Page 73 of The Match Faker

Nick keeps one hand on the steering wheel as he eats. We don’t even come close to eating all of the food, but he insists the fries make great leftovers. As we approach the city and after I’ve organized the trash and food into separate bags, I send Jade a quick text.

She sends back a message filled with expletives and exclamation marks, which I do not dignify with a response.

“Nick,” I say quietly, head lowered. “Will you take me to Underground Karaoke tonight?”

“It’s not happening tonight,” he says, pulling his milkshake from the cupholder. “And it wouldn’t start for another few hours anyway.”

Face heating, I swallow back my nerves. Nick is, almost assuredly, a sure thing. Even so, it doesn’t make this request any easier. “Will you take me home anyway?”

He glances between me and the road, brows lowered in confusion. “My home?”

I nod and clasp my hands tightly in my lap. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” he says, releasing a deep, almost relieved breath. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Wait down herefor like five minutes, okay?” he asks, helping me onto a barstool like I’m a sickly Victorian child.

“Why?” I scan the empty space around us.

He winces. “I can’t remember how I left my apartment, honestly.” He makes a face of mock horror, then he collects our bags leaves out the swinging door labeled Employees Only. Under the one overhead light, Moonbar is a bit bleak. Without the cram of people in front of it, the paint on the stage is noticeably peeling. There are scratch marks on the floor from the tables and chairs, and the high-set windows are covered in a faint fog.

But the photos tucked into the frame of the mirror behind the bar give the place life. Nick and Bernie and a third person who is probably Rocco based on Nick’s description of his friend. The man who owns the bar, Ed, in a faded photo that looks like it’s from the early 80s at the latest. The room smells clean, which is a miracle in itself. Every bar I ever worked in always had the lingering scent of spilled alcohol, vomit, or dirty dishrag—or a combination of all three. I haven’t batted down any fruit flies either.

This place is well-loved and well cared for. Nick is, as well.

“Hey,” he says from the doorway.

I hop off the stool and shuffle closer. When I reach him, he takes my bag out of my hand and sets it gently on the floor. Then he pulls me into his arms. He buries his face in my neck, his embrace gentle but strong. His chest expands against mine.

“You’re right,” he says, finally straightening. “You should always wait in the car when we get food. That way you’ll always smell like you.”

I press my nose to his neck, my mouth to his throat. He swallows against my tongue.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You still smell like you.”

With his hand around mine, he leads me up a steep, narrow staircase. Along the walls are posters advertising shows from years ago. Punk bands and all-girl rock groups who have performed at Moonbar. Nineties hip-hop, reggae, country musicians, and house DJs; a few names I recognize, though most I don’t. Nick wasn’t lying about the community here. At this point, I think he could apply for heritage designation for this building and get it easily.

There’s a single door at the top of the stairs that must lead to Nick’s apartment. The landing is just big enough to house a place for boots and a few hooks for coats. Above his door is a sign, one that likely used to sit above the front door of the bar. It readsMOONBARwith images of the moon in all its phases, and below:ALWAYS FULL.

I set my boots beside his on the rubber mat. He takes my jacket and hangs it on an open hook. The door sticks, then groans as he pushes it open. The space is small but bright in comparison to the darkness of the bar beneath. Several skylights across the room, above his bed, filter in soft, natural light. Unlike the deeply stained wood downstairs, his open-plan apartment is awash in birch accents. To the right, tucked into the corner, is his kitchen with a fridge that looks like it could survive a nuclear blast. A pine-scented candle burns on top of a small kitchen table with four retro chairs set up between the kitchen and the bed on the far wall.

He leans against the counter, watching me. His attention feels like too much, causing instinct to take over and urge me to hide.

“Do you have a bathroom?” I ask.

Pressing the heels of his hands against the countertop, he chuckles. “Uh. Yeah.” He looks around the space. “Since like, the eighteen hundreds, I think.”

Though I should be annoyed, I can’t help but smile. “I meant, can I use it? And maybe could I have a shower?”

With a kiss to my temple, he guides me to the room on the left. The bathroom is surprisingly large and has been renovated.

He starts the shower for me. “The water needs a lot of time to consider heating up,” he explains as he shuffles over to the washing machine. He gives me a quick rundown on how to use it if I want, then shows me where the towels are. They’re plush and soft and I’m so thankful he’s not one of those bachelors with only one always damp, thin as a tissue towel that I kiss him.

Once the water is hot and I’ve stripped down, I stand in the stream for several minutes, letting my muscles relax. I let my hair out of the bun and wash it twice, then scrub every inch of my body and shave despite having done it two days ago. I take my time drying my hair with a towel, finger combing it, doing my skincare routine, and moisturizing my whole body. Without dressing, I tuck my jewelry away into my toiletries bag, except for my pearl earrings, which I put back on.

I stand in front of the mirror, examining my reflection, my skin still pink from the shower and the heat, my nipples pointed and pert. I draw my hand across my chest, around one of my areola, between my breasts, over my stomach. Legs spread, I part my lips with two fingers. Despite the warmth in this room, the air feels cold against the delicate skin there. I brush my finger once across my clit and shudder.

“Jazz?” Nick knocks on the door.

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