Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
We cruise down the rain-slick freeway, Maya in a plunging blouse and me in a fresh turtleneck paired, at her insistence, with an impossibly short suede skirt. I tug it down nervously.
Our Uber driver points to a caddy filled with mini water bottles and condoms. Maya shoves a handful of the latter into my purse.
“It’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure one will suffice,” I say, putting the rest back for the next passenger.
“At least take two. Think positive.”
I drop them into my purse and tune Maya out as she attempts to distract me from thinking about Helena and Casey (who are quite possibly having sex at this very moment) by listing the virtues of ultimate fighting.
“It’s not about beating someone up. It’s about taking two athletes, perhaps the best in their chosen discipline—American wrestling, Brazilian ju-jitsu, boxing—and matching them up in a battle of technique, endurance, and art.”
I roll my eyes. “Are those bikini-clad ring girls part of the ‘art’ too?” I lean forward to touch the driver’s shoulder. “The speed limit is fifty-five and you’re going sixty.”
He puts one hand up in acknowledgement. I tug my skirt down again.
“I can’t believe this is how my night turned out. How my life turned out,” I say morosely.
Maya pats my knee. “You’re going to love it. And if you can’t appreciate the art, then just enjoy all the muscles on display, my sweet, high-strung philistine.”
We arrive in the belly of the city and make our way through the crowds to Climate Pledge Arena. Maya grabs my hand so she doesn’t lose me.
“When was the last time you were here?” she asks.
“My dad took me to some WNBA games as a kid, but that was before all the new renovations. We never went to the NBA games. He refused to contribute to the gender pay gap.”
“Your dad is such a king.” Maya smiles. “And we seriously need to get you out more.”
When we enter the concourse, my eyes widen.
Art installations run the length of the walls, including a kinetic tile display that looks like leaves falling as you walk by. Several people take selfies in front of a towering living wall filled with ferns and other greenery. Lively, buzzing bars and restaurants surround us.
“This is not how I pictured it at all,” I say.
Maya smiles triumphantly. “Told you! Let’s go down and find our seats in the arena. We can just catch the tail end of the Ortega versus Kekoa fight.”
“No way. All my prospects are up here.”
I pull Maya into an upscale, dimly lit bar, attracted by pulsing music and tightly packed bodies. We order whisky sours, and I calm my nerves by drawing little designs in the Angostura bitters dotting the egg-white foam with my cocktail stirrer.
I look around the room. Strapping male forms lounge on every surface like in a Greco-Roman bathhouse, but none of these men can compete with Casey. His stature. His steadiness. His ability to wrap his arms around me until my buzzing mind stills and my heart rate slows and everything is OK again.
“Explain it to me again,” Maya says, hopping on an open bar stool and motioning for me to do the same.
“It’s the pheromones,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside her and fussing with the length of my skirt. “Even a flirtatious conversation with another man will work. Casey will sense male interest in me and wake up, seeing me as more than just a friend. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”
Maya looks at me dubiously, but her face lights up when something catches her attention on the screen behind me.
“I bet that guy would get your juices flowing,” she says, pointing to the live broadcast. A muscled, glistening fighter flips the microphone out of the announcer’s hand and storms to the edge of the octagon, hoisting himself up the paneled fencing and down the other side.
His manager and corner people hurry after him.
“They call him the ‘Lothario of Lahaina,’ ” she informs me.
“Big ’roid rage energy coming off of that one.”
“Nah, he’s just touchy because they pulled his title fight again. He’ll never get a shot at the belt at this rate.”
“Ah yes, the belt. I absolutely understand how good and/or bad that is.”
Maya laughs. “Having the belt is everything in the UFC. It means you’re the champion.
A title fight is when a champion defends their belt against a challenger who has earned a title shot.
If the challenger wins, they get the belt and are the new champion.
But Lothario keeps getting his title shots pulled. ”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a menace.” Maya rolls her eyes.
“His partying is way out of control, even by cage-fighter standards. I read he once woke up on the steps of a cathedral in nothing but boxer briefs when wedding guests arrived. Then he punched the minister. Probably slept with the bride, too, although that part might just be a rumor.”
“And he can’t handle a simple interview? Who knew big scary fighters could be such babies.” I sip some whiskey through my cocktail straw. Maya grabs the straw from my lips and tosses it over her shoulder like salt.
“Don’t use that. You’ll drink too fast and lose all sex appeal.
You hiccup like a fucking cartoon character when you’re drunk.
” She shifts her attention to the bartender.
“Kind sir, will you please send those handsome gentlemen in that booth a round of your finest tap water, on us?” She slams a few dollars down as a tip and winks.
The bartender rolls his eyes but gets to work filling up pint glasses with ice cubes.
“Water?” I say, grinning.
“Times are tough,” Maya says defensively. “Plus, this is way funnier than sending a round of real drinks. Guaranteed, they’ll come over. Just watch.”
The men in the booth shoot us puzzled glances when their water arrives, but nobody comes over.
“I don’t understand,” Maya says. “My water gambit never fails at Wildrose. Let’s go there instead. One night with an energetic woman, and you won’t bother with men anymore.”
“I don’t bother with men now. That’s the problem.”
“Only because Casey met all your cuddle needs and your vibrator met your sex needs—but tonight, we’re gonna find you a man who does both.”
“So Casey gets jealous and realizes he’s in love with me.” I nod, fully on board with this plan.
“Um, sure.”
The whiskey does its job, and I relax as Maya chats up a pixie-cut CrossFit instructor to her right. Judging by their body language, it’s going well.
“We should go for coffee sometime,” Pixie Cut says to Maya.
“Oh, she doesn’t date,” I say, leaning in. Maya glares at me. “You don’t,” I say with a shrug, stealing her straw.
“Wait, are you guys …” Pixie Cut says, clearly worried she missed a signal somewhere.
“God, no,” Maya says way too quickly. “We’re just friends. Lauren and I met at what I assumed was her rock bottom.” Maya squints at me. “Turns out I was wrong.”
“No, let me tell it, you always exaggerate. So, I had this small lapse in judgment back in college—”
“Small?” Maya raises an eyebrow.
“—which led to the humbling experience of picking up trash along the highway. Maya was my supervisor, and she hasn’t stopped supervising me ever since.”
“That’s because you keep picking up trash,” Maya says.
She turns back to Pixie Cut with a wide grin.
“It was hilarious. All these hardened criminal types, and then there was Lauren, folding everyone’s reflective vests like they were cardigans from Banana Republic.
” She looks back and smiles warmly at me, and for the first time since seeing Helena enter the kitchen, my jaw relaxes a bit.
If the lowest point in my life brought me Maya, who’s to say this Helena nightmare won’t have a positive outcome too?
“So, you’re a parole officer.” Pixie Cut bites her lower lip seductively. Clearly, she has a thing for a woman in uniform.
“Community supervisor,” I correct.
“Yes, exactly like a parole officer,” Maya says, kicking me hard under the bar.
“Well, if you don’t date, maybe we could go do laundry sometime. Or get our cars washed? You know—errands.”
“Errands.” Maya smiles. “I could do errands.”
By the time the lights dim for the title fight, they are making their exit.
“Sorry. I know we came here for you, but I’m going through a hot phase and can’t help but pull. Don’t hate me?”
Pixie Cut waits for her by the door.
“Envy, always. Hate, never,” I say, kissing her cheek and waving her off.
My stomach rumbles. I should have eaten a slice of pizza before escaping Casey’s, but the shock of meeting Helena was too much. I mean, why now? And why did he introduce her to the girls before even telling me he was thinking of dating again?
Someone broad-shouldered settles on the barstool next to me, grazing my arm due to the tight quarters.
He must have just swept in from outside because fresh, cold air radiates off him.
The bartender seems to know him and places a frothy daiquiri in front of him without a word, complete with a twee miniature umbrella.
“I’m sorry, but this seat is taken,” I say, noting his clothes. He’s dressed for drinking at a backyard fire pit, not a chic metropolitan bar. Ripped jeans that have clearly been worn painting, a faded zip-up hoodie, and—I lean in closer to verify—navy Crocs.
The man looks around, the outline of muscles visible beneath his hoodie. He turns back to me, his dark beanie accentuating bright hazel eyes the exact shade of my whiskey.
“Taken by whom?”
“I haven’t decided yet. One of them,” I say, pointing to the sea of men in tailored shirts and acceptable footwear filling the upscale bar.
“No worries. I drink fast.” He motions for the bartender to freshen my cocktail as well. The same bartender who has ignored me since Maya made him deliver free waters to a table of confused men now jumps to attention.
“Thank you.”
He holds out his hurricane glass and clinks it gently to my tumbler.
“I hate to break it to you,” I say, nodding to his frothy blue cocktail, “but this is Seattle. It’s illegal to drink anything other than coffee, whiskey, or an IPA.”