Almost Broken Up (Almost Bad Boys) (4 page)

He grins, looking young and careless—the expression I long for and appreciate so much. “I love you too, babe,” he says between the kisses. “Never doubt that.”
 

So he suspects that, in fact, I do have my doubts. Oh, great, am I that easy to read? I decide not to touch that subject and instead say, “How about that dance club?”

Colin laughs. “Yeah. We better put our clothes back on, right?”

I nod.

TWO

“We are all born mad. Some remain so.”

Samuel Beckett

We eat dinner at the Jarabe Tapatio, a few minute walk from my apartment. This is the best Mexican food I’ve ever tasted. Colin eats his overstuffed grilled chicken burrito, trying to contain the falling pieces onto his plate. I snort when he swears under his breath after a huge blob of black beans and shredded chicken misses the plate and lands on the table. The sauce starts to dribble down his wrist.

He wipes his hands with what appears to be over fifteen napkins. Then he uses another handful to clean the mess off the table. “I love these burritos. I would love’em even better if the freakin’ thing wasn’t so ridiculously messy.”

“You can always ask for a fork.” I snort.
 

Colin takes a gulp from his Pacifico beer and leans back. We sit in a corner booth, away from three loud families occupying the middle section of the restaurant. There are ten kids in the group, all looking younger than eight-years-old. The boys are running around and throwing themselves on the floor, yelling and making an array of weird noises. It seems like a relentless competition of who can make the most racket. The girls are coloring with the restaurant-issued crayons. A couple of mothers are nursing tiny babies. Another one is nursing a big kid that must be over three.
 

I point to the nursing kid and quietly say to Colin, “You know, my mom always says that if they are able to ask for it, they should be done with momma’s tits.”

“Your mother is a wise woman,” Colin agrees and turns to look at the noisy scene behind him.
 

“By the looks of it, this one will nurse past his sixteen. Are we ready to go?”
 

We leave the restaurant, shrugging on our jackets. The night air is crisp. I look to the dark sky peppered with twinkling stars. Colin puts his arm around my waist and pulls me to him. He kisses my temple and inhales deeply in my hair.
 

“Are you sure you can dance in those heels?” He points to my shoes.
 

“Sure. They are only three inches.” I shrug.

“Only? They look lethal,” Colin sounds incredulous.
 

I gave him a
come on,
really?
look and roll my eyes. This earns me a smack on the bottom.
 

“Heeeeeyyyyy!” I laugh and smack him right back.
 

He catches my wrist and pulls me to him. I’m plastered onto his belly and chest, my arms trapped behind me in his unwavering hold. “Got ya, babe,” he whispers and kisses me.
 

A group of teenagers passes us, whistling and snickering. They make kissing noises, and one of them hollers, “Get a room!”
 

We chuckle but don’t get dissuaded and kiss once more.
 

Colin takes my hand in his and leads me to cross the street. His steps are long, and I have to walk fast to keep up with him. He slows down when we reach the sidewalk. We see a taxi approaching and both of us wave to the driver. He stops the car, and we get in.
 

My feet are cold. Wearing sandals wasn’t the best decision, but I’m far from pointing that out. It would only fuel Colin’s quip about my fashion-over-comfort mentality. I am a woman after all. He can’t expect me to wear my Nikes to a dance club.

The taxi lets us out in front of the Doors to Hades. The line to get in is absurdly long and wraps around the corner of the building. Another taxi pulls right behind us, but nobody gets out. I see a man in the back seat looking at Colin.
 

“Seriously? We are going to stand in this line?” I ask. The level of incredulity in my voice could knock down a horse. It’s going to take at least half hour or longer. My feet are way too cold for that.
 

“Working at one of the most popular radio stations in Seattle comes with its perks.” Colin winks at me and leads me to the front of the line.
 

He shakes hands with a beefy-looking bouncer. They exchange some quiet words and laugh about something. They must know each other. I don’t hear what’s said. In my peripheral vision I see the door to the parked taxi open. A guy in a black leather jacket and tight black jeans slowly steps out. He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and, without taking his eyes off us, starts slowly walking in our direction. There is something strange about this guy; something… menacing? Why am I noticing him with so many other people around?
 

Colin pulls me by my hand when the bouncer moves to the side to let us in. I hear the protests from the line, but I’m not going to stand there and listen. Colin holds the door for me, and I quickly slide in. He walks in behind me. Beyonce’s
Countdown
is blaring from the multiple speakers. The crowd is colorful, loud, and in a general mood to party.
 

Colin wraps his arm around my waist, and we walk to the bar, where three twenty-something, shirtless, attractive bartenders put on a real performance. Seriously, it should be forbidden to be as hot as these guys are. They are causing something close to a mass hysteria among the females clustered around the bar.
 

While two of the bartenders wait on the customers, the third one impressively juggles four shot glasses up in the air. He finally puts them down, swiftly jumps on the bar, and falls onto his knees in front of a group of tipsy, screaming girls who still look like teenagers.
 

He sits back on his heels and grins at the girls. His distressed jeans tightly hug his strong legs, and his muscular, naked torso and well-defined arms make me want to join the wild females. I quickly snatch a glance at Colin, but he doesn’t seem to mind me drooling. Or at least he’s smarter than showing any signs of jealousy over this.
 

One of the women leans forward and tries to kiss the bartender’s washboard stomach, but he stops her, laughing. Another bartender hands him a bottle of Frangelico and a tiny glass. The guy on the counter makes a production of pouring the liquor into the glass, while slowly and seductively swinging his hips to the music. The women are going wild. By now there is a big crowd of them, trying to squeeze in closer. The bartender chooses one girl, leans forward and whispers something to her. She nods, and opens her mouth. He touches the glass to her lips and pours the Frangelico into her mouth.
 

Her friends cheer and demand the same treatment. They stick money behind the bartender’s jeans waistband, as if he is a stripper. Well, he acts like one. Soon he collects an impressive amount of bills. I see mostly tens and twenties. He jumps off the bar and switches places with one of his co-workers—a gorgeous African American guy with dreadlocks. The women hoot and clap in delight.
 

We order appletinis and watch the sexy bartender entice the ladies. He chooses one woman—a middle-aged bleached blonde in a tight, blood-red mini dress and a shiny choker around her neck. The choker reminds me of a pet’s collar, and a disturbing picture invades my over-imaginative mind: the woman on all fours, barking like a dog and trying to lick the bartender’s leg, while straining to pull on the leash in his hand. Geez, Natalie, where the hell do you get your ideas?
 

But the truth is, that cougar chick is pet material—or a
submissive
material would be a better term. She tries to climb onto the bar, grinning at the guy and suggestively running her tongue over her upper lip, but he tells her to stay put. I roll my eyes and make a solid promise to myself not to act stupid when I’m her age.
 

Colin smirks next to me. I turn and see that he’s watching the scene in front of us. He points with his chin to the cougar babe and chuckles. “She’s desperate to get laid.”

“Yeah. But she should choose an older crowd.” I lean closer to him and raise my voice over the music and buzzing conversations.
 

I see the guy in the black leather jacket that arrived in a taxi right behind us. The one, who, I would have sworn, intently watched us outside the club. Now he’s standing a few feet away, at the end of the bar, beer in hand. His eyes are on us. Again! What the hell?

He looks out of place here, definitely too old for this crowd—just like that cougar chick. He must be around fifty with leathery skin taut over his well-pronounced cheekbones and deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hair is thick, brown, and peppered with gray.
 

“Hey, look at that guy,” I tell Colin. But when I glance over at where the man stood, he’s gone.
 

“What guy?”

“There was a guy in black leather jacket, watching us. I saw him outside, and he had this weird look on his face… like if he knew us and didn’t quite wish us well.”

Colin shrugs and takes a sip of his appletini. He’s about to say something when he spots his buddy, Julian, in the crowd. He waves and gets Julian’s attention. I’ve met Julian once, a few weeks ago. He’s one of the DJs at the KZIX station and co-hosts a popular syndicated program on Thursday nights. I’ve listened to his show a few times and laughed to tears at his remarks. He’s witty and fun to be around, so I’m glad he’s here tonight.
 

A big grin spreads on Julian’s face. He pushes through the crowd toward us. When he reaches us, he claps Colin on the back and gives me a bear hug, forcing the air out of my lungs.
 

I wheeze in his ear, “Easy, big guy. I’m not exactly a burly woman. You’re flattening my best assets.”

“We can’t have that,” he says in his strong British accent and chuckles.
 

I take a deep breath, feeling my chest expand and push forward. Phew, my boobs are still in their normal position and not caved in from that monstrous hug.
 

“You’re alone?” Colin asks Julian.
 

“Yeah. Michelle’s in North Carolina. Business trip,” Julian says. Michelle is his long-term girlfriend.
 

Some intangible, strange feeling tugs at the back of my head. I turn and see the Black Leather guy standing in the crowd. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is clenched. He’s watching us, and the expression on his face is that of pure hatred. What’s his problem?
 

I turn back to Colin to tell him, but then I decide to sneak another peak behind me. The man is gone. This is just freaky. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Or maybe he’s some kind of a psycho who’s pissed that we were able to get into the club without waiting in line. You never know—the city is full of weirdoes. By now my eyes keep darting back and fro, and I can’t relax. Colin and Julian are laughing about something, but I don’t even care about listening and participating in the conversation. I keep searching the crowd for the Black Leather creep.
 

A girl bumps into me, and my appletini
sloshes and splashes a little onto the front of my dress. I growl at her, but she’s not even aware of what she’s done. She disappears, swallowed by the crowd around us. Great. I’m trying to locate a napkin somewhere on the bar, but there are none. I lean close to Colin and yell in his ear, “I’m going to the bathroom. Will be right back.” I give him my drink to hold and take off, squeezing into the constantly moving mass of bodies.
 

The place is ridiculously packed. They should stop letting people in, but I’m guessing the cover charge must pay for a good chunk of the club’s expenses.
 

I push the girls’ bathroom door open and walk in. There is a line, but I go straight to the area with the sinks. I look in the mirror, trying to assess the damage, but if there is a stain from the spilled appletini, the fabric of my black dress hides it well. I can only see a slightly wet area over my right breast. I take a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, damp one with water from the faucet, and press it to the stain. I repeat with another paper towel, and then pat it dry.