“I’m gonna pass,” I manage, my voice throaty.
Cori’s eyebrow arches, a silent question.You sure?
Rob’s hands slide from my hips to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I nod, more to convince myself than her. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself, lover girl,” Cori grins, already turning away. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Marcus lingers a second longer. He leans in, the noise forcing an odd intimacy. “You’ve got cab fare, right?” It’s not an idle question. It’s the specific, granular care of someone who knows what it means to be vulnerable in this city.
The concern touches a place that feels tender. “I’ve got it,” I assure him, meeting his eyes.
He searches my face, finds whatever assurance he needs, and nods. “Okay. Page us if you need anything.”
Then they’re gone, swallowed by the crowd moving toward the infamous back stairs.
I turn in the circle of Rob’s arms to face him fully. He has sandy hair, knockout dimples, and eyes glazed with the same shallow hunger I feel. He doesn’t speak. He just closes the distance, his mouth capturing mine.
The kiss is all sorts of sensations—the slick slide of his tongue, the faint abrasion of stubble, the crush of his body. For a few dizzying minutes, I lose myself in it. His hands tighten on my waist, and I’m just a body in a dark room, anonymous and free.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. “My place is ten minutes away,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “And quieter.”
The spell fractures. The ghost of Annemarie reasserts herself, not with judgment, but with a quiet, stubborn longing. This—the grinding, the nameless kiss—it’s a liberation, but it’s also an end point. A delicious, empty calorie. I think, with a sudden, piercing clarity, that I want the next time I have sex to be with someone whose name I’ll remember in the morning. Someone for whom I’m more than a warm body in a sexy dress.
“I should get home,” I say, the words feeling both like a failure and a victory.
He doesn’t press. Just nods, a flicker of disappointment quickly masked by cool acceptance. “Call me whenever.” Then, with a magician’s flourish, he produces a Sharpie from his jeans pocket. “Arm.”
Bemused, I offer my forearm. He uncaps the marker with his teeth and scrawls a phone number across my skin. The ink is cool, the digits slightly smeared from my sweat. “For when you change your mind,” he says, capping the pen. He winks, a parody of roguish charm, and melts back into the crowd.
I stare at the black numbers staining my skin. A trophy. A receipt.
Retrieving my leather jacket from the booth feels like an archaeological dig. Outside, the air hits me and it’s like stepping into a different world. I never thought New York City air would feel refreshing, but compared to the oppressive heat inside Lucky’s, it’s heaven, and cool against my damp skin.
I lean against the brick wall and take a breath, trying to get my equilibrium back.
Avenue B is still busy even though it has to be close to midnight by now. People spilling out of bars and restaurants, groups laughing and shouting to each other, a guy on a skateboard weaving through the crowd. The streetlights cast everything in orange and yellow, and the buildings loom up on either side, windows lit up in random patterns. Someone’s blasting music from an apartment above. A car horn blares. The whole city feels awake and buzzing.
I need to get a cab. Which is easier said than done, apparently, because I stand out here with my arm up for five minutes and three cabs pass me without stopping. One slowed down, the driver’s gaze passing over my disheveled form, and then sped up again, which feels a bit personal.
I could walk home. It’s only a few blocks. But I’m drunk and it’s dark and I’m a woman alone in New York City, which feels like a bad combination. So. Cab it is.
I step closer to the curb and throw my arm up again.
A cab passes. Doesn’t even slow down.
I groan.
Another one passes.
Then another.
“Come on!” I stomp my foot, which does nothing except make me look like a toddler having a tantrum.
Just as a yellow sedan finally glides to the curb, its roof light a beacon of hope, a voice cuts through the din.
“Wait!”
I turn.
