Shift: A Novel Read Free Page B

things only alcohol could keep at bay.
    With a start, Naz realized the man was watching her as intently as she was watching him, his amused smile bracketed by a pair of C-shaped dimples. Caught out, she shifted her gaze from the mirror to his eyes.
    “The last time a pretty girl stared at me this hard, my house brothers had written D-I-M-E on my forehead.”
    Naz reached for her glass, then remembered it was empty. The jig was up. She abandoned her empty glass and walked down to the end of the bar. If nothing else, she was pretty sure he was good for a drink.
    Up close he was easier to read. His vibe. His energy. He was troubled, sure, but he was also horny. He was here for a drink, but he’d take something more if it came his way. It just had to be someone he could pretend was as complicated as himself. As—what was the word the beatniks liked?—deep, that was it.
    She smiled as politely as her mother had taught her all those years ago. “Dime? Or perhaps
di me
. Spanish for—”
    “‘Tell me.’” An embarrassed chuckle. “It’s rather more jejune than that.”
    “Jejune,” Naz said mockingly. “In that case,
dit moi
indeed.”
    She’d fixed the accent—local, refined but also relaxed—and the shirt, which, though a little worn around the cuffs (French, fastened with tarnished silver knots), was bespoke. The knowledge that he was of the patrician classes emboldened her. She knew these people. Had been raised by them, manipulated by them on three different continents, and learned how to manipulate in turn.
    The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, the story isn’t repeatable in polite company.”
    “Well, why don’t you tell me what you’re drinking, and we’ll start there.”
    He held up his martini glass. “I believe we are both drinking gin. Although I prefer mine without all that tonic, which only dilutes the alcohol.”
    “Oh, but the carbonation speeds its absorption, and the quinine is good for treating malaria, should you travel to exotic climes.”
    “I’m afraid summers in Newport is as far south as I’ve gone.” The man waved a finger between their glasses as though it were a magic wand that could refill them—a task the bartender accomplished almost as quickly. “My grandmother swore that quinine kept her gout in check. She took an eyedropper full every evening, although I think the decanter of vermouth in which she took it had something to do with any salacious effects she realized. Salubrious, I mean.” The man’s blush was visible even in the dim light. “Salubrious effects.”
    Naz touched her G&T to his martini. They each sipped longly, then sipped again. Once again Naz prompted:
    “D-I-M-E.”
    “Okay.” The man chuckled. “You asked for it. As part of the initiation ritual into my finals club, pledges were required to submit themselves, if you take my meaning, to a female volunteer known as ‘the coin mistress,’ who translated inches to cents, which were then recorded on the pledge’s forehead in indelible ink. Anyone below a nickel was refused membership. I was one of only three dimes, which, frankly, surprised me, since I’m pretty sure I’m one or two pennies short of the mark.”
    He fell silent for a moment. Then:
    “I cannot
believe
I just told you that story. Actually, I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that I told the story, or the fact that I said I was one or two pennies short of the mark.”
    Naz laughed. “I feel as though I should say something about how much candy eight cents will buy, or nine—” She broke off, blushing even more than her companion, and the man waved his hands like a drowning swimmer.
    “Bartender! It is very clear we are not drunk enough for this conversation!”
    “So tell me,” Naz said while they waited for their refills, “what has your brow so furrowed this evening?”
    “I, uh—” The man’s forehead wrinkled even more as he tried to figure out what she meant. “I have to get the first chapter of my thesis to