Page 22 of Only the Wicked
She’ll probably get back to me with a need for her middle name. Place of employment. Physical address. Email address. Phone number.
“Hey dipshit? What the hell? You think there’s only one Sydney Parker?” I can hear Daisy’s screech.
I’ll ask for her phone number. That’ll play well. And it’ll be good to have. I’m here until Friday.
What the hell is Sydney doing in the restroom?
I scan through notifications.
I’m on vacation. I should flip the phone over. Put it in my pocket.
In my periphery, I see her slender silhouette exit, and I openly ogle her as she approaches.
The bright flush from earlier has faded. Her dark waves brush her shoulders, and her lips bear a faint pink gloss. For the briefest of seconds, I imagine the pink stain on my cock.
The connection between us thrums, and the rest of the world fades.
It’s been a long time since I wanted someone this badly.
As she slides into the booth, I wiggle my phone.
“Before I forget, can I get your number?”
Her cheeks flush a deeper crimson and the splotch on the crest of her collarbone returns. She runs her fingers through her strands, ruffling the smooth curtain.
“Sure.” She digs her phone out of her brown leather handbag, directs her phone to mine, presses, and I glance down to see a notification light my screen. “I just texted you.”
I forget sometimes how easy Apple makes it to exchange information. For that matter, how much information we can collect on an individual. It’s just as well. My company wouldn’t exist without the wealth of data to mine.
I slip on my glasses, open her information, select create new contact, and under company name, type in “Highlands Hottie.” Memory cues. The older I get, the more necessary they become.
She exudes confidence, but when she batted her eyelashes and reminded me she’s between jobs, I picked up on her underlying insecurities. We all have them. If I was unemployed, I’d be insecure. Hell, when I dropped out of business school, I became deeply insecure. Ultimately, I proved the doubters wrong and hit an untapped market with perfect timing. All I really needed was the Stanford degree for doors to open. One day I expect Harvard will give me an honorary degree, at least, if I get around to donating the funds for an AI research and training center.
For the most part, over dinner we successfully skirt all work-life conversation. She’s an only child, like me. Her close friends live in either Southern California, Chicago, or the D.C. area. She doesn’t care for San Francisco, which, truth be told, neither do I. Like me, she prefers the Seattle vibe. And like me, she’s a novice vacationer.
My holiday find possesses a healthy appreciation for alternative rock. Linkin Park, Green Day, Foo Fighters, Evanescence, The Strokes, Blink-182, Red Hot Chili Peppers—she likes them all. I’m not familiar with Chappell Roan, but I promised to check her out. With Billie Eilish, we agreed to disagree. She said she’s always wanted to listen to Dave Grohl’s Storyteller memoir, and I shared that it’s worth her time, and that I listened to it on a business trip to Saudi Arabia last year. Business…it always leaks in.
As we wait for the check, I ask, “What’s your favorite film?”
“Almost Famous. Yours?”
“A Complete Unknown.”
“That’s a new one,” she says, sounding surprised.
“Yeah it is. And next year I’ll probably have a new favorite.”
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have expected that.”
Her comment strikes me as odd. What did I do that made her expect I’d have the same favorite movie into eternity? The server arrives, and the question of what she meant slips away.
Uncertainty strikes as we exit the restaurant. It’s barely nine as we walk down Church Street. The faint scent of honeysuckle floats on the breeze, and laughter and conversation converge into a low hum on the sidewalks as tourists mill about. A line extends from the one ice cream shop in town, and a blue haze descends over the mountains in the distance as the setting sun lingers, casting an ethereal, otherworldly glow.
With the idyllic small-town thoroughfare to our back, I hold the lobby door to the inn for her. A young woman with freckles behind the reception desk smiles a greeting.
“Thank you for dinner,” Sydney says when we’re out of earshot of the reception desk and at the juncture leading to the suites.
I slow my steps, placing a hand on her lower back, closing the distance between us. “Do you mind if I see you to your room?”
