Luck on the Line Read online

  “That wasn’t a coffee.” I drink my wine. “It was a twelve year old girl’s dessert.”

  His beautiful green eyes widen. I wonder when the last time a girl put him in his place. As much as I’d like to turn his biceps into my dessert, I can’t back down in whatever this thing is. “Has anyone ever told you you’re not a people person?”

  I hide my face in my mug. “Every manager that’s ever fired me.”

  He drinks a little more, this time smacking his lips the way I would when eating sour candy. “Then why do it? Why work in this business? Stella spent the car ride and the party telling me all about you.”

  My insides warm and it has nothing to do with the delicious fuzziness of the wine. “Wonderful things, I’m sure.”

  He goes to the sink and washes the stickiness of the wine off his skin. He has the walk of someone who holds their secrets close to their heart, someone who’s used to watching his back. Also, the kind of walk of someone who does squats. Often.

  I bite my lip hard to pull myself together. Get a grip, Lucky.

  When he comes back, he pulls his barstool closer to me. “She said that you started out in culinary school and then you quit. You went to Simmons College for journalism and then you quit.”

  “Can you stop saying ‘quit’?”

  “That’s what you did.”

  “I didn’t quit, I changed my mind and then left to find something I was more interested in.”

  He purses his lips but decides it’s better not to counter me. Good boy. “After Boston it was some university in Miami, but then you—changed your mind. Then Montana—who even goes there that isn’t a bear trapper or searching for gold?”

  I nearly choke on my wine. “You do realize the gold rush is over, right?”

  James takes the bottle and refills our mugs. “Then after Montana it was New York.”

  “Go Yankees,” I say smugly.

  He makes a gesture with his hands, like he wants to choke the air. “You know, you have to stop saying that. Sports aren’t a joke in this town.”

  For the first time in a few days, I laugh. Really, truly, can’t-help-myself laugh.

  James shakes his head. So this is what he’s like when no one is around. He says, “And now you’re here. Why are you here?”

  And without hesitating I say, “Family stuff. Not the restaurant. I didn’t even know about The Star until I got here. It’s not like she ever answers her phone when I call. We’ve had an understanding since I left the nest—I have to be with her this time of year no matter what I’ve got going on.”

  I let that settle like the dregs of our wine. But I don’t want to talk about me. I don’t want to talk about my father’s death, or that it’s been ten years and somehow it feels like yesterday, even though there’s not a single trace of him in my mother’s perfectly see-through life.

  “Now that you know so much about me,” I say, “let’s do you.”

  “Jeez, at least let me buy you dinner first,” he says coolly.

  I slug him in the chest, though it hurts me more than him. “You know exactly what I mean. Where have you been, Chef James Hughes?”

  James smacks his lips and laughs and shrugs. “Around.”

  “I’m not talking about beds,” I say, smiling. “I’m talking about states and countries. Don’t chefs go a little bit of everywhere to learn all the cuisine and all that crap?”

  He moves the barstool closer. His face has a red flush of drunkenness. When he smiles, a real smile with all beautiful teeth, the wrench in my stomach fucks everything up.

  “I guess New Hampshire. Good chowder.” Chow-dah. It’s the first trace of an accent I’ve heard from him, like he guards it. “I went to Italy with my sous-chef, Nunzio. He’s loud. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What?” His voice is loud. “Some people like where they live. Not everyone wants to run off like a wild thing. Some people like having a place that’s home, that’s familiar.”

  “I’m not a wild thing!”

  He lifts his mug to his lips and says, “That’s disappointing.”

  Heat blooms in my chest and spreads until I’m sure I’m blushing. “Yeah, well… At least I’m not afraid to try new things.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I hold up the print out of the tasting menu. “Emulsified greens? Are you feeding a rabbit farm? It’s like every snooty restaurant menu ever.”

  I don’t realize I’ve crossed a line until he slams his mug on the counter. The handle breaks clean in his big hands. The storm in his green eyes goes away as quickly as it started when he looks at the shock on my face. Temper, temper.

  He takes the broken handle and the handicapped mug to trash, but first he polishes off the rest of the wine. His phone buzzes. He looks at the screen and a frown wrinkles his forehead. He closes his eyes and ignores it. “Wine’s out. I should go.”

  “I should go, too.”

  I can feel James’s eyes on me like the beam of a lighthouse. Truth is, I don’t want to go. I’ve only just started seeing who James is. I’ve seen the face he puts on when flirting, the face he puts on at work, but what about the face that’s there after-hours? He’s funny and flirty and there’s a pain that he keeps close to his heart. I can feel it in him because it’s in me, too. For reasons beyond my self-control, I want to know what that is.

  “Be right back,” I say. I go and get another bottle of wine. My heart hammers in my chest from the sprint, but it’s ten times worse when I come back and James is gone. Would he really leave without saying goodbye? Then I realize his blazer is still on the table, his cellphone right beside it. The screen lights up and buzzes over and over again.

  If that’s not a booty call, I don’t know what is. I set the wine down and edge closer to the screen. I’m not going to touch it. Curiosity is a curse. It makes you think you want to know, until you do know, and then you wish you hadn’t looked.

  But with my head pleasantly dulled with wine, I decide I’m going to look. The phone buzzes for the fifth time. A toilet flushes in the emptiness of the restaurant. The name reads: DO NOT ANSWER with five text messages and a missed call. I wonder who this person is that would warrant the phonebook kiss of death. I have a few DO NOT ANSWERs on my contact list.

  James’s boots announce him before he enters the kitchen. He fumbles with something in his pocket. The jingle of keys hit the floor. There is no way in hell he’s getting on his bike after downing half a bottle of wine.

  “Do you have a death wish?” I dive for the keys before he can get to them.

  “Give me my keys,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  I throw them in my bag along with the snooty restaurant menu. So much for working on a wine list. Why are guys so stubborn?

  He steps closer to me, holding my wrist in his hand, then brushes our palms together, like we’re about to start a drunken waltz. I can feel calluses that line the base of his fingers, working hands, from something other than a knife. I wonder where he got them. I wonder why he smells like the beach when New England beaches are cold and brown. Snap. Out. Of. It.

  “You won’t be fine!”

  “Lucky…” He steps away and shakes his head, like he’s trying to get a grip of himself. “I’m sorry. Lets start over. I always mess things up. I just, do this all the time.”

  “Oh-kay. Come on,” I say, letting him drape his arm around my shoulder.

  He stubs his foot on a chair and snorts. “I’m glad your mom was right about one thing.”

  I push the door that leads to the opposite side of the street. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “You’re stronger than you look.”

  I bark a laugh, and I wonder why I surround myself with guys who are such lightweights.

  Chapter 11

  “Stand still and act sober,” I tell James when not a single cab will stop for us.

  When one does, I have to plead with the cab driver to take us as passengers. In the ca
b, it takes James three tries to remember where he lives.

  Having worked at so many bars and restaurants I know there is nothing as binding as helping someone home after a night of drinking. With the passing streetlights, I find myself wondering why I’m the one who always ends up being the sober one. Or rather, sober in comparison.

  My head pulses the way it does from too much drinkity drink drink and not enough water. I hope to god that James doesn’t fall asleep. Moving dead weight is the last thing I want to do.

  The thought brings back a memory of my mom. I was in high school and we went to a fundraiser. I can’t remember if it was during husband #2 or #3. They blend together in my mind—short, bald, horrible coarse mustaches that made them look like seals begging for another fish. Stella had too much to drink and my stepdad was too embarrassed so he left without us. The driver wouldn’t touch her, something about wanting to avoid a lawsuit. So it was just me, supporting my mother’s weight. She’s skinny, but skinny doesn’t matter when a drunk person passes out. It’s like trying to pull a wet sack of sand. I cursed her, yelled at her, smacked her face. But she could barely open her eyes and every word that came out was a Cheshire riddle. I got her to the couch and brought out a giant bowl from her wedding china. I sat on the chair next to her and wished I could get as far away as possible. The next day she’d wake up and not remember a thing. I’d go to school, still reigning as the kid with the fucked up mom. Sure, lots of the rich kids I went to school with had drunk parents. It was my mom who liked to do it in front of everyone. Stella, the star of the show, the giant ball of burning gas that wrecked everything around me.

  “Hey, lady. Is this it or what?” the angry cab driver yells at me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, digging in my bag for my wallet. Hot white panic floods my body. Shit. I must have left my wallet at the restaurant.

  Behind us cars honk because the street is so narrow.

  “Listen, Lady—”

  “I got it,” I snap, “I got it.”

  I look at James happily dozed off beside me. I slide my hand into his front pocket. His muscles have stretched the jean material so I really have to dig. Oh, Lucky, this is your life. I stop short of hollering when I find a crisp $20.

  “Keep the change,” I tell the driver.

  Then I do something I only reserve for customers who’ve grabbed my ass at the bar. I pull my arm back and punch James right in the crotch.

  I lean out of the way for his reflex to kick in. He grunts and cries, “What the fuck?”

  Men are such babies.

  I get out of the cab and run around, taking a little pleasure in the cabbie’s chuckle and James’s sudden Tourette’s. Headlights blind me as I go to the other side of the car. Drivers honk and yell obscenities that are probably not heard often on this quiet brownstone-lined street in the trim Back Bay area of Boston.

  James gets out of the cab and swats the hand I extend. He slams the door and the cab peels off, leaving me in the middle of the street with exhaust fumes all up in my face.

  “Lucky,” James says, “are you crazy, get out of the street!”

  He wobbles, but he’s not slurring anymore.

  I consider taking my chances as road kill. A wave of exhaustion fills me, heavy on my shoulders and neck. I’m more drunk than I thought. James grabs me and because we’re both unbalanced, we topple to the ground. When I stand, my knee finds the tender stop between his legs and he whimpers.

  “You’re trying to kill me, woman.”

  I grab onto the gate that leads to a brownstone. It’s covered in thick green vines. And I laugh.

  “Real funny.”

  I keep laughing.

  “You’re a regular comedian, Lucky Charms.”

  At the mention of my high school nickname, my laughter dies. The night is warm and breezeless. Sweat beads roll down my temples. I hold out a hand to help James stand, but he pushes himself off the ground, still off-kilter. A lady and her shih tzu out for a night-time walk shake their proper little heads at us. The lady grabs her pooch and side steps our bodies like we have the plague. They rush into the brownstone above James’s and all I can think is why would someone have a dog’s head as a door knocker?

  “Can I have my keys back or do you plan on making me sleep on my neighbor’s steps?”

  I dig the keys out of my bag and dangle them on my index finger. He takes them, and when his fingers brush mine, I feel the drunken dizziness return.

  “Okaybye,” I slur, turning on a precarious heel up a street I’ve never been on. Jesus, Lucky, why do you do these things? Why did you say yes to help Stella? Why did you think it’d be a good idea to drink with a man who looks like a smooth, succulent ice cream scoop on a warm summer night like this?

  James grabs onto the back of my shirt and pulls me back. He presses the bridge of his nose. I bet the shooting pains he feels all have my name on them.

  “Look,” he starts. “I can’t let you go home like this. Just sleep it off.”

  I follow him down the steps with my arms crossed over my chest. As much as I’d like to think of myself as a great judge of character, I can’t get a read on James. He’s cocky and proud about his food, but he’s insecure at the same time. He can talk all about me but when I turn the tables, he’s gun shy. He can go from cold to flirtatious in seconds, but hasn’t tried to make a move on me. Perhaps I’m just not his type. Perhaps this was his plan all along. It’s not too late to turn around.

  “Home, sweet home.” He drops his keys on the little table at the entrance. There’s a stack of unopened mail and lots of receipts. He kicks off his shoes, then turns to face me. He’s a head taller than me, but suddenly I feel like Thumbelina in his hands. Big, calloused hands holding my face. My stomach fills with raging butterflies, the fiery ones that want to burn right through my skin.

  I want to ask, “What are you doing?” I want to tell him that I don’t want him, but that would all be a lie. I’ve wanted to feel his hands from the moment I laid eyes on him.

  His eyes are green as the sea. His lashes are thick and long and brush against my skin as he leans in to kiss me. My breath hitches from surprise. My brain is a series of landmines going off. I close my eyes and lean into him. It’s a perfect fit, the way my body contours to him. I run my fingers through his hair, pressing my lips harder on his.

  He pulls away, brushing the ache from my lip with his thumb. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about you, Lucky.”

  “I’m not spoiled and privileged?”

  He brushes his nose against mine, playing closely to my lips. Just kiss me, dammit. “No, you’re still privileged. But you’re not spoiled.”

  His hands cup my face. His eyes are sleepy and dreamy and focused on me. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish he could feel the way my insides are ready to combust. The way my heart slides down a spiral when I realize I want more, more, more.

  James takes off his white t-shirt. I take in the full expanse of his chest, muscles that aren’t just sculpted at the gym but delicious from hard work. My mind is in a frenzy, wanting to reach out and touch his skin, but also wanting to run out the door.

  Then he pulls back. He rests his forehead on mine and his eyelashes tickle my skin.

  “Damn.” One word. Just: “damn.” Then he throws himself on the black leather couch that takes up a big chunk of his living room.

  My skin tingles where his lips and hands were. I stand, frozen in the middle of a stranger’s house. Half a stranger. What’s the other half? Friend? Colleague? Random Life Encounter?

  I can’t even see his tattoo because he’s lying on his back. His eyes flutter and he starts to snore. Perfect. I go to the kitchen and drink a big glass of water. I splash some on my face. Down the hall from the kitchen is the bathroom. Then a single bedroom. He must have just moved in because the furniture is pretty standard. A dresser with clothes hanging from half closed drawers. A small tin of hair product and stick of deodorant. No paintings, no decorations, no trophies. There’s a sing
le frame on the dresser—a woman sitting for a portrait. She’s in her thirties, wearing a navy blue dress. Her hair is dark and perfectly coifed. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is James’s mother by her beautiful sea-green eyes. It’s a tiny peek into the world of Chef James, but I’ll take it.

  When I feel like a thorough creeper I go back to the living room, where James is out cold.

  “Who are you, James Hughes?”

  When I’m answered by a snore, I know that the night is over. Hey, it’s not the first time a guy has passed out on me. I turn off the lights and lock the door from the inside. I take my first right on the sidewalk. For a moment, I regret it and want to go back. What am I supposed to do? Break down the door? Knock until he wakes up, angry, and hope he’ll kiss me again? So I keep walking. Even though I’m not sure where I’m going just yet, my body is too restless for sleep, and I’ve always found comfort in the night sky.

  Chapter 12

  The last time I had sex, we were both so drunk that I remember more black out parts than sex parts. It was my fellow bartender, an aspiring actor who didn’t understand why his forget-me-not blue eyes and dark blond hair weren’t getting him a big break. I’d never seen him act, and I had no interest in anything other than the way his strong hands would lift me onto the bar top, sticky from sloshed whiskey and cosmopolitans. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. He filled a need, a desire to be held.

  When I woke up, my mouth tasted like regret—not because of what I’d done, but because he turned out to be asshole. I’m not ashamed of liking sex. I regretted it because the next day he ignored me, and only spoke to me through our barback. I took it in stride. Perhaps he was a pretty good actor, in the same way most guys act like they like you until it’s no longer convenient for them. It’s not like I was in love, but if I were to say that, I’d just come off as bitter girl.

  I’ve come to realize that guys don’t like when girls are into healthy casual sex. It’s like when we do, we’re taking something away from them, this invisible territory on the planet of I-Care-Less-About-This-Relationship-Than-You-Do. Please, get over yourselves.