The Hustler [Alex Gaskarth]

Chapter Fourteen - The Taste Of Your Lips

      When Alex pulled away, he looked almost as surprised as I felt. His cheeks turned bright pink, and his eyelashes batted at about a thousand beats per second.
      “Sorry,” he said quietly. “That just felt right.”
      “It’s okay.”
      He laughed, fiddling the end of the end of his scarf. “Wow.”
      “What? Is something wrong?”
      “No, no. It’s just that... I just apologized for kissing you. And all you said was ‘It’s okay.’”
      “I’m sorry... you’re a good kisser?” I guessed.
      Alex laughed again. “That’s not what I meant, either. But thank-you. I was worried about my technique.”
      “Great technique. Excellent delivery. But in a bathroom. Next time, try something like... the Top of the Rock at NBC Studios or something.”
      “Next time?”
      “I meant... next time you’re in New York City. You know, with a girl that you like. Like, more than me.”
      “‘Lia.” His voice is strangled, like he’s trying not to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
      I looked up at him again and smiled expectantly. I was pretty sure I knew what was about to happen. That’s always a mistake with Alex around. Never be pretty sure you know what’s going to happen. Because it won’t, simply because that’s how Alex operates. He doesn’t like being too predictable.
      “You just reminded me of something. Are you up for an adventure?”
      “Yeah, sure.”
      “Great. Race you to the elevator.”

      The 'adventure' was a fifteen minute walk to Rockefeller Center, which was literally four blocks down the street. Alex and I went through several doors, and suddenly, I knew where we were going. I really, really knew. Because there's only one place all those elevators lead: Top Of The Rock.

      Still, I pretended I had no idea of where we were going. Maybe this was all just a coincidence.

      A strange, sick feeling came to my stomach. It was entirely different to be paid to be someone's friend. But now Alex wanted to be more than friends, or so it seemed, and I wasn't sure I wanted that. Being paid to be someone's girlfriend is weird. It's weird when it's thirty-somethings who need a fake girlfriend for a fifteen-year high school reunion, and it's even more weird when it's someone who's kind of your friend. That is a fact. 

      On the elevator ride up, I was quiet. It was the last trip up of the night, and it was only Alex and I and a middle-aged couple, who my parents would have called 'country bumpkins'. They were very sweet, very naïve, and were on their first trip to 'the big city' for their thirtieth anniversary. Partway up, the wife, Lori, tarted interrogating us about how long we'd been together. This caused Alex to make up a completely ficticious life story. And a British accent. And apparently, my name was Bellatrix, and I was a British lady.

      At this point, the woman begged for a photograph because, 'The Doyles only got to meet George Stephanopolous! And here we are, with a real British Lady!"

      Alex snickered at the expression on my face. I rolled my eyes at him and smiled. "Of course, love. I'm always happy to take a photograph. Alexander, darling, could you please take the camera?" I asked, in my best Chelsea accent.

      "Oh no, not here!" Lori protested. "If it's not too much trouble, let's do it at the top, please! Then, we can have the city as a background."

      "Of course."

      When the elevator doors opened at the top, I let Lori and her husband, Michael, out ahead of us, and turned to glare at Alex. "You're so dead, Gaskarth."

      He shook his head, smiled, and gestured to the door. "British Ladies first."

     Lori took me by the hand, and pulled me to the edge of the roof with her husband, Hank, who didn't really speak that much. Alex gleefully took the tiny digital camera from Lori, and proceded to take shot after shot, because, as Lori said, you could never tell which part of New York would look best in the background.