Sam and Kim: Friday Night Escape

Sam and Kim

Friday Night Escape

 

One invitation to a stranger’s dinner

led to a lesson in pleasure Cassidy never knew existed.

 

Mille Dynamite

 

© Copyright 2025 by Millie Dynamite

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Friday Night Escape

Denver, Colorado, Fall 1989

 

End of my week, I’m closing, I’m Cassidy, and this is my life, five or six days of work, a day or two off. Those change often. Close up the register. Mop the sticky floors. Dump the last dregs of lemon wedges and maraschino cherries into the sink.

 

A Thursday at Cutter’s means a thousand tiny deaths: laughter curdling to shouts, tequila sunrises losing their glow, dreams drowned in well whiskey and ice water. Can’t count the number of glasses tonight. Can’t figure out my tips because my hands shake too much, and my skin’s dried out and split from cheap detergent.

 

Four a.m. now. One final customer, if you can call her that, perched at the furthest end of the bar, a pretty birdy refusing to migrate, she’s called Kim. She sips, fingers dancing on the rim. No rush, no closing time for her. Stays until the last light flickers.

 

Leaning on the worktop, I rub my temples. When I glance up, she’s watching, a sort of smile curving the edge of her mouth.

 

“You alright, Cascade?” Kim says. Sultry, smooth tone created for late-night seductions. Not my real name. Nobody here uses it, she took one glimpse at my disaster hair, and the handle stuck. Cascade, rather than Cassidy, because my curls break loose from every tie and scrunchie, the way water flows over rocks.

 

“Peachy-keen,” I say, and regret it with my next heartbeat.

 

The lady tee-hees, warm and dark, the sensuality of her southern accent is melted chocolate that beckons one to take a bite. Eyes go bright, golden-brown under the neon, the kind that never gets murky, even in the worst lighting.

 

When Kim drains her tumbler, she sets it down without ceremony. “Oh my, you, Missy, work too hard.”

 

“Doesn’t seem to work when it’s this dead.” Total lie, but it’s what the regulars want to hear.

 

She tilts her head. “Liar. Bar work’s difficult and you have way too much bullshit thrown your way.”

 

“Hum, you want another?” I hold up the shaker. She shakes her head and pushes the glassware my way. I reach for it, but she doesn’t let go right away, holds it, eyes locked on mine.

 

The chill in the drink seeps into my palm. Finally, Kim lets go. “You ever take a break?”

 

Wiping the counter, I say, “Not really. Someone’s gotta close up.”

 

Kim stands and smooths her navy skirt. Moves with a lazy confidence, no wasted steps. Rounds to the well and stops two feet from me. We’re nearly the same height, but her graceful presence and four-inch spiked heels make her taller. She smells of expensive shampoo and something sweet, edible.

 

“Let me help.” She plucks the rag from my hand. Our fingers brush—nothing, but my heart speeds up, anyway.

 

“Don’t have to,” I say.

 

“Yeah, but I want to.” Quick and efficient, she wipes. We work next to each other. Silent except for the hum of the fridge and the clack of crystal on wood. I finish stacking the stools. She wipes every square millimeter, pushing hair behind her ear in a way that makes my throat catch.

 

Never seen her here with anyone else. No ring, no story. Sometimes she reads, other times she watches. Not in a creepy way. The woman tipped in cash, never made a mess, never hit on me or called me baby. I never figured out what she wanted.

 

She speaks up, still wiping. “You know, my husband and I are leaving town for a few weeks. Starting Monday.” She says ‘husband,’ as though it’s a nasty confession.

 

Don’t know how to answer. The woman has a husband, news to me. Trying to imagine her with a man. Doesn’t fit.

 

She glances at me, amused. “Hey, he and I are nothing alike. You’d like him.”

 

My cheeks go hot. “Didn’t realize you were married.”

 

“Long time. Twelve years, if you can believe it. Met Samuel when I was younger than you.” Curious, her eyes drift over me, not hungry, but not absent desire.

 

“Oh.” Mind stalls. Attempt to picture that many years of anything. Longest relationship I’ve had—the first five and a half years of my life, with my mother, no father. Foster homes, seven in 13 years, none longer than two. Friends, few. Lovers, none.

 

“When’s your next night off?”

 

“Tomorrow,” I say without thought, fast and easy.

 

She stops wiping, leans on the counter, eyes locked on mine. “Well, alrighty, we want to have you for dinner Friday night.”

 

Not sure if I heard right. “Supper with the two of you?”

 

She grins, the full-watt version. “Yeah. Food. Conversation. Not club talk. Real stuff.”

 

When I snicker, it comes out wrong, too sharp. “Don’t have anything to wear.” It’s true, I only own two pairs of jeans that fit.

 

“We’re not fancy.” She brushes a knuckle against my arm, light as a breeze. “Come as you are. I’ll cook.”

 

“I don’t want to intrude.” Commitment issues well up, and my stomach knots. The last dinner invitation I got was in high school, and I ghosted it. Too many people. Too many forks. Never learned the rules. Solicitations from strange men, too many to count, too creepy to accept. They were after more than I’d give. But this, this invite hits me different. Dangerous, sure, but interesting.

 

“Cascade, if I didn’t want you there, I wouldn’t ask. My husband’s dying to meet you.” She gives me a sly glimpse. “Excuse me, but you’re all I talk about at home, you know.”

 

If it’s supposed to be a joke, it lands heavy. I scrub a mug with more force than necessary.

 

“Why?”

 

But she doesn’t answer. Looks at me, right through me. For some time, she appears to think. Says, “You’re different.” Not a compliment, not an insult. The truth.

 

Giving the excuse of being busy, but the silence grows too loud. At last, Kim drops the rag and steps closer.

 

“Say yes.”

 

When her hand finds my shoulder, it’s warm, steady. Everything in me wants to shrug her off and run for the back door. But I bob my head, stupidly, lips pressed tight.

 

“Fantastic.” When she grins, her dimples stretch. “We’ll see you at seven.” Grabbing a napkin, she scribbles an address, slides it to me, our secret.

 

Glancing at the paper, her writing is neat, small, and shyish.

 

She glances at the clock, back at me. “Don’t work too hard. Get some sleep.” With that, she’s gone, gliding through the empty bar, heels clicking. The door swings closed behind her.

 

For a long time, I stand behind the bar, holding the note, listening to the refrigerators drone on, louder than ever.

 

Their address is on a street I’ve only seen on television, Cherry Hills. Actual trees, leaves turning, sidewalks swept clean. Mansions behind brick fences, with brightly lit windows and yards trimmed by paid gardeners. Not grumpy men, with beer guts, wearing old T-shirts and shorts with legs that shouldn’t be exposed. My beat-up Corolla coughs past the gate, up the drive, out of place among the BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis.

 

Sit for a full minute, clutching the steering wheel, until I remember to breathe. Jeans and a blouse, my best and only outfit. Nothing about me matches this place, but I walk up anyway, shoes crunching gravel. At the verandah, my hands sweat so much that they leave prints on the doorbell.

 

Massive double doors, one creeks open, and Kim answers. She’s in a dress that glows gold under the porch light, hair down, loose and gleaming. Bare feet on the hardwood. She opens the door wide, arms out, and hugs me as though we’re old friends.

 

“How super, you made it,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s relief or delight in her words.

 

“I said I would,” I mutter.

 

Shutting the door behind us, she guides me in further by the wrist. Warmth swallows me whole. Inside, the world runs on softer rules: honey-colored lamps, a slow-jazz record playing softly, the air thick with roasting garlic and something lemony. Candles everywhere, flickering on every flat surface. The scent settles over me, makes my mouth water, and my pulse speeds into a new zone.

 

“Here, let me take your jacket.” She peels it off and hangs it on a hook. Her hand lingers on my shoulder, tugging a lock of my hair. “Goodness, you look terrific.” She means it, I can tell. No one’s ever said it the same way.

 

I can’t stop staring at her. All my words jam in my throat.

 

Gesturing down the hallway, she says, “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

 

We walk through a living room so artful it hurts. Abstract paintings, mismatched chairs that somehow belong together, stacks of actual books instead of half-empty liquor bottles. At the far end, the kitchen gleams. A man stands at the stove, tall and careful, stirring a sauce with surgeon’s focus. His shirt sleeves rolled, hair silver at the temples, hands big but gentle.