Page 39 of The Photograph

“No, no. You can come in and watch me hook up with someone else, and see how that feels,” he snarls.

Shaking my head at him, I stare down the line, shivering in my thin top. I don’t want to spend a whole evening with a tantrumming George, and I’m not finding a guy tonight either. Being here is completely pointless. I want to go home and call Alex and talk about nonsense for hours. Chat about books we’ve read. Maybe get an interesting picture from him. Perhaps I could send one in return. In comparison to this, it’s all so simple and easy. I thought I liked all the fun and drama of this, but I’m notsure I do. I like the intimacy of what Alex and I have more and more.

What feels like decades later, I stagger out of the club into the damp Manhattan night, cursing myself, cursing George. He dragged me onto the dance floor and then put on an exhibition of suggestive dancing with other guys. Weariness rolls through me like a wave, and I groan and rub my hand over my hair. The doorman chats to me for a bit, but in minutes the Uber appears like a genie and soon I’m back at the apartment taking Mitzi out for a quick wee and then zipping through a hot shower.

If I don’t have friends like George, who do I have in my life? Sipping a hot tea, I look out of the window at the deserted cobbled street below. What makes someone a friend? If nobody cares, does any of this even matter? Walking through to my bedroom, I put my cup down on the nightstand. Mitzi scrabbles at the side of the mattress and I can’t be bothered to make her go back to her bed tonight, so I pick her up and lie down, curling around her warm furry body, wondering whether I’m actually building a career and a life here in New York or just killing time until some unknown future calamity.

17

ALEX

My steps slow as the bar in Harlem comes into view. Old fashioned and paint peeling, the “A” in the illuminated wordBARover the building has gone out. A large man in a nylon sports shirt grinds a cigarette under the heel of his boot as the skinny nervous type next to him blows a plume of smoke into the air. This feels a million miles away from my first date with Des. I glance down at my suit.

The large guy spots me as I cross the road, and as I get closer he shouts, “All right, there?” And the other one grins at me drunkenly.

The back of my neck prickles as heat builds around my collar. But they’re both watching me now, so I can’t turn around like I’ve been intimidated. They move to one side as I push open the grime-covered door.

Carlos said to meet him in here, but my steps falter as I take it all in. It’s the kind of bar that looks like it hasn’t been renovated in a hundred years and the floor is sticky under my shoes. Men of all kinds sit around the edges, testosterone swilling over the floor, and a creeping feeling warms the back of my neck. I try not to make eye contact as I take in the old pictures of physiquemagazine covers from the 1950’s that cover the walls in some huge chaotic jumble.

As I push through the crowd to get to the long bar that runs down one wall, bodies press in and a voice near my right ear says, “Let me buy you a drink.” But I roll my shoulders and push forward, coming up short at the rough wooden counter as I suck in a deep breath. Am I going to survive this? Goddammit, a desire to understand this scene brought me here, I can’t give up at the first hurdle.

The man behind the bar scans down my suit and quirks an eyebrow, then jerks his chin. “What can I get you?”

“What beers do you have?” No way I’m drinking anything else but beer in a place like this.

He scratches his head. “It’s more a question of what we don’t have, to be honest.”

Fuck. I know nothing about beer. “What’s on draft?”

He scans his hand along the array of taps, and I spot a familiar name.

“I’ll have a Hoegaarden, please.”

When I glance around the packed room, I have no idea how I’m supposed to pick out the guy who messaged me.

When the barman returns with my beer, I lean forward over the counter. “This looks like a place with a lot of regulars. You don’t know someone named Carlos, do you?”

He nods, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah, I know Carlos.” He scans down my suit again and smirks. “He usually comes in later. You meeting him?”

When I nod, he frowns. “You’re not the usual type he meets here.”

He regularly meets people here and has a type?Christ. The barman taps the wooden surface. “Just stay by the bar where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want any fucking trouble tonight.”

My stomach churns. I want to ask what sort of trouble that might be, but I can’t bring myself to. I take a sip of my beer. I hope to God that Carlos turns up soon—he looked like a nice guy. Maybe I can persuade him to go somewhere else.

I’m about six nervous sips in, neck still prickling, when I hear his name shouted above the laughter and the music.

“Carlos!”

I turn around to see a dark-haired bruiser of a man in a leather bomber jacket pushing through the crowd. I squint at him.That’sthe guy who reached out on Grindr? He looks nothing like his picture. He heads toward a table off to the side. Should I go over and talk to him? I take in his age and his leather jacket andGet out now!rolls through my thoughts.

Taking another gulp of beer, I place the bottle on the counter, turning back to the barman. “Thanks so much for …”

An oily voice says in my ear, “You must be the lovely Alex.”

And I turn to find Carlos so close in my personal space that I take a step back, my foot landing on the guy behind me, who grunts. Carlos grabs my arm.

“Mind yourself!” he says, fingers caressing up my forearms to my elbow. “You are so much prettier than your photograph!” he says, all wide smiles. “Tonight is going to be much better than I expected.” Then he leans in and his lips hit my neck.

---