Chapter 8
SARINA
It’s been just over a week since the fiasco at Luxe, and I can’t believe the owner Josh decided it would be best if I take some time to “cool down.” An unpaid time away.
It’s absolute bullshit. I didn’t do anything that scumbag didn’t have coming to him.
I made it known –repeatedly – that I didn’t want him near me, and he ignored me.
So, if that’s how he wants to run his business, not standing up for the women who are the reason it stays afloat, then I guess I’m better off not being there.
It’s a shame, because I really enjoyed dancing at Luxe.
It was one of the only places that I felt like myself.
Dancing there, I felt free. Free from the life I left back home in Colorado.
Free from my father’s nagging expectations, and the life he wanted for me.
Though now as I stare at the mind numbingly dull stack of legal documents in front of me, I guess I should be thankful or whatever, since as luck would have it, where one door slammed in my face, another opened in the form of a temporary paralegal position at a law firm I forgot I applied to after I was fired from the previous one I worked at.
Guilt tugs at me for a moment, thinking about how difficult it’s been for me to maintain work, no matter what the job requires.
It’s either my mouth or inability to keep up with timelines that don’t work well with how my brain works, that always seem to be the common denominator.
Or, how my dad preferred to put it my entire upbringing, “You’re too much, Sarina.
Just snap out of it and get it together. ”
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe that’s my problem.
Maybe I am too much.
Before I have time to dwell on my unresolved daddy issues – or the mountain of paperwork I’ve procrastinated due tomorrow – my phone rings with a call from my best friend, Lorena.
I answer the phone. “Well, if it isn’t my nearest and dearest bitch making her presence known once more.”
Lorena laughs. “Ah, I miss you. You’re always the comedic relief I need for the day.”
“What can I say, I aim to please?”
“Speaking of pleasing, you need to tell me about that guy.”
“Yeah, a whole weeks’ worth of business days later,” I scoff, jokingly. “I need you to stop getting railed on her world tour by her famous chef boyfriend and be home long enough for me to divulge every delicious detail of my latest hookup.”
“Sorry, we’ve been so busy. But I’m free now.”
“I meant in person. Not on the phone.” I pretend gag. “You know how I feel about phone calls. They give me anxiety.”
“I know, I hate talking on the phone too, but when I’m traveling with Tino, there’s only so many voice messages we can send back and forth before a phone call would make it easier.”
I dramatically shriek in horror. “What kind of millennial are you? Preferring phone calls to voice messages? Shame!”
“All right, I get it. So, are you going to tell me about your latest hook up or what? Me and Tino have to head to the airport soon.”
I don’t know where to begin. To say me and Mr. Armani’s evening together was eventful would be an understatement.
I highly doubt most one-night stands start with a stranger protecting you by pretending to be your husband, and end in him taking care of your needs over his own.
I’m used to hook-ups being transactional, and nothing like what I experienced with him.
But if there’s one thing I know about Lorena, no matter how guarded she has been in the past when it comes to relationships, she does not share that same sentiment when it comes to me.
She’s always pushing me to let go of the hang-ups I have from my past and give love a chance.
In short, she’s a bit of a hypocrite, but a lovable, good intentioned one at that.
Knowing I need to play this carefully so I don’t let on that I would love nothing more than to break my own rules and pursue Mr. Armani, I begin to spill the details, speed-talking my way through the whole ‘She’s my wife’ moment to the mirrored room at The Withered Flower.
“Sarina,” she playfully scolds. “Tell me you did not hook up this man in a bar.”
“Oh, my bad, would the location be more to your standards if it were on a second-story glass floor?”
My point is proven from the way she’s sighing into the phone.
“Exactly. And I love how that’s the part you’re stuck on, and not the whole him pretending I was his wife thing.”
“Honestly, that sounded pretty hot, him swooping in because of some asshole bothering you.”
I don’t bother telling Lorena who that asshole is or who he was to me.
I haven’t shared much about my family or life back in Colorado.
With good reason. That life —otherwise known as my entire existence up until leaving it behind for good— isn’t something you openly share with others.
It’s better off that I keep things vague.
I don’t need Lo, or anyone else for that matter, to get caught up in my family drama. Nothing good comes from it.
“You’re telling me. So, as I was saying, we went into this back room that used to be an art installation I loved years ago, and all I can say is, I feel bad for Pedro.”
“Wait, I’m confused, is that his name?”
“Who?”
“Gray Suit Pants Guy.”
“Oh no, Pedro is my vibrator’s name,” I say with a bit too much pride.
“You name your vibrators?”
“Yep, and they are all named Pedro.”
“I realize that we’re veering off topic here slightly, but dare I ask why they are all named Pedro? Also, how many do you have?”
“Clearly more than you, if you’re asking,” I joke. “And if you must know, they’re all named Pedro after our lord and savior, the daddiest of the daddies…”
“Pedro Pascal, got it.”
“Yes, exactly. And let me tell you, this man, he might just be the daddiest of anyone I’ve ever dealt with, because the way he can fill out a suit and then all the secret treasures he has hidden underneath. I’m talking tattoos, piercings, a pleasure kink that had me recovering for days.”
“He sounds hot.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Okay, so what’s the mystery man’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Seriously? Did you get his number at least?”
“Yes, I did. He wrote it on my hand after he kneeled on the fucking street to bite and tear my G-string off me.”
Lorena hums. “Fuck, that’s certainly one way to make sure you call him.”
“I know. He had this energy about him that was closed off and serious but still a little unhinged.”
“Unhinged as in?”
“Like he’s purposely trying to hold something back.
Or force himself to behave. It was like he was at war with himself.
I don’t know any other way to describe it.
I mean, I saw his dick, piercings and all, and as well-endowed and ready as he was, or how badly I wanted him to fuck me, he was solely focused on me. ”
“You have his number. Call. Him. Damnit. And if you don’t, I’ll call him for you. Men like that are a rare breed.”
“You’re telling me.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Me.
Lorena continues. “Listen, I have to get going but before I do, as a wise woman once said to me…”
As Lorena goes on, my phone vibrates against my cheek. It doesn’t take much for me to get distracted. Though, as I glance down at the name flashing on the caller ID, distracted is an understatement. I feel completely thrown off. Frozen.
“Ri, you there?”
I shake my head, trying to snap out of it, my throat suddenly feeling dry. “Yeah, sorry. I’m here,” I say, forwarding the call to voicemail.
“Okay, like I said, we need to get together for drinks this week, and ooh—” Her voice raises an octave or two in excitement.
“—I almost forgot, this weekend is salsa night at Tino’s brother Dante’s bar, Hummingbirds.
Remember it’s the bar you met me at the night of Tino’s James Beard Award viewing party?
You need to come. That way you can finally meet everyone. ”
In the time that Lorena and I have been friends, I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t met her friends or family.
We met in college at NYU, and any time that we had off, summers included, I never stayed around the city.
I always flew back home to Colorado to spend time with my grandma who had been battling cancer for years, unsure of how much time she’d have left.
“Sounds good,” I respond, actively ignoring yet another incoming call, forwarding it to voicemail. “I’ll definitely need a night out after all the work I have ahead of me.”
“At Luxe?” Lorena asks, confused.
“No, I’m on temporary suspension without pay.”
“Seriously? That guy was harassing you. That’s bullshit.”
“Yep. The current owner is the worst. But lucky me, I got a last-minute email from a law firm I applied to for temporary paralegal work. Turner & Vize.”
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“Turner & Vize,” Lorena repeats, “that’s the law firm my brother Tomás works at. He’s a Junior Partner there. Small world.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“How funny. Who knows, you might meet him there before salsa night.”
“It’s a big firm, their offices carry over fourteen floors, so that might not be as probable as you’re thinking.”
“Never say never. Either way, I’ll be finally adding you to the group chat this week, so be on the lookout.”
“Sounds good.”
I end the call with Lorena and unease settles in the pit of my stomach as I forward yet another call to voicemail.
I’m not in the mood to talk to him. I never am.
But the more he calls, the more I’m afraid something bad might have happened, and that’s the only reason I’ll answer.
But before I do, something possesses me to take the gray suit jacket I’ve kept on the chair near my bed and drape it over my shoulders in the hopes that it will give me some of that energy Mr. Armani had when he stood up for me.
Something that I’ve never had a problem doing for myself, except when it pertains to the name flashing on my illuminated phone screen.
DO NOT ANSWER: S. DONOR.
My first bully and the first man to ever break my heart.
My father.