Hooked 4 (Hooked #4)(5)

“Is that so?”

“If you just give me a chance to see it, sometime.”

Drew thought for a moment. I could hear the whizzing of another car skirt by; this one felt close.

“Where are you?” I laughed into the phone, trying to dispel the seriousness of our current conversation. I felt like we were such adults in that moment. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to laugh with him, naked in a Jacuzzi somewhere. It didn’t have to be life or death.

“I’m close to my apartment, actually. I was thinking—I could pick you up. I could pick you up and take you to my apartment? You can check it out, make a list of all the things I need to do? I’ll need to buy lumber. Or whatever people do.” He laughed into the phone, and the laugh was pleasant. It made me feel warm.

“Yeah. That sounds nice,” I replied. “It’s already eight, you know that?”

I knew that he had things to do, people to see in the morning. I knew the rest of the world didn’t have such an open calendar, like I did. Of course, I knew this was temporary, that I would ultimately have days and days of constant classes, of ballet, tap, jazz, whatever. But not now.

“Who cares?” he asked.

We hung up the phone, with the understanding that he would come get me in just twenty minutes. My heart started doing cartwheels in my chest. I swallowed serenely, trying to calm myself down. This was what I wanted; I wanted to be in a couple. I wanted to just go for it. We had so much in common; I couldn’t ever get him out of my head. Sure: he was a player. And sure: he’d bought my dance studio out from under me. But there wasn’t anything between us anymore. I had a new dance studio. I had new prospects. I had a new formation of a life. And we could build on ours together, one day at a time. I bit my lip and rushed to my room, filtering through my clothes to find the perfect dress. It was a deep purple one: a dress that made my eyes look dark and sultry. I pulled it over my head, noting it pushed my breasts up well, making them look round and full. I grinned to myself in the mirror. Another date with Drew Thompson. I could play along a bit longer; I could try to mold our relationship into something real. I could.


Ten minutes later, I received the call. He was downstairs. I grabbed my purse and tapped Boomer on the head. He meowed at me with big, worried eyes. I’d probably been leaving him alone too often. I sprang down the steps and saw Drew’s white Porsche outside, gleaming in the light of the city. He stood outside of it by the passenger seat, in a long, khaki coat. He looked very professional, if a bit mysterious. I stepped closer, grinning at him in a secretive manner. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, bringing me in for a kiss. His lips were so warm, so moist against mine. I longed to open myself to him, to allow my body to be his.

But it wasn’t time. He brought his hand back and opened the passenger door, allowing me to enter behind him. I dropped myself into the front seat and waited expectantly as he rushed around to the other side.

“How are you?” I asked as he revved the engine.

He waggled his eyebrows at me enticingly. “No pleasantries, Miss Molly. Let’s get going.” And we sped into the Chicago night. I allowed my head to fall back against the Porsche seat; I allowed my eyes to glaze as each of the lights passed by in a blur. I nearly started laughing at the beautiful sensation of the surrounding world.

The radio was on, and it was playing an old song, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Drew placed his hand on the volume knob and turned it up, nodding his head elaborately with the time of the song. He started to sing, forcing a smile to spread across my lips. “TRAMPS LIKE US. BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUN!”

I was caught up in the beauty of the moment; in the beauty of falling in love with this truly incredible man. I started singing as well, allowing the words to course from me easily, sometimes in an almost-scream. (I’d never been a singer, of course.)

“You ever dance to anything like this?” he asked.

I shook my head, giggling. “No. Much more classical, much less Springsteen.”

“It’s too bad. I think Springsteen has such passion behind him. When you see him on stage, it’s almost like he’s dancing, you know. The way his body is. It’s like—“

“It’s like he’s encapsulating the American spirit,” I offered, nodding. My mother had loved Bruce Springsteen; it had been the one thing we’d had in common. I remembered listening to the records with her in the small, lounge room in the years after my father died. I sniffed.

“Yeah. I mean. My dad was totally into Springsteen,” Drew spoke. He turned the car to the left quickly, screeching the tires. “It was a long time before I could listen to it without feeling sad. But now, I listen to it thinking that maybe my dad’s in a better place now, you know?”

I nodded. I thought about that all the time, really. About my father, about where he was. It didn’t make sense that he could just up and leave to another dimension, another place that no one I knew had ever been before. Death was everything, in that sense. It was everything we couldn’t comprehend.

Drew parked on the street in front of this grand brownstone apartment. Somebody rushed to my door and opened it, allowing me to exit evenly. It appeared to be a valet from the building, an earnest man with bright eyes. He nodded at me as I walked up onto the sidewalk. “Good evening.”

I nodded back. Drew walked around to the side and tossed the keys toward the man, who nodded once more. He got into the car and spun it slowly into the underground parking garage as Drew placed his hand on my back and led me up the grand steps to his building.