Josh walked Madeline over to the Plexiglas bar. He yawned despite himself and shot a quick apprehensive glance at the back of his girlfriend's head. He'd really intended to show her a good time. He'd spent so much time in the office as of late. It was a natural consequence of rising in the ranks in his sales division and more dubiously to make up for the efficiency his job performance lacked since meeting that little wisp of a girl. Most of his time was spent imagining all of the ways he wanted to take her that they'd missed somehow that first day. He'd fixated pretty heavily on one particular fellatio fantasy, so much so that he started to spend most of his on-the-clock hours plotting out ways to hire her as his personal assistant... provided she even called him first.
Allowing himself to be dragged dumbly to the glowing bartop, he tried to engage, he really did, but endless prattle about the banal friends she had talked him into seeing with her, knowing full well that once they actually joined this colorless group he'd only have to endure even more prattle about subjects he gave even less of a shit about... Josh resigned himself but then thought better of it. This was a night for Madeline. God knows he'd been elsewhere ever since
that day
-- that otherwise normal day of corporate productivity he gloriously and unapologetically murdered in the arms of that girl.
Vee.
It had been two weeks by then and she had yet to contact him. The only way he knew to get to her was through The Café, the site of their ill-conceived first meeting. Still, despite it all he couldn't bring himself to be truly penitent. Morally, he knew himself to be irredeemably in the wrong, but he rationalized that he'd never felt anything remotely nearing the thrill that came over him when they first made eye contact, much less when she first buried her nails in his neck as their lips absorbed each other in that shabby elevator.
He'd spent almost every lunch break since that first sighting sitting in the first table by the door, hoping he'd catch her again,
needing
to speed coincidence along. It occurred to him that maybe it had never happened at all in the first place. It could very well be one of those things, more likely temporary insanity. Technically, he had no real evidence that she even existed. Nothing save the faint scratches he incurred during their tryst. It was highly possibly that an encounter as perfect as that was really too good to be true. It had also occurred to him in his lusty desperation that he knew of one other place he could find her, but then again laws didn't generally make exceptions for passion. In fact, there were a great many laws made with passion exclusively in mind.
No, going back to her apartment was out of the question.
Going stalker on her was probably not going to be the aphrodisiac he'd intend it to be. Certainly it would do nothing to improve their current standing.
Josh mentally shook himself. Regrettably this wasn't the first time in the last two weeks that his thoughts had taken this sort of turn, but more notable than his daydream stalk-fest was the sheer absence of possibility in his consideration that his muse could very well be a lost cause. It wasn't his vanity that repressed this completely logical reality; rather it was his primal need to see her again. He needed to continue what they'd so explosively started. He could barely get through the day without losing himself in some fantasy of her naked body underneath his.
"Jack?"
"Josh." He corrected automatically, if not absently.
"No, Jack. As in Daniels," followed a shrill and impatient voice over the din of bad techno music. Josh shook himself from his reverie and focused his wandering attentions on the barkeep demanding it. Immediately his eyes went wide with realization, mirroring perfectly the moment of epiphany on the lovely bartender's face.
"Well baby, whaddya say? A little bit of old Jack? Come on let's! It'll be like college!" Madeline tugged at his shirt sleeve excitedly.
"Uh... yeah... sure. And one for you too sweetie," he nodded towards their scantily clad server. She wore the same gray kilt and combat boots she had on that first day. He'd imagined her in it many times since. This time it was topped with a fishnet tank top and black bra. A welcome amendment.
"The name's Vee... and don't mind if I do,
sir."
Josh smiled to himself as he watched her grab a metal topped bottle of Tennessee whiskey and pour two shot glasses of the amber liquid. She pulled out a larger rocks glass for herself and proceeded to pour about as much in the one glass as she had in the two before, combined.
Possibly a third.
Before they had a chance to toast, Vee had knocked hers back, her eyes glistening just a bit from the shock of straight Jack burning down her gullet. Josh and Madeline followed suit, albeit less abruptly. Both mitigated their own reactions to the whiskey in as dignified a manner as they could fake. Before he had the wherewithal to stifle his upchuck reflex, Vee was gone. No one behind the bar seemed to notice their absentee comrade or subsequently their would-be freebie.
"That's strange. I guess that one's on the house." Madeline shrugged as she pulled him gently towards the direction of her friends. Josh allowed himself to be led but only after discreetly dropping some bills by their empty glasses.
--------------------
Vee stood over the ice machine, her face an unsanitary proximity from the freshly frozen cubes.
What. The. Fuck.
She had done everything in her power to avoid the very thought of that man (rather unsuccessfully but a diligent effort nonetheless). Now he was walking little missus over to a booth of fellow William Sonoma subscribers no doubt. She didn't need to watch their progress through her club to know. She'd seen and served that crowd earlier in the night and the pair fit only too well. She knew a $500 coiffure when she saw one, even in lighting as poor as by the bar. Those were exceptional highlights, the kind you drop half a G to attain, so that lowly bar wenches will notice and rue the day they volunteered their services as hair model to their aspiring hair dresser friend on the cheap.
She ran her fingers through her scalp self consciously. It had been months since her
Just an inch off the length
disaster but she still suffered from phantom hair episodes. Vee grabbed the oversized metal ice scoop dangling off the side of the cooler. She wiped some errant shadow smudges off her olive cheeks, endlessly thankful she worked in a cave. At least no one would be the wiser her cheeks were flushing crimson.
Anyway, who's to say it was Josh and not Jack who warmed me so? I'm genetically predisposed to go neon when I drink... yeah. That's it.
Jesus, you're a fucking liar, and he's a cheat. Phenomenal. Blushing is the least of my worries...
Vee yanked at her abbreviated strands. Sometimes she swore she still felt it grazing the small of her back during showers, but more often than not it was simply a product of being too drunk when she got home from a shift. As amusing as those stories were to relate to her friends at this very moment she would have killed for the confidence her long mane once gifted her. Truly this was a superficial but mostly symbolic yearning.
The root problem lay in her inherent fear of ever seeing him again.
The very thought of him sent a barrage of mixed signals to her already confused brain. On the one hand he made her feel like she was perpetually on the brink of spontaneous combustion.
On the other hand he made her feel like she was perpetually on the brink of spontaneous combustion.
Vee stared long and hard at her blurry reflection. She dared herself to go back out there and at least feign woman-on-top bravado like she always did on the job.
No sweat, Vee darling. You swallow men like him whole. Straight, no chaser.
With that jazzy mantra on loop in her frazzled brain, Vee walked back into the main room, maneuvering her way through a throng of women waiting for a nose powder. She comforted herself that he wouldn't have the balls to say anything to her with girlie around for the show. The thought did little to still the shake in her hands or the bass line in her heart.
Jesus, if I was a cardiologist, I'd totally think that I gave a shit what Pottery Barn thinks about me. Luckily no one's going anywhere near my chest tonight, so no worries. Secret's safe and all that.
Just as she was passing the men's room around the corner she distinctly felt fingers, large man-fingers wrapping around her trembling arm.
"What the f-"