Hooked Read online

  “Is it that obvious?” the man asked. He leaned toward me, flashing his bright eyes. “By the way, I don’t want this to go another minute before learning your name.”

  My heart leaped in my chest. I raised my eyebrow, trying to play it cool. “What makes you think you’ll need it?” I asked him.

  The man shrugged. “I like to make contacts. New city; new home.”

  “Where you from?” I asked him, still playing with him. My tuna melt was on the wrapper before me; it hadn’t been touched in several minutes.

  “New York,” he answered then. “I actually was born here, in Chicago. But, I moved when I was a kid. I’m not used to it.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Ah. The Big Apple itself,” I said. I felt my throat tighten; what was I going to say next? “I’m. Um. I’m Molly,” I said, reaching my slender hand out to shake his firm, steady one. “And you are?”

  “Drew,” the man said, turning his head just slightly to give me a full profile of him; his smooth nose, his supple lips. I longed to kiss him in that moment. I couldn’t shake the feeling. “I’ve come to the city to open a new bookstore. I feel like this neighborhood would be perfect for one. A nice crowd, you know.”

  “Have you opened a bookstore before?” I asked him. I felt the sweat trickle down my back, knowing that this sweat was a different formation—not from exercise. I was nervous around him; I felt stirrings inside myself I hadn’t known still existed. And yet, I knew in my heart that I had to leave soon. That I had to go home and rest. I had to align my checkbook, note precisely how much money I had in the bank. Rent was nearly due on the dance studio, and I could hardly afford it if I didn’t work everything out, perhaps add an extra class. (Truly, I was a few months behind. But the owner had been lenient with me.) All the thoughts swirled in my mind, making me feel half-crazy. I didn’t have time to speak to some dumb bookshop owner at a coffee shop! I nearly burst from my seat.

  But then I focused, calming myself with easy breathing. Drew was talking about how he owned several bookstores in New York. He was hoping to make a fresh start in the middle of the country—where his roots began. I gave him a small smile, hoping it didn’t appear too eager or sensual. “You’ve picked a perfect neighborhood to start, Drew,” I said. I pushed my stool back, hearing it screech across the bottom of the floor. “You know. I have to get going,” I said, still smiling that ridiculous smile.

  Drew pushed his stool back as well, in chorus with mine. He looked out the window, and we both noted it was getting dark. People had begun to huddle in their coats from the evening temperature. It was only September, but the Chicago winter crept up fast and fierce.

  “Let me walk you home, Molly,” Drew said then, his eyes like fire lighting into me.

  I wanted to say no. My heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. I pictured my Netflix queue, my nice bedspread. I imagined my night lined up before me; chocolate chip cookies and as much television as I could muster until I fell asleep.

  Okay, okay. It didn’t seem like such an appealing life, after all. “Okay,” I said, bobbing my head back and forth with hesitation. “I live just around the corner, anyway.” I could be free of him in just an instant if he was a creep. And I could run pretty fast. Dancer legs.

  He stood before me, revealing his full height once more. I felt a heat about him, something I couldn’t shake. I touched my eyebrows, my cheek. “Shall we?”

  We rushed into the city before us, turning right toward my apartment. As Drew jaunted up beside me, his long legs pulsing, revealing his shining, stylish black shoes, I decided I liked the way it felt, walking side-by-side with one of the most attractive men I had ever seen in the city. I watched as several women along the route back to my apartment eyed us, eyed him—and struggled making the connection between this stunning man and this sloppy blonde in yoga pants. I felt like grinning from ear to ear.

  “So. How are you liking the city, after so much time away?” I asked him after a few moments of silence between us, the horns honking out in the street.

  “You know. I like it. It’s a good deal different than New York. But perhaps that’s just because I don’t really know anyone yet. I have a few friends here; I’ve gone to a few of their parties, of course. But.” He paused before speaking once more.

  I felt tension in my shoulders, nervousness. Was I never going to see this guy again? I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. My schedule loomed over my head like a shadow. I needed to have another class! I needed to make rent—for both the dance studio and my goddamned apartment! But I kept my focus.

  “But. It’s been difficult. You know. I was tired of all the New York women, the drama. The grandeur,” he spewed forth, speaking with his hands. “But then, I came here, and I haven’t met a single hot, beautiful, interesting girl.” He stopped short at the corner, turning his eyes toward me. I felt them burn. “Until you,” he said. He said it so directly, so confidently. I felt like my stomach was churning with the small bites of tuna I had nearly been too nervous to eat. “Not that meeting beautiful women was my necessary purpose for coming here—“ he trailed off.

  I needed to say something. I couldn’t just let this moment pass me by. I had missed so many big moments in my life; not this one! Not this one! “I. Um. I don’t meet anyone like you,” I stammered. “I mean. Not usually at that coffee shop,” I joked then, rebounding.

  Drew laughed at that. “I just consider it a privilege to even walk you home. It’s been a while. I feel like a kid again. Although, I think I’m better looking than that one back there.” He gestured behind him back toward the coffee shop. The poor sap with the acne and the tuna melt.

  “You don’t know,” I said, teasingly. “And how could I know about you when you were a kid? You could have had acne all down your face, chubby cheeks—a stub nose? I don’t know what surgeries you’ve been under. I don’t even know if Drew is your real name.

  “Ah. I see the game you’re playing,” Drew spoke, making me blush. I thought about asking to see his ID, but I didn’t want to push the game too far. It had been so long since I had played the game, after all. I needed to re-boot.

  We had arrived at the front door of my apartment. I gazed up at my window, its small balcony hovering over our heads. “This is me,” I said, gesturing.

  Drew looked at my great apartment building, its red brick looking sad in the wreckage of this new century. (I had learned that the building had been built in the late 1800s, just like the dance studio building. I tried to imagine it, that life. I tried to imagine that time, when these beautiful buildings were being built, left and right. But I couldn’t.)

  “Rather beautiful,” Drew said. But he had turned back toward me.

  I pulled at my yoga pants and tight shirt a bit as we stood there together, eyeing each other. I felt each silent moment pass; each of them felt so heavy. I blinked my long eyelashes at him and whipped my blond hair around my shoulders. His face was glowing in the new moonlight. I had lost track of time; certainly it was nearly eleven in the evening. I would be up early, of course; planning, teaching. My mind was rushing with the business of it all.

  But suddenly, Drew began to creep forward. He was closing his eyes, moving his face into mine. His lips felt hot, rich on my own, and we crept into earnest kisses. He reached around my neck, holding his hand there, massaging my tense shoulders. I felt myself sigh into him, feeling the way his tongue nipped in and out of my mouth, playing with me. Tempting me. I felt such stirring, such sexuality in me. My pussy became wet, hot.

  But then; he broke. He was breathing heavily also. I could see such desire in his eyes. He wanted me. Why was he moving so fast? Why didn’t I care?

  “Do you think—“ he began. His eyes skirted left to right. “Do you think we could go upstairs? To your place?”

  I breathed in a cool sip of air, trying to clear my head. I turned my face toward the street, watching the rushing cars pass by. I thought of the mess upstairs; the oatmeal I had spilled earlier that morning, the empt
y wine bottles collapsing in a heap against the microwave. I shuddered, thinking about making quick love to the man before me—this most beautiful man. It all seemed too terrible to bear. I closed my eyes, centering myself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said firmly. Some small part of me rejoiced. I was out of it; I was safe.

  “Are you sure?” Drew said, nearly hanging his head down like a dog.

  “Yes,” I said again, raising one of my eyebrows high on my head. I could be sassy. I remembered my college-aged self, how I had put my hand out to only the best, the sexiest. The real men who could handle my unique, supple sexuality. This man, this Drew; he could handle it. But not now. Not now.

  “Well then. I will go about this a different way.” Drew tapped his foot, looking around him. He shot his arm out. “I’m just going to go ahead and be that guy—that traditionalist. Why don’t you go on a date with me? Friday night? Isn’t that when the kids are going out these days?” His eyes flashed.

  I considered this for a moment, tracing my tongue around the inside of my teeth. I could still taste him. I wanted him. “I don’t know,” I said. “I always have so much to do on Saturday mornings.” I remembered the tiresome day that had come before; the constant classes, the constant complaints. The constant pliés and reléves. The pointed toes; the classical music.

  “Then Saturday evening, a week from today. If I can wait to see you that long,” Drew said earnestly, moving toward me. God I wanted his lips on my lips. “Come on. If you don’t agree, I’ll just start stalking you or something. I have to see you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in all of Chicago.”

  I knew this was not true. I had seen a million more beautiful women than me only just that day. Five just in the coffee shop. But his voice seemed true, not riddled with any sort of falsehood, with lies. His eyes shone brightly.

  I thought for a moment. “I don’t know—“ I sputtered again, unsure. My thoughts were rushing around in my head. Finally, seeing the desperation, the loneliness deep in this man’s eyes—a man, not a boy like so many of my last pursuits!—I said okay. I nodded my head languidly, rolling my eyes a little bit. “Saturday night. Sure.” I nodded firmly. My mind was screaming; I’m going on a date! I’m going on a date! With a real person!

  “Wait—“ Drew interrupted, reaching into his pocket. He turned his phone toward me. “Can I have your number? You know. So we can make plans for next week.”

  My heart was humming in my chest. How long had it been since a boy asked for my number? I tapped it into his iPhone, watching how my slim, white fingers worked with such femininity. I made a mental note to think about the intricacies of sex, to remember just how it all happened; it had been too long.

  Drew leaned down as I handed him his phone once more. He kissed me for a subtle moment on the side of the mouth. A horn blazed by us, bringing us back to the city, away from the moment. I swallowed, looking up at him. Nodding. I was going to see him again, wasn’t I? I thought. Or would he disappear, like a memory?

  I turned my back then, and pushed my key through the lock. I was trembling a little, and the key was difficult—like a puzzle. Finally, the door lurched open for me and I stepped through, watching as my shadow careened over the tile floor.

  “Good night, sweet Molly,” were the words that I heard him say in the end, as I pushed the door closed and dismissed him, feeling the strange empowerment of saying “no.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I took the stairs to my fourth-level apartment. The elevator always took incredibly long to reach me, and it had gotten stuck more than once, with me on the inside. I had grown accustomed to blaming my elevator for everything. Every time I was late.

  I was huffing and puffing when I reached my sad, gray door. I opened it with the other key and immediately heard the shrill “meow” emanating from somewhere deep in the crevice of my tiny, hole-like apartment. “Boomer?” I called out. I tossed my keys on the kitchen table, noting the crumbs, the wrappers that Drew would have seen, had he come upstairs. I made a mental note to always clean up after myself—just in case of chance encounters. What a slob he would have thought I was!

  I walked toward the couch, still hearing the meows. I reached down behind the chair, wrapping my hands around the fat, grey cat. I had adopted him when I moved to the city as my first faux-friend—until I actually found friends of my own. But, alas, that had never happened; I had always been too bogged down with “making Chicago work” by becoming a successful dance instructor. Proving to my mother that I could get out of the ravine that was Indiana and truly become strong and hearty in this world of continuous momentum.

  I pet the cat while setting up my Netflix feed. The cat’s rough tongue scrubbed against my finger and palm. “Yeah. I would much rather hang out with you,” I whispered to Boomer, not really believing it. “That man is probably a rascal, anyway. Over thirty years old, and trying to come up to my apartment after a first encounter—a first non-date!” I spoke on and on to little Boomer, who had not a care in the world.

  I reached down toward my phone, noting that Drew hadn’t texted me yet to give me his number. I already deemed him lost in a sea of other lost men all throughout the city. I hadn’t a friend anywhere.

  Sure; I had Melanie, sometimes. Melanie was my dance assistant. She had had a child the previous year, and was constantly busy. Just that day, she hadn’t come into the dance studio because her baby had been very ill. I missed her, of course, now that the baby and that chubby husband of hers were happy, living out their lives in their lake-side apartment. (I was sure the husband did something very, very important, but I could never really get the information out of Melanie. Melanie was a closed vault about that man.)

  I thought about texting Melanie about this strange encounter with this Drew fellow. But I knew she would never message back. She was probably covered in spit-up and could not be bothered with the rough-and-tumble information of my personal non-sex life.

  Melanie knew, of course, that I hadn’t had sex in a great number of years; something like—oh—three. Or four. I rubbed at my inner thigh, remembering the tantalizing, college sex I had had all those years before. Until there had been Kevin, the boyfriend. The college student. He was majoring in business when I met him; a hot, successful guy who lived with my college friend’s boyfriend. We had hit it off instantly, nearly. I remembered rubbing myself over him, forcing him to cum in the back of the library during finals week, when everyone else was studying in other book aisles and at other tables.

  I shuddered just thinking about it. But then, Kevin had grown ever-so-lazy. He had stopped trying in our relationship, certainly. But he had further stopped trying in school. He had dropped out during junior year, turning instead to a lucrative career selling marijuana. He had grown a bit pudgy from all the munching, all the chips and college pizza. His metabolism wasn’t riding along with him anymore; it had dropped him off, forced him into the dark, brooding, nearly-fat man. And I, the perfect dance major, continually going to rehearsals, eating like a bird, staying away from the “green” stuff, felt I had to dump him. He was lazy; he was going to ruin me. I was certain of it. (Of course, I could ruin myself just as well. And I did.)

  Of course, my mother had been certain that Kevin would ruin me too. Since the day she had met him, she had told me he was going to ruin me, ruin my dance career. In the end, I wasn’t sure if I actually blamed him for the fact that I didn’t get any big calls out of college, that I had turned to teaching dance instead of performing it. Sure; maybe if I hadn’t indulged a few times on the burritos he was shoving into his mouth. Sure; if I hadn’t skipped a few rehearsals, just to laze with him on the couch. But I had thought he was the love of my life! Just a twenty-one-year-old-girl. What had I known of the world?

  My apartment was in a sad state. Throw pillows—gifted to me the last time my mother had redone my childhood home—were strewn all over the floor. I started to clean, then, trying to see my apartment through the eyes of Drew. I wiped the cr
umbs from the table, allowing Boomer to leap up on the wooden table to lick the stick away. His dark eyes were on me the whole time, as if he was also centered in on helping me, working to make me less of a sad-sack and more of a real, sexual person. I imagined him speaking to me, “Come on, you sad sack. Pull yourself together, and get out there!” I whipped my blonde hair over my shoulder, noting the way I looked in the mirror. Good. Good. I was in the prime of my life! I needed to start living!

  I went to bed after gazing at the Netflix queue, my mind in a rushing haze. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but Drew; the cut of his jaw, the way he smiled at me when I made a joke. I felt such an air of anticipation, I couldn’t even hear the dialogue, the music in any of the episodes I watched. Finally, bringing Boomer up to my chest, I fell instantly asleep, looking forward to a full day of daydreaming the next day—when the girls didn’t come to the studio and I could be safe in my head, worrying and re-working what would happen during Drew and I’s date on the following Saturday.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The vibrations started at five in the morning. I felt them through my pillowcase. With my eyes closed, I started tapping my hand around the bedspread, searching. I felt Boomer, who growled at me in his sleep, certain that I was an attack. My eyes fully opened now, I finally saw the flashing light. I grabbed my phone and brought it up to my face. Without my contacts in, I could hardly read it. The number was unknown.

  I answered it, groggily, expecting the worst. “Hello?” My voice croaked.

  “Hey. Babe.” The voice was familiar, laid-back. Confident.

  I tried to parse through it, to make sense of it. I rubbed at my forehead. “Um. Hi,” I said, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

  “So. I know we agreed to have a date on Saturday. But I’ve been up all night, thinking. Talking. Drinking. Thinking about you, mostly. I wanted to know if you could go to the Cubs game with me today. Wrigley Field, you know? I haven’t been since I was a kid, and I’m a mad fan.” He was speaking quickly, as if he were hopped up on many different drugs or constant cups of coffees.