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I sink down on my bed, because my knees suddenly seem to have turned to gelatin.
23
RUBY
I’m particularly pleased with this date idea.
It’s not as obnoxious as the possum date; I have to admit, that was over the top.
However, it’s going to throw Paxton off his game. I need to do that, because so far I feel like he’s winning the date wars and I am competitive by nature. Also, I can’t let us have a normal, comfortable, fun date. That feels like it would be dangerous.
The door to Paxton’s building opens and he strolls out, sees me, and smiles.
“Dress like a hipster,” he says to me. “Interesting request. How did I do? I wasn’t sure what hipsters wear these days. You didn’t give me enough time to grow a beard, and my hair isn’t long enough for a man bun, but I think I’ve got the general vibe down. I feel like I’m going to a costume party.”
He’s wearing a black knit beanie, dark denim jeans that he’s rolled up at the cuff, black lace-up boots, a pair of dark-framed glasses, and a flannel shirt over a white T-shirt.
“You look unexpectedly hot in those glasses,” I blurt out. I immediately want to slap myself. “Oh, no. Was that my out-loud voice?”
“It was.” He’s grinning ear to ear. “And do you want to know when I’ll forget that you said that?”
“Uh . . . never?”
“Longer than that. The stars will cool, and the heat death of the universe will be nothing but a distant memory, and I’ll still be gloating over how you accidentally admitted you find me hot.”
“Only in glasses. Anyway, whatever,” I grumble. “I never said you were physically unattractive. Just annoying. And smug.”
“I try, I try.” He reaches out and fondles my hair, which is now a bright cherry red. “Very nice. Is this permanent?”
“Thanks. It’s temporary; it will fade in a couple of washes.”
I’m wearing a black floral dress with roses on it, fishnet stockings, and black Doc Martens. I also am wearing fake glasses; mine are black cat-eye glasses, and I’m wearing red lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. I look like I should be the singer in an angsty indie band.
“Well, we certainly look like we belong together,” Paxton says, which sends a trill of alarm through me.
He gestures at the waiting limo. “Shall we?”
As usual, he holds the door open for me like a perfect gentleman. The limo takes us downtown, to a trendy block of Soho, and the driver parks and lets us out.
It’s one of those basement clubs that you have to climb down a flight of street-level steps to get to, and there is no sign outside to give away its existence. Basically, you have to be cool enough to know how to find it.
I am not cool enough. However, Clair’s boyfriend is. Clair told me about this place.
“Speakeasy?” Paxton guesses as we descend the stairs.
“Close,” I shrug. “Equally rebellious. It’s a slam poetry night.” And we are perfectly dressed to blend in with the artsy crowd.
We enter a dimly lit room with a stage at the far end. The room smells of scented vapes, and Paxton and I have dressed perfectly to fit in with this crowd. The décor is minimal, mostly various anarchistic posters, mixed in with posters for obscure punk bands.
Paxton fetches us two beers from a bartender with a lot of facial piercings. The room is pretty crowded; slam poetry is trendy at the moment. We find a table for two and settle in to watch.
Paxton says to me, “Did you notice anything different about us walking in here?’
I shake my head.
“Nobody’s asked me for my autograph. With the glasses and the hat, and I guess the way I’m dressed, I’m like Clark Freaking Kent.”
“Holy cow.” I look at him in astonishment. “You’re right. We made it all the way to the table without anyone trying to cozy up to you. And the bartender didn’t ask for your autograph. You’re right. You know, it is nice to be able to just sit here and not have anyone hassle us.”
