“Want to take a shot with me, Lana?” I say, gesturing to the bartender.
She laughs. “Sure, why not?”
“Two shots of your best tequila,” I tell the bartender. I cut my head to Elias. “He’s paying.”
Elias is uncharacteristically silent. I look over at him when the bartender hands us our shots, and he’s a mess, a mix of pissed and miserable. “Cheers,” I smile at Lana.
My new best friend Lana tells us she has to go. We all exchange numbers, and I promise to text her later. She leaves with a lingering glance at Elias, but he doesn’t notice, because he is too busy looking up and down my body.
“I really liked this Blonde Brigade candidate,” I say after she leaves. “My eyes are up here,” I remind Elias brightly, as he is currently focused on my tits.I love this dress.“Now we both have someone to text when we’re out later.”
His eyes finally meet mine. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Who was that guy?”
I shrug. “Hot Ben. I met him in the elevator.” I smile. “I think he liked my Hot Girl outfit.”
Elias scrubs his mouth with his palm, making a strangled noise.
“Well, let’s go get hammered,” I tell him, turning on my heel and walking away before him, just so he can watch my ass.
We both get over our initial discomfort around our fourth or fifth drink, and by then, I remember that Elias is actually one of my favorite people on the planet.
“Agent Ethel Anderson?” I giggle into my beignet, exploding a puff of powdered sugar into the air and all over my black dress.
“Our lord and savior herself,” he grins, and it’s big and goofy, his fifth beer making him loose but not as drunk as me, considering he’s twice my size. “She’s my absolute favorite client. She brings me home cooked food most times. Her macaroni pie is—” he mimes doing a chef’s kiss. “She also makes us practice waltzing for the last five minutes of our sessions. She loves to waltz, and it keeps her loose.”
“You know how to waltz?” I ask, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk.
“We all know how to waltz, Mia. Our parents made us take those dumb ballroom lessons,” he reminds me, catching me by the elbow.
He stops me right in the middle of the sidewalk then, and surrounded by wrought-iron balconies and people with yard glasses, he sweeps me into a waltz to the beat of a street performer somewhere down the street.
His giant body is more graceful than it seems, but it’s still hilarious to see him hold the upright posture required of the dance. He leans into it, too, holding himself with an exaggerated air of regality, and it’s too funny. We break apart because I end up doubling over in laughter.
He bends into a deep bow. “You look like Al Pacino inScarface,” he tells me, waving at the powdered sugar all over my face and dress.
“Hot Girl, Allie Pacino,” I correct him, brushing the sugar off as best I can.
We keep wandering aimlessly, taking in our surroundings.
“I love the architecture here,” I tell him.
He nods. “I read a little about it. Those,” he said, pointing to the wrought-iron balconies and arched windows, “are French and Spanish colonial details. The types of buildings you see around here, the sort of narrow, multi-story structures with the balconies overlooking the street, those are known as Creole townhouses.”
I stop and frown at him. “Are you making that up?”
He takes his thumb and smooths the spot between my eyebrows. “I know you think I’m some sort of himbo, Mia, but I do know some things.”
I keep walking. “I don’t think you’re a himbo,” I shoot back. “I know you can read,” I tell him, smirking.
He playfully tugs on my hair. “My comprehension is shit, but I can decode like a maniac.”
We pass by a bar packed full of people, funky soul music blaring through its wide-open doors. Trumpet, trombone, tuba, the sounds of brass fill the street. I stand on my tiptoes to see inside and see a huge brass band of maybe eight or nine members crammed onto a tiny stage, see a mass of people dancing with their limbs all over the place.
I turn to look at Elias with wide eyes, bouncing on my toes. He looks down at me with one of those soft smiles again, the one that I want to touch. “Let’s do it,” he says, linking his pinky finger with mine and leading me towards the front door. He pays for our cover and brings us straight to the bar.
I turn to watch the band while he places an order for two shots and two beers. Elias tugs on my pinky again, handing me a shot.
“One, two, three, eyes on me,” he says into my ear to be heard over the music, his breath tickling strange synapses.Fuck it, let me hear you.
