Need You Now (1001 Dark Nights)

Need You Now (1001 Dark Nights)

Lisa Renee Jones




Part One: The First Meeting



Another year. Another moment in time that is here and gone, and right and wrong, in the same instant. That’s what birthdays mean to me, but tonight, to my best friend Katie, it’s a celebration her man has missed and a few too many Tequila Sunrises.

“One more!” she exclaims from the dimly lit corner booth of Mickie’s, the bar nestled inside the New York high-rise Norton’s Hotel where we both work.

“No more for me,” I say, holding up my hands. “My head is spinning and I don’t like it.”

“You’re too much of a control freak, Danielle. It’s my birthday. Let loose for once.”

“Danny,” I correct, hating the way my birth name reminds me of stepfather number two, my least favorite of the four. “And I’m already too loose.”

She crinkles her nose and blows a long lock of her blonde hair, as pale as my own, from her eyes. “Danny is too masculine,” she says, ignoring my comment about being “too loose.”

“Nothing wrong with a little masculine energy.”

“On a man. You’re not a man. You are not even close to being a man.”

“Thanks for that validation.” I laugh. “And you’re so drunk it’s not even funny. Work tomorrow is going to be hell for you.”

“My department doesn’t go in until noon on Tuesdays. Besides, I’m 25 and alone on my birthday. And I’m in a stuffy business bar with elevator music softly playing in the background because we both had to work late. We should be two babes in the city finding hot men and we’re not. Of course I’m drunk.”

“First, you have a man, and I’ve sworn off the other sex.”

“Oh please. A girl can’t go a year without a good hot man pressed nice and close without losing her mind. I worry for you, honey.”

“My mind is just fine.” I laugh. “I simply find men distracting when I can’t afford to be distracted. ”

“Then just have sex. You have to miss sex.”

She’s right. I do, but I don’t miss the way it creates a sense of being with someone that is all fa?ade and fantasy, not reality.

“At least when you were on again, off again with that attorney Mad Max,” she continues, “you had a hot man to get naked with.”

I shake my head. “You named him Mad Max for a reason. He was always angry.”

“True, but not in bed, right?”

I bite my bottom lip.

“Oh God,” she gasps. “Was he violent? And why didn’t I know this?”

“He wasn’t violent. He was...rough.”

“In a good way?”

“Hmmm...Yes. No. Until I figured out that angry and arrogant were his only moods, in bed or out. There was nothing else.”

“But he was rich.”

“Which made him all the more arrogant.” My brow furrows. “And by the way. Alone? You aren’t alone. Who am I? The ghost of birthdays past?”

“You know what I mean,” she chides, glowering to boot. “David isn’t here and it’s hard to be without him.”

I’d rather be alone than with an * like her boyfriend, but I hold my tongue on that little tidbit of truth. To me, alone is safe. And I’m good at it, but everyone isn’t, Katie especially. “You’re dating a rock star,” I remind her, trying to ground her in the reality of her decisions. “That means you accept he’s often away on tour.”

She snorts, proving she left normal ladylike tendencies swimming in the last glass of tequila. “He’s not a rock star yet,” she argues. “He’s still indie and if he won’t go out of his way for my birthday now, what do I have to expect if he gets that contract he’s after? He’s got days before his next show. He could have been here if he wanted to be.” She finishes off her drink. “He’s got groupies already. He’s probably with them.” Her cell phone rings and she anxiously scrambles for it, clearly hoping it’s the rock star * himself, but her face falls. “It’s my mother. I have to take it.”

I share an understanding look with her, scooting to the end of the booth, preparing to give her privacy.

“Can you—” she begins.

“Get drinks,” I supply, standing. “You got it.”

A look of appreciation flashes over her chiseled, model-like features, so different from my sweet cheeks and heart-shaped face, as she mouths, “Lord help me” and answers the call.

I make tracks toward the oval bar at the right of the room, dodging several smaller, round tables with red, pearl-shaped lights dangling above them, fully intending to buy her some comfort. I know how this conversation is going to affect her, even on a birthday. Heck, especially on a birthday. I love my mother but I dread her calls, too.

At the counter, I claim a gaping spot between two empty barstools, and flag Jimmy, the thirty-something bartender who works in accounting by day and here at night for nearly a year. “Ready for the cake?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” I say, but he doesn’t move, hesitating and running a hand through his curly blond hair. Another moment of hesitation and he leans across the bar and gets close enough to be heard over the music. “Thank you.”