He walked away, and I slumped down in my seat—absolutely mortified.
The Devil’s lips curved into a smile as he sat across from me. He pulled off his dark leather gloves, revealing a series of black tattoos that were inked on all of his knuckles. Within the intricately drawn spider’s web were four small skulls, and the most valuable chess piece—the queen. The tattoo was the same on both of his hands, and upon a second look, I noticed faint flames burning between a few gaps in the web.
“I um…” I felt my cheeks burning as he stared at me. “I’m not sure what to say right now.”
“I think, ‘Thank you for saving me’ will suffice.”
“What exactly do you think you saved me from?”
“A terribly boring date, for one. For two, I saved you from wasting more of your time on someone you clearly aren’t interested in.”
“I was definitely interested in him.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t have been staring at me,” he said. “And you damn sure wouldn’t have invited me to come.”
“I thought you were a fake sock-puppet.” I couldn’t stop staring at this man if I tried. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up and be real.”
“You have a very odd way of saying, thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For the record, all of that stuff he was saying about me being single and down to fuck after a night weren’t really true. They’re um—”
“The exact words that are written on your profile.” He smirked and lifted his hand, signaling for the waitress. “Those are the tamest ones, though. If I were him, I would have flipped any of the other ones before saying them aloud. Something like, ‘I want to devour your pussy until you come on my face,’ or ‘I want to bury my cock so deep and hard inside of you, that no other man will ever compare.”
“Those lines aren’t on my profile.”
“If you’d ever fucked me, they would be.”
I crossed my legs and tried not to react to that.
“Yes?” The waitress approached our table, her cheeks still red. “What can I get for you this evening?”
“A fresh cup of coffee and a brownie. No peanuts, please.” He pulled a few hundred dollar bills from his pocket and held them out for her. “I also need to pay for whatever food was ordered before. Keep the change.”
She nodded and walked to the kitchen.
He untied the scarf and I noticed another tattoo inked low on his neck. This one featured a raven and the king chess piece, twisted in smaller and far more intricate web.
What do those tiny letters under the web say?
“I bet it’s hard to get a corporate job with all those tattoos,” I said, admiring the work. “Dare I ask what you do for a living?”
He smiled, and I was immediately wet. He didn’t answer my question, though. He just sat back as the waitress served his coffee.
She took a little too long to set it down on a plate, unnecessarily asking if it was hot enough before leaving us alone.
“They really are stunning tattoos,” I said, giving up on trying to read the tiny letters. “I don’t get to see too many like that on the people I know.” I paused. “They act like they’re too good for them…Do you have any more?”
“Several more.” He brought the coffee to his lips and took a long sip. “Do you have any?”
“A few. They’re hidden, though.”
“What was the point in getting them, if you were going to hide them?”
“I guess I like keeping them hidden because it’s like having something for myself. Something other people will never know.”
“Well, there’s something I’d like to know,” he said. “At what point in all your conversations with other men online did you say, ‘I’m down to fuck, let’s set up the date?’ Since I was flagged for being a fake account and only received left swipes from you, I’m truly curious.”
“I say that after determining that they’re worthy of being trusted,” I said. “I ask what kind of work they do, their real name, what they like to do on weekends.”
“I’m in the entertainment business and I own a lot of companies in this city,” he said. “My name is Michael Anderson, and I like to play chess. I also like to fuck.”
“Is that last line supposed to turn me on?”
“No,” he said. “Me staring at you from outside the window already did that. Did it not?”
I didn’t answer that. I’d never been this turned on at first sight with a stranger before. Never felt compelled to say, “You know what? Let’s just go back to my place right now and do away with this conversation.” This man could literally sit there and force me to concoct fantasies all day without even trying.
“What type of work do you do?” he asked. “Assuming that the whole ‘work in a coffee shop’ via your profile is a lie.”
“I work at Vogue,” I said. “I’m the first assistant to the editor-in-chief. I do that, and on the side, I occasionally—” I paused, catching myself before I foolishly let down my guard. I wasn’t sure why I felt so comfortable around him, why I felt like I could let him in and not worry about any judgement.
“And you occasionally do what?”
“Design runway clothes,” I said. “I do that for some of the local shows.”
“I see.” He looked as if he knew that I was lying. “Well, that’s quite impressive. What do you like to do on weekends?”
“On a perfect day when my boss lets me off and doesn’t make me run random errands…” I had to pause and think about it. “I like to slip into other people’s lives for hours at a time, live like they do, and get to know what’s under their skin.”
“Come again?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Read.” I laughed. “I like to sit on my bay window and read about other people’s lives.”
“Hmmm.” He looked into my eyes and I saw a hint of something in his green irises that I often saw in mine.
Pain.
“What type of books do you like?” he asked.
“All kinds. Right now, I’m reading memoir collections and taking my time—soaking in all the rhythms, and underlining things like I’m in school again. Things like, ‘I began to cherish the loneliness of New York, the sense that at any given time no one needed to know where I was or what I was doing’.”
“The Goodbye to All That essay by Joan Didion,” he said, downing the rest of his coffee. “I enjoy her work as well. Anything else in particular you want to show off about your reading?”
I swallowed, completely stunned that he knew exactly where that one line came from. My ovaries had been burning before, but now they were on the verge of exploding. A ‘sexy as fuck guy’ was one thing, a sexy as fuck guy who was well-read was another.
Tapping my fingers on the table, I tried to think of the most obscure piece I’d recently read. “I reread Such, Such Were the Joys by George Orwell every year at least once.”
“He’s the only author I know who can pen an entire story about bedwetting.” He smiled. “Not sure why you would enjoy rereading that. Is that some type of kink you’re into?”