It's not that the women back home didn't have careers or anything, but most of the ones I knew were sisters and moms and not much else. There isn't much to be around there, and it's got nothing to do with gender. The idea of firms and work and forced vacations is foreign in and of itself, and for a second, I think of wrapping things up and saying goodnight, because I don't have a shot in hell.
Except she's talking to me, she's still here, I do have a chance and there's no point in running off now. At worst, I get a little conversation from a hot girl and I go back to the hut no worse off than I already was. It's not nothing.
"Sounds like a solid plan to me," I tell her, setting my glass back down. My reasons for wanting to get away are totally different, but my plan is, tentatively, the same. It's hard to have much of an idea of what to do around here when I can't completely fight off the guilt of being away when I'm supposed to be the head of the house. I have to keep reminding myself I don't owe them my life. That it's not like I chose this. I didn't just abandon them, even though I could have, any day of the last two years. I could have, but I never did. "You know, it's, it's good. You get to take a break and relax for a change. Have a little fun."
It's almost strange, but I don't feel scrutinized in any way, don't feel like I'm being placed on the end of a microscope and studied so intensely that I think I might shrivel up from the heat. Sure, there are moments when I catch him staring from time to time, but I don't feel awkward. If anything, I'm more aware, some senses placed on higher alert while others are slightly more numbed. It's what I was going for when I set out for this place tonight, though, so I'm not complaining.
"That's the plan," I declare, taking another sip from the glass and reaching to pluck out the olive before I forget it's there and embarrass myself by some other means. When I pull it off, nudging it to the inside of my cheek to bite, there's a moment when the movement down on the opposite side of the bar catches my eye and I absently run the pointed end of the pick across my lower lip, gently pressing against the swell.
"And this is where it starts, too. Right here, in this dress and with these drinks," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the blurred faces down the other end and directing it back to him. This is the first night I've really let my hair down, so to speak, and in a very long time. "And with you, apparently," I add, a little softer, almost absently.
I'm still watching her mouth when she looks back at me. It's impossible to look elsewhere when she does things like that, when her lips are full and pink and I can only think of having them on me, anywhere at all, her cheeks flushing. It's warm out, I'm warm, even having left my dad's jacket in the hut for once.
That's not it and I know it, or it's not all of it, but I can't care when she says things like that. She's got a plan, I tell myself, she's old enough to know what she's doing. I don't answer right away, swallowing my heart back into my chest first. "With me," I echo, both a question and agreement. "I like that plan." I don't think I could make a bigger understatement if I tried. It occurs to me that Ellen might be leading me on and this ends with her laughing at me the way I'm pretty sure Brandy does from time to time when she remembers I ever existed, but if there's a sliver of a chance that I have a shot with her, I don't care.
I don't even care that there's a traitorous part of me that just wants to smooth her hair back and take care of her, if only just to prove I can, that I'm capable. It's been two weeks since I last saw Callie. It's not like we were dating or anything, there's nothing keeping me from being with someone else for a night, but it seems like that makes it even more important it not mean anything, not even a little. She's a person, though, soft and kind and in need of a vacation, and despite the idea she was something serious and respectable and grown-up back home, wherever that is, right now she just seems young. Sweet. I'd ask her what it is she did, but what she needs is an escape. And so do I.
I've resumed the pressure of the pick, the light pinprick of contact against my lower lip, pushing just hard enough for it to hurt a little but not enough to draw blood. It's not sharp enough for that, not really, but there's a part of me that wants to know what it would feel like if it did, breaking past the first layer and then the drop of salty red that would blossom, lingering there until I sucked it away. But then I start thinking about the blood, all of the blood, David's blood over me, covering my hands, my clothes, running down the city streets with nothing but a coat covering blood and skin and silk, and I frown in thought, dropping the pick on the bar and resting my hand against the wooden surface instead, its top mottled by age and use. It's seen more patrons than just the two of us in all the years it's been here, enough time for someone to take a knife, to smash a bottle, to stumble and catch themselves against the leverage of its edges.
"Unless you're not willing to assume that kind of a responsibility," I add, chuckling quietly. There's a degree of teasing in it, of levity, trying to make the remark imply less than it does, but my gaze lingers on him a little too long for it to mean absolutely nothing. I straighten up, hips pivoting again, just enough to ease my legs over to one side, crossing them at the knee, and the hem of the skirt hitches up to reveal a little more thigh. I'm not worried.
"The plan, as it stands, is to enjoy a few drinks, and then maybe walk along the beach until daytime. That was the plan for me, anyway." I still intend on potentially going through with it, unless given a compelling reason to do otherwise. "What are your plans, Harley?"
I'm torn between telling her no, I'm not willing, and begging her to let me. Telling her my plans are to keep on taking advantage of the free drinks and her company, but my hopes are a lot more carnal, but I'm kind of afraid if I let out a hint of that, I'd wind up begging for that, too. There's a time and a place for pride, but when I can see enough of her thigh to make me think I might have a little trouble walking anywhere with her just now, I can't remember when and where.
"A few drinks and a walk on the beach," I tell her with a self-conscious smile. Don't laugh, don't laugh. There are nights I barely sleep anyway, nights I can't sleep. Spending this one trailing after her like a lost hunting dog doesn't seem like a bad idea. Even if it did, I've had worse. "If - if you don't mind the company."
"Good." I absently glance down at the contents of the glass, trying to gauge how much is left and whether or not I should even risk having another. This is, what, my third or fourth at this point, and the vodka's strong - some island-distilled version, most likely, and I'm starting to feel it in my head, my skin. It almost feels like the heat is emanating from my body strong enough to burn through the damn dress itself. This is when the impulse control starts to shatter. This is when I would be calling Wes' number or even just showing up at his apartment unannounced, kissing him until neither of us could breathe and barely making it into his bed.
I know my cheeks are flushed from the memory and the drinks, but I try to disguise it with a soft clearing of my throat as I glance over at him, nodding once. "No, I promise I don't mind. It's probably better I have someone to supervise. They say you shouldn't try to go swimming after you've been drinking," I add, chuckling low. "And I'd hate to get this dress wet."
I let out a laugh, glancing at my own empty glass, nodding to the bartender for another. It's easier to laugh tonight, to smile. It's not the alcohol either. I've had more than this before, including back home the day I arrived, and I know I laughed a lot when I went to see Uncle Mike, but it wasn't because anything was funny, it was because it wasn't. Isn't. Sitting here in the warmly lit bar, soaking in the pleasant heat of the beer and her company, though, for a few minutes I can almost forget I'm me. I wonder briefly if my life could have been like this if I'd been born somewhere else to someone else. But then, I never would have been at all, I guess. We get the cards we're dealt and we play them the best we can.
For a few minutes, though. For a few minutes, I like pretending. That I'm someone girls like, that I'm someone I like. That I can be confident and easy-going and not remember the three girls I'm supposed to be taking care of or the things I need to do. That getting involved with me, even for a night, isn't probably going to be a disappointment or a disaster for Ellen.
"I... can't pretend I'd mind that," I admit with a laugh, shaking my head. "I'll try and keep you from drowning, though, yes." Even entirely sober, I'm not much good at supervising anyone, but I've gotten better at it. I can manage that much for her, even with a few drinks in me and me reaching for another.
"Good. That takes a load off my mind," I declare, an exaggerated grin making it past my lips seconds before I wind up taking another sip from my glass. There's less left than I originally realized; there always is with these kinds of drinks, they're deceptively full until they are, and by the time you figure it out they're gone already, leaving nothing but the lingering taste of olives and the stronger taste of vodka in their wake - or any other flavors that have entered the mix, especially with one of those girlier-looking martinis with some ridiculously fruity garnish.
"One more," I decide out loud, lifting my index finger to indicate. I know I'm nudging the barrier between tipsy and sloppy, but I can tread it a little while longer. I just have to take this next drink slowly so as not to test my limits beyond what I can handle. The flush in my cheeks might as well be permanent at this point, but maybe if I ignore it, it'll fade on its own. Wishful thinking, another part of me says, but I push that down as readily as I bury anything else these days.
"Any more than that and it might be difficult for me to navigate around in these shoes. I had a hard enough time walking over here to begin with," I confess, leaning over to inspect the heels in question. They don't seem to have gotten too dirty, but these paths aren't exactly Manhattan sidewalks. "I get the feeling I look a little ridiculous, all dressed up like this and nowhere to go but here."
It's like blanket permission to look. Not that I need it, but I take it anyway, glancing down to the shoes in question, gaze following the contours of her leg on up to her thigh, the curve of her waist, the curve of her tits. The shoes are impractical, yeah, in a place like this, but I'm not going to say so. If she can handle them, good for her, because I don't know how anyone would in a place that's half sand. I wouldn't change a thing about the dress unless it was because she let me take it off of her.
I shake my head. "You don't look ridiculous," I tell her and it's not just that I'm trying, however badly, to hit on her. It's just a fact. "You look beautiful."
There's a part of me expecting to get slapped every other second, but I don't flinch away, I just brace myself for it. She can't deal out any worse than I've received before. She doesn't seem to mind me talking, but women are hard enough to figure out before they start drinking and I can't ever read the signals right.
I turn back to the bar just in time to catch the delivery of my fourth (and likely last, at this juncture) drink, but there's a shifting in my periphery that I can't figure out, and for a moment I can swear I feel eyes on me. There's the feeling I get when I know I'm being watched, a tingling that starts at the base of my spine and ripples upward, but this time it doesn't leave me with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and I wonder if it should.
"Really?" I finally look over, choosing not to take that first sip right off the bat. I need to pace myself through this last one. Besides, I can already feel the blush creeping over my skin, blood pooling in my cheeks and chest even though only the former is visible.
"Thank you," I tell him, softly and sincerely. I can tell it isn't a line; I know he's being just as sincere. Years of practice against Patty have taught me that much, at least. And that sincerity, in itself, makes all the difference. My hand leaves my drink and comes down to rest over his, giving it a brief, grateful squeeze before I move to pull it away.
I never understand how a girl like her can't know it. I mean, not that I've really known anyone like her, but she's gorgeous. Dark hair and dark eyes, an incredible body. She's probably brilliant and successful, too, coming from a world completely apart from my own, even if it's in the same universe. She probably went to college somewhere impressive and usually walks around in those heels like they're her bare feet. It's a simple compliment, but she means that thank you, and I don't know why guys aren't falling all over themselves to tell her the same thing all the time.
Her hand touches mine and then it's pulling away, and without thinking, without meaning to, I turn mine to catch hers, fingers curling lightly around her wrist, heat running sharp through my veins. I may not get it, but there's something about the way she doesn't know that that makes her more beautiful. The girls who know it tend to be bitches anyway.
"Really," I say. "You are." I don't want to let go of her, unless it's to do more than touch her wrist, her hand, but I draw carefully back even so. I don't want to scare her off or push or anything, not here and now, and I reach for my beer instead. "The dress just helps."
I might be the younger sister, but somehow I turned out to be the responsible one in the family. That being said, you'd never guess it by the way my life managed to take such an abrupt turn from Carrie's. She was the one who married first, who got pregnant first. Then again, I would've probably been married by now if it hadn't been for my involvement in the Frobisher case. Sometimes I think I'm turning more into Patty with every day that passes, each time I choose my career over anything else. I could've had Carrie's life, her marriage. But I wouldn't have any of this now. It doesn't stop me from weighing my choices when I allow myself to stop and think about it.
I'm not thinking now.
His fingertips are chilled from the beer bottle when they graze my wrist, curling into a tighter grip, and for a second I'm convinced my pulse manages to skip a beat, but the moment passes and instead I'm simply offering him another slow smile. "Well, the dress is supposed to help if only a little," I reply, my chuckle muffled in the next sip I take. There's something about him I can't quite place, that constant enigmatic quality that I'm trying to zero in on. Drinking doesn't really help with that, but it is helping with something else. "Take it off and there's not much left."
I swallow hard to get the sip of beer down and wind up almost choking anyway, setting the beer down as I try to school my face, but now all I can think about is taking it off her and all the bare skin underneath. Like I wasn't already imagining that. I couldn't look more ridiculous if I tried, I'm pretty sure, and then I realize that she might not even mean that literally, because it's not like she could walk around in public like that, but I'm pretty sure there being not much left could only help.
"I'm sorry," I say, realizing I've been spluttering, passing the back of my hand over my mouth. I'm pretty sure honesty about things like this only gets a guy slapped, but I've got a decent buzz going and the way she smiles makes me feel like I'm gonna lose my mind. "I thought for a second you were talking literally and I - uh. But I'm sure that's not true." She's a lot more than a dress, but I'm afraid if I try to find out how much more, I'll lose the nerve I've been working up.
I know I'm probably supposed to be embarrassed about my unintended double entendre, but all I can do is laugh at the accidental gaffe - if I could even call it that at all. His face is completely devoid of any color at this point, and for a moment I do experience a flash of guilt over having unintentionally startled him that way. But then the guilt is replaced by concern when he starts coughing, trying to recover, and I lean towards him, resting a hand on his forearm.
"You're okay?" I ask him, hoping he remembers to start breathing again. Seeing him that pale isn't proving to do anything but dredge up some memories, and I'm just grateful that neither one of us has started bleeding at any point thus far tonight. "You're white as a sheet." He isn't cold, though; I can feel that much under my hand, my thumb rounding over the outer bone of his wrist.
I don't know, I think, remembering Thalia like a flash, the edge of concern in her expression before it ran, the brush of her fingertips over my cheek. Ellen's touch is gentle, but more definite. I'm not imagining it, couldn't be, the way I still feel I imagined Thalia's hand like a ghost against my skin. For whatever reason, maybe because we're both edging past tipsy or because we don't know each other and I'm not giving anything up, Ellen's not scared of me or bothered. I wonder what it means that Thalia might be, that I can spook something under that iron exterior. But I know what it means. There's something dangerous about giving a damn about someone and, I don't know how, but she does.
I'm running hot and cold, and I wish I had the jacket, but mostly I don't want to think about any of that right now, so I take a sip of my beer, almost gone now, and nod. "You almost killed me with that one," I say, managing a smile, because I don't mean it. It's not the words that drive me crazy now, not with her hand on my wrist, the careful curl of her fingers. I try to keep still because the urge to move is relentless. "Yeah, I'm okay."
I withdraw my hand with a curl of my fingers, tucking them in against my palm until I have a loosely closed fist resting on top of the bar for a few seconds, and then my hand drops back down into my lap as I reach for my drink with the other. It only takes a sip and a half to down the rest and my head is swimming for a myriad of reasons as I nudge the empty glass across the bar, away from myself. He says he's fine, but I'm starting to feel a little cramped, the way I do when I'm cooped-up and need the sensation of a breeze on my face, need the open spaces to feel less confined, so really, my next suggestion is as much for me as it is an extended invitation to him. Maybe even moreso.
"Come on," I say, jerking my head towards the door in a slow nod. I'm already swiveling around to plant my feet on the floor, making sure I have my bearings in these heels before I start walking, my hands smoothing over the front of the dress to ease it back down so it isn't riding up any further. "I think I need that walk now, and I might also need an arm to hold onto." I've got my back turned to him, and I glance over one shoulder to make sure he's heard, smiling hopefully.
Except she's talking to me, she's still here, I do have a chance and there's no point in running off now. At worst, I get a little conversation from a hot girl and I go back to the hut no worse off than I already was. It's not nothing.
"Sounds like a solid plan to me," I tell her, setting my glass back down. My reasons for wanting to get away are totally different, but my plan is, tentatively, the same. It's hard to have much of an idea of what to do around here when I can't completely fight off the guilt of being away when I'm supposed to be the head of the house. I have to keep reminding myself I don't owe them my life. That it's not like I chose this. I didn't just abandon them, even though I could have, any day of the last two years. I could have, but I never did. "You know, it's, it's good. You get to take a break and relax for a change. Have a little fun."
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"That's the plan," I declare, taking another sip from the glass and reaching to pluck out the olive before I forget it's there and embarrass myself by some other means. When I pull it off, nudging it to the inside of my cheek to bite, there's a moment when the movement down on the opposite side of the bar catches my eye and I absently run the pointed end of the pick across my lower lip, gently pressing against the swell.
"And this is where it starts, too. Right here, in this dress and with these drinks," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the blurred faces down the other end and directing it back to him. This is the first night I've really let my hair down, so to speak, and in a very long time. "And with you, apparently," I add, a little softer, almost absently.
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That's not it and I know it, or it's not all of it, but I can't care when she says things like that. She's got a plan, I tell myself, she's old enough to know what she's doing. I don't answer right away, swallowing my heart back into my chest first. "With me," I echo, both a question and agreement. "I like that plan." I don't think I could make a bigger understatement if I tried. It occurs to me that Ellen might be leading me on and this ends with her laughing at me the way I'm pretty sure Brandy does from time to time when she remembers I ever existed, but if there's a sliver of a chance that I have a shot with her, I don't care.
I don't even care that there's a traitorous part of me that just wants to smooth her hair back and take care of her, if only just to prove I can, that I'm capable. It's been two weeks since I last saw Callie. It's not like we were dating or anything, there's nothing keeping me from being with someone else for a night, but it seems like that makes it even more important it not mean anything, not even a little. She's a person, though, soft and kind and in need of a vacation, and despite the idea she was something serious and respectable and grown-up back home, wherever that is, right now she just seems young. Sweet. I'd ask her what it is she did, but what she needs is an escape. And so do I.
"So what's the plan exactly?"
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"Unless you're not willing to assume that kind of a responsibility," I add, chuckling quietly. There's a degree of teasing in it, of levity, trying to make the remark imply less than it does, but my gaze lingers on him a little too long for it to mean absolutely nothing. I straighten up, hips pivoting again, just enough to ease my legs over to one side, crossing them at the knee, and the hem of the skirt hitches up to reveal a little more thigh. I'm not worried.
"The plan, as it stands, is to enjoy a few drinks, and then maybe walk along the beach until daytime. That was the plan for me, anyway." I still intend on potentially going through with it, unless given a compelling reason to do otherwise. "What are your plans, Harley?"
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"A few drinks and a walk on the beach," I tell her with a self-conscious smile. Don't laugh, don't laugh. There are nights I barely sleep anyway, nights I can't sleep. Spending this one trailing after her like a lost hunting dog doesn't seem like a bad idea. Even if it did, I've had worse. "If - if you don't mind the company."
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I know my cheeks are flushed from the memory and the drinks, but I try to disguise it with a soft clearing of my throat as I glance over at him, nodding once. "No, I promise I don't mind. It's probably better I have someone to supervise. They say you shouldn't try to go swimming after you've been drinking," I add, chuckling low. "And I'd hate to get this dress wet."
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For a few minutes, though. For a few minutes, I like pretending. That I'm someone girls like, that I'm someone I like. That I can be confident and easy-going and not remember the three girls I'm supposed to be taking care of or the things I need to do. That getting involved with me, even for a night, isn't probably going to be a disappointment or a disaster for Ellen.
"I... can't pretend I'd mind that," I admit with a laugh, shaking my head. "I'll try and keep you from drowning, though, yes." Even entirely sober, I'm not much good at supervising anyone, but I've gotten better at it. I can manage that much for her, even with a few drinks in me and me reaching for another.
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"One more," I decide out loud, lifting my index finger to indicate. I know I'm nudging the barrier between tipsy and sloppy, but I can tread it a little while longer. I just have to take this next drink slowly so as not to test my limits beyond what I can handle. The flush in my cheeks might as well be permanent at this point, but maybe if I ignore it, it'll fade on its own. Wishful thinking, another part of me says, but I push that down as readily as I bury anything else these days.
"Any more than that and it might be difficult for me to navigate around in these shoes. I had a hard enough time walking over here to begin with," I confess, leaning over to inspect the heels in question. They don't seem to have gotten too dirty, but these paths aren't exactly Manhattan sidewalks. "I get the feeling I look a little ridiculous, all dressed up like this and nowhere to go but here."
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I shake my head. "You don't look ridiculous," I tell her and it's not just that I'm trying, however badly, to hit on her. It's just a fact. "You look beautiful."
There's a part of me expecting to get slapped every other second, but I don't flinch away, I just brace myself for it. She can't deal out any worse than I've received before. She doesn't seem to mind me talking, but women are hard enough to figure out before they start drinking and I can't ever read the signals right.
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"Really?" I finally look over, choosing not to take that first sip right off the bat. I need to pace myself through this last one. Besides, I can already feel the blush creeping over my skin, blood pooling in my cheeks and chest even though only the former is visible.
"Thank you," I tell him, softly and sincerely. I can tell it isn't a line; I know he's being just as sincere. Years of practice against Patty have taught me that much, at least. And that sincerity, in itself, makes all the difference. My hand leaves my drink and comes down to rest over his, giving it a brief, grateful squeeze before I move to pull it away.
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Her hand touches mine and then it's pulling away, and without thinking, without meaning to, I turn mine to catch hers, fingers curling lightly around her wrist, heat running sharp through my veins. I may not get it, but there's something about the way she doesn't know that that makes her more beautiful. The girls who know it tend to be bitches anyway.
"Really," I say. "You are." I don't want to let go of her, unless it's to do more than touch her wrist, her hand, but I draw carefully back even so. I don't want to scare her off or push or anything, not here and now, and I reach for my beer instead. "The dress just helps."
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I'm not thinking now.
His fingertips are chilled from the beer bottle when they graze my wrist, curling into a tighter grip, and for a second I'm convinced my pulse manages to skip a beat, but the moment passes and instead I'm simply offering him another slow smile. "Well, the dress is supposed to help if only a little," I reply, my chuckle muffled in the next sip I take. There's something about him I can't quite place, that constant enigmatic quality that I'm trying to zero in on. Drinking doesn't really help with that, but it is helping with something else. "Take it off and there's not much left."
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"I'm sorry," I say, realizing I've been spluttering, passing the back of my hand over my mouth. I'm pretty sure honesty about things like this only gets a guy slapped, but I've got a decent buzz going and the way she smiles makes me feel like I'm gonna lose my mind. "I thought for a second you were talking literally and I - uh. But I'm sure that's not true." She's a lot more than a dress, but I'm afraid if I try to find out how much more, I'll lose the nerve I've been working up.
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"You're okay?" I ask him, hoping he remembers to start breathing again. Seeing him that pale isn't proving to do anything but dredge up some memories, and I'm just grateful that neither one of us has started bleeding at any point thus far tonight. "You're white as a sheet." He isn't cold, though; I can feel that much under my hand, my thumb rounding over the outer bone of his wrist.
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I'm running hot and cold, and I wish I had the jacket, but mostly I don't want to think about any of that right now, so I take a sip of my beer, almost gone now, and nod. "You almost killed me with that one," I say, managing a smile, because I don't mean it. It's not the words that drive me crazy now, not with her hand on my wrist, the careful curl of her fingers. I try to keep still because the urge to move is relentless. "Yeah, I'm okay."
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"Come on," I say, jerking my head towards the door in a slow nod. I'm already swiveling around to plant my feet on the floor, making sure I have my bearings in these heels before I start walking, my hands smoothing over the front of the dress to ease it back down so it isn't riding up any further. "I think I need that walk now, and I might also need an arm to hold onto." I've got my back turned to him, and I glance over one shoulder to make sure he's heard, smiling hopefully.
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