the bartender, grabbing my attention. I paid him and nursed my drink, realizing I was so thirsty that I could down the thing in one gulp, but that I was so squashed by bodies that I didn't want to move and risk having to come back here for another one. I must've looked quite the sight, like a puppy without an owner. I didn't care. I was here for Kayla after all.
Wait, Kayla...
I checked my phone and saw a message from her. I must've missed the vibration with all the moving.
Kayla: Getting dirty with Brad in his car. Yum.
I messaged back:
Leora: Where?
No answer. So I'm sure she was probably screaming at the top of her lungs or something. I called. I knew I was intruding, but something didn't feel right. And Kayla and I had a deal to always answer the phone for each other, especially when clubbing, no matter how close she might be to...you know..."the end."
She answered, and although the music and talking was drilling a hole in my ear, "Brad's" groans and shouts of "Oh yeah, oh baby, fuck yeah, umpf, oooh. You like that?" made it clear what was happening. My face got very hot with embarrassment.
"Kayls, you, um, OK?"
"Uh-huh, ooh! Oh! I'm —Oh, God!—Leo, I'm fine!" She hung up abruptly. That she called me "Leo" to save on the extra syllable only told me she was in a real hurry to get me off the phone. (No shit. So would I be!)
We were gonna have some laughs about this one that's for sure...
My mind wandered... You know, like when you see someone's profile photo on Goodreads: A monstrously strong guy, inked and fuck-me-hot, nude except for a hat held in front of his stuff, and drenched in sunlight so that his shadows only accentuate his already perfect, "Statue of David on Steroids" body. You know how your mind drifts to what it must be like to be with that guy in that junkyard, under that sunlight?
Well, that's how my mind was now as I stared at my iPhone screen, Kayla and Fuck-Me-Hot Muscle Man's groans earworming in my ear like a cheaply made porno movie: Oh, yeah! Ooh! Ah! You like that?
I exhaled, turned back to the counter.
"Hot?"
"Um, excuse me?"
"Are you hot?" asked Blue-Eyed Conall.
Holy mother of F, you have no idea! "Um, yeah, it's a little stuffy in here," I said to him. If this guy asks me outside, I'm screwed, no pun intended. But pun also very definitely intended.
I swallowed, looked away, took a sip of my mineral water.
"Yeah, it amazes me how people can spend any amount of time in these places. I've never been much of a clubbing guy."
I said nothing, pictures of Muscle-Man Brad playing in my mind, his firm hands around Kayla's waist as he rammed into her from behind —
My god! "Um, can we go outside?" I said to Conall, really needing some fresh air...
"Oh!" he chuckled, "I was actually just on my way home. But here's my card. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you earlier —I mean, assuming you wanted me to talk to you! I know that's a little presumptuous..."
Baby, right now you're talking way too fucking much and I'm not hearing your words because all I'm doing is looking at your seductively sexy red lips and the shape of your friggin chest under that dress shirt...
"Anyway, I was just here with some business partners. They wanted to know what New York's clubbing scene was like. Anyway..." He held a card out to me. I was too stunned by pictures of you-know-who doing you-know-what (only you-know-who was now Conall, and the "Ooh, yeah!" was being said in a decidedly British accent) to respond.
"Well..." He looked disappointed. "I'm sorry...I misread things. I'll leave it here." He put it on the counter. "Maybe one of these silicone-adverts"—he pointed at my blonde-skyscraper "friends" of earlier—"will pick it up if you don't take it. It was nice meeting you, Leora," he said, holding his hand out to shake mine.
I, still stunned, still sweating —still needing to go outside!—politely shook his hand. And then, as if watching it in a movie, saw Mr. "Conall" walk away in his sports coat.
Wait, Kayla...
I checked my phone and saw a message from her. I must've missed the vibration with all the moving.
Kayla: Getting dirty with Brad in his car. Yum.
I messaged back:
Leora: Where?
No answer. So I'm sure she was probably screaming at the top of her lungs or something. I called. I knew I was intruding, but something didn't feel right. And Kayla and I had a deal to always answer the phone for each other, especially when clubbing, no matter how close she might be to...you know..."the end."
She answered, and although the music and talking was drilling a hole in my ear, "Brad's" groans and shouts of "Oh yeah, oh baby, fuck yeah, umpf, oooh. You like that?" made it clear what was happening. My face got very hot with embarrassment.
"Kayls, you, um, OK?"
"Uh-huh, ooh! Oh! I'm —Oh, God!—Leo, I'm fine!" She hung up abruptly. That she called me "Leo" to save on the extra syllable only told me she was in a real hurry to get me off the phone. (No shit. So would I be!)
We were gonna have some laughs about this one that's for sure...
My mind wandered... You know, like when you see someone's profile photo on Goodreads: A monstrously strong guy, inked and fuck-me-hot, nude except for a hat held in front of his stuff, and drenched in sunlight so that his shadows only accentuate his already perfect, "Statue of David on Steroids" body. You know how your mind drifts to what it must be like to be with that guy in that junkyard, under that sunlight?
Well, that's how my mind was now as I stared at my iPhone screen, Kayla and Fuck-Me-Hot Muscle Man's groans earworming in my ear like a cheaply made porno movie: Oh, yeah! Ooh! Ah! You like that?
I exhaled, turned back to the counter.
"Hot?"
"Um, excuse me?"
"Are you hot?" asked Blue-Eyed Conall.
Holy mother of F, you have no idea! "Um, yeah, it's a little stuffy in here," I said to him. If this guy asks me outside, I'm screwed, no pun intended. But pun also very definitely intended.
I swallowed, looked away, took a sip of my mineral water.
"Yeah, it amazes me how people can spend any amount of time in these places. I've never been much of a clubbing guy."
I said nothing, pictures of Muscle-Man Brad playing in my mind, his firm hands around Kayla's waist as he rammed into her from behind —
My god! "Um, can we go outside?" I said to Conall, really needing some fresh air...
"Oh!" he chuckled, "I was actually just on my way home. But here's my card. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you earlier —I mean, assuming you wanted me to talk to you! I know that's a little presumptuous..."
Baby, right now you're talking way too fucking much and I'm not hearing your words because all I'm doing is looking at your seductively sexy red lips and the shape of your friggin chest under that dress shirt...
"Anyway, I was just here with some business partners. They wanted to know what New York's clubbing scene was like. Anyway..." He held a card out to me. I was too stunned by pictures of you-know-who doing you-know-what (only you-know-who was now Conall, and the "Ooh, yeah!" was being said in a decidedly British accent) to respond.
"Well..." He looked disappointed. "I'm sorry...I misread things. I'll leave it here." He put it on the counter. "Maybe one of these silicone-adverts"—he pointed at my blonde-skyscraper "friends" of earlier—"will pick it up if you don't take it. It was nice meeting you, Leora," he said, holding his hand out to shake mine.
I, still stunned, still sweating —still needing to go outside!—politely shook his hand. And then, as if watching it in a movie, saw Mr. "Conall" walk away in his sports coat.
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