So, of course, I picked the one profession where I have none. When the military gives you an order, you do it. No discussions. No questions. No choice. But, I suppose, where my job is concerned, having no control is actually calming in a way.
“You guys ready?” I ask Maggie and Cooper.
All the way to Ann Arbor, Maggie rambles on about the band we’re about to see. I’ve never heard of them, but apparently, they are DJs with a techno flair. According to Maggie, that means they play a lot of covers of popular songs, but they spice them up a bit. Should be interesting.
I park in the parking garage, and we walk across the street to the club. Every time the bouncer opens the door to let someone in, the loud music escapes, sending steady beats of bass down the street.
The second we step foot into the club, Maggie is bouncing up and down, giddy with excitement. The place is packed. As we weave our way through the crowded space, I notice how each person seems to be holding or wearing something that glows in bright neon. Glow-stick bracelets, necklaces, headbands, and belts are apparently all the rage.
A smile crosses my face as we pass some chick laughing hysterically while she repeatedly hits some guy on the head with a foam glow sword. The ten-dollar cover was worth it just for the show the audience is bringing. Being the sober one is where it’s at.
Near the back, we find a space large enough for the three of us to stand comfortably. Cooper says something to Maggie, eliciting a nod from her, before he heads in the direction of the bar.
Maggie is raising her hands in the air and swaying to the music as she shouts out the lyrics. Cooper returns and hands me a Coke.
“Thanks, man!” I yell over the music.
He nods toward me with a smile and wraps his arms around Maggie from behind. The two of them start dancing together without missing a beat. If I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I envy the relationship they share. Knowing them both as well as I do, I believe, without a doubt, that neither one would ever hurt the other. They are in it for the long haul. A tiny longing resonates within me. A small hope that I could find that sort of connection with someone enters my mind before I immediately shut it down. I’ve learned that any amount of hope, no matter how small, is dangerous.
Something pulls my attention toward the front of the club. My eyes scan the area—searching for what, I don’t know. Yet it’s there—a feeling, a presence, a whisper—and I can’t ignore it.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what I’ve been looking for. There
she
is, like a beacon sending a signal meant for me. My hand grips tightly to the cool glass containing the iced pop, my thumb slipping across the condensation. The beverage begins to fall from my hand before I reposition my hold. Turning, I place it on a ledge and wipe my damp palms against my jeans.
What are the odds?
I stare at the wall. My heart is thrumming wildly in my chest.
I suppose it’s not that surprising. This city isn’t that big, and the fact that she would like the same band as Maggie isn’t that surprising either.
But still.
I haven’t been able to get my mind off of her all week, and I don’t understand it.
And, now, she’s here
. If I were interested in finding someone—I’m not—she would be the opposite of the type of person I’d be looking for.
I breathe deeply, pulling the energy-charged hot air of the club into my lungs, before turning back toward her. She’s probably thirty feet away, far enough that I can watch her without her noticing. And she hasn’t realized that I’m here yet, as far as I can tell. She and another girl dance with abandon, similar to the way in which Maggie is moving next to me.
Her long hair is curled, the loose spirals bouncing against her bare shoulders as she moves. The kaleidoscopes of colors shining from the stage lights emit ever-changing bursts that alter the hue of her hair every few seconds. But I know the true shade.
I can close my eyes and picture it clear as day. I’ve imagined how silky her light-brown locks would feel against my skin. The color—so rich with varying shades of chocolate but with a hint of blonde when in the sun—has been present in my mind all week, regardless of my attempt to block it out.
I can’t see her eyes from here, but I can picture them just as clearly. Her eyes mirror her hair with their different shades of brown. Every time she looked at me at that car wash, they appeared marginally different, an intriguing melody of browns with flecks of greens and golds.
I push my hand through my short hair in frustration.
What is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t care less about the damn flecks of her irises or the freaking hint of blonde in her hair. I spoke very few words to her a week ago. I shouldn’t even remember her damn name, but I do.
London.
If she only knew what that name did to my heart when she said it in the bank parking lot. But she wouldn’t know. How could she?
It has to be the name that has me all jacked up over this girl. It’s definitely not the girl.
London is gorgeous, no doubt, but she’s not the type I would normally sleep with. She’s too beautiful, and she knows it. Not to mention, I can’t stand stuck-up, rich, entitled little bitches who think they are owed everything they want simply because they exist.
Those types of girls remind me of a family I briefly stayed with when I was in between homes in my early teens. The Bakerfields appeared to be living the American dream. They had a grand house that was entirely too big for the three of them, fancy clothes, and lots of expensive cars. They were rich, by most people’s standards. They had this daughter who was a couple of years older than me, Caroline. Man, she was a cruel, evil bitch. I hated her. I’m not sure why they took in foster kids, no matter how brief. I think Mr. Bakerfield was in politics. It had to be for show—the whole charade of taking in poor, parentless kids—like a résumé builder of some sort. It definitely wasn’t because they cared.
I realize I know little about the type of person London truly is, but I’d bet money that I’m right. I guarantee she’s from a rich family who gives her everything she’s ever wanted. She probably hasn’t had to actually work a day in her pampered life. No matter how beautiful she is or how my body betrays me in its attraction to her, she will never be a girl that I want to be with.
I hate the fact that I’m in this dark bar with endless things to look at, yet all I see is her. Despite my attempts to stop, my focus is drawn to her. She seems to glow—and not because of the neon hues of the glow sticks. No, she’s so much brighter. She’s a light I can’t ignore. I need to, I want to, but I simply can’t.
She’s no longer dancing, and her eyes are locked with mine. For a moment, she looks shocked, scared almost, but then her open mouth closes, forming a flirty smile. I yank my gaze from hers. I look at anything else and, at the same time, nothing else as my mind races with images of London. My stare betrays me as it finds her once more. This time, she is leaning in, talking to her friend. Her friend nods, and London starts walking with purpose and a huge-ass smile—directly toward me.
Oh, shit.
I find myself moving in her direction—if anything, because I don’t want to confront her in front of my friends. I’d never hear the end of it. I guarantee that London’s behavior will rival any of the crazies of the past. Red-bra-beer girl stories will be replaced with London stories, and if there is anything I don’t want, it is to be reminded of her for the unforeseeable future every time Cooper or Maggie wants a laugh.
We meet halfway and face each other. And though we are surrounded by a crowd of dancing bodies, standing across from London this way feels almost…intimate. I can’t stop my perusal of her, starting at her feet in strappy black heels to her skintight jeans to her equally form-fitting pink halter top to her cleavage that is pushed out on display to her breathtaking face and the way in which she is taking me in with the same amount of yearning.
“Loïc,” she says as her hands splay across my chest.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “London.”
“You remembered my name,” she says with a smirk.
I shrug, my arms hanging loosely at my sides. I concentrate on her face, hoping that mine conveys complete nonchalance. I’m putting in a lot of effort to appear unaffected. But the reality is, I’m not. My heartbeats are uncontrolled, a pounding drum within my chest. My body is betraying me in every way possible with its reaction to London’s touch, and all the focus in the world isn’t going to make a difference.
What is it about her?
I grab her wrists and remove her hands from my chest. “Listen—”
Before I can gather my thoughts, she tilts her face to the side and asks sweetly, “Dance with me?”
I let go of her wrists, and she wraps her hands around my neck, pulling us closer together.
My hands ball into fists against my thighs. “London,” I protest.
She glides one of her hands across my cheek. “It’s just a dance.”
Her touch feels so good, and I have to stop myself from leaning into her hand.
I don’t want this moment with her. I don’t want to feel this way when I’m around her. I don’t want any of it, but for some unknown reason, I’m powerless to stop it.
I could stop it, if I wanted to.
Walk away. Just walk away.
That’s all it would take.
Instead, my hands wrap around her waist. My body leans into hers. She nuzzles her face against my neck as I rest my cheek against her hair. Closing my eyes, I breathe in. She smells so good.
What am I doing?
I ignore the war raging in my mind between reason and want, and I allow my senses to fully take in this enigma of a woman in my arms. I will allow my brain and all the thoughts that I’m shutting out to have their say in a bit when I force myself to walk away. But, right now, I just want to dance with London more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. It doesn’t make sense, and I’ll rationalize it all later. For once, I’m going to permit my beating heart to win or at least have this small victory because the truth is, it’s long overdue for one.
We move to our own rhythm. I don’t even hear the band anymore. All my senses are fixed on London—the way she feels in my arms, her intoxicating smell, how beautiful she looks, the sound of her content sigh against my chest. We dance together like we’ve done it a million times before, our bodies moving seamlessly against one another. I press my lips together as an overwhelming urge to taste her comes over me, to kiss her…just once.
Wait! No. What is wrong with me?
It’s lust, plain and simple. I’m giving this attraction more value than it’s worth. There’s no connection, nothing special about London. She’s hot, and my body wants to fuck her. End of story.
End. Of. Story.
Yet, for more reasons than I care to admit, I won’t be taking her home tonight. I step back abruptly.
Enough.
I grab her shoulders and sharply push her away. “Listen…”
She opens her mouth to interrupt me again.
“Stop,” I say more forcefully than I probably should have.
Her eyes widen in shock.
“I’m sure you’re a nice girl and all,” I say, trying to soften the blow some, “but I’m not interested.”
Her brow furrows. “Why? Is it something I did? Something about me? Are you gay?” she fires off questions in rapid succession.
The last one makes me laugh. “No, I’m not gay. I’m just not a relationship kind of guy. Okay?”
She pouts her lips, her big doe eyes pleading. “I’m fine with that. We can just have some fun.”
“No”—I shake my head—“not happening.” My logic and senses are returning at full force. Though I know that a night in bed with London would probably be insane—the best kind of insanity—I can’t.
“Why?” Her voice comes out in a whine.
I hate that I find the shrill sound attractive.
“You’re just not my type of girl, and I’m definitely not the guy for you. You might not realize it yet, but I’m not. Trust me.”
“Let me make that decision.” She lowers her voice while placing her hand on my chest once more.
I remove it. “London, I’m trying not to be a dick to you. Believe me, it’s a challenge because, in all honesty, I am one. But there are only so many ways I can say no before things start getting ugly. Lots of guys are here. A pretty girl like yourself won’t have trouble finding one. It’s just not me.”
She bites her lip. “So, you think I’m pretty?”
I run my hand through my hair in frustration. “That’s what you took away from what I just said?”
“Come on, Loïc,” she purrs.
I glare down to her with a cold, frustrated stare.
Pulling back her shoulders, her chest rises with a large breath.
I watch her entire demeanor change. The soft features of her face morph into hardened resolve with, if I’m not mistaken, anger—and a lot of it.
She stands tall. One hand grabs her hip while the other one points an accusing finger at me. This is a completely different girl than the one I just danced with, and I despise the fact that I find this version equally as hot.
“What is your deal?” London barks out, her stare cynical. “Like, seriously? I know you find me attractive. I can tell in the way we just danced. This isn’t me, Loïc. I don’t beg guys to want me. It’s always the other way around!”
She’s furious, and I struggle not to smile because I find her rage completely adorable.
Oh, sod off, Loïc. Just stop.
This has gone on for long enough. I steel my features. Brutal bluntness is going to be the only way to get through to this girl. I need her to hear me because, honestly, I don’t want to fight her anymore. I only have so much resolve. But I know that I’m no good for her, just as she’s no good for me.
She stands before me, fuming. Her glare expectant, she’s waiting for answers.
“I’m sorry, London,” I say, though the tone of my voice communicates the opposite of remorse, “that you’ve lived such a privileged life that you don’t understand the meaning of the word
no
.” I pause to take her in one final time.
I spy large round brown eyes with specks of gold peering up at me with equal amounts of hope and fear, a face so perfect in its construction that it’s more a work of art than a mere body part, and full lips that tremble slightly, begging me to kiss them. The sight before me brings more emotions to the surface than I’ve felt in years. And that’s exactly why I have to go.