"Ready Honey?" My Dad's muffled voice comes through the bedroom door.
"Yeah Dad, just a minute ok?" I call back.
I smooth my hands over my hips sheathed in a little black number that cost a month's worth of what I earn at the gym. It's worth every slinky penny and makes my boobs look awesome. I push them together to be sure that the double sided tape is still on my side and bat my eyes at myself in the mirror, checking for anything out of place. Not a whisker. I arrange my hair artfully over my ears; they don't stick out or anything, but I'm aiming to avoid a discussion about inappropriate jewellery this early in the evening. No visibility, no foul, just like my black, black soul I chortle to myself. Game face on. Beca is 'go'.
I stalk back into the hallway, wondering why I let myself be talked into this. I know why, I am pity partying for the purposes of reminding myself not to do anything stupid like get too drunk in order to survive the experience of being my Dad's 'date' for New Years Eve. My Dad is adjusting his cuffs in the sleeves of his tux. For an old guy, he sure does rock a little black and white. He gives me the once over too, looking for what, I'm not sure.
"You look great, Honey."
"Thanks, Dad." I snag my wrap. Not because it's not cold, it's more like window dressing, like everything else.
"And thanks for coming out tonight."
"Right." I brace myself for the lecture and sure enough, I don't have long to wait.
"You know, I worry about you wasting your life. The gym is all very fine but it's not exactly a career path."
"Dad, it's what I've always wanted to do. Not the gym, the gym is paying for me to live while I get my music together. Music has always been my thing." I can defend it all I like, but the reality is, he's never going to see my choices my way. Most of the time we don't talk about it, there are fewer arguments that way.
"They're both good hobbies, Hon, I just want you to get out in the real world for a while. You have a college education, a good mind – you could get a good job. Or meet some nice boy and settle down."
Interesting how for him being a wife makes working for a living mutually exclusive. He's not old but he holds a lot of old guard ideas. It must be all the history crap he reads – and writes.
"Dad! I don't want a nice boy – so, that didn't come out like it sounded in my head, let's just say I'm having a timeout on guys okay?" I roll my eyes. The last two icons I spent quality time with involved talking about themselves or under a vintage car with me holding a spanner. Actually car guy was nice. And very gay. And a great mechanic. He has half a Morgan in his garage and awesome taste in shoes.
"I don't understand kids today. Your Mom and me, we got married.."
"Had a kid, met someone else, split up, got divorced, got dragged through Family Court" I supply. It's surprising how much bitterness I still have in me over this whole thing. I still don't have a civil word for the Step-Momster even though it takes two to make a shaky relationship crash and burn. It's her fault I'm out with my Dad tonight amongst other things, since she got herself snowed in, in Denver.
"I know you feel bad over that, but at least we tried. You have to put yourself out there."
I bite my tongue at the reply on the tip of it. He'd probably flip if he knew how 'out there' I have been. I put on a brave face.
"C'mon old man, you're going to be late to your own party."
He offers me his arm and escorts me to the elevator. At least he had the good sense to have the New Year's bash in the restaurant at the top of the tower, rather than the Penthouse itself. There's always some idiot who ends up drunk, swimming naked in the pool. It's entertaining, but now I always associate the smell of chlorine with vomit. Yay, that was last year's overwhelming New Year party memory, right there.
I have a pint of ice-cream in the fridge and David Guetta on the remix deck I could be sharing my loathing for this time of year with, and no-one would get hurt. I sigh. It's not to be. Maybe next year.
We whistle up the elevator. I fidget in heels that are as foreign to me as the thought that a girl might actually make something of herself in the real world is to my Dad. When the little light goes on and the bell dings, I snag the toe of my stiletto in the carpet and almost faceplant into the shiny brushed steel doors. Way to go Beca, roll on midnight.
-/-
Give the staff their due, they sure know how to throw a party together. The bar is overrun with guys tossing cocktail mixers and cracking the tops off of an endless array of imported beers. I lose Dad at the door and head for the bar. The only way I am going to get through this is at least half-cut. I know that the attendees will be literary giants, editors in chief, publicity mongrels and anyone and everyone to do with World Publishing Inc, aka no-one I want to spend any time with up close and personal.
I catch the eye of one of the shakers dealing alcoholic oblivion. Brushing my hair behind my ear to better my hearing in the racket going on around me, I point to a bottle of something a color not normally found in nature, get the top lifted and wave off a glass. My ear spike gets a side-eye which is ok, I'm used to it. I get a Jack and Coke for my Dad, wrinkling my nose at the smell of the combination. Too bad drinkswise he never moved past the Eighties. I wend my way through the press of suits and designer frocks, mostly black. One statuesque blonde is wearing a gorgeous white form fitting number with slave sandals, the shoes alone have a couple of zero's on the tag, I know because I've been salivating over them myself. If I could walk in them without killing myself or maiming anyone around me it would be a plus. Maybe in the next lifetime. Aspirations are a good thing.
Waiters move effortlessly between the tightly packed bodies, their trays getting lighter with every pace. I follow one with a ponytail carving a path through the assembled throng to ease my manoeuvers back to the old man, I have about thirty seconds before I start to regret it. Dad introduces me to every guy over twenty and under seventy-five. He knows a lot of people, which is probably a good thing, given that it's his party. My cheeks ache from forced smiling and the music is getting too loud to hold a conversation more than three inches from a person's ear.
The lights go down and colored spots start spinning over a temporary dance floor. I pat my Dad's arm and gesture to let him know that's where I'm going, drag the latest guy he introduced with me and let the music take me. Don't ask me the guy's name, my brain is full of bass. The DJ's pretty good, the floor fills just enough to move without invading anyone else's space and time is a thing that happens to other people. When the guy I brought with me ducks out, I slink up to the booth and bump fists with Luke behind the decks, nodding along to the beat. We go way back. He'd like to hook up, but I don't want the fallout, I'd miss the competition on Super Mario. The score is 431 wins to 419. If he wants to reset to zero for the New Year, I'm going to kick like hell.
I scan the floor, I know what I'd put on next, something I put togther, a smidge of Ellie with a Pitbull underlay. Shockingly that's exactly what Luke pumps out the speakers. I didn't know he even had that, it was on as background music last time he came around, but I never gave it to him. What a tea-leaf. Luke gives my astonished face a manic grin, he obviously still thinks he has a chance. I don't mind, I've used his stomach as a pillow at least as often as he left a floater in my great white telephone.
I let my attention be drawn back to the dancefloor. The one dancer that catches my eye for a second is a guy with short dark hair, busting some awesome moves, but he stops dancing suddenly and disappears into the throng of bodies off the floor, it's getting pretty cramped out here. I shrug and huddle closer to the DJ station, wanting the barrier between the crowd and my personal bubble. My hands itch to get behind the deck, so when Luke signals he needs a break, it's an easy switch to make. He comes back with a beer and something for me, but leaves me wired in. I don't mind, just grin and load up the next play. Daft Punk meet Rhianna. I can feel the bass humming through my feet, man I love this.
The minute I do eventually leave the DJ booth for a lady break, I get snagged by Dad again. His agenda is embarrassingly obvious. It's getting hard not to wipe my palm on something after every new introduction. What he's doing makes me feel dirty.
Another hour in and I want to be somewhere else so bad it's not funny. I was expecting a little attention, simply because of the look on my Dad's face when I said I'd come, but not this shark frenzy once anyone knows my last name. The next person I meet is getting 'hi, I'm Beca,' and that's it.
"Daryl here, is a..." I don't catch the rest. Daryl looks like he doesn't get a whole lot of sun, or vitamins.
I smile winningly at him and brush my hair behind my ear. His reaction to the ear spike is so extreme he actually takes a step back, which makes me have to stifle a laugh and turn it into a tortured cough.
"Pleased to me you," I gush, I'm not. I know it, he knows it. My Dad is consciously oblivious.
I drag on my Dad's arm and yell in his ear, "I think I just started my period." I get a stunned face and a horrified nod to my, "I'm going to the bathroom."
I wonder what excuse he making up as I depart, making a beeline for the facilities.
I grab a passing canape, a freshly popped bottle of Wicked Blue and head for the cool draught coming in off the slider to the balcony. The fresh air blows the hair back from my face and neck; letting the colder air slide against my skin feels so amazing as I slip through the door I can hear myself groan into the quiet of the night outside.
"You ok?"
It comes from a guy who looks like he's made a little escape for himself out here. If there was a tie, it's gone and his hair looks like it took the brunt of an attack of some sort. I think he was the guy from the dance floor earlier, but I wasn't close enough then, to be sure now.
"Yeah, I'm good. Just avoiding the BS for a while."
He laughs at that. His eyes are pretty, what I can see of them and his laugh is open and unaffected. I wonder if he's what the hell he's doing here. He's probably a plus one. You know the invitations that say your name, +1 because no-one is quite sure if you are single, between dates or bat for the other team. And +1 is easier than getting it wrong in case what's his name has been supplanted by that guy from the other office, which is always awkward.
"Cheers," he knocks his glass against the base of my bottle as I come to rest beside him, elbows on the balcony railings. I get a whiff of whiskey and cubes clink against each other in his glass.
"Hard liquor, huh? That bad?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. You?"
"Hmm, it's getting pretty messy in there. I'm hardcore though, I've seen worse. I'm Beca."
I offer my hand and hope to God it's enough. He seems really nice, not that I don't appreciate that his suit fits in all the right places, because I do, but it's rude to stare and I'm still just sober enough to know that. He gives it a business-like shake, has a firm, no nonsense grip. If I didn't need my hand back to catch my hair behind my ear, I'd probably leave it there a little longer. I suck down a long swallow trying not to notice how his eyes take in my ear jewellery and still don't leave me. Wow, his eyes are really dark. Like really, really, dark. I'm drowning. My jaw wants to drop open to gulp for air. Is this my fourth, or fifth bottle?
"Jesse." He says it with a smile at the end. It should creep me out, someone being so friendly, but I figure this is New Year's Eve and in a few minutes everyone will be kissing and hugging everyone else anyway, so I might as well get over myself now and deal with it. Or maybe he's like this with everybody.
Wierdo.
My family does not 'do' well adjusted, but I can imagine he is what it looks like – well, except that he is out on a balcony alone at a party. I look for cigarette butts ends and sniff cautiously for 'smoke' if you know what I mean, but get nothing.
And great, no last name, no pack drill. He's not even curious enough about the ear-spike to comment, which means he definitely doesn't normally run with this pack of hounds. He gestures at the expansive view sixty-five floors up affords.
"Bright lights, big city." He comments at the sound of strains from the same song reaching us from the dance floor inside, making me snort, it's so lame, but funny at the same time. I feel like I'm smiling too much. I am never this much of a girl.
"Never gets old." I take a sip for something to do and stare out into the dark. It doesn't put him off, maybe he's on his fifth too. It's getting pretty late.
"Get to see it a lot?"
Shoot. If I answer yes, I'm a Daddy's girl, or somebody's bit on the side. No-one makes it to the sixty-fifth by twenty-five unless they inherit, or earn it on their back. I field. "All the time." I watch the emotions play across his face, surprised when something like disappointment crops up. It makes me feel bad. "I have a poster. You know one of those with the random construction guys eating lunch on a girder."
"Right." He looks relieved, although what do I know. He nods in understanding. "It's better from up here though. More real."
"More real? What about you? Do you have a poster too?" Go me, the jokester.
"I like the real thing." It's a smart answer, artful, clever even. It gives nothing away, not really, so very polically correct. He scans the view again, like he's looking at something that is endlessly fascinating. It is a little bit. All those thousands of lives, laid out underneath us, oblivious to who we are and what we do. I want to see his smile again to see if it still has the same effect as last time. I study his profile. There is no one particular feature, but I know I'm staring, I can't help myself. His chin sticks out. Nose. Eyebrows, all the normal face stuff, it's just…I don't know.
When he unconsciously stretches his neck, I can see cords rise under the skin, which are strangely riveting. My fingers twitch. It would be weird to touch them and probably tickle, but I want to, I definitely want to. I'm not going to, obviously, because first name introductions do not naturally lead to 'can I touch your neck' conversations. What if he stretches his head back into the pillow when he cums, is that what his neck would look like? Would they do that if I was riding his face? Where the hell did that come from? Is someone lacing the bar with crushed little blue pills? Does it even work for a girl that way?
"I bet you have Van Morrison on your wall." My voice is surprisingly husky. I have to clear my throat, nope, even when I look away, I can picture his neck quite clearly. I look back, um hmm, still there. Stop it. Now.
He shakes his head, his chin sinks below the level of his shoulders. "Metallica."
I can't tell if he's joking, he says it so deadpan. And there it is, that smile again. I get a warm burn in my gut. The last time this happened I lost my virginity under the bleachers at college. Every time after that was just looking to recreate the same feeling and failing miserably. My choices suck.
"You don't seem the type. You look folky, Proclaimers maybe." I quip. It's probably the rudest thing to say to a death metal fan, ever.
He scoffs. "Is this where I invite you back to mine to prove it?"
I let the silence fall, part of me wants to say 'do it, let's go, show me what normal looks like, maybe with no clothes on.' Part of me wants him to not be 'that guy.'
As it is, we both start talking together.
"Hey, I didn't…" and "Maybe we should…" run over each other until both of us laugh and just grin stupidly at each other. I chicken out first before this does any long term damage to my recent swearing off the opposite sex for a while.
"I should go back in." I drum a heel against the balcony floor to suggest it's cold, although it's really not. My hair gets loose again so I take the opportunity to break eye contact.
"Yeah, I could do with a top up." He tips back the dregs to prove his point. He closes his eyes when he drinks, squinting them when the ice cubes slip back against his lips.
I bet his lips feel cold. It makes me lick my lips in sympathy, or at least, that's what I tell myself. "Sooo. Ok. Endings are the worst."
"Endings? We only just met. Can I see you again? In 'real' life?" He does that inverted comma thing with his fingers that reminds me of hip-hop videos.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea, you like Van Morrison and I like…"
"What do you like? Other than posters of New York City? And the real thing after dark."
I think about what happened to my Mom and Dad and how they can't stand to be in the same room together without hurting one another. I don't know what makes me think about them when I look at this guy. My Mom would love him. I toss my hair back to buy a little time. I'd probably break him. I'd enjoy every minute of it, but it wouldn't be fair to inflict my kind of damage on another human being. I should get a dog. He looks like a dog person. I bet he holds hands walking in the park, with his girl, and a dog. I have his future all mapped out in my head, except that the girl looks like me and I don't have a dog.
"I like honesty." I don't mean it the way it comes out, like a challenge.
"Honesty, right. Can I ask you something else?"
"Sure." We're nearly at the slider door, I'm not really thinking about what he is saying, I'm thinking about why I don't want to go inside all of a sudden. And cords. And maybe me riding his face. I slow to a standstill. I wonder if he likes ice-cream. Heck, everyone likes ice-cream.
"Did you know there was mistletoe out here?" He sounds amused in a surprised sort of way, like he can't believe his luck.
"No, I did not." I don't believe it. What lame ass left that out here? Sure enough, hanging overhead this side of the slider is a fat sprig of the darned stuff. Slim leaves with waxy white berries dangle innocently overhead. Damn you pagan symbol of fertility usurped by every religion that came behind you. Actually a parasite is pretty close to kids in a way. My brain is clearly off piste. I should stop drinking now.
"Do you think it's a sign? I think it's a sign."
"A sign for what?" A sign we should have kids? I'm pretty sure someone needs to slap some sense into me. Or take the alcohol away at the very least. It's a sign someone forgot the darned stuff was out here after the last Christmas party.
"That we shouldn't be saying goodbye right now." People inside start howling the countdown, 10, 9, 8…
"Oh? And what should we be doing?"
"Waiting for Midnight?" He has a hand out at waist height. The first touch is painless, like when you break a wine glass and you're clearing up and a sliver just sneaks in under the skin. His palm slips against my waist. The fabric is so sheer, he might as well be touching my skin. I can feel every fingertip, every glide his hand makes, even though it's featherlight. I glance down to be sure I'm not imaging it. I'm not. There are slim fingers on my waist. Strangely I am not freaking out, it must be the booze, because if anyone has intimacy issues, it's yours truly.
"Don't you mean celebrating Saturnalia?" Looking back up to his face for the effect of the punchline is automatic. I'm waiting for the cheese line from him, but it doesn't come. He doesn't let go either.
"Would that be ok?" It wasn't the response I was expecting. My smart ass answers are normally enough to shut people down.
I try and joke off the fact that my heart skipped up to a pulse rate I normally hit twenty minutes into a ten mile run. I don't know how I got myself into this and I have no idea how to get out of it. I'm not sure I want to. "Are you a stickler for tradition? I think Greek.."
"No thinking," he shakes his head like it's funny. "It's just New Year." He sounds so earnest, like he means it. I'd want him to mean it, if I was a real girl. I'm not, but four or more bottles of the blue stuff make it easier to pretend. I think if I thought it was really more, I'd skip town to be sure he never found me again. I don't let people in, it's just easier that way. Still like his neck though. For the first time in forever, I almost regret my choices. He is way too tempting.
…6…5…
My throat feels dry and I swallow convulsively. There is no reason for this to be such a big thing, other than how I feel now that he is touching me and looking at me like I'm the only thing that exists in the whole world.
"No thinking. Right." His hand edges down, towards the base of my spine; it's not sleazy, it just feels good. My eyes are glued to his, then there is the faintest suggestion of pressure, pulling me towards him, also good. I'm going, I can beat myself up over it later.
"Is this ok?"
"I'm ok with this." I say slowly. "I think," I am, I think. I smile back at him laughing at me and he leans in. I think this is weird, to be so comfortable with someone I only have a first name for and no back history. It's liberating maybe. I have to lift my chin to meet him. Even in heels I am woefully short. It doesn't seem to matter, we fit together just fine.
His fingers creep up the length of my back and under my hair. My skin sets itself on full alert and I want to climb right into him. He seems so easy with himself. I'd like to know what that feels like. It's weird to me and before I know it, that thought is what comes out of my mouth.
"You're weird."
…3…2…
"I'm weird? So are you, we can be weird together. Still ok?" He murmurs, his lips are awfully close. It might be better if it's me making the first move, then I can move on without too much backlash if this turns out to be a really bad idea. It could be. It probably is. This was such a bad idea.
…1…
He doesn't close his eyes and neither do I. I don't have enough breath to answer if I was being honest, it all stopped just south of my sternum. My focus is still all about where he's touching me. His pants graze my dress, I think I've been electrocuted. Maybe it's the pace, giving me time to take everything on board, exactly as it happens. It feels like my whole body is holding it's breath.
His fingers stroke gently under my hairline, and then there is his other hand, wrist coming to rest innocently on my hip since it's still holding his whiskey glass. His fingers splay and squeeze a little at the base of my skull. It makes me feel so not very innocent. I should leave now. Right now. I should go. I have so many other places I could be. My hips do their own thing, gluing themselves to his body heat. We sway, which is probably me pushing him and him pushing back, which I like, alot. I could ruin him right here, right now and judging on how he is behaving, he would just let it happen.
I let my fingers run through the short hair at the nape of his neck, not thinking about anything other than how good this feels. He doesn't feel like he's pulling away anytime soon. It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts, just like a sliver, before you find it. It would be really easy to kiss him right now. I have all the excuses in the world. New Year is the only socially acceptable time to get off with someone you barely know. To be fair, barely know is pushing it. There is a serious danger of getting lost in the whirlpool of should/not going in my head that it might just happen by accident if I don't pay attention – and I am paying very close attention. God, he probably thinks I'm a nutjob. I should have just given him a peck the second the crowd yelled '1' and bolted for the door. Now what do I do?
And that's when the slider door gets yanked open by the statuesque blonde.
"Jesse, are you out here?"
We break apart like we just got doused with cold water. It's impossible for her not to see us this close to the entrance, even without the dimmed outdoor lighting. The look she gives me makes me feel something like shit on a Jimmy Choo.
"Aubrey, hey." He says lightly, like she was just announcing dinner was ready.
"Aubrey? Hi." I say, with both sarcasm and surprise trying to battle their way into my voice. If he has that at home, what the hell is he doing with me? I could do with a little more air. And a punch bag.
"Beca, wait."
"Eh, no. Tell you what, you wait." I give him my half empty bottle of Blue and twist past the model in the white silk sheath. It's my own fault I feel this way, I broke my own rules. I'm still not sure how he got all that close in the first place. Fucking. Shitballs.
I rake my hair so that it falls close to my face and go to find my Dad. My throat is hot and my face feels like it's on fire. Crap, what an ass I just made of myself. Never kiss the cute guy on the balcony. Dad is seated with a bunch of cronies in an in depth discussion on local versus global politics, he doesn't look like he's going to make a move anytime soon.
"Hey Dad, I'm going to make a break for it."
"Honey, remember Adrian," he gestures to a grey suit to his left who toasts me with his glass, his blurry gaze clearly firmly attached to my cleavage. "He has a son just your age."
"Hey, yeah I remember, Donald isn't it? Yale and then Deutsche Bank. We keep in touch." In a Facebookian sort of way. I'm not up for a catch up and I suck at sugar coating.
"So, I'm going to go." I slip a hand against my stomach to reinforce the idea that I'm not fit company for the assembled males.
Dad stands and I shoo him back awkwardly. "I'm fine, stay really. It's been great, I'm just a little tired." And pig sick balcony guy came with a date.
That voice calls right across the room sounding a little frantic, "Beca!"
"I'll see you later, Dad." I bend and give him a quick peck on the forehead, furtively scouting for balcony guy. "Don't be too late." I see him heading over to the dance floor so I'm safe to bolt for the hallway, which I do, trying not to draw attention to myself. Eventually I slam open the stairwell door and let it close behind me, leaning against the chill of the cinder wall as I draw in huge gulps of air. I pitch off my shoes and snatch them up in one hand, plodding down the concrete steps and sniffing in the cool air. I check my watch. Two minutes past midnight. At least I got to see in the New Year in company.
I have Ben
I have Jerry
I'll be fine.