Twelve Months of Kristal

6. I Should…But I Don’t

6

I Should…But I Don’t

HAYATO

She’s here with me, but she could run at any minute.

This uncertainty is another feeling I’m not accustomed to, and it makes this new song that much more intriguing. I loosen my tux tie as Kristal explores my hotel’s penthouse suite in the financial district. I watch her take in the view of San Francisco and its sparkling bay, the large receiving room big enough to host a holiday party or a business meeting, and the rest of the suite, which takes up an entire floor of the Tourmaline San Francisco. Her eyes remain wide with astonishment. Looking the same now as they did when we walked out of the restaurant together, after her quiet, “Okay.” Then took a technically short but emotionally long ride in my hire car back to the hotel.

Again, I’m not used to nervous women. I pay for dates who can not only hold a conversation in at least two or three languages but also take explicit instructions while they’re f*****g me. I think of that crazy elf story she told me to get out of answering my question about why she didn’t connect with the world. Of course, it wasn’t true, but there’s an innocence about her, like, maybe those People magazines truly are her only connection to the real world.

I keep on thinking I should release her—in the car, walking through the lobby, going up in the elevator, and even now as I watch her looking around the suite. I should tell her she shouldn’t feel obligated to sleep with me as Eloa would have, that she can go home.

But I don’t.

Instead of letting her go, I wave an open hand toward the audio system below the television. “This suite has an AV system that plugs into your phone. If you like, you may put on music. Anything you wish. Meanwhile, may I make you something to drink?”

I’m such a polite host.

But not polite enough to let her go. At least not yet. My entire trip was planned down to how I’d spend my time in the car on the way to the SFO airport tomorrow. But here I suddenly am, walking on the tightrope that could either toss me off or take me all the way to the end of this shiny, new song.

“Do you have any eggnog?” she asks.

“I have brandy,” I answer with a grin, wondering when I went from feeling like a cynical block of ice incapable of being amused by even the most charming of escorts to smiling at every word that came out of this San Francisco elf’s mouth.

“Okay.” She agrees again. Breathlessly, like she still can’t believe she’s here.

I can’t believe she’s here either. Or that she intrigues me so much.

I go to the room’s fully stocked bar to fish out her brandy while she takes my invitation to connect her phone to the sound system.

A few moments later, the suite fills up with a song as unexpected as her. A folk-rock ditty from the sixties, before either of us were born.

Still, I recognize this particular song. The Korean caretaker at our factory townhouse had listened almost exclusively to what he called “the California Rock” when I was a boy. What was this one called again?

As if in answer, the entire band came together to harmonize about how they were dreaming of California on a winter’s day.

Not exactly the sexiest song I’ve ever heard.

Yet, it doesn’t feel inappropriate.

Her eyes are cast down again when I cross the room with a brandy for her and a couple of fingers of Hibiki 21 for me. I hand her the glass, willing her to show me her face again.

Willing this tightrope to hold until I get what I want.