You’re standing in what used to be a slaughterhouse-slash-meatpacking plant. Now, it’s an elegant but modern space with hardwood floors, hand-carved banisters, heavy curtains covering windowless walls, and six different bars – including one staffed by a guy right out of the movie Cocktail, who spins and flips bottles and shakers, concocting six different drinks in the time it takes most bartenders to make one. His name is Levi and he loves to give you and the girls free drinks. You love to let him because he never hits on you in the process.
The whole bar, especially from where you’re standing, reminds you of a shark tank. Even on the dullest nights, you can watch the school of single gals below as they vie for attention from the most eligible men in the bar. Almost more amusing are the small packs of guys following around disinterested women, in an apparent failure to believe they could be resistible to the opposite sex.
“That’ll never work,” says Rachel, watching a pair tentatively flirting across the room. The pretty blonde girl is wearing what looks like an Alice + Olivia dress, and is holding a Burberry clutch. The shaggy brunette guy she’s beaming at wears a pair of Chuck Taylor sneakers on his feet, slim fit jeans, a graphic tee and a cardigan.
Val examines the couple, tilting her head. “Why not?”
Rachel waves a dramatic hand in their air. “She’s air-kisses, he’s air guitar.”
“Shakespearean,” Val says with a nod. “Or maybe Springsteenean?”
“Decent one-night stand at the very least.”
Val angles her drink toward the preppy-hipster hybrid who are oblivious to the world around them. “Go forth and fornicate.”
As promised, you met the girls at your apartment after work. They pillaged your closet until they agreed on an outfit that made the statement “selectively back on the market” and then took a curling iron to your hair until they’d achieved a “natural” look. You drew the line at make up, unwilling to let them near your eyes with pointy objects once they’d finished a bottle of wine between them.
After they filled your handbag with essentials like your ID, Barely Berry lip gloss, a condom, your keys, another condom – they were feeling optimistic for you – your phone, and a twenty dollar bill for back up cab fare home, they declared you ready to re-join them in the world of dating.
For the first time in three months, you shared a cab from your uptown apartment at Yonge and Eglinton (or Young and Eligible as some call it) down to The Entertainment District. As usual, thanks to a bouncer named Will – a patient from Val’s practice – you bypassed the lengthy line of people snaking around the block and walked right through the massive double doors of Mixed, Toronto’s most popular Friday after-work bar.
People come for the promise of four-dollar mixed drinks, but stay for the veritable meat market it becomes by 7 p.m. when it’s bursting with urban professionals. The guys, many from nearby Bay Street offices, are mostly in business dress with loosened ties. The girls wear the most eye-catching outfits they could get away with at work.
Within 10 minutes, you each had a drink in hand and were perched at your usual spot, smack dab in the centre of the top floor railing – the perfect locale for people-watching and running commentary on everything happening around you.
“Wow, that set of rings connected by chains on your hand is so sexy,” Rachel says in a high pitch, her words perfectly synced with the mouth of a pixie-like girl on the level below you.
Across from Pixie is a guy adorned with an unfathomable amount of accessories – a technique known in the Pick Up Artist community as “Peacocking.” When his lips move, Val says in a deep, raspy voice, “I don’t blame you, Sugar. Of all my attention-getting devices, including the ridiculous Abraham Lincoln hat I’m wearing, the rings are by far my favourite.”
“It totally makes up for the fact you just complimented my shoes before telling me you were surprised they came in such a large size. Let’s get out of here and make little douchebag babies you can pass on your gifts to.”
“No way!” you say, shocked when Abe takes Pixie’s hand and they actually walk toward and through the exit doors together.
The three of you break into laughter; Val’s loud, but musical, Rachel’s mostly silent, her body shaking as she doubles over.
Val likes this vantage point because she can see the entire bar, which allows her to instantly assess her surroundings and locate eligible bachelors. You don’t point out that she’s clearly missed the standout in a suit on the first level. Or if she did notice him, she’s not sharing the intel with you.
For a moment, you think you make eye contact with him, but decide you’re the one who needs to get her eyes checked and return your attention to your chocolate martini and the show around you.
In the DJ booth you see the usual heavy-set guy in his standard red Adidas warm-up suit. Despite the presence of turntables and other fancy equipment, you’re fairly certain he just plugs his iPod into the sound system and presses play on the same top 40 pop playlist he’s been updating since the ‘90s. On any given night, you’re guaranteed to hear Red, Red Wine, Crazy in Love, and Christina Aguilera’s Dirty. You stay far away from the dance floor for that one – and pretty much every other song – unless you’re drunk. Speaking of which…
“Fuck!” says Rachel, plucking a twenty out of her top and handing it to Val. “I was sure they’d hold out for at least another 30 minutes.”
Valerie scissors the bill between her fingers. “Clearly you’ve underestimated the low self-esteem of today’s young ladies.”
You smile when you see Bess and Tess (so named by Rachel earlier in the night) faux-lesbian grinding on each other for the benefit of a group of rumpled, half-drunk guys gathered beside them. Clearly this means their forced laughter, strutting, and uncomfortably long bouts of eye contact have gotten the girls (and their steadily vanishing rhythm) nowhere. When in doubt, pretend you’d make out with your friend: the foundation of many an unhealthy relationship.
“I wonder if the fact Bess wore a leopard print dress the same night Tess brought out the zebra number bumped up the desperation time table,” you say.
“It lives!” Rachel hooks an arm around your shoulder. “Welcome back to the world of the judgmental. We’ve missed you.”
“The world has evolved so much since I’ve been away,” you play along. “What is this beautiful duck face girls are making in the pictures they pose for every five minutes?”
Rachel makes the duck face, her full top lip nearly touching the pert tip of her nose. “What?” she says. “This is how I always look.”
You laugh, reaching with your free hand to cover her face until she returns it to its normal, pretty self.
Something tells you to look down, and you’re almost certain that guy is looking your way again. You ignore it. Too often has that assumption led to finding out the guy in question is actually looking at Rachel. You lift your glass and finish what little is left of your drink. “Who needs?”
“I needs,” says Val, holding up her empty plastic martini glass. “Your round, Rach.”
“I needs to dance,” Rachel says. You can see her energy building to a bounce.
“I’ll go see Levi,” you say, taking another twenty Rachel produces from her cleavage. “So much for dispelling the rumors you’re a stripper.”
“What can I say? That Show Girls movie had a profound effect on me.” Rachel snakes an arm through Valerie’s. “Dance floor, Jeeves. The Mantis is hungry.”
As though she’d arranged it with DJ Adidas, the beginning beats of Nelly Furtado’s Man Eater pump through the speakers. “Sorry,” says Val, leading the way from the third to second floor, “but it’s a barren wasteland down there.”
You knew she didn’t see him.
Your trio saunters down the main staircase – by far your favourite feature of the bar. A wide, winding number that grows slimmer the further down it goes, it’s got an ornate, hand-carved wooden banister, and plush ivory carpet centred over each step. It looks like something right out of one of the old movies you watch on Netflix with Valerie – like a time machine to Hollywood’s Golden Age.
You leave the girls at the second level, Rachel gliding to the heart of the dance floor with Val in tow. You feel bad for Bess and Tess, whose real-estate the girls are about to infringe on, and even worse for the guys next to them who are sure to see Rachel flip the switch from happy-go-lucky to hey-go-fuck-yourself any minute now.
You walk down one more short flight of stairs to the main level, offering polite smiles as you wedge your way through clusters of broad male shoulders. When you reach the line for Levi’s post at the bar, you’re surprised to find yourself shoulder to shoulder with Mister Mystery Guy. You steal a sidelong glance at him. He’s exactly your type: good looking and taller than you.
“Hi,” he says, and you automatically turn your body to face him. He extends his hand to you. “I’m Nick. Nick Wright.”
You take his hand and give him a firm shake, noting a twinge in your stomach at the sound of his voice, which is low and just a little rough around the edges. Smiling, you say, “I’m Hannah.”
“Hannah. What are you drinking?”
“What’s your budget?”
He laughs. It’s a good laugh. “I’m a big shot. Sky’s the limit.”
“In that case, a chocolate martini in a diamond encrusted glass.”
“Excellent choice.”
He turns to the bar to order your drinks. You pray Rachel and Valerie don’t choose this moment to make an appearance.
You smile when Nick turns back to hand you your drink. “Sorry,” he says. “Plastic is all they have left.”
“No problem. I’ve got two in my purse.”
He places his free hand on the small of your back, leading away from the foot traffic of the bar.
And so begins the banter. You do your best to concentrate, but the way his royal blue dress shirt intensifies his blue eyes makes it difficult. You note that he’s only slightly loosened the Windsor knot in his tie and appears comfortable in his well-tailored charcoal grey suit.
“So, obligatory what do you do question,” he says.
“I manage a chain of upscale brothels,” you tell him, thinking that’s kind of the same as PR. “Twelve locations across Canada with plans for international expansion. And you?”
“Rock star,” he says naturally. “Nobody knows me here, but I’m basically the David Hasselhoff of Japan.”
In truth, he works in finance – something about high wealth clients, investments and “The Market.” Who cares? He’s gorgeous! He’s got wavy, brown hair, perfect teeth and, if Clark Kent taught us anything, he’s probably packing some muscle under that shirt – fitting given he’s got a Henry Cavill thing going on.
“Obligatory where do you live question,” you say.
“With my folks,” he says, focusing on his drink.
His expression is so genuine you worry he’s serious. Apparently he notices this too. “Not like my room is down the hall from my parents,” he says. “I have the basement apartment. Except, I share a front door…fridge…washer and dryer…”
You feel your eyes widening with each detail, until he finally puts you at ease with a smile. “Technically, I do live at my parents’ place, but they don’t live there. They live in the States, so I took their place on Queen West. Gives them a place to stay when they visit.”
Oh, thank God.
“That’s too bad,” you tell him. “I kind of like the idea of a grown man living with his parents. The guys I meet at the brothel are far too independent. It’s refreshing when a guy doesn’t have his act together, you know?”
“I get that a lot. Is that where you live? The brothel?”
“My own room in each location. It’s nice. Homey. Always armed guards around, so I feel safe.”
“So, are you working tonight?”
“No. Not for years now. I’m just supervising.”
“Your employees are here?” he asks, pointing to the floor.
“Yep.” You turn him slightly to the right. “Let’s see. That girl in the red dress? That’s Kiki.” You turn him another 45 degrees and motion to a girl in a terrible paisley blouse. “That’s Mirna. And then one more…” You turn him again until you’re facing the guys you saw him with earlier, one of them chatting up a cute girl. “Looks like your friend has taken a shine to Lauren.”
“Ted could use a sure thing,” Nick says.
“And if he’s got five hundred bucks, he’s got one.”
“Five hundred?” He whistles low and slowly.
“Well, eight hundred, but any friend of yours…”
He smirks. You love a good smirk, and he’s got a great one.
Why? Why do you meet this guy when you’re rebounding? This hot, funny guy who wears a suit, unlike the other guys around you who let their suits wear them. You don’t want this guy to be rebound guy.
So don’t take him home. Even better, don’t assume he’d go home with you.
The gentle pressure of his hand on your tricep brings you back to the moment. Yep. Okay with the touching.
“Will you excuse me for a second?” he asks. “I need to loan Ted some cash. And it looks like you might want to check in with your friends.” With his head, he motions past your shoulder to Rachel and Valerie, who are watching your interaction intently. He recognizes them. So he was watching you earlier.
You wince and blush. “They probably think they’re being stealthy.”
He squeezes your arm. “I’ll come find you in a minute?”
You smile. “Yeah.”
He walks away. You pivot on your heel, only to find Rachel and Valerie standing right in front of you.
“Your surveillance skills are seriously lacking,” you say to Valerie.
“Surveillance? I’m gawking.” Valerie adjusts her gray Prada frames. “So?” she prompts impatiently.
“Cute. Smart. Funny!”
“Super fucking cute,” says Rachel. “You bitch. I was supposed to get that round.”
“It’s still your turn,” you remind her.
“In a sec. So, is he your rebound?” You can tell she’s hoping the answer is yes.
“No! I just-”
She raises her glass to her mouth and cuts you off. “On your six.”
You turn as Nick’s hand lands on the same place on your arm. He looks past you to your friends, reaching out to shake their hands.
“Valerie Hayes, Rachel Winters,” you say. “This is Nick Wright.”
Rachel chokes on her drink.
Oh. Wright! You just got that.
Valerie pats her on the back. “Nice to meet you, Nick.”
“You, too,” he says before turning his focus to you. “Would you all want to join us at a spot a few blocks from here?” He leans down so his mouth is next to your ear. “Unless you’re still on the clock.”
Damn. You’re even more conflicted now than you were before, thanks to that shiver-me-limber whisper. You do want to go with him. Very much so. But, for exactly that reason, would it be wise?
“Let me come find you in a minute?” you ask.
He walks away. You huddle with your friends so they can help you decide what to do.
“I kind of want to go. Should we go?” you ask.
“I wouldn’t. End the night now. On a high note,” recommends Val. “Plus, you’d be missing the opportunity to flirt with more guys when he leaves.”
“More guys in the barren wasteland?” Rachel mocks. “You have to go! It’s an instant date. He’s clearly diggin’ you, and you get to meet his friends. According to you two, that’s like, huge, right?” Beyond you, she sizes up Nick’s cute pals. “And what kind of friend would I be if I let you go alone?”
To see where the night ends, turn to SECTION 10
To end the night here, turn to SECTION 15
