Dreamscape Through Vanity | San Juanico Series #3

CHAPTER 2: Booth or Beginning

11:42 PM

The phone rings right when Val's third glass of red wine finally stops tasting like regret and starts tasting like a decision.

"Carmel?" Val answers, thumb already swiping mascara that isn't there. "It's midnight. You better be on fire." Carmel says,

"I am," Val can hear the club bass bleeding through the line like a second heartbeat. "I'm at Eclipse. There's an open bar 'til 5 and exactly three men here who know what a c**t is. Statistically, you need to be one of them."

Val laughs before she means to. "Carmel, you know the club isn't the best way to find a lover."

"And dating apps are?" Carmel snorts. "Valentina, you've been 'focusing on yourself' for years. Self-care isn't going to bring you to orgasm."

Val closes her eyes. The apartment is too quiet. Her plants are doing fine. Her job is fine. She is fine. That's the problem.

"Thirty minutes," she hears herself say. "I leave at one, no matter what."

"Wear the black dress," Carmel says. "The one you bought after the breakup and never used because it says 'I don't need you' and you were too petty to prove it wrong."

Val hangs up and stares at the dress hanging on the back of her door.

She wears the dress.

Eclipse is exactly what she expects: too loud, too sticky, too many men trying to sell her on tequila shots like it's personality. Carmel finds her in five minutes, already three drinks in, already dancing with a guy whose belt buckle says *Lone Star* in rhinestones.

"You came!" Carmel yells over the music, grabbing Val's hand and pulling her into the crowd.

"You said thirty minutes!"

"That starts now."

They dance. Val forgets why she said no. The wine in her system meets the wine on the dance floor and the line between drunk and sober turns blurry in the good way. Someone buys them shots. Carmel trades numbers with a guy who has a tattoo of a wolf howling at a moon that looks suspiciously like a dog. Val flirts with a bartender who calls her "ma'am" and she decides she likes it.

At 1, her feet hurt. The black dress is too tight around the ribs. She taps Carmel's shoulder.

"Break," she mouths.

Carmel nods and points to the leather booths against the back wall, away from the speakers where the bass is less of a physical assault and more of a suggestion.

Val slides in, pulls her knees up, and finally breathes.

That's when she notices the guy.

He's not looking at her. He's nursing a whiskey, sleeves rolled up, forearms with that faint scar tissue look that comes from years of actual work, not CrossFit. He's not on his phone. He's just... sitting. Like he's also reached his thirty-minute limit.

"You look like you want to leave but your ride's here," he says without turning.

Val blinks. "You talk to everyone like that?"

"Only the ones who look tired." He finally glances over. Mid twenties. Dark hair, cut short. Eyes that don't do the usual once-over. "I'm Perseus."

"That's a lot of name for a Tuesday night."

"My friends call me Pat." He offers a hand. "Perseus is for resumes and bar tabs."

Val shakes it. His grip is firm, dry. No lingering. "Val for Valentina"

"Val," he repeats, like he's testing it. "You don't look like a Val."

"What does a Val look like?"

"Someone who Googles people before they date them."

She laughs, surprised. "You Googled yourself?"

"Yeah. Perseus gets weird results. Lots of mythology. Lots of porn. I stick with Pat."

They sit in silence for a minute. It's not awkward. It's the kind of silence you get when two people are both waiting for the night to give them a reason to go home.

"You here with someone?" he asks.

"My friend Carmel. She's the one in the denim miniskirt trying to teach a guy how to do the cha-cha."

Pat follows her nod, spots Carmel, and winces. "You have my condolences."

"Carmel thinks I'm not trying hard enough."

"Are you?"

Val considers. The wine says yes. The last two years say no. "I'm trying not to try."

"That's exhausting."

"Tell me about it."

Pat tips his glass toward her. "So we're both bad at this."

"Seems like it."

The music shifts. Something slow, something that makes the couples on the floor sway closer than they need to. Pat doesn't stand. Val doesn't either.

"What do you do?" she asks.

"I restore motorcycles. Old ones. '67 Triumphs, '79 Hondas. Things that don't run until you convince them to."

"That sounds... specific."

"It is." He smiles, small. "Most people don't get it. They want new. I like fixing what's broken."

Val looks at him. Gaze like searching for proof. There's grease under his fingernails that didn't come off. A line on his left eyebrow that's not a scar, but close. And sticker kind of motorcycle boy will pull on his transparent phone case. He's not trying to be attractive. He just is, in the way that makes you notice two minutes later.

"You ever try fixing people?" she asks.

Pat shakes his head. "People don't come with manuals. Motorcycles do."

Fair.

Carmel appears, grabs Val's empty glass, and drops a new one in her hand. "You're still here. Good. Pat, right? I've seen you around. You're the quiet one."

"Guilty," Pat says.

Carmel narrows her eyes, then grins. "You two look like you're having the kind of conversation that leads to regret or a really good story. I'm rooting for story." She disappears back into the crowd before either of them can answer.

Val takes a sip. It's not her drink. It's something citrus and cold.

Pat notices. "Not yours?"

"No. But it's good."

"Don't drink it if you didn't order it."

"I know." She sets it down. "Old habits."

He nods. No question. Just understanding.

One-thirty comes and goes. Carmel texts: *I'm leaving with Lone Star. Don't wait up. Be safe.*

Her shoulders drop half an inch. The apartment's only one bedroom. Thin walls. She's already picturing it: her key in the lock at 2 a.m., Carmel on the couch, Lone Star in the doorway with that smirk.

Pat notices. "What's wrong?"

Val holds up her phone, doesn't say anything at first. Then "It's just... it's going to be awkward if I go home now. Carmel and Lone Star are probably already in the next room. I'll hear them. Or they'll hear me. Either way, awful."

Pat follows her gaze to the street, then back to her. He's not grinning. Not teasing. Just reading her face.

"How about your parent's or sibling's house? Are they nearby?" he asks.

Val opens her mouth, then closes it. The club's nearly empty. The cold air outside just hit her ten minutes ago and she's already over it.

Pat reads that too. "Or," he says, nodding toward the bike, "I can take you to my place. No malice. Just... you don't have to go back there if you don't want to."

Val stares at him. "Your place?"

"Spare couch. Clean sheets. No one else there." He holds up both hands, empty. "Friendly concern. That's it. You can bail the second we get in if it feels weird."

The offer's so straightforward it disarms her. No angle. No push.

Val looks at the motorcycle, then at Pat, then at her phone. Carmel's already sending a laughing emoji.

"Fine," she says, standing up. "But if you try anything, I'm walking home."

Pat smirks, grabs the spare helmet. "Deal. Engines don't try things. I don't either."

Twenty minutes later, they're in his place. It's exactly what you'd expect: concrete floors, a bike lift in the corner, a bed that's been made exactly once this week. Books on the shelf. No photos. No clutter. No attempt to impress.

Pat puts the kettle on. "Tea?"

"You don't strike me as a tea guy."

"I'm not. But it's the only thing I have that's not whiskey."

Val sits on the edge of the bed. The black dress is riding up. She doesn't fix it.

Pat comes back from the kitchen half-naked, sweatpants low on his hips, no shirt, hair still damp from rinsing his face. The room's quiet except for the kettle clicking off.

Val feels it instantly. Lust, sharp and sudden, straight up her spine to the base of her skull. No buildup. Just there, like someone flipped a switch.

She's curious. Her right palm starts burning, but she doesn't care. Instead, she lays it still at the top of her thighs. It's not shaking. Just calm, steady, certain.

Pat sets the cup down on the nightstand between them and sits beside her, close enough that his knee brushes hers.

Val doesn't look at him. She drops her gaze to the tea instead, steam curling up between them. Fingers lift, tuck her hair behind her ear in one automatic move. Anything to not meet his eyes.

Pat notices. Not the hair. The mole. Small, dark, right at the back of her ear near the nape where her neck curves down.

"It's rarely beautiful," he says, low. "People don't notice it's there."

Val's breath catches. She finally looks up.

Pat's already looking. Not at her eyes. At her mouth.

"You don't have to," he says.

"I know."

"But you want to."

Val looks at him. "Do I?"

He leans in slow, checks that she doesn't pull back, then brushes his mouth against hers. Soft at first, testing. Val meets it, hands resting on his jaw, thumb catching the rough line of his eyebrow scar.

Pat pulls her closer by the waist, one hand sliding under the back of the dress, palm warm against her skin. Not rushing. Just holding, like he's making sure she's really there. Val breathes out, fingers tightening in his hair, and that's when the kiss deepens.

He shifts, guides her back onto the bed with both hands on her ribs, careful with the fabric. His mouth leaves hers, trails down her neck, slow and deliberate. One hand moves up, thumb brushing along her collarbone, then lower, fingers finding the edge of her dress and lifting it just enough.

When he touches her, it's not performative. Palm flat, thumb circling. Val's breath catches, and she grips his shoulder, nails pressing in.

Colliding, they move together, awkward in the way two tired people are when they don't want to fake it. Pat's focused, forehead against hers, whispering "Baby, I'm close..." between breaths. Val moaned his name then pulls him closer.

He's not lasting. Thirty, forty seconds in and his breathing changes, hips stuttering. He feels it coming and tries to slow, but doesn't. He comes with a muttered "s**t" against her shoulder, body going rigid for a second, then softening.

The room goes quiet except for both of them breathing hard.

Pat rolls onto his back, hand still on her hip like he doesn't know whether to let go. He stares at the ceiling for a second, then looks at her.

"Sorry," he says, rough and immediate. "I didn't- I should've waited."

The s*x isn't good. Not really. He's eager, clumsy, a little too focused on making sure she's okay to actually be in it. He asks "Is this alright?" three times. He misses every rhythm she's trying to set.

Val stops him after. "You're thinking too much."

Pat pulls back, sits up, runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Sorry."

She expects him to get defensive. To make a joke. Instead he just nods. "I'm better with engines."

Val laughs, short and real. "No shit."

They lie there, side by side, staring at the ceiling. The room smells like motor oil and cheap soap and her perfume.

"You're not what I expected," Pat says after a while.

"Good or bad?"

"Different." He turns his head. "You're not trying to prove anything. Most people here are."

"So are you."

"No." He thinks about it. "I'm just tired of being alone in a room full of people."

Val gets that.

She tells him about the breakup she had on early 20's, he moved for work and decided he didn't want to move her with him. She says it flat, no drama. Pat listens. Doesn't fill the silence. Doesn't try to fix it.

He tells her about his brother. Died three years ago, bike accident. That's why he started restoring them. "Felt like if I could keep one running, maybe I could keep him somewhere."

Val doesn't say *I'm sorry*. She reaches over and covers his hand with hers.

They talk until 5 a.m. About nothing and everything. About how Carmel means well but pushes too hard. About how his shop landlord wants to raise rent and he's not sure he can stay. About how Val's job is safe but dead and she doesn't know what she'd do instead.

She sits up. "I should go."

Pat nods. Doesn't try to stop her.

He walks her to her Uber. Helps her with the door. Doesn't kiss her goodbye.

"You'll text?" he asks.

Val pauses. "I don't know."

"Neither do I." He smiles. "But if you do, I'll answer."

She does text. At 9 a.m., when she's hungover and coffee isn't helping:

*You were bad in bed.*

He replies in three minutes:

*I know. Coffee Saturday? I'll be better at that.*

Val stares at the screen. Deletes *no*. Types *okay*.

Sends it.