The Devastating Mr. Wilder

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

—Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet 17

I’d always thought of New York as something straight out of the movies—the Manhattan skyline at night and digital billboards which flashed intermittently across Fifth Avenue at all hours, couples walking hand-in-hand during winter as a lone saxophonist played with his instrument case open so passersby would drop whatever change they managed to scrounge up to show that they appreciated him.

Barely maintaining my balance in the sky-high heels I had on as I held back Paula’s hair while she puked her guts into a toilet, however, was proving to be an effective reminder that Hollywood had been built on nothing but lies.

“Are you finished?” I asked my best friend after a long moment passed, and she leaned back onto her haunches, giving me an almost pitiful thumbs-up as she used the back of her hand to wipe at her mouth.

Unsurprisingly, I found my eyes trailing down to the spot where her knees met the bathroom floor and swallowed down bile as my mind conjured up an image of tiny bacteria crawling up her legs from the ground to form homes in her pores. Quickly, I looked away, focusing on the task at hand: making sure my best friend got nothing unsavory on her hair.

“Yeah,” Paula said hoarsely, most likely a side effect of the fact that she’d spent the past ten minutes vomiting. “Yeah, I think I’m good.”

Still, she remained motionless, and as a result, I did too.

The fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom were tinged a dark shade of neon pink that made my dress appear so crimson it looked black, and through the soles of my heels, I could feel the bass of the speakers as they thumped, reverberating up my legs and leaving me with a headache.

A club was the last place on Earth that I wanted to be in, but Paula had insisted, using the guise of my move as an occasion which warranted a celebratory girl’s night out. Completely ignoring all of my protests, she’d rummaged through my wardrobe for clothes, discarding everything until she came upon a red dress so short it could’ve been a top in its own right, which I’d impulse bought at a Nordstrom store but never had the nerve to wear out in public. Triumphantly holding it up, she’d declared that I was about to have a night I would never forget.

In some ways she’d told the truth, though I guess the both of us cramped into a tight bathroom stall barely forty-eight hours after I’d touched down in Manhattan hadn’t been how she’d predicted the evening would go.

As if she could read my thoughts, Paula said, “I did not see this night going the way it has so far.”

She made to stand up and would’ve fallen headfirst into the toilet if I hadn’t caught her at just the last second, planting my legs wide apart to support her weight and mine.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she protested, “just dizzy. But it’s worn off; stupid stomach bug.”

Ignoring her words, I relinquished my support only after I was sure she could stand upright and not a minute before.

“You know, it’s not too early to head back home,” I said in reply to her earlier statement. A quick glance at the gold link wristwatch I never took off told me it was only a quarter to twelve, considerably early for a weekend night, especially when you considered the fact that tomorrow was a Sunday.

“We’ll salvage the rest of the evening,” I rushed on hopefully, noticing the firm expression as it began to settle on her face. “Put on our PJs, stuff ourselves full of microwaved popcorn, and binge-watch Gossip Girl?”

We’d met at a student’s orientation in our freshman year off college, and I recognized that look for what it was. Paula had never been the type to let go of an idea easily, and as soon as she got one into her head, she’d see it through to the very bitter end. Stomach bug be damned.

“No,” she said, vehemently shaking her head. “This place had a weeks-long waitlist, and I had to pull a lot of strings to see that we’d have the night of our lives. And that’s what we’re going to do.”

Her tone brokered no room for arguments, and as if to underscore her point, she glided past me with the grace of an empress, heading straight to the restroom, where she rinsed her mouth before holding out a hand for her little clutch, which I passed to her obediently.

Out of it she pulled out a bottle of pills that she uncapped, retrieving a single tablet that she dry-swallowed, and then tube of lipstick, which she applied generously. Our eyes met in the mirror briefly before she looked away, leaving me to stare into my reflection in the mirror: lips a perfect red bow, with hair pulled up into a sophisticated bun which left stray tendrils falling over my collarbone.

The effect was stunning, rendering me in ways that were at once innocent, but dangerous too, and it crossed my mind that if I looked like this all the time then maybe David wouldn’t have cheated, effectively throwing out five years’ worth of a love I’d anchored myself to and built my identity around out the window. And if that hadn’t happened, maybe I’d be comfortably tucked away in our apartment right now, not in a new city or this bathroom shackled with a best friend who believed in alcohol as the one true remedy—however temporary—to curing a broken heart.

“Hey, Rory,” Paula called, snapping me out of my reverie. It took me a moment to realize that she had been calling my name, and I blinked, pasting on a bright smile to ease the worry I could see etched on her face.

“You good, babe?” she asked, and I realized that she was offering me a get-out-of-jail free card. One word out of me and we would be headed out of here just as swiftly as we’d arrived. What I’d wished for with every fiber of my being since Paula suggested this outing.

But giving in at that moment felt like an admission of surrender to David, proof that even with over two hundred miles between us, he could still affect me in a thousand little ways.

The anger came as a welcome gift, rising up from somewhere deep inside, and I embraced it wholeheartedly.

Making a show of rolling my shoulders like I was about to get into a fighting ring, I shot Paula a wicked smile.

“Not really, but having the best night of my life could change that,” I said, watching a similar smirk creep up her face.

“That’s my girl,” Paula murmured, blowing me a wink and kiss before interlacing her arm through mine. “Tonight, we’re raising hell and showing the devils how it’s done.”

Together, we exited the restroom.

•

Unsurprisingly, my bravado escaped me as soon as we arrived on the dance floor, a landscape of bodies pressed together awash in strobes of red and green from the rotating lights in the ceiling.

It wasn’t until Paula tugged at my arm that I realized I’d stopped moving, and my anxiety must’ve come rolling off in waves as her gaze softened, and she offered an encouraging smile.

“Just one dance,” she said, having to lean over and shout so I would hear her over the music. “One dance, and if you aren’t feeling it, we’ll go home and watch Gossip Girl, deal?”

I said nothing, and Paula must’ve taken that as all the answer she needed as she made to pull me to the dance floor, but I remained rooted. She turned to me, a puzzling and somewhat annoyed look flashing across her face.

“Rory, I know this isn’t your type of place,” she began—no shit, I thought—“but this is New York, and sooner or later, you’re going to need to come out of that shell, or this city will eat you alive. Live a little!”

A beat passed between us, and then I let out a defeated sigh.

“One dance,” I shouted, holding up a finger, “and after that, we’ll head home.”

“Yes!” Paula said, the corner of her eyes crinkling in delight as she grabbed my palm and pulled me into the crush, pausing for a moment to get her bearings before deftly skillfully weaving through the masses until we got to a shaded area of the floor that wasn’t as cramped. Then, she turned, flashing me a mischievous grin which I found myself returning.

With both of my hands clasped in hers, she began to dance, slowly at first for my benefit, as I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t crash to the floor at any second in the shoes I had on. I rarely ever wore heels, and so when I did, there was a moment of acclimatization, after which I got the hang of things.

But walking was one thing and dancing another; still, I was a fast learner, and pretty soon, we we’d dominated our own little corner—the darkness allowing me a level of confidence I usually wouldn’t have had in public as I began to sway my hips from side to side.

I’ll admit it; I was a pretty good dancer.

Even without the years of ballet lessons I could boast of, I’d always loved the act of it giving into your body’s impulses, letting them take over. Paula knew this, as she was one of the only people I felt comfortable enough to dance in front of, and had used it to her advantage as I realized after what must’ve been fifteen minutes of nonstop dancing that I realized how much fun I was actually having.

We paused to catch our breaths, and I marveled at Paula’s hairstyling prowess as, somehow, my up-do had remained intact through the whole exercise.

“One dance and we’re out, right?” Paula teased, to which I replied by turning around and giving a small shake of my ass.

She bent over and laughed at the novelty of my antics. As Paula straightened, a Top 40 song that even I recognized as being the country’s unofficial summer jam started up to shouts of approval from the crowd, and it was like an electric current ran through everyone. Even I found myself dancing with renewed vigor, fingers playing at the hem of my already sinfully short slip of a dress.

I closed my eyes and let the music take over, allowed my body to do the talking as I gave into the luxury of completely forgetting where I was.

All too soon, I was jolted out of this state when I felt a prickling sensation start up on my skin. My eyes flew open, and I whirled around to find there was no one behind me. I stilled, letting my eyes scan the dance floor for anything out of the ordinary—a task that left me feeling sorely disappointed, as my search revealed nothing to me except people intent on having a good time.

And so, I broadened my horizons.

As Paula mentioned the club was a pretty high end one with two floors, each supported by Romanesque columns. We were on the ground floor, and so I looked up, and within seconds, I’d zoned in on a man on the second floor who stood with his hands splayed across the railings, legs planted firmly as he took in everything in the same way a king would a kingdom he’d built from the ground up.

He wore a button up, but that was all I could tell as he remained writhed in darkness in his secluded corner, which is why I found it surprising how I knew without a shadow of a doubt that his eyes were on me. I felt rooted to the spot, unable to move past the force of the invisible gaze of a man who could’ve been anyone. A stranger whose features I couldn’t even make out.

He didn’t budge, and neither did I as slowly a sliver of self-consciousness began to make its way through me, and I felt my face flare up. Swallowing, I realized that I was thirstier than I could ever remember being and with that came a sudden return to reality.

I looked to my side to find Paula still dancing, and when I called her name, she startled but composed herself in record time enough to let her know that I was going to get something to drink.

She informed me that the bar was located on the second floor before asking me to get her something on my way back, to which I nodded.

A cursory glance thrown over my shoulder as I made a beeline for the nearest staircase proved my suspicions that the man in shadows had disappeared.

By the time I arrived at the bar, I was panting with exertion from having climbed two flights of stairs after what must’ve been forty-five minutes of nonstop dancing, and my tongue felt dry and papery, as if someone had snatched it out of my mouth to run it over a length of sandpaper before returning it.

Starting to feel lightheaded from the thirst, I was unable to stifle the grateful sigh of relief that escaped my lips as I took a seat on one of the high barstools, easing the pressure caused by the shoes I had on off my pinched toes.

Two bartenders stood behind the granite topped bar island, and one of them, bearded with a nose ring and boasting heavily tattooed arms, leaned forward with an easy smile I found myself hesitantly returning.

“What can I get you?” he asked, and I was opening my mouth to answer when I realized that my mind had drawn up a blank.

Strange as it may have come across, my experience with things like this remained limited to the few frat parties Paula had managed to talk me into attending in our time at college, and between an overwhelming social anxiety and the fear that some predatory Greek life boy would take advantage of me if I got too inebriated, I’d only managed a few sips of cheap wine each time before quietly making my way out before 11 p.m.

As a result, in whatever group of friends I found myself in, I was always assigned the job of designated driver.

Now I was seated, paralyzed, wearing an expression that must have appeared to the barkeep as a deer caught in headlights at the thought of having to pick out a drink for myself. I resisted the urge to tap my fingers on the counter, betraying my nervousness, and instead cleared my throat.

“Could I get some water, maybe?” I said, inwardly preening at the mere fact that there hadn’t been a catch in my voice.

A funny look crossed his face, and a corner of his mouth quirked up as he pulled away for a short moment, digging beneath the counter until he came up with a sealed bottle of cold mineral water. Droplets splattered all over my hand as he placed it in front of me, and it was all I could do to not pop off the cap with my teeth and guzzle down the whole thing as my body demanded I should.

Instead, I murmured my thanks, uncapping the bottle like any normal human being would before pushing my head to take a big gulp of the cool beverage. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted in my life, and I could feel tears of relief pearl at the corner of my eyes as I took another unmeasured gulp, fighting down a wince when a wave of brain freeze hit me.

“Jesus,” I bit out, opening my eyes to find the barkeep flashing a grin at me.

“It’ll pass,” he said kindly, shaking his head when I offered him my credit card. “It’s on the house. Just let me know if you have any questions or need help choosing a drink.”

With one final wink he turned away, his warm smile intact as he took the order of a customer positioned two stools away from me.

Busying myself with finishing up my drink, I was aware of the fact that I probably looked like a deflated balloon at this point of the evening, sweaty and tired. The mineral water helped, but it still felt stiflingly hot—a result, I believed, of the mass of teeming bodies caught in an endless loop of movement one floor below.

I waited until it felt like I’d recovered most of my energy and ordered a pink margarita for Paula, knowing from personal experience that she lived off the beverage.

Having paid, I slid off my stool, drink in hand as I wracked my brain on how best I would carry it through the crowd below without having one drop spill, and I was so preoccupied going down this line of thought that it was too late to sidestep the man who approached me, so that even before I could fully comprehend what was going on, I’d spilled the margarita down the front of his expensive-looking blazer.

To his credit, he didn’t let out a yelp (though I couldn’t have said the same for myself) or try to raise his voice at me, and I could count the seconds that went by in which the both of us stared down his newly wet torso saying nothing, a spell which broke as soon as he uttered a single cuss word in a smooth and resonant baritone which flowed effortlessly out of him. I jumped into action, rummaging through my purse for a hanky which I held up triumphantly before making a move to dab at the blazer, but he silently sidestepped me, hands held up the as he ignored my flustered apologies.

He stalked away, powerful shoulders moving with barely suppressed feline grace beneath the clothes he had on. I figured he would be back and decided to wait for him.

Quickly, I pulled my phone out of my clutch and shot off a text to Paula, who I informed would have to make do on her own after debriefing her on what had gone down.

I wondered what I would say to the man if he returned to the bar. Definitely offer to foot the bill for dry-cleaning, I surmised. And maybe a round of drinks on me would take the sting out of things a little bit.

I couldn’t be sure, and so, to kill time, I let my eyes wander as I busied myself with finishing up my bottle of water. When I was through with it, I let my eyes peruse the digital menu splayed above the drinks cabinet until I came upon something vaguely familiar-sounding.

Hailing down the friendly barkeep, I ordered a Cosmopolitan and watched entranced as he built all the ingredients in an ice-filled shaker tine, which he then shook vigorously before straining into a martini glass garnished with a single lime wheel.

Beads of condensed liquid rolled down the body of the martini glass, and I was in the process of lifting it up to take a sip of the beverage when I sensed that I was being watched.

For the second time that evening, I’d just about begun my steady scan of the room, only it was interrupted by a man who slid into the stool beside mine, which registered as coming a little too close to comfort for my tastes.

A beat passed and then I recognized the man over whom I’d spilled Paula’s margarita, and then it took another before a bone-deep certainty gripped me that that this was the same man I’d caught staring at me earlier from his place behind the railing.

He’d changed into a short-sleeved silk button up that did wonders for his biceps, which flexed with the ease of one who dedicated at least four days every week to rigorous exercise sessions that would last for hours on end.

I was unnerved. First, because I still hadn’t caught a good glimpse of the man, but also because of how easily he ignored my overall existence despite having sat so close to me. I mean, that had to count for something.

“Excuse me,” I said against my better judgment, leaning ever so slightly forward.

My paltry attempt at subtlety must’ve fallen short as without a moment’s hesitation he turned, pinning me in place with eyes which could’ve ranged anywhere from ice blue to grey—in the ever-shifting lights of the club I could only make out the fact that they were light and not their exact color.

Inky black hair framed a magnificently sculpted face, on which sat a pair of surprisingly full lips, a Grecian nose, and cheekbones that Paula would’ve described as having been designed to cut down the enemy.

I tried to gather my thoughts, which scattered like sand, into a semblance of cohesive speech.

“Um, my drink,” I managed finally with a swallow, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. “Spilled, I accidently poured it down your blazer. I’m sorry.”

A long moment passed before he graced me with a reply, which came accompanied by an awkwardly self-conscious attempt at a smile that made his devastating handsomeness all the more maddening.

“Don’t worry. It’s already taken care of.”

“But I mean, I’d to pay for the dry-cleaning,” I insisted, feeling my heart skip a beat when a corner of his mouth turned down in a frown.

“Like I said, it’s already taken care of.”

Unsurprisingly, I was lost for words and found myself unconsciously reach for my martini glass. I knocked out a quarter of the Cosmo in a single gulp, barely registering its sour sweet taste, confronted as I was in that moment by the most exquisite specimen of masculinity I’d ever seen in my life.

He motioned at the same bartender who’d serviced me forward, and I noticed the big bear of a man shuffle up to us with a nervous smile.

“I’d like what she’s having,” he said with all the ease of a man used to having others scramble to fulfill his every whim, and in like fashion I watched Jerry jump deferentially—he literally jumped—to make his drink.

“I hope you know that that’s on me,” I cut in smoothly, doing the math in my head as I tallied up the figures of every cost I’d incurred that evening, hoping another set of drinks wouldn’t see me go bankrupt.

The mystery man shot me a look that I could only describe as giddy and nodded his acquiescence, and in reply, I took another sip of my drink.

Within moments, Jerry had strained his drink into a champagne flute and was topping it off with actual champagne.

“Here you go, sir,” he said, pushing the flute forward.

The man accepted it, offering Jerry a nod of appreciation which the big man seemed to preen over before holding out his glass and nodding at me in a gesture to suggest I mimic him, which I did.

Our glasses clinked softly, and I asked him what it was that we were cheering to.

“Alcohol,” he replied without the least bit of irony, before pushing his head back to take a gulp of his drink.

It must’ve hit him pretty hard, as Mystery Man (what I’d settled on calling him in my head) let out a bark of laughter that attracted curious looks from the other patrons. Looks he summarily dismissed as he braced his arms on either side of the counter before turning to face me.

“I’m Aurora,” I supplied even though he hadn’t asked, and only a second later did it dawn on me that I hadn’t given an alias as I was used to doing every time men hit on me in public.

Perhaps, it had everything to do with how disarmingly beautiful he looked and how even now I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that he wanted from me. I didn’t think it a coincidence that he’d watched me on the dance floor only to have us bump into each other, but the contradictions his actions presented left me maddened.

Paula would say that if a man wanted you, then it wouldn’t be up for debate, and usually, I agreed with this sentiment. Except, for all his self-possession and the easy swagger with which he carried himself, a part of me knew that in some way that we were kindred spirits, and he was as new to this as I was.

Either way, it didn’t look like he actually believed Aurora to be my given name, and I didn’t know if this relieved or irked me.

“I’m… Kane,” he said, and as soon as he spoke the words, I knew he’d given me a name that was not his, or at least one he wasn’t used to using.

I frowned, surprised at the sudden lance of hurt I felt go through my heart at the thought that this man—Kane, he’d said—hadn’t trusted me with his name and tried to mask this by taking another sip of my drink.

We made small talk, skittering around topics we forgot as soon as we moved onto the next one, the man offering to buy me another Cosmo when he saw I’d finished mine, so that as the night progressed, a feeling of complete contentment suffused me.

Also, I wanted this Adonis to push me flush up against a wall and screw me senseless.

I tried to recall the last time I’d had a man evoke this animal instinct within an hour of meeting them and came up with an answer fairly quickly: None. Not even David.

An interlude came in which conversation died down. Our gazes locked, and I felt a current of delicious electricity shoot through my nerves, my nipples, inside my thighs.

I don’t know who bridged the gap, but all of a sudden, we were kissing, and a far-off part of my consciousness scolded that we were in public, but I couldn’t care less, caught up as I was in the way our tongues battled for dominance until I ceded and watched myself take shape under his hands.

Finally, we pulled away, coming up for air, and it struck me that in that moment if I held a mirror up to my face, I wouldn’t recognize the girl who’d stare back, but my train of thought stuttered to a halt when I felt Kane’s hands engulf mine in his.

He threaded our fingers together, and I watched him swallow, realizing for the first time that he’d been as affected as I was by the kiss and found it shocking. Our hands remained like this for a second more, and then he pulled away, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair that had fallen loose behind my ear.

I could feel my heart flutter inside me.

“Would you like to get out of here?” Kane asked, looking directly into my eyes.