Willow

I’m not sure what started it, but in the limo ride over to the club we got into a discussion about happiness.  Specifically, are we happy?  Like, each of us, and what does ‘being happy’ mean, exactly, anyway?

Once we got down to it, none of us really seemed to know.  The three friends I had with me couldn’t come up with anything.  And the only thing I could think of after the conversation turned from existential to downright absurd was how that question actually applied to me.

The best thing I could come up with?

Meh.  I’m happy.  

Ish.

Happy-ish. Let’s leave it at that.

And I have left it at that.  As all of us have, because we’ve all gone a bit quiet, which is leaving me looking out of the window and staring in awe at a mansion so enormous it puts Downton Abbey to shame.

Once the limo comes to a stop in front, and we have been escorted through a ten foot tall door that looks like it belongs somewhere in Mordor, the first thing I see inside has my girl parts tightening up and my head tossing up a whole stack of question marks.

“You’re going to cum for me again, aren’t you?”  A man’s voice, such a deep bass that it shakes my core, coming from a frame dressed impeccably in a dark suit that isn’t quite black.  He’s standing behind a gorgeous blond, his hand touching her only at her neck as her head rests back onto his shoulder.  Her dress is black and white lace, an evening gown that covers everything and yet somehow seems to accentuate her sensuality.

I note the veins on the back of his hand, standing over the bones.  I’m that close as we pass by that I see him squeeze.  The woman’s eyes roll back in her head and I watch her shudder.  And this is no ‘When Harry Met Sally’ fake-it, restaurant orgasm.  The woman cums so hard she passes out and the man behind her smiles, catching her before she crumbles to the floor.

I’ve never been to a club like this before.  When my friends said let’s go out, they didn’t give me specifics.  

It’s an invitation only club and we have an invitation for four.  Club Tower.  I’ve been dying to go.  

I should know better than to trust Murphy.  She’s been my alter ego since we were ten.  We met in the bathroom at the country club where our parents belonged.  Well, my mom and Murphy’s mom and dad belonged.  I didn’t have a dad.  Not until later.

That single thought has my belly flipping.  All these years later just the thought of him sends my senses into overload.

That day in the bathroom, Murphy was smoking and I was crying.  I don’t remember why, because it happened so often.  Something my mother had said to me.  I remember that much.  Enter Murphy, the sarcasm to my sweet.  The next year, we ended up at Wentworth Academy in the same class and the rest is history.

“What the heck.”  I mumble, tearing my eyes away from the beautiful couple and such a public intimate sight.  They were completely unaware of the throngs of people around them.  The depth of his attention to her almost scared me.  

How can someone cum, fully clothed, from just a few words and a hand clutched at her throat?  It seems unreal, and yet it was ever so real.

The scent, sound and vibration of lust is everywhere here. It’s in the spaces between the words I hear all around me.  Twisting into the perfume of my friend Whitney, who is leading me through the crowd.  My eyes dart to and fro.  I’m not sure how I feel.  I want to gawk. Rubber neck and giggle like a nervous little girl.

Instead, I grab the back of Whitney’s perfect little black dress and let her drag me along.  She’s as tall as most of the men around us and my own five feet two inches dwarfs me in the crowd.  Even if there are women here my height, with all the six inch stilettos I see you would never know it. I’m the token munchkin it would seem.

I’ve been back in New York two weeks and it’s already home again.  My two years in Paris were wonderful, but my Manhattan heart is beating again and it’s amazing to be back with old friends as so many things in my life are new.

I compare my own outfit to Whitney’s and roll my eyes.  When her limo picked me up outside my mother’s apartment on Central Park South I knew I was out of my depth.  

All three of my friends were dressed in black.  Me?  No one bothered to give me the dress code, did they? So here I am in my boho-chic, multi-colored patchwork skirt and hemp tank.  Both of which are a bit too tight. The button on the back of my skirt threatening to pop off and nail one of these uber elegant club goers in their lustful eyes.

My matching canvas shoes top off my elegant ensemble. I’m surprised they let me in the door. A sore thumb would blend in better.  My entire body feels tight and a headache is threatening to erupt behind my eyes.  This is so not my world.  And yet, I’m captivated by everything here.

There’s this sudden realization that I’m counting.

One, two, three, four, five...

I’ve done it three times in a row.

Breathe. Count to ten.  When you get to ten, then start again.

It’s what he taught me to do when I was younger.  When I was scared, or thought something was too hard, he taught me to count.

Count to ten, then if it’s still too hard, still hurts too much, go back to one and start again.

I’ve been doing that ever since.  When I’m uncomfortable. When it hurts or I’m just confused or in a place of indecision.  I count and it centers me.  Tough, I’m not sure it’s the counting that achieves that goal.

It’s who taught me to that.  When I count like this, I feel him with me.  

The calm.  The power and the peace I felt around him.  

“Come on!”  Adam reaches back and tugs at my upper arm. He’s 6’6” and weighs about the same as I do.  “Table!”  His voice is always tinged with laughter, no matter what the subject.  He’s been a touchstone in my life, just like Murphy and Whitney. I appreciate having them more than I think they even realize. When I landed my first real, paying design job at Tuck and Burton I was over the moon.  Knowing that Adam works there as well, I was over the moon and stars.

I use the term ‘paying’ loosely here.  I’m a glorified gopher for Lucielle Gladstone, the CEO of the design house, but a thousand girls would give their eye teeth for my job.  It’s make or break.  With Lucielle’s endorsement, careers are launched.  So for now, I’ll take the measly paycheck for the expected payoff later.  

If I survive Lucielle that is.  And survival is no gimme, let me tell ya.  I’ve averaged four to five hours of sleep a night since I took this job.  There are no off hours in Lucielle’s world.  I’m as apt to get a call at 3:00 AM to run some errand or make hotel reservations as I am to get her coffee every morning.

My friends weave us through the crowd like that video game Centipede until we snag a decent table.  Not all the way on the back wall, but not so far into the mix of the party that I feel like I need to inspect my shoes the whole night.  Not that I have on bad shoes, but they’re a far cry from the stilettos I see on most of the women in here.  Whatever, a good canvas loafer suits me just fine.

As soon as we all plop in our seats, a petite woman with jet black hair cut into a razor sharp bob, wearing Gwen Stefani lipstick is standing at the edge of our table.  I didn’t even notice her arrive.  She just sort of appeared there.

She’s not smiling, but neither is she surly. She’s attentive and yet a bit amused by us.

She just seems completely confident in her second skin, black latex dress.  A belly roll nearly identical to mine looks somehow sexy on her, whereas even tonight I cursed my mirror as I tried to find something to wear that would magically turn me into a cellulite free size four.  Yeah, right.

I sit up straighter, pull in my stomach and tug my shoulders back when she looks directly into my eyes.  

“Good evening. Welcome to Club Tower.”  The slightest of smiles curves her lips as she hands us something that looks like an elegant, gold embossed wedding invitation.  “The play rules and etiquette are here.  If you have questions, there are three Dungeon Masters walking the floor and Lord Tower is always watching.”  Her smile turns to a smirk as she looks quickly over her shoulder at a balcony above the crowd then turns back.  “Please don’t look so worried, you’ll be fine.  No one touches anyone else without explicit consent.  Now, drinks for anyone?  There is a two drink maximum.”

Maximum?  I’ve never heard of a drink maximum.

Her smirk doesn’t drop as she responds to my unspoken question.  “No one plays unless they are fully able to consent.  And in Lord Tower’s opinion, after two drinks, that is not possible.  Being substance impaired is grounds for removal from the club.  His house, his rules.”

She takes our drink order.  I don’t drink alcohol at all, so I settle on the only bottled water they have.  Fillico.  $175.00 a glass.  Thank God for trust funds.  

Whitney, Adam and Murphy are chattering away as the woman moves away from our table.  They take turns jabbing at me for my still-wide eyes, but my heart is settling down.  The room is painted black.  Walls, ceiling, fixtures, everything. Black on black on black.  The lighting is hard to figure out.  

It’s gold.  And yet silver.  

Gilver.  I think to myself and giggle out loud drawing the eyes of my friends.  

I’m still such a little girl at heart even though I try to hide it, it sneaks out when I’m not prepared.

The shimmering metallic lighting is sparkling on the walls and off the bodies that move and writhe and walk and moan all around.  

The music is elegant.  Almost hypnotic.  And not so loud we can’t talk.

“So, you miss Paris yet?”  Adam throws back his head, laughing again.  He thinks everything is funny.

“No.  I’m happy to be back.”  I say, looking into his smiling face.  His hair is shaved on the sides of his head and perfectly styled into a hardened faux hawk on top.  

“Sure, Mommy’s penthouse all to yourself.  The dream job at Tuck & Burton.”  Whitney smiles.  She’s screwed up like the rest of us, but her heart is bigger than a Texas republican convention.  “Black Amex at the ready.”

“Shut up.  I hate being under her thumb still.  Did I tell you she left me a voicemail this morning?  Putting some new condition on my trust fund and staying at the apartment.” I realize what a brat I sound, but I can’t help it.  

It’s more than just the money.  My mom uses it to control me, but in my heart I don’t care so much about that.  I just can’t seem to break away from her emotionally.  I still have this loyalty to a woman who has treated me like a business deal gone bad since as far back as I can remember.  I’ve spent a few years in therapy trying to figure it out.  This sick co-dependence we have on one another.

I can only surmise it has something to do with her having me so young.  She was a mother at seventeen with no father in sight to help emotionally or financially.  She succeeded beyond most people’s wildest dreams in spite of me and I guess somehow, in some sick way, I feel guilty for having been born.  For being a hardship for her.

I’m ashamed that I can’t just say goodbye to her and let the chips fall where they may.  I can’t, because the only other person in this world I care about is also at her mercy.

“Poor trust fund babies, all y’all.” Adam points toward each of us before tossing his drink back and shaking his head.  “I feel sooo sorry for you.”

“Stop.”  I attempt to keep my voice light.  “That came out wrong, Adam.  I’m sorry.  I’d love to be free from her but I...”  Our fun night is turning depressing, so I take a deep breath and swallow it back.  “All I want is to nail this job. Get a reference from Lucielle Gladstone and be able to make my own way in this industry.  Have enough of my own money to take care of me and Maisy.”

They all know my grandmother.  She lived with me and my mom for years up until her dementia became an annoyance to my mother and she moved her into her own apartment with full time round the clock care.  I’ve always called her by her first name.  She insisted on that when I was still a little girl.  

Said she would never be the needlepoint and cookie baking grandmother type, and besides, she loved her name and it would be a shame for her favorite person in the world to not address her by it.  She always made me feel important even if she never fit the typical grandmother role.

She’s almost fully dependent on the staff now and even when I offered to move in and take care of her when I moved back from Paris, my mother refused.  No real reason except she could see it was something I wanted.

My mom wields her power like a Samurai’s katana.  Refusing to even consider my offer to look after my grandmother.  Instead, she makes sure I know that if I don’t toe the line I won’t even be able to see Maisy, let alone help take care of her.  

My dream is to never, ever be dependent upon anyone again.  After I’m free from my mother, I will never put myself in this position again, at the financial mercy of someone else.  It’s clouded every choice and judgment my entire life and I know most people look at my life and think the grass isn’t just green on my side of the fence, it’s also dusted with glitter and icing sugar.

But, truth?  I almost see a freedom in having less.  

In living within whatever means I can manage for myself.  But every which way I turn, I feel my mother’s pull.  I look in the mirror and I see a weak-willed woman staring back.  So every day I can achieve just a little bit, make something of a name for myself with Lucielle Gladstone, is a day I’m moving toward my own independence.

I look around at the trio of my best friends chattering away and I’m grateful for each of them.

Murphy and Whitney are both stunning in their own way.  Murphy has jet black hair, coupled with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and two of the deepest set dimples in the world, which is sort of a twist of fate since she is one of the most jaded people I know.  But on her, it’s almost charming, not whiny.  

Whitney, well, she could walk the Victoria’s Secret’s runway.  Probably make the other girls jealous, too.  She’s also armed with a PhD in Neuroscience and a Masters in Bioengineering.  She finished her degrees concurrently and has gone on to do absolutely nothing with them.

That’s her way of telling her parents to go fuck themselves.  I don’t agree with it, but she’s got her reasons and she also has a trust fund that could run a small country, so who am I to judge?

Adam is the only one of us that actually needs his paycheck, just another one of the differences between our ragtag little group.  We’re all a bit of a disaster in our own ways.

“Oh!”  Murphy waves a hand in front of her, grabbing our attention.  “Guess who I saw this morning coming out of fucking Starbucks for crissake?  Who the fuck still goes there, anyway?”  Murphy screws up her face with disdain.

“Uhhh, everyone.”  Whitney deadpans and Murphy sticks her tongue out.  

“Whatever.  Anyway, what was I saying?”

“Starbucks.  You were about to tell us——”

“Yes!  Guess who I saw?”

Murphy sits there, staring around at each of us, actually expecting us to guess, like there’s some way we might be able to narrow it down from everyone in the whole world.

Murphy smacks my shoulder before going on.  “No idea, huh?  I ran smack dab into Derrick Marcus the thiiiiiiirrrddd.”  She draws out the word, rolling her eyes until all we see is white.  But my stomach turns.  My fingertips turn cold.

If she’s expecting me to say something to that, she’s going to be disappointed.

“What the fuck?” Adam glares at her. “Even if you saw him, you didn’t have to bring it up.”  He shifts in his chair and gives me a sympathetic side eye.  

“What?”  Murphy raises her eyebrows, genuinely clueless.  That’s her.  I won’t hold it against her.  “I thought she would want to know.  You want to know, right Willow?  I thought he was living in LA, but he said he’s back.  So shut the fuck up, Adam, she has a right to know something like that.  I think she needs to know.”

“It’s fine.  I’m fine.”

Yeah, okay, nice attempt at lying, Willow.  If that’s true, then why am I sweating? Why can’t I stop swallowing the spit that is gathering in my mouth?

“He was living in LA.  He switched from the west coast office of the law firm to Manhattan.  Lots of rich people in trouble on both coasts.  He’s in demand from what I hear.  Does a great job manipulating the criminal justice system.”  Whitney leans in. Her eyes soft on me.  “But he has some big deal he’s working on with Daddy as well from what he said.  Honestly, that family is the one percent of the one percent of the one percent, and they still can’t stop there.  Derrick is back in his father’s good graces. But you know, with them it’s not even about the money. It’s about winning. Or more than that, it’s making sure someone else loses.”

Adam spins his glass half a turn back and forth on the sleek onyx-granite tabletop.

“I still can’t believe your mom didn’t believe you.”  Adam whispers, dropping his eyes and leaning over at the waist.

I shake my head, not wanting to discuss it.  Instead I lift my eyes and try to distract myself with some of the sexual energy that pulses in the room.  Around us, there are mainly clothed humans.  But toward the back of the enormous room, I catch glimpses of flesh and the noises are distant but distinct.  Pleasurable moans twisted with yelps and cries of pain.  It makes for interesting background noise.  The distraction doesn’t help me to ignore the way my gut is turning in and over on itself.

“Don’t you think it’s time you had a boyfriend?  Or a girlfriend I don’t care. You haven’t even dated anyone have you?” Murphy chimes in and this time Adam and Whitney both give her side eyes.  “I mean besides when Derrick stalked you your sophomore year if that counts.”

“I didn’t date him and he wasn’t my boyfriend.”  I correct.  “He apparently thought he was, but he was not.”

“Sorry.”  Murphy shakes her head.  “Wrong word.  But you haven’t had a boyfriend.  I’m not wrong about that.”

Truth is, I’ve never had a boyfriend.  Boys have never appealed to me.  

I try to push away the image of the man that still haunts me.  The man that makes all other potential suitors superfluous.  

The man I can’t have.  

Shouldn’t want.  

And can’t forget.

“Leave it to you to be the one to have a legit stalker.  It’s the sweet ones they latch onto.  Me?  I’m like fucking Teflon.”  Murphy tosses back the rest of her Macallan scotch and releases a sigh.  “I think I should become a Domme.”  

“He’s not a stalker, either.” My chest is tight.  “He asked me to the dance sophomore year. I said no.  The rest is ugly history at this point.”

“Yes, but you are the only girl at Wentworth Academy that ever turned him down. The. Only. One. A guy like Derrick takes that shit personally.  In his mind you’re the bad guy in all this.”  She checks her manicure and looks bored.

Whitney clears her throat.  “How’s your mom?”  She sucks her pink drink through the skinny black straw, her auburn hair falling down over her shoulders.  

I’m relieved for the change of subject, but turning from Derrick to my mom is not much of an improvement.

“Fine.  She seems happier.  She took over the London office and came out.  She’s chasing down the next big deal, of course.  She’ll be Managing Partner at Gibson, Cromwell & Reed as soon as she can secure the next big client.  Whatever, it makes her happy to win at all costs.  At least she’s across the pond, so to speak, so our relationship has improved with distance.”  I sip on my water, trying to gauge just how much each sip is worth.

“Your mom is an original.”  Murphy chuckles. “She’s not like the other moms, that’s for sure.”

The movement of a tall gentleman dressed in a black suit draws my eye.  As he moves through the crowd, everyone steps away.  He’s parting humans like Moses parted the Red Sea. I can’t see his face but he’s clearly a force.  I feel it from across the room.  

Out of all the other black suits in this massive space, something about the way he moves tugs at me.  I only see him from the back, but my eyes are instantly glued.  The lights glint and reflect off his hair and the color reminds me of cool pint of Guinness. It’s trimmed just above the collar of his white shirt in a perfectly symmetrical edge.

Something about it makes me think of running my tongue along the crisp line.  I shake away the thought.  I’ve not had that reaction to a man in forever.  Not since...I shake my head again.  The memories making me flushed and irritated.

Adam stands up and I breathe a sigh of relief at his interruption.  “I’m going sightseeing. I didn’t come here to sit and yap with you old bitties all night. Y’all coming?”  He looks at his three dates for the evening and we all know we are not even close to being the kind of sights he wants to see.  Our XX’s are not on his menu. He’s an XY fan.

“Sure.”  Whitney stands to join him, tugging down on her black skirt to cover a another inch of thigh.  Seriously, her legs are insane.  I shift my ass in my chair, feeling uncomfortable as I look at her.  

I’ve gained five pounds since I came back to New York, and that’s on top of the fifteen I gained during my time in Paris.  Everything there is cooked with butter and served topped with butter.  

“Margaret.”  Murphy shakes her head as she blurts out my mother’s name.  She is apparently stuck on my mom and my family life this evening.  “I remember the day you called me, when Pike left.  You were more upset that your stepfather was moving out than your mom telling you she was a lesbian and their marriage had all been for her to put on the right show and feed her career.  But, I never understood what he got out of it.”

“Why are you bringing this up tonight?”  I snap.  Thinking of this right now is irritating me more than is logical, but Murphy has a way of saying things that demands a response.  Like, if I don’t say anything then I will be the one who’s being rude.  

“They were college friends.”  I temper my irritation with a side of monotone.  “Made one of those stupid pacts.  If they weren’t married by the time they were thirty-five or something, they would marry each other.  Just turned out that it also coincided with my mom needing a husband to cover for her female interests.  Seems a lesbian as a partner was not in the cards and Pike was a catch, what with his family name and all the zeros in his bank account.  Marrying Pike Richards of Richards Holdings was apparently the magic ticket to the next step in her career.  She made partner that year.  Anyway, whatever, go walk around.”  I flap my hand over my head.  “Enough about me and my family for tonight. I’m going to stay and guard the table.”

They give me a minute of fuss trying to get me to follow them, but I stand my ground and they disappear into the black on black of the crowd.

I lean over and cover my eyes with both hands, try to recall my reasoning for why I was happy-ish.  I should be happy, right?

Yes, I should, I have my dream job.  Or, the first step towards my dream job.

I don’t worry about money, only because my mom still underwrites my life, and that makes me feel less than adult, I suppose.  I have friends, such as they are but I love them.   

Family, okay, well that’s a fairly empty hole right there.  Except for Maisy.  

But all in all, my life is charmed, so why do I feel like this?  Like I’m clawing at the rock walls of a well, looking up at the world above.  I’m a spoiled brat, that’s why.  Stuck on the one person that I shouldn’t want and can never have.  

As much as I’ve tried to forget, it — I mean he — keeps coming back.  

In my dreams.  In every other thought.  I imagine him.  

What he would be thinking.  Doing.  Saying to me.  All these years later, he’s still with me more than he should be and I need therapy.

Or pharmaceuticals.

“Excuse me.”  A male voice from behind my left shoulder drenches me in ice.  Followed immediately by flames that flicker around my feet then rise up and over me in a whoosh that nearly causes me to black out.  “You shouldn’t be here.”