by Nicole Fox
And then… Wow.
Clara has coaxed my normally curly hair into silky waves that cascade over the tops of my breasts. My blue eyes pop under thick black false lashes, with gold and purple eyeshadow and thick black liner on the upper lids. My lips are light pink and shiny, and my skin is flawless, like creamy marble.
And the dress… Damn, the dress. It clings to me in all the right places, with a deep V accentuating my cleavage and a fringe at the bottom that tickles the tops of my thighs when I move.
“I don’t even look like me,” I comment, turning my face from side to side, entranced by my own reflection.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” Clara brings the makeup to the mirror and bumps me out of the way while she starts on her own face. “Tonight you can be anyone you want to be.”
She’s right, I realize. I am transformed.
Maybe going out is a good idea after all.
Clara and I hit up a few bars on the Lower East Side before making our way to what she claims is the best club in all of New York City—Fiamma. Once we get inside, it is a veritable buffet of sights and sounds. Loud dance music pulses through the speakers and ultra-glam revelers pack the dance floor and wave their arms above them as neon lights slash through the crowd.
I had a couple drinks in the earlier bars, but I never drink to excess when I’m around Clara. She says it doesn’t bother her, but it doesn’t seem fair. I’m working with a bit of a buzz, so Clara and I skip the bar and head straight for the dance floor.
I don’t know the song playing but let the beat flow through me as I start to dance, winding my hands toward the ceiling and rolling my hips. It feels good to dance. I lose myself in it, swaying and twisting and tossing my hair. Clara and I make eye contact and break into giggles. It is the first time all day that I have felt truly alive.
I look over my shoulder to see how crowded the bar is, and my eye lands on a man cutting through the crowd a few feet behind me. My breath catches.
I’m just drunk enough to have one crystal-clear thought amidst the chaos: That is one fine specimen.
He must be around 6’5” as he towers above the crowd of high-heeled glamazons. His dark hair feathers around his face and the nape of his neck. It’s the kind of hair that looks silky to the touch, and my fingers twitch at the thought of running my hands through it. His full lips are set in a hard line, as though annoyed at having to swim through the sea of bodies. He glances over, and for a second, our eyes meet.
My heart skips a beat and I go still, like a deer in the headlights. His eyes are dark pools that draw me in until I feel as though I’m drowning. He looks away, and I snap back into the present, realizing that for the past few seconds, I’ve forgotten to breathe.
The man disappears without so much as a backward glance. Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all.
Clara pokes my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod and go back to dancing. “Sorry. Got distracted.”
“By that hunk of man meat?” She licks her lips. “I don’t blame you.”
I dance until my feet ache, and sweat shimmers on my chest. I even indulge in a little bump-and-grind with a few guys who come my way, but the second any of them start asking too many questions, I grab Clara and we scoot into another part of the crowd. I just want to have fun, and at the moment, the idea of chatting up any guy is the opposite of that.
Clara and I hit the bar and I order drinks. She starts to drift off in the direction of a sexy guy with a very impressive afro and I have to wrangle her back to my side as she has my wallet and phone in her purse.
We hit the dance floor again and the guy comes over, performing silly dance moves like some sort of mating ritual for Clara’s approval. It works. One second I’m shimmying with my best friend, the next I’m sipping a drink next to her while she and the hot rando paw at each other like teenagers.
I scan the club, my vodka cran tasting increasingly bitter with every sip. I don’t even realize what I’m looking for until I see him—the hot guy I maybe made eye contact with earlier. He’s leaning against the wall near the VIP area, scrolling through his phone.
I don’t get him. He doesn’t seem to belong here. He’s too serious, and he looks too bored. He’s wearing a slim-fitting black suit, with a black shirt and a red tie. It’s bold, but he’s not peacocking. He’s just... being.
As though he can feel my gaze, the man looks up from his phone. His gaze skewers through me from across the room. A blue light splashes across my face, and I have no doubt that this time he is looking at me. Everything seems to slow down around me and my pulse races. His mouth lifts ever-so-slightly in a smirk. My mouth is dry, and I down the rest of my drink in one gulp. When I look back up, he is already walking up the stairs into the VIP area.
I turn back to Clara and grimace. She and her new friend look as though they’re trying to eat each other, but at least she’s having fun, I suppose.
Clara breaks away and whispers something in the guy’s ear, then comes to talk to me.
“Hunter and I are going to get out of here,” she says. “You’ll be okay to get home, right?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Sure.”
She smooches my cheek and grabs Hunter’s hand. The two of them disappear within seconds. It’s almost impressive, or rather, it would be if it weren’t so annoying.
I heft a sigh and glance down at my empty drink. I’ll grab one more for the road. There’s a bottle of wine waiting for me at home, and if I’m remembering correctly, I’ve got a big bag of Doritos in one of the cupboards.
I squeeze my way to the bar and order another drink, swaying to the music. The bartender, a gorgeous redhead covered in tattoos, hands me my drink, and I take a sip absently as she keys it into the till.
Only then do I realize that my wallet disappeared from the club at the same time that Clara did.
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