Chapter 1: Rain, Ruined Dress, and His Tight Shirt
The train lurched, and Zacky’s shoulder bumped the window with a dull thud. He righted himself, tugging the cuff of his suit jacket, a reflex born from years of boardroom composure. Across from him, a woman with a canvas bag and a paperback she wasn’t reading smiled at his clumsiness. He offered a tight-lipped nod, the kind he reserved for colleagues he didn't remember hiring, and turned his gaze to the scrolling graffiti of the city’s outer boroughs.
Her name, he would learn, was Abbi.
She spoke first. Not with a question, but a statement. “You look like you just escaped a meeting that could have been an email.”
The laugh that escaped him was unexpected, a short, sharp sound that surprised them both. He looked at her properly then. Dark, quick eyes. A silver ring through her septum. Hair that had been hastily tied back, escaping in curls around her temples. She was the opposite of the polished, predictable women he usually dated.
“That obvious?” he asked.
“Only to a fellow survivor,” she said, tapping the cover of her book. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. “I’m in urban planning. We’re professional meeting-escape artists.”
The conversation unspooled from there, easy and unforced. They traded backgrounds like trading cards. His: a childhood in a quiet New England suburb, a father who taught him how to tie a Windsor knot before he learned to ride a bike. Hers: a chaotic upbringing in a dozen different cities, the daughter of a jazz musician and a woman who managed his tours. They talked about pasts that didn't fit neatly into any narrative. They talked until the conductor’s final call for their stop, a town neither of them had intended to visit.
Getting off the train was a mutual, unspoken decision. The platform was cold. The air smelled of rain and grease. They found a bar. It was the kind of place with sticky floors and a jukebox that only played songs from before they were born. They drank cheap whiskey. They laughed.
The rain started as they were finishing their third round. A drizzle at first, then a deluge, turning the streets into black mirrors. By the time they stumbled out, the downpour was a solid, violent curtain. They were soaked within a block. Abbi’s canvas bag was a sodden weight. Her dress, a thin, floral thing, clung to her body like wet tissue paper.
“My room’s just there,” Zacky yelled over the storm, pointing at a dimly lit sign for a place called The Hollow. “It’s a shithole, but it’s dry.”
It was the most sensible thing to do. It was also a lie. Dryness was the last thing on his mind.
The innkeeper, a man with a face like crumpled paper, barely glanced at them as Zacky fumbled for his key. The stairs groaned under their combined weight. His room was at the end of a narrow hall. He pushed the door open. The smell hit him first — damp wood, stale beer, a ghost of cigarettes. A single bulb cast a weak, jaundiced light over peeling floral wallpaper and a bed that was too small for two people.
The rain hammered the window. It felt like the room was underwater.
Abbi didn't wait for him. She kicked off her ruined flats and peeled her dress over her head in one motion. The wet fabric resisted, stuck to her skin. Then it gave. A sharp, decisive ripping sound tore through the silence. The dress fell away from her in two separate, ruined pieces.
She stood there, in just her underwear. Black cotton. Utilitarian. Utterly devastating in its simplicity.
Zacky’s brain short-circuited. He tried to look away, to be a gentleman, but his eyes wouldn’t obey. The full, staggering sight of her was a physical blow. The curve of her hips, the soft plane of her stomach, the pale skin of her thighs. He was empty. There were no polite words, no clever remarks. Just the raw, dumbfounded stillness of a man who has forgotten how to breathe.
She didn’t cross her arms. She didn’t blush. She just looked at him, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes held his. A challenge. An invitation. A statement.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window frame, and a wave of cold air slipped through the cracks. Abbi shivered, just once. Her gaze dropped from his face to his chest.
“That shirt looks dry,” she said, her voice a low, amused hum. “And it looks warm.”
He was still wearing his own damp button-down, but he stripped it off, then the wet t-shirt underneath, his movements clumsy and too fast. He tossed her the soggy one. She caught it, arched an eyebrow, and dropped it to the floor.
“The other one,” she clarified.
He pulled his dry undershirt away from his skin. It was a plain, grey cotton crew neck, tight. He handed it over. It was still warm from his body.
She pulled it on over her head. It clung to her like a second skin, riding up her hips, outlining every curve the wet dress had hidden. She was swimming in his shirt, and yet it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.
“So,” she said, taking a step toward him. The floorboard creaked. “We’re stuck.”
“Seems so.”
Another step. The scent of her—rain, whiskey, and something else, something clean and female—filled the tiny space between them. “You’re doing that thing,” she said, her fingers reaching up to trace the collar of his pants. It was a featherlight touch that sent a jolt straight through him.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look at me like you’re trying to figure out a problem. Like I’m a spreadsheet with a wrong number.”
He swallowed. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
Her laugh was soft. “Respectful is boring, Zacky. What do you want to do?”
He couldn’t say it. The words were stuck behind years of conditioning, of always saying the right thing, of never making a misstep. So he showed her instead. He closed the distance and kissed her.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was the storm outside finding its way inside.
Her mouth opened under his, tasting of whiskey and want. Her hands were in his hair, gripping, pulling. He backed her toward the bed, and they fell onto the narrow mattress in a tangle of limbs and breath. His shirt on her body was an offense. He needed it gone. He tugged it up, over her head. She was bare underneath it. The full weight of her breasts pressed against his chest, soft and heavy and perfect.
His own shirt was next, yanked over his head. He was hard, straining against his pants. The air in the room was thick, humid. The rain was a frantic drumbeat on the glass, and the distant thump of the bar’s stereo downstairs was a muffled, angry heartbeat.
She pushed him back against the lumpy pillow. Her hair fell around her face. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She straddled his hips, her thighs bracketing his, her incredible weight a trembling thrill.
He reached up, cupping one of her breasts. It was full, soft, and astonishingly warm in his palm. He ran his thumb over the nipple, and it pebbled instantly, a tight, hard bud.
“You like that?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
He answered by pulling her down to him. He took the nipple into his mouth. The taste was salt and skin. He sucked, hard, and she gasped, a sharp, sweet sound that vibrated through her chest and into his lips.
Her body arched over his. She held the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her. He suckled like a man starved, her soft flesh filling his mouth, her breath a ragged rhythm in his ears. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, a low, possessive growl rumbling in his throat. It was raw, animalistic. It was a claiming. A messy, wet, breathtaking act of worship.
She released him from her breasts, her body slithering down his. Her mouth found his collarbone, his chest. Her tongue traced a wet path down his sternum. Her hands worked at his belt. The buckle clinked. The button popped.
She freed him. Her hand wrapped around him. He was hard, aching, already slick at the tip. She gave a long, slow stroke that made his hips buck off the mattress.
Then her mouth was on him.
The world narrowed. The rain, the peeling wallpaper, the flickering bulb—it all vanished. There was only the wet, hot suction of her mouth. The soft stroke of her tongue. The gentle graze of her teeth. She took him deep, her throat working, her dark eyes looking up at him from under the fan of her lashes. The sight of her lips stretched around him was an image he knew would be seared into his memory forever.
A tight heat coiled in his gut. It was too much. It was too good.
“Wait,” he grunted, his hand finding her hair. “Wait.”
She pulled back, a thin string of saliva connecting her lip to him. He almost came right then and there.
“Not like that,” he managed, his voice a wreck. “I want… I want to fuck your tits.”
A wicked grin spread across her face. “Yeah?”
He nodded, dumbly.
She shimmied up his body, settling over his stomach. She gathered her breasts in her hands, pressing them together, creating a glorious, slick valley. He spat, a crude, thoughtless gesture that she mirrored, and then he guided his cock into the space between them.
The sensation was obscene. The soft, supple weight of her breasts, the tightness of the channel she created, the friction of her slick skin. He began to move, a slow, rhythmic thrust, his eyes locked on the sight of his cock head appearing and disappearing between the full mounds of her flesh.
She watched too, her own gaze heavy-lidded with a mixture of arousal and amusement. She leaned down, spitting on his shaft every few strokes, a wet, vulgar addition that made him groan. The sounds were messy—wet, slapping, obscene. The air was thick with the smell of her sex, his sex, their combined heat.
He was close, so close, the pressure building behind his eyes.
“I’m going to come,” he panted, the words a warning.
She squeezed her breasts tighter, her smile feral. “Do it.”
He came with a strangled shout, hot and thick, spurting across her chest, her neck, her chin. The release was a blinding, white-hot flash that left him shaking, gasping for air. He pumped his hips once, twice more, the cum painting her dusky skin in ropes.
Then, silence. Only the ragged sound of their breathing and the steady drum of the rain.
She looked down at the mess on her chest, then up at his face. He was prepared for disgust, for regret. Instead, she let out a giggle. A real, genuine, unguarded giggle.
“You,” she said, wiping a drop from her chin with the back of her hand, “are a menace.”
The tension broke.
He laughed. A full, deep belly laugh that shook the bed and made his ribs ache. He looked at her, perched on his stomach, his seed drying on her skin, her hair a wild mess, and he felt a ridiculous, buoyant joy.
She clambered off him and flopped onto the mattress at his side, her head resting on his shoulder. They lay there, tangled and spent, as their breathing returned to normal. The flickering bulb buzzed overhead.
“So,” she said, her voice drowsy. “The last person I was with sold insurance. He used to cry during sex.”
He snorted. “The last person I was with told me I was emotionally unavailable.”
“Were you?”
“Probably.”
She was quiet for a moment. “The person before that,” she said, her voice softer, “was a girl named Lila. We lived together in Portland for two years. She left me for a French pastry chef.”
He turned his head to look at her. The vulnerability in her eyes was a raw, open wound. It wasn’t just a hookup story. It was a piece of her. A real one.
He didn't offer platitudes. He didn't say he was sorry. He just reached over and traced a line down her arm. His turn.
“The one before the emotionally unavailable one,” he said, his voice low. “Her name was Sarah. We were together for five years. I bought a ring. I had the whole speech planned out. I came home early from a business trip to surprise her.”
He paused. The rain was letting up, its rhythm slowing to a gentle patter.
“She was in bed with my business partner.”
Abbi didn’t flinch. She just took his hand and laced her fingers through his. “People are fucking monsters,” she said.
“Yeah.”
They lay in silence, the weight of their shared pasts filling the room. The bulb flickered once, twice, and then went out, plunging the room into a deep twilight. The only light came from the neon sign of the bar next door, casting a faint, angled glow through the rain-streaked window.
Abbi rolled onto her side, facing him. Her fingers traced the damp hair on his chest. “You’re not emotionally unavailable,” she whispered. “You’re just guarded.”
Her hand drifted lower, down his stomach. His breath hitched.
She found him, still soft, but stirring. Her touch was gentle, curious. Not a demand. A question.
He looked at her, at this strange, wild woman in his shirt, in his bed, in his life. The rain had stopped. The storm was over.
“I’m still stuck here,” he said, his voice barely a murmur.
“We both are,” she replied, her hand closing around him, a slow, deliberate promise. Her eyes, dark and full of secrets, held his in the half-light. “What should we do about it?”
Abbi tidak menunggu jawaban. Tangannya masih menggenggamnya, hangat dan mantap, seperti sedang menimbang sesuatu yang belum pernah ia sentuh sebelumnya. Zacky menelan ludah. Otaknya yang biasa menyusun strategi rapat direksi mendadak kosong.
"Kita bisa mulai dengan tidak berpura-pura," katanya. Suaranya serak, jujur.
Abbi tersenyum. "Bagus. Aku benci berpura-pura."
Ia bergerak lebih dulu. Menciumnya lagi, kali ini lebih pelan.Lebih dalam. Lidahnya menjelajah, tidak tergesa-gesa. Zacky merasakan tangannya sendiri mengangkat, menyentuh pinggang Abbi, lalu naik ke punggung, menghitung tulang belakangnya satu per satu. Kulit Abbi dingin di permukaan, tapi panas di bawahnya.
"Kamu punya kondom?" tanya Abbi di sela ciuman.
Zacky berkedip. "Di dompet. Kayaknya."
"Kayaknya?"
"Kalau enggak, kita cari cara lain."
Abbi tertawa kecil. "Cari cara lain? Kamu ini pengusaha atau Boy Scout?"
"Pengusaha yang dulu pernah jadi Boy Scout."
Ia meraih dompetnya dari lantai, membuka retsletingnya dengan satu tangan sementara tangan lain masih memegang lengan Abbi. Ada satu. Bersyukur. Ia merobek bungkusnya. Abbi mengambil alih, menggulung kondom itu ke batangnya dengan gerakan yang terlalu terampil untuk dipertanyakan. Zacky mendesis.
"Jangan komentar," kata Abbi, tapi matanya nakal.
"Tidak komentar."
Ia membaringkan Abbi di kasur. Kasur itu berderit, keras, seperti protes. Zacky menahan diri sejenak, menatap wajahnya. Ada sesuatu di sana—kerentanan yang tadi tidak ada. Atau mungkin selalu ada, cuma tersembunyi di balik keberaniannya.
"Kamu yakin?" tanyanya.
Abbi mengangkat alis. "Kamu yang tadi bilang mau jadi gentleman. Sekarang jangan bikin aku nunggu."
Ia masuk pelan. Abbi menghela napas, panjang, dan Zacky merasakan seluruh tubuhnya menegang. Bukan karena tegang—karena sesuatu yang lain. Sesuatu yang lebih dalam dari sekadar hasrat. Ia mulai bergerak. Pelan. Terukur. Tapi Abbi menaikkan pinggulnya, memaksa ritme lebih cepat.
"Jangan terlalu sopan," bisiknya. "Aku belum pecah."
Zacky tertawa, napasnya berat. "Baik, nona."
Ia mendorong lebih dalam. Lebih cepat. Kasur berderit mengikuti. Di luar, hujan sudah reda, tapi tetesan masih jatuh dari talang. Suara itu bercampur dengan napas mereka, dengan gemerisik seprai, dengan detak jantung Zacky yang kencang di telinganya sendiri.
Abbi mengaitkan kakinya di pinggangnya. Tangannya mencengkeram lengan Zacky. Ia memanggil namanya—sekali, dua kali—dengan suara yang putus. Zacky menutup mata. Ia tidak ingin ini berakhir cepat. Tapi tubuhnya tidak bisa diajak kompromi.
Ketika ia akhirnya datang, ia menekan wajahnya ke leher Abbi, menggigit pelan, menahan suara. Abbi menyusul beberapa detik kemudian, tubuhnya bergetar, kukunya meninggalkan jejak bulan sabit di kulit Zacky.
Mereka tidak langsung berpisah. Zacky tetap di sana, di dalamnya, sampai napasnya kembali. Lalu ia berguling ke samping, menarik Abbi ke dadanya. Kondom dilepas, diikat, dibuang ke lantai. Nanti.
"Oke," kata Abbi, suaranya serak. "Itu tadi...lumayan."Lumayan?"
"Jangan besar kepala. Nanti aku turunin rating."
Zacky tertawa. "Kamu ini selalu begini?"
"Gimana?"
"Bicara seperti sedang menilai properti."
Abbi menyenggol rusuknya. "Aku perencana tata kota. Aku menilai properti setiap hari. Kamu baru saja dapat nilai tujuh dari sepuluh."
"Tujuh?"
"Delapan. Tapi jangan bilang siapa-siapa."
Mereka tertawa lagi. Tawa yang lelah, lega, sedikit histeris. Zacky menatap langit-langit. Catnya mengelupas membentuk peta benua yang tidak ada. Ia merasa aneh. Ringan. Seperti setelah rapat besar yang berjalan lebih baik dari perkiraan.
"Abbi," katanya.
"Hm."
"Kamu lapar?"
"Selalu."
Di luar, langit mulai berubah dari hitam ke abu-abu tua. Fajar belum benar-benar datang, tapi malam sudah menyerah. Mereka berpakaian seadanya. Abbi memakai kembali kaus Zacky, lalu celana panjangnya sendiri yang masih lembap. Zacky mengenakan kemeja yang belum kering sepenuhnya. Mereka keluar dari kamar, menuruni tangga yang berderit, melewati lobi yang kosong. Penjaga penginapan tidur di kursi, mulutnya terbuka.
Mereka menemukan warung makan 24 jam dua blok dari situ. Lampu neonnya berkedip. Kursinya plastik. Kopinya pahit. Abbi memesan nasi goreng dengan telur mata sapi. Zacky memesan roti bakar dan kopi hitam.
"Jadi," kata Abbi, mulutnya penuh. "Kamu ke kota ini buat apa? Selain kabur dari rapat yang bisa jadi email?"
Zacky meniup kopinya. "Aku mau lihat tanah. Ada proyek pembangunan. Aku bosan dengan proyek-proyek besar di kota. Pengin sesuatu yang lebih...kecil."
"Kecil?"
"Kayak penginapan itu. Bangunan tua. Punya cerita."
Abbi mengangguk. "Aku ngerti. Aku juga bosan dengan kota yang terus tumbuh tanpa arah. Semua jadi mall. Semua jadi apartemen. Nggak ada yang peduli sama orang yang tinggal di situ."
"Kamu mau bikin apa?"
"Aku mau bikin ruang publik yang beneran publik. Taman. Bangku. Tempat orang bisa duduk tanpa harus beli kopi."
Zacky tersenyum. "Itu ide bagus."
"Jangan setuju aja. Bantu aku."
"Gimana?"
"Kamu punya uang. Aku punya otak. Kita bisa bikin sesuatu."
Ia mengatakannya sambil lalu, seperti lelucon. Tapi Zacky merasakan sesuatu di dadanya. Sesuatu yang mirip harapan. Ia tidak menjawab. Ia hanya menatap Abbi, yang sedang menyendok nasi goreng dengan lahap, rambut acak-acakan, kaus Zacky kebesaran, dan ia sadar bahwa ia tidak ingin malam ini berakhir.
"Kamu punya nomor?" tanyanya.
Abbi berhenti mengunyah. "Baru mau minta nomor sekarang? Setelah semua itu?"
"Aku lambat."
"Jelas."
Ia merogoh tas kanvasnya yang masih lembap, mengeluarkan pulpen. Ia menulis sesuatu di serbet kertas, lalu melipatnya dan menyelipkannya ke saku kemeja Zacky.
"Jangan dibaca sekarang," katanya.
"Kenapa?"
"Supaya kamu penasaran."
Zacky menahan senyum. "Kamu ini memang menyebalkan."
"Tapi kamu suka."
Ia tidak menyangkal.
Mereka menghabiskan kopi sampai habis. Matahari mulai naik, menembus jendela kaca warung, membuat debu di udara terlihat seperti serbuk tipis yang melayang. Abbi menguap. Zacky membayar. Mereka keluar, dan udara pagi terasa bersih, wangi tanah basah.
"Jadi," kata Abbi, berdiri di trotoar. "Aku harus cari bus. Kamu harus balik ke penginapan?"
"Kayaknya."
"Oke."
"Oke."
Tidak ada yang bergerak. Lalu Abbi berdiri jinjit, mencium pipi Zacky. Cepat.Ringan. Seperti kecupan seorang teman lama. Tapi tangan Zacky menahan pinggangnya sejenak.
"Baca serbetnya nanti," bisik Abbi. "Jangan buang."
Ia melepaskan diri, berjalan mundur, melambaikan tangan. Zacky menonton sampai ia menghilang di tikungan. Lalu ia merogoh sakunya, membuka serbet itu.
Di sana, tertulis nomor telepon dan satu kalimat:
Kamu dapat nilai sembilan. Jangan rusak.
Zacky tertawa. Sendiri. Di trotoar yang basah. Langit pagi yang bersih. Ia melipat serbet itu, memasukkan ke dompet, dan berjalan pulang tanpa merasa perlu buru-buru.