Chapter 4 #2
I pick up a glass, the salt already crusted on its rim. The guy in the flannel shirt is still stealing glances. The one in the leather jacket smirks, lifting his beer in a toast directly at me.
Time begins to lose its shape after a while, dissolving into the thrum of bass and the percussive shuffle of feet on sticky linoleum.
It’s been an hour, maybe two. We’ve cycled through phases—frenetic dancing, breathless retreats to the booth for water that tastes like wet metal, Cori’s disappearances into the alley for a cigarette, her return smelling of night air and rebellion.
But the dance floor, that pulsing epicenter, always pulls us back.
My body is a map of new sensations. Sweat pools in the hollow of my lower back, trickles between my breasts, gathers in the surprising dampness behind my knees.
The careful architecture of my appearance has collapsed.
Cori’s butterfly clips are casualties of the crowd, lost to the dark, beer-slicked floor.
My hair hangs in damp, separated strands, plastered to my neck and temples.
My mascara, I’m certain, has migrated into the faint lines under my eyes, giving me a raccoonish, undone look I’ve never allowed myself to have out in public.
And Leather Jacket is now behind me.
His name is a syllable lost to the music—Dan?
Tom?—irrelevant. What matters is the heat of him, a solid wall against my back.
His hands are large, possessive on my hips, his fingers splayed just above the rise of my pelvis.
We are moving in a slow, syncopated grind, my body leaning into the hard, unmistakable press of him against the small of my back.
His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his lips and teeth working a path along my sweaty skin that sends jolts of pure electricity straight to my core.
His breath is hot, smelling of beer and spearmint gum.
This isn’t dancing as socialization. This is a physical conversation, stripped of language.
The music—some grinding, guitar-heavy band I don’t know—isn’t a soundtrack; it’s a circulatory system, its beat the thudding of a collective heart.
It’s primitive, unpolished, and phenomenally alive.
For the first time, my body is not an ornament to be viewed, but an instrument of feeling.
Then, my friends materialize through the smoky haze like a tribunal. Marcus’s eyes find mine, his gaze flicking from the man’s hands on me to my flushed face. His expression is a complex cocktail of brotherly concern and wry amusement.
“We got rooftop access,” Cori announces, shouting directly into my ear. Her pupils are dark pools swimming in jade irises. “Brett’s friend has a friend with some weed. We’re going up. You in?”
The offer hangs in the air, a gateway to another layer of the night.
I’ve been high exactly once, a disorienting experiment in college that left me paranoid about the sentience of houseplants.
The idea now, layered atop this vodka haze, feels like tempting a different kind of fate.
My practical self, the ghost of Annemarie, whispers about hangovers and job applications and responsible behavior.
And then the man—is it Rob?—sucks gently on the tendon behind my ear, and all coherent thought short-circuits.
“I’m gonna pass,” I manage, my voice throaty.
Cori’s eyebrow arches, a silent question. You sure?
Rob’s hands slide from my hips to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I nod, more to convince myself than her. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself, lover girl,” Cori grins, already turning away. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Marcus lingers a second longer. He leans in, the noise forcing an odd intimacy. “You’ve got cab fare, right?” It’s not an idle question. It’s the specific, granular care of someone who knows what it means to be vulnerable in this city.
The concern touches a place that feels tender. “I’ve got it,” I assure him, meeting his eyes.
He searches my face, finds whatever assurance he needs, and nods. “Okay. Page us if you need anything.”
Then they’re gone, swallowed by the crowd moving toward the infamous back stairs.
I turn in the circle of Rob’s arms to face him fully. He has sandy hair, knockout dimples, and eyes glazed with the same shallow hunger I feel. He doesn’t speak. He just closes the distance, his mouth capturing mine.
The kiss is all sorts of sensations—the slick slide of his tongue, the faint abrasion of stubble, the crush of his body. For a few dizzying minutes, I lose myself in it. His hands tighten on my waist, and I’m just a body in a dark room, anonymous and free.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. “My place is ten minutes away,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “And quieter.”
The spell fractures. The ghost of Annemarie reasserts herself, not with judgment, but with a quiet, stubborn longing.
This—the grinding, the nameless kiss—it’s a liberation, but it’s also an end point.
A delicious, empty calorie. I think, with a sudden, piercing clarity, that I want the next time I have sex to be with someone whose name I’ll remember in the morning.
Someone for whom I’m more than a warm body in a sexy dress.
“I should get home,” I say, the words feeling both like a failure and a victory.
He doesn’t press. Just nods, a flicker of disappointment quickly masked by cool acceptance. “Call me whenever.” Then, with a magician’s flourish, he produces a Sharpie from his jeans pocket. “Arm.”
Bemused, I offer my forearm. He uncaps the marker with his teeth and scrawls a phone number across my skin. The ink is cool, the digits slightly smeared from my sweat. “For when you change your mind,” he says, capping the pen. He winks, a parody of roguish charm, and melts back into the crowd.
I stare at the black numbers staining my skin. A trophy. A receipt.
Retrieving my leather jacket from the booth feels like an archaeological dig.
Outside, the air hits me and it’s like stepping into a different world.
I never thought New York City air would feel refreshing, but compared to the oppressive heat inside Lucky’s, it’s heaven, and cool against my damp skin.
I lean against the brick wall and take a breath, trying to get my equilibrium back.
Avenue B is still busy even though it has to be close to midnight by now.
People spilling out of bars and restaurants, groups laughing and shouting to each other, a guy on a skateboard weaving through the crowd.
The streetlights cast everything in orange and yellow, and the buildings loom up on either side, windows lit up in random patterns.
Someone’s blasting music from an apartment above.
A car horn blares. The whole city feels awake and buzzing.
I need to get a cab. Which is easier said than done, apparently, because I stand out here with my arm up for five minutes and three cabs pass me without stopping. One slowed down, the driver’s gaze passing over my disheveled form, and then sped up again, which feels a bit personal.
I could walk home. It’s only a few blocks. But I’m drunk and it’s dark and I’m a woman alone in New York City, which feels like a bad combination. So. Cab it is.
I step closer to the curb and throw my arm up again.
A cab passes. Doesn’t even slow down.
I groan.
Another one passes.
Then another.
“Come on!” I stomp my foot, which does nothing except make me look like a toddler having a tantrum.
Just as a yellow sedan finally glides to the curb, its roof light a beacon of hope, a voice cuts through the din.
“Wait!”
I turn.
A man is striding toward me, moving with a purposeful, ground-eating gait. He’s tall, his form a silhouette against the lit storefronts until he steps under the streetlamp.
He’s handsome in a different way than man who just wrote his number on my arm.
He seems more…put together. He’s got dark, unruly hair that curls defiantly at the ends.
A strong, prominent nose that gives his face character rather than classic proportion.
A jawline shadowed with stubble. He’s probably in his late twenties, early thirties, with the solid build of someone who clearly uses his body for more than decoration.
There’s an intensity in his amber eyes, an impatience that fixes on me.
“That’s my cab,” he states, his voice a low baritone edged with fatigue.
The absurdity of what he said crackles in the air. “Yours? He stopped for me.”
“He was slowing for me. I’ve been waving from down the block.”
“The cab driver literally looked at me and slowed down.”
“He was slowing down for me.”
“I was waving at him!”
“So was I!” He exhales through his nose, clearly frustrated. “Look, I really need to get home. Can you just take the next one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes and this is the first cab that’s stopped here!”
“I’ve been out here for thirty.”
“Cool. Not my problem.”
His jaw tightens. “I have someone waiting for me at home. I need to get back.”
“Okay, so? I also need to not walk home drunk. We all have needs.”
“What if I give you cash for the next cab? Twenty bucks.”
I cross my arms, which is difficult because I’m swaying slightly. “I don’t want your money. I want this cab.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“You’re being an entitled dick.”
“I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “I’ve had a very long day. I just want to go home. Please.”
“I’ve also had a long day. And as I said before, I’m drunk. So.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. We are two exhausted animals fighting over a scrap of territory. The cab driver watches, impassive, a spectator to our standoff.
Then, we move in unison.
He’s quicker, his long arm shooting out to grasp the door handle. But fueled by indignation and alcohol, I shove against his shoulder. It’s like pushing a building; he barely budges, but the surprise allows me to wedge myself between him and the car door.