42. The Taste of Ink #4
Voicemail sent, my throat’s still raw.
I text Eli three words: We’re done here.
He replies fast: Meet me out front.
Two hours later, we’re sunk deep in a velvet booth at Delilah, champagne in their glasses, club soda in mine, music around us, camera flashes at the door.
Hours blur into snapshots.
Celie’s on her third cocktail, hollering about how she’s moving to LA for the weather, the dick, and the zip code.
(She’s not.)
Jordan’s got half the room hypnotized.
An actor from a Marvel movie sends bottle after bottle to the table, just to see her smile.
Eli’s chain-smiling, whiskey glass in hand, chatting with label execs who all want five minutes.
Someone requests a song by Trash Romance, and Eli flips the guy off before buying him a round.
I’m the echo in the room,
laughing when they laugh,
smiling when the camera flashes,
checking my phone every twenty minutes, missing a Jersey boy who’s 3,000 miles away.
They dance and party as the night rolls into tomorrow.
By the time we track Celie down and spill out onto Santa Monica Boulevard, we peel away from Eli with hugs and fist bumps and promises we’ll never keep.
Then me, Celie, and Jordan collapse into the backseat of an Escalade.
On the way to the hotel, Celie’s half-tilted in the seat, ass angled as if she’s dodging a seatbelt wedgie.
Jordan’s laughing so hard she’s crying, lashes clumped wet. “Bitch, no. Don’t tell me you sittin’ sideways ‘cause’a that security dude.”
My head snaps to Celie.
“Security dude?”
Celie rolls her eyes to the window, lips clamped into a straight line. “Malik never showed,” she mutters.
Jordan’s laugh bursts out as she slaps both knees. “She let a bouncer pop her back door,” she dies.
Celie’s teeth grind. “Safer than some rando. Least he had clearance.”
“He sure as fuck did,” the words bubble up through Jordan’s laughter. “Baby girl got frisked by dick.”
A laugh breaks out of me next.
Celie sits crooked with a straight face.
Jordan wipes at her lashes.
“Aw, cher. Went from running back to bouncer. Wanna talk about it?”
Celie’s stare burns into the windshield,
her teeth grinding.
Jordan’s shoulders bounce,
unable to reel the laughter in.
Then—
Celie’s jaw hinges open,
eyes blown wide.
“Uh-oh,” she sings.
I squint. “What?”
Jordan smirks all-knowing,
biting into her lip.
The Escalade slows, headlights splashing gold across the hotel awning, brakes sighing to a stop.
Door swings open, and I’m out first.
Jordan next.
Celie sinks deeper in the leather, palms flat on her lap, strapping herself down. “Nah, y’all go on. I’ll… stay.”
Jordan’s laugh takes her sideways.
I move in front of the driver and poke my head back inside the cabin. “Celie. The fuck’s wrong with you?” I hiss. “Get outta the car.”
Jordan waves her hand. “Nah, uh-uh, that’s just the feelin’. Ain’t nothin’ comin’. Move it, boo. Get out this car.”
Celie shakes her head.
“Mm-mm. Nah. My ass says otherwise.”
Jordan waves Celie on, trying to reassure her. “Girl, I promise—once you start walkin’, that feelin’ goes away.”
I cock a brow at her.
“The fuck you mean, feelin’?
“What feelin’?”
Celie groans, palms the seat for balance, then finally hauls herself up and out of the car.
The Escalade peels off, red lights bleeding into traffic, leaving the three of us dropped off at the entrance, surrounded by guests, doorman, and bellhops.
Celie takes one step, and mutters,
“Hm. Guess you—”
Then her face freezes,
eyes saucer-wide.
“Nope—nah—oh shit, ohhh fuck.”
She’s staring at me, gaze terrified and screaming for me to save her as she lowers, knees bending, sinking in slow-motion until her ass hits the curb.
Then the faintest squelch.
A wet little betrayal.
Jordan folds in half,
pounding her knees,
her laughter taking her out.
I point at Celie, looking at Jordan.
“The fuck was that?”
My gaze darts back to Celie.
“The fuck did you just do?”
Celie’s shaking her head,
eyes bugged, lips sealed.
No words.
She has no words.
A couple people rubberneck us as they file through the glass doors.
The doorman breaks from his post, eyes narrowed on the three women under the awning—one doubled over laughing, one ass-first on the sidewalk, and me, arms crossed and pissed ‘cause I’m still sad and sober.
He clears his throat, approaching awkward. “Ma’am, do you—uh—need assistance?”
We all turn at once,
three deer in the headlights.
No one knows what to say.
An awkward silence spans across seconds.
Then Celie explodes into tears—
ugly, shaking, snot-level crying.
“My-my man broke up with me.
“I just need… a minute,” she weeps.
Doorman’s hands go up with a nod,
backing off.
The second he’s gone, Celie whips her head to Jordan, whisper-shouting through fake sobs: “Bitch, I need panties, sweats, a towel, and bleach right the fuck now. Go!”
Then she’s back to sobbing,
head in hands,
the act turned all the way up.
Buzz.
The vibration hits my thigh.
I dig my phone out of my clutch.
Buzz.
973-555-0194
This shit's dragged on long enough
Don't make plans Sunday night.
Three dots blink.
Vanish.
Then come back.
Proud of you, Sonny