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“Do people boogy still?”
“I don’t know. This is your lame idea.”
“It’s not lame, Sinclair.” She tilts her head to the side. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of dancing.”
“Me? Never. Let’s go.”
I want to say the place is jumping, but while it might not be doing that, it’s got life, and it’s totally down to the ground in all the unexpected ways that should be expected.
The place is so low-key I didn’t even catch the name. There was a sign on the door, but as she led me here, right into the heart of the Village where on the street we’re completely overdressed, but in here, not at all, I just followed along.
We’re led to a table in the back by a sexily but tastefully clad waitress, reminiscent of the old world cigarette girls. There in the back under golden lights, a band plays and people dance.
Yep, there’s actual dancing.
Others sit around and chat and laugh and drink. And it’s got a low-key yet glam vibe I like.
Never in a million years would I think such a place exists, or if I did, of coming here.
It’s a date, not sex.
I take that back as we place an order for drinks, and Elliot pulls the combs from her hair and shakes it free.
This place is date and sex with someone special. This is long, sensuous sex. This is smolder. This can be none of the above. This can be fun or serious conversation. It’s a blank canvas with the paints set out.
I lean forward and take the combs from her as Elliot goes to put her hair back up. Call me an old-fashioned asshole, but I like her hair free.
“Give me those.”
“No. It looks good like that.”
She snatches them from me but doesn’t twist her hair up and shove them in place. “Is this free advice from the Ryder Sinclair fashion hour?”
“Yes.”
Elliot laughs and tucks the combs in her purse as the waitress returns with the side cars—I followed her lead this evening.
The music flows around us and I smooth a wayward strand of hair from her face, trying not to notice how soft and smooth and warm her skin is beneath my fingers. “I feel like I’m in one of those movies from the Fifties. If Dean Martin comes out to sing with the big band, I’m not going to be surprised.”
“I will be, considering he’s been dead for a long time.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, smiling.
“Yeah.” Elliot toys with her glass. “I don’t get to come here often, but this part of the Village, where tiny gems of arts and music and theater exist for themselves, is special. And I love it.”
I sip my drink. “You’re an interesting one, Perry.”
“I’m really not.”
“You really are. This…this is perfect.”
Her cheeks blush and I want to slide the coolness of my glass over them. Maybe let some of the condensation drip down, fall on her decolletage and—I stop the down and dirty direction of my thoughts.
“Or,” I say, “didn’t you expect me to appreciate a place like this?”
Her mouth twists in a tiny smile. “To be fair, you’re not exactly Mr. Deep and Meaningful to the world.”
The words poke at me, and I’m not sure why. She’s got a point. “I’m more man whore, huh?”
