Othello Station (3 page)

I rub the collar of my shirt over my forehead, wiping away some sweat. “Thanks.” The scrape of hangers calls my attention to the right, and then my eyes are on her again. Mira, the girl from the front desk. Her clear, dark eyes peek at me from behind a clothing rack. She pushes a few more hangers to the side and removes her earbuds when she spots me staring.

“Hi…” She looks at me in question.

“Uh, hey.”

“Do you typically follow hotel receptionists around in the middle of the night?”

“Do hotel receptionists typically shop in thrift stores at midnight?”

“Well, you’re jogging at midnight.” She gestures to my clothes.

“Can’t sleep. That’s different. This is just…weird.”

“Yes,” she says, deadpan, “very weird.”

“I mean you, shopping this late.”

“It’s the only thrift shop in Belltown—maye in the whole city—oopen twenty-four hours. I love it.” She clears her throat and places a shirt back on the rack. “So, did you want the tip back or something?”

“What? God, no. No—no.” Annnnddd here I go, stuttering. What the hell?

She shoots the store clerk a look, who glances up from her magazine. She pops her gum and rolls her eyes. I’m at a loss for words. I have no clue why I followed this girl here. It must just be my dick giving me directions again.

“I just saw you walk in here while out for a run and I was curious. About the shop, I mean.” I gulp. “It’s nice. And I’m gonna go now.” I turn on my heel, but she stops me.

“It’s Grant, right?”

“Yeah.”

The store clerk’s eyes bounce between us. We both shift where we stand.

“Do you wanna…help me shop, maybe?”

My brows shoot up. “Shop? No. No I’d…” I’d like to fuck you. Into next week. What do I say to this girl? I’d like to tell her the truth. Maybe if Wednesday Adams wasn’t watching the show. “Sure, why not.” I pretend to cough and veer around the clothing rack toward her, feeling Wednesday’s eyes on me the whole time. “So, uh…what are you looking for?”

“Cheap clothes.” She smiles up at me,  but it’s a different smile this time. It’s not shy or nervous, just warm and friendly. Inviting. “To spend my flashy tip money on.”

“That’s a little vague.”

Now she’s shy. “Well, I’m not well versed in fashion vocabulary, sorry. She eyes me up and down. “Maybe you know more about this sort of thing than I do. You dress well. I just see something I like and snatch it up.”

My gaze drops down her body and her cheeks go crimson. I flatter her, letting myself linger on her hips and then her lips for a moment. I need to redeem myself, here. If I want to nail her, earning the titles Creepy Stalker and Massive Dickhead isn’t the way to go. “You’ve got a great body. You’ll look good in anything you choose.” I toss in a little smirk to sweeten the compliment. She takes the bait and lights up, averting her gaze.

“Wow. You’ve done this before, I see.”

“I have.”

“What happened to your hot date tonight?”

“Yeah. That didn’t happen.”

“Ah. It suddenly makes sense.”

“Does it?” I’d love for her to explain it to me. Because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m doing here, in this musty smelling thrift shop in the middle of the night.

“Don’t you think picking a girl up in one of the bars would be a lot easier than picking one up in a thrift store?” She rolls her shoulder with an awkward, playful grin. “I get the impression you have plenty of experience with that approach.”

My eyes narrow.

“Okay,” she mumbles, and the shade of crimson on her cheeks turns fire-engine red. “That was my attempt at a joke. And flirting. Both of which, I’m obviously really bad at.”

Another smirk teases my lips. It’s almost a complete smile, with teeth and all. Almost. “Yeah. That was pretty bad. But endearing. So, there’s that.”

She lifts a hand and fidgets with the top of a hanger. She’s quiet for a moment. Her voice turns earnest. “Why are you here?”

My gaze drifts to the store clerk. She’s still enjoying the show, of course. At this point, though, I just don’t care. “Honestly?” She bites her lip. My mouth opens, but no words come out. I still don’t have an answer for her.

“You wanna take a walk, maybe?”

“Around here? Now?”

She shrugs.

“Hell no.”

She cuts a glance to the left. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you to come back with me. To the hotel. To my room.” Ah, there it is. The truth. I was right. It was my dick, being all bossy. That’s why I’m here.

Her bottom lip juts out as she releases it from her teeth and her eyes widen.

“Too forward for you?”

“A little.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and crosses her arms. “A lot.”

“Well, would you be interested? It’s been a long day and I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s what I want.”

She snorts and mumbles beneath her breath, but I hear her. “It’s been a long year.”

“So, is that a maybe?”

She looks to the store clerk. “I don’t think…”

“It’s okay.” I pivot, turning for the exit. “I get it.”

“I just need my job. And going back to your room kind of guarantees I’d lose it, so…”

“You’re off the clock.”

The store clerk fiddles with her magazine. The pages rustle, but her gaze is on us the entire time. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

I assume I’m making progress, here. I move toward her and retrieve my phone. “What’s your number?”

“Not a good idea.”

“Fine. Take mine. If you decide not to call, no hard feelings.” I take a business card from my wallet instead and hand it over. “You know where to find me.” She accepts it reluctantly. Silence bounces between us. I nod and walk toward the exit. I’m not sure what to make of her, what to make of this whole thing. But it’s worth the try. If she doesn’t bite, I can always call Samantha. I can always call someone. There will always be an always.

I walk out of the shop and into the night, shoving my earbuds back in my ears. I crank up the volume as loud as it will go, until Death Cab for Cutie’s “Black Sun” wraps itself around me and takes me away.

The clock reads 1:20 am. This is officially the longest night in history. I stare up at the ceiling. I gave up on counting sheep and creating constellations. My sweaty running clothes stick to me as I rest on top of the cool bed sheets. Maybe I should shower again. Maybe I need more music.

I suddenly remember the vitamins.

My body flies from the bed. I unzip my bag and rifle through the little black case that holds all of my supplements. I don’t know how I forgot to take them today. I take them every day. Religiously. I dig through the case and scoop up the bottles, lining them up one by one on the bedside table. B Complex, lots of Vitamin D, fish oil, and a little krill oil, too. I only brought the basics. At least some of my bases are covered. I whip out my food journal next and jot down what I ate for the day. Not nearly enough kale. Definitely need to make up for that tomorrow.

I close the journal, already missing my bike. I should’ve just brought it with me. I’m about to reach for my portable blood pressure cuff, but there’s a timid knock at the door. My watch tells me it’s late, and there are no new text messages on my phone. When I answer, I’m met with dark brown eyes I recognize, but short, dirty blonde hair I don’t. It’s cut into a sharp bob, and a dark grey fedora tops the style. A brown, folksy vest covers a loose, cream blouse. It’s paired with dark navy skinny jeans and a pair of green Chucks beat to all hell. This chick looks like she hails straight from Ballard. Either that, or I just fell into some hipster time warp.

“You’re here,” I say with surprise. This girl actually came to see me.

“Can I come in?”

I shake myself from the haze and move aside. “Sure, of course.”

She ducks her head and slips past me into the hotel room, like a covert spy. “Wow.” She eyes my vitamin set-up as she tugs off her hat and wig. “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Do I look like a doctor?”

“Not really. Health nut?”

“Something like that.” I immediately thank the gods I didn’t pull out the blood pressure cuff yet. “What’s with the get-up?” I gesture to the wig. She looks down, gripping it tightly. Her hands are shaking.

“Dumb, I know. I just didn’t want to be recognized at the front desk.”

“Okay, 007. Any weapons I should know about underneath that snazzy vest of yours?”

“Only the ones I bought at the thrift shop.” Her gaze rises to mine, and a small smile creeps up.

“Ah.”

“See what I did there?”

“Tried to make a joke?”

“Tried?”

I assault her with my signature bland expression. “Yeah. You definitely suck at jokes.” She laughs and looks back down at the hat in her hands, which are still trembling slightly. It dawns on me that maybe it couldn’t hurt to have a little pity on this girl. “But you’re good at other things.” I begin an easy stride toward her.

“Other things?” She swallows hard and wrings the wig between her fingers, shifting on her feet.

I nod loosely and take another step, bringing us nose to nose. My chest warms and radiates with need as I sense her strawberry perfume. Maybe it’s shampoo. Whatever it is, I’m sold. Sign me up for that shit. She’s good enough to eat. “Like turning me on.”

“Oh.”

My hand snakes forward and latches onto hers. I steady her shakiness. Her skin is ice cold. “Hey. Look at me.”

She keeps her gaze down, watching the contact. “Just bear with me,” she whispers, voice as uncertain as her fingers. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

“Take all the time you need, baby.” I brush her hair to the side—her real hair, long and soft and so, so brown. Caramel spirals of light weave through the dark locks. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You’re intimidating. You must know that.” She shivers as I brush her cheek with my thumb.

“Maybe. A little. Don’t worry about that now. Just look at me.” It takes some coaxing, but her timid eyes finally find mine. I cup her face, and she leans into me, as if she’s never been touched before. A soft murmur escapes her lips and her eyes drift shut. Holy fuck. It has been a while. When’s the last time a man’s touched her? The thought sends me reeling; adrenaline kicks into overdrive. “I’m sure you’re good at other things. Lots of things. I’m positive you’re good at this.”

“I used to be. I mean…I think I used to be.”

“You’re here. That’s already a very good sign.”

She stares at me with lost, heavy eyes. “I’m not sure what that says about me. I’m either really dumb or really brave.”

“Maybe you’re both. It’s okay to be both, you know.”

“Dumb implies naivety.”

“Are you? Naïve?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so, either. You knew exactly what you were doing when you decided to come to this room. That implies self-awareness.” I give her cheek another brush, studying her closely. Everything in me wants to jump this girl. But her fear—whatever the fuck that fear is—tells me to slow down. To make her feel at ease. She needs to be comfortable for this to work. I need her to keep her eyes on me. But she can’t look at me for long. Her gaze alternates between my lips and our bodies, which are just barely touching.

“Maybe you should stop talking. Before I lose my nerve.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea.”

I take her face in my hands fully. “Let me touch you.”

“I’d love that,” she says, with all the honesty in her bones. Her voice shifts to a wary whisper. “I’m so scared.”

“I’ve got you.” I don’t understand for the life of me what she’s so afraid of, but I say it because it’s what she needs to hear.

And just like that, she closes her eyes and falls into me. Her arms come up and wrap around me, sliding over my shoulders and over my neck. I instantly lift her up, pulling her legs around my waist. I move us to the wall, turning and pinning her against it. I don’t want to be gentle. Right now the idea of being careful seems damn near impossible. I’ve been needing this outlet. A distraction. Immediate gratification. A woman in my arms.

Something I can control, even if just for a little while.

My fingers slowly inch up the hem of her shirt, teasing her hips. Her torso contracts as another shiver skates over her skin. My mouth slams onto hers, touching down with fervor. The second she opens for me, my body burns.

“Oh my God,” she moans against my mouth.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

My fingers curl around her shirt and lift it up, dragging it roughly over her head. The vest goes with it. Her hair is already a mess; her cheek is smudged with lipstick. It’s a damn good look on her. I grind against her, sliding my hard-on over the seam of her pants, then pop her top button. My fingers glide down and inside her panties, grazing her pussy. She’s so wet, I fucking snap. I quickly lift my fingers to my mouth and suck, and her eyes fly open. I sear her with a carnal glare, letting her know I’m about to pound her into next Sunday. And she’s going to beg for more. My lips hit hers again and I reach deep, wanting to drag out whatever fear is left in this girl, but it wins out. Resistance slams me.

“Wait. Stop.”

“Stop or don’t stop?”

“Stop.” She pulls her mouth from mine and her arms drop to her sides, palms hitting the wall. My head juts back and I give her some space, but my hands are still clamped down on her hips. Our heavy breaths mix; our chests heave up and down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she stutters, slipping past me and out of my grip. She spins around searching the floor for her shirt and vest. She’s going to fucking dart.

“Did I hurt you? What did I do?”

“No, you didn’t do anything.” She tugs her shirt on like a woman desperate to flee a burning building. “It’s me. I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” My hands come up in defense as I watch her warily. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry.” Before I can summon anymore words, she’s out the door. I stand there, stunned, turned on, and confused as hell. For about ten seconds. And then I’m out the door after her, jogging down the hall and jamming the elevator button, cursing beneath my breath. The elevator ride is a blur. The minute I reach the hotel lobby, I’m spinning around, searching for her. I almost call out her name, but think better of it and wait until I’m out the front doors, immersed in the wet and cold.

“Mira?” I finally call out, scanning the sidewalk and street. I spot her speed walking around the corner and dash in her direction, wishing like hell I’d grabbed my coat. “Mira, hold up!” I fly around the corner and catch up with her, grabbing her elbow. “Hey, wait a second, will you? Just slow down.”

She comes to a dead stop. Her arms are crossed in a vice grip over her chest. Once again, she can’t look at me. The rain’s dampness saturates her face, causing her mascara to run. I pull her to the right, under the building’s
awning.
“Please just let me go.”

I release her elbow and sigh in frustration. “Look, will you just tell me what I did? Did I offend you or something?” Doesn’t every girl like to be banged against the wall? She was soaking wet, writhing against me. Seemed like a green light to me.

“Of course, you have to make this about you,” she mumbles, her own wave of frustration seeping into the words. “What is it with you men? It’s not all about you. Jesus.”

“Then tell me what’s going on. ‘Cause I’m lost.”

“I am, too. That’s the problem.” Our gazes lock.

“Do you want to go get coffee or something? Or do you want to do this out here in the rain? I’m fucking freezing. You must be, too.” She’s wearing that flimsy blouse and holding the vest in her hands. No coat. What is this girl doing without a coat in January?

“I could use something stronger than coffee.” She shivers and gestures to Cedar Street. “Let’s go to Five Point.”

I pat my pockets, feeling for my wallet. “Let me run upstairs and grab my coat first.”

“I’ll meet you over there.”

I eye her warily.

“I’m not going to dart on you again. Go.”

I hesitate for a moment more, then jog back around the corner and inside the hotel. I snatch up my coat and a spare hoodie as quickly as possible, then make my way back down to Vine Street. When I walk into the Five Point Café, there she is, sitting at the bar, scanning a menu. I settle onto one of the black stools next to her, surveying the retro dive-bar diner I know so well. This used to be a regular spot after class, every Tuesday and Thursday.

I flick the menu she’s holding. “I used to love their happy hour.”

“I’ve never been here.”

“You haven’t?”

“Nope. Work right across the street and not once have I stepped foot in this place. I recommend it to our customers all the time, though.”

“How can you recommend a place you’ve never tried?”

“It’s easy. You just pick three places you think you’d like, check out their websites and menus on-line, and then bullshit your way. I always tell people they have the best cheeseburgers.” Her head tilts as she stares at the menu. “Maybe I should try one for real sometime.”

My spare hoodie is propped on my lap, in a wrinkled ball. I shake it and move to drape it over her shoulders. “Wouldn’t it be easier to actually try these places?”

She slips her arms into the sleeves and thanks me, lifting the hood so it cradles the back of her neck. “I don’t get out much.”

“So, what are your other two picks?” I’m still watching her. She’s still staring at the menu. I haven’t stopped watching her. Not since she knocked on my door. And once again, here I am, making conversation with this girl. I don’t do conversation. I work. I run. I bike. I eat. I fuck. I survive.

The end.

“Oh! La Parisienne—that one I’ve actually tried. Off 4
th
and Vine.”

“A bakery, I take it?”

“The best in the city. The others are overrated.”

“How would you know?” I challenge her, swiping the menu from her grasp, forcing her to meet my gaze. “You don’t get out much.”

“Bakeries are my thing.”

“And thrift shops, apparently.”

“That one’s not really by choice,” she says quietly.

“What about the third?”

“The third?”

“Your third recommendation.”

“Oh. Toulouse Petit in Queen Anne. I hear everyone loves that one. Allegedly, their fried green tomatoes are my favorite thing on the menu.” A soft laugh leaves her lips, and she smiles for the first time since she showed up at my door. “I’ve never had fried green tomatoes in my life.”

“What’ll it be, Kids?” A tall, lanky guy in black and white suspenders and thick, brown glasses greets us from the other side of the counter, swinging a rag over his shoulder. “Munchies and drinksies? Or just munchies?”

“Rum and Coke for me, please,” Mira says, leaning forward to rest her arms on the bar.

“Beer. Any beer. And a cheeseburger with fries.” I cut Mira a glance.

She quickly waves her hands in front of her. “No,” she says to the waiter, “no burger. Or fries. Thanks, anyway.”