And then there's the other guest he's been chatting with. A striking blonde with long legs, wearing a curve hugging, strapless black dress with a dramatic, long slit up the side. Sort of Angelina Jolie styled. She exudes a brand of confidence, maturity and worldliness that I simply don't have. Not that I'm comparing. All right, maybe I am a little.
She also seems to be hanging onto every word that Roman is saying to a short stocky man whom I've never seen before. Forcing herself to laugh at the funny parts. Looking pensive when he makes a serious comment. Can't he see that this woman is practically panting over him? Oh God, I need to stop watching, because it's starting to annoy the hell out of me. I have the sudden urge to kick her in the shins.
And his too.
"Are you going to stare at him the entire night?" Sloan asks as she walks up on me from behind, startling me for a moment. We lost each other earlier in the evening when she became engrossed in a conversation with some doctor she knows and I went to the restroom.
"I'm not staring."
"You totally are. Stop giving your power away to the asshole."
"He's not an asshole."
Yes he is.
"Did you have the crab fries?" she asks as she absently munches on a few.
"I already had like two mini pizzas and a plate of sushi. I can't eat another bite because of my evil underwear. They're so tight they're making me nauseous."
"That sucks for you. I told you that you should just let it all jiggle, but if you're not going to eat any of the crack fries, then why don't you have a drink. They're really good, and you know I'm not big on fruity drinks, but this thing I'm drinking with the fresh strawberry puree is orgasmic. You have to try one. It will change your perspective. You won't even care anymore about what the Dark Knight is up to after two of these."
"Why'd you say up to? He's not up to anything. He's just talking," I say probably more to convince myself than her. They're definitely doing more than just talking. I think I'm watching Roman do his version of flirting.
Sloan snickers. "Talking to a woman that looks like she wants to eat him alive."
"Shut. Up."
"Aww, you definitely need a drink, Bitsy Boo. Come on let's head over to one of the bars and find a cute bartender for you to flirt with. You know you want to."
"Speaking of flirting. Have you bothered speaking to Cutter even once tonight? You didn't mind flirting with him when you first met, and now you're totally ignoring him?"
Turns out that both of the Kings brothers didn't make it, only one did–Cutter a.k.a. The Loud One. No sign of Jade either. I don't know whether I should be relieved or worried that she bailed on coming tonight.
"Calm your panties. I spoke to him briefly."
There's clearly a story behind that, but I'm not interested enough to ask her further about it; I'm too preoccupied with blondie. I take another long glance over at Roman who catches my stare with his own. His onyx eyes aren't dancing tonight like they usually do when he sees me, but instead are hard and intense.
We've been polite and cordial for two weeks with each other, and it's been awkward and painful. I just want him to yell at me, curse me out, or something. Anything that lets me know how much this space we're taking affects him, and how much he misses me, like I so desperately miss him.
The blonde by his side gives me a once over after she notices our eyes locked. Then she touches Roman's shoulder and whispers something in his ear, which breaks our connection. He nods his head at me (whatever that means), slips his hand behind her waist, and they walk away.
I'm two seconds from either balling my eyes out or kneeing Roman in the balls when my ride or die chick steps in.
"Like I said, let's get you a little liquid courage to give you a minute to think this through, and after a drink or two if you want to kick blondie's ass then I'm down. You know I've always got your back."
I don't even respond to that, but instead just start walking. I should have opened my mouth and said more to him. Just end this. Could've, would've should've.
On our way to the bar we run into Juliette.
"Hi, sweetie." My aunt pauses once she notices my watery eyes. "You okay?"
"I'm having a great time," I say with strained enthusiasm. "Everything is beautiful tonight. You really outdid yourself."
"Thanks, sweetie. Listen I ran into someone you know downstairs."
"Someone I know? Who?"
"Mr. Lambert."
My Mr. Lambert from the investment group?
"Really?"
"It's truly a small world, but his wife and I attend the same spin class over on 14th Street. It didn't take long for us to figure out how we knew each other, and now that they know that you're my niece, Mr. Lambert seems to be interested in taking a second look at School Bucks."
"I don't know, Auntie. They already turned me down flat, and I don't really have any great sales numbers to show him right now."
"I know they turned you down, sweetie, but some time has passed, and I'm sure that he could take a second look at your proposal. People don't always score a win the first time around."
"You didn't ask him to take a second look, did you?"
"Absolutely not, but understand something, Elizabeth. Getting ahead in business is not always about aptitude or fairness, it's mostly about connections. Who you know. I've watched Joseph build his business over the years strictly through meeting the right people. I've planned several big events like these, because I've solidified deep relationships in the community with people who continually support whatever I do. That's what you're going to have to do too with School Bucks.
"All the great press in the world isn't going to do what having one good person with some connections in your corner will do for you. Joseph and I are those people for you until you find your own, or we can be if you let us. I can't guarantee that I can make people fall in love with your app, but I can definitely send people your way to give you the opportunity to make them fall in love."
"Well said!" Sloan says while saluting us with her martini glass.
My Spanx feel tighter than they've been all night. I'm suffocating literally and figuratively. I'm not in the right frame of mind to do this, but this is an opportunity I can't pass up. I need to walk the walk, if I'm going to talk the talk about being an independent business owner. This is a second chance to make this happen.
"All right, where is he?" I ask while sucking in my stomach.
"First floor. He's sitting at a table on the right hand side of the room near the stage with his wife. Her name is Mary Lambert."
"Thank you so much."
"Now go and have a good time, and that's an order," she smiles. "Oh by the way, where's Roman? I haven't been able to catch up with him all night."
I hear Sloan mutter behind my back.
"Ah-ha and that is the million dollar question of the night, now isn't it."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELIZABETH
I feel as if I'm having an out of body experience. I'm on the third floor of the gala, I've already freed myself from my Spanx (hallelujah!), and I'm watching a bartender named Patrick hand me drink after drink with a grin plastered across his face. I'm also watching myself become drunker and drunker. A loopy drunk. Laughing at every corny joke he makes. Paying very close attention to how he strokes his mustache then wipes the bar top with a white rag in a continuous circular motion. Over and over.
A mirror covers the wall behind the bar from corner to corner. So I can easily see that I look drunk. Glazed over eyes. Flushed cheeks. Frizzy hair. I know that I need to quickly get my ass home and sleep it off, before I make a complete fool of myself, but it's like I can't stop myself. I'm a one woman wrecking ball. A total disaster.
"I think I may have to cut you off young lady," Patrick says in what seems to be very slow motion. Of course I know it's just my liquored up brain translating his slightly midwestern accent into gibberish.
"I know. I know. I should stop shouldn't I?"
"You sh
ould have stopped a long time ago, but my guess is that you're trying to numb the pain."
"You're so smart, Patttrickk," I slur. "Did I tell you that you have the same name as my dad?"
You don't have to be smarter than a fifth grader to see that I'm drinking to stop myself from thinking about the flirt, also known as the cheater, who I've given my body to night after night since the day we practically met.
My so-called boyfriend.
My cousin.
The asshole extraordinaire.
After I pulled my big panties up and traveled down to the first level to say hello to Mr. Lambert and his wife (a successful endeavor by the way), I spotted Roman again.
New location.
New conversation.
Same blonde.
"You need to say something to him," Sloan chimes in. She's pretty drunk herself and when Sloan gets hammered, she gets confrontational.
"Why!" I protest. "Why should I say anything to Roman El Stupido Masterson?"
She looks over my shoulder.
"Because I'm pretty sure that he's headed right this way."
I whip my head quickly around, but notice that his six foot lying ass hasn't spotted me yet. He's scanning the room and there's the same short guy talking his ear off while he does it. Distracting him.
Good.
I'm so out of here.
"I need to dip out of here, Patrick. Is there a side exit to this place?"
"Uh-uh-uh, Elizabeth. We're not dipping out anywhere," Sloan says. "I'm going to continue sitting here drinking my drink, and you're going to stay seated right here next to me. Plus this isn't some rinky-dink nightclub. Any side door to this place is probably sealed or a fire door. The alarms will go off. Definitely not the way to be discreet. We're in semi-formal wear for God's sake."
"Forget about your Givenchy, I just want to get out of here," I say.
"Stop running. Just confront the bastard. There's no way out and you know it. Space or no fucking space, he's your boyfriend. You should talk to him, especially because the asshole is literally going to spot us in about the next ten seconds. Ten, nine, eight–"
I move my head a little to the left, behind a very wide guy seated on the other side of me with slicked back hair and a glass of beer in his hands. He doesn't notice that I'm using him as a human shield while he continues to laugh about something with two of his equally large friends.
"You're a horrible wingman. I don't know why I continue to go out with you," I whine as I try ducking my head even lower. "You're not my friend. You're not even trying to help me."
"Of course I'm your friend drunkard, and by the way if I was your wingman, I'd be helping you pick up other men. Not hiding you from the one you have. Hell, there's no running from the Dark Knight anyway and you know it. He won't sleep until he finds you. He won't let anyone sleep. So suck it up, and deal with him."
I know that what Sloan is saying is one hundred percent correct. I'm not a kid anymore. I just don't know if I'm sober enough for an intelligent conversation with Roman right now. I think I'm just clearheaded enough to curse him out, and then stumble to the street and hail a cab. I'll curse him out good too. I'll use the F word like he's always challenging me to use. Yeah, he'll know I'm done with his cheating butt for sure if I use the F word.
"He sees us," Sloan warns. "Here he comes."
All the bravery I felt a second ago, flies out the window the minute I lay eyes on Roman. I jump up from my stool and try to slink my way in the opposite direction, but moving like a ninja in a place that's packed, when you're three or four drinks deep (I lost count), and in platform heels is not an easy feat. Pros could pull it off, but not an amateur drunk like me.
So I fall.
Flat on my butt.
In my tight gold dress.
A large, sweaty hand helps me up on my feet by pulling me up by my elbow. I'm pretty sure it's the unusually wide guy who I was hiding behind. I can't help but notice how his arms are massively muscular. He probably uses steroids like that Mendez guy I think to myself.
"You okay?" the stranger asks with genuine concern etched across his brow.
I pull down my dress. "Yes, thank you."
I'm pretty sure I just slurred that reply.
"No problem. Are you–"
"Take your hands off the lady please," a gruff voice commands.
I'd know that lying, cheating voice anywhere, even though I've barely heard it the entire night.
"Excuse me?" the stranger says as his back grows rigid and his chest puffs out.
"I said please, motherfucker. Don't make me regret being polite."
Suddenly the guy's two big friends dressed in abnormally tight suits turn around and stand in solidarity with the stranger.
"You need help putting out some trash, bro?" One of them asks in reference to Roman.
"Oh, shit." I hear Sloan mutter behind me.
"That's right!" I exclaim feeling no pain.
Strangely enough I still feel as if I'm out of my dang body. It's like somebody else is doing all the talking while I cheer this mysterious, brazen Elizabeth on.
"Take out the trash." I agree because Roman made me feel like trash tonight. Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but all evening he's been acting like we're casual acquaintances, not as if we are in a loving relationship. I'm so mad at him right now, I could spit.
Then he has the nerve to give me one of his infamous death ray glares for my trash comment, but then turns his attention right back to the three beefy guys who look like they are ready to pound him into dust.
Good! Maybe an old fashioned ass kicking is what he needs right now to recognize everything he is taking for granted. Like how I risked my circulatory health just to look good in this dress for him tonight.
"The lady belongs to me," he says in a voice that I swear is an octave lower than I've ever heard in my life. "So I'm going to say it one more fucking time. Take your hands off of her and step away."
"I don't belong to anybody," I blurt out.
There I go again.
Drunk Elizabeth just keeps talking and talking.
"And he's a liar!" I point to Roman's face.
I know I'm playing with fire now, but I just can't help myself. I'm hurt, and angry, and I know that I'm probably starting some shit. But I just can't seem to bring myself to care right now. I want to piss Roman off, and I think it's working.
"The lady says she doesn't belong to you. So why don't you just go on about your business, Ace."
Then Roman's scar starts twitching.
He cocks back his arm and with the precision of a sharp shooter punches beefy guy number one, my protector, dead in the jaw. And the hit miraculously drops him to the floor like a heavy sack of flour. Next he knees his friend, beefy guy number two, in the lower abdomen, sending him straight to the floor as well with a hard thump. When he steps to make a move towards the final guy, number three quickly throws his hands up in surrender and backs away.
"Sorry, man." He stares down between his two friends on the ground and then proceeds to leave. "I didn't come here for a fucking bar fight."
Something about seeing these two mammoth but well dressed men sprawled across the floor of my aunt's event wakes something up inside of me. My conscience. This is all my fault. If I've ruined my aunt's event, I'll never forgive myself.
Roman cracks his neck to the side once while keeping his eyes dead on the two guys on the floor, while I take a few steps towards him. I've got to calm him down. His jugular vein is engorged, pulsating, and he looks like he's ready to kill someone.
"Don't fucking move."
The words are meant for me, and I stop dead in my tracks.
"Do we understand each other yet?" he says while standing above the two men with a menacing look across his face.
"Fuck, dude. Take her!"
I know I'm still drunk, because I'm actually offended these guys are so willing to pass me off to the dressed up, tatted up, lunatic hovering above them. Well then again,
maybe I do understand.
"Pussies." Roman practically spits while throwing a couple of twenty dollar bills on the floor by their heads.
"Uh ... security is coming," Sloan interrupts.
"Can you handle this?" Roman says to the same stocky man I've seen him with all night.
"I got it," he says.
It's interesting that this well dressed, dad-looking guy doesn't even seem fazed by Roman's behavior. He's probably his parole officer I laugh to myself.
Roman nods a good-bye to the man, then stalks over to me, grips my wrist, and pulls me away to a darkened nook of the room on the opposite end of the bar. I think Sloan mouths the words to me "kick him in the nuts" while I stumble clumsily forward. Luckily I manage to walk behind him without falling (which is a miracle), considering I'm in a too tight dress, too high heels, and have had too many strawberry whatever those were.
We're both staring each other silently down. I'm pretty sure he's assessing my intoxication level, and I'm glaring at what almost looks like smeared lipstick on the corner of his mouth.
Did she kiss him?
Did he let her?
I'm going to smack him and run.
After a few moments between us, he's still deadly silent, fuming mad, and I couldn't give one single shit.
He walks me backwards against a wall and slams his palm above my head as if that's supposed to intimidate me. But I'm not scared. I'm loaded with strawberry liquid courage.
"What the fuck, Elizabeth."
I cross my arms in front of me and close my eyes for a moment to help keep the room from spinning so much.
"What?"
"Don't play fucking games with me."
"What?" I ask again after reopening my eyes.
"Why are you pissy drunk tonight of all nights? Why didn't you respond to my text? Why were you encouraging those assholes back there? And how do you know that bartender?"
How does he know I was talking to Patrick, and what text is he talking about? My phone is on vibrate and in my purse. I must have missed any text he may have sent, but that's totally besides the point, so I lie.
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