Free Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova Page A

Then he throws himself on the black leather couch that takes up a big chunk of his living room.
    My skin tingles where his lips and hands were. I stand, frozen in the middle of a stranger’s house. Half a stranger. What’s the other half? Friend? Colleague? Random Life Encounter?
    I can’t even see his tattoo because he’s lying on his back. His eyes flutter and he starts to snore. Perfect. I go to the kitchen and drink a big glass of water. I splash some on my face. Down the hall from the kitchen is the bathroom. Then a single bedroom. He must have just moved in because the furniture is pretty standard. A dresser with clothes hanging from half closed drawers. A small tin of hair product and stick of deodorant. No paintings, no decorations, no trophies. There’s a single frame on the dresser—a woman sitting for a portrait. She’s in her thirties, wearing a navy blue dress. Her hair is dark and perfectly coifed. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is James’s mother by her beautiful sea-green eyes. It’s a tiny peek into the world of Chef James, but I’ll take it.
    When I feel like a thorough creeper I go back to the living room, where James is out cold.
    “Who are you, James Hughes?”
    When I’m answered by a snore, I know that the night is over. Hey, it’s not the first time a guy has passed out on me. I turn off the lights and lock the door from the inside. I take my first right on the sidewalk. For a moment, I regret it and want to go back. What am I supposed to do? Break down the door? Knock until he wakes up, angry, and hope he’ll kiss me again? So I keep walking. Even though I’m not sure where I’m going just yet, my body is too restless for sleep, and I’ve always found comfort in the night sky.

Chapter 12
    The last time I had sex, we were both so drunk that I remember more black out parts than sex parts. It was my fellow bartender, an aspiring actor who didn’t understand why his forget-me-not blue eyes and dark blond hair weren’t getting him a big break. I’d never seen him act, and I had no interest in anything other than the way his strong hands would lift me onto the bar top, sticky from sloshed whiskey and cosmopolitans. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. He filled a need, a desire to be held.
    When I woke up, my mouth tasted like regret—not because of what I’d done, but because he turned out to be asshole. I’m not ashamed of liking sex. I regretted it because the next day he ignored me, and only spoke to me through our barback. I took it in stride. Perhaps he was a pretty good actor, in the same way most guys act like they like you until it’s no longer convenient for them. It’s not like I was in love, but if I were to say that, I’d just come off as bitter girl.
    I’ve come to realize that guys don’t like when girls are into healthy casual sex. It’s like when we do, we’re taking something away from them, this invisible territory on the planet of I-Care-Less-About-This-Relationship-Than-You-Do. Please, get over yourselves.
    Anyway, that was six months ago. Six months since I’ve been held. Six months since I’ve been kissed. Six months since I’ve deemed a man worthy enough to be in my bed.
    Back at my mom’s apartment, I can hear Felicity’s whistling snore down the hall. I undress and get in the shower, hoping the steam will help me dislodge the image of shirtless James from my head. I can’t help but think of his beautiful face. Green eyes that beg me to get lost in them. Thick, black hair I want to run my fingers through and tug hard. And his mouth, a perfect full mouth that would be better put to use tasting my skin. A hot tingling feeling pools in my belly and then spreads.
    “You’re such a masochist,” I tell my reflection.
    I turn the water from warm to fucking freezing, castigating myself for lusty thoughts about a guy I have no business messing with. He’s my mom’s business partner. I have to see his face for three weeks. Not to