12. The Biting Cold
twelve
My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. I was invited to several parties, and even though I was forced to decline, some of the hosts insisted on asking again in the morning.
After ending the third call, I began to wonder if Sophie had made up her mind about being my date tonight. Scrolling through the website of my favorite dress boutique, I smiled as I pictured Sophie in a one-shoulder number adorned with silver sequins. I then launched the messenger app and texted her.
Good morning. Say that you’ll come tonight, so I can send you the perfect gown!
She didn’t respond.
Getting up, I took off my boxer shorts and walked into the shower, turning on the hot water. As steam filled the air, I stepped under the soothing stream and closed my eyes. The welcome heat that covered my body reminded me of our sweaty encounter under the dark light. I felt my insides contract as I thought about how it felt to be with her on the floor. Nothing but raw desire and… no, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t nothing—it was more.
The soft lather of the shower gel tickled my skin with aromas that invaded my senses, overwhelming me as I tried to discern my feelings for that beautiful little rascal.
“Don’t give me this look. Don’t fall in love with me. We won’t survive.”
Was it all because I had money and she didn’t? Because that would be the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.
Stepping out, I pulled my robe off the hanger and put it on, noticing drops of water that landed on the shiny tiles of my heated floors.
Was it all about heat with this one? Was her desire for me a pure animalistic urge with no deeper meaning? Did she not feel the way I did during our time together in the storm?
As I tied the rope around my waist, I went downstairs to an empty nest. Gunnar and everyone else were off today, and I was all alone. Peeking outside, I saw the dark clouds forming and wondered what Sophie was doing now.
Mindlessly, I tossed a handful of greens into the blender, followed by a banana, some berries, and nuts. My finger hit the button, and the deafening noise of everything coming together halted my thoughts for a few seconds.
When the smoothie was ready, I finished it off with some coconut milk and resumed blending. As I watched the colors merge, a crazy thought occurred to me; I could surprise Sophie at home and take her away. We could sail on my boat, just the two of us, and spend the last hour of the day watching the rain from inside the cockpit.
The ringing of my phone interrupted my daydream, and I saw Abel’s name on the screen.
“Hello,” I cheerfully answered.
“Why are you up so early?”
“What an interesting way to start a conversation.”
He chuckled. “Chad wants me to make sure that everyone’s getting enough sleep. His DJ friend is flying in from Ibiza and should start around eleven o’clock.”
“When did you become the mother hen of the group?” I mocked.
“Since I gave up a very important party at a senator’s house so I could be with my friends.”
“You’re not the only one. The mayor and his missus are still on my case about tonight.”
“Ouch.”
“I know, but my mind’s made up.”
“Where did you disappear to last night, anyway?”
“Uh—I had another thing.”
“Chad’s having delusions that you’re not bringing Taya, because there’s someone else we don’t know about.”
“He’s crazy.”
“Is he?”
I poured the smoothie into a giant glass. “Isn’t he always?”
“You have a point.” He paused. “Are you really doing the costume thing?”
“That’s also crazy. I’m not playing his game. If anyone asks, I’m coming as James Bond.”
“That was gonna be mine.”
“You’re more of a Keanu; you can be John Wick.”
He laughed while I took a sip. “Good one, I’m gonna use it.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, any word from Dean?”
“I thought he was sailing?”
“That’s a ‘no’ then. Alright. I guess he’ll be the mystery guest, as always.”
“You can’t count on the man to remain on land for long. Anyway, see you tonight.”
“Bye.”
As known to everyone in my circle, my habit was to debut the latest Italian suit model on New Year’s Eve. That was why I took a deep breath as I approached my dresser, looking at the box with my initials on it before undoing the black velvet bow.
May you have an unforgettable night.
~ Marco
My good friend—the designer—had signed it with his own handwriting, as per usual. A part of me was glad that Sophie wasn’t here, or this would have driven her up the wall. On the other hand, I looked at my phone and picked it up, calling her number without much thought. It rang and rang, and she didn’t pick up. When I switched back to the chat, I saw that she had read my text and didn’t respond.
That was the last straw.
Determined to have a good time, I got dressed and went downstairs into the garage, heading toward my Mercedes GL. If Sophie couldn’t appreciate that I went to her myself after she had rejected me, there was nothing more I could do. And I wasn’t going to allow her to make me feel guilty—not for my wealth, nor for anything else that I had worked hard for.
At the party, I was greeted by the usual faces and unusual costumes dictated by Chad’s ‘Pajama Party’ theme. Naturally, he wanted to see all the attractive women in their boudoir states—something Abel and I joked about as we watched a train of famous underwear models walk in donning colorful, skimpy negligees.
But as they cleared my field of vision, they revealed a gorgeous brunette with bronze skin and deep brown eyes. She was standing in a corner, wearing modest, long-sleeved pajamas with cartoon characters on them. They were pink, which I thought was interesting. As I approached, I thought up a line with which I could use to rid her of her current conversation partner.
“I was actually never a fan of cartoons when I was little,” I heard her say. She held up the champagne flute to her lips and smiled at him.
He tilted his head. “Really? What were you into?”
“Damn if I can remember. But I know I appreciated them later in life.”
With my hands in my pockets, I looked down at the towel he had wrapped around his waist and cleared my throat. “Pardon my interruption, but Ray, I gotta ask… who sleeps in a towel?”
He smugly grinned. “I have, more than once.” Turning to her, he shrugged. “It always falls off.”
I hadn’t regarded her with any eye contact until that moment, so when I finally turned to look at her, her gaze was already studying my outfit. “And you… sleep in a suit?”
I shifted my body toward her, subtly stretching my shoulders. “James Bond rarely sleeps.”
“Right!” She turned to Ray. “I would watch a lot of double-O-seven back then.”
He chuckled, and I grabbed a drink from a passing hostess, downing it as I watched him adjust his towel. Someone soon called him and finally, I was alone with Pink Pajama Girl. “So, you’re a fan.”
“Of James Bond? I was like… six.”
My eyes examined the little drawings on her outfit. “Are these handcrafted?”
“They are.” She gave me her hand. “Samantha Byrne.”
“Nathan Wright.” I kissed the soft skin of her knuckles. “Don’t you own—”
“ColorTex, yes.”
“Is this a part of your upcoming campaign?” I grabbed another drink.
Leaning forward, she gave me a suggestive look. “How many secrets can you keep in one night?”
“Try me.”
“I heard you’re not a costume enthusiast.”
Looking at her fondly, I knew that a part of me wished she were Sophie. “I’m not, and we can easily mitigate this. Chad has a nude section out by the heated pool.”
I must have forgotten how most women in this party would respond, because I was surprised when she said, “You had me at nude.”
Slightly stunned and extremely drunk by then, I followed her out as my eyes watched her every move. She was—in fact—undressing in the middle of Chad’s pool garden.
The heated pool exuded smoky vapor, adding a touch of mystique to the gorgeous woman’s nakedness before she jumped into the water. “C’mon, Bond! You can do it!”
I looked away, catching a glimpse of Chad in the distance as he watched us with an amused expression on his face. But then I knew that my curiosity had waned from the moment she’d revealed how complacent she was. How big was ColorTex? I had heard that they were facing a financial hiccup.
Leaving her behind, I walked back inside and noticed that everyone was gathering around. The DJ’s beats grew louder as I heard everyone shout, “Ten… nine… eight…”
Suddenly, I was outside drinking a cup of coffee. Alone. The bite of cold made me pull together the lapels of my coat, while the cup between my fingers grew colder by the minute. When I looked up in the distance and saw the valet, I waved, and they immediately brought my car out.
As I started to drive away, the thumping beats of the DJ in the background grew weaker and fainter until they disappeared completely. At that moment, I didn’t know why I’d exhaled. I wasn’t there against my will and everything around promised a good time. Even Samantha could have been fun if I had given her the chance.
If Abel were here, he would’ve labeled my behavior ‘blatant self-sabotage’, or something along these lines.
The traffic was insufferable, crawling at the speed of a tortoise, but I didn’t mind. I had nowhere to go and zero intention of heading home just yet. Instead, I immersed myself in the festive snippets surrounding me from every corner.
Confetti. Laughing girls. Drunk boys. Glitter. Balloons. More costumes.
When I finally took an exit, the road led me to Brooklyn, where I took turns and twists until I saw a car getting out of its parking spot. Expertly, I parked there and got out of the car, deciding to enjoy the crisp air for a while.
My steps carried me forth until I reached a sign that read, The Youth Center for the Arts. Although it was closed, I could hear loud live music coming from inside. As I made my way around the building, I discovered a small wooden door next to it—that was where the party raged. Pushing in the door, I stepped inside and had to be careful as the long stairway led downward. It was like a bunker or an old wine cellar with large stones covering the walls and yellow spot-lights reminiscent of those used in mines.
To my left, a dingy bar served basic beer, wine, and cheap vodka screwdrivers. To my left, a tiny stage was occupied by a band of seven jammed up next to each other with very little space to move. In the midst of the seventies rock song cover and the drunk, happy people singing along, my heart skipped a beat.
There was a story behind every single person here, but the only one I wanted to hear belonged to the one with the sun-kissed skin and the crazy waves that framed her kind face.
Behind the musical ensemble, I spotted her.
Sophie.
I couldn’t imagine why she would hold a tambourine in her hands, sing along or bob her head with her eyes closed, but she was an absolute vision.
When the guitar solo began, she put her instrument aside and stepped down from the stage, taking the hand of the first man who stood in her way, banging her head and throwing it back in a feverish succession.
And to the rhythm of her sways, my heart danced.