Finally, he speaks.
“Can I buy you a drink and discuss vitamins?” I’m set to refuse when I realize my drink is empty. I don’t remember drinking it. Have I been drugged? Did he drug me?! Panic is beginning to set in when I spot my straw hanging out of Bridget’s mouth.
“She’d love one,” she tells the D, and abandons me to my fate. But the joke is on her. Because I am absolutely never, no-way no-how, ever, ever accepting a vitamin from this person of interest before me. Even if his jawline is perfect.
Anger
“Oh my god, yes, yes yes,” I’m moaning into his ear fifteen minutes later, in the genderless bathroom, as I take my vitamins. What? He was hot, he bought me a gin, thereby saving me from scurvy, and the Spirit of Jana moved me.
That’s not to say that he might not still be a killer. But that’s why I didn’t move to a second location.
See? Wise.
Anyways, he wooed me with a really insightful analysis of the psychology behind Abducted In Plain Sight, he had a condom in his wallet, and long story extremely short, here we are.
Not that there is anything short about what I’m riding, back against the wall, legs around his waist. He isn’t rushing just because we’re in a bar bathroom and there might be a line outside, either. I appreciate that, as the recipient, although I do worry that the selfishness he’s showing to the rest of the customers present doesn’t bode well towards his potential as a psychopath.
Then he hits a particularly good spot just as he nips at my neck with his teeth and I decide this is not the time for psychoanalysis. This is the time to hold on tight and enjoy the ride.
My hands are all tangled up in his black hair, ruining the lovely style he came in with. His hands are on my hips, holding me steady as he pushes in once, twice—and then on the third push I lose it, and take him with me. We stay there for a moment, heads on each other’s shoulders, breathing each other in heavily. He smells suuuper good, and I probably do now too. It’s all juniper and sandalwood. Like gin and Pure Man. Which is, frankly, how I imagine Bundy smelled too.
As we detangle, I’m back to my concerns about what I’ve done, and who I’ve done it with. But I have to give it to my sisters—I do feel a whole lot better.
Spritely, even.
There aren’t any mirrors in here, which forces us to fix each other’s hair and shirts. It’s pretty intimate if you think about it.
Good thing I wore the long-wear lipstick. Also, we didn’t do any mouth kissing. Like Pretty Woman. Oh, god, I maybe shouldn’t compare myself to a hooker. He’s not paying me. Just saving me from scurvy, and seasonal affective disorder. And he’s still staring at me as my train of thought heads through all these stations.
He plays the silence game better than me, it turns out.
“Are you a detective?” I ask. It’s a possible solution that could work out well for everyone. Particularly me.
“Nope.”
He offers nothing else, just unlocks the door and holds it open, where two of my sisters are waiting to applaud us. Dammit, I should have known this wouldn’t go unnoticed. I can feel the blush starting as I duck my head. The D, whose name I really ought to get at some point, doesn’t look even remotely ashamed. He takes a bow. I’m a little impressed despite myself.
Also, if everyone knows we were just together, it would be so obvious that he did it if my body shows up later, that I immediately decide he’s safe.
Back at the bar, Dave is giving us his disappointed face. “Guys, you know I really should kick you out for that.”
“Dave, I swear—” I start preparing a lie for our alibi, but the D just gives him a high five and says, “thanks, man. How about I buy you a drink? It’s a holiday for you too, even if you are working.”
That disappointed face turns into a delighted grin so fast I swear his mouth might have whiplash. Don’t overthink the mechanics of that.
“I’d love one! Can I have a White Russian?”
“You’re the bartender,” the D says.
“Oh! Haha!” And he’s off to make himself a cocktail. I try to think if I’ve ever bought Dave a drink and come up real lacking. I should be a better customer. And more importantly, my mysterious partner in crime appears to spread happiness wherever he goes. Like a ripped, chiseled Willy Wonka.
“So, where’s your friend?” I ask. It’s a graceful way of letting him know he did a good deed, but that he’s welcome to leave me to the inevitable interrogation of The Sisters.
“What friend?”
“I assume you didn’t come alone.” We stare at each other as Dave sets fresh gins down, takes a little sip of his Caucasian.
“You know what they say happens when you assume.” Aw no. I don’t even care that he winks as he says it, because I am immediately filled with the patented Riley-girl rage.
Firstly, don’t use stupid phrases my fifth-grade teacher used.
Secondly, if he came here alone on New Year’s Eve, that means he’s worse than a killer.
He’s a pickup artist. Pure trash.
Thirdly, I should have known better. I didn’t even want to come out tonight!
Fourthly, and most damning, I still don’t even regret what happened in Unisex Bathroom Number One, because it was great.
I may be incendiary right now, but I am still mindful that I’ve dodged one bullet with Dave already, and also aware that the police get called a little too frequently to the scene of various flipped tables and fights started by one or more angry Rileys. So instead of saying a word, I just get up and take myself and my gin over to the loveseat where Darby is giving her best friend a lap dance.
Honestly, maybe I’m the one doing good deeds now, because I’m dead certain her poor best friend Judd is in love with her and it’s just mean for her to tease him.
“Keep it in your pants, Darb,” I tell her. Judd shoots me a grateful glance. Man, it feels so good to spread happiness. I’m growing as a person already.
“Like you did?” She cackles and collapses on top of poor Judd. I grit my teeth and remind myself that being the butt of her joke is still spreading happiness.
“Well, I sure didn’t,” comes a low voice in my ear. I jump half a mile. I should have known the D would follow me. Also, I’m well aware of what was happening in, and out, of his pants. No recap necessary. Except for the one I’ll deliver into the group text later, obviously. The one where I minimize his player status and emphasize my own. You know, just like he’s probably going to do with his online group of trash-trolls. I turn to shoo him off, but Darby hops up and past me to put her arms around him.
“You didn’t,” she coos. “You were perfect. The Rileys are ever so grateful. Should we Venmo you, or do you want cash? I can take up a collection.”
And, oh. Oh, ho. Ho, no, no. What I thought was anger before turns out was a mere flicker of annoyance. But now? A bottomless well of all-caps RAGE turns my vision tunneled and red at the same time. I wasn’t the hooker in my Pretty Woman scenario. He was. And my sisters, those traitors, went in together to gift me some dick in the same way we typically go in on graduation gifts and nice things for our parents at Christmas. I’m not totally sure the shriek I hear is coming from my own mouth but judging from the look of horror Judd is giving me, it’s a safe bet.