Chapter 11 Cass

Cigarette smoke clouded my vision, melding with the intermittent flashes of lights from the dance floor. I inhaled, savoring the familiar burn. Faintly, marijuana tinged the scent, striking an excitement in me that was pure Pavlovian. Whiskey had settled on my tongue, but the sight of half-consumed cups of beer all around me reminded me the night was just getting started. I would switch over in a couple of hours. For now, the aim of the game was to get drunk. Fast.

Next to me, on the adjacent rickety stool, was a guy named Craig (possibly also named Ray or Liam). Didn't matter to me. He bought me a shot and he was telling me all about how Brooklyn had changed. I didn't tell him we were both too young to have any salient memories of the place—that he was born after the gentrification started. Nothing shut down a likely hookup like the mention of gentrification—I knew this from experience.

It was a normal Friday night at Shelf Atlas, the rowdy, young nightclub where I tended bar six years ago. It was right after I dropped out of Columbia Law and desperately needed the money. I saw a sharpie notice that read, "BARTENDERS WANTED" taped to the window and I walked in with a padfolio and a skirt suit—like the imbecile I was. The owners, brothers named Matt and Hank, laughed right in my face. But when I remained unfazed and undaunted by their laughter, they gave me a chance.

Back then, my ex-boyfriend Trevor and I had a place around the corner. We basically lived at Shelf Atlas, spending our days and nights dancing and drinking into oblivion. Six years later, it was still unpretentious, loud, dark, and it attracted the kind of people I wanted to see when I had no more fucks to give.

I probably should have been mildly concerned that the rotation of bouncers still knew my name and the bartenders—none of whom I worked with six years ago—recognized me and gave me my usual drink without exchanging a word. I also probably should have been slightly concerned that within a fifteen-foot radius, I'd slept with three of the guys there. But whenever possible, I chose to be unbothered. It was easier that way—not to mention a hell of a lot more fun.

Craig was a sure thing. I could already tell. He clearly hadn't heard a word I'd said all night and his attention continued to dip down to my legs. His eyes lit up with outright hunger, taking in my body. That was fine. That was ideal, even. I wore a skirt this short with every intention of mesmerizing a guy like Craig.

Tattoo sleeves. An eyebrow piercing. A cigarette tucked behind his ear. Yes—he would do nicely. I leaned closer to him, stopping him mid-word as he talked about…I wanted to say, trains?

"So, do you ride them a lot?" I asked, letting my hand rest on his knee over the hole in his dark jeans.

He glanced down at my hand and then back up at me, licking his lips once before he said, "What do you mean?"

"Trains," I said. "Do you ride them?"

Craig lifted his pierced eyebrow. "Oh, no not trains . I'm saying trainers. Like, sneakers."

I hesitated. Was this guy British?

"Oh, trainers," I repeated, nodding. "Sorry, I totally misheard you."

"No problem," he assured me. "It's loud. Should we get out of here?"

Now that I was listening for an accent, I was alarmed to find he really was British. Yikes . Somehow, I was so freaking horny and so ready to jump his bones, I didn't even realize he was from a different continent . That was a new low—probably much worse than me never knowing these guys' names. I probably should have been more concerned. But then again…meh.

"Let's stay a little longer," I replied, taking a pull of my whiskey and coke through the flimsy red cocktail straws. "Tell me more about trainers."

Smiling, Craig started telling me about how he would buy trainers and resell them at a higher price, in some sort of dull sneaker arbitrage. Shamelessly, I nodded and smiled at him, hoping I could appear interested while I waited for the liquor to really hit me. According to Craig, he could wait in line and buy a new pair of sneakers, and then sell them on eBay for a four hundred percent markup. And according to Craig, now that he had a reputation for this, it was really just a matter of time before he was bringing in millions every year.

I hated this part. Inevitably, when I met a guy at a bar, he would assume he needed to give me his net worth and earning potential to get me to sleep with him. I didn't know why this happened—it was like the fuckboys of America got together and all concluded this was something women wanted. In reality: I didn't care. At all. There was truly nothing less sexy to me than a guy who pretended to have more money than he actually did.

In Craig's case, this little spiel might have worked on a lot of women. The sneaker game wasn't exactly mainstream, so I imagined most women couldn't call his bluff. I would have been the first to admit I didn't know much about sneakers, but I could still work the logic out in my head based on my understanding of basic economics.

It went like this: Craig seemed to think he could buy any new pair of sneakers and flip it on a four hundred percent markup. For the sake of ease, I just pretended a pair of sneakers cost a thousand dollars—which I knew was way off, but I needed a baseline. At a thousand dollars a pop, a four hundred percent markup was five thousand dollars, or a net profit of four thousand dollars. However, online retailers like eBay always took a small cut, so I reasoned his profit was closer to three thousand five hundred. But when it came to making real money—‘fuck you,' money—three thousand five hundred dollars per transaction wasn't going to cut it. Craig was going to have to scale up his operation, which would require capital. The only access to capital he had was the profit from the previous sale. So at any given time, he was never really holding much liquid cash; most of his earnings were in inventory assets. And based on all this information, in order to turn a million a year, he was going to have to sell two hundred and eighty-six sneakers. That didn't sound like much—but did in fact become impossible when he had to spend at least fifteen hours at a time just waiting in line for sneakers. Fifteen hours times two hundred and eight-six sneakers was over four thousand hours of waiting—or around one hundred and seventy-eight straight days of just standing there on a New York sidewalk.

I ran these numbers in about two minutes flat, all while Craig was telling me about a new pair of Jordans he was going to wait in line for next week. It was moments like these when I wished mental math weren't so easy for me. Now I had nothing to do but stare at him— through him, really—while he went on and on about these sneakers.

I was just about to stop him mid-sentence and take him up on his offer to get out of here, buzzed or not, when something—someone—caught my eye.

On the other side of the club, I saw a head above the crowd. He was elbowing through moving bodies, tall and controlled—almost graceful. He was wearing a black t-shirt that gently hugged his chest and accentuated the muscles in his arms. At first I did a double take because this guy was standout handsome: regal and clean-shaven with a jawline for days. He didn't look like the other men who came to Shelf Atlas. No, this guy was pure composure—almost pretty. There wasn't a tattoo in sight on his skin and all it would take was a little hair gel to make him look like a Wall Street trader. From a distance, I got a brief look at his eyes: pale green and bright. They caught the flashing club lights as he smiled. The room faded away; it was only him.

I marveled at him for at least thirty seconds before recognition took over. It dawned on me slowly, challenging the effects of the liquor I had consumed. His piercing eyes and shapely jaw began to register. Reality mingled with fantasy. This wasn't just a remarkably handsome stranger, so clean and put together that he was almost out of place. No, I knew this man. I knew him well.

"Marcus?" I blurted out softly, unable to keep it in.

It took me another beat to accept this was really happening: I was at my favorite bar in the world and the vindictive tech founder who tried to get me fired had shown up out of the blue. It couldn't be a coincidence. He had to be here for me. There was no reason why he would just magically appear here, of all nights, if not for me…right?

On the dancefloor, Marcus ran a hand through his thick brown hair. He pushed it away from his face where his forehead glimmered with a faint sheen of sweat. He was dancing; he was smiling—both things I never thought the Polo-shirt-wearing, patron of punctuality would ever do. Yet there he was: living in the moment—having fun , for once. Another clubgoer accidentally collided with him, spilling beer on his t-shirt. Instead of grimacing, Marcus just laughed. The other guy tried to apologize, but I saw him shaking his head and gesturing at the spill, assuring him that it was fine.

After a few seconds, the other guy leaned towards Marcus and whispered something in his ear. I saw Marcus nodding, saying something back I couldn't decipher. A moment later, the guy passed Marcus a joint—and to my surprise, he accepted it.

I watched as Marcus brought the joint to his lips and took a drag from it, the tip illuminating as he drew in the smoke. He took a decent—dare I say practiced hit. When he was done, he handed the joint back to the other guy. Then he held his breath, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before he blew it out over the crowd.

"What the fuck is he doing here…" I murmured.

"Who?"

I had forgotten Craig was there, but I turned back to face him and found that he was staring at me with his brow furrowed. "Sorry," I muttered. "I just saw someone I know."

"A friend?"

"Not really," I replied, although I didn't clarify that Marcus was more of an enemy at this point. I nodded towards the dancefloor, where Marcus was still caught up in the thick of the crowd—with a new addition. There was a woman hanging off his neck, grinding on him now. He made no move to stop her. As the bodies around him shifted, I caught a sporadic glance at his hands. He gripped her ass over her short, tight skirt. She clearly loved that; she tossed her head back and beamed at him, grinning like she was about to win the one-night-stand lottery.

"Which one are we looking at? The tall guy who's clearly about to get lucky?" Craig asked. "Cheers to him."

"I guess," I murmured, eyes still on Marcus. I watched as he dragged his hands along the woman's body, traveling the curve of her ass up to her small waist. He wasn't shy about touching her—at all. On the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying the way her body responded to his touch. He rubbed her back and she pressed herself even closer to him, bringing her nose up so it nuzzled against Marcus's.

It took me a moment to realize I was biting my lower lip. When I came to my senses, I quickly released it and respired out—wondering when it got so freaking hot in here.

"That's quite a show," Craig muttered, glancing back at me once before he looked at Marcus again. "Can't remember the last time I danced like that."

"We can dance if you want," I offered. Suddenly, that seemed like the most brilliant idea I'd had all night. Suddenly, all I wanted was Craig to put his hands all over me—to touch me shamelessly in public with no concern whatsoever for who was watching us.

"I'm not much of a dancer," he admitted, oblivious to the sound of my heart breaking at his response.

I took one last look at Marcus, who was leaning down and whispering into his dance partner's ear. She was laughing and nodding, one hand curled around his bicep. I couldn't help but wonder what he was saying to her—if he was inviting her back to his place or asking her to go to another bar with him.

And slowly, with painstaking clarity, I realized my suspicions were wrong: Marcus obviously didn't come here for me. His appearance was just another bizarre New York coincidence, and I had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing it.

I didn't know why that disappointed me so much.

Forcing myself to tear my eyes away from Marcus, I turned back towards the bar. Craig did the same and motioned for the bartender to get us another round.

That was perfect. That was exactly what I wanted: more liquor to help make this night just a little fuzzier. If I screwed these guys sober, the details stayed too clean. Then I had to replay them. No, I wanted it hazy. I wanted it blurry. I wanted just a couple moments of it to stay just out of reach.

When our second round of shots arrived, Craig and I tapped them together and shot them back. Whiskey burned its way down my throat, stinging as it went. I chased it with more whiskey and coke. I tried not to grimace, but the taste was cheap and harsh. Breathing out, I focused on the warmth rising in my stomach and the gradual onset of drunkenness.

With his eyes fixed shamelessly on my chest, Craig leaned close to me. "How are you feeling?"

"So good."

"Yeah?"

I was nodding, sinking into delicious inebriation. "You?"

"Good. I'm thinking we take another shot and then make our next move. What do you think?"

"I have a better idea," I countered silkily, returning my hand to Craig's knee. His skin was hot below my hand, tensing as I touched him.

He wet his lips again as he leaned even closer to me, leaving only a couple of inches between our noses. I smelled whiskey and cigarettes clearly now, promising me the kind of night I came here for. His own hand came to rest on my thigh, stroking my bare skin. The touch made me shiver, sending waves of alert to the rest of my body: We're screwing tonight. Stand by.

His touch was tentative though, almost not enough. I wanted his full hands on me—palms and fingertips—maybe even fingernails. I wanted him to explore me from one end to the other—to really stake his claim over me. I wanted his hands to be possessive and unyielding. Bold. Filthy.

Hell, I wanted him to touch me like Marcus was touching that woman on the dancefloor.

The thought entered my psyche and it clearly had no intention of leaving. It made itself at home, opening up my fridge and eating my leftovers without asking. It was a harsh reminder of the pitfalls of my infallible, Funes-memory: I couldn't just ignore what I saw—even if it was the inexplicably sexy sight of my enemy touching another woman.

I rested my hand on Craig's, flattening it against my thigh. More. I need more. "Actually, why don't we skip all that…and you take me back to your place?"

The elation practically radiated off him. Craig lifted both eyebrows and that was all the response I needed to know this was going to go down. "Let me close my tab."

He turned to the bartender, waiting for a moment to grab his attention. I took the opportunity to text a message to Bethany, letting her know I wouldn't be coming home until the early hours of the morning.

Once his tab was closed, Craig turned back to face me and he wiggled both eyebrows again. "Do you want to call us a ride, or do you want to walk?" he asked.

I forced a laugh, mostly because I didn't know what else to do with my face now that this guy had all but admitted we were walking back to his apartment or I was ponying up for the Uber—and those were the only two options.

God, I knew how to pick them.

And the sad thing was, I was about to volunteer to pay for the Uber when someone said, "Hey."

I froze, stopping what I was doing when I heard that voice. It collided into me. It made my heart flip upside down. I knew that voice. I spent all day with that voice—that insufferable, condescending, vindictive voice. I couldn't believe how happy I was—for once—to hear that voice.

He came here for me. And I was going to have so much fun with him.