by Izzy Mason
“Sorry.” My face flushes. Don’t blow it before you even begin! Get it together! I turn to face him, holding up my chin in feigned confidence. “Listen, I’ve kept you waiting long enough. Would you like me to get to the drawings?”
“Oh come on. Chill out, girl.” He gestures to one of the sofas. “Sit down. Watch an episode with me. You want some coffee?”
I force a smile and take a seat. “Okay. Yeah, sure.”
“Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
It’s a surreal experience. I sit gripping my hotel coffee mug and taking in deep breaths filled with the unique smell of Chance’s rich person cologne. I’m smelling Chance Monroe. I’m watching The Sopranos with Chance Monroe. I’m sitting with half-naked Chance Monroe. Just when it can’t feel more like a dream, I catch him staring at me. When I meet his eyes, he smiles easily.
“You know, you’re pretty cute.”
It’s weird and inappropriate and incredibly unprofessional. Still I blush and fight back a smile. I pick up my drawings from the coffee table and arch my eyebrows.
“Can we get to my presentation now? Before it gets too late?”
He shrugs, gropes for the TV remote, and turns off The Sopranos. “Sure, why not? Let’s do it.” He leans back into the couch with a smile. “You stand there.” He points to the TV.
I nod. It feels beyond weird. Nothing like I had imagined when I rehearsed it in my apartment and at the office. “So, don’t you have any associates or partners or anyone else involved in this project that might like to hear it as well?”
Chance shrugs again, but this time there’s a pointed smugness in his expression. “What can I say? If I wanted someone else’s input I would have them here. It’s my rodeo. I call the shots. I make the creative choices. Who needs to gum up the situation with a lot of extraneous opinions, you know?”
I give him a stiff smile. So that’s the deal. I’ve got one shot at this. If this falls flat, for all I know I’ll be out of a job. I pray this isn’t a Lazarus-like tease at happiness. Promising the world and then kicking me in the teeth. But nothing is gained without trying. And if I fail… Hell, failure is not an option.
I open my portfolio and pull out my drawings. “Okay then. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Chapter Six
Devon is the one to open the champagne. She’s dressed in a jeans and a ruffled tuxedo shirt, and her boots are so high heeled she looks like a giantess. Her expression is pure elation. She seems to have forgotten all about the tragic smashing of her classic Karmann Ghia en route to the meeting. Instead she stands up on a chair, aims the bottle in the air, and lets the cork fly. Pop! A whoop goes up from the small gathered crowd.
“To the whippersnapper!” Devon shouts, holding up her glass. “Who fell on her crazy, creative ass and into our lives. May her young, twisted mind launch a thousand clubs!”
It’s like an outer body experience. I hear myself laugh and see my hand hold a glass in the air. My wrist is narrow, almost elegant. My nails are beautifully manicured. My hands don’t shake. Still, my consciousness hangs somewhere at the margins, too uncertain to settle in. How is this happening? Did I really do it? Did I really come up with the winning design for a celebrity restaurant? Did I seriously pitch it to one of the world’s most famous movie stars and knock his socks off?
Don’t let yourself dream, stupid! That’s what Mom would say. I’ll be there when you fall on your ass, Miss Big Britches. But it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a dream. It’s real. I’ve already gotten farther than I ever imagined possible. I take a deep drink of the cold, dry champagne and throw my head back, laughing as the bubbles float around my brain, making me giddy. Then I hold my glass in the air again.
“To Devon and Nate, who pulled me up off my ass and gave me a chance.” I turn to both of them and smile.
“Not just a Chance! The Chance!” shouts Chance Monroe with a cocky laugh.
I smile at him, and then turn back to Nate and Devon. Nate is dressed in a gorgeous vintage smoking jacket and James Dean high water pants. He’s beaming with pride, raising his glass and giving me a wink. Devon wipes at a tear.
“You’ve both brought me so far, so fast. Thanks for believing in me.”
A pleasing cheer rises up from the crowd. I don’t know most of the people here. They’re either lower level employees of the design firm or a part of Chance Monroe’s entourage. The restaurant is the most ridiculously extravagant place I’ve ever been. It has vaulted beamed ceilings, lush red decor, an actual fountain at the center, and an elaborate sculpture hanging from the ceiling above. I felt like a wide-eyed street urchin gazing around me in wonder as we passed through the restaurant en route to the private room prepared for us in back. Now we are all gathered around an intimate, round table set with multiple sized plates, silverware, and so many glasses: water glasses, white wine glasses, red wine glasses, champagne glasses, that it twinkles like an ice palace. Even more amazing, a personal waiter stands solicitously behind each and every chair.
Chance Monroe sits across the table from me like a hallucination. He’s wearing a shimmering gray shirt, dark gray trousers, and an out-of-place black knit ski cap.
“You’re too cute and young to be the designer,” he shouts to me over the din. “Chicks with brains don’t usually look like you.”
I want to giggle like a schoolgirl, but I manage to hold it together. He winks at Devon. She gives him a polite smile, but the second he looks away I catch her rolling her eyes. But I don’t care. He’s Chance Monroe. He’s a fucking Adonis. And he thinks I’m cute!
The waiters come and go with plates of food that no one ordered, or if they did, it was before I got here. Each plate is beautifully presented and microscopically small. And I can’t recognize a damn thing. But it doesn’t matter. I’m too excited to eat a bite.
“The butterflies, babe?” Chance shouts, shaking his head theatrically as if he were still in awe. “Just crazy town fucking awesome! Unbelievable! And you’re sure it’ll work?”
I smile, confident now. “It’s designed with all of the elements and regulations of an actual sanctuary. The heat lamps and artificial lights simulate the steamy climate and conditions they have in nature. The garden is real and, if well maintained, can really thrive in a space like this. The thick glass will protect the butterflies from the loud music and vibrations while allowing their movement and colors to be seen from below.”
Chance fixes his eyes on mine and doesn’t let go. “This is going to be the most bad ass club on the face of the earth!”
He gets up and pushes his way around the table. “Take my seat, doll,” he mutters to the young woman seated at my right. She stands demurely, releasing her chair. Chance sits down and takes my hand. His skin is cold and surprisingly rough. “You are one hot little brainiac.”
I feel my face flush. Everything seems to slow down and get muffled. I hear the sounds around me through a hollow whooshing in my ears. Devon, who is at my left, leans close and whispers into my ear.
“Do not go back to the room with this guy,” she orders. “You’ll leave with every social disease known to human and celebrity.”
As the night goes on, the food continues to arrive along with an endless supply of wine. Though I don’t have much of an appetite for food, I can’t seem to stop drinking the wine. It’s all so wonderful it makes me want more and more. In no time, I feel goofy and floaty and over-the-moon. Chance leans in close, talking to me endlessly about horses, his Colorado ranch and, more than anything else, himself. He’s the single most self-involved, arrogant blowhard I’ve ever met. But I’m too lost in the dazzling blue of his eyes and the sexy smell of his cologne to care. Who cares about his personality? He’s Chance Monroe.
“I’ll tell you what, cutie,” he says, slipping a hand to my knee. “You may score more than just my design contract tonight. If you play your cards right.”
I grin, too dopey with wine to register his in-your-face-obvious meaning. Just then, t
he door to the private room opens and someone steps inside, a tall, broad-shouldered guy so gorgeous, at first I think it’s another celebrity. Then I do a double take. It’s Lazarus. Lazarus?
Holy fuckski. He looks amazing, dressed in an informal black jacket with trousers, his whiskers scruffy and sexy along the jawline. I feel like a woman, on the brink of dying of thirst, who has finally caught sight of a cool drink of water. And then I remember. Whore. Whore. Whore. My boozy brain boils with a confusing amalgam of hatred and lust.
He doesn’t see me at first. He strides in, his eyes focused on Chance beside me. At the last minute, Chance sees him and gets to his feet, extending a friendly hand.
“Jude, my boy!” They shake and give each other rigorous pats on the back, in that weird macho man-hug way. “Thanks for coming by!” Then Chance puts a hand on my shoulder and beams up at Lazarus. “This is the little genius who’s going to design my new club!”
Lazarus shifts his eyes. When he sees me, his face flickers with shock and his smile fades. But he quickly recovers and holds out a hand to me.
“Very nice to meet you,” he says, a strange little choke in his voice.
I take his hand, but my eyes are icy and unsmiling. The touch of his skin is too much to bear, and I quickly pull my hand away.
“Michaela has just blown us all away. I think she may be one of the most innovative designers working right now. I mean really fresh, incredible stuff.” He leans in Lazarus’s direction with a scoff. “If you had half a brain, you’d totally snatch her up for your own firm, man!”
Lazarus laughs, but his eyes are unsettled and a little wild. They’re locked on mine and won’t let go. “Trust me, I’ve been looking for someone just like her.”
I look away, unnerved. Is he flirting with me? After calling me a whore and telling me never to contact him again? For fuck’s sake, what kind of psychopath is he? The wine swims in my head, loosening my tongue. I pick up my glass and avert my eyes as if he weren’t worth the effort of looking at.
“You couldn’t afford me.” My voice oozes disdain.
Chance bursts out laughing. “Whoa! Damn! I think I love you!”
I hear Lazarus clear his throat. He hesitates a moment, obviously thrown. “So, you’ve decided to go ahead with the club then, Chance?” he asks stiffly.
“Yup.”
Chance turns his chair to face Lazarus and sits down again. He returns his hand to my knee. I flick my eyes to Lazarus in time to see his jaw tense.
“It’s officially too cool for Denver. But what the hell, right? You made me the perfect mountain home, dude. I might as well have someplace to play, as well.”
He slips his hand beneath the fabric of my skirt and strokes the bare skin there.
“Jude here is the best, man. But he thinks he’s too good for nightclubs. And, boy, am I glad about that today! Honey, you’re the one who pushes the envelope as far out as I need. I mean, if we could stick you both in a bottle and shake you up, I’d love to see what the fuck comes out!”
I can feel Lazarus staring at me. Suddenly, Chance jumps up claps his hands together.
“You know what? It’s time to take this party elsewhere.” He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, then grabs Lazarus by the arm with the other. “Come on, you fucking eggheads. Let’s go get into trouble.
Chapter Seven
“I hate to say it, but I think I’m going home.”
The night is chilly and breezy, and I hug myself against the cold. My giddy head now feels like a sack of cement and my stomach has gone sour. Not only does Lazarus fuck up my heart, but now, he has to jack up the best night of my life. My life has been as brutal as it has been short, and yet somehow this feels like my lowest point. It’s as if he waits for my rare moments of happiness and then appears out of nowhere to destroy them.
“No, you are not going home.” Chance puts an arm around me and pulls me close. “You are going to come with us. You’ll drink. You’ll dance. You’ll rock our worlds. That is what you’ll do.”
I stare at my feet, my face on fire. Then I look up at Chance with a sheepish half-smile. “Next time. I promise.”
Lazarus stands unmoving, like a fucking oak tree, hands in the pockets of his gorgeous pea coat, staring at me. But I don’t give him the pleasure of seeing the pain in my eyes.
“Michaela, I haven’t signed any papers, you know. If you go home now, I may run into another brilliant, beauty with an eye for designing clubs…”
I know he’s joking, but his words sear to the bone. What if he was that crazy? What if his ego was so big that he’d kill the plans he loves just to spurn a commoner who rejected his invitation? Devon’s warnings ring out anew and I feel a strange, irrational sense of dread. I force a smile.
“I suppose we can’t have that,” I say with a confidence so performed I feel like I should win the Oscar tonight.
“Atta girl!”
Chance throws an arm around my waist and lifts me effortless off the ground, spinning me around. I yelp and grab onto his shoulders to keep from falling. They’re like solid metal under skin. Lazarus remains stone still, skeptically watching the two of us. Then he clears his throat again.
“So, shall we?”
Chance takes Lazarus and I down the street to a sleek building covered in stamped steel where a long line of well-dressed, beautiful people wait to get inside. Chance leads us straight to the front. The three hundred pound gorilla manning the door lights up when he lays eyes on the movie star and gives Chance the secret hey bro handshake, even though they’ve never met. An excited chatter fills the air as the bouncer unhooks the rope and steps aside to let us pass.
My ears and cheeks burn hot as I feel the eyes on us, and I know everyone is wondering who it is that’s hanging out with the celebrity. On any other occasion I’d enjoy it, but I’m too aware of Lazarus close behind as we make our way into the sleek neon world. How is it possible that on the greatest night of my life, the worst person I’ve ever met walks in the door and fucks it up? Even worse, I’m convinced I can smell him, that faint musky combination of sexy cologne and natural masculine pheromones that makes my knees wobble. God, I hate him for turning me on.
Chance leads us through the throbbing masses to an unmarked door at the back where another beefy guy stands guard. Of course. No famous person hangs out in a boring old nightclub, no matter how elite. They have VIP rooms to keep them separated from the unwashed masses. When we step inside, all heads turn our way to see what big shot has entered. Of course, it’s Denver, which means expectations are low. When the VIPers see Chance, the air becomes instantly charged with energy. Two voluptuous women in skimpy club wear make a beeline for him. Chance is obviously very used to this. He receives them as if he were expecting them, slipping an arm around both of their waists.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lazarus asks, looking at me cautiously.
“Fuck you.”
I turn and push my way through the crowd to an open booth at the back of the room. Exhausted, I collapse onto the seat and close my eyes. The music pounds through my body like a cudgel. I feel sick and confused. I just want to leave. The heat of the place pricks at my skin and I feel the sweat begin to trickle beneath my shirt. Pink and blue lights flash across the dance floor. I look out to see Chance dancing with one of the club chippies. Her arms are draped around his neck and she’s making big doe eyes at him.
“May I ask what that was about?”
I startle and turn. Lazarus has found me. He pulls off his coat and throws it into the booth. Then he slides all the way around the half circle until he’s beside me. I give him a withering look.
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Why are you so angry?” He puts a hand on my arm and it makes me shiver. “Mickey, look at me.”
But I don’t. I keep my eyes on the dancers as if they were the most hypnotic thing in the world. Chance looks over at me and catches me watching him. He smiles and winks. I lift my chin and smile back, and I make it
as flirtatious as possible.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, half-turning my head toward Lazarus without giving him my eyes.
“Of course.”
“Are you on some kind of medication?”
“What? What are you talking about? Why would…”
But I don’t wait for him to finish. Before I can even think twice, I’m on my feet and gliding toward Chance on the dance floor. He grins. With a kiss on the cheek he lets the club chick go, like a dance instructor dismissing a pupil. She frowns and gives me the stink eye. Bring it on. I don’t care about any of you. Fuck the world.
I put my arms around Chance’s neck and push my body against his. It’s rock solid. His hands slide around my waist and hang down over my ass. I lift my face to his and give him a sultry smile.
“You’ve got some smooth moves, Mr. Hollywood.”
He laughs. “Well, romantic lead is my profession.”
We move slowly together, much slower than the music. I can feel the heat rising from his body and the dewy skin beneath his clothes. I’m not even thinking about how famous he is now. All I care about is that he’s not Lazarus. I peek over his shoulder to where Lazarus is still sitting in the abandoned booth. His sculpted face is tense, his eyes volcanic with jealousy. What the fuck is his problem? He’s the one who kicked me to the curb. A waitress arrives and puts a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him.
“Smart chicks make me hot, you know.” Chance’s lips are practically touching my ear.
“Is that right?” I take in a deep breath to make my breasts crush against him. “I feel the same way about movie stars.”
He chuckles. I glance up. Lazarus is slamming back a whiskey without taking his eyes off us. The spastic lights flash across his face, changing his look, casting him in either light or shadow. He’s an angel. He’s a devil. He’s an angel. He’s a devil. Chance’s hand strokes my backside.
Chance’s voice is low, his breath hot on my ear, as he says the words a million girls have only heard him utter in fantasies.
