I peer over my right shoulder to meet his smiling gaze. His normally muted expression is replaced by a twinkle in his eye and the devilish grin of a child who’s about to knowingly be naughty. I kiss his lips, letting mine linger, and then pull on his sweet, supple bottom lip as I release him. “I want you,” I say simply, connecting deep within his stare.
His face completely relaxes, his head falling back against the wall, relishing in my request. He nods back at me and removes his fingers from inside of me, then guides me over to the tall, buzzing subwoofer.
“I have an idea.” He kisses me with eager excitement and then places his hands just below my butt, hoisting me up. My legs wrap around him and I feel completely safe, sexy, and ready to succumb to this beautiful man. He turns around and places me atop the subwoofer, which puts me at a perfect height to meet his hips. The plastic is cool on my bare bottom, but my anticipation overshadows this sensation. He grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the woofer so that my legs spread around him. He kisses me again and I reach down to fully release him from his boxers, preparing our bodies to meet. The vibrations from the loud music shoot through my body, exhilarating me. The beat of the song speeds up, and I find my body vibrating more and more. Oh, God. The sensation hits me suddenly, and hard.
The nausea races through me, and my skin turns cold. Oh my God. This can’t be happening. I pull my face away from his and take in a deep breath of air.
“Jessa, are you ok? What’s wrong?” Lust’s aroused expression immediately tenses with concern.
“We don’t have to do this,” he reminds me, inching away. I shake my head, fighting another wave of nausea. Why did I have to drink this much? Please go away. Please go away. I beg the feelings to subside and suddenly they overtake me. I push Mr. Lust to the side and quickly jump from the subwoofer to the floor, trying to catch my balance as I yank down my dress. “Jessa, what’s wrong?” He grabs his forehead, expressing frustration with himself.
“No, it’s nothing,” I release the only words I can manage and then a full force wave of nausea hits me. My body convulses while cold sweat slaps me in the face. I look for an escape but it’s too late. I lean over the subwoofer and release the buildup of alcohol that’s been sitting inside of me. Please kill me now. Please. I can’t even make eye contact with him, so I stand myself up and yell, “I’m sorry,” as I pull open the curtain, trying to run away.
My wobbling drunk legs only make it a few steps before he grabs me again. “Jessa, are you ok?” I try to respond but the only reaction my body can manage is a full flood of tears down my face.
“Come here. It’s ok.” He pulls me, disgusting, vomity me, into him again. He kisses my sweaty forehead and holds me tight, reassuring me. “It’s ok. Take my coat, we’re getting you out of here.” I finally nod, unable to speak, and pull his impeccable designer blazer over my shoulders to cover the residual vomit on my dress. I try to wipe my tears while he leads me through the crowd, praying that no one can smell my filth.
We finally reach the front room of Ware to see that much of it has cleared out now.
“Where are your friends?” he questions me.
“I don’t know. We were sitting over there.” I point toward a few empty tables where we were hanging out with Rocky and his crew earlier. I look around the blurry room in front of me and don’t see anyone resembling my girlfriends. They probably went back to the hotel room when they couldn’t find me, knowing I would return there on my own if we got separated. We walk toward the tables, covered with stickiness, sludge, and half-empty liquor bottles, signs of the fun we were having earlier. I scan the couches for my purse, phone, or any other signs that the girls are still here. Nothing.
“I should really be going,” I say, engrossed by my humiliation and unable to look at Mr. Lust. I start to remove his jacket to give back to him. “I—”
He interrupts me. “No. I’m not leaving you. And keep the jacket on, you’ll freeze outside.”
“No, I’ll be ok, I’ll just get a taxi.”
“And pay them how? You have no purse, no phone here.” Shit, he’s right. Stop being a drunk dumbass, Jess.
“Oh. Um, I can get money at the hotel when I get there.”
“How do you know your friends are there? Here, call them from my phone.” I stand there dumbfounded for a moment, realizing I don’t have anyone’s phone numbers memorized. With everything digital and saved in phones these days, I’ve never bothered to learn them. And I’ve never regretted it until now.
“I don’t know any of them,” I say, letting out an inadvertent sob. “But I’m sure they are there looking for me. I should go.” I try to move my feet quickly from him, desperately hoping that my mortification and embarrassment will dissipate with growing distance between us. I move my wobbling legs as quickly as I can away from my near sexcapade turned nightmare.
“I said I’m not leaving you. Here, find your phone. If it’s at the hotel then your friends are too.” He hands me his phone, having already pulled up the “Find My iPhone app” for me to use. I finally get the login correct after a few fat fingering typos. Within a few seconds the map of New York City pulls up and it begins locating my phone. I quickly see my battery is dead, and the last known location is here, at Ware. Fuck. I lift my teary eyes to Lust and realize he’s been watching the screen as well.
“I think my phone died in here. But I’m sure my friends went back to the hotel. I’ll be fine.” I barely finish the words when another wave of nausea hits me. I gag momentarily and manage to sit down on the sofa before getting weak in the knees.
“Jessa? Are you ok? Talk to me.” My head falls back on the sofa and my eyes start to close.
“I’m ok,” I mumble and nod to him, head and eyes still backward.
“No. You are not ok. I will not leave you here.” I can hear the rising concern in his voice, but my eyes remain closed.
“Please, just leave me alone! I’m fine!” I nearly scream the words at him.
“Dammit, Jessa,” his serious tone returns. “Stop being so…stubborn!” He struggles for the word in English to describe my obstinate behavior.
“No. Just leave me alone!” I sob again, overtaken by the embarrassment of letting him see me like this. I shake for a moment, sinking my head deeper and deeper into the sofa.
***
I feel like a child being carried away. It is a nice feeling. Strong, secure, taken care of. Like when you would fall asleep on the sofa as a child and your dad would carry you up to bed. You would be so tired you could barely comprehend what was happening, but you didn’t really care because you felt so safe and secure. I hear some muffled chatter in the background, like an old movie playing, but I can’t understand the words. But I’m so tired I don’t really want to hear them, and I just let the voices lull me back to sleep.
seventeen
Stop spinning. Stop spinning. STOP SPINNING.
I manage to pry my eyes open, feeling the resistance of my contact lenses that are now glued to them. My eyes attempt a few weak blinks as I try to get my bearings. I know that I'm in a bed, but this is not my apartment. Or Jack’s. Wait, you're still in New York City, Jess. The sight of yellow cabs out the window quickly validates my hypothesis. But this isn't our hotel room either. Where the hell am I?
I look down to see I'm wearing a plush white robe, something that does not belong to me. I'm plopped right in the middle of the bed, and judging by the arrangement of the pillow and sheets, I was sleeping alone. Phew. Maybe there's one less thing I can regret today. My bar tar-covered shoes have been placed in a perfect line next to a comfy gray and white chair that occupies the far corner of the room. On each side of the bed sits a mirrored nightstand, a perfect complement to the gray and white theme of the room. Wherever I am, it’s impeccably decorated. A bottle of Fiji water and an upside-down glass sit atop a silver tray on the nightstand. The other side of the bed has a clock, telling me it’s 5:30 am. SHIT. My only chance of getting home today, given I’m flying sta
ndby, is on the 7 am flight. I’ve got to get out of here. Wherever I am.
On the chair sits a bright red pillow, as well as a perfectly folded set of white towels. I stumble out of bed and peer out the flowing, red, semi-sheer curtains against a set of French doors. I see bits of snow on the ground and a few yellow taxis filling the streets below. I'm only about two stories from the ground, and I assume I must be in an apartment of some sort, or maybe a townhouse.
I walk into the bathroom, similarly styled but in a black, gray and white theme. The floors and tiles and countertop are all beautiful Italian marble. I glance at myself in the mirror and gasp at what I see. A blur of dried, sweaty makeup and tears. And better yet, dried puke remains on the tips of my hair. I’m a walking ad for the dangers of overindulgence.
I anxiously climb into the shower to cleanse myself of my remaining war paint. The water warms up quickly and I let it wash over my dirty skin. I start trying to piece together the night before. The last thing I remember is taking shots with Rocky and his friends. Is this Rocky’s apartment? I open my eyes and see some toiletries tucked neatly into a built-in marble shelf opposite the shower head. I reach forward, grateful to have something to clean off with. There are three bottles: soap, shampoo, and conditioner, I assume. I grab one of the clear bottles to see if it’s body wash or shampoo. I blink a few times and as my eyes begin to focus, I realize I just can't comprehend what the writing says. It looks like Italian. Italian! Mr. Lust. Holy fuck, I must be in his apartment. I begin scrubbing my scalp and try to recall how I got here. Oh, God. A flash of me and him together at Ware enters my mind. And I can remember feeling his hand between my legs. Did I sleep with him? Did he bring me back here? We couldn't have had sex here, right? No, even if he is a complete manwhore, he wouldn’t have slept with me, not the way I looked.
I finish scrubbing the filth off of me, but the humiliation still remains. I swing open the glass shower door and set my feet against a plush bath mat. I spy a brand new toothbrush and some toothpaste inside of a white porcelain container on the vanity. Yes! I gratefully rip open the plastic and begin brushing my teeth. No wonder it looks like a hotel, he probably has a new guest every time he’s in town. Probably because he has plenty of female friends stay over. The thought of another woman staying here wrenches my stomach. Be real though, Jess. Someone as rich and beautiful as him probably has girls lined up to stay here.
I refocus my efforts to catching the flight and avoiding further embarrassment. I find a comb and hair tie, and quickly work through my wet locks and tie them back in a loose pile at the nape of my neck. I towel myself off then walk into the bedroom. Laying on the bed in a neat little stack is my clean dress, bra, and panties. Someone must’ve come in here. Was it Mr. Lust? I shudder with embarrassment, realizing someone washed my foul vomit clothes. I quickly get dressed, knowing I have to run out of here. I tiptoe through the dimly lit hallway, walking toward a living room area. Large white sofas fill the room, along with a dark gray patterned area rug and black-and-white checkered chairs. A light peers from beyond the living room, illuminating this space just enough for me to see the entry door. I tiptoe behind the sofas and near the front door.
“Good morning, miss. Did you sleep ok?” I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the Italian-accented voice. It takes me a minute to place the familiar voice. Lust’s driver. Butler? Man servant?
“Hi, Enzo. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I just wanted to get a quick shower before heading out.”
“You did not wake me at all. When you get to be my age, sleep is hard to come by. I'm just catching up on the news.” He wiggles the newspaper in his hands. “Can I get you some coffee? Espresso? Anything to eat?” Wow. Wonder if he’s this nice to all of Max’s guests. It’s his job, Jess.
“No, thank you. I need to run, but please tell your boss thank you for letting me stay.”
“Let me get him for you. I know he’d like to see you.” He rises to his feet.
“No, really no need to wake him. I do appreciate your hospitality. But, please, don’t get him.”
He nods back to me. “Ok. Where would you like to go? I'll have the car ready in two minutes.”
“Thank you, but I can just get a taxi. I'll just be on my way.” I start walking toward the door but he leaps up.
“Please, Miss Jessica, let me drive you. I have strict instructions to ensure you get home safely.”
“But it's really—”
“No buts. I drive you where you need to go. Come. Put this on to keep warm.” He hands me a Burberry scarf and starts out the door with keys in hand.
I climb into the back of the Maybach, my neck wrapped in a Lust-scented scarf. It smells divine and immediately reminds me of his presence. “Where to, Miss Jessica?”
“Just back to the W Hotel, please. I just need to get my stuff and then I’m off to the airport.”
He glances back at me from his rear-view mirror. “Airport? You fly home today?”
“Yes, I'm hoping to get on a flight this morning. Well, in an hour actually.”
“At seven? You don’t have much time. I will take you to the airport too.” I open my mouth to argue with him, but decide to embrace his generous offer. He’s right, if I'm going to make the flight, I’ll need to take all the charity I can get.
***
Twenty minutes later we’re on the bridge en route to LaGuardia. I was able to get a room key from the front desk, and sneak into our hotel room without waking the girls. Thankfully my clutch, phone and wallet were all present, so I threw everything in my bag and left them a note to tell them I’ve headed home. I sit quietly in the back seat, slowly sobering up as I take in the early morning city views, until he interrupts my thoughts. “You will visit us again soon?”
Oh. I hadn't thought about that. Will I ever see Lust again? Hell, he saw me throw up, does he even want to see me again? I’m just a young, drunk party girl. And he’s, well, Mr. Sophisticated Mysterious Lust.
“I don’t think so,” I respond honestly.
eighteen
Can we please talk?
I roll my eyes at Jack’s most recent text. It’s been over a week since the Lela phone call incident. My logical side tells me not to respond, to force him out of my life. I already extended him the courtesy of trust. In Paris. After he talked to her! And then she was answering his phone on the ski trip, when he hadn’t even told me she would be there. I try to get my heart to agree. It’s black and white. He’s a shitbag. He cheated. Well, may have cheated. So it’s over. But what if it was a misunderstanding? Shouldn’t you hear him out? I still want to believe him. Just see him once. Get closure so you can move on. My fingers hover above my phone as I decide how to respond.
“Jess!” The peppy voice of my dear friend and work bestie Sarah interrupts my thoughts.
“Hi,” I respond with unmatched enthusiasm.
“Geez, you look like shit.”
“Thanks?” I respond with my heavy heart. I can even feel that my normal smile and occasional optimism have been erased. I let out a deep sigh and smile at my friend. Her blonde hair and green eyes look perfect against the deep jade green of her spring-colored dress. “You look super cute. Way to make me feel even worse,” I say, laughing. “New dress?”
“Yeah, just came last night. Do you think it fits ok? I think it’s a bit tight?” She steps back giving me full view of her uber petite yet curvy frame. Her five foot eight frame couldn’t look any more model-like in the vibrant colors.
“Ok, if you think that’s too tight, then I’m horrified of what you think of my outfit!” I laugh, reflecting on how my hormone-induced bloat gives me the look of a fresh pregnancy.
“Stop it! You’re crazy. But seriously, how are you? You just look, well, sad.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, in our three years of working together I think I know Jess’s typical Monday face. And that’s more than just the ‘I fucking hate Monday because it’s Monday’ face. Have you talked to him
?”
“No. Well, not in person anyway. He sent me another text.” I hold up my phone for her to read along.
She nods her head as her eyes dart through our text conversation. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“About ten days. It’s getting worse each day. I thought”—I pause, fighting the swelling tears because I’m not that girl who cries at work—“I thought I was done with him. I mean, he cheated! And I know I shouldn’t care about him. But it’s not getting any easier.” My sweet friend wraps her arms around me for a reassuring hug.
“I know. I can see it in you, you had fallen for him. Whether you want to believe it or not you were falling in love.”
I swallow hard at the reality of her words.
“It’s not fair. Everything was so great. Why do people have to cheat? It ruins everything.”
Sarah instantly picks up on the double meaning in my words. Sharing a cube wall and hundreds of lunches together over the past few years has given her a glimpse inside my far-from-perfect love life. Both the fucked-upness of my own parents, and my own ups and downs of dating.
“Are you sure he cheated? I mean, I know what you heard. But is it confirmed? What if it was just a drunk kiss that he wholeheartedly regrets?”
I ponder the idea for a moment.
“And furthermore, what you did in New York City wasn’t exactly kosher,” Sarah emphasizes the word a bit too loudly.
“Hey, are you talking about me again?” Ben stands up from his cube, which shares a wall on the front side of mine.
“Yes, Ben. We have nothing more exciting to talk about than your Jewishness.” Sarah rolls her eyes at him. His apparent crush on her over the years continues to be of great annoyance to her. “Could you stop eavesdropping? We’re having a very important conversation.”
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