by K. Bromberg
I realize that most of his escorts are long, leggy blondes, stick thin, with some type of plastic enhancement. And all are drop-dead gorgeous. Much to my chagrin, I realize they look very similar to Haddie, except hers are real. Ironically, the pale hair next to his dark features makes him seem more aloof and edgier somehow.
I note that each girl only seemed to exist in his life for a short period of time, except for one. I wonder why that is. Is she an escort? The one he takes when his other cookie-cutter blondes have fallen through and he needs a date? Or is she the one he keeps going back to because there is really something there? After clicking on several of their pictures together, I finally get a caption that offers her name. Tawny Taylor. The caller on his phone yesterday. What is she to Colton? I know I could dwell on this for hours so I force myself to push it to the back of my head and resolve to think about it at another time, even though I’m afraid to know the answer.
I look like none of them. I may be tall, but I’m definitely not petite like them. I’m thin but I have curves in all the right places, unlike their ruler-straight physiques. I have an athletic body that I’m proud of—that I work hard to maintain—whereas they look like they have no need to even think about exercise. I have rich chocolate brown curly hair that stops midway down my back; it is unruly and a pain, but it suits me. I continue the comparisons until I tell myself that I need to just get off the page before I become depressed. That my hatred toward them has nothing to do with them in particular.
I go back to Google and type in “Colton Donavan childhood.” The first few pages reference children’s organizations that he is involved with. I quickly scan through the links, looking for one mentioning his childhood.
I finally find an old article written five years ago. Colton was interviewed in connection with a charity he was supporting that benefited new changes speeding up the adoption process.
Q: It is public knowledge that you were adopted, Colton. At what age?
CD: I was eight.
Q: How was the adoption process for you? How would you have benefited from these new initiatives that this foundation supports?
CD: I was lucky. My dad literally found me on his doorstep, took me in, for lack of a better term, and I was adopted shortly after that. I didn’t have to go through the lengthy process that occurs today. A process that makes kids who desperately crave a home, a sense of belonging, wait months to see if an application will be approved. The system needs to stop looking at these kids as cases, as paperwork to be stamped with approval after months of red tape, and start looking at them as delicate children who need to be an integral part of something. A part of a family.
Q: So what was your situation, prior to being adopted?
CD: Let’s focus less on me and more on the passing of these new measures.
Does he not want to talk about it because it draws attention away from the charity, or was it so bad he just doesn’t talk about it? I scan the rest of the article but there is nothing else about his childhood. So he was eight. That leaves a lot of time to be damaged, conditioned as he’s said, by whatever situation he was in.
I stare at the screen for a couple of minutes imagining all kinds of things, mostly variations of the kids who have come through my care, and I shudder.
I decide to look up his parents, Andy and Dorothea Westin. The pages are filled with Andy’s movie credits, Oscar nominations and wins, and top-grossing movies amongst other things. His family life is referenced here and there. He met Dorothea when she had a bit part in one of his movies. At the time she was Dorothea Donavan. Another piece clicks into place. I wonder why he uses his Mom’s surname and not his Dad’s. I continue scanning and see the basic Hollywood mogul background, less the tabloid drama or stints in rehab. There are a few mentions of his children, a son and a daughter, but nothing giving me the answers I’m looking for.
I return to search again and scan through the different links that mention Colton’s name. I see snippets about a fight in a club, possible altercations with current-generation brat-pack actors, generous donations, and gushing comments from other racers about his skill and the charisma he brings to his sport that had been tinged after the CART and IRL league split years ago.
I sigh loudly, my head filled with too much useless information. After over an hour of research, I still don’t know Colton much better than I did before. I don’t see anything to validate the warnings he keeps giving me. I can’t help myself. I open up the page again for CDE and click on the picture of him. I stare at it for sometime, studying every angle and every nuance of his face. I glance up and sadness fills my heart as the picture on my dresser of Max catches my eye. His earnest smile and blue eyes light up the frame.
“Oh, Max,” I sigh, pressing the heel of my palm to my heart where I swear I can still feel the agony. “I will always miss you. Will always love you,” I whisper to him, “but it’s time I try to find me again.” I stare at his picture, remembering when it was taken, the love I felt then. Seconds tick by before I look back at my computer screen.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, strengthening my resolve as the song on my computer, Colton’s song, repeats itself for the umpteenth time. It’s time. And maybe Haddie is right. Colton may be the perfect person to help me find myself again. For however long he lets me, anyway.
I look back at my phone, suppressing the overwhelming urge to text him back. To connect with him. If I’m going to do this, I at least need to make sure a couple things are on my terms.
And chasing after him is definitely not going to allow me to achieve that.
I BARELY RECOGNIZE THE GIRL in the mirror who stares back at me. Once again, Haddie has gone all out with her preparations for the launch party tonight thrown by the public relations company she works for. She spent almost an hour blowing my ringlets out so that my hair hangs in a straight, thick curtain down my back. I keep staring at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust to this different person. My eyes are subtly smoked so the dark smudges have an opalescent quality, reflecting the violet in my irises. My lips are lined with nude liner and lip-gloss, making the slight touches of bronzed blush on my cheeks stand out.
She has talked me into wearing a little black number that shows off more skin than I’m comfortable with. The bust of the dress runs into a deep V, hinting suggestively at my abundant bra-proffered cleavage without being trashy. The straps go over the shoulders and connect the non-existent back with thin gold chains that drape loosely and attach at the swell of my butt. I tug down on the hemline that falls mid-thigh, something I’m not altogether used to.
I look again in the mirror and smile. This is not me, the girl I know. I sigh shakily as I add chandelier earrings to complete the look. This may not be me, I think, but this is the confident girl I want to be again. The new me who’s going to go out tonight, let loose, and have fun. The girl who has resolved to have a night of fun and gain some self-assurance before I undertake all that is Colton and his warning-laced pursuits.
“Holy shit!” Haddie walks into my bathroom, a whistle blowing from her lips. “You look hot! I mean—” She stumbles over her words. “I’m at a loss here. I don’t think I have ever seen you this smokin’ sexy, Ry.” I smile widely at her praise. “You’re going to have them lining up tonight, baby. Hot damn, this is going to be fun to watch!”
I laugh at her response, my self-esteem bolstered. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself,” I compliment her harlot-red dress that shows off all of her best assets. I slip my heels on, wincing and smirking at the memory of the last time I wore them. “Give me a sec and I’ll be ready.”
I grab my clutch and stuff my driver’s license, money, and keys into it. When I grab my phone to place in the small purse, I realize I never asked Haddie about the voicemails from her that I’d listened to earlier.
“Had? I never asked you what was so exciting about the event tonight. What hot celebrity did you guys secure as a carpet walker?”
She gives me an enigmatic smile. �
��Oh, it fell through,” she dismisses casually. I shake off the feeling that for some reason she is laughing at me. I quirk my head at her and she turns around, “Let’s go!”
The entrance to the trendy club downtown is quite the spectacle with criss-crossing searchlights, velvet ropes, and a celebrity ready red carpet complete with a backdrop displaying Merit Rum, the new product being launched. We park in reserved spots for Haddie and her fellow PRX employees at the trendy, upscale hotel that owns and is connected to the club. Haddie flashes her credentials, which allows us to whisk past the hoopla, and within moments we are inside the crowded club, the dull throb of the music pulsing through my body.
It has been years since I’ve been in a club like this and it takes me a while to acclimate to the dim lighting and loud music and not feel intimidated. I think Haddie realizes my nerves are kicking in and that my confidence is waning despite my sexed-up appearance. Within moments she has pushed us through the throng of people to the bar. With disregard to the numerous bottles of Merit lining the slick countertop, Haddie orders us each two shots of tequila.
“One for luck.” She grins at me.
“And one for courage,” I finish our old college toast. We clink glasses and toss back the liquid. It burns my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve done a shot of tequila, I wince at the burn and put the back of my hand to my mouth to try and somehow stifle it.
“C’mon, Ryles,” Haddie shouts, unfazed by the liquor. “We’ve got one more to go!”
I raise my glass, an intrepid smile on my face, tap it to hers, and we both toss them back. The sting of the second one isn’t as bad, and my body warms from the liquid, but it still tastes like shit.
Haddie gives me a knowing glance and starts to giggle. “Tonight’s going to be fun!” She hugs her arm around me and squeezes. “It’s been so long since I’ve had my partner in crime back.”
I flash a smile at her as I take in the club’s atmosphere. It’s a large room with purple, velvet-lined booths around the bottom floor. A glossy bar with a mirror placed behind it fills one whole wall, creating the illusion that the massive space is even larger. In the middle of the main floor is a large dance floor, complete with trussing lined moving head lights that are creating a dizzying array of colors. Stairs rise up from the floor to a raised VIP area where teal booths are sectioned off by velvet stanchions. In one section of the VIP area, a plexiglass partition allows all below to see the DJ spinning the music pumping through the club. Model-worthy waitresses flit around in hot pants and fitted tank tops, purple flowers adorning their hair. The club is swanky class with a touch of sophistication, despite the advertising for Merit Rum around the room.
It’s nearing eleven o’clock, and I can see the crowd thickening, feel the pulsating energy. In the VIP area, there is a crowd of people gathered in one corner, and I wonder what trendy celebrity Haddie’s team has secured to promote their newest product. I’ve been to enough of these functions with her to know the drill. Hot celebrities shown taking photos with new product equals big-time press for not only the item but Haddie’s company as well.
I take the glass Haddie hands me, my usual Tom Collins, and I sip from the straw as I point to the upper section. I raise my eyes in question rather than shout over the music that is starting to increase in volume as the club becomes more crowded. I figure we have about thirty minutes left until the decibels are so loud that the only way to communicate will be to yell.
She leans over to talk in my ear. “Not sure. We have several people confirmed for tonight.” She shrugs a noncommittal answer. “Some surprises are in store as well.”
I narrow my eyes at her, wondering why she is being vague. She just smiles broadly and tugs my hand to follow her. We navigate through the mob of people, moving together as one unit. I can feel the alcohol slowly starting to buzz through my body, warming me, easing my tension, and relaxing my nerves. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel sexy. I feel beautiful and sensual and at ease with those feelings.
I squeeze Haddie’s hand as she pushes through to a purple booth, which is reserved for PRX staff. She looks back and smiles genuinely at me, realizing that I’m starting to relax. We break through the crowd to the booth to find two of Haddie’s colleagues there. I smile at them and say a quick hello, having met them before at previous events I’ve attended. I thank one of them for his compliments on my vamped-up style for the evening. As we sit down there is a large cheer from the other side of the room on the upper level where the crowd had been. I glance up to see what’s going on and notice nothing but a number of women showing way too much skin hoping for whatever hot item PRX has invited up there to take notice of them.
I roll my eyes in disgust. “Fame whores,” I mouth to Haddie and she bursts out laughing.
I finish my drink as the catchy beat of a Black Eyed Peas song fills the club. I start moving my hips to the tempo, and before I know it, I grab Haddie’s hand and drag her through the people out onto the dance floor. The surprised look on her face has me laughing as I close my eyes and let the music take me. We sing the words together, “I gotta feeling, that tonight’s gonna be a good night,” as we let loose on the dance floor.
I haven’t felt this liberated in so long that I just want to suspend this moment in time. I want to capture it in my memory so the next time I start to fall into that dark place, this feeling can help me hold on to the light.
Haddie and I move to the music, working our way through several songs, each one strengthening my confidence and increasing my fluidity on the floor. Several of her co-workers, Grant, Tamara, and Jacob, join us as the song switches to Too Close, an old song but one of my favorites. I flirtatiously dance with Grant, acting out the song with him. We laugh, our bodies rubbing innocently up against each other.
I raise my arms over my head, crossing them at the wrists and swivel my hips to the rhythm, the alcohol buzzing through my system. I close my eyes, absorbing the atmosphere around me. A tingling sensation up my spine has me flashing my eyes back open.
I look up, and despite the synchronized unison of the mass on the dance floor, I stop, frozen in place. I see Colton. He is standing on one of the stairways that angles down from the VIP section. He has a drink in one hand and his other arm drapes casually around the shoulder of a statuesque blonde. She is turned into him, her hand rubbing gently through the top unbuttoned portion of his dress shirt. Her face tilts up to him and even from a distance I can see her reverence and adoration, although he has his head turned away from her, laughing with a rakish man on his left. A large daunting man stands behind him, eyes scanning the crowd. His security, maybe? Colton flashes a smile at his male cohort, and it’s natural and unguarded, allowing me to momentarily appreciate his absolutely devastating looks. The blonde says something and Colton turns his attention back to her. She lifts her hand from his chest to rest on his cheek and lifts her face up, placing a slow, seductive kiss on his lips in ownership.
My insides churn at the sight, clouding my vision so much that I don’t pay enough attention to see if Colton is encouraging and returning the kiss or merely just tolerating it. My mouth is suddenly dry. I am paralyzed as I watch him with her. Numb really. We’re not together—my constant refusal of him has not demonstrated that I want otherwise. And despite my intense and unfounded hurt right now, all I want is that to be me he is holding. Me he is kissing. In the seconds that all of this swirls within me, my hurt begins to shift to anger. How stupid was I to think a guy like him could actually want a girl like me when he could have a girl like her?
I notice Haddie fall motionless in my periphery, taking notice of what I see. I’m about to turn to say something to her when Colton lifts his chin away from his arm candy, and looks up, his eyes locking onto mine. My heart skips over a beat and lodges itself in my throat. Despite the distance between us, I see shock flash in his eyes.
Even though a fellow dancer jostles me, my eyes hold steadfast to his. I know I need to leave the floor before
my emotions get the best of me and my threatening tears begin to fall, but I am riveted in place, unable to break the inescapable, magnetic pull he has over me. He releases his hold on the blonde immediately, discarding her easily. He hands his drink off to his male companion without looking and strides unfaltering down the stairs. His emerald eyes burn into mine, never losing our connection.
As he reaches the dance floor, the music changes to a deep, pulsating throb enveloping Trent Reznor’s hypnotic voice. Without a word or a look, the horde of dancers seems to move apart as he stalks onto the floor toward me. His expression is indiscernible, the muscle pulsing at his jaw, the shadows from the lights playing over the angles of his face. His long legs eat up the distance quickly. Numerous people turn their heads in recognition, but the hungry look in his eyes stops them from approaching. Despite the music’s volume, I hear Haddie suck in a breath as he reaches me.
All of the things I want to yell at him, all of the hurt I want to spew at him, disappears as he walks up to me, and without preamble grabs my hips in his hands, forcefully yanking me up against him. He holds me there, pressed against him, as his body starts to move, hips begin to grind into mine in sync to the punishing tempo of the song. I have no other option than to move with him, respond to the animalistic rhythm of his body. I slide my hands over his hands on my hips and lace my fingers through his, holding him.
Holding on to the ride that is undeniably coming.
Our eyes remain locked. My head tilts back to look up at him. His lips part slightly, and I can hear him hiss out as my hips respond to him. His eyes darken, glazing with desire, filling with heat—with a predatory need. His scorching look has my nipples tightening and my body becoming a melting mess of need in anticipation of his touch. Of his undoubted possession of me.
