Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Twenty minutes later, they were standing in a different line, this time outside the popular nightclub the Jane Ballroom.
“Aren’t we too old for this?” Iris scanned people ahead of them, who looked like rich kids from NYU.
“No. Now we can afford the drinks.”
Two beautiful girls walked past them, each wearing a dress that barely covered her ass, high heels clicking in stride. They strutted straight to the front of the line, spoke to the bouncer, and went in.
“That’s the move.” Roman took Iris by the hand and pulled her from the line, ignoring her protests, until the naked vulnerability in her voice made him pause:
“Roman, I don’t look like them.”
His expression softened. “Okay, first, they were basic. Second, we’re great! You’re beautiful, and I’m a gay seven and a straight ten. And third, we wanted to test this perfume, didn’t we?”
Iris sighed. “You’re at least a gay eight.”
“Thank you. Now go make that man smell you.”
They walked up to the bouncer, a sour-faced bulldog with an earpiece and an iPad. Before they could say a word, he barked, “At capacity.”
Roman shoved Iris forward. “It’s her birthday!”
“Not on the list, back’a the line.”
Iris got an idea. “Can I at least get a birthday hug before we go?”
His scowl cracked slightly, and he opened one meaty arm to her.
They embraced for a moment. She could smell the bouncer’s cologne; she hoped he could smell hers.
When they broke, Iris was beet red. “Well, thanks, have a great night.” She and Roman exchanged a glance of defeat and began to walk away.
“Wait.” The bouncer gestured with his iPad. “I found you on the list.” He smirked. “Happy birthday.”
—
Iris and Roman bounded up the steps of the hotel, positively giddy.
“The hug was inspired!” Roman pulled her close, bumping her side.
“There was wind, I had to get close!”
They entered the ballroom, a mashup of Victorian colonial style and hipster cool: a sweeping walnut bar tended by mixologists dressed like Wes Andersen bellhops, and a giant disco ball sparkling over a dance floor packed with the young, rich, and beautiful.
Iris grabbed the small menu from the bar. “Ha. Well, we got what we deserved for weaseling our way in here. Twenty bucks for a cocktail.”
“Oh honey, we are not buying.” He leaned back against the bar and surveyed the crowd. “ This is a controlled environment. No wind, plenty of guys. This is where we conduct our experiment.” He patted her shoulder. “You know my order.”
“Wait, how am I supposed to get a straight guy to buy you a drink?”
He tut-tutted. “Where is the ingenuity I saw outside? You get two different straight guys to buy you a drink, one for you and one for me. Now go.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I’ll only cockblock you. But I’ll keep an eye from afar, like Secret Service.”
Embarrassed in advance, Iris slow-walked the length of the bar, scanning for a man not obviously with a date, half-hoping she wouldn’t find one.
She arrived at a trio of preppy-looking guys and slotted into the bar top beside them.
She had to look thirsty, so she raised her hand to wave when she knew the bartender wasn’t looking.
It worked; the man nearest to her turned. “You need a drink?”
She smiled nervously. “That’s the idea. It’s hard to get their attention.”
“I can’t imagine it’s hard for you to get anyone’s attention. I’m Asher. What can I get you?”
Within five minutes of small talk with him and his friends, Asher had bought her two drinks, one for her and another for her unseen friend. Iris was stunned. It was that easy.
And so began a whirlwind of Iris going back and forth, getting rounds of drinks for both herself and Roman.
Sometimes she didn’t make it back to the bar before a man would strike up a conversation with her.
Normally she disliked attention from strangers, she rarely wore anything flashy or revealing, it made her too self-conscious, but this was different.
Because Iris wasn’t attracting eyes, only noses.
She didn’t feel objectified, she felt…fascinating.
These men couldn’t put their finger on what drew them to her, but they were intrigued.
Iris had never felt so popular, charming, funny, and beautiful. It was a rush.
Iris returned to Roman’s couch setup with the latest round, two flutes of champagne. “That last guy thought my name was ISIS, and he still bought me both of these.”
Roman laughed and they toasted. “Bravo!” He took a sip and brightened. “Ooh—guess who’s here tonight? Rhys Elliot. ”
Iris blinked at him.
“He was in that movie. And now he’s in some show about a small town and a sex trafficking ring preying on wayward teens. It’s called Truck Stop or something?”
“That describes like seven shows.”
“With the hot rookie detective who partners with the cranky old one.”
“That describes ten. I only like the ones where the cranky detective is a woman—and she prefers to work alone.” Iris ripped a champagne burp.
“Anyway, Rhys plays the hot detective, and he is sitting right up there.” He gestured to the mezzanine balcony.
Iris looked up. In a cordoned-off section, a group of people were clustered around a particular couch, and she saw a man who had to be Rhys Elliot. He was drop-dead gorgeous.
“I met this guy, Sam, who’s the costumer, they’re friends! They’re having their wrap party, and Sam said he can introduce us.”
“No,” Iris said, using the same tone she used on Hugo when he got into the trash. “I can’t. He’s too famous!”
“You didn’t even know who he is. And you’ve got the perfume!”
“Roman, it’s a perfume, not nitrous oxide. He’s too hot for me. He probably dates models!”
“Who cares? You don’t know what he likes—what about you ? Think with your dick for a change! I swear, women are so disadvantaged that you can’t feel yourself get hard.”
Iris rolled her eyes. “We do have a counterpart to that.”
“Then listen to it! Now tell me, do you want to meet the hottest guy you’ve ever seen?”
—
Soon they were upstairs, where Sam escorted them to the VIP area.
Rhys was even more breathtaking up close.
He was over six feet and built like a collegiate rower, biceps straining at his casual chambray shirt.
But his face is what set him apart from the ordinary humans.
Perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, a jaw chiseled like a superhero’s, pouty lips a man didn’t deserve, and the hypnotizing hazel eyes of a mountain lion.
When he smiled at Iris for the first time, she thought she was going to throw up.
Roman stepped in. “This is Iris, and I’m Roman, we’re big fans of Interstate. ” They’d googled the show on the way upstairs.
Rhys chuckled. “It hasn’t aired yet, but thanks.”
“Oh, right, but I mean, the buzz is incredible—can we get a selfie?” He snatched Iris’s phone from her hand.
Rhys politely obliged. Iris figured out Roman’s ploy when he added, “Squeeze in tight now, all three of us”—he was making sure Rhys was in her scent bubble. After he snapped the picture, Roman returned Iris’s phone and excused himself, leaving them alone.
Rhys turned to Iris with interest. “How’d it turn out? I’m happy to take another if you don’t like it.”
But fragrance didn’t come across in a photo. “I’m sure it’s fine. I don’t like having my picture taken anyway.”
“I don’t either.”
Iris tilted her head. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“People want selfies, but they take them at terrible angles, and if I look bad, I feel like I let them down, and they’re still gonna post it.”
“So you want to make sure you look okay?” Iris teased, disarmed by his insecurity. That he was human made him even hotter.
He laughed at himself. “But the real worst part about selfie culture is, as soon as someone sees me, they turn their back to take a picture. They’d rather interact with the image than the person. You think fame will make you popular, but I miss talking to people.”
Taken over by her new delusional confidence, Iris leaned toward him and put her hand on his knee. “So let’s talk.”
And they did, as though no one else was there. Iris thought Rhys did seem a bit out of practice, going on about the new show, on-set jealousies, panic about an upcoming SNL hosting gig. He didn’t ask many questions, but he was so pretty to look at, Iris didn’t mind.
“Sorry, I’m rambling. There’s just something about you, Iris. You’re a real one. I didn’t ask, how do you know Sam? Are you an actor?”
“God no. I’m a lighting designer. Not for film or anything like that—for buildings.”
“That makes sense.”
“Why?” Because I don’t look like I belong in front of a camera.
“Because you changed the mood in here as soon as you came in.”
Iris smiled into her drink as her whole body blushed.
It was such a line, but from his perfect mouth, the words didn’t matter.
She didn’t say anything but let her gaze soften on his face, the way his eyelashes cast a shadow over freckled cheeks, the glint of gingery stubble, his lips curving into a smile.
It was Rhys who broke the tension, “Was that so corny? I—” but Iris stopped his mouth with a kiss.
Her desire and instinct had taken over, she wanted to devour him, and he responded in kind.
She felt his fingers run through her hair and settle on the back of her neck, pulling her close as his other arm slipped around her waist, gathering her into his lap as all her nervous tension melted into her center.
They made out like teenagers on the couch, oblivious to the swirl of people and drinks and loud music.
When at last they came up for air, Iris’s eyes immediately found Roman, who was looking at her like a proud papa.
And when Rhys invited her to “see the view” from his suite at the Standard, she thought the way Roman had encouraged her to.
While Rhys closed out the tab, Iris went to Roman sitting with Sam and others. “So I think we’re gonna go,” Iris said, trying to contain her glee.
Roman burst into the biggest shit-eating grin and sprang up from the couch to hug her. “You’re doing amazing, Moana,” he said into her ear, before dissolving into giggles.
“You’re such an idiot,” she said the way only best friends can insult each other with deep love.
“Go! Have fun! Call me in the morning first thing!” They hugged once more and she was about to go when he hissed in a stage whisper, “Take a picture with him when he’s asleep!”
—
The next morning, Iris woke up early, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows in Rhys’s hotel room.
She squinted in the sunlight and peeked at her bedmate, who was sound asleep.
He lay in repose like an artist’s model, free of self-consciousness and bedsheets, a well-muscled arm thrown across his eyes, perfect pecs, washboard abs, and everything else on display.
Iris eased herself out of bed, careful not to wake Sleeping Beauty, and tiptoed across the room, gathering her strewn clothing.
The room was like a solarium, she had no cover, even the bathroom was open concept.
It was a flex for any Manhattan hotel: views so unobstructed by neighboring buildings that its guests could indulge their exhibitionism kink.
Iris wouldn’t have thought herself the type, but the body-shaped smudges on the windows told otherwise.
In the mirror, her dark hair was a tangled bramble at the back of her head, her eye makeup was smudged, her cheeks imprinted with sheet lines.
Only her lips looked better than the night before, swollen and pink, and she had a bona fide hickey on her neck; Rhys Elliot was a biter.
Iris looked far from her best, but she couldn’t help but smile at her reflection.
Iris washed up and was patting her face dry with a towel, trying to at least smear last night’s eyeliner upward, when she noticed something—or rather, the absence of something. She sniffed her wrist and didn’t smell anything. It was time to go.
—
She called Roman on the walk home.
“You left without saying goodbye ?” his voice boomed from the phone.
“I had to! The perfume was gone, I’m slutty Cinderella, my coach is a pumpkin, I’m back in my rags.”
“But you should’ve left a note with your number or something.”
“He lives in LA and they film in Atlanta. It was the perfect one-off. I fooled him once, I’m not gonna push it.”
“What? Iris, you didn’t fool him. Maybe the perfume got things rolling, but I bet you’re a million times more interesting and real than the Hollywood plastics he usually meets.” He sighed into the receiver like a disappointed parent, or pimp. “You could’ve been his go-to NYC hookup.”
Iris shrugged. “Hmm.”
“Did I just hear a ‘meh’? Omigod, was he meh ?”
“It was fun. He was exuberant, I’ll give him that. Creative positions, good energy.”
“You’re saying he wasn’t that great in bed.”
“A guy who looks like that never has to learn what works, you know?”
Roman cackled into the phone.