Falling in Between, page 4
“Sure I do. Just walk faster.”
A door slams against the brick wall, and I jump, reaching for the mace I keep clipped to my purse. Except I don’t have it—the purse or the mace—because Steph forced me to leave my bag behind. It didn’t match my outfit. She’s going to be the reason I die, I just know it.
A disheveled man steps onto the stairs. He unzips his fly, pulls out his dick, and pisses on the ground while whistling at us. If that’s not flattering, I don’t know what is.
Steph’s about ten yards ahead of me with her nose to her phone. I run after her, my shoes clacking over the concrete and echoing all around. I realize I’m as unbalanced as a newborn gazelle, and if there is some crazed madman in this passageway, I’m the wounded prey he’s after.
“If we end up with our dismembered body parts in garbage bags…” I’m out of breath when I stop behind her. “So help me God...”
“If we end up in trash bags, God will be helping us—right through the gates of hell.” She steps out of the shortcut and onto a deserted part of 49th Street.
This isn’t much better than the alley.
Steph glances around before returning her attention to her phone. “Huh.”
“We’re lost, aren’t we?”
“No.” She shrugs a shoulder and points across the street. “It’s right there.”
Sure enough, a neon sign flickers directly across from us: The Lion’s Den. Any halfway decent club in New York City will have a line a mile long on a Friday night. The Lion’s Den, however, does not. I’m too busy staring at the lack of activity, waiting on the crosswalk to change, to notice Steph jaywalking over to the club. I don’t want to be left alone, so I check both ways and bolt after her.
I stumble over the uneven sidewalk, catching myself on Steph’s arm. “The fact that there’s not a line worries me a little.”
Two men in suits step in front of us. Goliath guarding the entrance doesn’t bother to check IDs, just waves them in. “There’s the line,” Steph says.
I take another look at the sign. “Where did you meet this guy?”
“The subway.”
“The… Please tell me you mean the sub shop.”
She waves me off with a flick of her wrist.
I scowl, my mouth gaping. “Okay…do you mean he was riding on the subway or possibly residing in the subway.”
“I mean, he’s hot. Does it matter?”
I close my eyes and release a displeased groan. “How are you still alive?”
The gnarly bouncer doesn’t smile when we approach. I give him a once-over, and my insides shiver a little. He’s bald. He has a scar on his cheek. A wild gleam in his eye. Stereotypical crazy bouncer. Men in suits. Deserted alley in New York. Two women in tight clothing and heels. This is just like an episode of CSI, one where I would call the character an idiot for waltzing in, and yet, the second he waves us past, I’m right behind Steph. Safer inside than out, I guess.
The door closes, plunging us into darkness. The sweet, cherry scent of cigar smoke lingers heavily in the entrance. A velvet curtain hangs at the end of the hallway, a sliver of light creeping out around the edges. Steph pushes it to the side, and we step into a large room. The gaudy, crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling bathes the room in a warm glow where men recline in leather armchairs with cigars pinched between their lips and whiskey glasses in hand. And a Victorian bar that appears to have come from Buckingham Palace sits along the back wall.
This place screams money.
“I’m guessing the guy wasn’t living in the subway then…” I mumble under my breath.
“Yep, my guess is no.” Steph pulls out an empty stool and takes a seat in front of the magnificent bar. I follow suit. “Now we just have to find Don and Tom.”
I snort. “Don.”
“What’s wrong with Don?”
“It sounds like a name for a middle-aged man.”
“He is a middle-aged man.” She narrows her eyes. “We’re middle-aged, Charlie. Remember?”
“Fuck.” I drop my chin on a sigh and then spot the beginnings of a spider vein on my exposed thigh. “And why am I here instead of Dani?”
“One, Tom likes brunettes. Two, she said she had PMS rage. Those were her exact words.”
“For the love…” I’m not going to lie, I’m jealous that Dani thinks up such great excuses. I’m the world’s worst liar.
“Don said he’d meet me at the bar, but…” She glances around while waving smoke from her face. “I don’t see him.”
“What does Tom look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You set me up with a guy you haven’t met or at least seen a picture of?” I rub my forehead.
“Uh, yeah. I wasn’t coming on a date with a guy I met on the subway by myself. That is how you get murdered.” She smirks. “See, I do have survival skills.”
“Can you please explain how, in the event they are both crazed serial killers, your inviting me to become victim number two shows strong survival instincts?”
She lifts a shoulder. “At least we won’t go alone?”
“You. Are. Insane.”
Laughing, Steph straightens in her seat, then grins and waves. “There he is.” Her gaze settles on two men hovering in the doorway. “The dark-headed one is Tom.”
Tom’s brown hair is graying on the sides. He’s a little on the slender side, and most likely won’t rock my world in bed. He’s completely attainable. Just what I go for in a man.
Don nudges Tom before pointing in our direction.
“See?” Steph retains her grin, even while speaking, as Don and Tom cross the room. “They’re attractive.”
“Until they murder us and put us in a freezer,” I hiss.
“Stop reading Stephen King, would you?”
The men stop in front of us, and Steph makes the introductions.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Tom has a forced refinement to his tone. I can already tell this one is full of himself. “You’re just as lovely as the picture Stephanie had Don send me.”
“Oh, really? Thank you.” I fake a smile and cut my eyes at Steph. Sending pictures of me to men she met in subways, you’ve got to be kidding me. Unfortunately, since she already has an arm draped around Don’s shoulder, whispering something into his ear, she doesn’t see the eat-shit look I give her.
“Would you like a drink?” Tom asks. “Chardonnay? Pinot?”
“Sure. Pinot Noir sounds great. Thanks.”
With a snap of his fingers, he brings the bartender over, rattling off some French wine before facing me. “I ordered Louis Latour. It’s nearly two hundred a bottle.” The corners of his lips curl, and I swear if expressions could make a sound, his would resemble the cha-ching of a cash register—not because it’s sexy, but because he’s that much of a pompous asshole.
“And I thought twenty bucks for a bottle was steep.” I laugh.
He only stares at me with a slight hint of pity. Rich men, I swear…
For the next half hour, he proceeds to go on and on about his family’s wealth, his credentials. About how he owns ten McWafter Burgers—three of which his father bought for him. Blah, blah, blah. To hell with being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, this guy was born with a silver spoon up his ass!
When he finally excuses himself to the men’s room, I breathe a sigh of relief and slouch on the stool. Just when I go to polish off the rest of the expensive-as-shit wine, someone’s finger trail over my exposed back, sending goosebumps dancing over my skin. I swear, if that arrogant jackass has his hand on me, I’m going to—
“You look so bored, tiger lily.”
I tense at the deep bravado of Elijah’s voice. When I spin on the stool, he’s directly in front of me, dressed in a black suit and a crisp, white shirt.
In the midst of all these other men, I realize just how stunning he is. His features are soft and refined while most are hard. There’s an air of confidence that radiates from him, one that would make any man take several intimidated steps backward.
“Elijah?” I say, my voice husky.
His lips twitch slightly. “Do you always have this much fun?” He sweeps a tendril of hair behind my ear.
I fight against the need to lean into his touch. Grabbing my half-empty glass, I raise it in an imaginary toast and take a sip—okay, a gulp. “At least the wine is good.”
“You haven’t smiled once.”
“And exactly how long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.” The light from the chandelier sparkles in his eyes, creating a hint of mischief just before his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Creeper…”
Elijah tsks. “You ignored my texts to come on a date with Tom Brown?”
“You know Tom?” My eyes widened in surprise. “I’m totally judging you right now.”
“He’s a former client and an asshole.”
“An arrogant asshole, and”—I hold up a finger— “I wasn’t ignoring you; I simply postponed a response.”
“I see.” His gaze drifts to my glass. “Are you drunk?”
“Not enough.”
His lips purse as he takes the wine from my hand and sets it on the bar. Grabbing my hand, he gently pulls me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
Elijah’s slightly arrogant, but in an addictive way that’s charming—no other man could pull it off with any success.
“I can’t leave. In case you didn’t notice, I’m on a horrible double date with my best friend.”
He nods, his thumb drawing soft circles over my knuckles. He’s touching me, and it’s weird, but what’s even stranger is that I like it. “Do you plan to go on another date with Tom?”
“Not that it’s any of your business”—I brush lint from my dress— “but no.”
“Then you don’t need to make a good impression.” A devious grin forms on his lips.
A group of men stand from the table behind us. One of them pats Elijah on the back and whispers something in his ear before they leave.
I narrow my gaze on him. “You know… it’s odd that I keep running into you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” I tilt my head to consider him further. “Are you a stalker? While I’d be flattered if you are, I’d really have to decline any future rendezvous.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m afraid I was here on business.” His fingers lace with mine.
I’m aware it’s rude to leave in the middle of a date. Even ruder to leave with another man, but still, I find myself mindlessly following Elijah through the bar like he’s the Pied Piper and I’m one of his mice dancing to his tune.
As soon as the security notices us approach, they open the door and let us through. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Banks.”
“You as well, David.” Elijah Banks nods as we step onto the sidewalk.
The muggy heat wraps around me like a sticky blanket, and I immediately pull my hair into a ponytail.
Steam puffs from a manhole in the street, drawing my attention to the sleek, black Tesla idling at the curb. The way the driver stares when we walk past gives me an eerie feeling.
“Oh.” Elijah squeezes my hand and drags my attention away from the car. “Congratulations by the way.”
“For?”
“Being the first woman to ignore me.”
“I already told you.” I shake my head on a subtle laugh. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Mm-hmm. Avoiding then? Is that word more appropriate?”
We come to a halt at the crosswalk. “Okay. Fine. Avoiding. I was avoiding you.”
Without warning, he grabs my chin and tilts my head. His eyes lock with mine, and my pulse steadily tick, tick, ticks up. My skin heats under his touch. “I like it. I find it endearing,” he whispers.
Fuck him right now. Really… “Thanks.” I clear my throat just as the pedestrian crossing in the intersection flashes green, and we begin across 9th Avenue in silence. I can’t help but think how unlike me it is to leave with a man I barely know—although, with Elijah, it seems to be a repeat offense.
Spice Girls “Wannabe” blares from my purse, breaking the silence. Steph! I was so entranced, mesmerized—whatever the hell this nonsense is—that I didn’t tell Steph I was leaving. “Crap,” I huff, digging my phone from my purse and pressing it to my ear. “Hey. Sorry.”
“Are you in the bathroom or something?” The buzz of the bar in the background nearly drowns her out.
“Not exactly. I, uh…I ran into someone.”
“Who?”
“This guy.” I glance at Elijah, catching his eyes on me with a smirk tugging at his lips.
“El Chapo!” Steph shouts so loudly I’m terrified he heard.
“Um, no.” I cough. “His name’s Elijah. You don’t know him, but anyway…I left with him and—”
“You left with him? Oh my God. Who are you?”
“All right, well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
She yells something about Tom when I disconnect the call and switch the ringer to silent.
We stop in front of the entrance to the 50th Street Station. Elijah starts down the stairs, and I freeze. He has one foot on the first step, the other still on the sidewalk. “You don’t have a thing against the subway, do you?” He eyes me cautiously.
“No. I just…where are we going?”
“To watch art.”
And I follow him, without another question.
____
We emerge on Broadway and fall in line with the sea of people heading toward the glow of Times Square.
I’ve lived in New York for nearly ten years, and still, the diversity of Times Square fascinates me. The electronic billboards that provide eternal daylight. The myriad of greasy smells from food carts. The chorus of high heels over the pavement, men on business calls, children laughing. Horns honking and engines backfiring. No matter who you are or what’s going on in your life, Times Square has a way of energizing you.
The crowd ahead of us moves around a homeless man in unison, all pretending they don’t notice him. He’s leaning against a trashcan, a sign in one hand that reads: Why lie? I’m going to buy pot. His other hand rests on the head of a brown dog with a bandana tied around its neck.
“At least he’s honest,” I say. “You’ve got to appreciate that.”
Elijah pulls his wallet from his back pocket and flips through several bills before stooping to hand the man money. He says a few words to him, then is right back at my side. “Honesty should always be rewarded.” Elijah then takes my hand and leads me around the tourists holding selfie sticks and people with noses buried in subway maps.
An electronic-blue haze falls over the street when we reach Duffey Square. We head to the north end of the triangle of buildings, dodging the street performers dancing in front of the ruby-red bleachers. Elijah and I take a seat on the front row.
Times Square thrives around us, moving like a living, breathing thing while I sit completely still, watching as though it’s a performance. Honestly, I don’t understand how anyone could not love this city. As I take in my surroundings, I recall coming to this exact spot with Harold a few months after we moved here. He spent the entire time checking his watch, bored and complaining about the noise. I never understood that.
“This is my favorite part of Manhattan.” Elijah’s eyes drift over the crowded center.
Smiling, I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Seems cliché.”
“I know, but there aren’t many places where you can be in the middle of so many cultures, so many walks of life…”
And…he has depth. I’m screwed. I’m really, really screwed.
His gaze strays to the masses, and I can’t help but watch him. The advertisements from the screens cast an iridescent glow over his face. My chest clenches. Getting to know little details about Elijah isn’t safe. He’s aesthetically pleasing, intellectually stimulating, and one-hundred and ten percent a danger to my well-being.
His gaze eventually falls back to me, and the man in the designer suit gives me a boyish smile. Jesus, he has an endless supply of tricks up his sleeve.
“What?” he asks.
“There’s more to you than you let on, isn’t there?”
“There’s more to most people than they let on.”
“True.”
Our eyes lock. He keeps glancing at my lips, then starts to inch closer. My pulse hammers in my ears. I have to do something. I’m not ready for this type of a man. I’m not. Just as he moves in, I take a breath and turn my head, directing my attention to one of the street performers dancing to Vanilla Ice. Elijah’s stare burns into the side of my face, but I keep my gaze set straight ahead while the man does a backflip.
“You think that’s his job?” I nod toward the dancing man.
“Performing? Possibly.”
There’s passion in each fluid movement. “I don’t think it’s his job…” I say, glancing at Elijah.
“And why not?”
“Look at his smile. He’s enjoying it. The second a hobby becomes a job, all the passion is gone.”
He leans in again, this time, so close I can smell the mint on his breath and the spicy scent of his aftershave. “You’re a cynical little thing, aren’t you?” I need to put distance between us before I end up lip-locked in the middle of Times Square. So, I place my palms on the bleacher, scoot a little to the right, and cross one leg over the other.
“Maybe I am cynical,” I say with a roll of my shoulder.
“So, Demi, what hobbies do you have?”
Drinking boxed wine and binge-watching Netflix doesn’t sound fancy enough, so I settle with: “I read suspense novels.”
“Of course you would.” There’s snark to his tone.
I glare at him. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re skittish.”
“I’m not skittish.”
“You ran out of a hotel room. Naked…”
I cover my eyes with my hand and shake my head. “Not my proudest moment.”
“Let me guess, you were afraid I was a murderer?”
“No.” I part my fingers and peek through the opening. “I thought you were a cartel boss…or possibly a drug lord.”
