the production

chapter forty one

"Yes," I say.

Captain turns on his heel and I follow him through the lobby. A single camera zooms after us, hovering over Captain's shoulder. I glance at it nervously. Are we allowed to do this? I wonder. I can't imagine participants are encouraged to leave the hotel during press days. But it's not like we can run away—the camera is right there. Besides, this is what Julius asked me to do, isn't it? Get close to him. 

This certainly accomplishes that.

We walk for a block or two, the occasional car illuminating our path. The night is cold, and I wish I had a jacket. It's weird being back in the city when I've just started getting used to the warmth of the island.

"This way," Captain jerks his head at a door so shabby I almost miss it in the dinginess of the street.

The place reminds me immediately of Rusty's, with the same stale Toxie smell and dim lighting. It's packed with people, all drinking after a long day of work. I follow Captain's shoulders to the bar, trying to get used to the way he looks amongst the general population. His powerful presence is out of place here—like a lion in a sandbox. Is this his usual bar? I wonder. Has he been here with his girlfriend?

I can't ask those questions, so I settle on:

"Why this place?"

"It's the only bar in Boston that doesn't play the Production," Captain says simply.

He's right. In fact, there are no screens whatsoever. The only technology is an old jukebox in the corner, blaring rock music.

We reach the counter.

"Two tequilas."

I blink in surprise. I've never seen Captain drink anything other than gin.

The bartender arches a judgmental eyebrow at us. Captain and I are overdressed, coming straight from the cocktail hour. We look like members of a producer family—people who would never frequent a bar like this.

Without missing a beat, Captain leans in.

"Pour them."

It's an order. The bartender decides he'd like to live another day and pours the drinks with a disapproving grunt, leaving the bottle.

"Tequila?" I say.

Captain shrugs. "I need it tonight."

I'm dying to ask why, but don't.

"Okay, tequila it is. Let's—"

Before I can finish my sentence, Captain downs his shot.

"Hey!" I slap him on the arm.

"What, V?"

"You did it wrong."

"Did what wrong?"

"The shot. You're supposed to do salt, tequila, then lime."

"I don't do it that way."

"Of course you don't. You're Captain. But if you drink tequila, you have to do it right."

He turns to me, his shoulders blocking out everything around us.

"Fine. Show me."

He uses a variation of the tone he just used with the bartender. But the edge is gone, replaced with a quiet intensity that's at odds with the loud bustle surrounding us.

It's exhilarating to have his full attention on me.

Slowly, I lick the salt off the edge of my shot. I down the tequila and suck on the lime.

Captain watches my every move.

"Well done."

"Thanks. Not my first time."

"I can tell," he says quietly.

I need about six more shots to process the way Captain's looking at me. Thankfully, he pours two more.

We do them together, properly this time.

When we finish, Captain grabs the bottle. He jerks his head at the pool tables.

"Do you know how to play?"

"Uh. No."

"I'll teach you," he says. Then he's gone, weaving through the other patrons.

Captain sets the tequila on the edge of the pool table before handing me a cue, taking another for himself. He explains the rules quickly, his words clipped, staccato, and straight to the point. His instructions aren't dissimilar to when he taught me how to shoot a gun. Except this time, there are no lives at stake if my aim is off.

"What about this thing?" I hold up the cue.

"You're right-handed, so hold the base with that hand. Rest the end on your left."

He shows me with his own cue.

"Try it."

An order.

I stand next to him, doing exactly as he described.

"Good," he removes the rack, and the balls stay in a neat triangle. "Now break."

I make a negligible effort to hit the cue ball, missing wildly.

"V," Captain says.

"What?"

"You have to actually aim at the ball in order to hit it."

"I'm doing my best."

"I can't imagine your worst."

"Captain."

"V," he says again. He cracks a smile, walking over to me. "Only move your back arm when you shoot. Your hand should never move."

He guides my arm into the proper position, moving it back and forth to demonstrate the motion. I try to ignore how warm he is, how his lips are right next to my ear, how his breath skims softly over my skin.

We play for a while, alternating turns. Captain plays with undeniable skill, wielding the cue with an easy grace. In contrast, I'm terrible, but I get better with Captain's guidance. I'm surprised at how much fun I'm having. Captain's shoulders are uncurled from their usual hunch, the tension gone from his temples. He chuckles when I make a joke, his laugh low and deep. He taps his foot when a certain song comes on the jukebox.

In the city, Captain is carefree.

I can't help but notice other things, too. I see the burns on his face, the way his jaw is sharp like a knife's edge. I watch as he takes shot after shot of tequila, his head thrown back, his throat exposed. I see the way his hand grips the bottle, pouring it with care, never letting a single drop spill out. Every few minutes he runs a hand over the back of his head, a motion I've seen him do a million times or more, something so second nature he probably doesn't even notice he's doing it.

But I notice.

Suddenly my thoughts take a turn entirely. I think about his hands elsewhere. I think about the way he grabbed my leg under the table at the panel, how he'd squeezed it—hard—how his palm was rough. I think about how every time he gets close to me, the rest of the bar disappears, like a spotlight shines on him and him alone. When he talks to me, I don't even hear it. I'm just looking at his mouth, the curve of his lips mirroring mine.

At one point, a man spills a drink down Captain's shirt. Such an assault would surely result in a fistfight if we were drinking by the ravine. But here Captain offers the man a tequila shot, as if he operates by a different set of rules when he's away from the island. I wish he was like this all the time. 

If he was, things might be different.