“Thanks for the warning.”
And even with the loud, synthesized music at maximum volume, I know that voice. I close my eyes, turn my head, and open them to find Delores Warren standing next to me.
You’re not surprised, are you?
Riley fades from my sight and my thoughts as I check out Dee in her club wear. Her blond hair is painted with streaks of purple and blue, a tight, electric blue crop top barely covers her tits, her skirt is nothing more than strips of blue and purple fabric, and fuzzy, calf-high boots adorn her feet. Every inch of her fabulously exposed, body-glitter-covered skin sparkles like diamonds.
She smiles playfully. “Hello, God. It’s me, Dee.”
I don’t try to hide that I’m happy to see her. “Hey. What’s up? I left you a message this afternoon.”
Today was day three. But Dee seems to be one of those rare women who is immune to the Rule. She turns to face the bar but replies loudly enough for me to hear. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you call me back?”
She bops her head in time to the music and shrugs. “I figured you were just being nice.”
“I don’t do anything just to be nice.” I hook my thumb in the direction Riley was standing. “Obviously.”
I don’t kiss ass—unless a girl asks me to—and the only smoke I blow is from my cigarettes.
A few feet away, a dark-skinned, hair-gelled dude in a white T-shirt and skinny jeans yells in Delores’s direction. “Yo, Dee—hurry up with the drinks!”
There are two kinds of male Brooklynites—liberal, wealthy transplants who want to immerse themselves in urban living while restoring their historic brownstones to their former splendor, and homegrown, heavily accented, wise-guy wannabes who’ve watched Goodfellas one too many times. This dumbass is definitely the latter. I motion with my chin. “Who’s he?”
“That’s Mickey.”
“Did you come here with him?”
“No. I came with a few girls from work. They’re . . . around here somewhere.”
Then I ask the more crucial question. “Are you going to leave with him?”
“Probably.” The single word hits me like a jab to the chin.
Dee leans over the bar to place her drink order. When she’s back on her feet, I move in closer, so I don’t have to yell. “You can do better.”
She looks into my eyes. Wearing the same expression she had on her face when I left her apartment Wednesday night—yearning mixed with sadness. Resignation.
“Maybe I don’t want better.”
“You should. Shoot for the moon and you still end up amongst the stars.” It’s an expression my mother used to say.
Dee lifts one shoulder. “Outer space isn’t for everyone. I’m more of a ground-level kind of girl.”
A woman’s view of herself is like a reflection in a fun house mirror—bent, sometimes warped. The way others see them is always more accurate.
“You’re so wrong.”
“Mickey’s uncomplicated. Easy.”
I smile. “If you’re looking for easy, I’m your guy—they don’t come easier than me.”
She chuckles. And I step to Dee’s side, blocking her view of the worthless wonder. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Smoothly I ask, “When can I see you again?”
The side of Dee’s mouth inches up. “You’re seeing me right now.”
“I want to see you in a predetermined location . . . preferably in less clothing.”
Dee glances down at her outfit. “Less clothing than this? That’d be risking indecent exposure.”
I smirk. “Always a sign of a great time.”
Her drinks arrive. She picks up the tray and tells me, “I think seeing you again would be a bad idea—for both of us.”
“Wrong again.”
She smiles softly. “Bye, Matthew.” And starts to walk away.
I call, “Hey, Dee.” She turns. “Next time, tell him to get his own f**king drinks, okay?”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods and disappears into the crowd.
A while later, Drew tells me he and Jack are going to go party with the Dutch world travelers. “Are you coming?” he asks. “Drop some anchor, do a little deep-sea muff diving?”
I scan the dance floor, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue. “Nah, I’m working on something here.” I watch Jack by the door, entertaining the five girls, and ask, “Which one are you going for?”
“The girl in the middle seems like quite the eager beaver.” He chuckles at his own joke.
Called it. I snort and Drew asks why. “You don’t think it’s unusual that out of five Scandinavians, you’re shooting for the lone brunette in the bunch?”
Drew gets my point. But he blows it off. “Thanks, Sigmund. If I want to be psychoanalyzed, I’ll throw good money away on an actual f**king therapist.”
“Whatever you say, man.” I slap him on the back.
After Drew and Jack leave, I do a lap around the club. I spot Dee on the dance floor with Tony Soprano Junior and it turns my stomach. His spastic, rough steps are a sharp contrast to Dee’s effortless, rolling movements, and I wonder again what the hell she’s doing with him.
I find an empty table but get blindsided by an aggressive, chatty blonde in a short-sleeved cashmere sweater and leather skirt. She sits herself down and seems oblivious to the fact that I’m not paying attention to anything she says.