by Sara Ney
Cheeky. Clever.
Everyone wants in.
The line is long, down the block, and I thank God it’s not freezing outside—but even if it were, our group is lucky enough to slide inside right away. Gretchen’s boyfriend has connections and I’m impressed: a sports marketing intern with the NFL team, he pulled a few strings to get our names on the list.
All six of us.
And just like that, we’re in.
I wasn’t in the mood for a dress like the ones my girlfriends are wearing and opted for jeans instead; I’m surprised the bouncer didn’t raise an eyebrow when I slipped past him. Jeans are a no-no—it says so right on the sign next to the door guy—but I’d forgotten when I slid into mine.
I can’t believe he let me in!
I mentally high five myself as we make our way through the throng; it can only be described as such, bodies everywhere. Hot, beautiful people. Standing by the bars, dancing under the strobing lights in the center of the huge room, congregating around the seating areas.
I run my fingers through my long hair, following closely behind Claire, who’s behind Emily and Gretchen and her boyfriend, Peter. We’re an attractive group, but so is everyone in the place. Apparently, we also have a table reserved near the roped-off area.
No cover charge, no waiting, and a table?
Bonus points for Peter. Wow.
This must be what it feels like to be famous. Or to be friends with someone who is. Is this how Gretchen always rolls? I’ve really only seen her in yoga pants, when we go running in the park on weekends. She’s mostly Claire’s friend, but I’m trying to make her mine—one can never have too many.
She’s a kind, pretty girl and I’m excited to have been invited tonight.
We slide into a black leather booth and I’m the only brunette happily sardined between Emily and Claire.
“What does everyone want?” Peter shouts to the table while my eyes gape at the action in front of me. Sexy servers in black pencil skirts or black slacks and pressed white button-down shirts. Sequins. Diamonds. Luxury handbags that cost more than Noah paid for that Hank Archer baseball card.
I try not to stare, but it’s hard—it’s as if I’ve never been let out of the house before and I’m just seeing this shit for the first time, though Lord knows I see it all the time.
Just not in one place. And not in a place like this.
It’s sleek and sophisticated—the opposite of me.
I squirm.
“Miranda? Drink?” Emily is nudging me in the ribs. “Peter has a bottle coming, but was there something else you wanted?”
Besides champagne? I’m not going to be the asshole who orders a $25 drink on someone else’s tab. I will drink what is placed in front of me and I’ll like it.
Unless it’s roofied, ha.
“Gosh, champagne is great! Thank you!”
If I want something else, I’ll get it myself, at the bar, so there isn’t an argument at the table—which is the kind of shit that always happens when we’re in a group.
Gazing around the room, my eyes keep straying to that bar. It’s surrounded by some of the largest men I’ve ever seen, each and every one of them dressed to the nines; I can see glistening cuff links from here. Diamond stud earrings. Gold-encrusted watches. Highball glasses filled with spirits, not cheap booze.
This is not a place that serves beer.
I squirm some more, eyes moving, never stopping.
Tall.
Dark.
Hot.
“Oh god,” I say on a heavy exhalation, dread lacing the two words.
Claire actually hears me over the noise, leaning in to ask, “Oh god, what?”
“There’s that douche from the other day.”
“Where? What douche?” Now Emily is listening, boobs pressed against my upper arm as she tries to hear the conversation.
I give her the background scoop, bringing her up to speed. “So when my grandpa died, he left me this valuable baseball card collection.”
“Super valuable.” Claire nods.
I roll my eyes. I love her to death, but she’s an interrupter. “He left me his card collection from the late 1920’s and early 1930’s and I’ve been selling them off, one by one.”
Claire interrupts again. “To start her own business.”
“I had this guy interested in one of them and I met him on Wednesday, not realizing he was a megadouche.” I pause, looking up at Noah. “He’s standing by the bar.”
Both girls crane their necks, eyes sparkling as they try to identify the megadouche.
“Which one?”
The gorgeous one in the dark navy shirt, fabric straining around his arms, threatening to bust open Incredible Hulk style. He’s laughing at something someone is saying, the silver watch on his wrist winking in my direction.
“The one—shoot, they all look the same, don’t they?”
Big. Brawny. Masculine.
The entire club suddenly reeks of testosterone.
Why does he have to be here? What if he sees me? Would he even recognize me? I look pretty good tonight as opposed to the athleisurewear I had on Wednesday.
“Let’s go over there.” Emily pokes me. “Please, please.”
Emily is single too, so I don’t blame her in the least; it’s not often men like this fall in our laps along with a legitimate excuse to approach them. Not walking over there, giving her a chance to introduce herself and flirt basically goes against girl code. It would be mean and wrong.
Ugh. Fuck my life!
“But he’s such a dick,” I argue, whining, but just for show, knowing I’m about to drag both our sorry asses over to the bar. Pretend to bump into him, say hello—then introduce Emily.
She makes a pouty face at me and I roll my eyes. “Emily, I’m wearing jeans.”
By the looks of it, I’m the only one.
“That guy there is wearing jeans.” She’s pointing to a man standing next to Noah. He’s a giant too, from what I can see in the dim lights. Blond. “Also, who cares? They let you in. You look fantastic—stop stalling.” She reaches over and pulls away a strand of hair stuck to the gloss on my lips. “Okay, now scoot your ass over—we’re going over by those fine-ass men.”
We scoot out.
We stand. Both girls fuss with their clothes, pulling at the hems of their short dresses, and I find myself fidgeting too, futzing with the gold loop on my belt. My off-the-shoulder blouse is fussy enough so I don’t stand out like a sore thumb, not too casual, not too dressy—though in here? The latter is not even possible.
My top is hot pink and tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans, a leopard belt woven through the loops. Black platform wedges no one can see add four inches to my height. Large, gold hoop earrings dangle from my ears, round and shiny and new. They were a graduation gift from my Aunt Caroline. I hook a finger through one—anxious—as the girls shove me toward the bar. It’s not that Noah makes me nervous; it’s the whole sidling up to an entire group of men that does.
They’re busy; I think it’s rude to interrupt, like so many other people seem to be doing. Every few seconds, men and women approach, intruding into their conversations, and I think it’s super impolite.
And yet…here we are.
Noah is ten feet away and hasn’t spotted me; then again, why would he? It’s freaking dark in this place, the only lighting for atmosphere, even the lights on the dance floor are dimmed. Above the bar, navy blue bulbs glow, the ceiling surrounding them covered in mirrors.
Sleek.
Urbane.
One thumb hooked into the waistband of my jeans, I feel my palms getting sweaty, anxious butterflies awakening in the pit of my stomach, wings spreading and kicking every organ in my body. Ugh. I hate this.
Take one for the team.
This is for the girls, this is for the girls, this is…
Shit. He’s noticed me now, though I can’t tell if he actually recognizes me, giving me a once-over then dismissing me.
Shit. It’s the jeans—I knew it!
We sidle up in a clump, Emily knocking into the back of me clumsily and I want to spin around and demand more space, but not with this pack of men gazing at us like we’re a flock of wild geese about to shit on their front lawns.
Get it together Miranda—they’re staring.
“Hey Noah. Hi.” I give him a tiny wave. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Do I know you?” He looks down at me, a placating smile pasted on his face, teeth bright white under the blue lights above. “Did I fuck you?”
The guys nearby laugh, as if he’s just said something hilarious.
“You couldn’t even get me to blow you,” I counter. “There’s no way you could get me to fuck you.”
Shock.
Complete and utter shock on the faces of each and every one of them until the stunned silence is broken by one laugh. Then another.
Until they’re all choking and slapping him on the back.
“Dang, Wallace, she told you!”
Noah Wallace.
Huh.
“Anyway, I saw you from over there”—I turn and point to the booth where our friends still sit—“and thought I’d pop over to say hello.”
“Buzz, aren’t you going to introduce us to your little friend?” A giant black dude wearing a pinstripe suit pushes his hand in my direction. “Hi, I’m Leo.”
I take it and shake, letting him pump my delicate palm up and down a few times before taking it back. “I’m Miranda, your buddy and I here aren’t really friends—more like business acquaintances.”
“Guys, this is…” He cocks his head. “What did you say your name was?”
Oh my god, seriously? “Miranda.” I roll my eyes, because that’s the only appropriate thing to do. “I sold you that baseball card?”
“Buzz, buddy, I don’t think she likes you very much.”
Not at all and less and less by the second.
Wait—did he just call him Buzz?
Wallace. Baseman. Noah. Buzz. My head is spinning. How many nicknames does this guy have?
Men, I swear…
“The baseball card?” He thinks hard for a second, probably hurting his brain. “The card.” Then, his eyes light up as recognition dawns on him. “Oh, the carddd.” His keen eyes give me another once over, this time more appreciative. “You looked frumpier Wednesday.”
“Gee, thanks.” I feel an elbow jam into my back. “Oh! Guys, these are my friends.” I turn a bit, so Emily and Claire can weasel their way through for introductions. “Emily and Claire, this is the guy I was telling you about.”
My friends, bless their little hearts, stumble over their words as the guys begin flirting, the big guy, Leo, taking an instant liking to Claire—I can see interest in his eyes.
“Hey Miranda, this is my buddy, N—uh, my friend.” Noah has his hand on the back of the tall blond guy I caught sight of when we were still at the booth, giving him a gentle push forward, the way my friends did with me. Nudging unhelpfully.
Our eyes connect and I’m able to get a good, long look at him, in much better light.
He is Noah’s polar opposite in almost every way.
Where Noah is dark, this guy is light.
Where Noah is bulky and buff, this guy is toned but doesn’t look like a bodybuilder. Not as hot, but not many of them are. Comparing them would be like juxtaposing an apple and a cucumber—they’re not even remotely similar.
He’s tall and dirty blond with a nose fit only for a Roman god. Wide shoulders. Shaggy hair that keeps falling in his eyes. Wide, unsmiling mouth.
He avoids my curious gaze, looking over my head, eyes shifting to the dance floor.
My shoulders slouch; another conceited asshole who thinks his shit smells like roses.
Well, I have news for this guy: I am not going to fawn all over him like Emily and Claire are doing next to me, giggling and batting their eyelash extensions as if their lives depend on it—so if that’s what he’s expecting, he’s about to be real disappointed.
“Bro.” Noah shoulder bumps him. “Don’t be rude—say hi. To Miranda.”
He looks down at me and those butterflies in my stomach dance.
It’s dimly intimate inside Rent, but I swear, I can see the guy’s face blanch at the sound of my name, throat constricting as he swallows.
I offer my hand like I’m in a damn business meeting, cool, collected, and unaffected by his stature.
“Good to meet you.” I am nothing if not polite, though this whole situation is killing me softly.
Noah’s buddy doesn’t take my hand; rather, he shoves his inside the pockets of his dark jeans. They’re denim, but clearly expensive given the cut and the sheen visible in the lights.
Jeans. Navy dress shirt, top two buttons undone. Belt with the gold logo of an Italian luxury brand.
Well la-di-da, Mister I’m too good for you fancy pants.
“Sorry to bother you,” I sass, rejected and embarrassed. “We can’t all be supermodels here to kiss your ass.”
Oh my god, Miranda, what has come over you? Down girl. Down.
Chin tilting up, my smile is forced and wane, the lump in my throat making it impossible to say anything more. I knew coming over here was a shitty idea—except for Emily and Claire, who are beaming and flirting and happy.
Crap, I can’t drag them back to the table; they’d kill me.
Even so, I am done giving these jerks the time of day.
“Claire.” I tap on her shoulder, gesturing. “I’m getting a drink at the bar. Keep an eye on me—don’t let me get trafficked. I’ll be right there.” I shrug my way past Noah, his giant friends and my regular-sized ones, inching up to the bar, leaning in.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait for one of the four freaking bartenders to notice me, or give me the time of day, or do their damn job!
Not a one of them comes to ask for my drink order. I grow more agitated by the second, this feeling of being overlooked the entire night wearing on me, assaulting my self-confidence in a way it never has before.
I’m cute, goddammit! What the hell is everyone’s problem?
Goddamn these jeans.
Curse you.
6
Noah
“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” Wallace ambushes me the second Miranda strays to the bar, her feelings obviously hurt, his drunken eyes wide.
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Why the hell were you so rude? Why didn’t you fucking say anything or introduce yourself—you looked like a prick.”
“She thinks you’re me, so what’s the point?”
He throws his arm up, pointing to her back as she stands alone, patiently waiting for the service that probably won’t come. She’s simply not important enough to rush for and she’s dressed like a goddamn school teacher in that cute, peasanty shirt and blue jeans.
Jeans. In a nightclub.
I snort.
She’s a sassy one, clearly not giving a crap what anyone thinks. Or she didn’t realize how dressy this place is.
It’s one thing for me not to care—I’m not here to pick anyone up, not here to fuck anyone for the night. I’m also not here because I want to be. I was dragged here and by the looks of it, she was, too.
You should go back to your booth in the corner, little girl.
No one is helping her at the bar, but I turn my attention back to Wallace, who will not get out of my face.
Annoying fucker.
“What the hell do you expect me to do, tell her in the middle of the damn nightclub that I lied?” My arms cross defensively. “I don’t think so.”
“At least go talk to her—you were a total ass.”
“You’re always an ass. What’s your point?”
“She’s cute and until you gave her the green weenie, she was flirting with you.”
Flirting with me? “Are you out of your fucking mind? She was being polite. End of story, case closed.�
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“You’re as high as I am drunk—she was making eyes at you, idiot.”
“Stop. This isn’t a middle school dance, so kindly climb out of my asshole.”
“You’re so blind.” He shoves me. “Go over there.”
I slap his hand away. “Drop it, would you?”
Now I do feel like we’re in middle school, arguing on the side of the fucking gymnasium about which girls we’re going to ask to slow dance.
He shoves me again, big paws pressed in the center of my chest. “Go over there.”
“Get off me, Wallace.”
“Git.”
“Stop!” I’m whining like a fucking pussy, slapping at his hands while he drunkenly pushes me closer and closer to the bar where Miranda is standing and I groan when my shoulder bumps into hers.
“Shit. I’m so sorry.” The apology rolls off my tongue. “He’s drunk and being an ass.”
Her eyes wander to Buzz, the big oaf hightailing it back to the group of our buddies, laughing like a moron. Her lips part. They’re glossy and plump. Smiling. “Him? Being an ass? Shocking.”
I have no idea what to say.
The music is loud, the song awkwardly romantic, and neither of us speaks for a long moment, Miranda’s hip pressed against the bar top.
I press forward, resting my elbow on the polished wood, shirt sleeve rolled to my elbow. Put out my forefinger to signal that I want some goddamn service.
Immediately, a bartender flies over, setting a napkin down in front of me. I lift two fingers and she sets another napkin beside it.
“What would you like?” I ask the nymph standing next to me.
“I was just going to get a mojito.” Her long, silky hair gets brushed behind her ear. “I’m not really much of a drinker,” is her excuse for the fluffy drink.
“One mojito, and one vodka tonic, heavy ice, three olives.”
“You got it Mr. Harding.”
Mr. Harding.
Miranda doesn’t catch my last name and even if she had, she would have no way to associate it with Noah.
Me.
She crosses her arms and scowls. “This is so unfair! I was standing there for at least five minutes and not one of them looked at me.”