Isha unscripted, p.9
Isha, Unscripted, page 9
Thirst-Trap simultaneously dropped a rag onto the counter and tossed a towel to me.
I was practically delivering some naughty bits for these strangers as I patted down my breasts in public, and please lord, do not let my cousin see this from his side-eye view. Thank goodness he was too busy trying to soak up the spill with the rag instead of noticing my indecency.
Thirst-Trap clenched his jaw and snapped his fingers in front of two guys who were leaning so far over that they might as well have been lying down on the counter. “Hey, now. Don’t stare,” he told them.
My arms automatically went to cover my chest over the towel, but c’mon. What the hell, men? Could they not gawk? They were just breasts, people.
“Oh my gosh!” I spat.
“You can use the restroom in my office,” Thirst-Trap offered.
“Thanks,” I said.
He told the other bartenders, “I’ll be right back.”
He immediately walked around the bar counter, pulled back the waist-high door, and escorted me away. He jerked his chin toward the hall. “Follow me, it’s a long hallway with several doors.”
I squinted with Olympic-level rapid blinking to prevent the contacts from going any further to the backs of my eyeballs, and blindly reached out.
“Sorry,” he said, and gently took my wrist, his fingers soft but on the hotter side of warm. “Is that okay?” he asked. He was closer to me than I’d expected, the sides of our hips practically touching.
I nodded, unsure if looking down would slow the contacts’ migration to my brain or encourage them to fall out. I followed him closely, relishing his touch as sort of an anchor.
Thirst-Trap led me down the long corridor. I ended up gripping his wrist over my wrist. After the inevitable trip or two, I grabbed past his wrist to his forearm, as wide and muscular as it’d looked, and walked closer as he slowed his pace. I was practically hugging his arm to my wet shirt. He might’ve accidentally gotten some forearm porn to side-boob action.
We walked past the restrooms on the left, with a trail of people lining up all the way out the door. I could see that much. We passed the double doors of a bustling kitchen and storage to the right and headed around a corner, where the noise suddenly leveled. We were in the back of the establishment.
“You’re not going to kill me back here, are you?” I joked.
“That’s morbid,” he said. “I would never. It’s perfectly safe, but if you feel unsafe . . .”
“Oh. I was kidding. But good to know I can bail whenever I want.”
He led me into an office as large as my bedroom, crowded with a desk, several chairs, bookcases, filing cabinets, and boxes of what might have been alcohol.
There was another room kitty-corner to his, perhaps the owner’s or bookkeeper’s.
The thrum from the music died off this far from the main area, and even more so when he closed the door just short of actually closing it. Or so I assumed since there wasn’t a click. I couldn’t really see that far.
“The restroom is over there. Take your time. No one should be coming back here,” he told me.
“Thanks!” I whipped around to the only other door in the room and hurried into a one-toilet restroom that was much nicer than the main one in the hallway and large enough to add a standing shower.
I closed the door behind me and hung my purse on the hook behind the door, the towel over that, and deftly washed my hands, muttering, “Please stay. Oh god, please stay in place!”
As soon as my hands were dry enough, I went to town squeezing and pinching my eyeball, my fingers suddenly belonging to a giant.
I tilted my head back even further and lowered my gaze as the clear silicone discs slowly made their way up.
Ugh! Damn my slightly flattened eye curvature!
While I worked my hardest on my right contact, the left one skittered higher and higher.
My arms were getting tired and sore. How pathetic. The odd angle with my elbow in the air and the careful but pressurized pinch . . .
After seven attempts . . .
Success! Both contacts were out! They had actually suctioned to my eyes and no one was going to convince me that these things didn’t do that.
With a deep breath, I examined them only to find tears. Ruined. I flicked those little torture devices into the trash.
After I washed my hands, adjusting to the blur and squinting, I grabbed the towel and patted my blouse, but the dampness had spread.
Pulling on a wet top unfortunately led to what could only be described as a midbelly, stiff-peaked bullet bra, like arrow-tipped nipples looming over my stomach.
I dropped my head back. I couldn’t approach my former professor like this.
The towel wasn’t getting my blouse dry enough. Looking around, my blurred gaze landed on a hand dryer on the wall. I twisted my upper body and bent and contorted in an effort to position my chest beneath the dryer. A severe ache sprinted down my back. The dryer was too low to get my wet shirt under it without breaking my spine.
I grumbled and quickly removed my blouse, smoothed it out as much as possible, and held it under the dryer.
A clank sounded, maybe from accidentally hitting my wrist against the metal tube where the hot air came out. Or was that a knock muffled by the sound of the dryer?
Just as the dryer revved back up, Thirst-Trap slowly opened the door and peered in, which I must’ve forgotten to lock, because of course.
“Did you salvage your contacts?” he asked as his eyes went wide.
He immediately froze. We each blankly stared at the other for a good five seconds before I yelped, realizing like a slap to the face that I stood in front of a stranger without a top on. Just hanging out in my bra for him to get a sneak peek.
I turned from him, fumbling to keep my shirt under the dryer while clutching the towel to my chest, my bare back now exposed to him. My natural inclination pulled my shoulders forward to curl in on myself, which probably made me look like a hunchback from behind.
Ah. Screw it.
If a stranger was going to get this glorious view of my near-naked backside, he might as well get it in all its splendid Isha glory. I straightened my spine as I turned another inch from him, pushed back my shoulders, and arched so that hopefully the curve of my back tapered to my waist and had my butt looking perky and round.
He called out, “I am so sorry!” and closed the door behind him. My purse bounced off the back of the door. “I thought you were just changing your contacts!”
I shook my head and returned to drying my blouse, flustered now more than ever. It took at least another five minutes before my shirt was dry enough, but there was no way the bullet bra effect was going down. This fabric was horrid. Wrinkled and pointed “nipples” did not make me look professional in any way, and the look was definitely unworthy of Matthew McConaughey.
Thirst-Trap knocked again, this time much harder so there was no doubt he was at the door.
“Are you all right?” he asked from the other side of the door.
“Yes!” I called back, unsure if he could hear me above the dryer. “I got the contacts out in time, but they tore. And then I remembered that my blouse was wet! I can’t walk around like that!”
He didn’t respond. Had he heard anything I’d said?
So I yelled out, adding, “Like I’m in some wet T-shirt contest!” into the deafening silence right as the dryer quieted. My cheeks flushed hotter than ever. Oh my lord.
There was another knock on the door before it slowly opened a few inches. A hand came through the slit holding a folded burnt-orange shirt.
“You can wear this,” he offered, his face and body hidden.
I clutched my blouse to my chest over the towel and took the shirt. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied as he closed the door.
There was no point in trying to laboriously dry my clothes in a bar restroom any longer. Even if it fully dried, there was no way to smooth out the distortions. No amount of waist hugging or arm crossing would deter stares or keep my former professor from questioning my professionalism.
I put on the shirt. It was a medium, so the fit wasn’t too big or too tight. The shirt was a pretty decent fit considering it was bar merchandise. The color matched UT’s school colors, which was one of the reasons I’d chosen the white top to begin with. It had the burnt-orange-and-bronze shimmer. The T-shirt ended just below the crotch to hide any inconvenient camel toe. There was at least that. It was wrinkle-free and looked brand-new, good quality, and aligned with the pub’s more laid-back scene.
A triple search through my purse failed to find my glasses. Had I packed them? Had they fallen out somewhere? At least I had Rohan to guide me around.
I sighed as I gripped the doorknob. Well, I had to face Thirst-Trap sooner or later, no matter the awkwardness. Eh. Let’s be real. He’d probably seen many bra-covered chests.
I opened the door, stepping back into the office fully clothed. The door to the hallway was cracked open a hair. Privacy but not trapped.
As my eyesight adjusted to blurred vision, the bartender in the middle of the room came into view clear enough to notice his flushed cheeks. He scratched the back of his head and left his hand there for a moment, clinging to his neck, his back to the desk.
“Thanks for the shirt. I’ll . . . return it.”
He shook his head. “No need. You can keep it.”
I glanced down at the logo. “How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. On the house.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Seriously. No worries. Keep it. It’s good promotion for me if you wear it around town, anyway,” he insisted. The flush from his cheeks faded as he pushed off from the desk and walked toward me, stopping about a foot away. He lifted his hand and brushed a few stray hairs from my face.
“Wouldn’t want to mess up your hair in all that changing,” he said.
Were we . . . having a moment?
What was I supposed to say or do? Thank him? Apologize for taking up his work time? Inquire about his crotch again?
No. No. Definitely stay away from his crotch.
He took a step back and opened the door. “After you,” he said, lifting his hand toward the hall.
The noise of the bar spilled over us, taking us from normalcy and quiet to hectic in a matter of steps. One long hallway and a corner made a vast difference in sound levels.
I returned to the barstool beside Rohan, who had guarded my seat, while Thirst-Trap eased behind the counter and went back to work.
Rohan’s playful expression took over when he saw me. “Did you get your contacts out or did they wander into your skull?”
I shivered. “I got them out, but barely in time. They have tears, so I’m not wearing them and can’t see everything.”
“No worries. I got you. You changed your shirt?”
“The bartender gave it to me. My blouse is not suitable to wear.” I held up the damp shirt before folding it into the smallest square possible to stuff into a side pocket in my purse.
I slouched. “What now? Where is your man of the hour?”
“Why? Are you ready to bail?”
“I can hardly see anything, even worse paired with my night blindness. My shirt is subpar—no offense,” I told Thirst-Trap, who happened to be nearby mixing a drink. He shrugged it off.
“So what if you can’t see?” Rohan asked, sipping his drink. “I’ll guide you over to him. You can see better up close. You might be less freaked out if you can’t see his expressions as clearly, anyway. And you’re probably wearing his favorite color from his favorite college.”
“Do you think he’s still coming? It’s been a while.”
He swiped across his phone. “Seth said he almost always comes when his grandparents say he’s stopping by. My sources are usually right. Seth is one of the reasons I end up bumping into celebrities so often.”
“I hope this guy is legit. But at least things can’t get worse, right?”
This had definitely been the worst two days of my life, and I seriously questioned if I could handle anything else going wrong.
What else could the universe put me through? It couldn’t possibly hate me this much. And no offense, karma, but I was getting ready to sharpen my nails if you thought I needed another bad day.
Chapter 9
He’s not coming, is he?” I asked about one hour, two cocktails, and three shots later.
Everything tasted like Thirst-Trap had mixed candy and desserts in a blender and I greedily siphoned it down my gullet hole.
“I don’t know. He was supposed to be here,” Rohan replied, deflated, and slowly sipped his way through a soda, his shoulders hunched over. Disappointment crested his features. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Seth letting him down or because he thought he was letting me down.
I went to touch his shoulder but ended up touching his eyeball. He flinched. “Bro, why are you moving slow-motion?”
He pulled my hand down. “Okay, you’re past your limit, bro.”
I slowly blinked and watched him. He could sit around forever and wouldn’t mind one bit, like his superpower was being laid-back. But right now, he fidgeted with his phone and then looked around for Seth. I’d hardly ever seen Rohan on edge.
“It’s okay,” I mumbled, smacking my lips and opening my eyes wide. There wasn’t enough light. Why were these places always so dark?
We’d moved to a small booth in the corner where we were tucked away but able to stare down the front door. I started sliding, slumping further and further into the seat, beneath the shadows of the low lights overhead until I was halfway under the table. I pushed a fork around soggy salad remains, mainly strings of cucumber, and struggled to sit up straight. My body, just like, weighed three hundred more pounds. I wondered if this was what it felt like to walk on Mars . . . or whichever planet had denser gravity. Or did they not have gravity? Did different planets have different gravities? Gravitas? Yeah, gravitas sounded like the right word. I was so smart.
I went to tell Rohan my take on gravitas and gravitons but instead eyed his nachos, the few lonely chips left doused in congealed cheese and jalapeños. I couldn’t remember why I wasn’t supposed to eat, but my stomach gurgled. I snatched a chip when he wasn’t looking, thinking I could be stealthy, but smashed the cheese end against the corner of my mouth. Ugh! Almost there!
He glanced at me and up went that eyebrow.
The plastic leather seat squeaked every time I shifted, which was a lot, trying to get comfy. Maybe if I just laid down? I scratched my hair, feeling ants crawling down the back of my neck. I shivered and finally leaned an elbow on the table to keep myself upright, my chin on my fist, slurping my drink out of a straw like a five-year-old drinking juice. It was time to adjust my path, get on board with my parents, or something of that sort. Time to apply to the IRS before my mom ripped me a new one.
“We can go,” I suggested, and yawned.
“No. He’s coming,” Rohan insisted. “We’re doing this tonight, and you’re going to wow him, and he’s going to sign on to the movie deal right here. And your parents are going to back off and see your glory instead of forcing you into a corner.”
I tilted my head to the side and admired his naivety, or was it optimism? Ah, it was so cute how hard he believed. Even if this wasn’t how things worked.
“This drink lost its flavor.”
“That’s because it’s water,” Rohan said, and eyed my glass. “On second thought, maybe we should call it a night.”
Thirst-Trap appeared from the foggy blob of moving bodies to my left and asked, “You guys want anything else?”
“Nah,” Rohan said, then looked to me.
I shrugged. I shouldn’t have more, not unless I wanted a repeat of last night, but the fight was quickly fading as was the will to stay sober—pfft!
“Sober?” I cackled.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Rohan asked.
“Oh! No one. Um, no more. Thanks.”
“Let me go find Seth and ask him if he’s heard anything before we leave. Be right back,” Rohan announced, and slid out of the booth.
I watched his back as he disappeared into the blurred throngs to find Seth. More and more people were coming in, letting all the air out. More and more were getting tipsy, loud. And I was halfway to being drunk myself.
Hmm. Were any of these people drinking away, partying off their issues, too? Ya betcha. I couldn’t be the only one drowning in my head. Or . . . I guess technically no one else was in my head, either. Or were they?
Thirst-Trap slid into the chair across from me, clasping his fingers together on the table and leaning forward. Did he just freeze?
I poked his knuckle. “Keeping his spot warm? He hates sitting in warm chairs knowing someone else’s butt was just in it.”
He cracked a smile, the light gleaming on those sharp teeth that were suddenly a lot sharper and longer than I’d remembered, which now had me putting two and two together. He worked nights and had sharp teeth and was deadly attractive. Ah! It was so obvious! Thirst-Trap was a vampire.
Hmm . . . I wondered what it would be like to get bit.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want anything else to drink? By drink, I mean soda, water, coffee. I make a mean raspberry Italian soda.”
My lips slowly curled into a smile. “You’re too good at your job. No wonder this place is packed and everyone has a drink in their hand,” I said, my tongue turning heavy and on the verge of slurring, my eyesight getting a wee bit drowsy.
