King of Lies

by Whitney G.

  “Why is that?”

  “I just remembered something,” I said, standing to my feet. “It was nice to meet you, Michael.”

  I extended my hand and he clasped it, instantly setting every nerve in my body on fire, making me want to change my mind about inviting him home with me.

  Letting his hand go, I grabbed my purse and stole one last, long look at him before rushing outside. I made my way to the closest corner and hailed a cab.

  Within seconds, one pulled over and I moved onto the backseat.

  “Where to, Miss?” The driver’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

  “1965 Broadway.”

  He nodded and hit the meter. Before he could pull off, the left passenger door opened and Michael slid onto the seat.

  “This cab is already taken, sir,” the driver said. “Get out and catch your own.”

  Michael handed him a couple hundred dollar bills, and he dropped the subject as he moved into traffic.

  “Did you miss the part when I said I had to rush off?” I asked.

  “That, and the part where you clearly want me to chase you.” He smiled. “I’ll get out in four stoplights. Then again, I’ll get out right now if you can honestly tell me that you’re not interested.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “I thought so.” He moved a bit closer, the scent of his cologne turning me on even more. “What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?”

  “That’s this weekend.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” He trailed a finger against my bottom lip, his touch making me yearn for more. Much more.

  “I have a date with another guy.”

  “Someone you swiped right on?”

  “No…”

  “Someone you’d prefer to spend the night with instead of me?”

  “I don’t think I can answer that yet.”

  “We both know that you can.” He pressed his lips against mine and kissed me, rendering me senseless and breathless all at once. He threaded his fingers through my hair and pulled me closer—dominating my mouth with his, owning my tongue with his rhythm, kissing me like no other man had ever kissed me before.

  When he finally pulled away from me—the back windows were slightly foggy and I was struggling to catch my breath.

  “Do you still have plans for New Year’s Eve?” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to, but yes.” I completely regretted letting Jameson Turner reschedule our new date so far in advance. “He dropped thousands of dollars on a booth at one of the best night clubs in town. It’s one of the hardest places to get on the list, and I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like on the inside.”

  “Which nightclub is this?”

  “Fahrenheit 900.”

  “I see.” He smiled. “Well, after you get done seeing the club with him, you should come and spend the rest of the night with me.”

  “Um…” My panties were officially soaked. “I don’t think my date would appreciate that.”

  “Your body will in the morning.”

  I was speechless. I looked ahead and realized that there was only one more stoplight left until we reached his promise of four.

  “Let me guess,” he said, saving me from having to figure out my next line. “Your date for New Year’s Eve is a suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wall Street or regular corporate?”

  “Makes no difference.” I shrugged. “All suits are the same.”

  “They are,” he said. “Let me take another guess. He’s been begging to show you his side of life and promised you a night you’ll never forget?”

  I nodded. “Very good guess. Are you a suit, too?”

  “Never will be.”

  The cab slowed as we approached a red light, and he looked me over one last time before moving back and opening his door.

  “Have a good night,” he said. “Hope your date goes well this weekend.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled and stepped out.

  “I’m free tomorrow and any time after the weekend,” I said, now knowing that my date with Jameson was a mere formality. “Now that I know you actually exist, I can unblock and message you back on Tinder.”

  He looked up at the light as it turned green, sighing. “Happy New Year, Meredith.”

  “Happy New Year, Michael.”

  He shut the door and I kept my eyes on him as the driver pulled away. Until the only thing I could see was a blur of other yellow taxis and town cars.

  When I made it to my condo, I noticed a bouquet of bright white roses and a blue box on my counter. It was my fourth bouquet this week. Just like the other deliveries, a small silver note hung from one of the stems.

  * * *

  I’m very sorry, Meredith.

  I’d love to meet in the new year to apologize over brunch and start over. Just us.

  (I’ve also decided to postpone the political things to focus on what’s most important.)

  * * *

  I love you.

  * * *

  Sincerely trying,

  Dad

  * * *

  I sighed and sent him a text.

  Me: I got your flowers (again…) A brunch after New Year’s works for me. I want to start over, too.

  Right after hitting send, I logged into Tinder. I wanted to see Michael again tonight—logic be damned, but when I clicked on my inbox, our entire message thread was gone.

  He’d deleted his profile.

  Meredith

  Before

  New Year’s Eve

  Nights like tonight, I wished I had an Instagram account with tons of followers. If I had one, I’d pick this very moment to flip through the hundreds of shots I’d taken of myself in Fahrenheit 900’s glittering VIP lobby. I’d select the one of me standing in front of the colossal mirror in a revealing, emerald low-cut dress and sparkling silver stilettos. Then I’d write one of those vapid and pretty posts in hopes of garnering thousands of likes.

  Currently looking at myself in one of the city’s biggest mirrors to REFLECT on everything I’ve learned this year. Getting ready to bring in my New Year the right way. With tons of friends, a VIP table at NYC’s hottest club, and wishes for a fresh start at midnight. #dayinthelife #livingmybestlife #NewYorkGirl #fahrenheit900

  Having something to do would make my wait time to get into the club more bearable. Even with a VIP reservation, getting inside of this place was like getting into Fort Knox. They’d asked for my driver’s license, made me go through three different metal detectors, and asked me how well I knew the other person on the reservation at least six times.

  Sighing, I looked over at the group of women who were standing across the room, donned in matching designer dresses. They’d gone through the same routine with me, and although the hostesses were bringing us drinks and small bites whenever we requested, we were more than ready to get inside.

  “Are you here with them?” The bouncer stepped in front of me.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m here to meet someone else.”

  “Jameson Turner, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, wait here.” He walked over to the group of girls and escorted them through the double doors that led inside the club first.

  Wondering where the hell he was, I pulled out my phone and sent Jameson a text message.

  Me: I’m here. Are you still coming?

  His response was immediate.

  Jameson: I’m still a little tied up right now, so I’m running late. Table is paid for and everything is covered. I’ll try my best to leave here in an hour. Can’t wait to see you tonight.

  I groaned and cursed myself for giving up a night with Michael for this. Before I could toss my phone back into my purse, it buzzed against my fingertips.

  A phone call from Gillian.

  “Ahhhhh! Oh my god! It’s an emergency!” She screamed. Then she laughed. “Am I too late, or am I right on time to save you f
rom your terrible date?”

  “You’re beyond late, and you fucking know it.” I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We had bad cell service in Monaco. Did you manage to get out of it quickly?”

  “Yeah, and—” I lowered my voice. “I ended up meeting the sexiest guy I’ve ever met in my life. Long story, but now I’m waiting to get through a rescheduled date with Jameson and hoping I get some good sex at the end. Especially since I failed to seal the deal with the other guy.”

  She sighed. “Meredith, I need to say something to you before we go into the new year…”

  “No, wait,” I said, slowly retelling her the story of the other day piece by piece—wishing I could give her a better ending. One where I got what I’d wished for in the end. “This other guy is straight out of my wet dream list. Well, he’s now my number one top wet dream. I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about him over the past few days. If I ever see him again, I won’t make the same mistake and let him go. I can tell that he has a big cock, too. I saw the imprint through his pants when we were in the cab.”

  Silence.

  “Are you there, Gillian?”

  “I’m here,” she said, her tone soft. “Can I please be honest with you for a few seconds?”

  “About what?”

  “Everything you just said.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound like this is going to be the good type of honesty, and I just want to get through tonight and be happy.”

  “I think you’re looking for something more than fucking,” she said, ignoring my ‘no’. “I think you should tell this Jameson guy at the end of the night that he’s not what you’re looking for. I mean, you can still sleep with him, of course, but…I think you should finally be honest with yourself. All those one nights stands in the past never got you anywhere. You’ve always wanted something more, but you’re too scared to admit it to yourself.”

  “Gillian…” I felt my heart beginning to ache. “Gillian, stop this.”

  “I’ve always thought of you as my older sister,” she said. “Even though you’re five years younger than me, but I think it’s my turn to give you some much-needed advice.” She paused. “I think it’s time for you to stop trying to fit into the old version of yourself and change.”

  “No,” I said, feeling a lump rising in my throat. “It’s just time for me to get off the phone with you…”

  I ended the call before she could say another word, before she could infect me with another drop of her unwanted truth serum. I clicked on her name, prepared to send her an angry text, but she beat me to it.

  Gillian: I love you, Mer. I just want what’s best for you. No judgement, ever. (If you see that guy again, I would like to know how he rates on your cock scale.)

  “I’m ready to take you in now, Miss.” The bouncer stepped in front of me, holding out a pretty black pouch. “You’ll need to give me your cell phone first, though.”

  “What?”

  “No cell phones allowed inside.” He shrugged. “It’s the number one rule since we have so many high-profile guests who don’t want their pictures taken.”

  “Well, I’ll just keep my phone in my purse.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “You can also just stand out here.”

  “I’m waiting on someone to get here. I’m sure he’ll need to text me at some point, right?”

  “No.” He grabbed the phone from my hands, then he tossed it into the pouch before scanning it and handing it off to another staffer. “If your date paid for a VIP table at this club, he’s going to show up. Trust me. You can pick it up on your way out.” He walked over to the entry doors, and motioned for me to follow him.

  I obliged, and the moment I walked through them, my jaw dropped to the floor. Every inch of the hallway was aglow in silver and orange lights, and digital flames were dancing under my feet. At the far end, I could see flashing red lights from the main part of the club.

  The bouncer led me onto a glass elevator, and we rode it up three floors. When we stepped off, I felt as if I was in a completely different world. I blinked a few times, taking several seconds to process things as I followed his lead.

  I noticed tons of celebrities sitting around plush red and black booths—smoking cigars and tossing back champagne with ease.

  “Here you are,” the bouncer said, stopping in front of a shiny black booth and table. “The waitress will come up in a few minutes to accommodate you. Welcome to Fahrenheit 900, and Happy New Year.” He walked away, and I moved to the balcony—looking at the dance floor below.

  It was covered in flames, and they lapped against every inch of the walls, giving the effect of hell. The bar extended across the entire right side of the club, and hostesses waded through the crowd with their trays held high, offering champagne and shots.

  On the main stage, the DJ spun hits on a table that featured oversized devil horns, and on the smaller stages, two exotic dancers dressed in shimmering gold twirled on poles--completely in sync with each other.

  I need to capture all of this…

  I looked over my shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. Then I pulled out the smaller cell phone that I often snuck into the private runway shows. I held it low and snapped a few pictures of the club. I managed to take eight shots before I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Okay, Miss,” a deep voice said. “It’s time for you to fucking leave now.”

  “What?” I spun around and found myself face to face with a different, much scarier looking bouncer. “What did I do?”

  “Cell phones are not allowed in our club.” He narrowed his eyes at me before redirecting his gaze to my cell. “We tell everyone that at the door and we don’t make any exceptions.”

  “I’ll just put it away now, then,” I said. “Where is the pouch thing?”

  “It’s too late for that.” He reached for my hand, and I stepped back.

  “Ramon!” He called over his shoulder, and another muscular bouncer entered the booth. “Are you going to make this harder on yourself, Miss Thatchwood?”

  “No…” I followed them out of the booth, then to the elevator. I tried to plead my case, promised not to take another picture, but my words fell on deaf ears. One bouncer had his hand around my wrist, and the other was standing in front of me—shielding the other guests from my unforgivable faux pas.

  The elevator doors glided open, and the man who’d owned every second of my thoughts for the past few nights stepped off looking sinfully sexy. Dressed in a custom black suit and stone-grey tie, he stopped right in front of us once his eyes met mine.

  Raising his eyebrow, he stared at the bouncer who was holding my arm—looking as if he was upset about him touching me.

  “What the hell is happening here?” he asked, his tone terse.

  “Miss Thatchwood has violated our phone policy,” he said. “We’re kicking her the hell out.”

  “I see.” Michael looked at me, his lips curving into a smirk. “Let go of her, Ramon. Now.”

  He dropped my hand, and Michael snapped his fingers.

  “Yes, sir?” A hostess appeared at his side.

  “Give me a phone pouch.”

  She pulled one from her bag, and Michael gently grabbed my cell phone from my hands and tucked it inside.

  “Place that at the desk so Miss Thatchwood can access it on her way out.” He stepped closer, closing the gap between us. “I’ll show her back to her booth and thoroughly go over my rules so we’re more than clear from here on out.”

  The bouncers didn’t question his decision, and the hostess disappeared.

  He pressed his hand against the small of my back and walked me to the table, keeping his eyes on me with every step. When we reached it, he let go of me and stared at my dress.

  His gaze lingered on the low cut above my breasts, at the slit that went up my entire left side and stopped short of my bare ass.

  “I told yo
u I was coming here yesterday,” I said, swallowing as his eyes continued to move up and down my body. “Why didn’t you say that you worked at this club?”

  “Because I don’t work at this club,” he said. “I own this club. And if I was being fair, I’d kick you out of it for breaking my number one rule.”

  “You’re not going to?”

  “Not yet.” He smiled. “I was actually coming up to personally deliver a message to your suite. The man you’re supposed to meet—” He pulled a card from his pocket and read it. “It’s from a Mr. Jameson Turner. He just called my office to say he’s still a little tied up, and he won’t be able to make it.”

  “Did he ask for a raincheck?”

  “I would never tell you if he did.”

  I blushed, unsure of what to say.

  “Would you like a tour of the club?” he asked.

  “Right now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Seeing as though your date was too cheap to pay for bottle service in advance, you’ll have to wait for a hostess to bring you drinks if you stay here.”

  “I feel like you’re making that up.”

  “I am.” He smiled. “Tour?”

  I nodded and he pressed his hand against my back again, returning the same flurry of sparks and adrenaline I’d felt the other day. He led me through the VIP booth section and into a cigar bar that overlooked the left side of the dance floor.

  He shook hands with the high rollers as we walked through a hallway that was dedicated to high stakes poker, and then he led me down a set of steps that led to a massive room that overlooked every angle of the dance floor.

  “This is my office,” he said, dimming the lights.

  “Is there any reason why you need this much space to yourself?”

  “I don’t like sharing.” He looked at me. “Or, as someone said yesterday, I like having something that very few people know about. “

  “I thought it was because you need this much space to fuck all the other women you bring here on weekends.”