Slow Surrender

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T
he night of Lord Lightning’s good-bye concert was a crazy night to say the least. I was doing one last waitress shift at the bar my sister managed in Midtown, the concert having taken place at Madison Square Garden, just a few blocks away. The bar was packed with “Lord’s Ladies,” who were inconsolable and tearing their hair out (or wigs, actually) while smearing their face paint with tears. My roommate Becky was at home crying about the same thing. Me? I couldn’t care less what some self-absorbed rock-star asshole was doing as his latest publicity stunt, but it was all over the big-screen TVs: his masked face projected sixty inches wide along with footage of the screaming fans at his supposedly last public performance. The whole city was turned upside down, and I remember so clearly the Lord’s Ladies because they were such a royal pain in the arse! Ordering as little as possible, taking up the best tables all night long, and I could already tell they were going to be lousy tippers.

I’d even had one table dine-and-dash on me. I didn’t think the night could get any worse until I got to the hostess station and caught a glimpse of my thesis advisor walking through the front door. The same advisor I’d told I couldn’t meet tonight because I was “too sick to leave my apartment,
cough cough
” when my sister Jill had convinced me she was desperate and needed me to work. She had promised a great night for cash tips, which was the only reason I’d agreed to this madness. Even worse, on top of it all was the fact that he’d come in with the man I’d had a job interview with that afternoon, a project manager at a design firm where I hoped to work as soon as I graduated, if not sooner. Theo Renault’s approval of my thesis was the main thing standing between me and graduation, and I knew from department talk he wasn’t one who would casually accept being lied to.

In other words, I was fucked, and all because I was doing Jill a favor. I forced myself to stop looking at Renault and the guy—Philip Hale was his name—as they fought their way through the crowded room toward the bar. Maybe they would have a quick nightcap and get out of here. I tried to focus on the customer stepping up to the stand now, a tall man in a hat and a bittersweet-chocolate-brown suit that was clearly tailored to perfectly fit his lean frame, like something out of a fashion magazine.

Not the kind of guy who was alone, usually, but I hurried to seat him. If I took him upstairs, maybe Renault wouldn’t see me. “Table for one?” I chirped as I thought,
Please don’t be waiting for someone.

“Yes, plea—”

“Great! Follow me!” I practically grabbed him by the arm and led him quickly to the stairs. “Kind of a busy night in here. It’s a bit quieter on the second floor. I’ll get you away from these crazies.” I waved the menu in the general direction of the Lord’s Ladies, who were starting a group sing-along of some kind.

“I’d like that,” he said, his voice deep. He sounded faintly amused.

Probably because I was acting so flustered. “It’s not always like this in here,” I assured him, as if it mattered. The second floor, unlike the crowded, chaotic first floor, was devoid of both TVs and singing fans and had only a few customers scattered throughout. A group of four women in one corner had already cashed out but had been lingering for an hour. A couple sat near the top of the stairs.

I led him all the way to a table by the windows, overlooking the street, desperate to kill as much time as possible. I had the funny urge to pull out his chair for him, as if this were a white-tablecloth kind of place, but I hung back until he seated himself. He had a topcoat folded over his arm, and he hung it over the back of his chair, put his hat on the wide sill of the window, then sat. I set the menu down in front of him.

“The kitchen is already closed,” I said, going into my automatic “after 10:00 p.m.” patter, “but the full list of cocktails is of course available, as are the selections on the dessert menu.” I turned the menu over to the list of desserts. “Today’s sorbet is passion fruit.”

“Passion fruit?” he asked, one eyebrow raised like he was skeptical of it.

“Nah,” I joked. “That’s the name of my Lord Lightning cover band.”

That made him laugh. In the streetlamps that shone through the window, I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, blue, hazel, green? The light from outside was stark and bluish compared to the soft amber lights in the bar, making his cheekbones look impossibly sharp. His hair was dangerously blond, almost white, and cropped close to his head. His age was impossible to gauge; he could’ve been a young forty or a haunted twenty. He was gorgeous and striking and his voice had a slight British tinge to it as he said, “Oh, just try to work it into every conversation, do you?”

“Yes, exactly.” I grinned. Normally, flirting while waitressing was asking for trouble and I avoided it at all costs. I didn’t like men thinking just because I was female it was okay to treat me like something on the menu. But I was on a mission to waste as much time as I could. Besides, he was quite attractive and that was an understatement. “Actually, I think the sorbet is lemon with a little orange food color. It all tastes the same.”

He chuckled. “So, you don’t recommend the sorbet?”

I chewed my lip a moment. “I lied,” I said. “I’ve never actually had it.”

“Well, at least one of us should embrace new experiences,” he said. “Bring me a dish of the sorbet, and a bourbon. Something better than Maker’s Mark.” His eyes were on me, very intent, as if he had no intention of actually opening the menu.

I collected it from him.

“Coming right up.” I couldn’t resist making a fake little curtsy and then hurrying away.

That worked out perfectly
, I thought. I punched in the drink order from the upstairs server station, then went down to the kitchen to dish the sorbet myself, completely out of the view of Renault and his friend. I picked up the bourbon from the back station, added it to the round tray with the sorbet, and headed right back upstairs.

“Here you are,” I said as I set down the napkin and the drink, then the small metal dish of sorbet and a spoon.

“Thank you,” he said, and sounded sincere about it.

I busied myself for a little while, refilling the water glasses for the four-top and checking that the couple didn’t want a round of dessert. They didn’t, which was just as well, because the sugary sweetness coming from the two of them cooing at each other was enough to hospitalize a diabetic. I guess they were having each other for dessert. It was hard not to feel bitter watching them when I’d never met a guy who could act like that and actually mean it. While I wiped down some of the empty tables, I glanced over at my solo customer. He was sipping the whisky very slowly and looking out the window. Maybe it was that a man drinking alone always looks melancholy, but I got the feeling he was a little sad about something. Wistful, maybe.

I also noticed he wasn’t eating the sorbet. I went back to his table. “Was it not to your liking? I can take it away and bring you something else you might like.”

He settled back in his chair and gave me a thoughtful look. “Actually, there is something I’d like.”

“Name it.” I gave him my waitress smile.

“I’d like you to try the sorbet.” He picked up the spoon, which was still resting exactly where I’d left it, and cut into the perfect scoop that had clearly been untouched.

“Me?” I asked, as if he could have meant anyone else. “Why? To make sure it’s okay?”

“No, no. Because you said you hadn’t had it before. I thought, what a shame, she works so hard in a place like this, and she’s never tasted the sweetness right in front of her?” He held up the spoon, waving it enticingly.

I glanced behind me to make sure Jill or some other server wasn’t watching. Normally one didn’t do this sort of thing with customers, but I wanted to see what would happen if I did. “All right.”

He held the spoon still, then up toward my chin. I leaned forward, my hands on my apron, and I slowly closed my mouth over it. The spoon was cold and the sorbet tart at first, then sweet as it melted in my mouth. “Mmmm.”

His gaze never left my face and he smiled as I straightened up. Attention from guys often felt slimy to me, but from him all I felt was warmth, his eyes like hot spotlights.

I wanted to shine in that light. “Anything else I can get for you?” I asked, one of my standard lines.

He ran his finger along his chin, as if I had proposed a question requiring deep thought.

“Er, you know, I can have the bartender pour you something else, if you don’t like this,” I blathered.

“Oh, I like this,” he said, a half-smile coming onto his face, and I felt he wasn’t talking about what was in his glass. His neck was long and graceful, and he had not the slightest bit of slouch in his posture, like a male figure skater. Or a model. He seemed more gorgeous the longer I looked at him, with high cheekbones and a luscious-looking mouth. He tilted his face up at me. “Your name tag says
Ashley
. Is that your name?”

“Yes, of course,” I answered. It was a lie, actually. Ashley was the girl I was filling in for tonight, the one who was actually too sick to come in. I’d quit working here a few months ago to concentrate on my thesis; the “Karina” name tag had been lost or repurposed by now. For a second I wondered if Ashley was really sick or if she’d lied just like me, while she covered the ass of someone else, and so on and so on. Sadly, there was no one who could cover for me if Professor Renault caught me.

“Ashley, Ashley, gray as a cat, as you drift to the floor from the end of my cigarette,” he said, as if reciting a poem. His voice was cultured and smoky like a deep jazz saxophone, making me feel melty inside. There was something charming about him, even if what he said made no sense.

“Ashley, tell me something,” he said, angling his head as if to see me better. “Would you like to try something else new?”

“Something else?” I echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Are you bored? Tired of the rat race? Looking for a little adventure?”

“Well sure, who isn’t?” I said.

He nodded at my automatic response. “Indeed. Ashley, I’m bored. I would like to play a game. And I would like someone to play it with me.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I joked.

His expression darkened, surprising me. “Actually, it takes a very special person to pique my interest.”

He thinks I’m special?
I thought.

“If you don’t want to play, that’s fine,” he added. “I’ll leave and never come back if you say no.”

Right about then, my weirdo meter should have been pinging hard. But my inner alarm bells were silent. Maybe because he wasn’t giving off a weird vibe and he seemed sincere about leaving me alone if I didn’t want to play along. And maybe because it was hard to say no to such an attractive man. I decided to test him out a little, though. “I’ll play if you’ll answer a question.”

He smiled. “Name it,” he said, imitating me perfectly.

“Tell me why a wealthy, well-dressed man like yourself is drinking alone.”

“You mean, am I here fleeing a harridan wife or escaping my supermodel girlfriend?”

I shook a finger at him. “No answering a question with a question, mister. That’s rude.”

He flattened a hand against his lapels. “I beg your pardon. You’re right. An honest question deserves an honest answer. The truth is I’ve come to the end of a very long and tiring episode in my business. I’m at loose ends for the first time in a long time, and to celebrate, I wanted to be alone for a while, something I haven’t had a chance to do recently.” He glanced out the window, then turned his full attention back to me. “In fact, I was just working myself up to a promise to spend more time by myself”—he paused and swirled the bourbon in his glass—“when you came along. There, was that a satisfactory answer?”

I smiled. He seemed confident, sophisticated, and eminently reasonable. He seemed real. “Yes, it was. Okay, so what’s the game?”

“The game is very simple. I ask you to do something, and you do it.”

“Something like what?”

“Something like this: I have a marble in my jacket pocket. I’d like you to reach into the pocket, take out the marble, and put it in your mouth. I’ll also have another bourbon and a glass of water, and when you bring me back the drinks, put the marble into the glass of bourbon. That’s how you’ll return it to me.” His voice deepened and it felt like silk sliding over my skin. “Would you do that, Ashley?”

No one had ever said something like that to me before. It was like a dare, like a secret, like something private just the two of us were getting away with, exciting and a little bit illicit. “If this is a game,” I said, “what do I win if I play?”

His full smile was like a prize itself. “I’m a genie. I’ll grant you a wish,” he said with a laugh. His voice was as rich as melted chocolate, even when he lightened it playfully.

“Okay.” I gave him a goofy little curtsy. “I get it.” Playing the game and sharing a secret
was
the prize.

I stepped closer to him, glanced back to make sure Jill or someone wasn’t watching me from the stairs or server station across the room, and then bent over to reach into the pocket nearest to me. The jacket was a surprisingly soft fabric that felt almost like suede, a stylish cut, but it still had pockets like a traditional suit.

The pocket was empty. His eyebrows twitched with amusement. Okay, other pocket. Now I had to lean across him.

As I did so, he probably got an eyeful down my white, button-down shirt and I kind of liked that thought. My nipples tightened as I wondered if he liked the view. I slid my hand into the pocket and found it empty also. “Hey—”

Before I could voice my protest, he spoke. “There is
one
more pocket.”

Oh. The exterior breast pocket was clearly a fake one, which meant the real pocket was inside the jacket. The expression on his face was bemused. Well, what did I know? I’d never played this game before. Maybe I should have thought of that first. Whatever. I gave him the old eyebrow right back, and slid my hand inside the jacket.

As I did, I caught a whiff of a spicy, masculine scent, not quite strong enough to be cologne. It was as if I could feel his body heat with my nose.