Wounds of Time Read online

  We basically just looked at each other for what seemed like an hour. I barely noticed how much the temperature kept dropping outside. I never once felt like I was sitting there with a stranger. So odd. I knew I would have remembered meeting him, which made me wonder about past lives. I wasn’t a spiritual person, but I had no explanation for the attraction and level of comfort I experienced with him.

  After a while, he broke the silence, “Does your dad know you strip?”

  Well, that was a weird ice breaker. Of all the people to bring up, he chose my dad?

  “I’m sure—he’s dead, but they say your loved ones watch over you, right? I hope he closes his eyes during some of the shows. Stripping is part-time, anyway. I do it for extra cash and trust me, I make a lot of extra cash. I’m a Broadway dancer. One day, I’m going to be the lead.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive,” he said. “And, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I shrugged. “It’s okay, he died years ago—car accident. He went pretty fast, so no suffering.”

  “How old were you?” he asked.

  “Fifteen,” I said.

  “I’m very sorry. That must be a rough time for a daughter not to have a dad,” he said.

  “He wasn’t the nicest of guys. Not that I’m saying he deserved his fate, but it was probably better he wasn’t around when I was a teenager.”

  “Did he hit you?” he asked.

  “No, not me, but I never gave him a reason to.”

  Normally I would feel uncomfortable having a conversation about this with someone, but I didn’t think there was much he could ask me that I would have felt uneasy answering.

  “He hit your mom?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He stared at his lap, clearly upset.

  “I never understood how a man could hit a woman. Sorry, it just bothers me. Okay, let’s not talk about it anymore,” he said, and changed the subject.

  We spoke about the dream I’d had since I was a little girl, to be a Broadway actress. The gig I currently had was decent, but I wanted to be more than just a backup dancer. He asked a lot about the audition process—what was entailed in dancing and what my workout routine consisted of. He expressed even more surprise that I ate “rat,” considering how hard I trained. He seemed genuinely interested in everything I said, which felt good. It was so hard nowadays to have a man hang on your every word. I told him I lived in an apartment a few blocks away. I was proud to say I rented a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio until he told me he lived in the Upper East Side. Then I just felt silly about elaborating on my little one-bedroom.

  Vincent told me he grew up in California and moved to New York with his wife when he was in his early twenties, came here to take his Series 7. He had two kids: one boy, nineteen-year-old Nick, and a sixteen-year-old daughter, Casey. He looked way too young to have such old kids. He didn’t have any wrinkles, dressed very stylishly, and that smile—so youthful.

  I told him I was born in California, too, but when he asked where, I couldn’t remember. He found that funny, said California was a big state. I shared that I moved to New York City when I was a little girl to go to performing arts schools. My parents felt the schools here were better for that. I barely remembered anything about the move. My parents were so conservative that they never spoke about, well, anything, really. He was so easy to talk to, that my life story came pouring out. He wasn’t arrogant at all, but just the opposite—extremely humble, especially considering how successful he was. We sat on that roof for two hours talking about nothing and everything.

  “Do you date a lot?” he asked.

  “It’s hard for me working two jobs to find time to date. Especially after meeting someone you swipe right on, and then he shows and ends up looking nothing like he did in his picture.”

  “Swipe right?” he asked, confused.

  “It’s a dating app. Your kids don’t online date?” I asked.

  “I hope not! They’re both very good-looking, so I can’t imagine they’d have to.”

  I stared at him, a bit offended. “Are you saying I’m not good-looking?”

  He hit himself in the head and scrunched up his nose. “Wow, you make me say the stupidest shit,” he said, laughing nervously. “No, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why I said that.”

  He started biting the thumbnail on his left hand, while cracking his knuckles with his other thumb on his right.

  I smiled and let the comment go.

  We continued on with the conversation. When the bottle was empty, I asked him if I could keep the cork. I told him I collected them.

  “Sure,” he said, handing the cork to me.

  My skin tingled when his hand touched mine. He gazed at me. Intensely, like he wanted to say something more but wasn’t sure if he could or should.

  “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I finally asked. It took him a while to answer.

  “I really want to kiss you,” he said. “Can you kiss on the mouth, or is that against the rules?”

  “This isn’t Pretty Woman, and I’m not a prostitute, dick,” I said.

  He laughed. “I’m only kidding…about the rules, not about kissing you. I do want to kiss you, badly.”

  “You want to—but you won’t?” Suddenly, I was staring at his lips.

  “I mean, I will, if you’re giving me permission,” he said.

  “Man, talk about putting me on the spot!”

  He leaned in closer.

  “So, is that a yes?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. This whole asking permission to kiss a girl got kind of awkward at times. His lips were so close to mine, that I could feel his breath on me. I was dying for him to kiss me. I thought that was obvious.

  “I guess if you did, I wouldn’t be too opposed.”

  He kissed me right on the lips, holding my face in his hands. Slow, sensual, romantic. Very gentleman-like. His hands were large and manly yet felt so soft on my face, and they didn’t try to wander anywhere else.

  He was such a good kisser that I could have kissed him all night. I felt his goatee scrape against my cheek and couldn’t help but imagine that scruff on other parts of my body. I could still taste the wine on his tongue. I didn’t know what type of cologne he wore, but he smelled amazing. Sexy. Masculine. His whole demeanor intoxicated me.

  “I had an awesome time with you tonight,” he said, when he finally peeled his lips off mine.

  I smiled. “Me too.”

  I hadn’t had that good of a conversation with a man in quite some time. Maybe ever.

  He looked at his watch.

  “I could stay up here all night with you, but unfortunately, I do have to go. Some people like Christmas, my kids in particular. Luckily since Christmas Eve is tomorrow, it bought me a little extra time. Maybe meeting you tonight was meant to be.” He started to walk away but stopped to look at me. “It was really, really nice meeting you, Bianca.”

  “It was nice meeting you too, Vincent.”

  Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as he walked away. What was wrong with me? I didn’t even know this guy!

  “My name isn’t Bianca…” I blurted out.

  He turned and looked at me, confused. “What?”

  “I mean it is, now, it’s my stage name, I changed it. My real name is Sarah.”

  I didn’t even know why I told him that. No one called me Sarah. My name had legally been Bianca Evans for the past seven years. For the first time, I guess I just felt like someone should know the real me. The me that I was born as.

  He started walking back towards me.

  “Changed it? Witness protection program? It’s okay you can tell me, what did you do?” he playfully asked.

  “No, I’m not a trained assassin,” I began, laughing. “When I knew it was real, that I was going to be an actress, I changed my name. Bianca is so much sexier than Sarah…don’t you think?”

/>   He had such a boyish smile as he glanced down and then back up at me.

  “Yes, Bianca is a sexy name, but it was even nicer meeting Sarah,” he said.

  He moved to walk away again before stopping and turning back, like he’d just had an idea.

  “Why don’t you meet me here next year, same time?”

  “What? That’s insane! You won’t even remember me in a year,” I said.

  “Oh, trust me, I will,” he said. “Come on, it will give us something to look forward to. I know it will give me something to look forward to, anyway. You can be like my…like my Christmas Fairy.”

  I stood there, staring at him. I didn’t know what to say. It seemed ridiculous to believe that he would still be thinking about me in a year from today. What if I came and he didn’t?

  “A Christmas Fairy?” I laughed. “Is she related to the Tooth Fairy?”

  “Yes! She’s her third cousin. Well,” he continued, “you can think about it. I’m going to be here on Christmas Eve next year. I hope you are, too. If you are, I’ll give you anything you want. Anything—just name it. You have a year to be creative about what you want. I would just really like to see you again.”

  There was just something about him that was so inviting and romantic. So sincere. He didn’t seem like the type of jerk who was meeting girls on roofs all over New York City. Then again, three hours ago, he’d been crawling around the floor searching for his wedding ring.

  “And if you’re not here in a year, then you’ll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life of being the only woman ever to stand me up,” he said.

  That made me laugh. “Okay,” I said. “Merry Christmas, Vincent.”

  “Merry Christmas, Sarah.”

  It was hard to believe an entire year had passed since that night I met Vincent. I went about my life, working out, practicing every day, and stripping at night to make extra cash. Now here we were, the Friday before Christmas Eve, 2012. I was standing in front of my best friend, Isabel, in the dressing room of the club. Isabel was incredibly sexy. Tall, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. Curvy in all the right places. The brokers were going to be here soon; they usually arrived shortly after the market closed. I was nervous. I didn’t even know why.

  “You’re seriously going to meet this guy after?” she asked.

  I smiled while looking at myself in the mirror.

  “Yes, why? You don’t think it’s romantic?” I asked. “It’s like that movie where they meet on the top of the Empire State Building.”

  I couldn’t help it. I was a hopeless romantic.

  “I’ve never seen it, but I’m pretty sure someone gets hit by a car in that movie,” she said.

  “What? You’re lying,” I said.

  “No, I’m serious. I think that’s the whole point of the movie. Someone didn’t make it.”

  Interesting. I had never seen the movie either. Did someone die? Note to self: watch the movie about meeting on the Empire State Building.

  The show started. While dancing, I tried to look through the crowd of guys to see if he was there. I struggled to get a good look through the red lights shining in my face, feeling self-conscious that by squinting so hard, I was making a weird face. The men all kind of looked the same from where I was standing. Light button-down shirts, dress pants, fancy ties, and wedding rings like some sort of white-collar uniform. By the time the show was over, I still hadn’t seen him.

  Back in the dressing room, I put on a little red dress I had bought. When Isabel asked if I bought it just for this occasion, I lied and said no. I knew it would have sounded a bit ridiculous to admit that I’d bought a dress to meet some random guy on the roof of a strip club.

  “I just thought of something. He said same time, but we went up there at like six and left around eight. What time do you think he meant?” I asked.

  Isabel looked at me like she was annoyed by my question. I knew she thought I was crazy for even entertaining this. Vincent had been right, though—his plan did give me something to look forward to. I couldn’t help but fantasize about us meeting again from time-to-time throughout the year.

  “Go up about ten after six, be fashionably late. If he’s not there, check ten minutes after every hour until eight. If he’s still not there, well, then I promise I won’t say I told you so,” she laughed.

  She was so different than me that at times, it was hard to believe we were best friends. Not into romance at all. Hated when guys did sweet things like buy flowers or hold doors.

  At ten after six, I slowly made my way up to the roof. I was so nervous. Isabel was probably right, and I was being stupid. Why would this guy be waiting for me after one kiss? Maybe he was drunk when he’d made the plan? He’d been drinking before the wine. On the climb up, I felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest.

  I opened the door and looked across the rooftop. There he was, standing with his back to me, facing the rest of the city. As I started to approach him, I wondered if he was even as cute as I’d thought, or if I’d just made that up in my head.

  He slowly turned, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other.

  “I brought glasses this time, thought I’d class it up a bit,” he said, with a smile.

  I wasn’t imagining it at all. He was so good looking that suddenly, I couldn’t get the visual of our kiss out of my head.

  As I continued walking toward him, he said, “I was starting to think you weren’t going to come.”

  I reached out and took one of the glasses he was holding out.

  “I couldn’t live with the guilt of being the only woman ever to stand you up. And—I wasn’t sure when you said the same time, if you meant six or eight.”

  “I meant six, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

  We sat on the same nook as a year ago, and he poured two glasses of wine.

  “You didn’t go to the show?” I asked.

  “No, I was more looking forward to seeing you here in clothes. You look great,” he said. “So, there’s something that’s been driving me crazy all year. I know you’re a Broadway dancer, but do you sing? I never got to ask you that last time.”

  “And that drove you crazy?” I asked.

  “Insanely yes. Is that weird?”

  “Yeah, kind of. I mean, of course I sing…how could I ever be the lead of a musical if I don’t sing?” I asked.

  “Go ahead—sing,” he dared.

  “No way,” I said.

  “If you make it big, you’ll have to sing in front of hundreds of people a night. You can’t sing for me?” he asked.

  I smiled and drank some more of my wine. “If I remember correctly, you told me you’d give me whatever I wanted if I showed up, not the reverse.”

  His eyebrows raised. “You’re right. I did promise you anything. Did you decide what you wanted?”

  I paused for a moment, and he looked extra curious about what I was going to request.

  “Yes.” I stood and reached down to him. “I want you to dance with me.” I was half kidding, guessing he would think my request was corny.

  “Dance with you? I’m sure you can get any guy in the world to dance with you. I offered you anything you wanted, and that’s the best you came up with?”

  “Yes, that’s what I want.”

  “I don’t dance,” he said abruptly.

  “You said anything.” I was especially determined now for him to grant my request after seeing how opposed he was to it. “I want you to dance with me right here, to my favorite Christmas song before they start talking about banning it for being inappropriate.”

  I searched my phone and started playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” The good version with Dean Martin. Vincent laughed, shook his head no, and shooed me away with his hand. I took his hand and pulled him up to his feet. He stood reluctantly, barely moving to the music.

  “You going to make me beg?” I asked.
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br />   Suddenly he became very serious, staring deep into my eyes. “No, I would never make you beg for anything.”

  He took our glasses and set them both on the floor. Then, he started dancing. He was very stiff at first.

  “Follow my lead.”

  I moved my face closer into his, trying to assure him. He curled his hand around my waist as I took his other hand and held it in mine. With his fingers lacing between mine, I was reminded of what big, manly hands he had. My other hand rested on the back of his neck, my fingers right under his hair line. He wasn’t a bad dancer at all, once he loosened up.

  “By the way, how does the girl who hates Christmas have a favorite Christmas song anyway?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s not really about Christmas. It’s about being cold!”

  We danced. He even knew the words, half-mouthing, half-singing while twirling me around. The whole thing was pretty amazing, actually. He danced with me, his eyes smiling into mine as he sang the words.

  “See, I sing for you. You can’t sing for me? Did you think about me at all?” he asked, pulling me in closer to him.

  “Maybe a little,” I said. “Did you think about me?”

  He sighed and looked up at the sky. “A lot more than I’d like to admit.”

  The song ended, yet we still stood there holding each other, entranced by what we saw in each other’s eyes. Both of his arms now around my waist, and mine across his shoulders. He didn’t ask permission this time. He just kissed me.

  The kiss started slow and gentle but quickly grew intense, like suddenly we both realized that this moment was all we’ve been thinking about all year. He backed me straight against the wall, his hands still on my waist, squeezing tighter by the second. My fingers slid through his hair, pulling him close.

  He turned me on so much that I ended up making the first move. I needed to know if he was just as turned on as me. I unzipped his jacket and slid my hand down his neck, his chest, between his legs. Oh yeah, he was just as turned on. He moaned a little as I touched him there, and then started kissing my neck while unbuttoning my coat. One of his hands stroked my breasts, then slid around to my back, trailing down my behind, up my thigh, until he was rubbing me between my legs, too. His other hand pressed on my neck, pulling my lips firmly into his. As the minutes progressed, we became more and more passionate. I unzipped his pants and stuck my hand inside, stroking him while he massaged me. Next thing I knew, he’d ripped the crotch of my stockings apart. Right there, right on that roof against that wall, he entered me.