“Holy shit!” I-Love-NY is all excited now. “Is that you?”
They don’t wait for me to confirm or deny—I-Love-NY has his phone out, and he shoves his whole body against mine. He’s hovering his phone above both of us, his huge thumb trying to get his camera in selfie mode.
He smells like vendor hot dogs and sweat, and this is getting out of hand. I don’t need bad publicity now—not when I just got my new client. I quickly lift my arm and duck my head down. “Please—can you…stop?”
“Hey.” A third guy approaches—great. He doesn’t seem to be part of their duo, though; he’s tucked away in an Armani suit, drink in hand. He smiles and shows off a set of perfectly white teeth. “That’s a nice phone. Want me to take the three of you?”
Oh, crud. I try to protest, but the tourists are already wedging me between them. I-Love-NY shoves his phone at the stranger and thanks him.
Hot dogs. And body odor. Ugh. I’m stuck in this now, and I try to smile.
“Say cheese,” Armani says. Then he sticks the nice iPhone in his glass, submerging it.
My mouth falls open.
“Yo!” I-Love-NY leaves my side (thank God) and launches at the man.
He holds the glass and phone hostage, retracting his arm back. “Next time, listen to a lady when she says no,” he warns them, his voice like ice. Who is this guy? But then he’s all smiles again, and he hands the glass back, phone sticking out of it like an overly garnished Bloody Mary. “You have about thirty seconds to get this in a bowl of rice before the hardware is fried. I’d leave now, if I were you.”
Cursing and red-faced, the two tourists grab the damaged phone and run out of the bar—presumably, all the way to Chinatown.
Catlike, the iPhone-killer slides his forearms on the bar, filling the new space now emptied by the two men. “I hope that wasn’t presumptive of me,” he says to me. “But they seemed like assholes.”
“No—I mean, they were asshole-ish,” I respond. “I don’t know if they were $1,500 worth of asshole, but…thank you. I think.”
“Thank you,” he smiles. “I’ve always wanted to bathe a cell phone.”
“Check that off the bucket list.” I’m not sure what I’m feeling—relief? My heart is hammering, and I’m still coming off the jittery edge of what the hell just happened?
The guy next to me looks completely unperturbed, as though swooping in and saving the day by destroying someone else’s property is just another Friday.
I know the warning signs. His smile and his ease are dangerous. It’s a switch. Ace had one of those. A guy like that will be loyal, and charming, and polite…
Until he isn’t. The second you’re on his bad side, your phone goes in the drink. Or worse.
I’m on his side. For now. And since I don’t plan on knowing him longer than this bar interaction, I’ll take advantage of having him in my favor.
“Oh—damn. Your drink.” I point to the bar. “Let me buy you another one…it’s the least I can do.”
“You don’t have to—” he starts to say, but I’ve already flagged down the bartender, who already looks irritated by me.
“Can I get this gentleman and scholar a drink…?” I ask. “On my tab.”
My stranger relents with a half laugh. “Club soda and lime, please.”
As the bartender gets him a new glass, I examine my partner in crime. I can safely say he has a nice face to look at. A nose so straight you could ski off it. A generous mouth curled with a hint of smile. Strong, confident eyebrows, underneath which lie these intensely dark eyes.
I’m possessed with a strange urge to run my fingers through his black hair, which is teased into tiny, tight curls. He’s not exactly clean-shaven, but he’s got this stubble that’s almost infuriatingly purposeful, like he spent hours making himself look just the right amount of rolled-out-of-bed. It works. He somehow looks simultaneously business-meeting-ready and recently fucked.
He is not my type, too obviously wealthy with the steely control of a heart surgeon, whereas I tend go for wild, blond pretty boys capable of satisfying my Prince Charming fetish. Still, despite myself, one look at him goes straight between my legs, and I feel my thighs clench.
When he gets his drink, he clinks it against mine. “Cheers.” He extends his hand. “I’m Braxton.”
I take his hand. I expect it to be soft, but it’s rough. Callouses on his palms. Scars underneath that prim and proper suit.
I shake his hand. “Susie.”
“So, Susie,” he starts, “can I ask?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“I’m going to. Am I supposed to know you?”
I sigh and twist my glass into the bar. “Not exactly. Did you ever get teased as a kid?”
He nods thoughtfully. “I lost my front tooth in seventh grade. My classmates called me Brax-Hick for the rest of the year.”
“Firstly, that’s terrible. Kids are mean.”
He shrugs. “I lived.”
“Secondly—imagine that, but instead of your middle school, you lose your tooth in front of the whole world. And instead of a bad nickname for the rest of the school year, you get a bad nickname for the rest of your life.”
“I feel like this is leading somewhere,” he says.
I take a generous swallow from my glass. The wine tastes acidic, but I feel like I need it to tell this story. I don’t owe this stranger my story. I don’t owe him anything. But something about his deep eyes draw me in and make me feel comfortable here, so I take in a deep breath and spill.
“So this time last year…I had the worst day of my life. My fiancé had just dumped me and…I was going through a lot. So I got drunk at a wedding…very drunk…and had a minor freak-out.”
“Minor?”
“Okay, so major freak-out. Objected in the middle of the ceremony. Threw up on the father of the bride. Karate-chopped the cake.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You’re laughing at me,” I accuse.
“I’m laughing with you.”
“I’m not laughing!”
“I’m just…confused… How exactly do you karate-chop a cake?”
“You’ll have to watch the video to find out.”
“Ah, so there’s a video.”
I heave an exhausted sigh. “Yes. There’s a video. Evidence of my very public and embarrassing meltdown was uploaded to YouTube and went viral. A million likes and counting.” I shrug. “So. That’s my story. I let a boy make me literally crazy. And now the world knows me as Bride Attack Girl.”
His eyes are watching me, sizing me up. “Boys are the worst, aren’t they?”
“Amen.”
“So are weddings.”
I knit my eyebrows. “What’s wrong with weddings.”
He shrugs. “It’s an archaic institution created to buy and sell women and strip them of their free will. Hallmark peddles the love bug like heroin just to sell overpriced greeting cards and merchandise. It’s a scam.”
He is exceptionally bitter, his tone gritty and caustic, and he has my interest, suddenly. There’s something real underneath that cocky smile.