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The first time, Ness is drunk; sitting with a blurry mind and ruined mascara at the bar, pouring out her poor little heart to the poor little bartender. For a moment, she thinks it’s her imagination: it can’t really be Don Lorenzo across the room, because she’s supposed to be in Italy.
And also, Ness hates her.
But it is Lorenzo, Ness knows that for sure when she slips—weirdly smooth for a girl they call zombie—onto the barstool next to Ness. It’s the smell that hits her more than the vision, all salty and earthy and spicy and rich. Ness blinks against it, eyes wet all over again.
“Uhhh, all alone today, pretty girl?” Lorenzo drawls. She’s not beautiful; not in general, but especially not in the way Kaiser is.
Instead, Lorenzo’s hair is short and choppy, her eyes circled dark, her skin sallow. Instead, she’s wearing a half-unbuttoned sleazy-looking shirt, a gold chain framing her collarbone. Instead, instead, instead, she—
Ness watches, mouth dry, how Lorenzo takes the drink she somehow ordered in the meantime; how she curls her hands with the long, rough looking fingers around it. Ness swallows.
“I have to go,” she blurts out.
.
The second time, Lorenzo says: “You should dance with me. Okay?”
The lights are strobing, reflecting off her dark hair, her dark eyes, her gold teeth. She’s taller than Ness, shoulders broader. Forearms hairy; thinner than Ness’ own. Ness doesn’t like the club, but it always makes her head empty, and today, she needed it.
Instead, however, she found Don Lorenzo. Again.
“Are you following me?” she asks, but she doesn’t think Lorenzo hears her over the music, because she just grins back.
Ness loses her balance. Lorenzo catches her.
It all narrows in: the warmth of Lorenzo’s hand through Ness’ lacy shirt. Lorenzo’s rings, icy, digging into Ness’s skin. Ness shivers.
“I can’t,” she says. Lorenzo’s breath fans over her face. She cocks her head, like she’d done ages ago, and Ness swallows, swallows, swallows.
“Can’t or don’t want to, puppy?”
Ness doesn’t have an answer for that. She squirms, but Lorenzo is so warm.
“Don’t call me that!”
They could kiss like this, she realizes. Thinks for a moment that Lorenzo will actually kiss her: she’s swaying closer like a zombie. “Uhhh. Where’s your owner?” she asks, instead.
Ah. In the end, that’s what it’s always about, right?
.
The third time, Ness isn’t drunk. Anymore.
She’s paying for her drinks, dismal and sobered up—and all the sadder for it—a wall of texts on her phone sent to one Michelle Kaiser, who’s ignoring her.
Before she can turn to leave, wiry arms wrap around her middle, lifting her up like it’s nothing. “Lexi!” And for some reason, she recognizes the scratchy voice immediately. “Uhhh, we’ve gotta stop stumbling over each other, okay?”
Ness squeals, squirms, and Lorenzo puts her down again. She’s close when Ness turns to face her: all long limbs, accented English and boyish, sleazy charm. It’s terrible.
“I’m not in the mood,” Ness sniffs, wiping at her ruined makeup.
Lorenzo’s grin is all crooked and golden in the late-night bar-light. “You’re never in the mood, sweetheart. Wanna drink with me? Or we play football, okay?”
Football. Ness is in heels!
“You just want to ask about Kaiser, anyway,” Ness huffs, throws her hair over her shoulder, turns to leave.
Lorenzo’s hand is warm, too, when it wraps around Ness’ wrist.
“Uhhh, c’mon,” she says. “I wanna talk to you, okay?”
It’s stupid, Ness thinks. Nobody ever wants to talk to her, usually, Ness thinks.