CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tabby
It was an invitation. An invitation and a plane ticket. No phone number, no email, no address, nothing that gave me a chance to RSVP. It was like attendance was mandatory, and the invitation was just a formality. I’d stared at the ticket for at least ten minutes before it finally sank in that I had the chance to go back to New Orleans this Saturday and see Owen again and possibly learn more about the mysterious Blackjack Club. I was so stunned, and excited, and uncertain that I just dropped the envelope and all of its contents onto my kitchen counter and sat on my couch in awe.
And there they stayed. For days. Nagging me. Urging me. Whispering tempting suggestions and pressing me to pack my bags.
By the time Thursday rolled around, my bags still weren’t packed, and my mind still wasn’t made up. I had too many questions to jump in blindly, go to the airport, and show up. My curiosities surrounding The Club certainly hadn’t ebbed away like I’d hoped they would, but I wasn’t a flighty woman prone to impulsive decisions. In fact, my weekend with Owen had been one of the most impulsive things I’d ever done. There was a measure of thrill that came with the thought of hopping on a plane and showing up to the guy who was still managing to make my panties wet even though we were separated by a thousand miles. There was also concern, though. I wasn’t naive. I knew there were dangers in meeting up with a man I didn’t really know to go to a place I truly didn’t understand that he had admitted was fueled by those who possessed dark and dangerous interests. I would have been lying to myself if I said I didn’t have any desire to accept the invitation, but my questions were burning a hole in my spontaneity.
The thing I wondered most about was if the invitation was for me to participate in the auction or if it was simply to accompany Owen to The Club as his guest. That was a huge factor. I’d found the auction fascinating and even a little alluring, but I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea that anybody in that room had the chance to have me. I wanted Owen to have me… over and over again.
Late Thursday afternoon, I finally came out of my awestruck funk and decided to do a little digging for myself. I grabbed my laptop, opened the screen, and pulled up my Internet browser. He might not have left any contact information for me, but the Internet was a great place and I hoped I would be able to find a number somewhere.
My first search was the most obvious — Owen Driscoll. A slew of pages erupted in my search engine, including social media profiles, biographies on various websites, and a number of charitable event web pages. I saw pictures of him shaking hands with everyone from school principals to elderly people leaning one-armed on walkers. Nothing I clicked on, however, revealed anything more than a location, a brief history detailing the bits of his life he’d told me about, or grandiose thank yous for his generosity. I couldn’t even find a company name for his investment firm. Then again, I wasn’t even sure he worked for an investment firm. He might have been a freelancer like me, if investors could even be freelancers. I was frustrated by my lack of knowledge and made a mental note to learn more about his occupation.
The next searches I did were broader. The Blackjack Club, Driscoll investor, Maine Driscoll, and even the restaurant he had set up for me to photograph. Still, there was nothing to find out about how to contact him. I made a second mental note to mention to him, if I decided to show up, that it might be prudent for him to provide at least a phone number on a website somewhere to help gain more investment opportunities. Not that I knew anything on the subject, obviously.
The plane ticket cackled at me from the kitchen counter. I was either losing my mind, or Owen’s money had granted him the ability to send plane tickets with embedded sound devices.
There was only one option left.
A half hour later, a knock sounded on my door. I opened it to reveal my best friend of six years, Heather. Her chocolatey hair was thrown up in a messy bun, and the spandex leggings she wore indicated she had just come from the gym. I wasn’t surprised. Heather was usually at the gym.
“I hope you know I didn’t get a chance to do a circuit,” she complained as she stepped over the threshold, a strong gust of wind nearly thrusting her inside.
“Sorry.” I shivered and muscled the door closed. “I need to talk to you.”
“If it’s about that photoshoot you want me to do, forget it.” She began unwrapping herself, starting at the wool cap on her head, then scarf and gloves, on down to her thick puffy coat. She flung herself onto my couch, kicking off her Uggs, and draped her head over the armrest. Upside down, she glared at me. “I told you I’m not in shape yet.”
For Heather to say she wasn’t in shape was like Einstein claiming he was an idiot. She had the kind of molded body even celebrities drooled over. Her arms were slender but firm, her legs toned and smooth, and despite her frequent feverish workouts and immense calorie burns, her chest was still a size that reminded me of the produce section in the grocery store. I didn’t consider my body gross by any means, but being within a mile of Heather definitely called to mind my flaws. I decided not to chide her for her self-deprecation like I usually would have though.
“It’s not about the photoshoot.” I strolled to the wine rack I kept mounted on the wall next to the fridge — a studio required space-saving techniques like that — and plucked a sweet white from the selection. As I searched for two glasses, I accidentally brushed the envelope, the invitation, and the ticket. They floated to the floor, and Heather sat up to eye them suspiciously.
“What’s that?” Heather wasn’t quite as nosy as Ms. Marcheski, but she took it as a personal offense if she didn’t know something about my life. She called it being a concerned friend. I called it being a budding buttinsky.
“It’s a plane ticket,” I told her. “That’s why I called you.”
“You need advice on a vacation?” An eyebrow shot up toward her hairline. I was positive the woman didn’t sweat because she was wearing a full face of makeup that looked as flawless as if she had only applied it five minutes before. “And didn’t you just go on vacation? For your snobby cousin’s wedding?”
I snorted. “Going anywhere with Grace can hardly be considered a vacation,” I retorted wryly.
“That’s true. Bitch.” Heather had always been jealous of any other friends I might have, and while I didn’t consider Grace a friend so much as an obnoxious family member I happened to have grown up with, the wedding had still been time spent with another girl. I often wondered if Heather was quite as territorial over her other friends as she was with me. “So, where’s the plane ticket to then?”
“New Orleans.” She opened her mouth, but I headed her off. “I know, I was just there. But I didn’t buy this ticket. A man did.”
Now, her perfectly lined eyes widened, and her jaw dropped a solid inch. “A man? But you don’t date.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure what we did constitutes as dating,” I said. A telling sparkle lit in her eyes. “I thought it was just a fling, but I guess he wants to see me again.” I held up the plane ticket. “Clearly.”
“Wait a minute. You mean you hooked up in New Orleans, and you’ve been back for over a week now, and you didn’t tell me?” She couldn’t have looked more offended if she’d tried.
“Like I said, I figured it was just a fling,” I tried to justify. “And it was so… weird that I thought it might be better if I just tried to forget about it.”
She straightened up fully and held out a hand as I walked across the small living space to give her a glass of wine. “Weird how? Was he bad in bed or something?”
“No.” The word rushed out of me like a bullet shooting out of a gun. “He was a god. It was incredible.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Well, then, I’m not sure where the weird comes in.”
I wanted to tell her about The Blackjack Club. I knew she would have something to say about it, and I actually wanted to get her opinion on it, but I was also acutely aware that I had filled out an NDA and was not at liberty to discuss anything about it with her or anyone else who wasn’t associated. But I needed advice, so I was going to have to tread carefully.
“Owen is perfect,” I breathed, sliding onto the couch beside her and swilling my wine. “He’s handsome and funny and smart. And he’s rich, not that it matters. He invests in restaurants.”
“Yeah, nothing weird yet,” she pointed out.
“The weird thing is he admitted he is into certain things,” I expressed cautiously. “He said they’re dark, and kind of dangerous. And don’t ask me what these certain things are because, honestly, I don’t know.”
She squinted at me, penciled brows furrowing down to shadow her eyes, and I could see her thinking about what I’d said. “Was he talking about crime or something?”
“No…” I hesitated, biting my lip. “I don’t think so.”
“So, he has some mystery to him,” she said, shrugging. “Every woman wants a handsome, smart, rich guy with mystery. What’s the problem?”
“I just feel like there’s a lot of questions I don’t have answers to, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to fly across the country to meet up with him without having those answers.” Heather rolled her eyes, but I kept confessing my worries. “I mean, what if he’s a psycho? It’s possible. People meet up with other people they’ve met online and horrible things happen to them.”
“But you didn’t meet him online,” she reminded me. “You’ve already gone out with him. You’ve already slept with him.”
My thighs seared with the memory. “I know. How stupid would I be if I went and something happened? Something bad?”
“How stupid would you be if you didn’t and you missed your chance at being with a highly desirable guy?” she shot back.
I wasn’t surprised by Heather’s reaction to what I was telling her. She was definitely the kind of woman who could have received a plane ticket in the mail, thrown together a bag that night, and booked it across the country to see a man she didn’t know much about. She was also the type of woman to encourage her friends to do the same thing.
I was stale. I was boring. My life was simple and regimented and predictable.
In short, I was bored. And Owen was exciting.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I guess I’ll go.”
Heather hopped off the couch, almost sloshing wine over the rim of the glass, and held out a hand to me. I took it, and she tugged me effortlessly to my feet. “Good. I’ll help you pack, but only if you tell me every last detail about the sex while we do.”