Knock, knock, knock. I move towards the door and let Jennifer in, holding my mascara wand in my hand. I’m nearly done applying my makeup, a smoky eye and bold red matte lip to seal the look. With my shoulder-length red hair and fair skin, I look like a sexpot. The ensemble is dramatic, a change from my usual blouse, jeans, and sandals. My best friend looks me up and down, letting out a long whistle. I roll my eyes, “Yes I can clean up, and you know this. Ugh. Stop making a scene. I sense I need to up my game tonight since this place you are taking me to seems to scream ‘dress code’ and ‘velvet rope’.”

Jennifer lets out this high-pitched laugh, tears threatening to leak out of the corners of her hazel eyes. I love my best friend, but god she can be annoying sometimes.

“I’m sorry, Carrie, but damn. You look hot! I knew you were getting tired of flying solo, but I had no idea you were looking to get out there again.”

“I did not say anything about that. It’s just that, well, you never know who you might run into.”

She looks at me curiously, as if she knows I’m hiding something. “Care, what are you hiding? Did you already ‘run into’ someone?” She forms air quotes around it as if she sees right through me, which she does.

“Nobody. I just, well I just figured I should put more effort into my appearance when we go out. You know I hardly wear any makeup, and sometimes my crazy red hair is thrown up in a bun.” She nods in agreement, but does not buy what I am selling.

“Look Carrie, I get it. But you seem different. It is almost as if you have this glow. We are best friends. You have to know you can tell me anything, even your dirtiest, raunchiest shit, right?”

Now it’s my turn to burst into laughter, and I go to throw my arms around her neck. “I know, I know. Okay here’s the deal. I did meet someone, but it isn’t like that. He is a new tenant in the building, and we spoke briefly in the parking garage when I got home from work. I will say this though, he is sinfully gorgeous, like an Adonis. Think Morris Chestnut, circa “The Best Man” level of sexy, with a booming voice to match. He spoke to me in this way that had me reverting to my thoughts of submission, and my knees even nearly buckled when we first shook hands. I felt this physical chemistry like nothing from my past.” I force my eyes shut, attempting to block out my previous foray into the beautifully dark world of Dominance and submission, though those two aspects are only a small portion of what it entails. I let out this mangled sigh, “It’s just that, well you know how that went before, and I try so hard to maintain this vanilla lifestyle that I see as safe. The guys I force myself to date are nice, but weak. And I don’t mean physically. I just do not have the capacity to be with a pliable, submissive man anymore. I need strength, command, someone that will put me in my place, but in the best way. At this point, finding all of that seems out of reach. That’s where BOB comes in. I can fantasize about it all, without the dangers of physical or emotional damage. I get off imagining that I am on my knees, in front of a man of Morris Chestnut’s likeness with eyes the color of dark chocolate, nearly black. Then from there the images differ, depending on what experience I’m craving. But Jennifer, I know these should stay fantasies. I’m not willing to put myself at risk again the way I did before. As a matter of fact, I have yet to mention any of my desires to anyone since he-who-shall-not-be-named. They’d likely look me as if I was fucking crazy, or worse, they would want to engage without really understanding anything about the lifestyle. I can’t deal with that again.” I take a deep, resolute breath. “Anyways, enough about my depressing shit. Let’s finish glamming up and get out of here.”

Jennifer is looking at me sympathetically, fully understanding my need to change the topic in the middle of conversation. Not only is she my best friend, but she is also gorgeous. She has this creamy, caramel-colored skin originating from a Caucasian father and a Jamaican mother, also resulting in these beautifully unruly curly locks. She loves to wear her curls natural, very rarely even attempting to straighten them, because Houston is abnormally humid, all the time. I envy that she can be out in the sun without a hint of sunscreen; whereas I have to put on the strongest SPF I can find just to prevent heat rashes and lobster-like skin. It’s so unfair, and she constantly teases me about it, but I love her in spite of the teasing.

“I’m ready and waiting, Care! Let me just order an Uber. You know how impossible it is to find parking near the Galleria.” While her fingers work furiously across the screen of her phone, my mind wanders. I’m thinking of Malakai. That handshake and smirk on his face projected a sense of confidence I haven’t seen or felt from a man in years, and it is so refreshing, but also unnerving. I cannot go there. I know it. He has to remain the new center of my “me time.” Men like him are dangerous, not just to my heart, but my spirit as well.

“Done!” she calls out. “Now if you are finished, we can head downstairs. According to the app, the car is only about six minutes away. It will be a red Honda.”

“Alright, I am ready to go. Let me just grab my clutch and make sure I have everything I need. Phone, check. Driver license, check. Breath mints, check—” and Jennifer cuts me off.

“Breath mints, huh? Look at you, planning ahead,” she kids.

I give her a determined look. “I sure am. Like I said earlier, you never know who you will run into. Moving on. Lipstick, check. Cash, check. And debit card, check. Okay, I’m good to go. Let’s blow this joint.”

After locking up, we head to the elevator. During the descent, we catch up on our week. I live for girl time. It gives me the opportunity to speak and act unashamedly in a judgement free zone. I can curse like a sailor or laugh at my own corny jokes, and my bff does not mind. We are kindred spirits and have been since the day we met. She is the only person who knows, not only about Troy, but about my family back in Los Angeles, along with why I took off. And I am certain I can trust her not to tell a soul. When you have someone like that in your life, you treasure them. Friends that are more like family than your actual blood can hold an even bigger part of your heart.

 

We get to Park 59 at about ten-fifteen, and just as I predicted, there is a line at the door, along with a rope. I turn to Jennifer and give her an “I told you so” look when she sees what I see. She chuckles, “Yeah, looks like there really is a velvet rope. Who would’ve thought?”

We get in line, and I check us in on Facebook. Each time we go out, we alternate documenting our girls’ nights. For posterity, of course, because my best friend never gets drunk. There has never been a time where she has had to lean on me to get back to our Uber or my car, nor have there been nights she has crashed on my couch, just to wake up with a killer hangover. But that’s beside the point. I love social media. It is how I keep up with what is going on in the world, especially the different organizations and charities that I’m a member of. They are always posting about upcoming events, and utilize this platform as a way of reaching more potential donors. The only thing I despise: the creepy spam messages you sometimes find in your inbox. There are some weirdos in the world, but I digress.

Luckily, the line is moving fairly quickly and once we reach the bouncer manning the door, he asks for our names. Okay, I didn’t think it was THAT kind of club. I don’t know anyone who could have put me on a list. I know people, sure, but not in this circle. Same with Jennifer. Our nights out are much more low-key than this swanky establishment seems to be.

“Carrie Drazen and Jennifer Evans,” I yell over the music pouring out of the door.

“Carrie Drazen, huh?” the man questions. He scans the clipboard and stops about halfway down the page. “Here you are, Carrie Drazen plus one.”

I look at Jennifer, perplexed. Something is out of place, but I shrug it off, determined to have a fun night with my bestie. The doorman unhooks the rope and steps back, allowing us access to the entrance. As we walk in, I take in my surroundings. This place really is top notch. There are low-sitting, cream colored sofas lining the walls with one wide, red, horizontal stripe through the back cushions. Glass-top tables sit in front of each, some areas filled with party-goers nursing various cocktails and beers. The lighting is dim, but just bright enough to see everything around us, and the walls have this industrial concrete look. Intermittent candelabra-style light fixtures reveal the source of the low lights, and in the far, back left corner is a deejay booth. Even the man spinning tonight is in a suit. I turn to Jennifer, “This place is spectacular. We need to start coming here more often. The décor is beautiful, and the atmosphere of down-to-earth sophistication. I love it.”

We stroll further in, just gazing around at everything happening. It is still relatively early so there aren’t many people on the small dance floor in front of the deejay’s area. We pick one of the seating areas on the opposite wall from that crowd, and within minutes, a waitress with a nametag that reads Paula, approaches to get our drink orders. I order a cranberry juice, while my partner in crime requests the same, but with vodka. “Can I get a card to start a tab for you ladies?” the waitress asks. I hand her my debit card, and she prances off to the bar to retrieve our drink orders. When she returns, she sets down cocktail napkins and our drinks, then passes my card back. “I’m sorry, Ms. Drazen, I can’t accept this card.”

Caught off guard, I panic. “Excuse me, why not?”

“Because the staff was informed that if any of us served you tonight, we were not to charge you or any of your guests. Instruction from the boss, of course.”

My confusion was growing. I had no earthly idea where this was coming from. “Your boss? And who might that be?”

“Mr. Jackson. He runs this place. Well, runs it might be putting it lightly. He actually owns it, along with a few other clubs.”

“I see. And is he here tonight?” This whole time Jennifer is fighting back a grin.

“Jennifer, what are you playing at?” I snap at her, annoyed.

“Nothing! I promise.” She recoils. I never bark at her like this, but my confusion has my anxiety dialed up to ten.

I turn my attention back to the waitress and ask to meet this “Mr. Jackson.” She nods and walks off back toward the bar. She catches the bartender’s attention and relays the message of my request. His eyes go wide, and he shakes his as head as if to signal that my wanting to find out who this boss is, is denied. As my frustration peaks, I get up and head their direction. I need to get to the bottom of this.

“Pardon me, but is there a problem here?” I ask the staff members as I approach. I’m trying not to act like a privileged bitch, but this is silly.

“Ma’am, Mr. Jackson does not come out to the club floor, ever,” the bartender bellows in my ear. “Most especially tonight. He just wanted us to ensure you enjoy your time here at Park 59, and he specifically said we are not to charge you a dime for anything. It’s all on him.”

I swear I feel steam coming from my ears. I’m not good with surprises or admirers. I like things out in the open, straightforward.

“Look, I promise I am not trying to make your job difficult, but if he is so inclined to make sure I have fun at his establishment, why won’t he show his face? What if I tell you that seeing him would guarantee my joy?” I try negotiating, hoping it would heed progress.

The bartender looks down and sighs, “Ms. Drazen, I’ll tell you what. I will go back to his office and talk to him. If he wants to make himself known, he will come out. I cannot make any promises though. Mr. Jackson really likes to stay behind the scenes.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. It’s at least an effort.” I turn on my heel, and step fiercely in the direction of Jennifer sitting at the table we’d chosen.

“And that’s how Drazens get shit done,” I rub my hands together as if to dust them off.

“So, is he coming out here?” she asks.

“They said he likes to stay behind the scenes but would ask him. They didn’t make any promises, which is okay, but I just couldn’t let this go without finding out who our mystery man is. If at least to thank him for his generosity more than anything.”

“Well, while we’re waiting, let’s just enjoy. This deejay is playing some good jams.”

Jennifer and I hang out in our area, just soaking in the music and taking in the vibe of the club. I meant it when I said we should come back again. It has a very “grown and sexy” feel to it, something I could appreciate.

 

Several songs later, our waitress comes to check on us to see if we need refills. She also delivers a note to me, written in bold, masculine handwriting that says: “I hope you are being safe, Carrie.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Drazen, but the boss refuses to come out. Says this note is enough for you to figure it out.” She shrugs and takes our refill orders.

My eyes widen to the size of moons. “I can’t believe this.”

“Who is it, Care?” Jennifer asks, more curious than anything.

I show her the carefully written note, on a cocktail napkin, no less. “It’s got to be Malakai, that guy in my building I told you about. The one from the parking garage. When I mentioned where we were going tonight, he said he had heard of it and told me to be safe. I wasn’t sure why he’d said that, but it held an air of genuine concern and almost of hint of possessiveness that I didn’t want to think about.”

“And why not? You said when you met him, the chemistry was phenomenal. What is so wrong about that? Carrie, you need a man who is going to set fire to your life like a torch, in the best way. Over the years, I have seen you date these guys that barely put any kind of spark in your eye. From the way you describe him, it seems Malakai started a whole bonfire.”

I push on her shoulder and laugh out loud, “Oh geez, I cannot stand you! But you always tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. Okay, I have an idea.” Then I proceed to wave our waitress over and ask for her pen. I grab the cocktail napkin where my new neighbor scrawled his message and pen one of my own. I’m feeling bold and brazen at this moment. Taking a leap, I add a reply with my phone number, and I pass it to Paula. Her eyes light up, and she takes off for the bar.

Jennifer’s smile is so wide I think her face might crack. “I am so proud of you, Care,” she says and she hugs me tightly.

“Thank you. For so much. I love you, chick.”

We eye the bartender, and he nods, heading in the direction of Malakai’s office. My nerves are frazzled again, but for a very different reason this time. I am hoping and praying that I read him correctly and that this will be a step toward the fire.