by Berry, B. L.
I lick my lips provocatively and take a slow, polite draw from my cosmo. “What’s your name?” I ask, trying not to shout into his ear. I bite my tongue, wanting to ask what his wife’s name is instead.
He puts a single finger to my lips and shushes me. “Don’t ruin it,” he responds softly. As he leans into me, he runs his nose down the curve of my neck and into the dip of my collarbone, inhaling deeply.
I shiver and steel myself for a little mystery. There’s no way in hell this is going anywhere, but I find myself desperate for his distraction.
He takes my hand as I quickly toss back what’s left of my cosmo and I let him lead me to the dance floor. The drinks paired with the alcohol consumed during dinner set my insides afire. I pause to admire the way his finely tailored pants accentuate his tight ass, and I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to bite it. Mister Mystery pulls up a chair and sits along the edge of the dark wood dance floor. The lights, smoke and noise that fill every fissure of the room assault me.
“Dance for me,” he says seriously. There is an evil, mischievous glint in his eye. He leans back in the chair, hooking his ankle over the opposite knee. He watches me, expectantly, waiting for me to move. His hands meet in front of his mouth like a prayer, fingers templed at his lips. I instantly go from feeling like a high-end socialite to a cheap hooker in a matter of seconds.
Surely he can read the discomfort on my face as I make no effort to hide my uneasiness. He gestures his fingers in a “carry on” motion.
I need more alcohol to deal with this and grab a shot glass from a waitress working the dance floor. I most certainly cannot put on a show for him. To me, dancing is a two-way street, bodies acting and reacting to the motion of the other. Not me, gyrating solo on the dance floor so some guy can get his rocks off. If he wants a private dance, there’s a strip club not too far from here that he should go check out. I’m sure there are plenty of vixens willing to flash him their fine china for the right price.
Standing in front of him, I lean over and put my weight in my hands on his thighs. No doubt he’s getting a good view of my breasts in this corset.
“Come, dance with me.” I flutter my eyelashes and give a flirtatious tug on his striped silk tie. I watch his eyes drift down to my tits and his Adam’s apple bob as he presumably swallows down his guilt.
His eyebrows arch with amusement and I see a tiny spark light up in his eyes. Stripping his jacket from his shoulders, he allows me to lure him onto the dance floor and we begin to dance together, a little too intimately for my liking. Through the alcohol haze, I focus on his roaming hands and silently applaud myself for wearing pants and not a mini skirt tonight.
He loosens his tie and slowly paws down the side of my corset from my breasts to my waist until he’s caressing my hips. He moves his hips lower, pushing one of his knees between my legs. He looks, but doesn’t dare touch me further even though it’s evident he wants more.
I can feel his hard-on through his fine dress pants and I close my eyes, taken back in time to a junior high dance where poor Carl McLaughlin got an erection while we slow danced to Seal’s Kissed from a Rose. I choke back a laugh. Guys, at any age, are all the same really. Even so, his reaction makes me feel powerful—like a snake charmer coaxing a lethal python on command.
As we dance, I keep my head down in the crook of his neck and chest, inhaling the mixture of sweat and expensive cologne. His smell is not nearly as enticing as Phoenix’s. Any other girl in this club would be flattered by his obvious display of affection, but I’m so embarrassed for him I can’t even look him in the eyes.
Over his shoulder, I see the rest of the bachelorette party watching me intently. Genevieve is eyeing me jealously and giving me an approving nod as she dances with Amy and a few other girls from Chi Rho Gamma. Mimi is slack-jawed and giving a questionable nod. I think she’s asking if I need to be saved. I smirk and shake my head. In spite of everything being wrong in this moment, the mystery man is providing a welcomed distraction from the painful blow Phoenix delivered earlier today. Already it feels like that was light years ago.
The man leans down, taking his index finger to my chin and lifting it up so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. He slowly licks his lips as he studies my face. I can’t help but notice how his bottom lip juts out seductively, inviting to be bitten. A shiver runs down my spine when he runs the tip of his nose down my neck. His dark features could easily lure a young woman into his lion’s den, but I know he’s hunting the wrong prey tonight.
My sweat builds in time with his growing erection. I am nowhere near drunk enough to continue to allow myself to be in this situation, but before I’m able to break away, he makes his move quickly, taking my face in his hands and shoving his tongue into my mouth before I’m able to protest. His lips are rough, possessive and I mentally note how even the clueless first kisses I experienced as a young teen were better than this. He is all tongue and saliva.
Oh, hell no.
I fist my hands on his shirt and push back against him to break this mess of a kiss. Another round or two and I can do this. I can get lost in him for a little while and forget about Phoenix. I’ll just act the part until I’m drunk enough to forget.
“I need another drink,” I feign seductively.
I drag him back to the bar to order us another round of drinks and I stop dead in my tracks at the sight before me. Genevieve is leaning face down over the counter; standing next to her is a middle-aged Asian man dressed in all black, with Amy on her other side. Genevieve quickly snaps her head up and touches up the side of her nose. I watch her glassy vacant eyes as she rubs the powdery white residue across her upper gums.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I can hardly believe the scene unfolding before me as Genevieve continues on with her evening like she did not just take a line of coke off the bar.
I back away quickly, trying to remove myself from the situation before Genevieve realizes I saw her. I stumble into my mystery man and I simply shake my head before he releases me and I retreat to the bathroom.
Quickly, I push the door shut and lean against the back of it, taking a calming breath. Mimi emerges from one of the stalls, straightening out her skirt. I’m amazed that she’s managed to avoid snapping an ankle—those heels must be at least four-inches.
“Ivy! You have to tell me your connection. How did you get us in this club?”
My eyes scan the floor for answers.
“I, uh. I didn’t. Genevieve coordinated everything.”
“But she said--”
“I know what she said, but I had nothing to do with getting us in here.” I snap back. Too much is happening too quickly and I need a few moments alone.
“Whoa. Kitty got claws!”
“Sorry, Mimi,” I pause, debating just how much I want to tell her about our evening. “I just saw my sister do a line off the bar, Phoenix is probably off fucking that whore on a unicorn, no doubt, and that douche bag back there is trying to get into my pants. I’m just freaking out a little bit.”
Mimi reaches out and touches my elbow. I’m not sure if she’s trying to comfort me or check her balance. Perhaps both.
“A unicorn? Honey, how much have you had to drink?” she asks, kindly. “And not that it’s worth anything, but your sister has been a cokehead for as long as I’ve known her.”
My only reaction is to blink. How have I never known this? What other secrets is she hiding? I know we haven’t been close since before we were kids, but I feel like I would have caught onto something over the past handful of years.
“You okay?” she asks, genuinely concerned.
I nod my head, not even caring that it’s a lie.
“Good. And don’t worry so much about Phoenix. It’ll work out like it’s supposed to. Boys are dumb and your mind is probably just playing tricks on you. I’ll see you out there.” Mimi blows me a kiss and snakes out the door back into the din.
Digging into my back pocket, I grab my phone to see just
how much longer of this hell I have to endure. My heart seizes when I see a missed call from Phoenix nearly two hours ago.
Shit. While he was thinking about me, trying to get a hold of me, I was parading around the club with the tongue of some guy whose name I don’t even know trying to give me a tonsillectomy. My insides sink rapidly, guilt weighing me down.
I hit the return call button, not caring that it’s so late right now. I just need to hear his voice. I need his comfort.
I wince when it goes straight to voicemail and hang up quickly.
There is so much I want to say to him. I want to wrap myself in his velvet voice. I want to apologize for shamelessly flirting with the mystery man. I want to yell at him for hurting me. But does he even know that he hurt me?
This boy has got me so tied up and twisted emotionally. We’re not even a couple and yet I’m terrified of losing him. Everything about him makes me feel too vulnerable.
I choke down tears and hit redial one more time. It doesn’t even ring and I immediately hear his voice in the speaker, “Hey, it’s Phoenix. You know what to do.”
“Hey… it’s me. I … I’m sorry. It’s just … I just miss you.” I linger on the line longer than I should, unsure of what I’m apologizing for. For my insecurity-induced drinking binge earlier? For my shameless flirting and grope session with the salt and pepper man? For being the most ridiculous mess of a young woman who should never be given the opportunity to be with a nice guy because I will inevitably self-destruct and ruin everything? Perhaps all of the above?
Eventually, I hang up, pull myself together, and return to the bachelorette party to fulfill my maid of honor duties with a sinking feeling resting deep inside. When I emerge, the douche bag is long gone. I can only assume he has returned home to his unsuspecting wife to shower her with horrible kisses. What a pathetic waste of a man.
After grabbing another shot and an energy drink mixed with vodka, I approach Genevieve to check up on her and make sure she is having a good ole’ drunken—and high—time. Because if she doesn’t, I will never hear the end of it. What I find is Genevieve sloshing a martini around in one hand and attempting to apply a coat of electric crimson lipstick to her lips with the other while she dances. The mess she leaves in her wake is mine to clean up.
She makes eye contact with some attractive thirty-something a few feet away on the dance floor. Her intoxicated attempt at sex appeal is nothing short of hilarious, and I know I have to intervene before she makes more of an ass of herself. Horrifying images like this are what the socialite section in the newspaper thrives on.
“Whoa, relax on the lipstick, Genevieve. Less is more,” I gently reason with her like she’s a child. I pull the tube away from her lips since she can hardly keep it in the lines of her mouth.
“Whatever, Ivy. Whoever said less is more obviously never had more in the first place.”
Gah! I cringe at her comment. She knows I hate it when she makes remarks like that. Genevieve lives to give the impression that our family is so rich we buy a new boat whenever our old boat gets wet. And while that may not be far from the truth, it’s sickening how she parades it around. In reality, my sister and I aren’t the ones with money—our parents are.
Genevieve tends to get caught up with the competitiveness of life. She wants to be more successful than her colleagues, own more things than her friends, and carry the illusion of a happy relationship when in truth none of these things actually make her happy at the end of the day. In reality, the only person any of us should be in competition with is ourselves. And even then, the only competition should be trying to be better than the person you were the day before.
I know we’re getting close to the end of our evening since Genevieve, the mean drunk, has come out to play. I throw back the rest of my drink and grab a glass of water from the bar.
“It’s vodka, straight up.” I shove the new glass in her palm and watch her tilt her head back, allowing the clear liquid to slide right down the back of her throat without even swallowing. She is so wasted she doesn’t even realize that she just tossed back water.
Yep, it’s time to go!
Mimi helps me rally the girls and we head back to the hotel on foot, hoping the fresh air will help sober us up a bit.
“You know, Gen always tried to make us all believe that you were busier than a two-dollar whore on nickel night,” Mimi says, her accent thicker now that she’s had a few too many drinks. I love learning all about myself from the rumors that get passed around. Though, in fairness, that was probably true once upon a time, but I don’t dare confirm that for her. Instead, I offer her a tight smile of understanding.
“Yeah. Well, Gen here manages to bring out the best in me,” I say, sarcasm riding thick. In between us, Genevieve stumbles over her own feet and we simultaneously lunge to keep the bride upright. I instantly regret my reaction and wish I would have let her fall flat on her face. She is so far gone she has no idea we’re even talking about her.
Back in the hotel suite, I put our unconscious bride in the oversized California king bed and rejoin the rest of the girls to polish off what’s left of the champagne. I zone in and out of listening to their mundane chatter as I twirl my cell phone in my hand. I fight the urge to call Phoenix, knowing that he has to be passed out since it’s past two in the morning. My mind drifts, imagining all of the horrifying and provocative situations he could be in at this very moment with Hailey’s sugary voice singing in the background.
After a while, anxiety takes over. And when the room begins to spin and stars fizzle in my brain, I drag my drunk ass to the bedroom to sleep away the heartache.
THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN being completely incapable of shutting your brain off so you can sleep. Given the volume of alcohol I’ve consumed, I should be dead to the world for a good ten hours. But no. The combination of hard liquor and champagne appears to have had an adverse effect on me and sleep simply will not come to this exhausted body.
I roll over angrily, and suffocate my thoughts by pulling a pillow tightly over my head. It doesn’t work. The synapses in my brain are dancing in rapid-fire succession and all efforts of subduing my soul are useless. And to top it all off, Genevieve is snoring to the tune of a marching band. At least everyone should start waking up sometime relatively soon so we can clear out of the hotel and I can go back home to sulk in solitude.
My mind continues to replay last night’s events at Nuit Noir, and I can’t help but feel guilty about my rendezvous with the handsome man with no name. I catch a whiff of his cologne on my skin and my stomach curdles in disgust, although I’m not sure if the guilt is rooted in the fact he was a married man or if my heart still completely belongs to Phoenix even after he was trying to keep that girl a secret from me.
I am so not cut out for this long distance thing. My mind plays too many games with me and I don’t know if I can ever trust anyone completely. And to play devil’s advocate, I haven’t always been the most trustworthy person either. In hindsight, allowing the man at the club to kiss me was something the old Ivy would have done. I really should have stopped him.
Today, there is a come to Jesus talk in store for Phoenix and me. If we’re not on the same page, if he’s canoodling with someone else down in St. Louis, then we need to get this all out now and decide where to go from here. Because if we’re not aligned, I don’t think we can successfully have this relationship … if that’s what this is. If that’s what he even wants still.
My subconscious is shouting at me to stop reading into things. Just because I never knew about Hailey doesn’t mean there was anything worth hiding. Factor in his estranged father’s illness and the amount of stress he’s under with work, it is no wonder Phoenix hasn’t been his usual, happy self. In fact, I think I’d be more worried if he were carrying on as if nothing was the matter.
I roll over and grab my cell phone off of the nightstand. As I flip through past text messages, I’m torn on whether or not our interactions have been genuine all along
. My instinct says yes but my mind continues to inject doubt. I guess I shouldn't be surprised if last night he’d called to tell me that Hailey is his girlfriend and cut ties with me. I flip over to my recent call list, willing it to light up with a call from Phoenix at this very moment to put my mind to rest. I know I won’t be able to function until I get to the bottom of this. There is nothing I need more than to put my heart at ease one way or the other.
Exhaling slowly, I remind myself that the old Ivy would have dropped him faster than a popsicle melting in hell. My track record for screwing things up and running away is quite impressive. For better or worse, he makes me feel emotions that I thought only existed in books. But the hurt and confusion I feel is far worse now that I’m sober. But that could just be this wicked hangover talking.
We will get to the bottom of this.
I will not run.
We will talk through this.
We will be better for it.
I steel myself and fire off a text to him.
Ivy: We need to talk.
As much as I hate those words, it’s simple and to the point. I put my cell phone down on the nightstand and crawl out of bed, leaving Genevieve to continue sawing logs. I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth before calling the concierge to make arrangements for breakfast to be brought up to our suite. I’m desperate for coffee and breakfast carbs. Some greasy sausage and biscuits to soak up the leftover alcohol in my stomach sounds especially appetizing this morning. Although I’m certain most of the food will go uneaten by this particular crowd. Most of Genevieve’s sorority sisters look like they’ll have a slice of grapefruit with a side of laxatives to start their day.
When I hear Dave Grohl singing “Everlong” from the other room, I practically sprint to pick it up before it wakes anyone up. Phoenix’s bright and smiling face lights up the screen of my phone. I didn’t expect him to actually call me right now. It’s barely after sunrise.
“Hey,” I whisper softly into the phone and quietly creep toward the glass door, stepping out onto the balcony for some privacy. I’m taken aback by the beautiful view of Michigan Avenue. It’s vacant with the exception of a few random cabs searching for an early morning fare. The late spring sunshine pours through the buildings, and in the distance I can see blinding reflections jumping off of Lake Michigan.