The Resistance(9)
“Now about that vice of yours,” he asks, “you think I’m hot?”
Wow, he caught that, but I guess that’s what I get for opening my mouth. “Yes, I think you’re very hot.”
“I think you’re beautiful, Holliday, and you have a fucking great ass. So it seems I was in the right place at the right time to indulge that vice of yours.”
I’m about to say something really clever, but his lips are on mine and the witty comebacks I might have had disappear. His hands grasp my hips tightly as he presses his against mine. There’s no hiding his reaction and I begin to hope we can get into a little trouble together. But then his lips still and his hands drop. He pulls back and starts walking away, but I grab his arm before he’s out of reach, and ask, “What just happened?”
“I don’t think we should do this,” he says with his back to me as his hand scrapes through his hair. I release his arm, but he stays. When he turns around, he looks me in the eyes. “You may have had a few one-night stands, Holliday, but that’s not how I see you.”
“You don’t know me.” I try to tamp down the defensiveness in my voice.
“I want to.”
My eyebrows go up in surprise, revealing everything I want to say without the necessary words.
He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head, amused. “What? A guy can’t want to know somebody before fucking them?”
“Sounds like your own personal demon.”
A heavy sigh escapes him as he stares at me, perplexed. “So you just wanna fuck then?”
Doubt rears its ugly head and I walk around him, keeping my eyes focused on the balcony and the burning cigarette he left in the ashtray out there. I sit down on a chair and kick my feet up on the railing, looking out over The Strip a block away. His footsteps echo as he walks outside, taking a seat on the other side of the table.
“Are we playing games?” I ask, leaning my head back on the chair. I roll my neck to the side, and watch him. “I admit, I thought agreeing to come up here for more had the potential to lead to that, but, you got me all worked up and now you’re changing the game on me.”
“You’re from L. A.”
The direction of this conversation makes me pause, but then I play along. “I’m from Texas.”
He narrows his eyes. “No, you’re not.”
“I was once.”
“But not now.”
“No, not now. You know this about me already since you saw my license.”
The legs of his chair squeal in revolt as he pulls it forward to lean his elbows on the table, staring at me in analysis. “I don’t want to learn about you from a license. I want you to tell me. Where are you from, Holliday Hughes?”
“Why do you need to hear me say something you already know?”
“I want to get to know you from you, the real you.”
“Next time, just ask the first time.” I look away. When I turn back, I say, “Los Angeles.”
He chuckles as if he knew I’d give in and tell him. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
“A little painful, but no, not hard at all,” I emphasize the hard in memory of a few minutes earlier. “How about you? Where are you from, Jack Dalton?”
“You don’t know?”
“How would I know?” I touch his shoulder, lifting up his sleeve enough to get a better look at his flag tattoo. “This flag might be a clue,” I say, shrugging. “But maybe you just lost the love of your life in the great state of Texas.”
“You know, not every tattoo has to be about a girl or lost love.”
“So you’re claiming they’re not?”
“No, not the love of my life, but I lost myself along the way.”
“You’ve got a dark side that creeps out every now and then. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Creeps? Ha! I’ve got a dark side that slaughters hopes and dreams on a daily basis.”
I should be concerned, but for some reason I trust him. “Slaughter is a strong word. What did you once dream of that you’re not doing now?”
Getting up from the chair abruptly, he walks to the railing, standing with his back to me. The action feels intentional and hurts a bit. Braving the possible rejection, I join him, covering his hand with mine, but keep my gaze averted to our surroundings. I’d love to read verse upon verse of what makes this man so intriguing, but I fight that instinct and stay silent, letting him answer when he’s ready.
He doesn’t disappoint, his vulnerability drawing me in once again when he says, “I once dreamed of being a professional ball player.”
This is such an unexpected response that he catches me off guard. An innocent dream revealed in the middle of Sin City.