Violet wipes at her eyes, swiping away tears of laughter instead of sadness this time, her hand brushing against her pretty face. She pokes me with a free finger.
“What about you, Mr. Scotch on the Rocks? That dancing?” She giggles, holding a hand over her pink mouth, her blue eyes bright. “You looked like a baby bird crawling away from the nest for the first time.”
“Hey,” I answer, swinging my latest cocktail through the air, the liquid sloshing over the side and onto the floor. “That was the scotch dancing. You kid, but some of my best moves come out when I am completely, utterly and irrevocably fucked up.”
I take another swallow, the swill in my mouth barely burning this time. I close my eyes briefly, feeling better than I have all week.
When’s the last time I laughed this hard? Drank bottom shelf liquor and talked about something other than business?
Too long ago, that’s when.
Being a professional investor was killing me. Literally.
I’d had two near strokes in the last week, watching the stocks swing, my mood constantly dependent on the market. The trip to New York hadn’t helped, and as I prepared to possibly win—or lose—the bet of a lifetime, my nerves could be shredded on the edge of a needle, they were so thin.
To add insult to injury, my best friend Brett was caught in the throes of his infamous father Chris Jackson’s court case for fraud and a pre-wedding planning nightmare.
My promise to take part in Marilyn’s pre-nuptial festivities was quickly spiraling into a lie, and though the wedding was weeks away, I feared that me fucking up my father’s firm was going to drag me away from Brett’s special day.
A day I was secretly dreading.
In my eyes, marriage was more a prayer than a holy matrimony. And I’d stopped praying long ago, my last plea to the universe ending at the tender age of eight.
I swallow another gulp of the tequila, chasing the memory of my youth away with its bite. I glance at Violet.
“And what about you, Stubborn Spice?” I ask, my eyes fixed to her smiling face. “Who knew that every lyric from the Spice Girls movie would come flying out of your mouth as soon as the DJ cranked the music?”
“Listen,” she warns, pointing a painted nail in my direction, her red hair now loose, flowing down the sides of her face. Her fire-tinged auburn brows lower, making me laugh. “That Spice Girls movie was a classic. Classic,” she emphasizes, tilting the glass to her mouth. She drains the last drops, setting it back down. “You’re not going to tell my ten year-old self that Spice World wasn’t the greatest album ever made in the history of music.”
“Okay, now, if we’re going to talk classic eighties and nineties music, then I’m going to need for us to discuss the ‘true’ greatest singing group of all time.”
“Which is?”
I slip my phone from my slacks. Tapping into my Music app, I turn the phone several seconds later, letting the voice of George Michael blare out over the bar. I squeeze my eyes shut, lip-syncing the lyrics, and Violet grabs for my cell, her pretty blue eyes staring at the screen. She groans out loud.
“Oh no, say it isn’t so…”
“Uh huh.” I interrupt, nodding. “That’s right.” I snatch my phone back, swiping it from the center of her tiny fingers. “Wham!” I mention the formerly popular singing duo. “And only the greatest Christmas song of all time…” I place the black square back in my pocket. Last Christmas was a goddamned classic as far as I’m concerned.”
“Key word: Was, Heath,” Violet giggles, sipping her seventh—no, eighth—shot. “But that was back when hairspray was a religion and hoop earrings were a way of life. For the women and the men. And especially for George Michael.”
I tap a finger on the bar. “Maybe so. But I am going to tell your twenty-seven year old self that you should seek therapy for screaming the song Wanna Be at the top of your lungs. You practically scared everyone at Brett and Elsie’s engagement party away. Me included.”
She raises her empty glass. “Then, mission accomplished. I should have run you away.”
I stare at her, the memory of that night swirling around my mind. “If only you’d been so lucky…”
It’s a mistake the second it comes out of my mouth.
Violet shuts down, her oceanic eyes dimming at my declaration. She shifts atop the leather stool, her gaze swinging away from mine. In a sky-blue blouse and black skirt, she looks both business and pleasure—an intoxicating mixture of the tangled two. Lips red, her strawberry hair long and silky, she is the very picture of the lusty lawyer I’d met just a year ago.
All ego. All stubbornness. The tiny tip of her upturned nose pointed in the air. Especially towards me.
But I’d broken down her barrier. If only for one night…
It’d been a hell of an after-party in my room after Elsie and Brett announced their engagement. A party with only two guests invited.
The festivities, in my mind, had ended too soon, and I’d often replayed the flashback in the back of my brain at the oddest moments.
Doing something different, acting somehow better.
In my head, I’d say the very answer she’d needed to stay, but in reality, I was just as fucked up, just as lost for the right words as I was with any other woman.
Though, Violet Keats wasn’t like any other woman.
The small fingernail scars on my skin from the night still remind me so. I internally grin. Just as she starts to stand. I stand, too—staring. She pushes her stool away, reaching for her wallet. Fortunately, I reach for mine first, and I lay a couple of large bills on the tabletop, tipping an imaginary hat to the bartender as Violet shoves her arms inside of her jacket, flipping her red hair from its collar. I’m tempted to touch it, the tequila making me think irrational thoughts.
Like grabbing her by the wooly fabric and pressing her tiny body into mine.
My tongue reacts before my hands can. I open my mouth to stop her.
“Don’t leave so soon. I’ll take you home.”
She glances down at the floor, grappling for a briefcase I hadn’t seen there. “No, thanks.”
“At least, let me call you a cab.”
“I’d rather walk.”
She starts to turn towards the door. I call after her, my voice a growl, my shout shaking the empty air between us, making it hum. I clench my fists, my forearms pulsing from the effort. My skin is hot.
“For God’s sake, Keats, let me make sure you get home safely.” I point outside the glass windows. “It’s starting to snow… Let me see that you reach your destination. Then you can keep hating me. I promise I won’t deduct points from the Fuck-you-meter you have for me.” She glances over her shoulder, and I raise my right hand, fighting the urge to follow her. I exhale slowly. “Asshole’s honor.”
VIOLET
There’s no honor among the freezing cold in New York.
The cold does something to people, and if you pay close attention to the rushing population, hustling through the streets, huddled in their winter coats, you can see the urgency sketched in their scowling faces, can read the signs that scream Winter Wonderland, my ass as they slip and slide over the icy sidewalks on their way back to whatever borough they came from.