Chapter 8
Jordan
The rest of the day after the altercation and my chance meeting with Bianca in the hallway, is depressingly anticlimactic. Why? Because, I’ve done nothing but thirst for another glimpse of her. Another chance to soak her in. Talk to her.
But there’s been no sign of her.
Everywhere I go, there’s only a blank space. A void. A place where I want her to be. Need her to be but she isn’t.
Other girls are always there, trying to fill the space like cheap imitations. Like a living lie every other person has fallen for but me.
At first, I was despondent. Sad. Lonely with not seeing her.
But now, as evening draws on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror getting ready to go to the Exchange Club, I’m grumpy. Pissed.
Frowning at my reflection, I try to slick my hair back for the millionth time with some hair glue into something remotely “dignified” despite my longer, more laid-back hairstyle, I wonder why I’m bothering.
I stare at myself thinking, Why even bother going there again? No way in hell Bianca’s going to be there. Mariah and Jane were at the club because Alex gave them an invitation. He went out of his way to invite them. Nothing like that happened to me.
I yank on the water feeling frustrated. Lied to. They keep saying “oh, yeah we’ll help you find your girl, Jordan,” but it means nothing. The woman I want won’t be there. Isn’t going to be miraculously walking herself onto the stage waiting for the highest bidder.
I scrape the hair glue off my fingers, not caring that the water is hot enough to cook a lobster. I turn off the water in the next second and snap a hand towel off the looped holder. I’d have better luck staying here, but I have two bone-addicted dogs for friends. They won’t break their habit, ‘til I get thrown one.
Roughly, I dry my hands. As I do, I catch a glimpse of my ensemble in the mirror. I’m in a pair of slacks, fancy sneakers, and a salmon-colored polo. Over it, I’m wearing a diamond-white blazer. Not my usual style, but if I didn’t put something over it, Paul would accuse me of wearing “pink” to this thing.
And at this point, I don’t want to deal with his “good-natured” fun at my expense. I’ve had enough.
On my way to open the bathroom door, I grab a different bottle of cologne. Something besides the Marco de Polo, I usually wear. Instead of the sporty, lemon zest, this cologne sweetens me, like a cinnamon-and-clove-infused bottle of bourbon. I spray under my shirt, then move to the back and sides of my neck, and finally my wrists.
The minute I step outside the bathroom, Paul says, “Wow, done already? I thought for sure you’d need at least another hour.”
I frown at him, glancing meaningfully at Alex. The man who keeps insisting he and his brother make the “world’s best wingmen” and say, “we don’t have an hour. We have twenty minutes.”
I walk to the door and automatically pat my pockets checking for my phone and my ticket into the event. They’re both there, but I don’t feel any better. Any more like I’m ready to go and do this all over again.
Opening the door, I murmur, “Though it’ll probably feel like an hour once I get there and have to sit at the table again.”
Paul follows me. “Cheer up, Jordan. It’s about to be your big night, man.”
“A big failure, you mean,” I grumble as I walk toward the hotel's exit. The sooner I can get this failure-of-a-night started, the sooner I can wrap it up and come back here. Maybe catch a glimpse of Bianca. Maybe ask around and figure out what room she’s in.
Paul catches up with me. For once he's being the responsible one and will drive us to the club. He deserves to do as much, considering I closed out the room and packed up for all three of us at Christmas after they went running like mad men after their women.
I’d probably do the same if I had my own woman. If it were Bianca I was trying to get back, but I’m not in that space right now. I’m just dreading the night ahead. Dreading the bland and boring women I know will come across that stage.
As we reach and walk past the reception desk, I say to Paul, “I forgot to mention there’s a creepy guy staying here. Had to chase him off on my way to lunch this afternoon. You might want to text Mariah and tell her to keep her and Jane localized to the room tonight.”
“Sure,” Paul says, sending a text.
I glance over at his phone and see he’s copied in Alex. Better to be safe than sorry.
Keeping the girls together and safe in the room will be easy. They’re already in Alex’s room hanging out for the evening painting each other’s toes or some other girly crap like that.
Outside, it’s dry for once. No fresh snow. No fog or ice. Just a cold, empty night sky. I should’ve ditched lunch, I think, wondering where Bianca is at this moment. Where in this whole resort she’s hiding. Or I should’ve at least offered for her to come with me, fuck what anyone else would’ve thought. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this bullshit.
I make it to Paul’s car. From somewhere behind me, he clicks the door open. I hop inside. Shotgun this time. Moments later, he reaches the car and steps into the driver’s seat.
Alex follows shortly after and jumps in back, much more excited about all of this than I am. Their eagerness is enough to make me want to punch them both.
There’s no point spending money tonight. It’ll do as much good as opening up the window on the freeway and throwing thousands of dollars into the icy wind.
But none of that matters to them. Without a care in the world, without any hint of disappointment, or any concept that I’m not one-hundred percent with their program, they take off toward our not-so-secret destination.
As we take the now-familiar roads, I let myself grouse. Bitch out loud. “I’m telling you. This is going to be a fucking phenomenal waste of time. And of my money.”
“Way to be positive, man,” Alex says. “Just let the Club work its magic. There’ll be something good there for you. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have the beautiful girls we have in our lives now. Right, Paul?”
“Exactly right,” he says, flicking his turn signal on. “And it helps that you’re not in sneakers and a baseball cap or wearing that ridiculous coat.”
I can’t take it anymore. I actually punch Paul’s bicep. Not playfully either.
He laughs me off saying, “Easy, boy. Save your frustrations for your girl.”
“I don’t want a girl. I want a grown-ass woman. Which I know is not going to be walking around that club.”
Alex flicks the back of my neck. I flinch under it, but don’t do any more in response. “Stop being so moody, Jordan. Just give it a chance, okay?”
No matter what I wanted to say to that, no matter what witty or snarky comment I wanted to sling back at him, it'll have to wait because we’re here. We’ve pulled into the shadowed parking lot of the even more mysterious mansion. A holdover from a bygone era only historians care about.
Paul cuts the engine, and Alex cuts the crap. Before I can put up any protest, he’s at my door, hauling me out of my seat. “You’re going down there, if I have to drag your sorry ass all the way to the door, you hear me?”
“And if you’ve heard me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you’d know there’s no fucking point to any of this,”
For all his pulling, Alex hasn’t succeeded in doing much more than get me out of my seat belt.
But Paul, like always, has to give his baby brother a helping hand. A hand that unceremoniously shoves me out of the car completely.
“Get in there, and we’ll get you some chocolate. That should help with your PMS,” he says, shutting my door and locking it.
With that, I’m left to be dragged by Alex toward the basement and the Exchange Club waiting below.