The After-Party
905 Words
The place Derek knew wasn't a place; it was his place.
Marshall & Rye was closed on Sunday nights, but he had a key. The cab dropped us in a quiet, cobblestoned corner of the West Village, and he unlocked a heavy oak door with a frosted glass window.
Inside, it was dark, warm, and smelled of polished wood, leather, and the faint, rich ghost of aged whiskey. He flipped a few switches, and soft, golden light from industrial-style lamps washed over the space. It was all deep mahogany, exposed brick, and brass fixtures. It was sophisticated but lived-in, exactly like the man who owned it.
"Home sweet home," he said, tossing his keys into the bar. "Or at least, the second one."
"It's beautiful," I said, my voice hushed. This wasn't the crowded, noisy hotspot I'd imagined. This felt like a sanctuary.
"Thanks. I'll give you the ten-cent tour later. First, sustenance." He disappeared through a swinging door into the back and emerged a minute later with two bottles of water and a large, greasy pizza box. "I told you. Terrible pizza. But it's open late and they deliver."
He set it down on a low table between two plush leather armchairs near a fireplace. "Sit. Eat. You need to come down from the ceiling."
I was still buzzing, my nerves frayed from the gala, the confrontation with Evan, the intensity of Derek's hand in mine. I sank into one of the chairs, the buttery leather sighing under me. He opened the box, and the glorious, greasy smell of cheese and pepperoni filled the air. It was the most un-gala food imaginable.
He handed me a paper plate with a giant, drooping slice. "Eat, Chen. You're pale."
I took a bite. It was, objectively, terrible—the cheese was rubbery, the sauce too sweet. It was also the best thing I'd ever tasted. I realized I hadn't eaten since noon.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being our chewing and the distant hum of a refrigerator. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving a deep, pleasant exhaustion in its wake.
"You were pretty magnificent yourself tonight," I said finally, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "The charming business person." The protective boyfriend. You sold it better than I did."
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Who says I was selling?"
The air in the room changed. It thickened, charged with all the unspoken things from the coat check, from the dance floor.
"Rule 1, remember?" I said, my voice weaker than I intended. "No breaking character in public."
"We're not in public." His gaze was unwavering. "We're in my bar. On a closed night. It's about as private as it gets."
My heart began a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. "So what's the real verdict, then? On our performance?"
He put his plate down, stood up, and walked behind the bar. "The real verdict is that you're a hell of a partner in crime." He pulled a bottle of amber liquid and two crystal tumblers from a shelf. "And that you deserve a proper drink."
He poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass and brought them over, handing one to me. I took it, our fingers brushing.
"To a successful first mission," he said, clinking his glass against mine.
I took a sip. The whiskey was smooth, smoky, and complex, exploding with warmth as it slid down my throat. "Wow. This is… not a terrible pizza."
He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that echoed in the empty space. "It's mine. A single barrel bourbon I've been working on for the bar. I call it 'Contract Breaker.'"
I nearly choked on my second sip. "What?"
"Kidding." He winked, but his eyes were serious. "It's called 'December's Promise.' Try again. What do you taste?"
I took another, more careful sip, letting it roll over my tongue. "Vanilla… oak… and something like… dark cherries?"
His smile was slow, proud, and devastating. "Exactly. You've got a good palate, Chen."
We sat there, drinking his incredible whiskey, the fire in the gas fireplace casting dancing shadows on his face. The silence wasn't awkward. It was… heavy. Full.
"The thing you said," I ventured, staring into my glass. "In the cab. That wasn't all acting. What part… wasn't it?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the legs slide down the crystal.
"The part where I wanted to punch his perfect teeth in to make you feel small," he said, his voice low and rough. "The part where I saw you laughing on the dance floor and thought, 'That's the real her. I wish she'd done that more.'" He looked up, meeting my eyes across the short distance. "The part where holding your hand didn't feel like part of a deal."
The confession hung in the air between us, more potent than whiskey. My breath hitched.
"Derek…"
"I know," he cut me off, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "Rules. Complications. Marcus. The whole damn mess." He drained his glass. "Forget I said anything. The whiskey's talking."
But it wasn't the whiskey. I could see it in the tense line of his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite hold my gaze now. He meant it.
The contract had a hairline fracture, and the real feelings were starting to seep through.
- Writer
