18. Sara
18
SARA
A tall blonde with a sleek blowout, red clear-framed glasses, and a crisp white pants suit checks off our names on her tablet before signaling to a broad-shouldered man to unhook a rope from golden pillars.
Photographers line the barriers, awaiting the next celebrity, while we shuffle in too-high heels across the crimson carpet that leads to the glowing world of Midas. A man cradling a lens longer than my forearm makes a quick assessment of my outfit before deciding I’m worth a couple of tired clicks.
Amber pinches my arm while I stifle the grin that’s itching to roar onto my face, because yes, I’m taking that as a very big compliment.
My dress is silver, decorated with tiny sparkling embellishments that glitter like snowflakes. It hugs my figure all the way down to the floor, only flaring out at the train that kicks out behind me.
The inside of the club is a sea of high cheekbones and eight-hundred-dollar haircuts, and I realize the deeper we delve, the harder it becomes to spot someone who isn’t either famous or high on a list of New York socialites.
The lights are dimmed to low, the space predominantly illuminated by one continuous ribbon of warm LED lighting that swirls and overlaps on the high ceiling.
The place is all sharp edges and polished surfaces, with long stretches of black countertops with golden detail bled into the marble. Furniture has been arranged with precision that borders on neurotic, all with low backs and monochromatic accents.
The art is modern, tasteful. Greek statues and powerful paintings of gods and goddesses. Fierce, yet beautifully elegant.
When we reach the center of the room, a waiter approaches, bearing a tray of drinks in tall-stemmed martini glasses.
“Midas martini?” he calls above the thrum of music accompanied by a deep bass.
Amber and I immediately reach for a glass.
“What makes it a Midas martini?” I ask.
“The gold, of course.” The waiter winks, his dark eyes flashing to our drinks before he disappears into the growing crowd.
I cast my glass under the downlight of the nearest painting, and sure enough I spot minute shavings, twirling and glimmering like tiny gold bullions inside my glass.
“Not the first bar on the Upper East Side to pull this.” Amber shrugs as she clinks her glass against mine before she samples the drink. A moment later she’s running her tongue across her top lip, eyes swelling with delight. “But undeniably the best. These are delicious.”
Then, a high-pitched voice I wouldn’t miss if it were purged from my ear canals for all eternity, cuts in .
“Looks like they’ll let anyone in here.” Kandi slinks in next to us, closely joined by Francis.
She’s wearing a red, halter dress that splits like a canyon at her boobs. Her lips are scarlet, and her hair is swept back from her face in a smooth, up-styled knot. I can’t deny that she looks hot. She must have spent hours in front of a mirror rehearsing how to look extra intimidating tonight.
“They let you in, so yeah, looks like it,” Amber says before downing her drink and turning to Francis who’s sipping a cocktail the same color as his lime green suit. “I didn’t see your name on the list though.”
“I always get invited to these things.” Francis shrugs, grinning deviously. “I sleep with the right people.”
Then Kandi is thrusting an empty glass at an unsuspecting waitress before flicking her eyes to me. “Drew’s at the bar getting me another drink,” she says, words dripping in wicked victory. “So, I thought I’d come over and ask about your hike . We’re all dying to know.” Her scarlet lips curl into a twisted smile.
Here it is, the moment she’s been waiting for. The moment I confess I gave up, failed miserably, and nose-dived beyond expectation. I can tell by her narrowed, dramatically lined eyes that she’s gleefully counting on it.
My body relaxes however, because I too know how to rehearse in front of a mirror. I’ve recited it a dozen times to guarantee my story checks out and Kandi’s satisfaction level remains comfortably at zero.
Which is why I have no idea why Amber abruptly pulls me from the circle and drags me from the scene.
“What are you doing?” I hiss when she continues to drag me toward a wide staircase.
“Saving you from the third degree. You know she won’t let it rest until she knows the truth.” Amber tugs me up the staircase toward the ladies’ room. We get halfway up before I stop her dead in her tracks.
“Amber, stop.” She drops my hand. “Whether it happens now or back at the office, she’s going to ask. I can’t avoid her forever. Now you’ve just made things look way more suspicious,” I scold as a man dressed head to toe in gold rushes past us on the stairs, pausing briefly to inspect my dress.
She appears to consider her actions for a moment before groaning. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.”
“I know, but…” I trail off when a tall, slender man with sandy-blond hair and freckles scattered across a sharp pointed nose passes us on the stairs. He’s staring at both of us, eyes lingering too long on our chests. No doubt deciding which one of us he plans to bless with unbearable pick-up lines and vomit-inducing charm. I do him a favor and roll my eyes, immediately sending him to cast all his attention to Amber, who’s already blushing.
“Hello, beautiful. I’m Parker.” He thrusts out his hand and Amber takes it willingly. I nudge into her from behind, reminding her she’s possessed the gift of sound since birth.
“I’m Amber,” she says at last, stars twinkling in her eyes.
I battle the urge to make a face at the fact he still hasn’t let go of her hand and is now stroking his thumb against her knuckles.
“Can I get you another drink?” Parker asks, signaling to Amber’s empty martini glass before gesturing to the bar.
She flicks her head around to glance at me. I muster up a weak shrug of approval, and before I know it, she’s linking arms and giggling up at the tall and handsy stranger.
“Tell me, what is it you do, Parker?” Amber asks, brushing his arm with her ballet-pink nails.
I turn my back just in time to hear Parker’s smooth voice reply, “Investment banker, baby. ”
I press the martini glass to my lips, tilt my head back, and gulp because after hearing Amber swoon after he called her baby, nothing less will suffice.
The alcohol hits me the way I want it to, with a head rush that results in brief memory loss.
It also makes me aware that I’m now standing alone in the middle of a staircase and should probably return to level ground before I stumble and fall on my ass.
Before I can take a step, a figure snags my attention.
He’s noticeable because unlike everyone else, his body doesn’t move to match the music, or loosely sway to keep up with the energy in the room. He moves for no one. Instead, he stands at the foot of the stairs, as motionless as the dead, his body frozen in time. He’s wearing an impeccably tailored, midnight-black suit. One hand is in his pocket, the other wrapped tightly around a short, wide-rimmed glass glimmering with deep amber liquid.
His dark hair is swept to one side—neat, groomed, painfully suave. His shirt is buttoned to the neck, his black tie sharp. Not a hair is out of place. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
A statue of devastating handsomeness.
Even more intriguing than his unique body language, is the placement of his gaze, which lies on… me.
My lashes flutter as a torrent of shock blazes through me, because the man watching me from the foot of the stairs, is Jack.