolescence. There weren’t a ton of guys in the theater program of my arts high school, and the straight ones didn’t look twice at my skinny, tap-dancing self, but that’s all in the past now.
“Maybe I’ll make my way onto your list too.” He strokes my hand lightly while he looks at me with a hungry glint in his eye. So far, he’s on my list of success stories from the app, but I’m thinking he’s more into being a notch on my bedpost.
“So, you’re saying you want to be one of my conquests?” I laugh. “Or you want me to be one of yours?”
He leans in closer, almost near enough to kiss me, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Can’t we do both?”
This guy is laying it out there, and I’m okay with that.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a date with real chemistry, but Clint and I seem to have it in spades.
The air sizzles with electricity. Sure, these are old lines, but he delivers them with heat and a slight touch of irony, so I’m not complaining, especially after what feels like dozens of bland dates.
Our banter is interrupted by a waiter with another round of cocktails.
After downing our drinks while we chat about movies, he asks me to dance—more like a cursory ask as he pulls me onto the floor.
We move pressed against each other as the area fills with people.
I haven’t been dancing in ages, and the music and drinks go to my head, leaving me feeling light, almost bubbling over.
Clint leans in and kisses me under the ear, making my body light up.
I press further into him as the music pumps.
He shifts away as the song changes and, taking my hand, leads me over to the edge of the dance floor.
I lean back on the wall and pull him in close to me.
That’s all the encouragement he needs to kiss me hard on the mouth.
My blood races as he runs his hands up my sides.
I can feel his hard body up against me and it’s making me wild. Damn, it’s hot. Until it’s not.
Suddenly he’s pushing too hard, shoving his tongue forcefully into my mouth so I can barely breathe. One hand yanks the neckline of my dress way down, making me feel exposed in this public place.
I lean my head back as much as I can and pull my mouth away, giving him a gentle push. “Whoa, slow down a little, okay?”
His smile doesn’t seem so friendly now, and his eyes are hard. “What do you mean? I thought you were into this.”
“I was. I am. It got intense for a second, and I need a breather.” I try to keep my tone light, giving him a small smile. I wasn’t opposed to a hook up tonight, but I don’t want this guy’s tongue all the way down my throat. Dial it down, buddy.
“A breather. Yeah, okay.” He sounds sarcastic, like I’m the unreasonable one for not wanting to flash my push up bra to everyone in this club.
“Yes, a breather. It was fun. I just needed to come up for air.” I’m not sure I want to continue this. Right now, this large man is between me and the room, and I’m starting to look for an exit plan because he’s not backing away. My heart races. This is why I don’t go to clubs alone.
“I know who you are,” he says, coming in very close.
What does this even mean? “Ashley. That’s who I am.”
“You’re that Miss Midtown chick. I’ve seen your reels blasting your bad dates and the poor slobs who don’t meet your ridiculous expectations.”
I blink, not wanting to confirm his allegations. I’ve been pretty fair with my bad dates, anonymizing as best I can and not telling some of the worst stories. I want to be funny, not mean, and to give a little advice to the more clueless men out there. “I don’t know what you—”
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.” He’s angry now, his voice rising. “You’re Miss Midtown, and they’re paying you to hook up with men and bitch about it. So what’s the deal? Aren’t you getting paid to bang me too? Let’s get to it, sweetheart.”
He leers and leans in even closer. I turn my head so he can’t reach my mouth, and snarl, “No fucking way, dude.” Then I slide a hand down to his crotch and squeeze lightly, amping up the pressure when his eyes widen.
“I’m extremely close to making you very sore, so you can either pull away or spend the rest of the night with a bag of frozen peas on your balls. Your choice.”
He pulls away muttering, “Fuck you, bitch.” Before he can reconsider letting me go, I’ve darted away. Good thing I didn’t wear stilettos.