Read Online Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement by Kyra Davis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kyra Davis
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reminds me of blood, and passion and rubies.
He opens the door for me and I see we’ve arrived at a neighborhood speakeasy. The bar is small, the furniture is composed of sofas and soft chairs, things that would be perfectly at home in a private living room. There are no more than ten people here but a woman stands at a mic, singing something mournful and beguiling. Next to her a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden tan plays the double bass.
Behind the bar is a woman with long red hair, almost as red as the words on the door. She smiles when she sees Robert but her smile gets a little brighter when her eyes land on me.
“Mr. Dade,” she says as we approach, “it’s been some time.”
“Hey, Genevieve. One of your famous margaritas for my friend here,” he says as he gestures for me to sit on one of the bar stools.
“I don’t drink tequila,” I say as I pull myself onto a seat.
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose control?” he asks. The question is gently teasing and I don’t bother to answer or put up further protest.
In a moment I have a margarita on the rocks; a thin layer of salt adorns the rim of the glass. I feel the eyes of the room. When I glance at a man at a corner table he looks away quickly, the woman at the other end of the room keeps her head down as she studies her drink with an intensity that suggests she’s actively avoiding some other vision. There are little conversations around the room, drinks are raised and lowered, and yet somehow, in a million different little ways, everyone seems tuned in to us, as if they, too, feel the gravitational pull of the moon, as if they sense the rising tide.
“She’s good,” Robert says, gesturing to the singer. Her hair is black and falls just past her shoulders; her eyes are closed as she sings about the cruelty of love. She reminds me of Asha.
“She is,” Genevieve says but her eyes stay on me. She puts her finger against the glass in my hand. There’s an intimacy there, touching the same glass without touching each other. “Take it slow,” she says coyly. “I have a feeling there will be more.”
The singer finishes her song. Robert nods at our bartender who reaches above her head and rings a large, rusty bell that jars the patrons from their conversations and alcoholic musings. “Last call,” she cries.
It’s nowhere near two and there’s some grumbling among the patrons, but no one complains too loudly, accepting this odd twist of fate as the norm rather than an unexpected offense. A few order another drink while they still can but most just get up and leave. The singer and bass player take a seat. Neither packs up. I sip my drink as more and more people file out. “Is this your bar?” I ask Genevieve.
She laughs lightly and pours a drink for herself. “No,” she says lightly. “It’s his.”
I turn to Robert, who smiles secretly. “It’s my bar,” he agrees. “I set the rules.”
And then we’re alone. The patrons are gone. It’s just me, the musicians, Genevieve, and . . . him.
“I bet you were a good girl in college,” Genevieve says lightly as the singer steps up to the microphone again. The song is a little grittier this time, the deep echoing notes of the double bass set the mood. “I bet you never once went to a rave, danced on the bar, made out in public . . . I bet you never even did a body shot.”
I shake my head. “I was busy studying. I had goals.”
Genevieve’s smile broadens. “Don’t we all.” My drink sits half empty on the bar and she slowly drags it away, out of my reach. “Let me show you how to do a body shot.”
The singer raises her voice as the song builds. I send a sharp look at Robert but his eyes are on Genevieve. He’s watching her closely, attentively, and I realize that, without saying a word, he’s somehow directing this. He’s taking me away from the familiar, introducing me to the thrill of unease.
Genevieve places a shot of tequila on the bar before she
He opens the door for me and I see we’ve arrived at a neighborhood speakeasy. The bar is small, the furniture is composed of sofas and soft chairs, things that would be perfectly at home in a private living room. There are no more than ten people here but a woman stands at a mic, singing something mournful and beguiling. Next to her a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden tan plays the double bass.
Behind the bar is a woman with long red hair, almost as red as the words on the door. She smiles when she sees Robert but her smile gets a little brighter when her eyes land on me.
“Mr. Dade,” she says as we approach, “it’s been some time.”
“Hey, Genevieve. One of your famous margaritas for my friend here,” he says as he gestures for me to sit on one of the bar stools.
“I don’t drink tequila,” I say as I pull myself onto a seat.
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose control?” he asks. The question is gently teasing and I don’t bother to answer or put up further protest.
In a moment I have a margarita on the rocks; a thin layer of salt adorns the rim of the glass. I feel the eyes of the room. When I glance at a man at a corner table he looks away quickly, the woman at the other end of the room keeps her head down as she studies her drink with an intensity that suggests she’s actively avoiding some other vision. There are little conversations around the room, drinks are raised and lowered, and yet somehow, in a million different little ways, everyone seems tuned in to us, as if they, too, feel the gravitational pull of the moon, as if they sense the rising tide.
“She’s good,” Robert says, gesturing to the singer. Her hair is black and falls just past her shoulders; her eyes are closed as she sings about the cruelty of love. She reminds me of Asha.
“She is,” Genevieve says but her eyes stay on me. She puts her finger against the glass in my hand. There’s an intimacy there, touching the same glass without touching each other. “Take it slow,” she says coyly. “I have a feeling there will be more.”
The singer finishes her song. Robert nods at our bartender who reaches above her head and rings a large, rusty bell that jars the patrons from their conversations and alcoholic musings. “Last call,” she cries.
It’s nowhere near two and there’s some grumbling among the patrons, but no one complains too loudly, accepting this odd twist of fate as the norm rather than an unexpected offense. A few order another drink while they still can but most just get up and leave. The singer and bass player take a seat. Neither packs up. I sip my drink as more and more people file out. “Is this your bar?” I ask Genevieve.
She laughs lightly and pours a drink for herself. “No,” she says lightly. “It’s his.”
I turn to Robert, who smiles secretly. “It’s my bar,” he agrees. “I set the rules.”
And then we’re alone. The patrons are gone. It’s just me, the musicians, Genevieve, and . . . him.
“I bet you were a good girl in college,” Genevieve says lightly as the singer steps up to the microphone again. The song is a little grittier this time, the deep echoing notes of the double bass set the mood. “I bet you never once went to a rave, danced on the bar, made out in public . . . I bet you never even did a body shot.”
I shake my head. “I was busy studying. I had goals.”
Genevieve’s smile broadens. “Don’t we all.” My drink sits half empty on the bar and she slowly drags it away, out of my reach. “Let me show you how to do a body shot.”
The singer raises her voice as the song builds. I send a sharp look at Robert but his eyes are on Genevieve. He’s watching her closely, attentively, and I realize that, without saying a word, he’s somehow directing this. He’s taking me away from the familiar, introducing me to the thrill of unease.
Genevieve places a shot of tequila on the bar before she
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