Love in Lingerie(20)

Her

“I’m not drinking that!” I call up to Trey, hoping he can read lips because the noise in the club is deafening. He smiles down at me and I tug on his dress pants, smacking a hand across the top of his shoe to get his attention.

Standing on top of the bar, he calls out something and the crowd erupts into cheers, a chant starting which I can’t understand. I raise my hands in question and he points to the girl next to me, yelling something at her. The girl, a pig-tailed sexpot with cat eyes and combat boots, leans forward and presses her mouth to the ice block, her eyes flicking up to Trey. He tilts a bottle and red liquor flows down a gulley, through the ice and into her mouth. It looks unsanitary and extremely sexual, two directions I have no plans of stumbling down tonight. She closes her eyes and swallows, lifting her mouth from the ice and wiping across her lips with the back of the hand. She gestures me forward.

“No!” I wave my hands at Trey, shaking my head emphatically, but the crowd chants louder, fists pounding the bar top, bodies beginning to jump in concert. He winces, as if he is innocent in all of this, then holds up one finger.

“One shot,” he yells. “Just one!”

I can’t. If I do this, if I yield to him, he will be hell. It will be like giving the devil keys to my kingdom. He will know that if he flashes me that smile, and gives me that wink, that I will bend, will behave, will do whatever he wants me to do. And I do mean whatever. His eyes catch mine and he crouches, smoothly setting down the liquor and swinging off the bar, landing beside me, his hand cupping the back of my waist and pulling me against him. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Just one, Kate. For me.”

Maybe it is the proximity to him, or the way his voice softens on the last two words. Maybe it is the fact that I have to turn away from him and take that shot or I’ll tilt my chin up and kiss him. Whatever the reason, I step away and up to the ice.

I tell myself that ice is sterile, and it doesn’t matter that I’m putting my mouth in the same place where a stranger’s was.

I tell myself that because I didn’t tell Trey that I broke up with Craig. It makes this night fine, removes any romantic layers, and drinking with my boss is as inappropriate as this will get.

I close my eyes and wait for the alcohol, and tell myself that I don’t care if I look sexy, or if Trey is proud of me, or impressed, or anything else.

The liquor hits my tongue and it’s ice cold. I swallow it and stand, some leaking from the side of my mouth. As I go to clean it, Trey’s hand is there, his fingers soft against my chin, and our eyes meet as he wipes away the liquor and then moves his hand up, gently sucking the edge of his thumb into his mouth.

Good Lord. This man will be the death of me.





My flight to Hong Kong had been bearable, Craig and I lucky enough to be seated next to one of those scrawny teenagers who wears headphones and doesn’t hog the armrest. But flying back, Trey upgrades me to first class, an expensive transition I initially balk at. The mid-flight neck massage, private television, and sushi softens my resistance. The full bed, privacy curtain, and seven-hour nap have me swearing off coach forever.

“Is everything okay with Craig?”

I consider the question without turning to look at him. “He’s fine. It was a work emergency. I think he’s handled it.” It’d be easy to tell him the truth; I should tell him the truth. Trey isn’t just my boss—we have become friends. It’d be weird not to tell him.

But telling him I’ve broken off my engagement will lead to questions, ones that I haven’t quite worked out in my head. Maybe, back in the US, I will change my mind. Maybe, after cataloguing all of the decision-making factors, I’ll realize that I shouldn’t have made such a life-altering decision while drinking. Maybe I’ll call Craig and tell him that I’d made a mistake.

Or maybe I won’t. I feel absolutely zero regret over my decision. If anything, I feel better—the knot of anxiety over our future gone, my possibilities wide open. Last night, I had the best night of my life. At some point, we had danced, in a dark club off a side street, one where drag queens greeted us at the door and disco pumped through the speakers. I’ve never danced. Not in college, definitely not in grad school. The formal events that Craig and I sometimes attended had a few slow songs we’d swayed to, in the most dignified manner possible. But nothing like last night. That had been arms up, ass shaking, gyrations. We had moved deep into the crowd, in a place of rough, jam-packed movement, his arms protectively wrapping around me, my body occasionally brushing against his to the tune of the techno. When we made it to the upstairs bar, we took tequila shots and found a jukebox. I put on a country song, managed to mix it with an Irish jig, and Trey laughed and told me that I was a terrible dancer. He also, over tapas in another bar, brushed my hair out of my face and told me that I was brilliant. I don’t remember my response. I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, except that I fell asleep in a taxi, and he ended up carrying me to my room.

“Is it bad that I’m almost happy he went home early?” He leans his head back against the headrest and turns to smile at me. “I mean, I’m sure it ruined your birthday but—”

“It’s not bad.” I gave him a half-hearted smile. “I think it was a good coworker bonding experience.” I reach out my glass, determined to return us to our proper relationship. “To Marks Lingerie.”