Red Lights

It was another whole week until I saw Dylan again.

In the meantime, I spent a lot of time working and thinking.

A senator had a small anniversary party and rented out the whole top floor of this restaurant in the middle of Hollywood. I stood at the steps leading up to the second floor the entire three-hour event, sometimes next to John and sometimes next to Dan depending on who wasn’t walking around upstairs at the time. None of us expected anything significant to happen – the man had been hiring us for five years for all of his get togethers. The sad part was, half the time I was sure he didn’t need security. Part of it was just to make him and his wife feel better, really, about the situation, about themselves, like they were so important they demanded safety. The even sadder part was that really, the only reason they would ever need any situation to be controlled is because of the stupid ass people they work with and befriend, who sometimes turn into unrecognizable crazies when they drink. There was no craziness tonight, however.

Either way, for a little while, it was hell.

I felt predominantly better the morning after the beginning of the failed Teen Wolf marathon, but still wasn’t allowed back to work. Therefore, I spent the rest of that and the following day watching episodes of the show on my laptop and avoiding my brothers. The day after, I returned to the office, where thankfully neither of them were seeing as they were each out running errands for my Dad. The next night, however, we were all booked for the Senator’s Shindig, and they were both inescapable.

“You never told me what you ended up doing after that award show,” Dan said, bumping my shoulder. “You just kinda ran off.”

“I got dragged off, technically,” I said, biting down on my lip after the words left my mouth. “It wasn’t a big deal. I just did what you’re always telling me, living life for once and all.”

He laughed, the only one he had, that he had always had, that I couldn’t quite explain. I couldn’t pen my youngest older brother’s laugh down on paper, not the way I could Sean’s loud, rumbling guffaws, but I could tell it from anywhere. It was something else, for sure. But I liked it.

“Well, next time you go and take my advice, give someone some type of warning, would you?”

“Hey, I was fine! Ask Jenkins. He saw me, being absolutely legal and safe. Don’t worry, Dan. It’s definitely not gonna happen again.”

I told John basically the same thing not even twenty minutes later, which barely went over well. Dan, at least, had dropped the issue – although he didn’t spare me the look, the one that he shared identical to our grandpa’s; it said ‘I know. You don’t fool me, not for a moment.’

“Just tell me what you did, kid. It’ll make me feel better.”

I sighed, grunted, coughed. I was still feeling the aftereffects of my cold, but only just so.

“Fine. If I tell you, will you relay it to Dan so we can end all this bullshit?”

I swear to God, if he was a dog his ears would have perked up. “Hell yeah, I’ll relay! Tell me.” I could practically hear his tail thwacking against the sleek, tiled floor as he panted in my imagination, waiting for me to spill the details from that night.

“That kid you guys put me in charge of at the event, he left the building so I went after him. He didn’t want to go back inside, he just wanted to leave. So he did, but then he kind of convinced me to go with him even though I didn’t really want to. We sat in traffic a lot, went to The Waffle and accidently crashed a filming of this television show at Beso. Then he brought me home. That was it.”

He nodded, lips pressed together, eyebrows raised. His lips were twitching upward just slightly and I felt my neck burn.

“So you ditched work to run around Los Angeles with some drunk boy? Olivia.”

I didn’t contain my eye roll. “He wasn’t drunk… he wasn’t even buzzed, honestly. It was all a rouse. I… don’t look at me like that, John. I swear to God.”

“Why didn’t you call for backup when he wouldn’t listen? Or… why not just let him go?”

I took in a deep breath, coughing once. “I don’t know, okay? I just… didn’t. I don’t know why. Hey, look. I need a bathroom break. You can handle this, right?”

“You’re gonna leave me here, alone? How will I man the gates when the fans come crashing in drooling over the opportunity for their favorite senator to sign their foreheads?”

“Oh, save it. You’ve left me alone three times to take a whiz. You’ll survive.”

The women’s bathroom wasn’t a single, which I had been hoping for. But it was the next best thing: empty.

I didn’t really need to pee. But I did need a second alone. Okay, more than a second. Like, three days alone. But I wasn’t granted three days alone, not after being sick for days.

I leaned against the cool counter surrounding the sink, resting my elbows and slumping my shoulders. I rubbed one bare ankle against the other – tonight’s attire was a little more formal than my last event, I was wearing a lace black dress. I didn’t think it was fair, really, that I had to wear a dress – like, how am I supposed to tackle someone in a dress? Not that it would stop me. And not that being able to tackle someone was in the job description, because it wasn’t.

It didn’t matter, though, because I knew there was virtually no way that would be necessary today, although I really did wish it did (I was definitely in the mood to tackle someone if I had to, heels and all.)

Well, really, I was in the mood for a drink.

Which meant I would be giving Dylan a call, like I had promised.

It was about an hour before I needed to be at the restaurant, which meant I would need to leave soon. I was in the bathroom, trying to make it look like I hadn’t been lying in bed all day, watching the last episodes of a certain television show on my laptop, when my phone rang in my room. I had it still connected to my phone charger from the night before. I got to it on the fifth ring. I always counted.

“Hello?”

“Are you at home?”

“Erm, yeah. Why?”

“I’m about to ring the doorbell.” He hung up, then.

When I opened the front door for Dylan, I don’t know what I was expecting, really. Maybe another bag of goodies. But it was just him, standing tall with his hands in his jeans, a dark gray t-shirt hanging just loosely enough from his body that it couldn’t pass for a muscle tee.

I obviously wasn’t what he was expecting either, as he took a step back when I opened the door fully. I then remembered how little I actually knew him and that he had never seen me like this before. We looked quite opposite from each other at the moment, him in his jeans while I stood three and a half inches taller than normal in my heels and black dress.

“Uhhhh, what’s up with the dress?” he asked, nodding at me once as his gaze went from the top of my head to my feet.

“I’m covering a more formal event. We’re supposed to blend in, in a way.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“What? It’s my job, Dylan. I don’t call the shots on the dress code. Trust me, if I did I would definitely be wearing some cut offs and a t-shirt… how great would that day be…”

“That’s not what I meant,” he laughed again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Though your little daydream does sound good.”

“What did you mean then?” I crossed my arms, leaning against the door frame. “What’s so god damn funny all of the time?”

“All I’m saying is, you don’t really blend in, Olivia. You look really nice.”

I smiled despite myself. I really did love this dress. “Thanks, I got it on sale a few months ago just to show off to all of our adoring clients.”

“That’s not really what I meant, either, but whatever, I mean…” I could barely make out what he was saying, his voice turning quieter and quieter. “So you have to work tonight?”

I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, which reminded me that I needed to maybe actually brush my hair before I left. “Yeah, in like an hour.”

“Well, what are you doing afterwards?”

“I planned on going to sleep, you know, all things exciting and grand in life.”

He nodded again, head bouncing atop his shoulders. “Oh, well…I figured I still owe you that drink.”

He was right. Almost. “If I remember right, you owe me more than a single drink.”

He nodded, lips tugging. “I do. You are very right.”

“How about I call you when I get off, see how I’m feeling? Is that okay?”

“Yeah, totally. I’ll see you later then, maybe?”

I nodded. “Yeah. See ya. Wait, wait, oh wait. Shit. Hold on. I have your stuff. Wait here.”

I didn’t really know if he heard me, or would even wait. I hurried to my room, heels making awful noises on the hardwood floor, and grabbed his bag, which held what was left of the tea boxes, the unopened cookies and all three seasons that he had let me borrow.

He was still there when I got back to the front door, where I promptly fell against the door frame and held out the bag, making him walk back up the steps to get it himself.

“Thanks, Liv. See ya later.” I watched him for a moment, walking back to the blue crossover that was parked on the curb. I was confused for a second when he didn’t go to the driver’s side, which is when I realized that someone else was driving. I squinted a little as the driver turned to look at my house as they grabbed their seatbelt. I swear I could see that crooked jaw from my top front step.

After work, I drove home alone. I had abandoned my heels in the passenger seat and didn’t bother to retrieve them after parking in the driveway. My grandma was watching reruns she had recorded on TiVo. She asked about work, I told her, and then went to my room to change.

Dylan answered on the third ring. We were going out for drinks and he would stop by in thirty minutes, traffic permitting. We hung up and I went to find more comfortable clothes.

---

“Why do you always pick me up in a fucking cab? Do you not have a vehicle?”

He laughed, shaking his head, turning to walk down the steps without me. He shoved his hands in his pockets, barely turning his head over his shoulder as he spoke. “Uh, I do. We’re not always meeting on the best terms though, are we? And if I do remember right – no need to thank me for my excellent memory – we are going out for drinks. Plural. I’m not going to drive around drunk, not even if you’re into that kind of dangerous stuff, Liv.”

I didn’t respond to this. Dylan opened the door for me, asked me if I had a preference of where to go. I didn’t. He told the cab driver the name of a bar I drove past on my way to the office, probably only fifteen minutes away. We pulled away from the curb and Dylan reminded me to put my seatbelt on.

“Thanks, Mom,” I muttered, reaching for the belt and buckling it at my hip. He didn’t respond.

The inside of the bar was pretty subdued, with it being a Thursday and all. He gestured to a booth to the side and I went, pressing myself into the seat and leaning onto the table. There was a very small stage, just barely elevated from the ground in the corner. A drumset sat in the very corner of the area and in front of that, a keyboard. Two amps were set there also – there was actually so little room that the microphones were sitting on the floor just in front of the stage, extended even taller to compensate for the height difference from the floor. The area was empty of people besides one man sitting on the edge, drinking something from a glass. A sign above and to the right of his head said “Live Music Nightly.” I assumed he must be a part of the live music and that the music was taking a break for a little while.

“What would you like?” Dylan asked, leaning onto the table but not taking a seat.

“I would like to know just exactly where the hell you brought me,” I said lowly. He just grinned, chuckling.

“It’s this country joint,” he said, ignoring my raised eyebrows. “It’s pretty quiet compared to some other places and… not as expensive. Don’t harp on me for it! Here you can get cheap beer and privacy. Where else can you get that in this town?”

“Beer, from a bottle. I don’t have a preference otherwise.” He nodded, slapping the table once with his palm as he went.

He came back with two bottles, handing me one. Then he crawled into the seat across from me, just as someone started up a song on the old juke box I spied in the opposite corner of the stage.

“So, like… how did you even find this place?”

“I walked in here a few months ago, already drunk off my ass, with Austin. I don’t even like country music, but it was flooding out onto the street and we just kind of came in and jumped into everything and… it was a blast.”

I looked around, thinking it had to have been a lot busier that night than it was now. It was just past eleven, but it was a Thursday. This could be a completely different place once the real weekend hit, for all I knew. Maybe the performer sucked tonight, or something.

I changed the subject, asking Dylan what he had been doing the past few days. I did feel kind of bad for how little attention I had paid him on that first night, so I tried my best to listen as he spoke. He was on a break from all of his projects right now, just spending the downtime in whatever way he wanted. Like trying to break his nose at the super market.

“I kinda slipped on this wet spot in this aisle. There was even a Caution: Wet sign out and I still slipped on it. My cart went one way and I went down. A little kid laughed at me.”

I laughed, too loud, covering my mouth for a second as he stared at me, ashamed. “I’m sorry. Kids are brutal.” He nodded, staring down at the table for a second. His hands were wrapped around his drink, one folding over the other. He took a sip. So did I.

It continued like that for some time after I offered my own embarrassing story of when I walked in on Dan in the shower. He was showering – at 3 fucking AM, granted – and I came in, half asleep, peed, flushed and left. I didn’t even know until the next morning that I had done it. Still, I was completely embarrassed, burning red the next day when he told me.

The drinks came with each embarrassing story, one after another. There was a little crowd of bottles, three deep for each of us, at the end of the table. I pressed my fourth and probably last to my lips, staring over the end of the bottle at him.

I liked the way he looked there, across from me, his dark grey shirt pulling across his broad shoulders. He was quite handsome, in a cute and still boyish way. He looked even younger now, his cheeks slightly flushed. My next words came out without me thinking, really. Just spilled from my lips the way I could feel the drink slipping through me.

“I finished Teen Wolf the other day,” I said, taking another pull from the bottle in my hand. Dylan cocked his head, smiling. He mimicked me, taking a large gulp of drink before asking.

“Yeah? What’d ya think?”

“It was really good! Like, it does get better. But parts of it are so unrealistic and confusing to me! Like, I swear they’re never actually learning anything. And is the guy’s locker room the only bathroom in the whole damn school a-and what’s so special about Lydia? She doesn’t even give Stiles a second glance! Like, come on. He’s totally in love with her and she doesn’t even care. He’s a total babe, loyal and funny and she’s like whatever lemme just go fuck this dickwad instead? What is up with that?”

Dylan laughed, this big face-splitting grin on his face. I really liked this smile, all teeth and cheekbones and bright, bright eyes. Rimmed in pink, yes, but still bright – bright and drinking, that is what he was; drinking beer, drinking in the music, drinking in my words and my face and my voice.

“I’m glad you like it,” he mumbled, biting down on his lower lip. And that was that.

---

Everyone turns into something else when they drink.

Some people become angry and abusive – one of the worst kinds, in my opinion. I’d seen enough people like that in my time just at work. But there were other types. So many other types. And that’s the thing. Everyone has a type.

“What kind of drunk are you, hmmm? You know, everyone’s got a type.”

He didn’t really hesitate, like he was somehow ready for this. Like he knew I would ask. “I’m honest,” he said, nodding. He leaned his head back against the booth. “Painfully, painfully honest.”

I grinned, but then forced myself to press my lips together. I liked that. I liked that he was honest, even more so when he had such a deterring thing as alcohol in his system.

His voice made me raise my head, glancing at his mouth as he spoke. He didn’t notice. He wasn’t looking at my face, just my hands, poised around my own bottle. I held tightly to it.

“Earlier, when I said you didn’t really blend in, I didn’t mean just in your dress. I meant ever. You’re gorgeous, Olivia.”

Inside, I hummed. My internal voice grunted out a slew of choice words.

Aloud I said, “You should probably take another drink, Dylan, and take that compliment back with you. I don’t want you to have to find out what kind of drunk I can be.”

“No, no, I wanna know,” he said, grinning, as always. He leaned closer, pushing his drink aside. His hands were on the table now, dangerously close to where mine were wrapped around the base of my beer. But the thing was, I knew what he was doing. He already knew.

I crossed my ankles under the table, my grip on my bottle tightening just so.

“You already know what I’m like, don’t you?” I asked. I blinked, swallowing over my words again and again. I felt the flush in my cheeks, partially from the drinks. “Remember, be honest.”

He nodded, just kept nodding. He was so, so past sober. Maybe not drunk yet, but he wasn’t himself – and neither was I. He just kept nodding, hunching closer to the table. His hands moved, and I watched them, as he took my drink from between mine and pushed it toward his own, abandoning them both near the cluster of empty ones. His hands were warm, fingers stretching into my palm before enclosing them each.

He whispered the words across from me, all hot breath that lingered between us.

“You’re a lover,” he said, eyes moving to mine. They were so light for being brown, like the blending of the colors of chocolate and honey – a perfect, golden amber. His cheekbones were pink against his pale face. Dark brows, dark hair, lips resting, unsmiling, as he waited, watching me. “A loving drunk. Confirm or deny.”

I almost laughed at his words, but I swallowed that too and only nodded, pulling my right hand from his so I could trace his skin.

I was, as he put it, a loving drunk. Not just that, but also a lightweight. So, after just two or three beers, or – God forbid – any kind of hard liquor, really, I became affectionate and touchy. Tonight I had settled for drinking slower, watching him from across the table, but the feeling was still very present. I learned this the hard way, after Melanie’s passing. Before she died, we had dabbled in drinking when we could sneak a lone can of Bud from her garage refrigerator, but nothing more. After, however, I completely lost my reserve. I didn’t want therapy, like my guidance counselor recommended and offered, because I didn’t want feeling. I wanted the opposite of feeling; I wanted to be completely numb.

It wasn’t exactly difficult to find the environment I needed for this. At fourteen, just starting high school, I didn’t really need to make friends to find alcohol – the only vice I considered safe enough at the time, the one that would hopefully help me find my way to the dead space of emotion I was so desperately searching for. I didn’t have to talk to anyone, instead I just needed to listen. In homeroom, in class, at lunch, in the halls – everyone talked about their plans, trying to show something to everyone else. I didn’t care what they had to say, or who they were. All I cared for was what their plans had to offer.

About three weeks into my freshman year, I went out on a Friday night, walking a few blocks until I got to this house I had heard about the day before. It belonged to some taller-than-your-average-freshman brunette girl in my grade, whose older brother had come into town while her parents were away, which only meant one thing. He was buying liquor, she was having a party – and she was stupid enough to invite anyone who would listen. Oh, was I listening.

It was relatively calm in the house, I found, as I entered. There were only a handful of people milling around, either looking for a drink, an exit or for a place to flee to, another person’s hand in theirs. The house was somewhat similar to my own and I followed the hall leading off of the living room until I found the kitchen, glaringly bright lights shining overhead, a room with counters stacked with bottles, cups, shitty food, and the only thing I’d ever drank before that night – case after case of beer.

It wasn’t Bud, although it was an even cheaper brand, but that didn’t matter to me. I took a can and followed the open patio door into the yard, where people covered so much of it that I wasn’t sure if she had grass or not. I disappeared into the thick of the crowd.

By the end of the night, I had ended up sipping my first beer and practically chugging my next three. I talked to no one, just drank in silence, watching.

Until this boy I didn’t know, who was tall and broad and slurring his words together as he asked me my name, plopped down on the ground next to me, his legs pushing out in front of him. I told him my name was Olivia and he laughed, too loud for my liking, had I been sober. I asked him why he was laughing and he said it was because his name was Oliver, that he liked my hair, that he liked that our names were similar.

I hadn’t dated anyone before, let alone kiss anyone. But that didn’t seem to stop me from letting Oliver touch my knee, or my face. There was no feeling in this body of mine anymore, none whatsoever. Until his face pressed closer to mine, hot breath looming between us, there was nothing I could feel. But then he kissed me and I ended up making out with Oliver, whose too close to mine name bothered me the next day, until he went off to grab another beer, and I took that as my time to head back home.

Things had changed since then. I had quit looking for an escape from feeling anything, from feeling her. I stopped going to parties for free drinks and a sense of freedom from. I dated other boys, who I kissed and more, who eventually broke up with me, or vice versa. I had grown up, grown out, although that didn’t change this moment.

Growing up didn’t change the fact that alcohol was in my system, traveling through me like a bullet train, warming my skin and opening my eyes. He was so fucking right. It made me different, all soft edges and humming, like a buzzing bee. Usually, I was nothing less than a bite of something bitter, but with a little liquid gold, I was dripping honey.

I glanced up, remembering the boy across from me, whose hand was under mine, whose eyes were on my face. His lips barely moved when he spoke.

“I think maybe we should go.”

I slipped out of the booth, steadying myself with my hand on the table just so as I took a step down from it. Dylan was at my side then, waiting, maybe for me to lead. I took a slight step to my right and our elbows bumped, my fingers fumbling over his wrist, over bone, searching for the open palm that then closed over mine.

Outside on the street, we took to the sidewalk for some time, just walking along until we were far enough away from the noise and lights of the bar and the places of business surrounding it. We were holding hands, but there was no space between our sides – it was all together, his fingers on the back of my hand, mine on his, our arms touching, elbows bumping, steps moving together, two feet in front of the other. We hurried along a crosswalk to the better lit side of the street to hail a cab.

We waited on the edge of the sidewalk as a taxi a few yards away flashed its lights at us. Dylan waved a hand overhead and the car got over, pulling to a stop in front of us. I squeezed his hand, liking the soft warmth of it pressed to mine.

“Why did you come over when I was sick? Why did you kiss my cheek when you left? I... I was awake. Why did you do that?”

I was only a few inches shorter than he was and he had turned to me when I spoke, head turned down, watching. His eyelashes cast small shadows on his face as he blinked, listening.

“I wanted to. I wanted to really kiss you, but you’re not really supposed to kiss possibly contagious people.”

I didn’t realize I was smiling until I spoke again, my words sounding different as they escape from my stretching mouth. “You’re not really supposed to hang out with them, either.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up and this time he squeezed my hand, sending a pulse of heat up my wrist and arm. “That’s a chance I was willing to take.”

He opened the door for me and I climbed in, not moving past the center seat. The door had just shut behind him when I moved even closer, the length of our legs pressed to each other, and leaned in.

His mouth was warm, slightly open, and frozen in space under my touch. But only for a moment. Because then his lips were moving under mine, slowly and surely, as my reach found his shoulders, the ends of his hair.

He pulled away, sort of breathless and his lips moved, telling something to the taxi driver – the taxi driver! I forgot where I was – but I didn’t hear any of it. The only noises I was hearing was my heart, pounding so hard I was sure it would soon pop and drown in the pool of alcohol in my body, and my quick, breathless breathing.

I had closed my eyes, my forehead almost falling on Dylan’s shoulder. A hand moved down my side, warmth slipping through my shirt, and rested on my hip. I opened my eyes and turned my face up, eyes searching his, moving over the dark eyebrows, upturned nose, the dark freckles and mole on his cheek, the curve of his mouth.

He didn’t tell me to put my seatbelt on.

He didn’t tell me anything.

His kiss was firmer than before, lips pressing hard to mine and moving, his hand slipping under the material of my shirt and pressing to the small of my back. I pressed closer, feeling the denim of his jeans scratching against my exposed legs. I took a breath, shifting, and one of his hands moved up, away from the skin of my lower back, and found my face.

Moving my hair from my cheek, he kissed me, lips traveling over my freckles and across my jaw and down the plane of my neck. A small sound escaped my lips as his spread across my collarbone.

I pulled him back to me, only glancing at his eyes a moment before covering his mouth with mine. I tasted the beer, this night on his lips. There was so much there, so much of the last few hours rolling through my system – the alcohol, his words, his touch. Dylan was in it all.

I gasped as air hit my face, hot and blowing into the cab as the car moved steadily down the streets. We’d accidently rolled down the window in all of our movement. I sat back up as Dylan pressed the button to close the window, leaning against the seat.

He was there, still, hands moving over mine. Always so anxious, always wringing them together or shoving them in his pockets, his hands were calm now. Long fingers held mine gingerly as his chin found my shoulder, the exhale from his nose tickling my ear. I giggled, turning my head towards him to avoid that feeling again. His eyes were open, wide, watching me. I didn’t turn away, just stared back at the color I had so quickly become intrigued by.

He didn’t cringe, or flinch, or even blink as my palm touched his face, fingers running over his scalp. I kissed him once, eyes wide open, our noses brushing.

And then the cab stopped.

“This is your stop, Liv,” he whispered, his eyes and nose and mouth still so close to mine. “I’ll call you, okay?”

I bit down on my lip, nodding. He smiled. He kissed my cheekbone, breath swirling and warming my skin. His fingers dropped from mine. I opened the cab door. I walked up the sidewalk. I went inside.

It was just after two AM. I fell into bed with my clothes still on.