The Hate Vow by Nicole French

Seven

We were the last ones there when Vivian and Tom started closing up the bar, winding Saran wrap around the tops of the bottles while Mazzy Star serenaded people out the door. Maybe it was the three more pints of PBR that made everything seem funnier than it was, or the vodka that cracked Eric’s careful mask and had him loosening his tie halfway down his shirt. Maybe it was the look on his face—half annoyed, half adoring—every time I stole one of his olives and chucked it at him for no apparent reason. But soon I found myself on the tail end of one of the best dates I had had in a long time.

The best date…that wasn’t even a date.

I honestly couldn’t remember what we had talked about for the last three hours. Hell, I couldn’t even remember the last time I had talked to anyone for three straight hours. Not Skylar. My mother. My cousins. No one.

And what had we even discussed? Nothing and everything. Our jobs. The shitty music from 1993 this bar insisted on playing. The ridiculous outfit Henry had been wearing when he walked up to me. Who wears suspenders and a belt? we asked, again and again. The more we asked, the funnier it seemed.

We laughed. Joked. Drank. Even danced a little before camping at the bar again. And slowly, I let myself enjoy the fact that Eric’s gray-brown eyes didn’t waver downward when I spoke. I let myself fall into the simple grace of his smile, and though we never touched, sink toward the magnetic warmth of his body. I had forgotten how easy it was to just…be…with him. If I wasn’t fighting it.

“Seriously, though,” I slurred after finishing the last of my beer. “You were such a damn dainty little princess. Between the specialty coffee and the perfectly mixed martinis, you’re basically the dauphin of France, even without the heir thing.”

“Princess?” he said, shimmying slightly on his stool for a second. “Come on, Jane. James Bond drank martinis. Shaken, not stirred, amIright?” His words were blending into one another too. “I dress up as Bond every year at the firm’s Halloween party, you know. My secretary said I do a great British accent.”

He smacked his lips, and those gray eyes twinkled as he nodded fondly at his own memory. He no longer looked the picture of pristine perfection, but somehow, the rumpled, rolled sleeves and the way the back of his shirt had come out of his pants made him look that much more delicious

Loosened by vodka, Eric winked at me. I almost fell off my stool. Goddammit.

So, I did what I always did when I felt out of my league with Eric. I teased.

“Pinkies up, James,” I said, gesturing at his fingers, which were pinching the fragile stem of his martini glass. Long fingers. Agile fingers. Fingers that had once given me no less than three orgasms in one night. Back to back.

I quivered in my seat.

Eric just looked at his glass. “Real men know how to drink cocktails, Jane. You want some PBR-drinking Neanderthal, maybe you need to go find your emo friend again. Grab him by the suspenders.”

Ha. So he was still bothered by that.

“Maaaybe I should,” I retorted, swinging around on my stool, as if I was genuinely interested in Captain Kangaroo and his lumbersexual beard. As if that guy had one tenth of the sexual charisma of the man sitting next to me. As if anyone else but Eric (or maybe Bond) could make holding a Martini glass look like a rated-R sex act.

It was a ploy that might have worked better if we hadn’t been the only ones left. A second later, I was twisted back around, suddenly caged by Eric’s arms. His used-to-be lanky, suddenly wiry, steel-trap arms.

All humor had disappeared, replaced by a lazy, slanting smirk and an imperious gaze that lit a fire deep within my belly.

“Who do you think you’re fooling, pretty girl?” he purred, tipping his head to the side to examine me. “There’s no one here but me.”

I opened my mouth, ready to launch another comeback at him, but none came. In my beer-soaked haze, all I could see was his mouth, full and wide. All I could smell was his cologne, that hint of Tom Ford, plus a clean, surprisingly earthy scent that zipped to the back of my head and the bottom of my heart with a twang. My mouth didn’t close. And Eric, damn him, stared straight at it.

He raised a hand like he owned the place. “Viv, we’re going to need another round.”

“No can do, you idiot,” Vivian called from the till. “Last call was thirty minutes ago. Finish your drinks and take your girl home, DV.”

“DV?” I perked up, and the spell was broken. A giggle burst from my chest. “Did she just call you DV?”

Eric sat back and shrugged. “She’s been calling me that all night, you lush. It’s an acronym. For, you know, my name. De Vries.”

“You do realize that’s really just VD spelled backward? Good God, that’s brilliant, Petri!” I slapped my hand on the bar, tickled, well, pink with my epiphany.

“God.” Eric tipped back the rest of his drink and yanked it away from my grasp when I tried to grab the final olive. “Oh, no, Lefferts. I’m eating this one.”

The bar’s overhead lights flickered on, and both he and I squinted painfully.

“My eyes, my eyes!” I moaned, though I was already laughing.

“Viv!” Eric twisted around, blocking his eyes. “You could warn us!”

“I did warn you, VD. Thirty minutes ago. Go home!”

I started giggling uncontrollably. Eric just rolled his eyes, but this time, his full mouth bit back a bigger smile.

“Damn,” I said as I set my empty glass on the bar top. “I honestly don’t remember the last time I closed out a bar. God, I’m getting old.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun, right?” Eric replied. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see you sitting over there. You saved my night, Lefferts. I was bored to damn pieces.”

“Please, Petri. People don’t change that much, and the only thing that’s really different about you these days is that you have a bigger paycheck. Nicer clothes. Better hair. You didn’t come in here looking for me. I just happened to be in your line of sight.”

I started looking through my purse for nothing in particular, ignoring the way that particular statement cut into my chest. Dammit. I’d fallen into that trap, that special Eric trap. The one where he made me—and countless other women—feel like the only girl in the room. Like I was special, when I was undoubtedly not.

He had looked up because he was cruising for his next victim. And he had summoned me because I was a challenge. It was as simple as that.

Eric watched me for a moment, then passed a hand back through his hair, which, like the rest of him, was beautifully mussed. “I’ll have you know I come here for the excellent cocktails, not the easy tail. If that’s all I wanted, I would have left you with your date.”

Sure. Right.Like I was going to believe that.

I rolled my eyes and stood up. Okay, and maybe I swayed a little. “I…need a walk.”

“There are more enjoyable forms of exercise.” When I looked up, he wasn’t even trying to hide his leer. Or his glass-cut jaw. Or that goddamn sparkle.

“You,” I said as I pushed a finger into his chest, “didn’t use to be this corny, Petri dish.”

My finger, though, didn’t move. It just kept pressing. Into that divot. Between those chest muscles. Which I suddenly discovered were a lot more…defined…than I remembered.

Stop it. Stop. It. I am not going there. I don’t care that you suddenly learned how to trim your stubble so it looks like your jaw was chiseled by Michelangelo himself. I don’t care that you look like you could still make me forget the days of the week with those well-honed bedroom skills of yours.

Not. Going. There.

Eric just shrugged—again—like a cataclysmic level of sexual tension hadn’t just passed between us.

“I had to try. I wouldn’t be living up to that fucking nickname if I didn’t, right?”

He stood up and checked for his wallet and keys, leaving me wondering if I was the only one who had felt it. Shit.

“Come on, Lefferts, let’s walk it off.”

Walking…that was unfortunately a bit more difficult. It took about four steps outside for both of us to trip on the uneven cobblestones on Hanover. I thought I had done pretty well, going with three-inch heels instead of four tonight. And these were block boots, not stiletto. I should have been fine, even after ingesting the equivalent of a full pitcher of PBR by myself.

But the cobblestones disagreed. Vehemently.

“Whoa!”

Eric caught me as I basically went flying into the street, clasping my shoulders between his broad palms as he set me upright. His scent floated past all over again. Damn him. Damn Tom Ford. It’s like that guy bottled sex pheromones and had the audacity to call it cologne instead of Jane Lefferts Kryptonite.

“Steady, girl,” he said. “Come on, let me help.”

“What am I, a horse? Get off me!”

I batted at him, but Eric just tucked one of my arms under his and forced me to walk alongside him until we were back on the sidewalk. It didn’t take long for me to stop fighting it. His large, solid bicep did, after all, make it easier to walk. Right?

We continued through the crooked streets of the North End, finally ending up by the harbor, where a few other last callers were doing the same thing we were—walking off their booze, restlessness, and sexual chemistry. A few were unlikely to make it back to their apartments. More than one couple pawed at each other on park benches.

“Don’t fall in!” I called as we passed one couple who were practically horizontal over the pier railing. They didn’t stop. I bit my lip as we passed, trying to ignore the ache flowering in my lower belly. It had been humming there all night.

“Remember when that was us?”

Eric was watching the same couple with…was that longing in his gray eyes? He chewed absently on his lower lip for a minute and squeezed my hand a little harder.

“A bit, yeah,” I said. “We had a little more style, though. You were never one for PDA, to start.”

“I had you in that alley in Allston once. Behind the bakery, remember?”

“Had me? What am I, a pastry?”

The right side of his full mouth tugged up in a smirk. “What do you want me to say? I pounded you like bread dough?”

“I believe the term is ‘fucked,’ sir,” I proclaimed. “It was a shag fest. Especially the summer while we were studying for the bar. So, yes. We fucked in that alley in Allston. But it wasn’t really public because it was so dark. And late enough that they were already baking the croissants for the next morning. You got me one after we were done, if I remember correctly. And coffee. A true gentleman.”

Eric flipped his free hand and mimed as if he were tipping a top hat and we were strolling around in an Edith Wharton novel, not stumbling-around, drunken Bostonians on a cool spring night.

“I would never do anything so pedestrian as fuck, Jane,” he said. “Especially not with you.”

“Oh, really, Jeeves? Then what would you call it. ‘Making love’?”

Eric smirked again. “What’s wrong with ‘intercourse’?”

“I mean, it’s fine, I guess. If you’re Mrs. Cleary, my ninth-grade health teacher.”

Eric tipped his head from side to side, like he was weighing the options. “You know, of all the euphemisms I can think of for sex, there aren’t a lot of expressions that cover the whole bone-melting, earth-shattering, life-changing…actions…we did.” His eyes flashed. “At least in my opinion.”

I arched a brow. “Oh? ‘Making whoopee’ doesn’t get you there?”

The smile broadened. “How about ‘Blitzkrieg mit dem fleischgewehr.’”

I guffawed. “Point for the obscure German metal reference. What about the ‘beast with two backs’? If we’re averting pedestrian, there’s nothing better than Shakespeare.”

Eric nodded, eyes shining with approval. “The Bard’s got a few good ones.”

I chuckled. “Oh, fucking hell. I should have known better than to start with the poetry. Do you really still quote that crap offhand?”

“Why not? It’s better than what most assholes have to say. ‘Lady, shall I lie in thy lap?’ sounds a hell of a lot nicer than ‘wanna screw?’”

“Hamlet, eh? ‘You are keen, my lord, you are keen.’”

Eric stopped, assuming a posture that once again took me back five years. Hands shoved in his pockets, eyes closed, nose tipped up while he searched his memory. I was jerked back to those moments, right after we’d both basically given ourselves up to the beast from Othello. He’d suddenly shift from a beast to a poet, quoting lines from his favorites. It matched his other pretentions, of course, and from anyone else, I might have found it insufferable. But from a man who, generally, was so apathetic and immovable, there was something very addictive about hearing words born of passion in his deep voice.

“‘It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge,’” he said with a rakish lift of his brow. But then he continued with the rest of the verse, which had a distinctly less playful mood. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire’…‘doubt that the sun doth move’…‘doubt truth be a liar’—’”

“You’re out of order,” I said, cutting him off before he could get to the fourth and final stanza of the poem Hamlet writes Ophelia.

“‘Never doubt my love,’” he finished anyway, just as his eyes met mine.

We locked gazes for a few seconds, and then he looked away.

I gulped. “That doesn’t happen until the second act.” My voice wasn’t nearly as strong as I wanted.

Remember, I told myself. Sure, for all his calculated moves and pragmatic career choices, Eric was a poet at heart. Surprises, surprises. But these were surprises he must have shared with countless other women before and after those brief months we shared. There was absolutely no way I was the first woman ever privy to his…talents.

“Besides,” I said as I scampered a few steps ahead of him. “They’re both mad. Crazy. Hamlet and Ophelia both, am I right?”

Eric’s eyes opened, and he smiled serenely. The moonlight made his teeth gleam, and my heart twisted in my chest.

“Crazy,” he agreed. “Yeah.” Then: “It was a good summer, wasn’t it?”

He waited a long time, but I didn’t answer, just looked out at the harbor as we continued to walk. Never doubt my love. The words kept echoing through my head, a verse unfinished.

“Hey,” Eric called me back. “Wasn’t it, Jane?”

I stopped and turned around. “Well, yeah. You know it was, at least until the end. You don’t need me to say it to pad your ego.”

His eyes weren’t shining anymore. Suddenly they burned, and that sense of déjà vu was back. Only now it wasn’t Eric’s inner angel I was remembering—it was the inner demon that appeared just as quickly.

“Maybe I just needed to know I wasn’t crazy for remembering it that way, pretty girl.”

The words just slipped out, like they had before, and in a second, just as I had at the end of the bar, when a single tip of his head had me gliding across an entire lounge like a robot, I froze in his thrall. The light breeze blew off the harbor, but Boston wasn’t asleep. We were at the edge of the North End, and the sounds of other late-night denizens of the city echoed off the cobbled streets, just as they had for years in the heart of this city.

Eric took my hand, and I let him. I let him weave his fingers in between mine. And then I let him stop, let him tug me around to face him. His eyes sharpened and dropped to my lips. He took a step toward me, then another, and for a second, every memory I had of us flashed through my mind. Once, it would have been so simple—or as simple as it ever was with Eric. A few words, a quick signal. My pretenses would drop, like some kind of magic password released them, and I’d go from mouthing off at every little thing to doing whatever he said…or bearing the punishment for it. Gladly.

Pretty girl.

That had been the phrase. The cue, which came as naturally to me as anything else had with him. With Eric, both my mind and body had acted on instinct; perhaps the phrase worked so well because it wasn’t true. Because I wasn’t pretty—not like Skylar or probably most of Eric’s family was. I was angles and length, wide-set eyes, a mouth that was a little too big, breasts that were a little too small. I was loud and without decorum, steel edges and torn knees.

But no sooner would he say it, and I’d become someone else, someone I’d never really been with any other. My hands, my arms, my mouth, my voice…everything moved in concert with the man who used that name.

In those moments, we made poetry together. Or so I wanted to believe.

“Pretty girl…” He whispered it this time, then watched with complete and utter joy as my face tipped toward his.

For a second, I stood there, suspended. My mind swam, and I inhaled, suddenly surrounded by his scent of cologne, soap, linen, Eric.

Easy, there, Jane Brain. Don’t run away with yourself.

Dad’s voice, strong and serene. And followed, surprisingly, by my mother’s, the complete opposite.

Jane! My mother hissed from a thousand miles away, warning me to keep my head, keep my heart away from men like this. Telling me to play it safe. Telling me to be more like her.

“Jane.” Eric’s voice was deeper. More immediate. And yanked me back to the here and now.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I could make the necessary decisions. I’d tell him no. I’d go back to my staid, boring life. Find another job I barely liked, learn how to put up with my mother, and carve out a space for myself that was right back in the limbo I’d endured for the last five years.

Tomorrow I could go back to that life, if you could call it that at all. But tonight…tonight I could do something else.

“Fuck it,” I whispered, and kissed him.