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(You know what I mean.)
Don't You Forget
Part One
It's Friday night.
Anyone in their right mind wouldn't willingly want to work late on Friday night. At the very least someone young, and just hot-off-the-counter single. Not to mention successful. Staying in working on inventory just doesn't make it for sacrificing a night such as that. People who work in retail are allowed to have lives. It doesn't matter if there is "so much more papers to complete" or "the fax to the manufacturer didn't pull through". There are specific people to do specific things. If there wasn't it would be a failure of a business.
I hired an assistant specifically to pick up the slack. My slack.
"Tell David I want a meeting set up for Monday morning." I tell the woman standing by my office door, as I hit the key to sign off my computer. "And make sure he brings all the estimates this time."
I roll back on the desk chair and head towards my work closet. I peer through the large window overlooking the side street and frown when I see it is raining.
"But Miss -"
Shuffling through the many coats on the top rack, searching for one that was both water proof and classy, I interrupt what she is about to say. "I thought you said it wasn't going to rain today, Amanda. I obviously can't wear my new suede coat in weather like this." I gesture towards the window.
"I know. I'm sorry, Miss." She mumbles. Then in stronger voice, "But I do remember telling you yesterday, when you bought it, that today there would be 30% chance of showers."
"And of course , with my luck, that 30% had its way with the rest of the seventy and now this evening is ruined." I hold up a fur coat I bought last fall. I don't really like it anymore, but it was expensive.
"If you want my opinion Miss, I'd say that fur wouldn't last a few minutes in the rain. And you are -"
"You're right." I throw the useless thing over my shoulder. Glaring at my much too delicate closet I decide I need to go shopping.
"Would you like me to help you find a suitable one while you change?" Amanda offers, coming to stand beside me. She has a clipboard in one hand, and has pushed her glasses up to rest at the top of her head. "I left your dress in your bathroom and your heels are on your desk."
"Fine." I stride over to the other end of the office. "But be quick about it. I won't take long." I add over my shoulder before entering the small beige room and shutting the door behind me.
After switching the light on I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm not usually a big fan of the whole women's work suite ensemble, but after making a few minor changes to an outfit you'd be surprised how much you like it. For example, tightening the area around the thigh and hip bone, but leaving the material around the calve roomy so it drapes from the knee to the foot makes for very flattering dress pants. As well as stripping away a little bit of fabric off the blouse, and leaving a button undone here and there makes for a great look. At least, on me it does.
I snatch my dress off the hook on the back of the door, and up-zip the protective plastic covering. Amanda always knows when to dry-clean my clothes. What a little miracle worker.
I toss away the plastic, and let the red silk spill into my hands. The dress was a gift. It's a lovely material and an even lovelier design. I wish I knew who made it, but I don't. Only the giver of the gift does.
I let a frown slip through when unwanted memories resurface. I shake my head, forcing them to the back of my subconscious, and mentally remind myself that the dress would look even lovelier on me.
After slipping the dress on, I immediately start putting on my makeup. The process takes a few minutes since I'm so meticulous when it comes to these things. The trick is to look like your wearing as little makeup as possible when really your covered in a mask of it. I learned the trick from my mother when I was fifteen years old. She was a brilliant make-up artist who made her money off the big Hollywood blockbusters. It's surprising she didn't win any awards. After much practice, and seven years later I'm still not even close to her genius, but I'm pretty darn good.
I swing the door open once I'd sprayed myself with some perfume that was left on the bathroom counter, and see Amanda holding up a shiny red trench coat I don't remember buying. She offers it to me with a timid smile.
"Well?" She squeaks when I don't immediately shut down her proposal. Which is the usual reaction. "What do you think?"
I absolutely love it and think it will go great with my shoes, but don't tell her that right away. Amanda is used to me being a strict boss, but at times she's still positively petrified of my disapproval. So, instead I frown as if in deep thought, and slip on my black stilettos.
"I can find something else if you don't like it. I just thought it would go beautifully with your dress. And it said directly on the label that it is water proof. The material is wonderful. But of course it might be too flashy. What was I thinking!" She hastily shoves her side brown side bangs behind her ear. "I'm sorry--"
"Amanda!" I start laughing, unable to hold back anymore. "It is a great choice. Thank you." I slip it off the hanger and carefully manoeuvre it over my dress and slide my arms into the sleeves.
Amanda exhales a big gust of air and dramatically swipes her forehead. "Good."
I'm tempted to pat her head. Reminding her what a good little assistant she is, then decide not to. The similarities between dog and human are too blurry.
I walk over the ceiling high mirror near the office door and look over my reflection. The shiny red coat truly does go great with the dress and heels. I tie the thick coat belt around my waist, and swivel back and forth watching the silk hem twirl around my knees. My hair tumbles free over my shoulders in thick golden waves. I make a mental note to buy another bottle of the shampoo I'm using.
I grin at the sexy woman in the mirror.
"You did it again Amanda." I smile gratefully at the brunette's reflection standing behind me.
"You look amazing." She sighs dreamily.
I start to say "I know", but catch myself and just reply with a simple "Thank you." I peek at my watch and give a little start. "I'm almost late!"
That sets Amanda a flutter. She scurries around the room gathering sheets of paper, grabbing files from the cabinets and shoving them under my nose. After I've signed here, here, and here, I head towards the stairs, hearing Amanda making little protests behind me. Once I'm through our deserted, little foyer, and making my way towards the curb, I have my compact out of my purse.
The little mirror betrays me. Unlike in the movies, rain doesn't cascade gracefully over your features. It plops, soaks, and splotches. It is incredibly ungrateful weather, that forces everyone to feel bad by making them look horrible. Fortunately for me, my makeup isn't the cheap kind bought at drug stores, but taken directly from the same manufacturer my mother recommends for her clients.
Why didn't Amanda think of giving me an umbrella? Then again, why didn't I?
Since, I've come to the conclusion that glaring at the night sky doesn't succeed in stopping the rude weather, I start to hail a oncoming taxi.
Just as I'm opening the yellow door, Amanda comes rushing out of the front door adorned in her lime green rain jacket. For all her good fashion sense, she really does have no sense to buy clothes with it.
"Miss! Miss!" She shouts, struggling to simultaneously cover her work papers from the drizzle and haul her suitcase - no doubt filled with more papers.
"What is it now?"
"I forgot to tell you this morning," She pulls out a piece of paper from her jacket pocket, and starts reading off her own scrawl. "A Mr. King called. He told me to tell you that he wants you to call him sometime this week. He didn't say exactly what for, except that it is pertinent that you call him as soon as possible."
By the time she's finished I'm gripping the taxi door frame so tight that my knuckles are white. Amanda is patiently waiting for my instruction, but my thoughts are a jumbled mess.
Mr. King...
"Ma'am, unless there's money, involved I'm not going to wait here all night for you." The taxi driver's deep, accented drawl breaks through my trance.
"Miss?" My much less rude assistant calls for my attention. I quickly compose myself
"Thank you, Amanda." I spit out. There goes my relatively good mood. "Next time you should be more organized, don't you think? What if the head calls asking for a quick reply? Just going to leave it to the last minute? Hmm? I'd appreciate if you took your job more seriously. My calls are important." I duck into the cab, and slam the door behind me. "Julie's please." I order the dark haired driver.
I don't look back to see my Amanda's shocked face. The taxi driver is in a hurry to get as many customers tonight and we've already hit Main street.
I don't regret scolding Amanda. I run a tight retail business, and expect all my employees to hand things to me when they're supposed to be. Forgetfulness will earn you a one-way trip to the realms of unemployment where I'm concerned.
I know Amanda is an excellent worker. In fact, her and I get along wonderfully. But I require a productive atmosphere. Procrastination is one of my biggest pet peeves.
I know I was a little bit too harsh on her, but that was the fault of the context of her statement, not what she did.
Now, I'm going to stress about that all weekend. The chances of this Friday night being even remotely entertaining has just gone down the drain.
Why would he call me?
I take a deep breath, and will all the negative thoughts away, but immediately regret it once I catch a whiff of the inside of this used vehicle.
Reeling down the small passenger window, I let the sights and sounds of downtown wash away the glum. Street lights are flashing through the dirty cab as we speed down Main street. I peer outside and recognize the familiar buildings on route to one of my favourite clubs - Julie's.
It's a classy, upbeat hangout owned by my best friend's (Vera) sister. I try to commit every Friday night as Julie's night. That way I get to vent to my best friend after a long work week - since she's working there as assistant manager - check out the singles scene, and party. Not to mention I get in free by association.
Not to imply that I wouldn't be able to get in otherwise. I'm pretty sure the bouncer, Jeff, adores me.
Soon were slowing down, and trudging our way through the busy streets of the entertainment district. I can now hear the conversations of people standing in line for acceptance inside Julie's. The line takes up almost a whole block on Friday nights. On the other weekdays it isn't so bad. But what's the point of going to a club if the crowd isn't huge and enthusiastic to be there?
Before I'm fully aware of my surroundings, we've pulled up beside Julie's entrance, and someone is holding the car door open for me. For a second I imagine I'm in a sleek black limo, about to step out onto the red carpet, but then I catch my taxi driver's impatient gaze in the rear view mirror, and the daydream quickly vanishes.
I hand him a bill, careful not to actually touch him - you never know where they put their hands - and delicately step out onto the concrete.
"Thanks," I say to the taxi-door Casanova, while I adjust my coat, and turn on my cell phone. Ugh. It's still raining.
"No problem, babe." A deep voice replies.
I glance up at the overconfident poser, only to recognize Jeff's friendly face. He offers me his arm, and I take it with a grin.
"Thought I'd escort the lovely lady to her humble abode." He explains in a horrible attempt at a British accent. I'm pretty sure he has no idea what he just said but he has a cute face for a thirty-something bouncer, so I let it pass.
"Why, thank you, kind gentleman." I play along. It just the kind of stuff you do with a guy like Jeff. He's easily amused. He leads me through the busy front of Julie's and passes me through the door. I can feel the scornful looks from the ladies waiting out front, and the jealous glares aimed at Jeff from the guys. I grin triumphantly.
Once I'm inside, I exhale a huge breath I didn't know I was holding in.
I'm in my element.
The fast beat of the latest pop track pulses throughout the club. The lights are dimmed. The soothing mumble of conversations float all around me, and I'm home. Well, not literally.
My apartment is much cleaner.
"Here," Jeff places his hands on my shoulders. I untie the coat belt and allow him to slip off my jacket. The club is warm compared to the street outside but I still shiver a bit when the inside air brushes across the bare skin of my legs and shoulders.
"Cold, babe?" Jeff's warm breath puffs against the back of my neck. I sigh in exasperation. I love Jeff, but I hate when guys give me pet names. Babe, especially
I give him a reproachful look over my shoulder, then glance at my coat draped over his forearm. "Make sure you don't lose that." I point at the expensive, red garment. "Put it somewhere safe. I don't want to find black stains from your cigarettes all over it after I leave tonight."
I start to make my way over to the wall-length bar where I'm sure to find Vera's sister. She'll be able to tell me where Vera is. And if not I'm she'll constitute for her sister's absence. I just need to talk to someone that's more than a casual friend.
I can feel several pairs of eyes following me across the dance floor and through the maze of low tables scattered along the perimeter of the club. It doesn't make me uncomfortable. I'm used to it. Ever since I reached puberty men have been tracking my every step. Women as well. Although, between the genders, the reasons behind the action differ greatly. At least, I hope they differ.
The bar isn't as busy as the dance floor, but it still takes me a while to find a suitable seat. I delicately step up onto a stool placed beside a man dressed in an indigo business suite, with his head lying on the counter.
Great. Another depressed lawyer.
A lean, blonde behind the bar asks for my order. I get my usual Friday night starter.
"Strawberry dakari, please." I slide a small bill across the dark wood top. "And can you go check if Vera or Tara are in?" He takes the money neatly, and promises to be back in a few moments.
I get more comfortable - as comfortable as I can be on a stool - and check my watch. 7:10. Perfect timing. Vera usually has her break around 7 :15.
I start tapping my freshly manicured nails on a coaster. The song has changed.
I can feel another pair of eyes on me and glance curiously to my left. It seems sad Mr. Lawyer has taken time out of his drool-fest to notice me. He has a bad case of five o'clock shadow, but his eyes are a beautiful shade of green and his hair is the colour of a midnight sky. He seems surprised to see me, but then he grins sloppily and straightens up.
He may be fun enough to pass the time.
"Hey there," he slurs.
I roll my eyes. These lawyer types are all alike. All of them part-time alcoholics. It's a shame really, because you can never find a decent guy who's actually smart.
Not that I'd want a guy who was smarter than me.
"Hello." I reply. The blonde bartender comes around and hands me my drink. He mutters that Vera will be out in a few minutes. I nod and take a sip of my drink.
"Sooo," drawls. "What's yer name?"
"Rachel," I lie, leaning my elbow on the bar.
God, his breath reeks.
"Well, Ray-ch-shell," he struggles over my fake name. Which seems to bother him, because his brow furrows, and he is trying to sit more properly. "I'm Blair."
He offers me his hand, which I ignore. He's halfway drunk and I don't want to risk transferring whatever substance he has on his fingers onto mine. Instead, I ask him what he does for a living.
"I'm a financial advisor." He states proudly, and raises his chin.
"Oh, really?" I ask with mock enthusiasm. Advisor, which in my book is code name for a guy who watches everyone else do his work, while he bitches. It's so weird how a job title can say so much about someone's personality.
"Yep." He smiles confidently, which makes him look a little bit insane. But not in the good way. "Right there on 35th. You know the bank there?"
"Hey," a female voice interrupts this sad excuse of an introduction. I peer over the bar.
It's Vera. All of a sudden my smile isn't fake at all. There's a doubtful arch in her brow aimed at Blair. Ugh. Even his name is bland. And then she smiles at me.
"Hey, sweetie!" I greet her warmly, returning her smile. I'm tempted to jump over the counter just to hug her. However, the prospect of ruining my dress diminishes that urge. So, instead, I snatch her hand and squeeze it. "Thought I'd have to wait all night out here."
Which is total B.S. because Vera has always put my interests first. She's that good of a friend.
"No! You'd know I'd never do that to you." She denies with a grin. "I know you need to vent." She leans across the wooden top and whispers, "And I have something I need to tell you too." She straightens back and grabs a rag to wipe down the already spotless bar surface.
"Oh?" My eyebrow lifts questioningly. Its rare that Vera ever has some juicy gossip about herself. She's always so intrigued with what I have to say. Even when what I have to say is more boring than the drama that happens in an episode of the O.C.
"Something important." She winks. I look at her incredulously. Really?
"Hey. You know Rays-chell?" Mr. Financial Advisor asks Vera. I roll my eyes. After a few short answers, he's acting like we're boyfriend / girlfriend. It doesn't help that he's intoxicated. I shiver to think what he's like sober. Probably a spouse abusing bastard.
My best friend glances at both of us. "And you do?" She arches a near perfect eyebrow at Blair then looks at me. I mouth "hanger" and she smirks.
'Hanger' is our code word for the assholes that we don't want any relation with, but they keep hanging on. It tells the other girl to save her friend from the mule, and get him out of the vicinity. Which is easy when your family owns the place - in Vera's case. And good for me.
"Bill!" Vera yells across the club - signalling the oldest, and biggest bouncer to make his way towards the bar. "So, Blair" she angles herself at Mr. Financial Advisor. "What does a guy like you look for in a woman?"
I try to hide my sneer, and eye Blair seductively. "Yeah. What can a women like me do to get a man like you to give her your number?"
I perfected this look. I know what kind of effect it has on a married man. So, I'm not surprised poor Blair melts in his seat. His jaw almost reaching the floor. I purse my lips innocently, and his gaze drifts to the maroon petals of flesh. His eyes dip lower and though I'm annoyed, I don't slap him. He's drunk and about to be thrown out, at least give the guy a face to his blooming fantasy tonight.
I don't have to try that hard.
I hear Vera giggle.
While Mr. Finance's stare has reached my legs, Bill arrives and starts to lug Blair towards the door. He doesn't seem to mind either, his otherwise pretty eyes have glazed over, and I can tell he's going to have a very nice sleep tonight.
I snort, and turn back to Vera. She catches my glance and smiles. She looks good when she smiles. Some people have a tendency to have a stretched out version of their face when they smile.
Not pretty.
But not Vera. Or me. But that's a given.
I've been told by huge amounts of people that I have a wonderful smile. Some even said perfect. I kid you not.
"So, what's the big news?" I question, settling more conveniently on the stool. I take a sip of my drink. I'm trying to appear nonchalant, but Vera knows me too well.
"Oh, just something." She waves her hand dismissively. "I'm interested in what you have to say."
"It's just melodramatic work nonsense." I assure my best friend. I don't mention the Mr. King call. That crap can be dealt with later. With sound proof walls. And liquor. Lots and lots of liquor. "What's up with you?"
"Nothing's up with me, per se." She avoids looking directly at me. My eyes narrow. Is she blushing? My Vera? The universe has been thrown off its kilter.
"What?" I demand. I'm starting to get irritated. The increasing tempo of the music matches my internal tension. I hate when I don't know something. There is no such thing as 'out-of-the-loop' for a woman like me.
She peeks from underneath her black lashes, (latest Lóreal mascara courtesy of yours truly) and I just barely hear her whisper, "Jerold proposed."
I suck in a shocked breath, then cough it back up. Vera just smiles at me weakly.
"He what?" I mumble through unmoving lips, and place a hand over my thudding heart.
The universe has truly gone out to lunch and left its kilter for snaky, no good, housewives to paw at.
"Proposed." She repeats in a firmer tone.
I start coughing again. Vera stretches over the bar and thumps my back. Once I'm able to breath again, I grab both her hands. "Are you sure?"
"Unless I'm losing my hearing," She gives me a small closed lip smile. Is she still blushing? "I'm pretty positive that's what he said."
"But you've only just met!" I insist. When did this happen? Where was I?
She laughs. Why is she laughing? "We've been together for three years, Rose."
Three years? It seems like only yesterday Jer was hitting on Vera while she was waiting tables. Him with his imitation Daniel leather jacket and messed up hair. My sweet Vera with her tied back hair, and shy shuffling. It should have been the other way around. Vera is a wealthy child from a family of considerable fortune. Jer was a university grad trying to make his way in the big city.
"What did you say?" I press on. This must be some kind of sick joke. "What was your answer?" The growing curve in her lips scares me.
"I said yes, of course! Rosalie!" She scolds. "I love him, Rose, you know that."
"Wow," I breath, dumbstruck. You could of had a younger Val Kilmer groping me and I still would have been as stiff as a board. Top Gun young, not that awkward Batman version.
"I know," Vera sighs breathlessly. She has her face cupped in her hands, leaning on the bar, staring off like she imagining a life with a much more modern version of Mr. Bingley. She's always fallen for the nice guys. Now, me, I'm more of a Mr. Darcy kind of girl.
I'm vaguely aware that they have that new Lady Gaga song playing in the background.
My hands tighten their grip on my drink. My eye is starting that irritating twitching thing. It only happens when I'm stressed. Or royally pissed off. I can't tell which feeling is more prominent right now.
Oh, I'm happy for Vera. Couldn't be more happier. Don't me confused with a washed up snob. Like that bitch on that show Gossip Girls.
Its just that right now, I couldn't be more shocked. Or more confused.
Or more jealous.
During our lifelong friendship, whenever something new happens or one of us tries something different, it has always been me or about me. I've been the instigator - Vera's been the creator. When I got my first kiss from a boy, Vera went out and made sure she kissed the boy she liked.
When we were little, we used to talk about finding our dream guy someday. Describing him down to the last little pore on his gorgeous body. We grew up modifying some features, adding some character qualities, buffing him up - the usual things. Eventually, we started organizing our weddings to our Prince Charming. We made the other the maid of honour, of course. There was never any doubt that we'd get married. Women that looked like us never had any doubts. We were the ones to hang with in elementary school. We were queens in middle school. We were goddesses in high school.
I just always thought I'd be ... first.
I would be popped the question perfectly, handsomely, uniquely, but most importantly first!
And now that it has sunk through my thick skull that Vera has beat me to the punch - that her engagement has forcefully squeezed under my skin so now it can fester - that she now has the right to call Jerold her fiancé - I feel sick to my stomach.
I can't even throw up, because I missed breakfast and lunch. There's nothing to throw up.
"Rose?"
I raise my head, not even aware I was gazing down at my shaking hands.
Vera's worried eyes stare back at me.
I slap on a joyful smile, because I am truly ecstatic for my best friend. I couldn't be any happier for her. Think what you want but I'm not so selfish that I can't celebrate something that my best friend has been dreaming about since we noticed boys weren't all that bad.
Nonetheless, it's hard to make the simple gesture authentic because I can still see the dreamy gaze lingering behind the concerned front.
I barricade all my ill thoughts, and grab Vera's hands again to squeeze them warmly. This is my best friend. She's getting married to the man of her dreams.
I ignore the way my stomach flips sickeningly.
"Congratulations, Vera!" I smile brilliantly. "I'm so happy for you!"
She screeches excitedly and bounces up and down. She squeezes my hands back.
Usually, Vera is so clam and collected. This is so unlike her. I guess this is what being engaged does to you.
I wouldn't know, right?
"I don't need anybody else's happiness. I'm already on such a high. I couldn't even sleep last night, Rose!" Her smile looks like it hurts, it's so big. She doesn't seem to notice if it does though.
"I can tell." I observe. Because what am I suppose to say to that? I wish I were engaged too? Can you not tell me this because it's slowly killing me? This isn't about me.
For once, my jerk of a conscience hisses.
"And you know what?" She doesn't give me a chance to ask. "After he asked me, and after we had the most amazing se - well, anyway, while I was in bed trying to sleep, I wasn't thinking about my wedding dress, or what type of flowers I want - like I thought I would. I was thinking about my life with Jer, Rose. That's why I couldn't fall asleep. I was so keyed up, because now I can spend the rest of my life with Jer and not feel like I have somewhere else to be. It's such an amazing feeling." She sighs. Again. "Just amazing!"
I want to get on my knees and beg her to tell me more, more, more.
I want to strangle her and demand for her to shut the hell up.
"Amazing." I nod - agreeing with her like I'm experienced in the field of proposals. And, in this case, acceptance.
"I wanted to tell-" Vera begins to say, but is stopped mid-sentence by Fred, her dad, who shouts for her to "get back here, Vera!" She yells back an 'okay'.
"We'll get together later - okay, Rose?" She asks to make sure, as she makes her way to the back room behind the bar.
She halts for a second when I don't say anything. I look into her light brown eyes - familiar brown eyes - and I'm searching for ... something. Reassurance that she'll be here tomorrow? That just because she's engaged she'll still be the same? Jer won't be the only thing in her life now?
Still the same Vera?
"Rose?" Her brow furrows over confused eyes. "Are you okay?"
I need a drink.
I take a sip of my dakari. Twisting my lips into a rueful smile, I reassure her, "I'm fine!" Laughing, (Great, I'm going hysterical.) I wave away her concerns. "Don't worry 'bout me. You are getting married! I wouldn't even worry about me, if I was getting hitched."
Such a honest ... lie.
Vera squeals. She lunges over the bar, gives me a swift peak on the cheek, one last delighted smile then scrambles away to the back. She reminds me of a eager little bunny. I grin.
Then my forehead smacks onto the bar, and I groan. Not because of the sting that comes from smacking your head on a counter, but because now I can finally wallow in this sad state of depression without my friend watching over me and asking questions.
Rosalie Hale does not get depressed!
I came here to vent and let loose, dammit! Not to fake being in a good mood.
God damn those good for nothing housewives for playing with something that doesn't belong to them.
I drain what is left of the strawberry flavoured liquid.
If I'm lucky to get to sleep tonight it will be induced by large amounts of alcohol. And I don't have the time for a hangover tomorrow. I have plans. Saturday is the second most important day of the week for me. Friday being number one. Reasons varied.
And right now it is a Friday night.
I am at a great club. The music is loud. I look fabulous. The ratio of women versus men is my favour. So, what the hell am I doing?
I straighten up in my stool, and my shoulders set in determination. Screw life right now. I can deal with these issues some other time. I came here, and now I'm going to do something that I want to do. If someone wants me to listen to them, they better have something fucking interesting to say.
I've been holding back a butt load of frustration. Any reasonable women knows how to earn a little relief.
I order a shot, and gulp it down once the bartender hands it to me.
My brain goes MTV, and I have a little Kirsten Dunst jumping around in my head yelling "Bring it On! Bring it On!"
A catchy pop song starts playing on the stereo, and I swivel around the stool to face the dance floor. It's the typical club scene, with the typical dance floor. Flashing, streaming lights. Lots of gyrating bodies, passing off as dancing. Except they're more formally dressed.
I never talk to a guy who is already on the dance floor. They're most likely already groping some extra skinny flake, who get her highlights done at First Choice. And who honestly wants to associate themselves with a Misha Burton rip off that goes to First Choice? No taste there whatsoever.
My rounds start with the business types socializing around the perimeter. At least, then you know they have the decency to wait for the right women to pair themselves with.
Well, boys here comes a woman who flaunts all the right stuff.
I carefully step off the stool and make my way over the high booths running along the wall. There is a row of them placed a good distance away from the central floor. You can hold a casual get together with your clients and not feel like you're at a rock concert, but still feel the charge in the atmosphere.
I strut pass them slowly on my stilettos. The first booth is full with Asian executives speaking rapid Japanese. When I pass them, there's a lull in the conversation, and then they're talking faster than they are before. I see several of them gaze at me. Or specifically part of me.
I smirk, and now there is a drop of swagger in my step. My dress is eye catching, but the body and face is more attention grabbing than any designer cut. I love feeling confident. Given the circumstances, it feels lovely to get a little boost.
Someone grabs my wrist.
I should feel surprised, but so many men have had to try to receive my focus by gripping me somewhere, so it is no big change. No big difference.
I calmly look down at the guilty hand, and follow its navy suited arm (he's kind of scrawny) to its owners face. An inviting smile greets my look. He's got grey eyes, a crooked nose, short blond hair, and the same look they always have.
But he's cute.
My brow raises - waiting.
"Hey, is your last name Gillette?" He grins at me like he knows what going to happen. God, I hate pick up lines. Maybe he is better than he seems.
"No, why?" I smile at him encouragingly.
"Because you're the best a man can get." His hand slides down to hold my hand. His buddies laugh boisterously - half of them drunks.
Did I say I hate pickup lines? Better to nail this one in the butt right now. Not literally, of course. That's disgusting.
I lean down seductively, giving him a glimpse of cleavage. The jerk won't get anything better. I whisper in his ear, trying not to get too close because he has a bad case of BO, "You're right. I am." I take a fleeting look at all of his friends. None of them are worthy. Though they all have their eyes locked on me. Good.
"And since I'm looking for a man, it seems I'm going to have to keep looking." I breath into his ear, and snag my hand back. It's a good thing his hands aren't as greasy as his hair. Himself however...
I give this group a superior scan before moving on. I can sense many eyes following my every movement. The women here don't stand a chance. The men don't know what's coming. I make sure my every step is synchronized with the bass of the hip hop song bouncing through the speakers. I focus in front of me, acting oblivious to all the heated, and mostly male gazes.
A tiny giggle slips through unintentionally. I've forgotten how fun this is. Being so busy with work, and escaping that jackass King -
I shake my head.
Ugh. Don't think of him now!
I'm nearing the end of the row of suit wearing Neanderthals. There's just one booth that curves inward, ending the booths in a crowbar shaped formation. There, an adorable couple are sitting opposite each other, just staring at the other.
The guy's countenance is of complete devotion - his features reminding me of a lion, with a mane of blonde surfer hair. The girl's expression is whimsical, with a small, cute mouth returning his smile. Her dress is one I've never seen before. (That's a first. I know every designer classic.) Her short black hair is stylishly gelled. (Which is a bitch to pull off, but somehow she does.) I have to admit she's cute, and surfer boy - well, he's hot.
But he's taken, darn it!
For a moment, I'm jealous of their seemingly perfect relationship. Then my heart sinks - Vera and Jer will be like this. Will I be the person behind them in the same booth, blatantly going unnoticed?
I feel this funky dread for only a moment - then conviction sparks.
Dammit, I'm going to find my Prince Charming soon! Even if it kills me in the process!
But right now any decent, trustworthy guy will do. Just make him hot.
Please be hot.
Cute Girl's cell phone rings. She reaches for it, and the couple recline back, revealing the ignored person sitting at the back of their booth.
In the furthest part of my mind I recognize that the song is changing.
My breath hitches inside my throat, and even though I'm so many feet away - still walking along the row of booths, all I can see is - all can think is ... blue.
Like the darkest depths of the ocean.
Blue.
AN : Well, A for effort? Please be nice. Can you guess who the neglected person is? This is my first attempt at Twilight fan fiction. Sorry for any mistakes. :)
Comments / feedback is loved!