Please reconsider. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along. – Rumi
Layla’s heart thundered in her throat as she lifted the letter. She already knew who had written it. Staring at the black script in the moonlight, his oceanic gaze devoured her vision even as she stared at his note. It was written in an elegant hand, printed in all caps like a cartographer or an architect. Precise, deliberate; poetic. Her mystery man’s letters had an artful, almost whimsical slant to them – as if a wind had picked them up and whirled them far out over desert dunes.
Anise and jasmine musk drifted in through the open window and Layla took a deep breath, smelling his scent all around her. Like a sleepwalker she moved to the window, staring down at the moon-flooded lawn of the backyard. Caught in the shadows and light, he was there; just as she somehow knew he would be. Tall and lean and elegant, his black hair artfully tousled by the easy midnight wind, he was dressed in the same outfit she’d met him in. Hands in his trouser-pockets, he stared up at her; winsome, wistful. Not imploring and not desperate – but not letting her get away as his incredible aquamarine eyes pierced her through the moonlight.
The midnight wind wafted his scent up to her, drowning her in the fragrance of a far away desert. Devouring her with his presence, he watched her with a carnal intensity in the night. Layla’s lips had fallen open. Her breath moved in a soft silence and she could feel it synch to his. She could see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders; she could feel the curl of his breath slipping up through the window and easing in over her skin. Hot and chill, it caressed her; seeping in through her pores, diving into her wrists and ankles. Easing in through her lips like a lover’s kiss as she shuddered, breathing him – feeling his passion swirl down her throat.
A soft sound left her as her head fell back and her eyes closed; her eyelashes trembling as she gave a passionate, desperate sigh.
Her body shivered with the feel of him touching her – everywhere.
“Layla?”
With a fast breath, Layla startled, but it was only Luke’s low voice behind her. Warm hands touched her shoulders and her eyes snapped open, fixing upon the backyard. But no one was there, the yard empty and silent in the moonlight. As Luke’s hands smoothed over her bare shoulders, his arms wrapping around her and cuddling her close, Layla’s gaze fell to her fingers; she held nothing. Her gaze tracking to the desk, she saw no white card in the moonlight, no artful slant of black letters. But looking down at her left wrist, she saw the Moroccan cuff re-pinned there – clasped upon her once more as if it had always been hers.
Aqua eyes as luminous as the Mediterranean Sea swept her vision and she shuddered. But it was only Luke’s breath that coiled around her as his soft lips kissed her neck in the moonlight; as he gathered her sleepwalking body into his arms and moved them back towards the bed.
CHAPTER 7 – COILED
Heavy bass pumped through the brightly-colored ballroom with the high tin-tiled ceiling and art deco chandeliers; Layla felt it pounding the floor and rattling her body as she danced. Breathless with delight, she reached out and Arron spun her with a grin even though the dance floor in Club Havana on the crest of Capitol Hill was packed with people. A busy Saturday night, the chintzy 1930’s glamour of the club’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, Cuban chandeliers, and enormous potted palms with booths of red leather – not to mention the wall-to-wall crowd – was just what Layla needed to ease her worries of the past weeks.
Seizing her around the waist, Arron moved close and ground his hips to Layla’s with a scandalous laugh. Nearby, Celia was dancing with a cute blond guy as teensy as she was; he lifted her up with strong muscles under his sailboat-print shirt, then slid her down his body, making her squeal and giggle. Charlie was macking on a buff redhead in a tight tank top who looked like she could crush him like a walnut – he was beaming, having finally gotten the reluctant dancer out on the floor. Layla was lost in the hard beat of the house-remixed Top 40, letting Arron spin her until her head whirled. Arron was gay, but not until the end of the evening when he brought someone home to fuck loudly all night.
Until then, anyone was fair game to dance with, and Layla loved it.
Sweating hard now, she felt alive, surrounded by her friends having a good time. All except Luke. Luke didn’t dance, and sat watching them from a stool at the bar, sipping a drink and scowling. He’d grudgingly agreed to come to the club tonight, since he didn’t have any shifts on Sunday, but it was clear he wasn’t about to compromise his principles and shake his ass to Top 40.
Turning his direction, Layla ground back up against Arron, even though Arron’s attention was already straying to a hot Latino guy in a slim purple shirt. Luke rolled his eyes at the display. Arron reached out, corralling the hot Latino by the neck and Layla knew her cue. She stepped away as Arron pulled his new plaything in, dancing with hard, sexy moves. Sweat-slicked in her sequined apple-green cocktail dress, Layla squeezed through the throng to the bar. Luke watched her all the way, sipping a whiskey sour and lifting his dark brows as she arrived.
“Tired of making me jealous?” He yelled above the music as she squeezed in next to him.
“You’ve never been jealous of Arron and me!” Layla shouted back, hailing the bartender for a glass of water and an Old Fashioned. The man gave a quick nod, moving to get her drinks with the smooth haste of a pro. Layla was glad she’d never worked the club scene; it was a madhouse all along the length of the bar. Only Luke’s scowl and perpetual aura of disdain kept his spot from being crowded three people deep. Layla nodded her thanks as she got her drinks, then downed her water and sipped her cocktail, turning to the dance floor.
“This place is disgusting!” Luke shouted over, in that loud-yet-clandestine way of communicating through pumping bass and sardined bodies. His critical gaze surveyed the ballroom with its Cuban-inspired decor. Most of the revelers were younger than them. Early college and out on the prowl, they wore their shiniest outfits and had no idea how to actually approach each other – except for grinding. “I think I’ve seen like five people get roofied in the last hour!”
“If you don’t like it, don’t come next time!” Layla sipped her drink, feeling suddenly cross with Luke.
“I’m not going to let you come to a place like this alone!” Luke shouted back, turning to face her on his barstool.
“I’m not alone!” Layla retorted, setting her drink to the bar. “And if you don’t like coming out to places like this, don’t come! The other housemates can be my chaperones, Luke.”
“We’re dating again, Layla,” Luke lifted an eyebrow at her, his energy intensifying in the crowded space of the ballroom. “I’m not going to stay home while you get roofied by some asshole, especially not after that near-abduction scare three weeks ago. Watch your drink.” Reaching out, he snagged Layla’s glass and deposited it back into her fingertips. For some reason, his possessive move pissed her off and Layla snorted, downing the rest of her drink then setting it back on the bar with her eyebrows raised pointedly.
Luke scowled. A well-built guy in a fedora moved to the bar on his other side, bumping Luke’s arm and spilling some of his drink on Luke’s jeans. “Watch it!” Luke snarled, turning his Irish heat to Fedora Guy, who held up both hands with his eyebrows raised.
“Easy! Just getting a drink, bro.”
“Bull your way through a china shop and break only half the merchandise –bro!” Luke snarled back, clearly looking for a fight.
“What’s your problem, man?” Fedora Guy was scowling now, starting to turn and face Luke – not about to be treated like shit by Luke’s bad temper. He was bigger than Luke by a hand, with shoulders that trumped even a Crossfitting guy. Rolling her eyes, Layla seized Luke’s hand, hauling him off his barstool and shouting, “Sorry!” at Fedora Guy, then hustling Luke through the crowd toward the low-lit hall down by the bathrooms.
“What’s your problem?” Layla growled, echoing Fedora Guy’s sentiment once they were in a spot that wasn’t pumping quite as hard with bass.
“I don’t know.” Luke raked a hand through his wavy black hair. Reaching out, he snagged Layla around the waist, drawing her close. “Just… seeing you out there tonight with Arron pissed me off.”
“Arron’s gay, Luke!” Layla felt herself heat again, and not from dancing. Her relationship with Luke had picked up right where it left off when they’d gotten back together after her near-abduction scare three weeks ago. But something inside her roiled with anger just as it always had, that Luke was possessive of her. They were trying hard to be a couple again, but it had been three weeks of fighting followed by hot sex followed by more fighting – the both of them dropped back into their old patterns like their hiatus had never happened. Everything seemed to take a wrong turn with Luke, over and over. And now, gazing down at her, something frustrated shone in his eyes as he held her close.
“I know Arron’s gay, Layla! I just… something about it got to me tonight. Ever since we got back together, I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else. Even dancing with Arron… just triggered me, ok?”
