Chapter 3

Lorali

Friday finds me slowly coming out of the knee deep pile of obituaries that have been unusually high. This year has been especially brutal due to a larger than normal outbreak of the flu. The elderly are just not standing a chance against this super aggressive strain.

By three o’clock I’m as caught up as I’m ever going to get, and my mind once again wanders back to the beautiful stranger from the laundromat. Trying to control the humidity level in my panties, I dig into my emails. My boss being the wonderful, absent-minded man that he is has sent me a last minute email, informing me that I’m expected to get a jump on my contribution to the Lifestyle section by attending not one, but two events tomorrow evening.

No time like the present I guess.

After responding I’d be in attendance at both events, I decide to start going through past articles in the Lifestyle section to get a better grip on what’s going to be expected of my coverage of the events. I hate being unprepared and this seems like the best way to see what’s been passing as appropriate for The Courier.

Sifting through story after story of the goings on of Denver’s upper crust, I discover that many of the articles seem to be repetitive. Same type of event. Same people attending.

Ugh. Is this what I have to look forward to? Going to these stuffy, overpriced events, documenting how great the lives of the rich are? And the articles: you mean two paragraph snippets and loads of pictures? This isn’t journalism; this is more like simple blogging or blurb writing. My questions of why Alice insisted on keeping this lowly spot have been thoroughly answered. The job description should read: Social butterfly that mingles with rich people as they feign interest in the poor, tattered, and lost souls of Denver by spending loads of money on overpriced events.

Determined to still give one hundred ten percent, I think my time could be spent most judiciously by being able to recognize the who’s who by face. I know it’ll look very unprofessional if I always have to ask others around me the names of people. I click on the photo gallery for the lifestyle section and begin my research.

A few slides in I stop, and stare at the face that’s taking up more than half of my computer screen. Fuck me sideways if it isn’t Beautiful Stranger himself. The caption under the photo reads: Ian Hale and an unnamed friend attend this year’s 19th Annual Royal Gala at the Denver Convention Center.

Ian Hale.

That name is familiar. After minimal research, I determine he’s a local businessman who apparently has his fingers in many different pies around the state. His main office is here in Denver.

The frequency of his face popping up in the photo gallery promotes my belief that this may be the reason he seemed so familiar to me Monday night. I’ve possibly seen his face and name in passing but how in the hell I could “pass by” his picture and not commit it to memory is beyond me.

The woman posing beside him is insanely gorgeous with long, straight blond hair. She peers into the camera, looking overly hopeful. Hopeful of what, though? How will the night end? If her face will make the front page? Just by looking at the picture I can tell she’s pretty sure she’ll end up in his bed, but the glint in her eyes makes me think she’s hoping for more than a quick fuck. And who wouldn’t want more? This man is beyond gorgeous and has more money than Croesus.

I take a minute to wonder how their night ended…did he do the gentlemanly thing and drop her home at the conclusion of their evening? Or did they end up locked in each other’s arms for the remainder of the night? If the latter…did he escort her to one of the rooms in the convention center and worship her body for hours, or did he take her hard and fast in the limo and still drop her home when it was done?

Whatever happened, I decided right then and there that I don’t like her.

Then I cringe, my face literally scrunching up in disgust with my thoughts. Who in the hell did I think I was? I see a picture of a woman beside a man I met earlier this week and spent a total of three minutes, with less than a dozen words exchanged, and now I’m what... jealous?

Oh hell no! I’m not that girl. Turning my attention from her, I run my eyes back over to him. He looks into the camera with a tight, closed mouth smile. Trying to gauge his demeanor, I peer into his eyes. Although they seem a darker hazel than I remember, I conclude that my memory of him hasn’t done him justice! He looks bored like he’d rather be anywhere else.

His face is clear of the stubble he had earlier this week, but it still in no way detracts from his breathtakingly apparent good looks. His chocolate brown hair is gently spiked on top, and it shortens in a gentle fade as it meets his collar.

He’s in a tuxedo, and I openly sigh noticing his neck and upper chest is covered by a shirt and bow tie. I would’ve much rather captured another sight of his dark chest hair. My tongue tingles. I determine at that moment, I may be somewhat obsessed with chest licking!

Forcing myself to move on from his picture, I run through the other pictures in the galleries from the last year until the pictures seem to be on repeat, showcasing the same people at similar events around the city.

Once my eyes start to cross from staring at smiling faces in ridiculously expensive clothes, I decide I’ve retained as much information as I can in one sitting.

Hopefully, I won’t mix people up tomorrow evening at the events, which I’ve had only a few hours to prepare for. On the bright side of things, it appears it’ll always be the same people, so I’ll only have to remember them once. Rinse and repeat.