“There’s something different about you, and I don’t think you’ve hit the speed again.” She was joking, but I knew she wasn’t comfortable around users – she’d had a rough time of her own before she’d hooked up with Dean, a year or two when she’d gone off the rails.
I shrugged, as if that would deflect her.
“Have you met someone? Are you in lurve?”
I couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t fuel it now, denial or otherwise. Finally, I settled for, “It’s complicated.”
“Really? I was only teasing. I didn’t think...”
“I don’t know what it is, okay?” I said. “I barely know her. Only that people seem to think she’s trouble, but–”
“You can’t stop thinking about her?”
I rocked my head side to side. As I say, Jess could be very perceptive sometimes.
“It’s just... Her life isn’t exactly simple right now. And I haven’t heard anything from her for a few days. I can’t call her because I don’t have her number. She can’t call me... Not that I’d really expect her to... Hell, Jess, I don’t know what I should expect...”
“She seeing someone else?”
I shook my head. “Dodgy ex. It’s messy.”
Jess nodded. “It’s never simple, though, is it, Lee?”
She was right, of course. I was used to her cutting through things like that. But that didn’t mean I had to admit when she was right.
“I don’t do relationships,” I said. “And especially not complicated ones.” There was good reason I always tried to steer well clear.
“But you can’t stop thinking about her?”
She was smiling, enjoying this.
“I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.”
“But you can’t stop thinking about her.”
§
She was right. Somehow Imelda had taken root in my head. I’d dream of her. I’d wake with fragments of those dreams in my consciousness. I’d think of her at random moments through the day and evening.
And – much to my surprise, I’ll admit – it wasn’t just a sex thing. It was that late night when she’d waited for me at Los Momentos, the way we’d sat and talked so freely... I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d let so many barriers drop, so quickly, if ever.
All I wanted now was to know she was okay.
The last thing I expected, a short time later, was to sense someone in the doorway, coming in off the street – to twist and look, and to see it was her.
Imelda.
Here in my brother’s bar.
I’ve been with some beautiful women in my time. Faces – and bodies – you’d recognize from TV and magazines. Real lookers. Superficial, me? Well maybe, but at least I’m up front about it: I’ll be the first to admit that I love the way women look, and the way that makes me feel. And because I’ve never been a relationships kind of guy, it often hasn’t gone far beyond that: the first impression, the physical, the beauty. That’s my experience of women: rarely much beyond that first night or two.
But there’s beautiful and then there’s Imelda.
She paused in the doorway, her gaze slowly working the room.
Her shoes were black patent leather with needle heels, her skirt black and slit high in that manner she clearly liked – a style that emphasized the long sweep of her legs, and drew the eye up. The perfect curves of hip, waist, bust. A real woman’s shape. If a body could be a work of art, well, Imelda would have secured a place in the Louvre. If she wasn’t already in some creep’s private collection...
Her top was white, something silky, enough buttons undone that you’d just have to keep undoing them, if you didn’t simple rip it open.
All in just a glimpse, a snapshot of beauty and desire.
Imelda.
Her eyes found me, and I remembered the first time I’d seen her, that first look. The look that had said I want you. I want you and I’m going to have you .
This look was part two, and all it said was Tonight .
7
If there was one thing Imelda understood, it was the power she
I shrugged, as if that would deflect her.
“Have you met someone? Are you in lurve?”
I couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t fuel it now, denial or otherwise. Finally, I settled for, “It’s complicated.”
“Really? I was only teasing. I didn’t think...”
“I don’t know what it is, okay?” I said. “I barely know her. Only that people seem to think she’s trouble, but–”
“You can’t stop thinking about her?”
I rocked my head side to side. As I say, Jess could be very perceptive sometimes.
“It’s just... Her life isn’t exactly simple right now. And I haven’t heard anything from her for a few days. I can’t call her because I don’t have her number. She can’t call me... Not that I’d really expect her to... Hell, Jess, I don’t know what I should expect...”
“She seeing someone else?”
I shook my head. “Dodgy ex. It’s messy.”
Jess nodded. “It’s never simple, though, is it, Lee?”
She was right, of course. I was used to her cutting through things like that. But that didn’t mean I had to admit when she was right.
“I don’t do relationships,” I said. “And especially not complicated ones.” There was good reason I always tried to steer well clear.
“But you can’t stop thinking about her?”
She was smiling, enjoying this.
“I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.”
“But you can’t stop thinking about her.”
§
She was right. Somehow Imelda had taken root in my head. I’d dream of her. I’d wake with fragments of those dreams in my consciousness. I’d think of her at random moments through the day and evening.
And – much to my surprise, I’ll admit – it wasn’t just a sex thing. It was that late night when she’d waited for me at Los Momentos, the way we’d sat and talked so freely... I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d let so many barriers drop, so quickly, if ever.
All I wanted now was to know she was okay.
The last thing I expected, a short time later, was to sense someone in the doorway, coming in off the street – to twist and look, and to see it was her.
Imelda.
Here in my brother’s bar.
I’ve been with some beautiful women in my time. Faces – and bodies – you’d recognize from TV and magazines. Real lookers. Superficial, me? Well maybe, but at least I’m up front about it: I’ll be the first to admit that I love the way women look, and the way that makes me feel. And because I’ve never been a relationships kind of guy, it often hasn’t gone far beyond that: the first impression, the physical, the beauty. That’s my experience of women: rarely much beyond that first night or two.
But there’s beautiful and then there’s Imelda.
She paused in the doorway, her gaze slowly working the room.
Her shoes were black patent leather with needle heels, her skirt black and slit high in that manner she clearly liked – a style that emphasized the long sweep of her legs, and drew the eye up. The perfect curves of hip, waist, bust. A real woman’s shape. If a body could be a work of art, well, Imelda would have secured a place in the Louvre. If she wasn’t already in some creep’s private collection...
Her top was white, something silky, enough buttons undone that you’d just have to keep undoing them, if you didn’t simple rip it open.
All in just a glimpse, a snapshot of beauty and desire.
Imelda.
Her eyes found me, and I remembered the first time I’d seen her, that first look. The look that had said I want you. I want you and I’m going to have you .
This look was part two, and all it said was Tonight .
7
If there was one thing Imelda understood, it was the power she
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