Page 11 of Torn
Of course, a moment like that doesn’t last forever. A group of college-age guys, half in the bag, passed between us, breaking the electricity of our stares and somehow managing to unmute the world with their raucous laughter and crude insults thrown casually at each other.
We smiled. He made a little gesture to motion me over.
He didn’t have to signal twice. I hurried across the cobblestone street to stand before him. The same electric tingle I’d gotten in the past when I’d been up close to a celebrity washed over me. Not that he was a celebrity. Well, he could have been, but what I’m trying to get at was that being near him seemed a little unreal. Larger than life.
“Hi,” I said shyly, cursing myself inwardly for not being wittier, more in command of my opening lines. Suddenly shy, I stared down at my sneakers.
I didn’t know why. Usually, I was quite bold when on the hunt, but being with this man made me feel I was with a character from one of my favorite books who had magically sprung to life. Abashed, I looked up at him (he had a good two inches on me, and I was already wondering when I could get some of his other inches in me) and noticed how pale brown his eyes were, with the tiniest flecks of yellow in them. And his lashes! Almost too long to be considered masculine, but he was every bit male.
“Hey there,” he responded. “How areyoudoing?”
“You’re American!” I gasped. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve come all this way to meet an American? Come on!” I laughed.
He smiled. “Just your rotten luck, huh? Worse, I’m a New Englander, by way of California.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine a more hideous hybrid.”
I felt bad. “No, no! I didn’t mean I was disappointed. I just expected to end up tonight in the arms of an Irishman, or a young Tom Jones lookalike from Wales.”Or a German with a big uncut kielbasa.
“Who said anything about ending up in my arms?” He took a shocked step back. “Presumptuous. That’s what you are.”
Heat rushed to my face. There was no way out of this gracefully, so I plowed onward. “Well, did I imagine the look you gave me from across the street?” I snickered a bit, or maybe it was more like a high-pitched and embarrassing titter. I wassonervous. “Or from your car?”
Now it was his turn to blush. He pointed at me. “Thatwasyou! In the street. The most gorgeous man in all of Brighton.”
“Well, at least in the top ten, right?” I said weakly.
“No, number one.” His smile was kind. “Definitely at the top.”
“Or the bottom,” I said, with a little Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle.
We grew silent. I suspect we were both anxious, both feeling a little foolish. And both, I hoped, amazingly turned on.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. With a horrible British accent, he asked, “Fancy a pint, mate?”
I noticed for the first time that we were standing in front of a Tudor-looking pub that appeared to be about a thousand years old, all rotting wood and dark stained glass. Now that he mentioned it, the smell of hops and cigarette smoke drifted out, borne on the current of a woman in a red dress exiting the bar, er, pub. I looked up at the swinging sign above our heads. The place was called the Spotted Dick.
“Spotted Dick? That’s not something I’m going to catch from you, is it?”
He chuckled. “Not if we use a condom.” He shook his head. “No, in these parts, a spotted dick is a custard, a sweet, a pudding, if you will.”
“Well,” I drew out the word. “I generally avoid dicks that are spotted, but I’ll make an exception in your case, since you’re so damn cute.”
“And American?”
“I’ll try not to hold that against you.”
“What will you hold against me?”
“Oh Lord, is this going to turn into one of those ‘if I told you you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me’ moments? Please say no.”
“I’m not that corny. So, do you want to get a beer?”
I stepped away from him and swung open the heavy dark-wood door. Inside, I eyed the crowd, which consisted of a lot of bearded, middle-aged men at the bar with a rowdy group of college-age guys playing darts behind them. I had a feeling this wasn’t a gay club. I stepped back out. “Do you think we could have that beer outside? That doesn’t really look like our kind of place.”
“Our kind of place? Whatever do you mean?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just see if you can get a couple pints to bring outside. That is, if it’s not against the law. If they say no, they say no. We can certainly find another place.” I groped in my pocket for a few pound notes.
He wagged a finger at me. “Put your money away. It’s on me.”
