Luck on the Line (8 page)

“Sorry,” I mumble, digging in my bag for my wallet. Hot white panic floods my body. Shit. I must have left my wallet at the restaurant.

Behind us cars honk because the street is so narrow.

“Listen, Lady—”

“I got it,” I snap, “I got it.”

I look at James happily dozed off beside me. I slide my hand into his front pocket. His muscles have stretched the jean material so I really have to dig. Oh, Lucky, this is your life. I stop short of hollering when I find a crisp $20.

“Keep the change,” I tell the driver.

Then I do something I only reserve for customers who’ve grabbed my ass at the bar. I pull my arm back and punch James right in the crotch.

I lean out of the way for his reflex to kick in. He grunts and cries, “What the fuck?”

Men are such babies.

I get out of the cab and run around, taking a little pleasure in the cabbie’s chuckle and James’s sudden Tourette’s. Headlights blind me as I go to the other side of the car. Drivers honk and yell obscenities that are probably not heard often on this quiet brownstone-lined street in the trim Back Bay area of Boston.

James gets out of the cab and swats the hand I extend. He slams the door and the cab peels off, leaving me in the middle of the street with exhaust fumes all up in my face.

“Lucky,” James says, “are you crazy, get out of the street!”

He wobbles, but he’s not slurring anymore.

I consider taking my chances as road kill. A wave of exhaustion fills me, heavy on my shoulders and neck. I’m more drunk than I thought. James grabs me and because we’re both unbalanced, we topple to the ground. When I stand, my knee finds the tender stop between his legs and he whimpers.

“You’re trying to kill me, woman.”

I grab onto the gate that leads to a brownstone. It’s covered in thick green vines. And I laugh.

“Real funny.”

I keep laughing.

“You’re a regular comedian, Lucky Charms.”

At the mention of my high school nickname, my laughter dies. The night is warm and breezeless. Sweat beads roll down my temples. I hold out a hand to help James stand, but he pushes himself off the ground, still off-kilter. A lady and her shih tzu out for a night-time walk shake their proper little heads at us. The lady grabs her pooch and side steps our bodies like we have the plague. They rush into the brownstone above James’s and all I can think is why would someone have a dog’s head as a door knocker?

“Can I have my keys back or do you plan on making me sleep on my neighbor’s steps?”

I dig the keys out of my bag and dangle them on my index finger. He takes them, and when his fingers brush mine, I feel the drunken dizziness return.

“Okaybye,” I slur, turning on a precarious heel up a street I’ve never been on.
Jesus
, Lucky,
why do you do these things
? Why did you say yes to help Stella? Why did you think it’d be a good idea to drink with a man who looks like a smooth, succulent ice cream scoop on a warm summer night like this?

James grabs onto the back of my shirt and pulls me back. He presses the bridge of his nose. I bet the shooting pains he feels all have my name on them.

“Look,” he starts. “I can’t let you go home like this. Just sleep it off.”

I follow him down the steps with my arms crossed over my chest. As much as I’d like to think of myself as a great judge of character, I can’t get a read on James. He’s cocky and proud about his food, but he’s insecure at the same time. He can talk all about me but when I turn the tables, he’s gun shy. He can go from cold to flirtatious in seconds, but hasn’t tried to make a move on me. Perhaps I’m just not his type. Perhaps this was his plan all along. It’s not too late to turn around.

“Home, sweet home.” He drops his keys on the little table at the entrance. There’s a stack of unopened mail and lots of receipts. He kicks off his shoes, then turns to face me. He’s a head taller than me, but suddenly I feel like Thumbelina in his hands. Big, calloused hands holding my face. My stomach fills with raging butterflies, the fiery ones that want to burn right through my skin.

I want to ask, “What are you doing?” I want to tell him that I don’t want him, but that would all be a lie. I’ve wanted to feel his hands from the moment I laid eyes on him.

His eyes are green as the sea. His lashes are thick and long and brush against my skin as he leans in to kiss me. My breath hitches from surprise. My brain is a series of landmines going off. I close my eyes and lean into him. It’s a perfect fit, the way my body contours to him. I run my fingers through his hair, pressing my lips harder on his.

He pulls away, brushing the ache from my lip with his thumb. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about you, Lucky.”

“I’m not spoiled and privileged?”

He brushes his nose against mine, playing closely to my lips. Just kiss me, dammit. “No, you’re still privileged. But you’re not spoiled.”

His hands cup my face. His eyes are sleepy and dreamy and focused on me. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish he could feel the way my insides are ready to combust. The way my heart slides down a spiral when I realize I want more, more, more.

James takes off his white t-shirt. I take in the full expanse of his chest, muscles that aren’t just sculpted at the gym but delicious from hard work. My mind is in a frenzy, wanting to reach out and touch his skin, but also wanting to run out the door.

Then he pulls back. He rests his forehead on mine and his eyelashes tickle my skin.

“Damn.” One word. Just: “damn.” Then he throws himself on the black leather couch that takes up a big chunk of his living room.

My skin tingles where his lips and hands were. I stand, frozen in the middle of a stranger’s house. Half a stranger. What’s the other half? Friend? Colleague? Random Life Encounter?

I can’t even see his tattoo because he’s lying on his back. His eyes flutter and he starts to snore. Perfect. I go to the kitchen and drink a big glass of water. I splash some on my face. Down the hall from the kitchen is the bathroom. Then a single bedroom. He must have just moved in because the furniture is pretty standard. A dresser with clothes hanging from half closed drawers. A small tin of hair product and stick of deodorant. No paintings, no decorations, no trophies. There’s a single frame on the dresser—a woman sitting for a portrait. She’s in her thirties, wearing a navy blue dress. Her hair is dark and perfectly coifed. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is James’s mother by her beautiful sea-green eyes. It’s a tiny peek into the world of Chef James, but I’ll take it.

When I feel like a thorough creeper I go back to the living room, where James is out cold.

“Who are you, James Hughes?”

When I’m answered by a snore, I know that the night is over. Hey, it’s not the first time a guy has passed out on me. I turn off the lights and lock the door from the inside. I take my first right on the sidewalk. For a moment, I regret it and want to go back. What am I supposed to do? Break down the door? Knock until he wakes up, angry, and hope he’ll kiss me again? So I keep walking. Even though I’m not sure where I’m going just yet, my body is too restless for sleep, and I’ve always found comfort in the night sky.

The last time I had sex, we were both so drunk that I remember more black out parts than sex parts. It was my fellow bartender, an aspiring actor who didn’t understand why his forget-me-not blue eyes and dark blond hair weren’t getting him a big break. I’d never seen him act, and I had no interest in anything other than the way his strong hands would lift me onto the bar top, sticky from sloshed whiskey and cosmopolitans. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. He filled a need, a desire to be held.

When I woke up, my mouth tasted like regret—not because of what I’d done, but because he turned out to be asshole. I’m not ashamed of liking sex. I regretted it because the next day he ignored me, and only spoke to me through our barback. I took it in stride. Perhaps he
was
a pretty good actor, in the same way most guys act like they like you until it’s no longer convenient for them. It’s not like I was in love, but if I were to say that, I’d just come off as bitter girl.

I’ve come to realize that guys don’t like when girls are into healthy casual sex. It’s like when we do, we’re taking something away from them, this invisible territory on the planet of I-Care-Less-About-This-Relationship-Than-You-Do. Please, get over yourselves.

Anyway, that was six months ago. Six months since I’ve been held. Six months since I’ve been kissed. Six months since I’ve deemed a man worthy enough to be in my bed.

Back at my mom’s apartment, I can hear Felicity’s whistling snore down the hall. I undress and get in the shower, hoping the steam will help me dislodge the image of shirtless James from my head. I can’t help but think of his beautiful face. Green eyes that beg me to get lost in them. Thick, black hair I want to run my fingers through and tug hard. And his mouth, a perfect full mouth that would be better put to use tasting my skin. A hot tingling feeling pools in my belly and then spreads.

“You’re such a masochist,” I tell my reflection.

I turn the water from warm to fucking freezing, castigating myself for lusty thoughts about a guy I have no business messing with. He’s my mom’s business partner. I have to see his face for three weeks. Not to mention the very first time I met him he was draped over another girl.

I wonder if there are certain kinds of guys that have built-in homing devices for girls like me. Self-sabotaging. Lonely. Horny as hell. One look at James Hughes’s heavenly cheekbones and my common sense, what’s left of it anyway, went right out the window.

I shut off the water when my skin is as close as possible to turning into an icicle. I wrap a plush white towel around my body and twist excess water out of my hair.

On the wet glass I trace a heart. As the droplets disappear, it turns into an unrecognizable blob, not dissimilar from this bloody thing in my chest.

When I’ve decided that staying awake is a better idea than getting three hours of sleep, I make some coffee in my mom’s drip machine. It’s dusty and hiding under the sink, but the rich caffeine smell wakes up my senses right away.

“You’re up early,” Felicity says. Today she’s wearing a beige pantsuit that ages her about fifteen years. She sets a brown shopping bag on the counter, then pours herself some coffee and joins me on a barstool.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

I laugh. “Did my mom ask you to keep tabs on me?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

“Relax,” I say playfully. “When is the Boss Lady going to be ready? I wrote up a list of ideas for that section that’s burned off. I also need your contact for the liquor distributor. Why are you looking at me like I just grew a third eye?”

“Didn’t Stella tell you?” Felicity dumps half a cup of sugar into her coffee.

“Tell me what?” A hot panic sensation crawls on my skin in anticipation of Felicity’s news.

“Stella’s in New York.”

“
What
?” I forget I’m holding my coffee cup when I raise my arms in surprise. The mug shatters into little pieces on the wall, leaving a streak of coffee. At least there’s finally some color in the kitchen. “Shit, I got it.”

I realize I don’t know where the broom is and after opening and closing all of the cabinets under the sink, Felicity takes pity on me and finds the magic cabinet.

“What do you mean she’s in New York? She was at some party with James just last night!” As soon as I say his name my mind fills with the memory of his torso. The way his muscles flexed as he pulled his t-shirt off in one fell swoop. His juicy mouth on mine.

“She took a jet with one of the heads of the network. She said she had important business in New York.”

I shake the broken mug pieces into the garbage bin. I wipe the coffee from the floor, but there’s not much I can do about the stain on the wall. Then I take a deep breath and hold on to the counter in front of me.

Why would she leave at a moment like this, when her restaurant is days away from a private tasting? What is she thinking, leaving me alone with this apartment and James and all of the things that are supposed to belong to
her?

But all I say is, “Typical.”

Felicity approaches me the way a bomb tech would a hastily wrapped ticking mystery package. “She says it’s important to the opening.”

For a moment, it shocks me to think that my mom would talk to me through Felicity. She could have said something yesterday. She should have said something the day before when she asked me to stay and help. She could have sent me a quick text message on the way to the airport. What good is having 24/7 access to phones if people always find the excuse to not communicate?

I take several deep breaths when I realize that with my mother gone,
I’m in charge.
I run my hands through my hair, stopping short of pulling it all out when I catch Felicity’s hopeful smile.

“I guess this makes me your assistant for the next couple of days.” Felicity chuckles nervously. That’s right, Little Assistant. Be nervous because I don’t know what to do any more than you do.

She unhooks a phone from her hip. It’s in one of those thick plastic cases designed to protect its overpriced gadget. “Oh! This is the phone Stella uses for opening business. Food and liquor distributers, Chef James, and McKenna the pastry chef are all on here.”

“But
you
always have that phone.”

Felicity blushes. “Stella already has enough to worry about so I hold on to it. But since you don’t have a smartphone she said to give it to you for the time being.”

She sets it on my outstretched hand. It’s heavier than it looks.
What have you gotten yourself into?
I ask myself. My stomach floods with a nervousness I’ve never felt before. It’s not that I shy away from responsibility. I’ve been in charge of bars before. Sure, I like to have fun, but I know I’m still working. This is different. It’s the millions of dollars that have gone into a building that is somehow falling apart from the inside. It’s my mom’s sudden departure. It’s the reason I’m here in the first place. It’s James’s face on the palm of my hand. Literally.