Authors: Jillian Leeson
Elle nods, but doesn’t apologize. Apart from a fleeting contriteness, her facial expression is devoid of any pity, thank God.
I take a sip of my Americano and she cocks her head at my cup. “What’s with the coffee and water?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
That’s not completely true; I do drink, but I restrain myself, indulging in a glass of quality wine once in a while. I’ve learned from an early age that alcohol and drugs lead only one way: down. I attribute my success in life on my willpower and determination. If I hadn’t willed myself to abstain and use other people’s weaknesses to my advantage, I could have easily gone the same road as so many kids who grow up on the streets.
Elle furrows her brow. “Come again?”
“I don’t need alcohol to have a good time.”
She grins and downs another shot.
“Really? So what do
you
need to have a good time?”
“You.”
A minute flash of anxiety flickers on her face, but she recovers fast. She laughs loudly, throwing back her head.
“You’re funny, you know that?”
The band finishes their last song and a DJ comes in its place, playing “Reload”. It is so loud that we won’t be able to hear each other when we talk, so I stand up and grab her hand, pulling her to the dance floor. She quickly downs her last shot before we squeeze into the mass of gyrating bodies.
The heavy beat reverberates throughout my body, and I let it carry me away. Having let go of my hand, Elle makes the most of the limited space, moving her lithe body in one spot. Her eyes closed, she seems miles away.
In a bold move, I slip behind her, putting one hand on her hip. When she doesn’t resist, I slide it to her stomach and pull her close to my body until I feel her back against my chest. Suggestively moving with the music, I feel her hand on mine, and her other around me, resting on my hip. The beat, the lights, the heat, the sweat—I don’t notice any of it, I’m too wrapped up in the two of us, as if we’re merged in another dimension.
When a slow song comes on, Elle immediately tries to untangle herself from me, but I swivel her around and pull her against me. I lock my arms so she can’t get away, as much as she tries to push against my chest.
“One more dance,” I say in her ear.
She blinks, and I whisper, “Please?”
Her eyes soften and her body relaxes in my arms. I let my nose hover over her ear and bury itself into her hair, breathing in deeply. That exotic fruit scent is so addictive. I was serious when I told her I don’t need alcohol—she gives me a high.
When her hands move up my chest and twist round my neck, I gaze deeply into her eyes and let my forehead rest against hers. We stay like this, swaying to the music. Time stands still. I can’t think of a moment when I’ve felt more blissful. I slowly lower my mouth to hers and can feel the heat of her lips underneath mine. Then that warmth falls away, and I feel her hands roughly pushing against my chest, away from me.
“I have to go,” she mouths and melts into the mass of bodies. I follow her, but the crowd is too thick. Every two steps I take, scantily clad women stop me for a dance, but I continue to push my way through. When I finally reach the exit, I see a taxi pulling away on the empty street.
Damn, she’s gone.
Elle
Another hour and I’ll finish my shift.
The café has been busy today, but since it’s almost closing time, the flow of customers has subsided to a trickle. A skinny guy with a nose ring and gauged ears orders a macchiato, giving me a wink when I hand it to him. But the smile on my face immediately vanishes when the next customer appears behind him.
I can’t believe it. Ryder is standing before me with a smug crooked grin on his striking face. How the hell did he get here? I’m very sure I didn’t tell him where I work. What are the chances of him finding me in this tiny café, one among hundreds in lower Manhattan?
Dressed in a black shirt, its top two buttons open, under an expensive-looking dark-gray suit, Ryder looks maddeningly sexy, even though I normally detest the sight of men in business suits.
“Elle, hey. What a coincidence to see you here. It must be fate.”
Trying to ignore the flutters his deep voice produces in my stomach, I put on my professional barista face. “What would you like?”
“I’d like to say—you. But that’ll come later. For now, I’ll have a double espresso. Having here.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I start preparing his coffee. He sits down at a table next to the window, his gaze fixed on me. I plan on walking off the second I put his espresso on the table, but when I do, he grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him, and says, “Have dinner with me tonight.”
The scent of his cologne find my nostrils, making me giddy.
“I don’t think so.”
“We still have to discuss the details of our race. I’ll wait for you to finish work.”
“What if I have plans tonight?”
“Cancel them.”
“Maybe I have a date.”
“I’d love to see who I’m up against. But I’m sure I’ll come out on top.”
His cocky grin unnerves me, so I try a different tack. “I’m not feeling very well. It really isn’t a good time.”
“Not a problem. I’ll get you home and take care of you.”
Aaargh! I don’t know how he does it, but within the ten seconds of our rapid-fire to and fro, he’s managed to make my blood boil.
I point my finger at him. “There’s only one word to describe you—obnoxious.”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” As he crosses his arms, I stomp back to the counter. From the corner of my eye, I notice he’s picked up a newspaper. Even so, I feel like he is watching my every move. This is crazy; I shouldn’t feel so self-conscious around him.
After the night when I left him in the bar, I thought I would never have to see him again. I’d already planned to call off the race, considering how easily I got lost in dancing with him, nearly leading to a kiss—a kiss I’d nearly given in to, were it not that I’d still had a shred of sanity in me left to pull away. Damn him for making me almost lose it; when it comes to men, I’m the one who always stays in control.
As I’m wiping down the counter at the end of my shift, I make up my mind. I am stronger than this. I will not let myself be intimidated by a man ever again, no matter how persuasive he is. Besides, tonight is a good time to tell him that our race is off.
Ryder looks up from his paper when I say, “Fine. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll pay for dinner.”
He chuckles. “You’re on. You can even pay for the entertainment.”
I frown when he flashes a mysterious smile and says, “You’ll see.”
Outside, he hails a taxi and directs the driver to an address on the Lower East Side. During the short drive, his hand reaches for mine, but I swat it away in time and narrow my eyes at the smirk on his face.
We arrive at our destination, “The Two Bit’s Retro Arcade”, and I am pleasantly surprised. Even though I have never been to this place, I’ve always loved playing video games.
It’s dim inside apart from the back wall, where a giant screen plays a soundless Bruce Lee movie. A familiar array of retro arcade machines are lined up against the walls—Donkey Kong, Pac Man, Tetris, Galaga, Asteroids. Their beeping noises are all but drowned out by Aretha Franklin’s “Freeway of Love” playing over the speaker system.
“Pac Man!” Ryder’s face splits into a wide grin. “Do you have any quarters?”
I dig one up from my pocket, and he starts the game while I get more change. When he dies at level 9, he bangs his hand on the machine, after which I calmly insert my quarter and get hold of the controls. Ryder shows me his cheeky grin, but it’s wiped from his face when I pass level 9.
“You want me to go on?” I ask at level 18, looking up at the incredulous expression on his face. “I don’t mind breaking my record of level a hundred fifty. But we’ll be sitting here for a while.”
His scowl causes me to throw back my head in laughter, and I abandon the controls. I shove a stack of quarters in his hand, and he tries to compete with me playing Space Invaders and Galaga, which of course I win, too. I almost feel sorry for him when I smash him to a pulp in Street Fighter II.
“You’re not a bad loser, are you?” I tease as he grunts after his last defeat. “Let’s play Virtua Cop together.”
We pick up the light guns from the machine and assume our roles as police officers shooting at the bad guys. It’s so much fun that before I know it, we reach the final boss and crash his helicopter, which is followed by the closing credits.
“Awesome!”
I throw my fist in the air and lift up my other hand for Ryder to high-five me, which he does with a beaming, boyish smile. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me to the back of the arcade. “Hey, let’s try the photo booth.”
Still drunk with our victory in the shooting game, I squeeze in the small booth with him. He pulls me onto his lap, and I realize too late how his proximity in this enclosed space affects me: a shiver runs along my spine.
“Cold?” he asks, pressing his hard chest against my back. I shake my head and try my best to smile, ignoring the pounding of my heart.
“I think we should try that again.”
After Ryder inserts more coins into the slot, he starts tickling me, causing me to giggle and squirm in his lap. When the flashes stop, I jump out of the booth, breathing a silent sigh of relief. A few minutes later, two narrow photo strips appear, which Ryder snatches from the machine before I get the chance.
“Check out how cute you look,” he says.
The photos show me wearing a variety of idiotic grins, while Ryder’s photogenic face remains irritatingly gorgeous on all the pictures. When I swat him hard on his muscled arm, he hands me the strip of giggling photos while he puts the other one in his pocket.
He says, “I’m hungry. Shall we go?”
When we step out, two black teenage boys with baseball caps stand outside the arcade, noses pressed against the window. Ryder casts them a glance.
“You want a play, boys?”
Staring at him wide-eyed, they don’t reply.
Ryder turns to me. “Is that okay, Elle?”
I nod, so he delves in his pocket and extracts a handful of coins.
“That’s all I have left. Have fun, guys.”
“Thanks, man!” Wide grins on their faces, the boys dash past us into the arcade.
Chuckling, Ryder follows me down the street. On our nine-block walk to Chinatown he shoots me question after question—what I’m studying, what my hobbies are, what my favorite color, movie, book is, which breakfast cereal I prefer, what brand toothpaste I use.
I don’t understand why he’s so keen to know everything about me. I know what guys like him are after—conquer the challenge of a girl who’s hard to get, after which they conveniently lose her number. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m onto him; I won’t fall into his trap. In the unlikely case that something happens between us, I’ll be the one in control; I’ll be the one who loses
his
number.
When we enter Lam Zhou Handmade Noodles—a typical hole-in-the-wall restaurant with an Asian-drinks fridge outside—it is the loud noise of handmade noodles being slapped on the marble top at the back of the restaurant that greets us. I study Ryder’s reaction. I expect him to look out of place wearing his expensive suit, but strangely he doesn’t. He looks completely comfortable, carefully studying the 20-item menu on the wall.
“I hope you like Chinese,” I say.
Ryder winks at me. “I
love
Chinese.”
Is he talking about the food or something else? Does he know I’m half Chinese?
“So, what would you like to eat?”
“Anything, I’m easy. Just order for me.”
As an elderly Chinese couple is leaving, I get Ryder to take their coveted stools on the wooden counter along the grey tiled wall, while I place the order: two bowls of noodles and a plate of boiled pork dumplings to share.
When I sit on the stool next to him, I say, “I know this may not be up to your usual restaurant standards. But I promise you, they have the best noodles and dumplings in Chinatown. And you can’t beat the price.”
Having paid a little over ten bucks for our meal, I wonder if he thinks this place is too cheap, but to me it’s all about the quality of the food. I’m happy with my choice—I couldn’t have found a better place for a casual dinner, sitting next to each other at a bar counter, the slapping noises assaulting our ears. It’s perfect for keeping my distance, for preventing this dinner to feel like a date. I still haven’t talked to him about the race, deciding it’s best to leave it till the last minute as he’ll surely try to dissuade me.
When our food arrives, Ryder digs in with relish. “Mmm…this is seriously good. Try it.”
He uses his chopsticks to lift up a piece of beef.
“I’m okay. I’ve had it before.”
“Try it again. It’s delicious.”
When he puts the morsel in my mouth, I have to admit that it tastes even better than I remember.
The tiny restaurant is filling up to the brim, and in the limited space, people are pushing us from all sides. We are now so close together that our thighs and arms are pressing against each other, making this dinner a lot more intimate than I’d planned.
“Can I try your noodles?”
Ryder’s tilted head combined with his disarming smile makes something in me melt, so I wrap a nest of my pork noodles carefully around my chopsticks and pop them in his mouth. I laugh when he slurps and sucks in the ends of the noodle strands. He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “That was great.”