Contracted Desires

Emma Brooks leaned against the bar's polished counter and ran her fingertips down the rim of a shattered glass. The amber liquid inside glistened in the faint, flickering neon light above. This small tavern smelled like whiskey spills and fading dreams, yet it felt right today, even though it wasn't her usual atmosphere. She wasn't here to fit in; she was here to disappear. She had been emailed earlier that day to inform her that she had been turned down for yet another job. This time, they hadn't even attempted to sugarcoat it. "We regret to inform you…" was nearly engraved on her heart by this time. Even though she tried her hardest to be strong for her sister, the weight of unpaid bills and frequent hospital visits was tearing her down. "Another?" the bartender inquired, nodding at her nearly empty glass. Emma hesitated. "No," she responded, holding the glass closer. "This is fine." She wasn't ready for a public breakdown, and drinking too much could exacerbate her illness, so money wasn't the only consideration. The bell over the door jingled, and for a time the pub's noise stopped. Emma didn't even check who had entered. This evening, distractions were prohibited. That's what she persuaded herself, anyway, until a smooth baritone pierced the faint hum of conversation. "Is this seat reserved?" Her head turned on its own. His tailored coat stood out sharply against the pub's dilapidated décor. His dark hair framed a chiseled face, and his penetrating gray eyes were a mix of curiosity and indifference. Uncomfortable with his gaze, Emma paused. Finally, she moved a little to give space and muttered, "No." As he sat beside her, the faint scent of something expensive, leather, perfume, or maybe just him, drifted past her. With a gesture toward his own drink, he told the bartender, "You don't seem like the type to drink alone." Emma snorted and laughed without a hint of humor. "What kind would that be, exactly?" "The type that looks like they've got it all together," he said, his eyes unwavering. However, I suppose appearances can be deceiving. She gave a slight twitch. "How about you? Why would a person like you wind up here? "A person similar to me?" His lips quirked into a little grin. "Be careful, you're beginning to come across as judgmental." Emma gulped a response. There was something angry and calm about him, and he seemed to take pleasure in making people wriggle. Still, she found herself oddly drawn to him. "Well, if you must know," she said sarcastically, "I'm celebrating another spectacular failure." "Interesting way to celebrate." He sipped his drink slowly. "How about you? What is your reason for being present? He leaned back slightly and his eyes narrowed as if he was weighing how much to reveal. "Let's just say I needed to escape my obligations." "Sounds vague," Emma remarked, trying to conceal her curiosity. With a flippant tone that was tinged with something she couldn't quite place, he shot back, "Vagueness can be a virtue." They continued to joke around, each exchange exposing a new level of nuance. Emma could feel herself relaxing, forgetting for a moment the stress of the day. He had a way of blurring the world around her, regardless of who he was. Unaware of the time, the somber bar became quieter as patrons started to go. Emma felt herself laughing, laughing hard, for the first time in weeks. "So, I suppose you're some sort of enigmatic recluse with a troubled past and too much money to spend?" she said, swirling the remainder of her drink. He laughed deeply and sincerely. "Something along those lines," he said in response. "Though I’d argue it’s not as glamorous as it seems." The word "glamorous" is not one that Emma would use, she said to herself. He tilted his head in her direction. Finally, with more composure, he responded, "You're different." Emma froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. "Different how?" "Most people either try too hard to impress me or shun me entirely. However, you... His eyes met hers as he faded off. "You don’t seem to care who I am." Her heart was pounding, but she snapped, "That’s because I don’t know who you are." He smiled slightly and said, "Exactly." The air between them was heavier because of an unstated charge. Emma's mind was racing, torn between wanting to flee and wanting to see where this was headed. "Want to leave this place?" His deliberate, weighted question hung in the air. Emma was taken aback by the suggestion and blinked. "Excuse me?" He whispered, "Calm down," but his sharp eyes remained fixed. "If you’re worried I’m a serial killer, I’m not." A small, nervous smile appeared on her face. "A serial killer would say exactly that." His laugh was genuine and disarming. "Touché." Emma hesitated. She hardly knew this man, so every rational part of her told her that this was a poor idea. However, there was a fascinating mix of danger and fascination about him that made her want to dismiss caution. She nodded before she could convince herself otherwise. "Why not?" He got up and reached out to her. She hesitated for a second before accepting it, his hold hard and steady. The ride to his flat was a blur, with the sleek black car's windows flashing with city lights. Emma was excited and nervous at the same time. This was something she had never done before. His house was as large, contemporary, and luxurious as she had envisioned when they got there. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, and the simple architecture radiated subtle elegance. He broke the stillness by asking, "Impressed?" Emma refused to give him the satisfaction and crossed her arms. "It’s nice." "Just nice?" he teased, taking a step closer. As he got closer, her heart pounded. She felt her breath catch because his stare was nearly too intense. "This doesn’t have to mean anything," he remarked in a remarkably calm tone. "No strings attached, no expectations." Emma felt her heart thumping in her ears. Even if every fiber in her body begged her to leave, the pain of loneliness and the attraction of his presence were too strong to ignore. Whispering, "I understand," she said. When their lips connected, she felt a burning she hadn't felt in years, and her doubts disappeared. She had no idea who he was, and she didn't give a damn tonight. Emma discovered the bed beside her vacant the following morning. There was a folded note with tasteful calligraphy on the pillow: "Thank you for the distraction." Reality hit her chest like a ton of bricks. Who was he? And why did she think she had just committed a mistake that could never be undone?