Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Romance

     This wasn’t my ceiling.
     The lack of panic that surged from my stomach meant that at some point I had been prepared to wake up under someone else’s roof. Or I was still too drunk for rational thought.
     I remember the bar. And that’s about it. I shifted my head slightly to the left and an explosion of throbbing seeped out my forehead. Immediately I threw my hands over my eyes.
     And then I smell it.
Coffee. Fresh coffee, that rich fragrance wafting from another room.
     “Good morning. I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so I guessed.”
     A man. I took a man home last night.
     Wait. This isn’t my ceiling.
     A man took me home last night.
     I said nothing, debating on whether or not it was safe to uncover my eyes. I wasn’t good at picking men when I was sober, and it only got worse from there.
     “Don’t take this the wrong way but who are you?” I shifted my hands like a visor over my eyes, just enough to see his face as he sat in the chair across from me.
     “Weston.” He smiled and I studied his teeth. His canines hung a little high compared to the rest, and curved inward slightly. “Parker? We met at the bar last night? You got my attention when you tried to climb on a table and slipped over the booth into me instead. Of course, that wasn’t until after you shouted that you were Alexandra the Great a few times.” His eyes wrinkled as a cheeky smile slipped out.
     “I have this, condition . . .” I started.
     “Where you introduce yourself as male historical figures when you’re drunk?”
     “Actually, yes,” I said. He started to laugh. It was hearty and deep, and if he had laughed like that last night I understood why I ended up in his lap. “Though I don’t discriminate against gender. The time before I was claiming to be Alexpatra. I woke up with snake jewelry scribbled on my biceps in lipstick.”
     “Yeah, well, you were pretty gone. Your friends left and you couldn’t tell me where you lived, so I brought you here.”
     “Well if that doesn’t sound like the beginning of a date rape story, than I don’t know what does. My friends, the real heroes.” I hoped my sarcasm was more obvious than the red that warmed my cheeks. I wanted to leave but skipping out without my designer shoes was a no-go.
     I was a woman. I had my priorities.
     Any fight or flight instincts I had had thus far failed to tip off a Jeffrey Dahmer vibe. I eyed the freezer. It would take a chainsaw and a heavy duty food processor to get my thighs in that freezer.
     “I realize that probably sounds sketchy but I figured that was a chance I was willing to take. I promise I was gentlemanly, if that means anything.” He said, motioning to where I sat, still fully clothed, minus the shoes.
     He got out of the chair with my mug of coffee I hadn’t touched and walked back into the kitchen. He didn’t look at me as he poured it in the sink and kept talking. “At least I would know you’d be safe last night. I’m naturally suspicious of cab drivers. It’s like automobile prostitution, only instead of sex you’re going from point A to point B. By the end of it only one of you are thankful for the ride and the other is just looking for your money.” He turned and smirked a little. “The real difference is it usually costs you less the more people are involved when you’re just getting a taxi.”
     I laughed then and the sound was less pleasant than I was to be around as I sobered up.
     “Well then, at least one of us was sober enough to remember where we lived.” I smiled at him, my eyes still shielded by my hands.
     “I don’t drink, actually. I was just there with some buddies.”
     “Oh Lord, “I said, half to myself. “You were completely cognitive through all my bullshit and you were still willing to be seen in public with me. Bless your heart.”
     He laughed out loud and I found myself hoping he wasn’t just doing it to be polite.
     “So, about my shoes . . .” I said, finally sitting up.
     “They’re under the coffee table.” Weston stopped mid-walk back to his chair. “Shit, I poured out your coffee.”
     “That’s okay! Thank you anyway. But I should really be heading out.”
     I was off-balance standing up, but steady enough to slip my feet into their respective heel and wobble towards the door.
     “Are you sure you don’t want a ride or something?” He moved quickly to my side to walk me out. “I’m not sure how far you’re going but those shoes probably won’t appreciate it.”
     My expression was enough. In one elevator, down two floors, out one door and he was handing me a helmet. “You ride a motorcycle?” My eyebrows rose so high they flirted with my hair line.
     “I told you I don’t trust taxis.” He smiled wide again.
“How the hell did you get me here on this thing, trashed?” I tried to disguise my fear of this two-wheeled death machine as astonishment.
    "Very carefully.”


    The alcohol was still weaning out of my system and the morning was bright. The darkened visor of the helmet helped, and despite the unsteadiness of my body and my brain, I felt content on the back of the motorcycle. That is, until we reached the bridge.
    The liquid courage still in my blood had thinned too much by then, and Weston didn’t appear to notice when I squeezed my arms tighter around his torso, buried my face into his back, and recited so many holy shits and oh my gods that they didn’t sound like real words anymore.
    The drive from Brooklyn to Midtown never felt so long. I stepped off the bike with a shaky ankle. It was safe to say by then if there was still alcohol in me, my brain had officially overlooked it. Before Weston could get his helmet off I was throwing up behind his motorcycle.
    Graceful. Attractive. I had the sex appeal of a 29-year-old garbage can. And now the man who took me home was staring at the contents of my stomach spilled out on the street.
    Weston held his arm around my waist loosely and followed me inside the lobby.
    “Thanks. Sorry about that. Kind of surprised there was even enough left in me to see it again.” I laughed feebly.
    His eyes wrinkled at their corners as he smiled back at me. “You sure you feel alright? I could—”
    “No, thank you. Really. I just need to get up there. Thank you for the ride, though.”
    I was already backing into the elevator and waving stupidly before he could keep the conversation going. Weston stood and watched the door close.
    What a morning.


     My first mission back home was to find substance to overpower the taste in my mouth. I tore pieces off a bagel from the counter—no spread or toasted ends, I needed all the absorbency I could get. Please soak up all the pitiful parts of this morning.
     I never wanted to take a shower but once I was under the water I was always grateful to be there. I hated getting my hair wet—it dried like it got style tips from Medusa and I hated the feeling of wet hair clinging to my skin. But once I was standing there with the steam rising up and my skin slightly red from the heat, feeling the tiny rivers run, I never wanted to leave it. The shower was a sanctuary.
     What about Steven? I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I tried to justify that three weeks of living the single life was enough to erase almost five years spent in monogamy. That is, on my part.
     Steven and I met in college, but no romantic relationship developed until afterwards. We dated exclusively for two and a half years, broke up, then got back together months later. I liked it the first time around, but after that things fell apart. My best friends, Sam and William, defined my relationship with Steven as a weird middle ground between a relationship and fuck buddies. I hated the term, but friends with benefits implied we were friends, which felt wholly inaccurate. I simply referred to it as adulthood. I only slept with him, he slept with whoever he wanted while he was out of town—which was often. We didn’t live together, but he slept over when he wanted to get laid and I had never bothered to get my spare key off his key chain. I was at least honest about it—having a walking penis on speed dial was convenient, and convenient sex was the kind we liked.
     Steven and I had never officially broken up the second time. But when he left me a message claiming to be leaving for a business trip and I had later walked in on him and some girl in my apartment, that was it for me. I found my spine. White-knuckled and revved up, I kicked them out, screaming the whole time about how I hoped his dick fell off. The words, “We’re over” had never passed my lips, but I figured the message was clear.
     And then there was Weston Parker, motorcyclist stranger extraordinaire.