Stubborn Love.

Pencil skirts. I hate pencil skirts. The only thing I hate more than pencil skirts is mandatory office parties. I would rather chug a carton of milk than spend a couple of hours with corporate monkeys who bothered to come down off their high horses for an hour and mingle with the little office clerks who are more than happy to ditch their position behind the desk to get drunk off of cheap champagne and flirt their way to a promotion. I’m surrounded by conversations of small talk revolving around golfing or the stock market or gossip or, god forbid, work. Why people feel the need to buy cakes and blow up balloons to celebrate Bitchin’ Barbara’s job relocation is beyond me. I’ve been sitting in this chair, watching people talk and walk and stalk in business casual for two hours and honestly, I just wish someone would hand me a carton of milk.

“Hey, Wells!”

I inwardly cringed at the nickname. No one called me by my last name. I hated my last name. I’d change it if my mom didn’t cringe every time I so much as mentioned the elimination of my dad’s sole influence on my life. Everybody was well aware that I didn’t like to be called by my last name, that I preferred to be called Arizona over anything; but that never stopped my ass of a supervisor, who threw my last name out like it was his own form of sadistic candy.

I cleared my throat, spinning around in my office chair to face the smug smile of my arrogant boss. “How’s it hanging, Chavez?”

“It’s like you’ve got your own little world over here.” He scanned my desk, which was now littered with intricate origami birds I had spent the last two hours folding. He pointed down at his collared shirt, right above his tie clip where his name tag gleamed under the corporate, fluorescent lighting. “And you can call me Henry.”

“And you know you can feel free to call me Arizona,” I forced a chipper smile onto my face, pointing down at the company name tag attached to my black, short-sleeved blouse. “But that doesn’t seem to stop you, now does it?”

“You’re funny.” He nodded, raising his glass of champagne up to his lips. I eyed the wedding ring tan on his hand and recalled office rumors constantly murmured in the break room concerning his adulterous promiscuity. Supposedly, he’s slept with every intern and office temp that walks through those glass doors; but for the life of me, I couldn’t understand what the attraction was. He was a power-hungry, corporate ass that kissed up to his superiors and preyed on women at least ten years his junior. There was limited aesthetic appeal and he had the charm of a donkey, so I guess women were attracted to the title and salary.

“You know, it looks like everyone’s starting to clear out.” Chavez cleared his throat to gain my attention before leaning down to place his champagne glass on my desk, subtly brushing my hand in the process. I inwardly cringed before slowly pulling my hand away to smooth down the end of my pencil skirt.

“Does that mean that I can go now?” I hoisted myself up from my chair and pulled my coat on.

“Somewhere you need to be?”

“Um, yeah. Sort of.” I licked over my lips before sending him a polite smile. I sort of need to be anywhere but here, I wanted to say.

He chuckled at my response, as if my vague description of plans were the funniest thing in the world. “You should stay, have a few drinks. It would be nice to have someone to keep me company while I finish up my work.”

“No company waiting for you at home?” I muttered under my breath as I knelt down to grab my bag.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” I spun around, pushing a few strands of hair out of my face. “I don’t drink. And I actually really have somewhere I need to be, so…”

“Of course,” He smiled, picking up his glass of champagne and raising it into the air. “I’ll see you on Monday then.”

I nodded, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure. Monday.”

I hastily brushed past him, not without noticing how his hand discreetly brushed against my ass. I pulled my lips into a tight line and cleared my throat before proceeding towards the double, glass doors and out into the cold Oregon chill. Almost immediately after I got into my car, my phone began to ring. An exhausted groan escaped my lips as I emptied my purse onto the passenger’s seat and fished around for my phone before closing my numbing fingers around the device and sliding my thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“Hi, Dawson.”

“It’s Friday night, Zo.” The background noise was chaotic, but his voice was in its usual light-hearted state despite the otherwise stressful environment.

I let out a breath of air, relaxing into my seat. “Is it, now?”

“Yes, you sarcastic bitch.” He muttered. “It’s Friday night and there is an uncomfortable amount of people in my bar and Robin is starting to give ginger-ale to people that are asking for Vodka tonics.”

“Oh, dear lord!” I gasped, fighting back a smile.

“So my question is where the fuck are you?”

I rolled my eyes, mumbling into the phone. “Does Barbara’s Big Bon Voyage ring any bells?”

“Ditch the bitchin’ Barbara bash and help a brother out, will you?” I could tell he was rolling his eyes through the phone. I heard a loud crash, the crash of shattering shot glasses as they hit the floor. A whispered string of curse words left Dawson’s lips and a frantic Robin apologized frantically in the background.

I winced, “That does not sound pleasant, Dawson.”

“Dawson needs help. Dawson needs help now. Dawson need’s Zo’s help.” He hissed.

I laughed, “Relax, I’m on my way.”

“Bless your soul. Now hurry the fuck up before I fire my fiancé.”

Ending the call, I tossed my phone onto the cluttered mess that was my passenger’s seat before shifting the car into drive and powering out onto the damp, Portland road. A few minutes later, I was pulling into a parking space across the street from the bar, where the evening’s activities were well into its full swing. I messily stuffed the contents back into my purse and hauled myself out my driver’s side door. I had just started my trek across the street when suddenly a motor bike darted out of a nearby alleyway and zoomed dangerously past me. My feet fumbled backwards, barely dodging the rider’s dangerous maneuver as my back collided harshly with the passenger’s side door of my car.

“Asshole!” I seethed, struggling to catch my breath as my eyes attached themselves to the back of a red motorcycle helmet as he rounded the corner and sped down the intersection, the loud rumble of his engine echoing into the air around me. The rider never even looked back. Breathing heavily, my gaze scanned the opposite end of the street, attempting to find someone that had seen what just happened. A drunken couple stumbled out of the bar, laughing and slurring their conversation as they made their way down the street, paying me no attention.

A scoff of disbelief left my lips as I proceeded to the other end of the street, looking over my shoulder every two seconds like a paranoid sociopath to prevent another near-death experience via motor vehicle. I pushed open the bar’s black, dangerously heavy door and immediately witnessed the drunken chaos that had taken over. A crowd of shouting patrons surrounded the wooden counter and Robin’s small frame weaved in and out of tables with a tray of sloshing beers and soaked, dirty napkins.

“Zo, for fuck’s sake, get over here!” Dawson jumped up and down behind the bar, flailing his arms back and forth in urgency.

I nodded and jogged over to the stock room where I kicked off my heels and threw my purse into the corner. On the way out, I grabbed an apron off the hook and wrapped it around my waist. My eyes traveled upward as I finished tying the loose fabric around my waist, my actions coming to a halt as my vision focused on the cherry wood plaque hanging on the wall beside the door. My breathing hitched in my throat as my gaze fixated on the photo of a man, whose eyes painfully resembled my wide, chocolate orbs and whose broad shoulders sported significant stripes and broached stars. I licked over my lips, dropping my gaze to the ground and squeezed my eyes shut. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I rubbed my now sweaty hands across the black fabric wrapped around my waist as my mind focused on producing even breaths. A loud crash emanated from outside the stock room and I heard a muffled voice called out for my name. I cleared my throat, pushed stray strands of black hair out of my face, and set my shoulders back before hastily making my way towards the bar.

My bare feet padded against the hardwood floors and I nudged Dawson to the other half of the counter to pour the drinks as I took orders.

“What’ll you have?” I called out to the bald, hulk-looking man waving his money to my right.

“5 beers.” His deep voice called out over the chaos. I nodded and spun around, getting his order in a matter of seconds before taking his money and moving onto the next customer. I must have been working for about an hour before the line started to die down. I was cleaning the beer-stained counter when Dawson came up beside me and swatted my hand away.

“You look like a priss in that skirt.” He said, taking my dish rag and wiping the rest of the counter. His voice was back to its usual light-hearted demeanor, as opposed to the previous, stressed shouts that overtook him only moments ago. I understood though. When it came to his bar, he was all about business and efficiency. But after everything was said and done, Dawson’s sense of humor could move every bar in Portland.

I scoffed, punching him in the arm. “Okay. How about, “Gee, Arizona. Thanks for saving my ass back there.”

“Alright. Thanks for preventing my business from failing tonight, Zo. Even though you did come at the last fucking five minutes.” He laughed as my eyes narrowed at his lack of appreciation.

“Hey Arizona!” Robin’s petite frame came up beside me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders. “When did you get here? Did you have fun at the party?”

“Babe, it was hardly a party.” Dawson smirked, wrapping an arm around his fiancé and kissing the top of her head.

I nodded, “He’s right. It was more like two hours watching my coworkers get drunk, folding fifty paper cranes and avoiding my sleezy, narcissistic boss. It’s basically death in a cubicle.”

“You know, Death in a Cubicle would make for a great documentary title.” Dawson nodded, his expression in mock-seriousness. I rolled my eyes, ignoring his jab at my addiction to watching documentaries.

My eyes widened, “Speaking of the undead. I almost experienced death by motorcycle outside the bar. This asshole sped around the corner and darted into the alleyway behind the bar, practically running me down in the process.”

“Are you okay?” Robin stepped toward me, looking me over to make sure I didn’t have any injuries.

I let out a sigh, “I’m fine, Robin. There’s no need to go all school nurse on me.”

“Was he cute?” Dawson mimicked in his best girly voice, flicking his wrist in the process.

I rolled my eyes, glaring at him as Robin grabbed hold of my jaw and moved my head from side to side. “Shut up.”

“What. It’s been a while since you brought someone around here. Broody and dangerous is your type, am I right?”

“That was one time.” I groaned, rolling my eyes as Robin examined my wrists.

Robin cleared her throat from in front of me, “Twice, actually.”

“See what I mean,” Dawson teased, raising his eyebrows as he moved to serve a customer.

“Oh, my God.” I mumbled.

“We’re running low on napkins over here,” Dawson’s voice boomed from the opposite end of the bar as Robin continued with my medical examination. I sighed and removed Robin’s hands from my head.

“I’ll get it if you promise to stop teasing me about my love life.” I called, beginning a backward trek toward the stock room.

“No promises,” Dawson yelled nonchalantly over his shoulder, not bothering to turn and face me as he poured drinks.

I let out a sarcastic laugh before spinning around and meandering down the hallway and pushed the stock room door open, feeling along the wall for the light switch. My index finger finally located and flipped the light switch just as I slammed the door shut. A sudden gasp and whispered conversation emanated from behind the cases of Irish beer on my left. I suspiciously gravitated toward the noise, jumping back as two, half-naked figures jumped into view, fumbling along the floor for their articles of clothing. My eyes widened and a surprised shriek escaped my lips as realization dawned on me as to what had just happened. I immediately turned my back towards them, emotionally recovering as they hastily pulled their clothes back on, the situation slowly becoming hilarious.

“You know,” I cleared my throat, biting back laughter. “I have a very strong feeling this violates quite a few health code violations. It may also be illegal, but hey, I’m not a lawyer or anything.”

“Sorry.” A feminine voice spoke, sparking confidence that both figures were now appropriately clothed. I spun around, watching as she knelt down to pull a heel onto her left foot. My eyes fixated on the shoe and I fought to suppress the chuckle that threatened to escape my lips.

I coughed, “Actually, that’s um…that’s my shoe.”

She looked down and blushed, noticing that she had two different heels on. She apologized again before sheepishly taking off my shoe and spinning around, looking for her matching pair.

“Here you go.” A male voice spoke, his now fully-clothed figure appearing from behind the shelf of various liquor bottles with her matching, red heel in hand. A satisfied smirk made its way onto his face as he observed her pull the shoe over her pale feet. After she moved to stand up straight, he wrapped his arm around her waist and swiftly pulled her against his seemingly solid torso, whispering something into her ear which caused her to break out into yet another blush. The girl stepped away from him and nodded, her eyes leaving his as she smoothed down her dress. She sent me another sheepish smile before making her way past me, opening the door to expose the rowdy conversation of the bar’s other patrons.

“Sorry, again.” She sheepily whispered as she passed me, a dazed smile still on her face as she turned to look at the man leaning against the liquor shelf one last time.

I cleared my throat, biting back a laugh as I forced myself to nod slowly and plast an assuring smile onto my lips. I watched her make her way down the hallway, disappearing into the crowd of drunk, sweaty bodies.

“This must happen to you all the time.” The remaining figure in the stock room spoke, his deep voice having a slight Irish accent to it.

I furrowed my eyebrows and licked over my lips before spinning around to face him. His hands were shoved into the back pockets of his jeans as he looked me square in the eye. This guy sure had some confidence what with being naked merely two minutes ago. The knowing smirk on his face told me that his smolder had an expected affect on women, that it had a sure success rate. I couldn’t blame him. I knew a number of women that would have jumped him right then and there. Maybe it was the way his golden hair was ruffled slightly to imply how easily fingers could run through it and would still look just as perfectly tousled, if not better. Or maybe it was the way his eyes crinkled when he smirked like that, as if he knew something about you, something you didn’t know, something you were more than eager to find out. Whatever it was, I’d be damned if I let myself get sucked in. I’ve seen guys like him before, they thrived on the assurance of being lusted after. And unlucky for him: assurance, I was determined not to give.

“No. I can’t say I walk in on too many stock room booty calls.” I shook my head slowly, refusing to remove my unfaltering stare from his.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth pulling into a small smile. “I’m mistaken then.”

I nodded, raising an eyebrow as if to question him. He took in a deep breath and rocked back and forth on his feet for a few seconds before clucking his tongue in finality and breaking eye contact with me to roll his eyes at the ceiling. “I should probably get going then.”

I stepped aside, moving to allow him easy access to the door; not without detecting the faint scent of his unique cologne: spicy, freshly clean, and the unforgiving scent of alcohol. It was enough to entice but not enough to sustain admiration from a distance meaning that whoever he passed, would have no other choice but to stare at him for across the room and weigh the pros and cons of approaching him. Clever.

“It isn’t illegal, you know?” He stopped in front of me, his Irish accent more prevalent now that he stood merely inches away. “There is no law against frickle-frackle in the back room of bars.”

“You bothered to look that up?” I said, an unexpected amusement in my tone. “The consequences of ‘frickle-frackle.’”

“Something like that.” He nodded, a smile making its way onto his lips.

His eyes scanned my face for a few moments. Now that he was in such close proximity, I found it harder to maintain my unrelenting stare. I watched his eyes, his green orbs scan every curvature of my face. It was like I stood bare in front of him, like all of my secrets were ready at his disposal. That’s exactly what his gaze did; I understood it now, why that girl walked out of her so dazed. His smolder made people feel naked, like he knew everything and you wanted to know what exactly he knew. He leaned in closely, so that his lips were right beside my ear. I stood paralyzed, my arms tightly wound across my chest.

“Do you mind,” he whispered, his cool breath breathing on the exposed skin of my neck. I was suddenly aware that if I so much as turned my head, his lips would be on mine. And then, I cursed my mind for allowing that realization to occur.

“…handing me my helmet?” He finished, leaning back to his original standpoint, his transfixed on my face.

I inhaled sharply and snapped out of my trans before stepping back, my expression contorting into one of confusion. “Your helmet.”

“Yes.” He smirked, pointing past me. “My helmet.”

I spun around and looked at a shelf of glasses, coasters, napkins. My gaze continued to scan the shelves and my eyes widened as I finally realized what he was referring to. Shoved into the corner, in between two paper packages of napkins, was a red motorcycle helmet. I licked over my lips and made my way over to the shelf, pulling out a package of napkins and the helmet. I spun around and cleared my throat, tossing him the helmet, which he accepted with every bit of ease possible.

“Thank you,” he smiled, looking down at my chest, “Arizona.”

My eyes snapped down to his sight of interest, confused as to how he knew my name. I scoffed, my hands brushing over the bronze, company nametag that read my name in big, block letters. I rolled my eyes, my fingers reaching up to pull the name tag off my blouse and tossing it to my purse in the corner of the room. When I looked back up at the door frame, he was gone, along with my prized anonymity.