Yet that afternoon, my high from my new job draining with every note of my ringtone, he called. I hesitated, then, despite my better judgment, dragged my finger across the surface and raised the phone to my ear.
I barely had time to speak before Vic’s voice came through the cell, his words barking out with some degree of urgency. “Don’t get on that filthy thing. The subway? God knows what you’ll catch.”
I spun around, peering up into the bright white square of sunlight, a swell of bundled New Yorkers pouring over its edge and hurrying down the steps, the vibration of the oncoming train pulsing under my feet. “Are you following me?” I hissed into the phone.
“Hell no. I’m at the Bellagio about to clean house in blackjack. But Jake just texted me that he saw you going down to the six. What the fuck are you doing?”
“Is this seriously why you called me?” The train approached, its brakes screeching as it came to a stop and was immediately surrounded, the crush of bodies swelling like a sea of maggots around a prize. I tapped my MetroCard against my leg, in no hurry to join the party.
He sighed into the phone. “According to Jake, you’re in heels—and I know your heels. They aren’t built for actual use. Trot your sexy ass up those stairs and get in the warm car; let Jake take you home. Please. Then I’ll hang up and never bother you again.”
“Never?” I challenged, the promise one I’d heard before.
“I’ll try my best.”
I twisted back and forth, my purse swinging with the momentum, from darkness to light. Though, in this twisted scenario, they were flip-flopped: the dark and dirty wheeze of the subway was where I should be going, the light and sunny street the path I should avoid.
“Come on, baby. Let me do this one thing. Just one.” The beg in his voice, the crack on the word baby. It reached up my skirt and teased my skin, probed into my brain and lured out all of the times his gorgeous mouth had whispered the words.
Come on, baby… his hand pulled me into a coat check closet, parting furs and pushing me back against the wall.
Come on, baby… his tongue, soft on my inner thighs, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow tickled as his hands spread my knees apart and his mouth moved higher.
Come on, baby… his hands up my dress, fingers digging into the meat of my ass, his mouth on my neck as we—tucked into the shadows of a club, music thumping, bodies everywhere—let passion override sense.
Come on, baby…
That was the problem with love. There was no OFF switch.
I ended the call and hurried down the steps into the cold darkness.