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He’s been watching the same guy all night.
Wild, curly hair and golden brown skin, so shiny with sweat from dancing that he glows almost as brightly as the club’s disco ball. He’s watched him dance with men and women alike, holding their hips tightly, rucking up their shirts, and grinding himself against their asses. He watched him do tequila shots at the bar and whisper something in the DJ’s ear.
Montreal’s clubs are so different from the sad basement parties he went to in Rimouski, and he’s also learning that the men of Montreal are much more different than the few guys he dated in Rimouski.
Back home, Booker would’ve never tried to hit on someone like this guy.
Then again, there weren’t any guys like this back home.
The guy is dancing his way over to the bar. Booker drains his third whiskey sour of the night, crumpling the plastic cup in his fist, and tries to push through the crowd of people to get to the guy.
By the time Booker gets over there, the man has already disappeared, off dancing in the crowd once more. He sighs in disappointment and waits for the bartender to turn his way so he can order another drink. Maybe, if he waits here long enough, the guy will dance back over.
“You know he’s here with someone,” a voice says from beside him, and he turns his head and—
“Oh, fuck,” he says, his stomach twisting. “There’s two of you.”
The woman throws her head back and laughs. “I think that’s what our mother must’ve said, too, when they told her she was having twins.”
Booker wants to say something witty. He wants to hear her laugh again. But all the moisture in his mouth has transferred to the small of his back and his palms. “My name is Booker,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music.
“Sophie,” she says before nodding towards the dance floor. “He’s Joe.”
“I don’t care about him anymore,” Booker says. He sounds like an idiot, but it gets her eyes back on him, and he never wants her gaze to leave his again. “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka cranberry.”
It’s a fitting drink— the magenta in her cup is the same shade as the lipstick slashed across her mouth, and Booker thinks it suits her. The bartender finally makes his way over, and Booker orders another vodka cranberry and a whiskey sour for himself.
“Is your name really Booker?” She asks once she takes a sip of her new drink.
“Sébastien,” he says. “But everyone calls me Booker.”
“Why?”
He grins. He’s been practicing this joke, and he hasn’t had a chance to try it out yet. “Because of how many times I got booked when I was younger. I was a juvenile delinquent.”
She looks him up and down, and Booker tries to stand a little taller, tries to seem a little cooler, a little more handsome under her gaze. With her eyes like glitter, Sophie asks, “what’s the real reason?”
His grin grows. “You caught me. It’s because I always had my nose in a book, and my last name is Lelivre.”
“That’s a terrible pun,” Sophie says. “I love it.”
I love you, he wants to say, but that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But there’s something about her eyes that’s got him captured— ensnared. He wishes he read more fiction or poetry, so he’d have adequate words to describe her, but he’s getting his Master’s in European history, and that’s all he’s read for the past four years. He tries to find an adequate historical comparison. Perhaps a Madame de Pompadour, but even that doesn’t fit properly. No—
This woman is incomparable, and Booker is entranced.
Someone throws their arm around Booker’s shoulder, and he turns, and it’s the guy— Joe.
“Who’s this, Soph?” The man says. He’s even more attractive this close, but compared to his sister— there’s no contest.
“Booker,” she says. “Because he likes books.”
“You like books?” Joe asks, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck, so do I. Sophie, not so much, but she’s not as smart as— ow!”
Booker winces in sympathy as he watches Sophie’s heel retract from Joe’s shoe. That looks like it hurt.
“What were you saying, baby brother?” Sophie asks, as sweet as shit.
“Fourteen minutes,” Joe mutters under his breath. “The only fourteen minutes I’ve had of peace and quiet in my entire goddamned life.”
Sophie drains her drink. “I’m starving,” she says. “Let’s go.”
Booker’s heart sinks, afraid that he won’t see her again, but then Joe looks him square in the eye.
“What do you want, Book? Poutine or shawarma?”
No one’s ever called him Book before. He likes it. “Shawarma, definitely.”
“That was the right answer,” Sophie says, and she takes his drink from his hand and drains that, too. “Is Luc coming?”
“Fuck Luc,” Joe says. There’s an unhappy twist to his mouth, and Booker wonders what that entails.
“I know you were trying to,” Sophie says, patting her brother’s shoulder. “Better luck next time. Book boy, are you here with anyone?”
Booker blinks and then shakes his head. “No one important.”
Her grin is blinding. “That’s what I like to hear.”
—
Montreal at 2:15 in the morning is a lot more alive than Rimouski at 2:15 in the morning. Especially since the entire city of Rimouski goes to sleep at, like, 10:30 p.m.
The shawarma joint is surrounded by people hungry after a night of dancing. Booker pays for their order while Joe and Sophie chatter behind him. They’re talking about a carpentry shop Sophie found and the owner’s handsome nephew.
“I’m telling you,” Sophie insists. “He’s your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Joe shoots back, accepting his tinfoil-wrapped food from Booker. “Why were you even in Little Italy?”
“I wanted cannoli,” Sophie says. “And I was looking for a bookshelf for our place.”
“I thought we were bringing the bookshelf from home,” Joe says as he takes a bite of his shawarma. “What do we need another bookshelf for?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sophie says through a mouthful of her own food. “This guy, Nicky, he likes to read. He’ll need a place to put his books if he’s at our apartment all the time.”
“Sorry, how did we get from me going to coffee with this guy to him being at our apartment?”
“I just have a feeling,” Sophie says. “I’m very in tune with my feelings.”
“You know, they used to commit people for that. I think we should bring it back.”
Booker can’t help himself; he bursts out laughing around a bite of Laffa.
Sophie turns to him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the weight of her gaze, totally focused on him. It’s— intimidating, to say the least.
“You like books, too.”
It’s not a question, and Booker hesitates before nodding.
Sophie looks satisfied. “So we need another bookshelf regardless.”
Booker has no idea what to say to that.
“So,” he clears his throat. “Are you two, uh, students?”
Joe and Sophie nod.
“First years at McGill,” Joe says.
“Do you know what you’re studying yet?”
“Art History,” Joe says. “And Sophie’s studying architecture.”
“Baba and Mama love me,” she says. “I’m the one with a practical degree.”
“Becoming a professor is practical!” Joe protests.
“Oh?” Booker sits up. “I want to be a professor, too. But just history. Uh, European history. I’m getting my Master’s here. At, uh, McGill.”
He wishes he could say a complete sentence and not sound like a fool, but he wants Joe and Sophie to like him. He’s been in the city a few weeks, and he hasn’t made any friends yet, and even if Sophie doesn’t—
“Oooh, an older man,” Sophie says, waggling her eyebrows. “Hot.”
His face is probably the same color as the roasted tomatoes in his shawarma, but he doesn’t care because Sophie thinks he’s hot, and that makes him feel like he’s ten meters tall.
Joe laughs and plucks a fry from Booker’s styrofoam tray. “Oh, Book, she’s gonna eat you alive.”
What a great fucking way to go, Booker thinks.
Sophie turns to him, her eyes locking with his. «Would you like that?»
Booker blinks. «Uh,» he says intelligently. «I don’t know how to answer that without sounding incredibly desperate.»
Her grin is sharklike, and it makes the back of his neck hot. «You got an apartment?»
Booker nods. «A few blocks away.»
«Good,» Sophie says as she stands and stretches. “Joey, I’m going with him. Don’t wait up.”
“Wait, wait, no fair,” Joe says. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
Sophie pulls a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of her jeans. “Or you could go hook up with a hot Italian boy. That’s his number.”
Joe and Booker both stare at the piece of paper. Then, Sophie presses a kiss below Booker’s ear, and he can’t fight the shiver that runs up his back.
«Oh, we are going to have so much fun,» Sophie says. «Let’s go.»
—
Sophie holds his hand all the way back to his apartment, and Booker doesn’t know what to make of that or the sweet smile she gives him as they ride the elevator up to his shitty studio apartment.
It’s completely incongruous with the filthy kiss she gives him the minute he stops fumbling with his keys and unlocks the door.
The deadbolt is jammed into his kidney, but he doesn’t care. All he can think about is the way his hands are holding Sophie’s hips and the way her tongue is sliding into his mouth.
«Wait, wait,» he pants, and he pushes her away slightly.
«Is everything okay?» She asks, and she seems genuinely concerned.
«It’s great, it’s just—» Booker takes a deep breath. «I don’t— I don’t do hookups.»
«Oh,» she says, and Booker wants to kiss the wrinkle between her eyebrows. «You should’ve told me if I came on too strong, or—»
«No, no, I—» he runs a hand through his hair, thankful that he drank tonight, so he’s just dumb enough and just courageous enough to say, «I don’t want this to be just a hookup.»
Sophie stares at him.
«I’m sorry, that was stupid—» he says, and she shakes her head.
«No, it was perfect. I don’t want this to be a hookup, either,» Sophie says. «Soufia.»
«What?» Booker asks. It’s his turn for his brow to wrinkle.
«My name. It’s Soufia. Call me Sophie, but I wanted— I want you to know that. I don’t tell hookups my real name.»
«Oh,» Booker takes another deep breath. «Okay. Soufia.»
«Sébastien,» she says, and her grin is just— it makes his heart jumpstart. «Can I call you that? I’d rather scream that in bed than Booker.»
His mouth is dry again, and he’s sure his face is the same color as a fire engine. «Please,» he says and swallows. «You uh, seem to have a lot of confidence in me.»
«I’m good at reading people,» she says, and she walks backward until she flops on his bed. «I can read you like a book.»
«You— that’s—» Booker laughs, a little breathless, a lot helpless. «And you made fun of my pun earlier?»
«Hey, Sébastien?»
«Yes?»
«Would you rather talk about puns or get in bed?» She sits up and pulls her shirt off in one fell swoop, and Booker feels so turned on he might die.
«Uh, the second one,» he says, and he stumbles over himself to pull his own shirt off, and Sophie’s laughing when he falls on top of her, and it’s—
He wants to hear the sound of her laughter for the rest of his life.