*
Some people wait in line forever to get into Wolf Head, and most people never get in at all. As we approach the bouncer, I notice a few B-name actors and reality TV stars in line. I can’t help thinking Griffin will need his alien powers to get us in.
“Hello,” Griffin says, stopping just in front of the bouncer and looking up at him with a haughty expression on his face. “I’ve arrived.”
Impressively, this works, and we’re allowed entrance.
The thing about New York City is that it holds a special pocket of meaning to any hundred or thousand people in a given moment. Whether you’re talking about the famous buildings or the hidden Thai place that you love to hit up on Sunday afternoon with your friends, it’s full of brick-and-mortar importance.
Wolf Head is one of those places.
Inside, we walk down a wide, curved set of red velvet stairs, descending into a play land of shadow, sparkle, and musical notes. The faux-fountain statue in the middle of Wolf Head’s circular bar stretches to the roof and serves as an anchor in a room that could otherwise float away into golden and maroon whimsy, complete with sparkling gold bulbs hanging from black wires here and there, and cigarette girls wearing little more than high heels, fishnets, and sparkly, black bras. Wolf Head’s male employees are marked by their oversized black top hats, bowties, and a wolf head symbol scrawled across the back of their suit jackets. High-backed baroque chairs and overstuffed couches dot the club in unexpected places, providing a lounging area for beautiful people who are tired of dancing, too drunk to stand, or in need of a horizontal surface to explore their new friends. Curtains strategically hide sections of the club to provide for more privacy for the richer or braver of the patrons.
Between the shadows and gold lights, I can just make out faces and sparkling clothes as we step out onto the crowded dance floor. It seems that tonight’s entertainment leans to the goth side, judging by the dark, deconstructed clothes and the loud music pouring down over us. I glance at Griffin and Devon, both of them looking quite handsome in their eyeliner, and then at the ring of scary bodyguards. We fit in. Sort of.
“What’s this music?” Griffin demands, moving close enough that I can hear him over the noise and feel his breath on my neck.
“I’m not sure.”
“I thought you knew everything about music!”
I’m already swaying, which is a good sign, even if I’m not familiar with the song. “Look, that’s why this place is so great. Everything’s cutting edge and amazing!” I push away from Griffin and Devon. Thankfully, no one stops me. For the first time in a long time, even before I was kidnapped by the aliens, I feel completely, ridiculously, recklessly free. It’s almost like my cross-country road trip to follow my favorite band on tour, and that’s really saying something.
Dancing is the first thing on my mind, of course, because of the power of the pulsing music overhead, but I also can’t help fishing my cell phone out and snapping a couple of pictures of the mismatched, sparkly gold light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a couch with cobalt cushions and gnarly brown legs, and the fountain statue in the middle of the bar. I’ve seen countless pictures of that statue on the Internet over the years, but I can’t help wanting my own.
One of the unfairly beautiful cigarette girls offers me a sample of the night’s special drink, and I accept it with a grin I can’t seem to control. I’m really here! I’m really at Wolf Head! I’m really drinking a sparkly drink from a tiny plastic cup that says Wolf Head.
As the cigarette girl walks away, I snap a picture of her.
I need these memories for when I go back to my semi-boring life with the overcrowded apartment, two jobs, and lack of time for fun.
After snapping a few too many pictures and dancing with no one in particular, I remember I should probably check on my alien companions. I dance my way slowly back through the crowd, keeping an eye out for a blond and brown head. Griffin and Devon are both on the short side, so finding them isn’t the easiest task, but at last, I spot one of the bodyguards. Perfect. I’ll use him as my North Star.
Sure enough, just before I reach the bodyguard, I spot Devon and Griffin dancing with each other. They’ve got a bit of an audience, which is remarkable given the wide variety of interesting and attractive people in the crowd, but they’re dancing away as if they have no idea anyone’s watching, comfortable with each other among a sea of strangers.
After a few seconds, Griffin spots me and crooks his forefinger in my direction to summon me. I intend to keep a respectful distance as I approach, but he all but shoves me between him and Devon and takes me by the hips, pressing the front of his body tight against mine. Suddenly, I’ve got these handsome aliens on either side of me, and I have to say, this is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. At all.
Griffin, in particular, loses himself in the music, eyes closed and his head rocking back and forth with the fervent passion of a man well on his way to ecstasy. Watching him is entrancing and dangerous, but somehow, I think he’s unaware of his magnetism. Devon’s more reserved, allowing me a bit of room and smiling almost politely when I glance over my shoulder at him. He steps away after a while, leaving me with Griffin.
“Do you like it?” I say, and Griffin half opens his eyes, the peculiar blue color glowing back at me from between a kohl outline. I wonder if maybe he didn’t hear me, so I dare to lean in close to ask him again, this time directly in his ear.
He nods and turns his face, brushing his lips across my cheek as he does so. A pleasant tingle dances down the back of my neck, over my lower spine, and up my fingertips. My arms settle around Griffin’s neck. From this close, I can see a slight sheen of sweat forming over his skin, strangely inviting and deliciously intimate. It’s been years since I danced this close to a guy, mostly because I’m usually too shy to ask strangers to dance when I go out with my girlfriends.
I don’t realize until the third or fourth flash that someone’s taking pictures of us.
“Uhhh… Griffin?” I say over the noise. “Someone’s taking pictures!”
“Of course they are!” he says, turning to smile and pose. Then he’s off to talk to the photographer, leaning in close so he can hear what the man says, and leaving me with Devon.
“Do you like the music?” I ask Devon, who seems to be eyeballing a group of scantily clad female dancers near us.
“What? Oh, yes. It’s quite good. Quite different from Griff’s music, too. I like it very much!” he says, and his gaze trails off again.
“Why don’t you go introduce yourself? You can dance with anyone you want here,” I say. “That’s pretty much the first rule of Manhattan, you know.”
“Is it?”
I nod and laugh at Devon’s expression. “And you can buy me a drink. That’s also a rule in Manhattan.”
“What, over at the bar?”
“Yeah, just go order me a vodka and cranberry.”
Devon considers this for a few seconds, looking at Griffin and then back at me. “Alright, I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on Griffin, though, okay?”
“Sure!” I say as Devon’s walking toward the bar. “It’s not like anything’s going to happen to him here.”
But wouldn’t you know it, only about two minutes after Devon disappears, so does Griffin.
First things first, I try not to panic. He can’t be that hard to find, right? After all, he couldn’t have gone far. And besides, one of the bodyguards probably still knows where he is. A glance around the room reveals the bodyguards are stationed at a lot of conspicuous locations, but none of them are moving.
Devon asked me, specifically, to keep an eye on Griffin, whether he’s in danger or not.
I try to think of where an alien prince would go in a club. Bar? Stage? Wait, maybe the bathroom! I should try there first.
There’s no line for the men’s bathroom, and no bathroom attendant, either, so I look both ways and then barge right in. You see, with the right amount of adrenaline, a wom
an doesn’t fear seeing any strange, wayward, hairy man parts or urinals or other such horrifying entities.
“Sugar? You’re funny,” a voice says from one of the stalls. “Here now, hold this and watch what I do.”
I’m about to flee the restroom when I hear the unmistakable sound of Griffin’s nervous laughter. “Your nose? Why? Is that cocaine?”
Oh no.
Dating an Alien Pop Star Page 10