Page 7 of Ready or Not (The Nape #I)

“So…” she said as we walked down White Plains Road, her hand in mine so she wouldn’t trip on the concrete pavement. “What’s this surprise?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”

“Buuut,” she dragged out the word, her voice teasing and sweet like the syrup from the corner diner. "If you told me, I could act surprised.”

I glanced down at her, the golden light of the streetlamp casting a soft glow over her face, making her red hair appear deeper and her skin almost luminous.

"Acting surprised doesn't count. I’m not telling you anything. You’ll have to wait."

Her pout deepened, making me suppress a grin.

Though it was inching one in the morning, the streets of Pelham Parkway, a neighborhood in the Bronx, were still somewhat alive.

Sounds of distant car horns and muffled reggaeton from bars filled the air.

There was a barbecue happening outside an apartment complex, where a couple of people laughed and drank, and someone was playing the saxophone at the end of the block, where a bodega was still open.

Rounding the corner on Lydig Ave, I steered her towards a home nestled between old brick buildings, and we stopped.

“Are we here?” She looked up at me, her eyes shining like a kid on Christmas morning. She looked around for a sign and found none. “What is this place?”

“Close your eyes and you’ll find out.”

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

I laughed, shaking my head. "Nah, nothing like that. Trust me."

“If you try,” her eyes narrowed, trying to keep a serious face on, however, the smile creeping in worked against her. “My friends?—”

“Will have my body chopped up, floating in the Hudson, I know,” I finished for her. “I ain’t gonna do you like that.”

Biting her lip, she hesitated for a moment before complying. "Okay, they're closed."

Double-checking they were closed, I placed my hands onto her ears and led her up the steps of the stoop, pushing open the home’s brown door.

Greeting the old Black man at the wooden counter with a codeword—along with the bouncer who held the secret entrance open for me, I walked her through a door disguised as a bookshelf and down a set of stairs until we reached the hidden space: an underground jazz speakeasy.

Placing myself behind her, I removed my hands from her ears as I whispered."Okay, you can open them now.”

The room was lit with red candlelights, casting soft shadows on exposed brick walls.

The air was thick with the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, mixed with the sound of Latin jazz music drifting from a live Afro-Cuban band in the corner.

On one side was a wood, dark red bar, and on the other were vinyls dated all the way to the fifties.

"Oh my god," she gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth in shock once she took her fill of the space.

“You like?’

She turned around to me, beaming. “I’m in love!”

Taking her hand in mine, I led her towards a small booth closer to where the band was. As we settled into our seats, she couldn't contain her excitement, her eyes darting around the speakeasy, taking in every detail.

“How’d you find out about this place?”

“My parents love jazz music and played it all the time, so I fell in love with it too,” I explained, flagging down the bartender for some drinks. “Found this place a couple of years ago thanks to the owner briefly being our neighbor.”

“This place is so cool,” she continued, looking around until her eyes found mine. “Thank you for bringing me here. This is an amazing surprise.”

“Happy to know you like it.”

“Correction: I love the place.”

“Let me correct myself,” I held my hands up in mock surrender, amused. “Happy to know you love it.”

“Thank you,” she stuck out her tongue at me, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Get it right.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I rolled my eyes, sliding her the specialty purple pink cocktail in a couple glass the male bartender set down for us. “Here. Taste.”

“So demanding,” she took the drink from me, her fingers lingered on mine, creating a friction that sent my pulse in overdrive.

I watched as she brought the glass to her slightly parted lips, her eyes never leaving mine as she took a sip.

Her reaction was instant—a slow smile crept across her face, followed by a little hum of approval as she set it back down.

"Okay," she said, leaning in closer so her voice wouldn’t be lost in the music. "This is fire. What is it?”

I smirked, leaning back in my seat and letting my arm drape lazily over the backrest of the booth. “They call it La Melodia —after a Latin jazz song. One of their signature cocktails with grenadine, raspberry, and blueberries. I’m guessing you love it?”

“I think…” she paused, swirling the drink in her glass, pretending to deliberate as her lips curled into a wicked grin, “I’ll need another before I decide.”

"Another? Really, Butterfingers?"

She laughed, yet this time… it felt different. It was like it was meant for me.

“Back to slandering me now?”

“I’m just saying,” I teased, tilting my head with a mock-stern expression, "I was there when you almost spilled all of your mojito. What’s to say you won’t spill this one too?"

She laughed again, and I felt my chest tighten in a way that threw me off guard.

Whew.

Was I… falling for her?

The thought struck me like a lightning bolt, sudden and impossible to ignore. My teasing grin faltered for a moment, but I recovered quickly, masking the rush of emotions with a chuckle of my own.

Did… was I seriously catching feelings?

Actually… I already caught feelings, didn’t I?