Pedernales Rising Ch. 02: The Dare

I arrive first. Typical. Laura wheels in like she's on fire 20 minutes late (also typical). I laugh watching her earnestly and unnecessarily run over to me, awkward in her heels and already spouting apologies, "something something" about her girls. She looks like an ostrich galloping along with her shaggy jacket and oversized purse bouncing haphazardly with her gait. Laura is chronically late, and I'm chronically punctual, so I always give her an arrival time that's 30 minutes earlier than I expect to see her. So, in this sense, she's early.

"Stop, stop!" I wave my arms at her to cool her jets as I stand up to greet her. She doesn't stop talking, or running, and nearly knocks me back onto the sofa as she lands into me with a big hug, enveloping me in her ostrich wings. I have no idea what she's talking about, but after she's done hugging and apologizing, she releases me, and holds me away from her by my shoulders to look me up and down.

"Damn girl, I didn't know this was a date. I hope you're not expecting me to put out." Her green eyes sparkle at me.

I double over with a big laugh at her compliment. I'm glad the outfit is working. I decided to go with a sweet, flirty, feminine silk dress that has a teasing innocence to it. I appreciate the irony of wearing a dress like that with nothing underneath but thigh-high stockings.

"Well, it's an occasion that I get to see you, after all this time! We are terrible at doing this regularly."

No way I'm telling her I'm meeting Travis later. She tends to pry, and the romance is so new that I'm afraid to jinx it. I like Travis being my secret for now.

We have a seat on the comfortably worn, deep leather couch and order a bottle of wine. I'm grateful that Laura can drink like the good Irish girl she is, because I don't want to be too far ahead of Travis when we rendezvous.

It's also convenient that Laura is the kind of friend who means well, but is wholly self-centered. There's no room for other people's problems when Laura is in the room. She's all answers and no questions. This works for me because I'm great at questions and I'm never not entertained by Laura's escapades. She's also divorced and despite having two girls and mostly living the suburban mom life, she hasn't lost her way of attracting drama and strife and excitement. She's... easily combustible.

We spend a little time talking about our kids, but most of the time I'm listening to Laura go into excessive detail about the guy she's "fucking" (never "dating" or "seeing") and hyperbolic descriptors of work stressors. She hasn't changed a bit.

When our bottle is empty and it's nearing 7:00, Laura waives to our server to order a round of cosmos, but as she approaches, I shut it down.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I have to get going actually. I have the kids tonight," I fib simultaneously to Laura and the waitress.

"Ugh ok fine you stick-in-the mud. Why are you always such a goodie two shoes?" she bemoans with a wink. Laura begins to collect her things and toss them back into her bag. She has a habit of inexplicably detonating a scatter of belongings if she stays in one place for too long. As she pecks around the sofa for a missing chapstick, I check my phone.

Sure enough, there's one from Travis.

"7th and San Jac."

Good--just around the corner from me. But dangerously close to the debauched undergraduate-flooded chaos of 6th street. I thought I knew the area relatively well... Where could he possibly be taking me?

"Be there in a bit." I write back.

"Aha! I knew I was missing my coconut one!" Laura discovers her chapstick and rewards herself with a swipe across her lips. Popping the lid back on, she tosses it into her sack, and stands with a pouty lip, holding her arms out for a farewell hug. I stand and embrace her in a genuine squeeze. She's crazy, but special to me.

"I'm just going to duck into the ladies room before I head out," I excuse myself.

"Ok boo. Drive safe! Love you!" Laura heads to the exit a little unsteady in her heels. As she wobbles down the stairs and out the door, I hope she gets home in one piece. I head to the restroom, turning my mind to the second part of the evening.

The bathrooms at the Driskill are well-appointed if a little old-fashioned and, thankfully, have decent evening lighting. I pop open a small cosmetics purse and refresh my rubbed-off lipstick. Once finished, I seclude myself in a stall, slip my thong down over my stockings, and carefully lift one heeled foot out of them, and then the other. I cannot believe I agreed to this. But my nerves are already on fire with excitement.

I examine my offering: an older lacy fuchsia thong that's still in good shape with plenty of feminine sex appeal, but it shows some signs of wear and is nearing retirement. Knowing I'd never get it back, up it goes on the altar of desire, or rather, down it goes.

I realize the crotch is covered in the wetness of my anticipation. A little embarrassing. That's sort of the point, isn't it? I challenge myself. I tuck it away in a side pocket of my purse, and send Travis a note.

"Headed your way."

In the brisk night air, I saunter over to 7th and San Jacinto, our meetup locale. On the short four-block walk, I indulge in the feeling of my silk dress against my body, blown by the breeze. The skirt of the dress is short but not excessively revealing, except when a strong gust sweeps it upward. I fight the urge to make the Marilyn Monroe modesty gesture because the thought of my nudity out in the open is exciting, and the evening streets aren't packed. Does this make me a pervert? I wonder.

I approach my destination and see Travis' figure seated on a steel bench, watching a couple walk in the opposite direction. It strikes me that he's not tooling around on his phone. In this day and age, I realize how rare it is to see someone alone, unoccupied, and not on a device. How incredibly grim.

Travis turns my way and stands as he spots me walking toward him. His large figure dons what I've come to recognize as his default uniform--a denim button up shirt, khaki pants, and a sporty midweight insulated vest, left open. All he's missing is a ten gallon hat. I've never been turned on by the whole "trucks and guns'' thing, so I'm surprised by how attractive I find him.

"Hi." I give him a bright smile.

He stoops a little to embrace me, pulling me tightly to his broad chest, and kisses me gingerly on the cheek.

"How was your walk?" he asks teasingly, his eyes dropping to my skirt hem.

"A little breezy," I crack. "So where's our mystery venue?" I look around for a hint.

Despite being just a stone's throw from the chaos of 6th street, this square block of town is remarkably sleepy by comparison. A tall building of office suites, a pharmacy, a coffee shop. It doesn't feel like we're in the right place.

Travis takes my hand and leads me half way down the block to a narrow alleyway dividing a lunchy restaurant (closed) and a rather shady-looking convenience store (also closed). We turn into the alley. It's empty aside from a few dumpsters, and a buzzing pink neon sign half way down the alley that reads Inez in a script face.

I give Travis a jokingly skeptical look. "This is where you murder me and chop me into little pieces to bury in your basement, right?"

He looks back at me. "It's your lucky day. I don't have a basement."

I laugh as Travis halts under the Inez sign. I follow his gaze and see that we are at the back entrance of what looks to be a tiny, modest hair salon. Inez has carried her love for pink neon into the interior, and despite the closed neighboring establishments, I'm shocked to see that there's a receptionist at the front desk. What the hell?

Travis opens the door and gestures for me to enter. I walk in tentatively and give him a quizzical look.

There are only three stalls in the micro-salon, each with a black vinyl seat facing a tall mirror framed in pink neon. Each seat is outfitted with one of those throw-back half-spherical hair drier domes. They look rarely used.

"Good evening, can I help you?" the receptionist asks. She's young and strikingly pretty. I wonder what she's doing alone in an outdated alleyway hair salon.

"Yes, we have an appointment." Travis speaks up.

An appointment? We do?

"Name?" she asks as her dainty hands open an appointment book.

"Hills," he answers.

Her finger finds his name, and there's a pause before her eyes look up at him over her book and she softly poses a one-word question:

"Id?"

I'm not sure I heard her correctly, or perhaps I misunderstood what she intended to say, but apparently Travis needed no clarification, because he replies quickly.

"Need."

"Ego?" she asks.

What is this? Are they speaking in code?

"Zero." Travis states.

"Right this way, sir," the young blonde smiles. She only has to take a half step back to push against the brocade wallpaper behind her, and an enormous door swings gracefully open.

Oh my god. It's a front.

Travis places his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the opening. The hostess leads the way up a broad staircase lined in soft, elegant pink lighting--a contrast to the gaudy neon of the fake salon.

I drink in the unbelievable sensory richness of this moment. The soft, sexy music drifting down the staircase--something that sounds vaguely like Groove Armada or Massive Attack. The black gloss-on-matte toile wallpaper featuring salon-inspired vignettes: shears, combs, and razors delicately worked into the pattern. The modelesque figure of the blonde hostess in her sleek black slip dress ascending in front of us. A musky, oriental perfume in the air, like cigar smoke mixed with florals. Maybe the hint of something minty like absinthe.

We reach the top landing, and the space opens up to an antechamber lounge separated from what I can see is a more formal dining room by twin arched doorways flanking an enormous semicircular marble bar. It's clear that the space is ancient but intelligently renovated, allowing historic details like exposed brick and enormous wooden rafters to contrast the dark, sexy opulence of dripping chandeliers and velvet settees. On the walls are black and white portraits of mid-century women, most of them unposed, some caught spontaneously with cigarettes hanging from their lips or emerging from Cadillacs. All of them, pedestrian in nature, are framed ironically in heavy gold frames.

Around the lounge there are several seating areas designed to accommodate various group sizes: three-seater sofas facing one another for larger groups; pairs of chairs separated by a tiny beverage tables for one-on-ones. No two pieces of furniture in this place are identical, but somehow it all hangs together beautifully.

We follow the hostess gliding through the space, and Travis' large hand finds my hip. I look up at him with a little grin. The lighting in here is moody and flattering.

This is exactly the right place.

The hostess leads us to a black velvet settee in the corner, and picks up a small reservation marker that reads "Hills."

"Enjoy your evening." she coos, and slips away. We take a seat on the low sofa. I'm conscious that the seat is so near the ground that to remain modest, I need to cross my legs at the ankle and sit in a side-saddle fashion facing Travis.

"Wow." is all I can manage to communicate my delight at this place.

Travis settles into the seat, and drapes his arm nearest me over the back.

"You like it?"

"Uh huh." I say with a smile and little nod. "It's incredible. How on earth did you discover this place?"

"A friend introduced me."

I guess that's all I'm going to get from him about that.

It's quiet for a moment and I take note of how busy the place is, but how private it feels. The heavy darkness, the music, the clinking din of glasses and plates amount to a sort of cloak around us, that feels both public and obscured.

"So..." Travis pulls my gaze back to him.

I expect there to be more following the "so," but there's not. I raise my eyebrows as if to say "go on?" Travis returns the nonverbal question with a devilishly subtle grin, and his gaze snaps from my eyes to my lap and back again. He makes a nearly imperceptible "hand it over" gesture with his right hand.

Gulp. I can feel my heart rate quicken. I reach into my bag and discreetly retrieve my thong. It feels a little damp in my hand, and I hesitate self-consciously. Pushing down my bashfulness, I slowly rest my closed fist palm down on the small strip of velvet between us. Travis's paw descends and envelops the little island of my fist. I gently release my grasp and withdraw my hand beneath his. He pulls the garment into his lap and regards it.

"Good girl," he says slowly. Travis runs my lingerie between his fingers. I thank god for the dark because I must match the color of my thong right now.

"You were a little excited by the dare, huh?" he observes, calling attention to the moist center of the lace. I die a little inside, but I can feel heat rising in my center. I'm getting wet.

"Yes. More than a little."

"Can I get you two a drink?" I hadn't noticed the waiter approaching, but it seems Travis did, because when my eyes dart to my thong, I see that he has deftly obscured it against his thigh with his large hand, and he seems completely cool and collected.

"I'll take the 12, neat please." He looks at me to follow suit. I haven't yet looked at a drink list but I ask the waiter to suggest a Cabernet and follow his recommendation. I feel slightly basic for the order. This seems more like a French 75 type place. Oh well.

The waiter nods and goes to retrieve our drinks. Is everyone in this place good-looking? I wonder. First the hostess, and now the young waiter looks as if he just stepped out of an Abercrombie magazine. He's attractive in a very conventional way. I admire him as he walks away like one admires a Michelangelo, but my desire is directed at the man fondling my wet panties.

When I turn to face Travis, my lingerie has disappeared. I don't know what he did with it or how he managed the sleight of hand, but I know that's the last I'll see of it. Farewell, fuchsia thong.

I settle into the sofa and Travis' arm draped behind my shoulder encourages me to inch closer, so I sidle up to him.

He rewards me with a gentle, brief kiss.

"How was your catch-up with your girlfriend?" He asks.

"Predictably like drinking drama from a firehose. Laura always has... a lot to share."

"I have friends like that. I notice that people seem to overshare with me a lot, in fact. I don't know why."

"I think it's because you seem like the type who can keep a secret well," I flirt. His eyes glitter in the light.

Adonis returns with our drinks. "Anything else I can get you for now?"

We look at each other to confirm and Travis offers a no thank you shake of his head.

We pick up our drinks and I motion for a cheers. As we clink our glasses, Travis teases, "to accomplishing your dare. I'm impressed."

I take a sip and feign incredulity with a furrowed brow. "What! You thought I'd chicken out? You give me way too little credit." But I'm remembering Laura's characterization of me as a goody-two-shoes. God, do I come across as a prude or something?

Travis shrugs in a "fair enough" way.

We chat for a while about all the above-board things. Work and kids and upcoming holiday plans are the topics that lead us to the bottom of our first glass. We browse a tiny, tasteful, limited menu by the light of the votives scattered on the marble coffee table in front of us.

Perceptively, our server returns and asks "Another round? Maybe something for the table?"

We order a couple appetizers to share, and a second round of drinks.

Travis notices me admiring the waiter and verbalizes my internal thoughts. "It's like they poach talent from the stage and screen for this place, right?"

"Exactly. I guess that's 'on brand' for them." I respond.

"What do you like best about him?"

I fear the question implies that I'm rudely ogling other guys in the middle of our date, but looking at Travis I realize he's just being playful. His eyes say "we'll go on, then."

I look back at the waiter across the room and lean toward Travis in a conspiratorial aside, "I mean, his ass looks like it was carved from marble. It's an undeniable work of art."

He chuckles and I tease back "what do you like best?" As I turn my gaze back to him, I realize that he hadn't been watching the waiter with me. He had been watching me watching him. Travis is studying my features as his fingertips caress my shoulder. Every nerve between my legs lights up. After keeping myself waiting for days, the feeling of Travis's fingertips on my shoulder stokes the fire of my deprivation.

"What do I like best?" he repeats, his face close to mine, his eyes examining me. His hand cups my jawline and he draws his thumb gently across my lips. "I like these," he speaks to my lips. His fingertips fondle my earring and trace the sinew of my long neck. "And this." His fingers lazily wander south to alight on my collarbone and travel east across my décolletage. "And this."

My body language is begging him to kiss me. His hand retraces its steps, finds the back of my neck, and pulls me in for a deep kiss. His lips and tongue caress my own and I sink into the feeling. His large hand easily wraps around 3/4 of my slim neck and he gives me a little squeeze and simultaneous bite. I am so fucking hot for this man. I lean in and without thinking, my hand finds his chest and with a small handful of his shirt, pulls him toward me.

I hear Adonis clear his throat to announce his presence with our drinks. I release Travis' shirt and move to break the kiss, but he holds me in place and traces my lips with his tongue, seeming unbothered by being observed. When he's satisfied, he breaks our kiss slowly, and acknowledges the server's presence.

"Thank you..." he pauses as he reads Adonis' real name on his tag "...David."

"My pleasure," David returns. Do I sense innuendo in his response? I'm probably imagining it, still intoxicated with desire. "Your food will be out shortly."

I sip my refreshed glass and try to come back to Earth, but I'm ready to get the check and find a place where Travis and I can be alone together.

Travis sips his whiskey cooly, and asks "So it's your turn, I believe?"

"My turn?"

"To ask. Truth or dare."

"Ah, yes." I rub my hands together mischievously. "Ok... Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

I squint my eyes at him, considering what I want to know, and how I want to keep the heat turned up. I sip my Cabernet.

I lean a little closer to him and ask "Have you gotten off thinking about us together?"

"Sure." Travis says, as if it's obvious.

"What did you think about?" I press.

"How your lips feel around my cock. How you taste. How your hair smells when I fuck you from behind..." he pauses and runs his fingers along the inside of my thigh. "All the things I want to do to you."

Jesus, help me. I want him badly. He can do whatever he wants to me. I squirm in my seat, squeezing my thighs together and feeling my clitoris pulse in response.

"My turn. Truth or dare?" Travis asks my thigh.

"Truth." I don't know if I can handle another dare right now. I take a generous drink of my cab for courage.

"How wet are you right now?"

I swallow my drink down and feel the tannins warm my throat. I'm a little tipsy.

"What, like, on a scale of 1-10?"

Travis smirks. I consider the situation under my skirt, trying to determine an honest response. It's very hard to think with his fingers teasing my thigh. He sidles closer to me until our sides are zipped together. He leans over me, brushing my hair aside with the back of his hand and planting one gentle kiss on my neck, just below my ear. I instinctively tilt my head to grant access.