by R.S. Grey
Which leaves the third option.
Fifteen minutes later, I slide my credit card across the counter toward her, trying not to cry.
“I’m so happy you decided to purchase the dress. It really does look lovely on you.”
This is all my fault. This is what I get for not becoming some high-powered attorney or sugar baby or something. What about those girls whose sole job is to be “it”—y’know, just a girl who’s always in fashion, or in the know, or in the cool spots around town. She gets paid just to live. I really should have applied to that job after school.
Once we cross the threshold of the store, I forbid either of my mates from discussing the dress any further. We’re already late returning to our flat so we can get ready for the party. Normally, we’d walk, but I insist we spring for a cab instead since I can’t exactly shower when I get home. They agree without much convincing; I think they’re nervous I’m a hair’s breadth away from a real breakdown.
In the cab on the way home, I calculate all the overtime hours I’ll have to do at District to cover the cost of this dress. It makes me so queasy, I have to roll the window down and stick my head out. That really irks the driver. He’s worried I’m going to get decapitated by an oncoming car, so I groan and bring my head back in. Probably for the best. Don’t want to tempt the birds again.
I’m prepared to let my bad mood ruin the entire night when I feel my mobile vibrate on my lap.
I glance down to read the text, and my stomach flips upside down.
LOGAN: Hey C. What kind of chips do you like? I’m buying snacks for the party.
It’s a silly question, and I wonder—or hope, rather—if he’s only asking because he wants to ensure I’ll actually be there. He texted yesterday with the address and time, but it looked so generic, like maybe he sent the same text to all his mates, so I only sent back a thumbs-up emoji in reply.
But this text is personal, and it makes me smile. He’s called me C like we’re old pals! I take my lower lip between my teeth and text him back right away.
CANDACE: Salt and vinegar, please! And they’re called crisps, by the way. ;) Chips are what you get with a burger at a restaurant.
LOGAN: Seriously? Could you be more un-American?
CANDACE: Should I just don an American flag cape for the party? Maybe walk in with a twelve-pack of Bud Light on one shoulder and a bald eagle perched on the other?
LOGAN: Give me a second to regroup. That’s quite the image…
CANDACE: Ha ha. Too bad! Don’t go fantasizing. I’ve already got my dress on and it doesn’t have blue and white stripes. It’s red.
LOGAN: Red, huh?
CANDACE: I can practically see you salivating. You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin, I bet.
LOGAN: Can’t help it…red’s my favorite color.
The cab pulls up to our building then and we hustle up the flight of stairs to our flat. I don’t get the chance to text Logan back because I’m too busy morphing into the version of myself who belongs in this fancy red dress. Yasmine goes wild with my hair, curling it and teasing it and then combing through it so it’s this mass of blonde waves when all’s said and done. I take so long applying my makeup that they start shouting for me to hurry up.
“We’re already late! At this rate, we’ll arrive just in time to help the lads clean up!” Kat warns.
“I’m coming!” I shout back, leaning in close to confirm my eyeliner is perfectly symmetrical on both eyes. I can’t take any chances. It feels absolutely necessary. Then I swipe on some red lipstick—something I never bother with, but tonight it’s perfect. It makes my lips look edible.
I’m buzzing in the back of the cab as we traverse Manhattan from our lowly borough to some otherworldly area where the streets are treelined and the flowerbeds are well manicured. Logan’s apartment is going to knock my socks off. I know, because the doorman of his building is wearing white gloves and a little boxy hat as he ushers us in like we’re royalty. He only lets us pass because we’ve told him we’re here for Logan’s party, and he has to check a list to confirm our names are printed there. They are! WILD! WHAT KIND OF PLACE IS THIS?! Another attendant guides us through the lobby toward a bank of lifts. He holds a keycard up to an invisible panel on the lift wall and then the doors glide shut. I feel absolutely out of my element.
“Is this real? People live like this?”
“Some people,” Yasmine says, fidgeting with her hair. She grew up with wealth, sure, but nothing like this. This lift is probably inlaid with real gold and the blood of extinct leopards or something. It whisks us higher, away from the city and toward Mount Olympus, or so it feels.
Once we’re on the twentieth floor, the doors slide open and here we are: out in a hallway with a single door that’s propped open for guests. It leads right into the penthouse flat.
I see an absolute crush of people inside as we stroll closer. My heels carry me across the marble foyer as I hug my coat tighter around my red dress, but then Kat notices and her eyes widen.
“Off. Take it off. Quick!”
The coat gets yanked off immediately, and Kat takes it along with hers and sort of shoves them under her arm. Smart move, really, because when we walk in and see the guests, it’s obvious my checkered coat wouldn’t have really blended in. There’re proper celebrities here—ones I know by name! There are beautiful women popping up around every corner, all dressed in slinky numbers or barely-there tops and skirts.
I think that girl there is a pop star I like, or maybe she just looks like a pop star? I can’t be certain.
Before we make it past the front hall, we pass off our coats to an attendant, and our mobiles too after they demand it. Apparently, famous people have to worry about normal people like us snapping photos they don’t want leaked to the press. I comply right away, partly because I understand their reasoning and partly because the attendant looks quite intimidating. I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to break the rules or anything.
“Do not leave my side,” I hiss to Yasmine and Kat after we’re done in the entry. I’m worried we’ll get split up and won’t be able to find one another again.
Logan told me this would be a small gathering, but this is a circus of beautiful people all clamoring to have a chat with one another. They pay us absolutely no mind. We might as well be pieces of furniture. One man even tries to set his drink on Kat’s shoulder while he’s not looking, and she has to sort of yelp and leap out of the way to keep it from happening. You’d think he’d be bloody embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t even notice!
“Let’s just find Logan, yeah?” I suggest, though I’m not sure that will make things any better.
This is his party. He’s the ringleader of this circus, and my stomach hurts at the thought. How is that possible? This place is so posh, so upscale, so bloody expensive! Have I imagined that text exchange from earlier? When he asked about the chips? He seemed so charming and down to earth, but this party is the exact opposite.
In one corner of the modern living room, there’s a whole buffet that’s clearly been catered by a world-class chef. The food is up on silver platters with heating lamps and delicate accoutrement I’d probably mistakenly eat only to find out after that it’s only for show. It all looks amazing, and there are tons of tiny samples of tasty treats, but absolutely no one is eating. I see a woman pass by the table, stutter-step, glance down longingly at some pasta dish, and then dash away from it like it might make her arse grow two sizes right then and there if she doesn’t get away quick enough.
But it’s the sight at the very end of the table that catches my eye. It’s like one of those childhood puzzles: Find What Doesn’t Belong. Next to the fancy silver platters and serving dishes, there’s a big red bowl of crisps. Salt and vinegar, just as I requested.
I nearly topple over in sheer bliss. Not only has he thought of me, it’s obvious what he intended by leaving them out like that. I don’t even bother cluing in Kat or Yasmine. They wouldn’t get it. You see the
crisps are actually this huge romantic gesture! But they’re just crisps. Right, but he asked specifically what kind I wanted! He could have asked you for your favorite flower if he wanted to be romantic.
Besides, even if I thought they’d agree about how sweet the gesture is, I don’t get the chance to bring it up, because just then, across the living room, I finally spot Logan.
The sight of him is a punch straight to my stomach. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows. He’s shaven his jaw so it’s smooth and sharp. His hair looks divine, the short strands almost curly. He’s so dark and moody you want to think he’d be a real arsehole, but I know the truth. I know he’s put out that bowl of crisps for me. I know how sweet he is underneath all those layers of muscle.
The only problem is I can’t quite get to him. There are half a dozen women around him, stuck to him like macaroni on a child’s art piece. They’re glued in place so that if he shifts an inch to the left, so do they.
If I want to talk to him, I’ll have to join the queue.
Chapter Six
Logan
I’m going to kill Darius. No, not just kill him—I’ll be sure to torture him first. Slowly. This party was his idea. C’mon, you need to celebrate your achievements! You’re at the top of your game!
I relented because I didn’t want to be a stick in the mud, but I told him, firmly, that I only wanted ten people here.
He countered with fifty.
I told him twenty-five max.
He didn’t argue after that and I assumed I’d gotten my way, but now I see that’s only because the asshole wasn’t listening to me anyway. He planned on doing it his way the entire time.
To say I’m uncomfortable with this many people in my apartment is an understatement. I keep glancing over to make sure no one is sneaking off down the hall toward my bedroom. In my life, practically nothing is sacred. The press knows every detail about every person, place, or thing in my world, sometimes before I do. This apartment has always been my sanctuary.
At least it was before tonight.
“I can’t believe how nice your apartment is. Did you design it yourself?”
The question is asked by a pretty girl with a pretty face wearing a pretty dress. She told me her name when her friends cornered me a few minutes ago, but how am I supposed to remember it when there’s a baker’s dozen of them all talking at once?
“Uh, no. I don’t even remember. Maybe it came this way?”
My move to New York was all a blur. I finished playing football in college, signed a deal with the pros, moved from Florida on a Sunday and was due at practice the very next morning. My agent helped me find this place and set up the move. I don’t even think I unpacked a single box. I got home after practice and my life was set up for me, cable and all.
“Well the location is great. You’ve got the city at your fingertips.”
When she says fingertips, hers reach out to touch my arm, and I glance down, more than a little annoyed. Where’s Darius? This is his party. These are his friends. I know like ten people here, and they’re all my teammates.
I hear a familiar voice and glance up to see Melody cutting through the crowd of women to get to me. I’m relieved to see her up until she wraps me in a hug then lays a possessive arm around my waist as she steps to take the place at my side.
“You sure know how to draw a crowd,” she teases.
I let her keep her arm around me for a second, and then as graciously as possible, I step out of her hold.
“You have Darius to thank for that.”
She laughs and crosses her arms, her expression tightening slightly as I pull away from her. “No, I mean these girls.”
The jealousy is a little unwarranted considering I’ve made it clear I don’t see us moving forward. After our second date, it was pretty obvious to me that I have absolutely no feelings for her. We haven’t talked since then and I didn’t even invite her here tonight, but I guess Darius took it upon himself to do that too.
“What have you been up to these last few weeks? Busy as usual?” She doesn’t give me time to reply before continuing, “God, District was so fun.”
Was it? I felt like an ass for ignoring her for half the night. I assumed she was as done with me as I was with her.
“Are you two friends?”
This question is asked by one of the women standing around us, and it’s perfect timing, actually, because I spot Candace across the room and my heart starts to thunder in my chest. She came. She’s here. She’s over by the food and she’s somehow managed to corral one of the circulating waiters. Instead of taking food from his tray, she’s just talking to him, as if all the famous people in the room mean nothing to her. She’d rather spend her night talking with the hired help.
He throws his head back and laughs, and she’s laughing too. Then he says something and goes over to load up his tray with more tiny portions he can dole out to the crowd. She reaches out for his tray, asking him something, and he passes it over, letting her hold it while he fills it up.
He nods in thanks and leaves to continue doing his job. Now she’s left all alone.
I’m not sure if her roommates came with her, but they’re not by her side now. She glances around and then, seemingly at a loss for what to do, she sort of starts to bob to the music before finally noticing me watching her.
She beams and lifts her hand, waving enthusiastically.
I wave back as my stomach clenches tight, and it’s obvious why. She’s so beautiful, like she’s the only one in the room with a real pulse.
That red dress is a blaring fire engine drawing my attention. It’s cut so short on her legs, and they look miles long even though they can’t be; she’s not that tall. Her blonde hair is curly and loose, framing her sweet face and red lips. She’s a candy confection standing there all alone.
She keeps my attention and holds up her finger as she steps back to motion at the chip bowl. She makes a real show of reaching in to grab one then winks at me as she pops it into her mouth.
I’m totally enamored, a smile stretching so wide across my face my cheeks start to ache.
It’s like she’s the best TV show I’ve ever watched and I have to know what happens next.
I raise my drink to my mouth as she starts to dance. She lifts her hand to pinch her nose then shimmies low like she’s going under water. Next, it’s the Sprinkler. After that, she loads groceries into her cart. I’m smiling, and it feels like she’s hijacked the whole party. No one else is here, just her and her ridiculous dance moves and her bright red lips—right up until a guy cuts her off mid-spin. He must compliment her because her cheeks burn bright pink. Then he says something else and she motions back to the chip bowl. He reaches in for some of his own, and just like that, they’re talking.
I don’t know him, but he looks like a wolf ready to eat her alive. He stares down at her in that red dress, and I can see his thoughts scrolling across his head like they’re printed in a little bubble. Where has this tiny red pixie been all my life?
I’m moving before I’m consciously aware of it, not bothering to say bye to Melody or the other women I’ve been forced to endure for the last half hour. I’m across the room and in front of Candace, casting my shadow down on her before I’ve taken my next breath.
“They’re so good, right? Definitely an underrated flavor.”
That’s the guy talking, trying to wow her with a discussion about the chips I bought for her.
“Do I know you?” I ask him brusquely.
His eyes widen and he pauses with a chip halfway into his mouth. Then he drops it back into his other hand, wipes his palm on his jeans, and extends it out to me. “Oh shit! No. I came with Paul, but I’m a huge fan. I mean huge. That Hail Mary pass you threw against Miami this season was just—” He mimes his head exploding.
Beside him, Candace mimes the same thing.
My sour mood lifts immediately.
She nods enthusiastically, pl
aying along. “Right? Best pass I’ve ever seen. Huge. Really changed the whole inning.”
“Quarter,” I correct her. “Innings are in baseball.”
“Are they? Bugger. I was so close.”
I think I’ll kiss her then, take her red lips for myself in front of the whole party, but I hold off for some insane reason. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of some desire to prolong the inevitable. I’ll kiss her before the night’s over; that much I know.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to the guy beside her without looking his way. “I need to talk to my date.”
“Your date? Oh. Right.” He takes a pointed step back. “Sorry, man. I had no idea. I wasn’t flirting with her.”
He gets the hint that I don’t really care what else he has to say and wanders off. Candace waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Date, huh?”
“Yes. Date.”
“Am I one of the flock? You’ve got quite a few women over there shooting daggers at me. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes.”
“Even if you did, it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Tonight, it would,” she says, pointing down to her heels. They’re not sky-high, but they still have a thin spindly heel that could do some damage.
“Sounds like quite a threat.”
“You’ll do well to remember that whenever you feel like getting handsy. Are those crisps for me?” she asks, pointing over her shoulder.
“Chips. Yes. Who else?”
“I just wanted to be sure. It’s a nice gesture, buying me crisps.”
“Chips.”
“Whatever, agree to disagree I suppose. I probably say quite a bit that would annoy you. For instance, you lot call them bathing suits, but we usually call them bathers or swimming costumes.”