Lucian Divine

  “I’ll let it slide.”

  Only a few loners were sitting at the bar, but the music coming from a jukebox in the corner was really loud.

  “They should turn it down, huh?” I yelled.

  “You want me to ask?” Beckett yelled back.

  “Would you?”

  “No problem.” He got up and headed toward the bar.

  I saw him exchanging words with the bartender, then a man sitting at the end started talking to Beckett as well. I stared down at my drink and wondered if more alcohol was a good idea. When Beckett came back, the music was still hauntingly loud, playing “Bad Love” by Eric Clapton. I felt as if we were in a cheesy motorcycle movie. Beckett was bobbing his head to the beat and smiling. His demeanor had changed.

  “What did they say?” I yelled.

  “He said it’s a fixed volume. They can’t change it!”

  “What? That’s insane! I’ve been in here other times and the music wasn’t this loud!”

  “But it’s Clapton.” He was still bobbing his head.

  I appreciated his enthusiasm, but I didn’t feel like yelling over Clapton while I was trying to get to know Beckett. “What did the other guy say?”

  “The guy at the bar?”

  “Yeah!”

  We were still yelling across the table, ridiculously.

  “He was wasted. He said these were his picks and to fucking leave it, and then he rolled his eyes at me and said something like, ‘Elders are gone from the gate, young men from their music.’ He touched my forehead. I almost fucking slapped him.” Beckett looked at the ceiling. “The music is good though.”

  He must be kidding. “Is that a biblical reference?”

  “This song?” he asked, pointing up to the ceiling again.

  “No, what the guy said.”

  We were missing the mark. Our conversation was becoming more and more awkward by the second. The date was going downhill fast. All the smitten, shiny feelings were beginning to dull. This always happened to me.

  He shrugged. “No clue, man.”

  Did he just call me “man”?

  The next song came on, a slower, quieter acoustic ditty sung by a familiar voice. Beckett pointed at the speakers yet again and shouted, “Fuck yeah, Tom Waits!”

  It was the song “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love with You,” and Beckett knew every word. He serenaded me with his hand on his chest while I looked around for a hidden camera.

  “Am I being Punk’d?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that you’re pointing at me and saying you hope you don’t fall in love with me.”

  He shook his head as if I were confusing him. “I’m singing. What’s the big deal?”

  “Never mind!” I yelled. “Do you want to go to my apartment?” The music came to a screeching halt while I was mid-sentence, basically broadcasting my proposition to the entire bar.

  Beckett looked affronted. First time I’d offended a guy by inviting him over.

  “But the music is so good here,” he said.

  A moment later, the music was back on, and I swear it was even louder than before. I nodded, although I had never been so dumbfounded in my life. “Okay.”

  I finished my wine and watched Beckett continue, song after song, to flip out in excitement over the music.

  One o’clock and three glasses of wine later, the jukebox was still blaring random selections, even though I hadn’t seen anyone go near it. There were four barflies on stools and Beckett and me at a table, while the rest of the place was empty. My mind was clouded by his strange behavior, and my patience was growing thinner by the second. I had had enough.

  “I’m going home!” I yelled.

  When I stood, he smiled. He didn’t bother standing. He held up his hand and waved.

  “See ya!” he shouted over “Sad Angel” by Fleetwood Mac.

  What in the hell just happened?

  I was eager to get home to make sure I didn’t have a giant fleck of lettuce in my teeth. Apparently, Beckett was no longer into me—he was into classic rock. I walked two blocks and up two flights of stairs into my lonely, dark apartment. Brooklyn was still out.

  We had a corner in the Mission, which was expensive, but her very progressive parents were still paying for half of it, so we split the other two grand. That meant we had the nicest rental for the smallest amount of money in the area. It was a typical San Francisco third-floor apartment with a round-corner living room. Our place would have been amazing had Brooklyn not been the biggest slob in the world.

  I didn’t turn on any lights; I just stared out the window onto the street and played back the date in my mind.

  Did I act too whiney about the Tracey situation? Was I eating the ribs like a barbarian? Did he get a better look at my body and notice the saddlebags?

  I needed to stop obsessing, but I was still confused. Within a couple of hours, I had gone from I think this guy is going to be my boyfriend to I think this guy is clinically insane. I thought I knew him. I thought he liked me. I was seriously questioning my own character judgment.

  Brooklyn’s rules were running on a constant loop in my head, but still, I was undeterred. I needed to know what went wrong with Beckett. I had made up my mind; I was going to confront him.

  Stringing my purse across my chest, I skipped right back down the stairs and headed to the bar where I had left Beckett singing his heart out. The moment I walked through the door, I noticed the music was no longer blaring, the lighting was a little brighter, and there were at least fifteen more people at tables and at the bar itself. It had become a completely different place in less than thirty minutes. Buckley was crooning softly from the speakers, and Beckett was nowhere to be found.

  A moment later, my phone pinged with a text from him:

  Beckett: Sorry about tonight. I don’t know what came over me. It was like I was stoned in that bar, pullin’ a total Jerry. I’m really am sorry.

  Me: It’s cool.

  But really, it wasn’t cool. Pulling a Jerry? Seriously? Speak English. I didn’t know why I was back in that stupid bar looking for him anyway. I was currently ignoring Brooklyn’s rule number four: TAKE A HINT! But it was hard to tell what had happened between us. Maybe Beckett was too cool to cut our date off in a respectable way. After leading me on, he’d made a spectacle and then acted as though he’d been roofied. I was only twenty-four but already over dating games. My domestic future was looking bleak.

  “Need a drink, sweetheart?” came the bartender’s voice. I focused my attention on the bottles of alcohol.

  The only available stool was next to the guy Beckett had said was wasted. He was now slumped pathetically in the same stool he had been in earlier. I pulled the seat out and noticed the guy stiffen as I moved around to sit.

  “Something strong,” I said to the male bartender.

  I had been in that bar enough times to know it was the kind of place where you could say, “Something strong,” and the bartender would pour two ounces of Basil Hayden’s into a highball glass, and then slide it across the oak. The barstools were cracked and ripped, red vinyl that no one had bothered replacing in thirty years, but the bar top was meticulously polished to perfection every night. It’s called knowing what’s important when you own a dive bar.

  I sipped the bourbon and glanced at the drunken man to my right. He didn’t look particularly wasted. He was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, his expression was one of moderate fear. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. I swiveled my stool so that my entire body was facing him. He continued facing forward, his posture rigid.

  “Hello.” I was not a particularly social person, but I was intrigued by the strange comment he had made to Beckett earlier and by his bizarre music choices.

  He turned only his head toward me, slowly, with painful caution and mouthed, “Oh shit.”

  My eyes locked with his. I leaned in a fraction of an inch. Is that possible? Was it possible for a person to ha
ve hair that dark and eyes the color of blue phosphate, like a glacial depth with no end and no beginning? His hair was a longish mess combed back by his black Wayfarer sunglasses sitting askew atop his head. His lips were full and parted enough that I could tell he was breathing in and out through his mouth, his chest heaving. He was wearing a black T-shirt, black pants, and black boots. His face was all narrow sharp angles with two or three days of growth.

  “Hello,” he said wearily.

  He smelled faintly of Mentholatum and baby powder, as though somehow his breath, although completely pleasant, was thicker than air. Everything about him was intoxicating. I was already intoxicated enough.

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Evey.”

  Without moving his body a smidge, he glanced at my hand and stared at it long enough to make me uncomfortable, and then suddenly his eyes were back on mine.

  “Lucian,” he said, offering his name but still refusing contact.

  “You a germophobe or something, Lucian?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, absently as his eyes stayed fixated on my lips.

  “My friend who I was with earlier said you were wasted. You don’t seem wasted to me.”

  He jerked his head back and scrunched his eyebrows together as if I had wounded him.

  The bartender interrupted. “Oh, I assure you, he’s thoroughly sauced. He’s had a fifth of Jameson in two hours. I’m about to cut him off.”

  “One more,” Lucian said, pushing his empty glass across the bar. His voice was silky warm. He showed no signs that the alcohol had affected him.

  The bartender opened a new bottle, arched his eyebrows, and said, “Same as before?”

  “Please,” Lucian said.

  “Okay, man. I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you’re not causing trouble, so I guess it’s your call.”

  “Thank you,” Lucian said as the bartender filled the entire tumbler up to the top with brown liquid. My eyes went wide as Lucian lifted the glass to his beautiful mouth and took four large gulps.

  “Jesus Christ!” I mumbled.

  He turned back toward me, startled. “Where?” He didn’t sound angry but surprised.

  “Nothing.” I felt strangely comfortable next to him but equally tongue-tied.

  I didn’t think I had ever met a guy so uniquely good-looking. He could have been a print model, but his teeth were slightly imperfect. I looked down his long, lean body and tried to picture what was underneath his clothes. He swallowed nervously, and I realized I was making him uncomfortable.

  “This place is pretty old,” I said, trying to make conversation.

  “I like old,” he replied.

  “Well, if you’re worried about my germs, I’d consider this bar top and the dirty rag Chewbacca has been using to wipe it down.”

  Lucian didn’t flinch. He glanced at my mouth like he was about to kiss me. “You’ve had a lot to drink tonight.”

  Pointing at his chest and smiling, I said, “Pot,” then I pointed at mine and said, “kettle.”

  He laughed, and I liked the sound of it. It was contagious.

  “You got me,” he said.

  “So, tell me why you really wouldn’t shake my hand?”

  He stopped laughing, straightened his body, put his glass up, and drank the entire contents of it. This guy could put ’em away.

  “Last one, I promise,” he said, pushing the glass back across the bar. This time, he did sound slightly affected by the alcohol.

  The bartender shook his head but filled Lucian’s glass anyway, then he looked at me and said, “Will you vouch for me if this guy drops dead?”

  “I’m as shocked as you are,” I told him.

  Lucian ignored us, took a sip, set down the glass, swiveled his stool in my direction and stuck out his hand. “You’re right.” His voice was rougher, looser from the drink. “I was rude before. I’m Lucian. It’s nice to meet you.”

  When his hand met mine, there was a spark of static electricity. We both pulled back.

  “Ouch,” I squeaked.

  He laughed. “Sorry, try again?”

  His hand was warm and smooth. I felt energy in his grasp, almost like the warmth from our connected hands had begun traveling up my arm. I looked at my arm in disbelief just before Lucian yanked his hand back.

  “That was weird,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” He was searching my eyes.

  “Now tell my why you said ‘oh shit’ when you first saw me,” I said, my confidence growing with every sip of my bourbon. A high, deep dimple appeared on his right cheek. It was the only way I could tell he was smirking. “Well?” I pushed.

  His mouth flattened; he took a gulp of whiskey and then set down his glass. Our eyes locked. “I said it because I was awestruck by your beauty.” He was starting to slur, but he still had an elegance about him. Something in his mannerisms was mature for his age and refined, not a typical barfly slugging whiskey after midnight in a dive.

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say.

  Facing forward, he put his attention back on his drink. When he spoke again, he didn’t turn to look at me. It was as though he was talking to no one at all. “You should call it a night, Evelyn.”

  “Excuse me?” I hadn’t told him my name was Evelyn, but I assumed one could guess what Evey would be short for.

  Yanking a wallet from his back pocket, he said to the bartender, “Close us out, please.”

  When he threw his American Express across the bar, my jaw dropped to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, do we know each other? Do you actually think I’m going to leave with you?”

  He finished all of his whiskey then picked up mine and finished that as well.

  “Hey!” I said. “What do you think you’re doing?” After a moment, he stood and faced me, wobbling and squinting, trying to focus. “It’s finally catching up with you, isn’t it? You’re tossed, man.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I am. Shit.” He held the bar with his right hand, anchoring himself while he signed his receipt with his left. He was very obviously swaying now. “I’m going to use the restroom,” he slurred.

  When he stumbled away, Han Solo said, “That guy is gonna die… seriously. You don’t understand how much he’s had to drink.”

  “Maybe I should see if he wants me to call someone for him?”

  “Yeah, like an ambulance,” he shot back.

  “Listen, Han, you were the one who should have cut him off.” I scowled, but Han was watching something behind me. Before I could turn around, Lucian’s hand was on my shoulder. “Mmm.” I closed my eyes. Then I jerked up straight. “Oh my God, did I just do that?”

  The bartender nodded, trying to stifle a laugh.

  Lucian released his hand from my shoulder, so I swiveled around quickly to look at him. “Do you want me to call someone for you, Lucian? Like a friend or family member? You seem really drunk.”

  He shook his head, closed his eyes, and swayed as though he was going to fall down. “I’m going to walk you home. You live close by.”

  Peculiarly, I was touched by this mysterious and handsome drunk. “How do you know where I live? My house could be ten miles away. Maybe I took a cab here?”

  “Because I noticed that you left earlier and came back. I just figured you lived close by. You look familiar, like I’ve seen you in the neighborhood.”

  I knew I had never seen him. No woman could forget a face like his. “I don’t know if I need an escort, but thank you. I might stay and have another drink.”

  “Not a good idea, Evey. You hate hangovers.”

  “Do I?” I arched my eyebrows. He was so drunk he was acting as though we knew each other. It was comical and a little creepy.

  “Well, everyone hates hangovers.”

  “True, and you are going to have quite the hangover tomorrow, buddy. I don’t think you need to worry too much about me.”

  He squinted and smiled faintly, like he had found some kind of ironic humor in my comment. We were staring at each other silently
, with this unusual sense of knowing and attraction that I didn’t understand.

  Chewbacca walked by and said in a non-Wookiee voice, “He’s harmless. Even if he had bad intentions, do you really think he could pull it off? Look at him.”

  “Okay, well, listen for my screams. I only live a couple of blocks away.”

  When I looked back at Lucian, his eyes were closed and he was swaying again. I should have been more scared of him, but I wasn’t. I got up to leave, and like a puppy dog, Lucian followed me without a word. Out on the street, he took my hand as though he needed me to guide him while he shuffled along a step behind me.

  “I think I’m doing more of the ‘walking someone home’ than you are.” I could still feel the comforting warmth and strange magnetism in his hand.

  “You see me, I’m always here,” was all he said.

  “At that bar? No, I’ve never seen you there before, and I’ve been there at least ten times.”

  “Right,” he agreed, closing his eyes again.

  “Don’t pass out on me.” When we reached my building, I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. “This is me. I gotta go. Do you know where you are?”

  “Yeah, I’m at your building,” he slurred. He kept blinking, trying to focus. “I’m okay. You can go.” He nodded toward the door. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay, bye… be safe,” I called back. While I unlocked the door from the street leading into our building, I turned and noticed he was still watching me.

  “I’ll wait until you’re in,” he said.

  At that point, it had already been the single most bizarre night of my life.

  JUST GO IN, Evelyn. Quit looking back. Forget what I look like.

  Zack is always talking about the rules. “They exist for a reason,” he likes to say, though none of us actually know what the reasons are. I was currently breaching too many of the rules to count. Plus I was drunk again and a hundred percent sure I was going to hear about it from Mona as soon as the night was over.

  Just before Evelyn entered the building, she turned back to me and said, “Do you want to come up… sleep it off on the couch? My roommate is probably home so…”

  She was saying her roommate was home so I wouldn’t think she wanted to sleep with me. So transparent, Evelyn, really!