III Cara
III
Cara
I knew I hadn’t wanted Jack to leave when he did, but it hadn’t occurred to me what might happen if he’d stayed.
“I have just the place for a drink. Heard of Swan Dive?” I ask, jerking my thumb behind me without breaking eye contact. “On the house, even.” I hold the door open for him. The corner of his mouth turns up again, and my body starts humming at a low frequency.
I check the clock on the wall. 2:15a.m.
My broken-in Blundstones lead me back behind the bar. I can’t remember the last time my body moved faster than my brain.
By fifteen minutes after close, I should be pulling down the grate out front; by 2:45a.m., I should be at my front door; by 3a.m., I should be allowing my exhaustion from an eight-hour shift to carry me off to sleep. By 10a.m., I have to be at my mom’s apartment to make sure she’s eaten and taken her meds. I feel a pang in my stomach. How will I be able to do all of that if I don’t go home right now?
One hour , I tell myself. I can have a drink with this man for one hour. Years of long days on sets prepared me to do a lot on a little sleep.
“Should I lock this?” Jack asks, gesturing toward the entrance.
I nod. He turns the dead bolt, a consideration I find oddly touching and sexy, and slides onto a stool. Now that we’re the only two people here, I can’t covertly watch him from a distance, and I don’t know where to look.
“What can I get you?” I ask, falling back into my role of cocktail slinger to calm my nerves.
“Oh, whatever you have will do.” Jack rests his elbows on the marble surface and traces a hairline crack with his thumb. My brain, clearly stuck on the video it watched hours ago, registers it as a strikingly sensual gesture.
“It’s a bar. We have everything .” I try for easy, amused, but I have to look away from him to hide my blush.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“No, no, no. This decision is yours and yours alone.”
“Then... tequila. On the rocks.” He nods decisively. His eyes are on my neck and my arms.
“Tequila is good,” I agree simply. What is it about being in front of him that whittles my vocabulary down to fifteen words? Like if I say more, I’ll completely unravel. I’m not used to feeling off-kilter in the presence of an actor, and his star power isn’t what’s destabilizing me. I’ve been around plenty of “talent”—and enough to know that he has it , but he also doesn’t wield that like a weapon.
“Oh yeah, I can’t get enough of the stuff,” Jack says, then pauses. He clears his throat. “Not in, like, a problematic way. It’s just... that’s my go-to drink.”
I laugh. Is he nervous? My brain tingles pleasantly at the prospect.
My eyes skim our tequila labels. Clase Azul. I place it on the counter with relish, and I pour us both a few fingers over ice. Two hours ago, my exhaustion felt like a thumb pressing down on me, and now I have enough energy to power the engine of a small car.
“Cheers.” He clinks his glass against my own.
“Cheers? Isn’t that how Brits say goodbye?”
“Hello, goodbye, thanks, you name it,” he says with a laugh. “Not to be confused with cheerio, which only means goodbye.” He spins his glass. “Constantly having to educate Americans.”
“That’s why we declared independence. So we wouldn’t have to know any of this.”
“I thought it was so you didn’t have to pay taxes.”
“Common misconception.” I take a sip. The cold, salty liquor hardly matters at this point. My head is already at high altitude. I hadn’t bothered to turn the lamps back on, and our faces are illuminated by the light filtering in from the street.
“God, that’s smooth,” Jack remarks in surprise. “So, are you going to have a drink with me or one over there?” His chin gestures to the far side of the bar separating us.
The barstool next to him is innocuous. Wooden back, leather seat. But accepting his invitation to sit there, next to him, feels like unlocking the next level in a video game. Like I’ve found a cheat code that will allow me to inhabit the carefree lifestyle of a twenty-nine-year-old woman who isn’t shuttling her sick mother back and forth between chemo treatments at Cedars-Sinai.
Without replying, I walk out from behind the bar and slip into the seat, resting my feet on the bar between the stool’s legs. We’re facing each other now, his knees bracketing mine.
“You’ve never had this before?” I ask, turning my attention to our drinks to keep it off anything else. Clase Azul is a bottle service tequila of choice.
“No, I’m afraid my tastes aren’t much finer than Montezuma.”
“You’re telling me you don’t drink anything nicer than Montezuma?” I find this hard to believe—a performative celebrity move, maybe, like when models eat cheeseburgers during magazine interviews. “Really?”
“No, why would I?” His thumb traces circles around the rim of the glass. I watch it move with interest.
“Common decency for one.”
“Ouch!” he counters in mock offense.
“I’m very sorry,” I say in a tone that suggests I am not very sorry at all. “That was below the belt. Do you Brits have that phrase?”
“We do.” Jack leans forward. “But it means something completely different.” The warmth spreads from my cheeks to my chest, and I am grateful for the bar’s relative darkness.
“Well, certainly you can afford better tequila now that you’re the next big thing ,” I say in what I hope is a breezy, casual voice. But Jack just looks down at his glass, now cradled in his hands.
Shit. “I didn’t mean—” I sound... starry-eyed. Like the women who were gushing over him. “Drink whatever you like. Expensive doesn’t mean better.”
“No, no, it’s not that.” He pauses for a beat, gazes back up at me, and narrows his eyes as if to really take me in. “How do I explain this? It’s like my life is happening without any sort of input from me. The wheels are moving, and I’m strapped to the top of the car.”
I understand this so well it feels uncanny. But that’s more than I’m prepared to let on. Instead, I take a too-big gulp of my drink and cough, pushing down thoughts of anything that doesn’t involve the two of us here, now.
“I mean, not that I’m not grateful for these opportunities. I am... it’s just...”
“It’s like you’re watching your life happen to you instead of living it,” I say, measured.
“Exactly.” Jack peers at me slightly differently now, as though I’d peeled back a layer of my skin.
We sit in silence for a moment, waiting to see what the other might do or say to fill it.
“The way you got those women off my case, though, that was brilliant. Have you considered working in security? Bouncer instead of bartender?”
“You’d be surprised what you’re capable of when you use a firm, authoritative voice.”
Jack nods, taking this information in like it had never occurred to him before.
“And that’s something you picked up working here?”
I shake my head. “On set, actually.” He cocks an eyebrow. I get ahead of his next question. “I’m not an actor. I’m in set design. But I started as a PA, then worked in different art department roles until I could work my way up to production designer. Bartending is something I do... between gigs...” I don’t want to reveal the specific circumstances that necessitated my side hustle to usurp my main one. What was the definition of insanity? Telling a hot guy you just met about your mom’s cancer diagnosis.
Now, both of Jack’s eyebrows are raised in appraisal. He waits for me to continue.
“I noticed, working on all of these sets, which department heads and directors are best at getting people to respect them. It’s not the people who jump up and down and scream or throw these wild tantrums and act like divas. It’s the people who ask for what they want clearly and confidently.”
Jack looks straight into my eyes while he mulls this over. “You’re absolutely right. And the yellers and screamers—if I’m ever like that, you can go ahead and off me. Right then and there.”
“Jack, you seem really nice... but I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment,” I say, proud of myself for volleying back. It’s nice to banter—it makes me feel more like myself than I have in a while.
“And they always say it’s men who can’t commit.” Jack flashes that same wide smile from earlier, and I bask in it.
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have a big hit on your hands... from what I can tell?”
“So, does this mean you’ve seen my show?” He’s practically wincing.
I choose my next words with surgical precision, thinking back to watching the prelude to his sex scene, my back up against the wall.
“I’ve seen... parts of it.”
“It’s just... I grew up watching these forces of nature... like Denzel Washington and Daniel Day-Lewis. Actors who have these storied careers. Now every week there’s another article about how movies are dead, and there are more ‘next big things’ than there are actual things—successes. It’s hard to know if you’re building something real or if this is—if I am—a flash in the pan.”
I nod. “When I was a kid, my mom would show me all of these old MGM musicals like On the Town and An American in Paris , with all of these big, beautiful sets. As soon as I learned that someone was in charge of creating them, I knew that’s what I was going to do. But now that I’m actually getting to do it, I realize sets like those—they’re of another time.”
“I love those movies too!” Jack says excitedly, his knee knocking into mine. “I took a film history course at uni about the studio system in the States, and they were required viewing. I got hooked.”
“They’re the best.” I suppress my urge to ask his opinion of every movie he’s ever seen. “And now studio execs blame audiences for not flocking to movies where everything looks flat or fake...” I trail off when I realize how intently Jack is watching me. Our glasses of tequila are drained, and we’ve inched our bodies closer, angling toward each other. There are no nervous ticks, no furtive eye movements. I allow myself to sit and steep in this stillness. To soak up the warmth of his attention. To feel my body’s response to it. I’m buzzing, and I know it’s not the tequila.
“Well, I’d love to see some of your work sometime, Cara.” He pronounces it Cahr-a , like “car,” instead of how it’s meant to be said, like “care.” Someone saying my name wrong never sounded so good.
“Cara,” I respond, correcting.
“ Cah-ra. ”
“Cara.”
“ Cah-ra. ”
“You might want to hold off on accepting any parts where you play an American. Your accent still needs work.”
“What?!” he scoffs, incredulous. “What kind of dialect coach are you? This is not very encouraging.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I squeeze his forearm where the edge of his rolled-up shirt cuff meets his skin and feel his lean muscle against my fingers. He catches my eye with a smirk. I drop my hand abruptly, as if I’ve been caught. “I should be more encouraging. Be the Rex Harrison to your Eliza Doolittle.”
“So I’m the fair lady?” He shifts forward in his seat, the insides of his thighs grazing my knees as he does.
I slide forward too, and my legs press between his.
“Well, obviously . But that’s only my third-favorite Cukor.” I move away my empty glass, and a section of my hair falls loose.
“May I?” Jack asks, his hand pausing halfway to my face. I nod. He tucks the wave behind my ear. Then he drags a finger down my neck and traces the outline of my clavicle. I bask in his touch. My entire body perks up.
“So. What’s your favorite Cukor?” he whispers. It’s quite possibly the hottest question he could have asked me. I answer by pressing my mouth to his. His tongue finds mine, and he stands, pulling my face into his, his hands cradling my head. His mouth is on my earlobe, then my neck, and back to my lips. I can’t think about anything but where it will land next.
Jack pulls away, his thumb smoothing over my cheek, and I feel dizzy, like the room has been pressurized.
“Is this OK?” he asks, reaching under the hem of my T-shirt and searching my eyes.
“Yes.” I lean into him. My hands rake down his back. He drops his head and kisses my breasts through my shirt before pulling it over my head, revealing a simple black bra.
“My God, you’re really beautiful,” he murmurs as he takes me in, and I want to do the same to him.
“Your turn,” I tell him, and he lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. I’ve seen his chest like this before, three times exactly. But never at scale.
I kiss him harder this time. I lean my chest into his as he palms my lower back, and the pressure of our bodies meeting sends a current through me.
Before I can adjust to the thrill, he hoists me onto the empty bar.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he says, visibly impressed by his own execution, as he reaches for the button of my 501s and pulls down the zipper. I plant my hands on the bar behind me and lift my ass off the marble surface so he can slide the jeans down, and he slings them over a barstool.
He traces the edges of my underwear, first with his finger, then with his tongue. He moans like he’s the one being touched. The ache between my legs is so strong it’s almost painful.
I reach for his waistband.
“Jack, I want you to fuck me,” I tell him before I consciously have the thought.
“Oh, I’m going to. But you’ll have to be patient. Can you do that?” I nod in response. I feel myself flush.
He unhooks my bra, then kisses my neck, my shoulder, the crease of my elbow, my naked breasts, my navel. He kisses me through my soaked underwear, and when I reach for his belt buckle, he gives me a stern look, moves just out of my reach, and slips a finger into me. I gasp at the suddenness of it, and he grins, satisfied, eyes glowing. Like he senses he knows what I need more than I do. He might. He props my feet on the backs of our barstools and pulls my hips forward. When he pushes my underwear to the side and bends to lick me, he moans again, and it reverberates through every cell in my body. If I think about the fact that I’m getting head from a TV actor on a bar, it feels absurd, so I force myself to stay in the moment and merely enjoy the fact that I’m getting head from a TV actor on a bar. His tongue glides over my clit, and any prospect of thinking at all dissipates.
He grips the back of my knee to hold me still, and I let my head dip over the back side of the bar. Something falls—cocktail stirrers, napkins—I’m too caught up to discern the sound. I’m sprawled and open, and my awareness of that brings me closer.
“Oh, look, she can let go.” His teeth graze my inner thigh, and he uses two fingers to bring me over the edge. Ripples of pleasure break into waves crashing over the length of my body. My eyes blur, and all I can see is the sheen of sweat across his chest.
“ Jack, fuck me ,” I beg.
I hear the clink of metal, his belt buckle hitting the floor. When I look up, he’s naked except for gray cotton briefs, a wet spot in front where his dick was aching for escape while he was going down on me. He climbs onto the bar, slightly clumsily—adorably clumsily—and I catch the glint of a condom wrapper in his hand.
I reach for him, and this time he lets me. My breath hitches in my rib cage; I am about to get the big reveal, and I slide my hands into his waistband so I can feel it before I see it.
“No wonder those women were excited to see you.”
“What do you mean? I thought they liked me for my personality.”
I smirk, and he does too. I like both the feel of his dick in my hand and being able to tease him while I’m holding him.
“OK, you’ve had a laugh. Now I am going to fuck you, Cara.”
Cah-ra. And I’m back to following his lead, something I so rarely do.
He frees himself from his underwear, slips on the condom, and, with his hands on my hips, starts to coax himself gently inside me. His face hangs inches above mine, and he takes a few slow, deep breaths, the warmth of them hitting my cheeks, before he thrusts into me fully. In search of a way to steady myself, one of my hands finds the edge of the bar, and the other finds his ass.
“Fuck,” Jack cries out, muffling his own response by kissing me, his mouth more feverish now. The excitement of this night and this theatrically hot sex has us both at the brink. I hold him tighter and pull him deeper, wanting to make it the most . To sate myself fully. For a long time.
I feel Jack erupt inside me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, and he kisses my chin with a tenderness that doesn’t suit our situation: the two of us, only slightly more than strangers, lying spent on the surface where I poured glasses of Pinot an hour ago.
I wrap my arms around his back, squeezing him closer and keeping him inside of me, as if that can stop time. As if lingering inside this bubble we’ve created might prevent me from having to contend with all of the complications that exist outside of it. I’m not used to sex feeling transportive in this way, and I don’t want it to end.
“Would you come back to my hotel with me?” he asks, his breath still short, only now making its way back into his chest. I can feel the blood returning to my limbs as I contemplate where they’ll take me next.
I know I shouldn’t, that I ought to go home to my own bed. But I said yes to so many things tonight that I wouldn’t normally consider—a drink with Jack, a kiss with Jack, sex with Jack—what’s one more yes?
I nod. “But I have to do one thing first.”
“What’s that?”
“Bleach this bar.”