I remember the name of his car.
“C’mon,” he says and holds out his hand.
There’s nothing to stop me. There are no prying eyes here, and I do want to talk to him. Pushing the window open, I set my hands on the sill and hop up. I get one knee on the ledge then reach out, so Latson can help me crawl through. He ends up holding both my hands as he pulls me to stand in front of him.
“I haven’t snuck out a window since high school,” I say.
“It’s good to know you have a wild side.”
“So wild,” I joke and remove my fingers from his. I slide them into my back pockets.
He walks over to the edge of the fire escape, and I follow. He sits down, hanging his legs over the side. I sit beside him and do the same. The rough metal of the platform digs into my legs through my jeans, but I don’t mind. Once my eyes catch the view of the sleeping city, I’m kind of swept away. The twinkling lights and the muted sounds hint at the energy it holds during the day. It’s a different world up here in the dark.
“Where are your shoes?”
I stop my swinging legs and look at my socks. “I was getting ready for bed.”
“I told you not to fall asleep.”
My eyes swing from my feet to his face. “You’re not the boss of me.”
A slow smile takes over his features.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Cue the dimple. “Well, you do work for me, so ... I am the boss of you.”
He thinks he’s clever. “Very funny. That title only applies inside the walls of Torque. Outside, I’m just Jen and you’re just ...” I look him over. “You.” A very handsome, talented you wearing the Take Me Home t-shirt again, my mind adds.
“I’m glad you said that.” Latson moves over and ends up an inch closer to me. He produces his phone. “Can I get your number now?”
“Sure.” I recite my cell. He enters it, then says, “I’ll text you so you have mine.”
I don’t think twice about it.
As he’s busy tapping letters, I look over the city again. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? You could have asked for my number through the window.”
“I thought the fire escape would be romantic,” he teases. “I am, you know. In case you didn’t get the message earlier.”
“No, I got it,” I say. Every inch of me got it.
He puts his phone away. “So, what did you think?”
“Of the message?”
He nods.
I assume he wants me to tell him I dissolved into a puddle of goo, so I decide to mess with him. I let my voice get breathy and lower my lashes, channeling my inner Marilyn. “I ... I think ...” I turn toward him and slowly run one finger over the tattoos on his arm. “I think you’re an amazing singer.”
At first he looks puzzled, but then his confusion melts into satisfaction. I purposefully bite my lower lip and try to look seductive. He follows suit. His lowers his eyelids and stares at mouth, playing along. “Tell me how amazing I am.”
“Soooo amazing,” I repeat. I take my time trailing my finger back up his arm and pick up my breathing as I do. I lean forward, like I want to whisper in his ear. “I have something else to tell you. I can’t keep it inside. Not anymore.”
Latson meets my eyes and brings his hand to the side of my face. “Tell me, baby.”
I arch an eyebrow and bring my lips to his ear. “You’re a fucking liar.”
He quickly leans back and I poke him in the shoulder. “Why did you pretend to hate Ed?! You. Don’t. Mess. With. Ed!” I poke him in between each word.
Latson laughs and grabs my wrist.
“You suck,” I say.
He pulls me close. “I’ve been told I suck quite well, actually.”
It takes me a second to recover from his comment. I frown. “Talking about your sexual escapades will not get you into another woman’s pants.”
“Who’s talking about sex?”
“You are.”
He grins. “No. I was talking about popsicles.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Look who has the dirty mind,” he muses. “Maybe you’re the one trying to get into my pants.”
I need to redirect this conversation. “Fess up,” I say. “Tell me about Ed.”
He releases me a little. “I pretended not to like him because I could tell you did. It made you mad.” He turns my wrist over and kisses the inside of it. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
What just happened?
I pull my arm from this grasp and lean back. “I’m cute when I’m angry? That’s your excuse? I’d rather you think I was cute when I’m not pissed off.”
“I already do, but ...” He winks. “Noted.”
Okay. He’s kissed me and called me cute. He can’t be that desperate to hook up with someone. I’m sure Pete has warned him off me, just like he’s warned me off him.
Latson changes topics. “Honestly, though. What did you think? You play. Could you tell I haven’t performed in two years?”
I’m surprised. “No, not at all. You rocked that stage.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t play dumb. You owned the crowd. If I had a quarter of the talent you have ...” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be standing behind a bar.”
Latson looks intrigued. “You don’t like your job?”
“It’s not that. Bartending pays the bills.”
“But?”
“But, it’s not a career. I can’t be seventy and slinging drinks from my Amigo.”
He laughs. “Then what would you rather do?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.” I shrug. “Even as a kid, I didn’t know. After graduation, I got a job at a diner and my future was written.” I remember the constant questions from my parents and relatives. They always wanted to know when I was going to get a “real” job.
Latson nods in understanding. “I never knew, either. At least your parents didn’t pressure you. Mine were set on Columbia, followed by med school. I dropped out after the first semester.” He pauses. “Scratch that. I didn’t even make it through the first semester. I only left the dorm for parties and band practice.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I take it your dad wanted you to follow in his surgical footsteps?”
“He didn’t think I’d amount to anything as a musician.” Latson smirks. “I got to prove him wrong. For a few years, anyway.”
I don’t know what to say. I know his father is a sore spot.
“Have you considered playing?” Latson asks me.
“You mean professionally? No.”
“Why not? You could do local gigs.”
I laugh. “I’d never be able to support myself. No one would show up.”
“I’d show up,” he says and my pulse quickens. “You could always start at Torque,” he adds. “The stage is yours. Just tell me when you want it.”
I can’t lie. Performing there would be a rush. However ... “I don’t think so. I’m nowhere near your level or Dean’s.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Latson says. “You feel the music. It means something to you. Dean said it best: you’re a natural.”
Music does mean something to me. How many hours have I spent playing for fun, or to calm my nerves, or to forget something bad? “It’s my escape,” I confess.
Latson gives me a small, commiserative smile. “I know what you mean.”
A few silent moments pass before he looks down, his eyes landing on my hand. The heel is pressed to the fire escape and my fingers are curled over the edge. Slowly, he reaches over and traces two fingers over my skin. It’s the lightest of touches, yet heat blazes up my arm.
“You know,” he says, “I have a room upstairs I think you might like.”
Where did that come from? We were just sharing our pasts. I bite my lip.
“Do you want to see it?” he asks.
His eyes meet mine and they smolder. I never thought I would use that word, but it’s the only word to describe them. They burn. He can’t be asking what I think he’s asking.
Can he?
“I … I still work for you,” I stutter.
“You’re still hung up on that?” His fingers travel to my wrist. “Outside of Torque, I’m me and you’re you. You said it yourself.”
Shit. My mind races. “Oliver’s sleeping.”
Latson’s gaze goes back to his fingers, and his voice drops to a whisper. “So many excuses.” He leans toward me. “Why don’t you want to see my guitars?”