CHAPTER EIGHT
It takes 10 minutes to get from the co-op to the party, and James takes two phone calls in that time. The first is from Beth, who calls with important news about a distribution center in East Asia. I only follow every other word, and that isn’t enough to clue me in on what’s going on. The second phone call is even more coded, though it doesn’t seem intentional. I consider myself a lover of language, but I don’t speak techie.
We pull up to a red light and I turn to meet his eyes.
Sorry, he mouths.
I offer him a small smile and a shrug. It’s not a big deal. I almost prefer this. With him on the phone, I don’t have to worry about making small talk. I can just sit here and think deeply about what to do with my hands. He turns back and focuses on the road. I do the same for a moment, but it’s not long before my gaze wanders back to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I take in the details I’ll be too busy to notice later: the perfectly crisp edge of his tuxedo shirt, his tan hands as they grip the steering wheel, the fit of his pants against his hard thigh. I can’t go higher than his shoulder; he’ll know I’m watching him if I do. It’s too bad, because I’m desperate for a look at his profile—I know it will punch me in the gut—but instead, I turn my focus out through the front window and revel in the sound of his voice. It’s deep and low, and during his second call, it turns gruff. I’ve never been so intrigued by the way someone speaks, but then again, I’ve never been in a car with James.
He hangs up and apologizes again, but I assure him it’s fine.
“I’ve been trying to figure out where you’re taking me.”
He smiles. “It’s just around the corner.”
He’s not kidding. A moment later, he pulls over to the curb on 5th street, gets out, and rounds the front of the car. The valet opens my door and I step out just as James is handing off his keys, but before the eager-faced teenager can get behind the wheel, James holds up his finger for him to wait.
I glance to the valet and then back to James.
“Want to leave that in the car?” he says, pointing to my coat. “I doubt they’ll have a coat check inside.”
Of course not—why would they? It’s a million degrees out here.
I blush and reach for the top button. I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. It was slightly chilly in James’ car, but now the humidity and heat have set in and I’m almost thankful to get rid of the thick wool—that is, until I catch the valet’s eyes nearly bugging out when he gets a glimpse at my dress underneath.
I hate Beth.
I can’t even look at James. I know he’ll see how uncomfortable I am wearing this out in public. Maybe I should have rooted through my closet for another option, but now it’s too late. I’m here and I’m wearing the dress, so I might as well embrace it. I stand tall and push my shoulders back. My silky hair falls over my shoulder and down my back.
James steps forward and takes my hand, blocking my view of the valet. His grip is warm and strong as he leads me away from the curb.
“You look beautiful,” he says, low enough so I know the compliment is meant only for me to hear.
I love Beth.
The building we walk up to is simple: a one-story made of black brick with no name and no windows on the facade. Ahead of us there’s a single black door serving as the main entrance. It’s oversized and shiny, flanked by black pillars and two bouncers on either side.
A gray-haired man nods to the bouncer on the left and the hulking man steps back and opens the door. No one speaks or makes eye contact as we pass. It’s the weirdest experience of my life, and I’m half-convinced I’m about to step into some creepy illuminati meeting with Robert Langdon.
We step inside and James lets go of my hand so he can lead me down a long hallway with his palm pressed to the small of my back. I can feel the warmth of his touch through the thin material of my dress, and I’m glad I left my coat in the car.
Whoever designed the facade of the building clearly had a hand in the interior as well, and they subscribed to the notion that black is back to being the new black. The hallway is monochromatic: black marble floors, black walls, and black metal orb chandeliers. At first, my heels clacking against the marble is the only sound, but as we continue toward another door at the end of the hall, low, bluesy jazz music starts to spill out.
There’s another bouncer. Another man with a subtle nod and no words exchanged.
The second door is whisked open, and finally, we’ve arrived—or rather, we’ve gone back in time.
My dress makes much more sense as we step into a room decorated as a 1920s speakeasy. Heavy chandeliers burning large Edison bulbs illuminate the black and white checkered marble floors. A long bar on the left is lined with thousands of backlit liquor bottles. Tufted dark leather sofas surround low coffee tables, and a few refurbished whiskey barrels serve as cocktail tables. A 12-person jazz band performs on a small stage across from the bar. I can’t tell how far the room extends. It’s more of a ballroom than a bar, and when I press up on my toes, I think I spot gambling tables at the other end.
“What is this place?”
The question is meant to be rhetorical, but James answers anyway.
“The best kept secret in town.”
…
I can’t remember if James ever told me he was taking me to a hoity-toity fundraiser or if I assumed that on my own. Looking back, I don’t think he ever misled me. Still, he didn’t willingly offer details about tonight. As we make our way through the room, James is continuously stopped by men with hearty laughs and strong handshakes. Without much context, they remind me of my dad’s friends. They’re movers and shakers in Austin, and maybe if I were in that world, I’d recognize them. It’s clear from the suits and the watches and the beautiful women that they have all done well for themselves; I don’t think they’d be in this room otherwise.
It’s the beautiful women that catch my attention the most though. They smile knowingly at me when we’re in a small group together, as if I’m in on the secret. At first, I’m not, but I catch on fast.
The first couple we stop and chat with is comprised of an overweight man nearing 60 and a sexy, young blonde. He’s wearing a wedding ring; she isn’t. The next couple, though much closer in age, follow the same pattern—he’s wearing a ring, but she isn’t. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses pass through the crowd delivering moonshine cocktails and old fashioneds—or for men like James, bourbon on the rocks. They’re beautiful and blinding, eye candy for the men here out on the town with their mistresses. That’s what they are, mistresses, and perhaps I’m one of them.
“Ah, Michael, there you are,” James says as a new man approaches our group.
He’s younger than most of the men here, close to James’ age. By his side is a striking black woman wearing a fitted tuxedo jacket and pants, clearly designed with her lithe body in mind. While at first the outfit seems conservative compared to most of the dresses in the room, she chose to forego a shirt beneath the jacket so it looks more like a low-cut top. It’s daring and bold. She looks like she just stepped off the runways of Paris, and with that face and those legs, chances are she probably did.
The men exchange handshakes and then James introduces me to Michael’s date, Celeste.
“It’s a pleasure to meeting you,” she says with a soft French accent.
Ah, so she’s my target for the night, the whole reason I’m here in the first place.
She holds her hand out for me to take, and her palm is silky smooth. I’m not a tiny girl, but Celeste still has a few inches on me. My model theory grows more roots.
“Enchanté. I love your outfit,” I say in French, grateful that I don’t have to lie.
Her eyes light up.
“Vous parlez Francais?” she asks, intrigued.
I nod.
“Ah, I was worried I would have to keep quiet tonight,” she continues in French. “My English isn’t very good.”
I open my mouth to continue our conversation, but Michael beats me to it.
“James, it seems you found a beautiful French girl as well,” he says, his eyes pinned on me. “Who is this delicate creature?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s not that Michael is bad-looking; it’s worse. He has all the attributes women usually look for accompanied by an air of unchecked arrogance. I’m not a girl, and I’m not a “delicate creature”, and most importantly, I haven’t been found.
James glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “This is my friend Brooke.”
I know most women don’t want to be referred to as a friend while they’re supposedly on a date with a man, but for some reason, the word strikes me. In this setting, where we’re surrounded by every form of debauchery known to man, I’d rather be James’ friend than his date. It holds more weight, and I think Michael realizes it for a split second before his smile twists into something more sinister.
“If you’re only James’ friend, I’d love to get to know you better. Care for a drink?”
I hold up my cocktail. “I’ll let you know when I’m dry.”
“Smart girl,” Celeste says in French. My gaze whips to her and she shrugs and looks away. “He’s a controlling prick.”
“Then why are you here with him? As his date?”
Her eyes slice back to me. “There’s a little more to it than that.” She inclines her head to James. “You of all people should realize that. Friends, eh? Does that word mean something different in English? Because this man can’t take his eyes off you.”
Michael nudges James jocularly. “Why do I get the feeling they’re talking about us?”
Celeste offers him a sugary smile and then leans over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Because we were, mon amour, but don’t worry, it’s all sweet things.”
That’s enough to placate Michael, but I can feel James studying me. It’s like the heat of a thousand suns burning into the side of my face, but I refuse to glance over. He brought me here, stuck me in this room with these people for one purpose, and she’s standing right in front of me.
“Come freshen up with me?” I ask Celeste.
She steps away from Michael.
He reaches out for her hand, holding her back for a moment. “Don’t be gone too long. It drives me crazy when you disappear at these parties.”
There’s an edge to his tone, and I suspect that’s the controlling side Celeste was talking about.
…
The bathroom is as exquisitely decorated as the rest of the club and includes a powder room as big as my bedroom back at the co-op. That’s where I find Celeste after I wash my hands. She’s in front of the mirror, applying another layer of dark red lipstick. It’s intoxicating, the color of spilled blood.
“There’s a drink for you there,” she says, pointing to a small side table beside a love seat in the center of the room.
I stroll over to pick up the pink cocktail. “How’d you get these?”
She inclines her head toward the antechamber, where an attendant is standing with her arms by her sides and her gaze laser-focused on the wall in front of her. Clearly, she’s been trained to blend into the landscape.
“Thank you,” I say in English, just in case she is listening.
Like the first drink I had, this one tastes like it has enough alcohol in it to strip the varnish off a boat.
“Jeez. How is everyone still standing out there?” I ask, setting it back down. “If I drink all of this, I’ll hit the floor in five minutes.”
She meets my eyes in the mirror and laughs. “You get used to them. Trust me.”
I don’t think I believe her.
“Here. Come put some of this on.”
She’s holding out the dark red lipstick for me to take.
Yeah right.
“It would look too dark on me. Garish.”
She smirks. “It’ll look completely different on you. Besides, it’s Chanel. It wouldn’t look ‘garish’ on a clown.”
Earlier at the spa, my makeup artist applied a pale pink lipstick, but it’s long gone now. Besides, this isn’t a night for pale pink. She hands over the tube and I step closer to the mirror, taking my time as I meticulously swipe it across my lips. With a color like this, it has to be perfect. She hands me a tissue for blotting and when I step back and take in the look, I realize she was right. On me, the color looks more like deep pomegranate.
“See?” she asks, retrieving the tube out of my hand, capping it and dropping it back in her small black clutch. “I’ve been wearing this color for years, since back when I was still modeling.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No. I used to travel all over the world, but then I met Michael.”
Interesting.
“Do you love him?”
She thinks over the question for a moment before replying. “I love him more than I hate him,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Does that make sense?”
It sounds very French. Still…
“It would give me a headache.”
She laughs. “Oh, it does. But the sex?” She waggles her brows. “I’ve never had anything like it, you know?”
I don’t know, not really, but I nod anyway.
She steps back and takes a seat on the tufted velvet love seat in the center of the powder room.
“You don’t want any more of your drink?” she asks as she picks hers up. “I don’t want it to go to waste.”
I should say no. I already feel a little lightheaded, but I don’t want to offend her. She went to the trouble to order it, so I pick it back up and vow to take tiny baby sips in hopes that it’ll last me the rest of the night.
That seems to appease her, because she leans back and assesses me coolly.
“How long have you been with James?”
I take a sip.
“Not long.” Her eyes narrow, and I feel like a sitting duck. “Shouldn’t we be getting back? Michael said he doesn’t like it when you disappear.”
She laughs and then leans back even more, making herself at home. “He doesn’t like it, he loves it. It drives him wild to think I’m out there talking to another man. Later, when we get home, he’ll show me just how much it bothered him.”
Her admission stuns me into silence long enough for her to lean forward and smirk. “Now, how long have you known James?”
I look away. “A few weeks, though I hardly know him. We’ve only spoken a few times.”
“Then why did he invite you here tonight?”
For a moment I’m not sure I should admit the truth, but something tells me Celeste can smell bullshit from a mile away. “Let’s just say it isn’t a coincidence that I’m fluent in French.”
“Ha!” She flings her head back in laughter. “Brilliant. I always knew I liked James.”
That surprises me. “You know him well?”
“Oh, not really. He doesn’t come here often, hardly at all in fact, which is how I know I like him.”
Interesting. “But he has been here before?”
She nods and sets her drink down on the side table. I watch as she pulls out a little bottle of perfume so she can dab a few drops behind each ear. The scent is flowery and delicate, a complete contrast to the confident vixen before me.
“A few times,” she says, narrowing her eyes and thinking back. “I think I saw him last at the Halloween party.”
“Did he bring a date?”
She grins, seeing my question for what it is. “A man like that does not arrive alone. But, I recall her as a generic-looking brunette. Nothing like you.”
Nothing like me.
“We’re friends,” I reiterate.
“Friends, lovers…we do not make such harsh distinctions where I come from.”
I glance away and pretend to take in the room around me. “I hardly know him. He’s a lot older than me, and I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I might be relocating for a job soon.”
“Wow,” she says with raised brows. “What is that, four reasons? You’ve put a lot of thought into why you shouldn’t be with him.” I shoot her a warning glare, but she continues, “When I don’t want a man, I don’t think of him at all.”
She stands, drops her perfume back into her clutch, and grabs her drink.
“We should get back. They’ll be wondering where we are.”
I’m exhausted as I follow Celeste out of the bathroom. It’s been months since I’ve really stretched my French muscles, but I don’t think that’s the reason my head is pounding. I take another small sip of my drink and then instantly regret it. I’m supposed to be nursing it, but I’ve already downed half thanks to Celeste’s interrogation. I hand it off to a passing waiter when she isn’t looking and decide water will be the only thing passing my lips the rest of the night.
The crowd pushes in on us as we walk through the club. I can’t remember if there were this many people when we first arrived, but now I feel like I can hardly breathe. The jazz band is gone, replaced by loud music. That coupled with raucous laughter and conversation overpowers my ability to think. I blink and try to clear my head. I blink again and realize Celeste isn’t in front of me anymore. She was leading the way back to the guys, but now she’s nowhere to be found.
“Celeste?”
I turn in a circle, trying to spot her long black hair or the color of dried blood staining her lips. My vision cuts to a black tuxedo jacket similar to the one she was wearing. No. A woman with the same length of hair. No. I think I catch a whiff of her perfume, but when I turn toward the scent, I nearly fall onto a couple wrapped around one another. The man has his hand up the woman’s dress, she’s moaning into his mouth, and they don’t notice me. To them, I’m just another warm body.
A hand brushes across my back, then lower.
“Are you lost, sweetheart?” a deep voice asks close to my ear.
I jerk away.
Even in this state, my fight-or-flight instincts kick in. I push through the crowd quicker than before, jostling people out of my way.
Glass shatters on the floor behind me, but I don’t stop.
“Hey! EASY!” someone shouts at me.
I shake my head and blink harder, trying to clear my fuzzy vision, but it doesn’t work. It feels like I’m trying to wake myself up out of a deep sleep.
I need to find James. He’s the only person I know here, but he’s not where I left him.
At least, I think this is where I left him. Were we by the bar? Or did we wander toward the gambling tables in the back? My heart rate kicks up another notch and I try not to panic. It seems futile. The more I try to catch my breath, the harder it becomes.
Then I spot them up ahead: Celeste and Michael. I push down the urge to cry as I rush toward them, too scared to blink for fear that they’ll disappear and I’ll be left on my own again.
They’re among the crowd of people playing craps, and she’s pressed up against his side as he grips a pair of dice in his hands. He holds out his fist and she kisses it. Another few shakes and then he tosses the dice out onto the table. The crowd erupts with a mixture of cheers and groans. He turns to Celeste and kisses her hard enough that they nearly topple over. I’m almost to them when Michael starts to string a line of kisses down her neck. She turns to give him better access and her eyes light up when she spots me.
“Brooke! There you are!” She breaks away from him to reach for me. “Come, come. We’re playing craps. I’m Michael’s lucky charm!”
She grips my arm and tugs me closer. I lose my footing and stumble into the leggy blonde on the other side of Celeste. She curses and turns to scold me, but Celeste levels her with a stare. “Fuck off, will you?”
The blonde mutters something under her breath but still moves to the side, making space for me.
“Where have you been?” Celeste asks as she wraps an arm around my shoulders and draws me against her.
She sounds giggly and carefree—in complete contrast to how I feel.
I try to collect enough words to form a reply but my head is too cluttered. I can’t grip hold of English, let alone French.
My struggle makes her laugh.
“Enjoying that drink I gave you?” She winks.
I swallow and find my voice. “Wh-What?”
She leans closer and whispers, “That drink—did you finish it?” I shake my head and she continues, “Good. I probably put too much in.”
Wait.
What?
My body breaks out in a cold sweat.
“Too much?” I repeat.
Her laughter sounds like the evil cackle of a hyena.
“Jesus, calm down.” She’s rubbing my back, trying to soothe me. “Don’t cry.”
I didn’t realize I was.
“James?”
The name falls out of my mouth with no context.
She shrugs. “I haven’t seen him since we left for the bathroom, but who cares! He can be so boring.”
Can he? I can’t remember.
“Ugh! Cheer up. C’mon, I want to have fun! Look, here—” She forces a pair of dice into my clammy hands. “You want a turn being Michael’s lucky charm?”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I don’t want to be here, playing along with Celeste. I know something is wrong, but the alarm bells aren’t loud enough to overpower the crowd around the craps table.
A handsome man with a sinister smile is telling me to kiss the dice.
Michael.
Celeste helps me by wrapping her delicate hand around my neck and forcing my face down to his fist.
“Kiss!”
I do as I’m told and then Michael tosses the dice out onto the green felt. The crowd erupts again and I get jostled between bodies. My rib smarts and I hiss, trying to place the pain. It’s the blonde on the other side of me, jabbing her elbow into my side, seeking retribution for earlier.
I shove her back just before a strong hand wraps around my upper arm.
“Where’ve you been?”
My stomach dips.
I look over my shoulder and there he is—the man I’ve been trying to find.
“James! My man!” Michael says, clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon, we’re just getting started.”
James doesn’t shift his attention off me. His brown eyes trace along my features, and he looks concerned; maybe he should be. I was trying to find him earlier, but now I can’t remember why.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his grip tightening on my arm a little more.
It’s nearly painful.
I nod because I am. Right? I look around me. The room sways, and I can’t focus my vision no matter how hard I try.
“Hey, Brooke. Are you okay?” he asks again, his tone a little more gruff than it was a moment before.
Celeste laughs and presses herself against me. I focus on the feel of her tuxedo jacket. It’s cool and silky, and maybe I’m overheated because I like the way the fabric feels against my skin.
“Relax, will you?” she says in English. “We wanted to have a little fun.”
I think her accent is so beautiful, and maybe I say so because she laughs and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“I don’t have the accent. All of you do!”
I smile because she makes “the” sound like “zee” and it’s so charming. Michael must have fallen in love with her so easily.
“What did you take?” James asks. I turn my attention back to him, but he’s not looking at me anymore. Of course he’s not—how could he focus on me for long with so many beautiful people around?
How terrible.
I want him—this confident, sexy, older man—to focus on me, to want me.
It feels like a challenge, one I can’t pass up. I sidle closer to him and press my body against his. My hands drag across his muscled biceps and I shiver. I have to tip my head back to stare up at his eyes, and maybe I expect to see lust brewing there, but there’s nothing but annoyance. His lips—the lips I want to taste—are pulled in a tight line. His dark brows are furrowed. He’s looking down at me with a level of disdain usually reserved for snot-nosed kids, not a woman you find irresistible.
“What’d you take?” he asks again.
“I don’t—”
Michael laughs and slaps his shoulder. “It’s a party drug, James. It’s not going to kill her.”
No. This isn’t right.
I shake my head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t t-take…anything.”
I think my words will clarify things, but he shakes his head and steps back, taking me with him. “Right. C’mon, let’s go.”
Celeste protests, yanking on my other arm. “She doesn’t have to go with you!” She turns to Michael. “Mon amour, tell him!”
The searing stare James aims at Michael is enough to override whatever spell Celeste has over him. He puts his hands in the air in innocence and tells Celeste to let go of me. She pouts, but finally releases me. I don’t even get the chance to say goodbye before James is pulling me through the crowd so fast I’m tripping over my feet.
I tell him to slow down, that his hold on my arm is hurting me, but I don’t think he can hear over the music—or maybe he doesn’t care.
His car is waiting out by the curb and he doesn’t let go of me until I’m inside and safely buckled. He rounds to the driver’s side and I stare down at where his hand was touching my arm. My skin still tingles.
When he gets in, I can feel the anger emanating off him. Every movement he makes is done with a little too much force. The engine roars, his foot hits the gas, and we’re speeding away from the party without a second glance.
“We didn’t have to leave,” I say, wondering if that’s why he’s upset. The party was still in full swing. His warm eyes glare over at me and I get the message loud and clear: shut up.
When we pull up to the curb in front of the co-op, I’m dipping in and out of sleep, content to stay right where I am, but James opens my door and hauls me out of the car. His hands are too rough, not at all how I imagined they would be. He lets go of me and I sway. By now it’s impossible to walk on my heels, so I stop and yank them off one at a time. When I stand back up, James dwarfs me even more.
I smile.
He frowns and nods to the house.
“At least your roommates are asleep.”
“My roommates?” I ask, confused. “Do you know them?”
He sighs and shakes his head, continuing past me up the front path. I think he’s just going to walk me to the front door, but he continues inside and up the stairs behind me. I’m not sure what we’re doing.
James Ashwood is in my house, which probably only means one thing.
“Are we going to have sex?”
Is that why we left the club?
“Just concentrate on walking,” he chides.
I think I used to amuse him, but now he’s treating me like his annoying kid sister.
“This is my room,” I say, presenting my door with a proud smile.
“Hey!” someone shouts from behind a closed door. “SHUT UP OUT THERE!”
I barely manage to stifle a laugh as James opens my door with another sigh—God, I must really be exasperating—and then we’re both standing in my small room. It’s a little messy, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m proud of how I decorated it. One entire wall is covered in framed prints I bought off one of my roommates. She would have given them to me for free, but I love her art and wanted to support her.
“It’s called a gallelly—garelly—gallery wall.” I laugh, pointing to it.
“Can you get ready for bed on your own?” he asks, ignoring me.
I move to a bookshelf I found on the side of the road. Some college kid was moving home for summer and didn’t need it anymore. I took it, sanded it down, and painted it a sunflower yellow. “And this is where I put my books. Well, just the paperbacks. I have a Kindle too.”
“Brooke.”
Right.
I turn away from my bookshelf to find him standing with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t belong in my room with the art prints and yellow bookshelves. He’s much too serious. Right now, he’s scowling. Scowling, scowling, scowling—it’s all he ever does. His tuxedo is so black it burns. The light in his eyes is so intoxicating I want to step closer, press onto my toes, and get a really good look at them, just so I’ll know exactly what shade of brown I should make my coffee in the morning.
His thick hair—THE HAIR—is mussed up now.
“You shouldn’t run your hands through your hair so much. You messed it all up.”
He steps toward my chest of drawers and starts pulling them open.
“Where do you keep your pajamas?”
I laugh and clap my hands over my mouth when he opens my top drawer. “Not there!”
That’s where I keep the fancy underwear—a.k.a. the stuff that never gets worn. There are lacy underthings and delicate brassieres, most of which I purchased in France during a short and spicy affair with a young French guy. He ended up being more interested in my friend, but I guess it wasn’t a total waste because now James is likely imagining me in those instead of the 5 for $25 panties from Target I actually wear.
I expect him to be flustered. Guys my age would be, but James pushes the drawer closed as disaffectedly as he opened it and opens the one beneath it. I’m too lost in a fit of laughter to care when he tosses a t-shirt and sleeping shorts at me.
“I think you can manage from here. I’ll see you.”
What?
He’s leaving already?
I reach for his hand and am relieved when he doesn’t immediately yank it away.
“I never got to thank you for my dress.”
He stays stock-still, staring down at me.
“And tonight…”
I think his face softens just a bit, but it’s hard to tell.
Fortunately, his words are clear enough on their own. “I’m going.”
“Fine.” I drop his hand. “But the next time you want me to be your date or your little secret weapon, don’t bother. Michael’s secret weapon was stronger. Tonight was awful.”
He pauses for a moment with his hand on the door and I’m hopeful that my words finally penetrated his perfect facade, but then he yanks it open and walks out. I decide if I never saw him again, it’d be too soon.