Chapter Seventeen
Lissa is so lost in the conversation with Ash that it surprises her when last orders are called at the bar.
‘I guess that’s our cue,’ she says, hooking her jacket off the back of her chair.
He moves behind her as they weave through the crowd to the door, his hand hovering just behind the small of her back. She’s aware of it being there, not quite touching. Aware of how easy it would be to move back into it. Of how much she wants to do that.
She welcomes the cold air as they climb the steps back onto the street, where the atmosphere is still buzzing, students out in force.
They meander down the street, heading vaguely in the direction of Lissa’s flat but without any real purpose.
Then Ash stops, looking over at a pub on the other side of the road where people are spilling out onto the street, the door propped open so they have a view of a band playing inside.
‘Hey, come on,’ he says, grabbing her hand. ‘That looks like fun.’
He pulls her across the road, not seeming to bother to check for traffic, and she laughs a little breathlessly as she goes with him.
He doesn’t drop her hand as they reach the doorway, and she tries not to notice the way goosebumps are rising up her arm, grateful they are hidden by her jacket.
Tries not to think about how all her attention goes right to that point of contact between them.
It’s the alcohol, she tells herself firmly. It’s making her light-headed and silly. But still, she extracts her hand with the excuse of looking in her bag for something. Safer, all things considered, not to touch.
The pub is warm and loud, with a makeshift dance floor cleared at the front where the band are playing.
The female singer’s voice is low and sultry, the hoops in her ears dancing as she moves.
Low lighting flickers from the corners of the room, candles on tables burnt down to their wicks. It reminds her of somewhere …
Somewhere underground, with dim lighting and flickering candlelight.
Somewhere with a jazz band playing in one corner of the room, trumpets blaring, the singer’s voice rising over the hum of chatter.
Where women spin in sequinned dresses and men lean against the bar in tailored suits and shiny shoes.
Where the air is thick with sweat, perfume and liquor and the laughter feels slightly too loud, almost frantic – a tension that no one wants to look directly at.
A speakeasy, she knows. One she’s not supposed to be at. But she couldn’t resist the opportunity to see him again, to dance with him – not when she doesn’t know when he’ll be leaving this time.
Lissa blinks, the memory fading as Ash comes to a halt, his body, just for a second, held oddly stiff before he visibly relaxes, like it’s a conscious effort.
Lissa realises why a moment later, and her stomach does a horrible, awkward squirm.
Because that’s Mark walking towards them, his arm around a girl – petite, well dressed.
Smiling up at him like she’s more than a little loved up.
He jerks to a stop a few feet from them, late to notice. He looks to Lissa first, and the smile fades from his face a little. Then he clocks Ash right next to her, seems to do a double-take. ‘Oh,’ he says, the smile now gone completely.
It’s ridiculous. They haven’t been on a date in months, and they see each other all the time in the office. Although they might see each other, but they’ve fallen into a pattern of tactfully not talking, haven’t they?
‘Hi, mate,’ Ash says breezily. He smiles at Mark’s date. ‘Hey, Jen.’
She smiles back. ‘Hey.’ Jen, okay. She has a name, and Ash has met her, so she’s clearly not too recent.
Ash clears his throat. ‘Ah, Jen, Lissa. Lissa, Jen.’ He gestures between them at the introduction.
‘Hi, Lissa.’ Lissa does a sort of awkward wave back. Jen cocks her head. She’s wearing blue studs in her ears, and they glint a little in the dim lighting. ‘I’m missing something, aren’t I?’
A flash of a grimace passes over Mark’s face. ‘Lissa and I used to …’ He wafts a hand in the air and Lissa feels her cheeks flush. ‘I mean, not seriously,’ he adds quickly. ‘And not for a while.’
‘Right,’ Lissa agrees, making her voice both firm and upbeat. ‘Not for a long time. And not seriously.’ For fuck’s sake, why does this city have to be so bloody small?
Mark glances between Ash and Lissa. His arm is still around Jen, though he has loosened his grip. ‘So are you guys hanging out now?’
Ash shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels. ‘Depends what you mean by hanging out. I mean, we are currently hanging out, but we’re not “hanging out”.’ He lifts his hands to do the air quotes.
‘Right,’ Mark says, nodding slowly.
‘Well, this is brilliantly awkward,’ Jen says brightly. Lissa decides she quite likes her. ‘So I reckon either we all do tequila shots together, or else we leave these two to it. Mark, what do you think?’
‘Yes.’ Mark’s hand moves to her waist, squeezes lightly. He nods at Ash and Lissa. ‘You guys have fun.’
Ash moves to the side to allow them to pass. ‘Catch up later?’ he asks, sounding a little sheepish.
‘Yeah,’ Mark says. ‘Sure.’
He and Jen step through the doorway, and when they are definitely out of earshot, Lissa thumps Ash in the ribs.
‘Ouch,’ he says drily.
‘You didn’t tell him,’ Lissa hisses.
‘No. Sorry. Although, to be fair, you didn’t either.’ She wrinkles her nose at that. ‘I was going to,’ Ash continues, ‘but I wasn’t sure what exactly there was to tell him.’ He looks at her then, his blue eyes intense, so that it feels like a question. One she doesn’t think it’s best to answer.
Instead she jerks her head towards the bar. ‘Drink?’
‘Good idea.’
Lissa’s skin feels itchy as she stands next to him at the bar, like something has changed between the doorway and here. Like Mark seeing them means something, when really it shouldn’t. The music, some sort of jazz fusion, thrums inside her, and she feels too hot even as she strips off her jacket.
Ash downs his drink in one, sets the glass on the bar. His knee is moving, like he’s trying to siphon off some energy. ‘Let’s dance,’ he announces.
‘Er, why?’
‘Why not?’ He takes her hand and pulls her onto the dance floor without waiting on an answer.
He keeps hold of one of her hands, places his other on her waist. Beneath her top, her skin heats, and when she looks up, feeling the weight of his focus on her, she thinks he can tell.
Thinks he can feel it. He moves her across the limited space, lifts one arm for her to twirl under, and she obliges.
‘You can dance,’ he states.
She grins. ‘Why, surprised?’ She’s never exactly loved dancing in public, what with the whole being-the-centreof-attention thing, but she’s always been able to do it.
His fingers skim lightly down her spine, and it’s all she can do not to shiver.
The space between them feels flimsy, and not just because they’re so close.
He’s watching her, his gaze holding hers.
She should look away. But she doesn’t want to.
She moves her hand from his shoulder to rest on the side of his neck instead, sees the pulse in his throat jump.
His hand slides back to her waist, his fingers curling there, and heat flares between her thighs.
Her heart is beating fast, a warning drum that she doesn’t want to listen to.
The pub blurs around them as they dance, colours swirling in a way that doesn’t feel real. She’s back there in that speakeasy with him. Music swirls around them, urging them on – not his band this time, but another one.
‘Did you think any more about it?’ he asks, his voice low, meant only for her. She knows what he’s talking about. He wants her to move out of the city, to take her art more seriously.
You could be the next Augusta Savage, he told her the last time she saw him, as they walked through Central Park hand in hand.
‘I’m still thinking,’ she hedges, not wanting to let him down. ‘But I’m needed here, for now.’ And it’s a stupid dream anyway, to paint, to do something with that. She knows she is destined to stay here in New York. She only wishes he would stay too.
A slight crease furrows his brow – he knows a little, about her sister, the way her parents are broken because of it.
She takes her hand from his, places it on his chest. ‘Let’s not talk about it now, okay?
Let’s just enjoy tonight.’ Because he’s leaving in the morning, off with his band to the next city.
He smiles a little, nods. At her waist, his hand moves in a slow circle, and she tries not to shiver.
She can almost taste the subtle edge of his cologne, and she breathes in the smell of him, deeper than that.
His fingers move to the small of her back, tightening their grip, and she sees the way his Adam’s apple bobs as she holds his dark gaze.
I love you. She wants to say it then. Wants to let the words loose, to taste them on her tongue. But she can’t – not yet. Because he is only ever passing through. Because, as much as she’d like to pretend otherwise, she can’t leave until her mother is better.
He bends his head towards her, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. She closes her eyes, waiting for the kiss. Only it doesn’t come.
She can still feel his hand pressed to her lower back, holding her in place.
Can smell sandalwood and grass. Only it’s not his hand.
It’s Ash’s. It’s Ash’s thumb rubbing a light circle over her knuckles.
A soft, subtle gesture – one that shouldn’t make her breath catch as it does.
She knows he hears the sound, because his fingers curl at her back, tightening their hold, and his eyes darken in the flickering light.
His gaze drops to her mouth and her breathing stutters.
Jesus. She should have stopped at one gin and tonic. It’s making her light-headed.