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Somehow, Baxter punched me. I later learned he'd been reaching out to grab me but failed. I flew backward, landing in the lap of another diner, which wouldn't have been bad, but for some unknown reason, the guy had his dick out, and my hand landed right on his cock. I’d shrieked again, and the lights came on. To my horror, I was still holding the guy's dick and everyone had seen me feeling him up. At that moment, maybe it was the excitement of someone actually touching him, he came right on my hand. It was gross. I almost threw up…okay, I did throw up. Right on his dick. But he deserved it.
I really hope tonight wasn’t going to be like that. I roll my eyes and then tune into where we are. We cross Madison Avenue, walking at breakneck speed. “Where are we going?”
“My place isn’t far,” Baxter says over his shoulder.
We keep moving, him pulling me behind, me trailing like an untrained dog on a lead. After we cross Lexington, I dig my heels in.
He glances back, his lips turn down in a deep frown. “We don’t have time.”
“This is taking too long. You say we only have an hour. Let’s hop on a bus or something.”
Baxter looks up the street and steps out into the flow of traffic, raising his hand. A cab pulls to the side and we get in. Baxter gives directions while we sit in the back. The air between us is uncomfortable. I wish I’d not answered the phone when he’d called, but long ago, we’d been friends and I wanted to make sure he was okay. I’m fairly certain he’s not.
The taxi stops, and we get out. The area is nice, about as nice as the west side where I call home.
Baxter calls out to two of the residents as we head in. They wave but give him a weird look and a half wave. I'm not his fiancée or girlfriend, and it's obvious unless his ex was black. I might have lighter skin, but I would never be mistaken for a white woman.
They probably think he's cheating. I don't want their looks to be because of my skin. I'd fought my way, putting up with more than other designers, proving time and time again I wasn't just some idiot trying to catch a ride based on my skin color. I was good at what I did. Eventually, people paid attention because of my designs and not my skin tone.
Once in his apartment, which is a one bedroom, lots of light, good furniture, but stark in comparison to my place, he goes for the fridge and grabs a beer.
“Why did you get a whiskey at the bar?”
Baxter’s forehead crinkles and he shakes his head. “What?”
“You ordered a whiskey. You hate whiskey.”
His face blanks. “Things change.”
I don’t stop staring at him. I can’t. He’s lying, and I know it. He just doesn’t want to admit the lies. I still need to know what is going on, but I also need to change clothes. I nod my head to the left and lift my brows. “Bathroom?”
His short nod communicates his frustration, maybe a little anger, and something else I'm not liking. In the past, I've ridden an elephant, climbed into bat-infested caves, stared down a pack of hyenas all for the experience. Maybe one day I'll be able to look back and laugh, chalking this up to experience, but I doubt it.
Once in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. I should walk out. Andrew, or Baxter, or whatever he was calling himself now, wasn’t my problem. I owe him nothing. We have no connection at all, so why was I worried what his parents would do if they found out we really weren’t engaged, and we hadn’t ever dated?
