This must be what it feels like to be famous. Or to be friends with someone who is. Is this how Gretchen always rolls? I’ve really only seen her in yoga pants, when we go running in the park on weekends. She’s mostly Claire’s friend, but I’m trying to make her mine—one can never have too many.
She’s a kind, pretty girl and I’m excited to have been invited tonight.
We slide into a black leather booth and I’m the only brunette happily sardined between Emily and Claire.
“What does everyone want?” Peter shouts to the table while my eyes gape at the action in front of me. Sexy servers in black pencil skirts or black slacks and pressed white button-down shirts. Sequins. Diamonds. Luxury handbags that cost more than Noah paid for that Hank Archer baseball card.
I try not to stare, but it’s hard—it’s as if I’ve never been let out of the house before and I’m just seeing this shit for the first time, though Lord knows I see it all the time.
Just not in one place. And not in a place like this.
It’s sleek and sophisticated—the opposite of me.
I squirm.
“Miranda? Drink?” Emily is nudging me in the ribs. “Peter has a bottle coming, but was there something else you wanted?”
Besides champagne? I’m not going to be the asshole who orders a $25 drink on someone else’s tab. I will drink what is placed in front of me and I’ll like it.
Unless it’s roofied, ha.
“Gosh, champagne is great! Thank you!”
If I want something else, I’ll get it myself, at the bar, so there isn’t an argument at the table—which is the kind of shit that always happens when we’re in a group.
Gazing around the room, my eyes keep straying to that bar. It’s surrounded by some of the largest men I’ve ever seen, each and every one of them dressed to the nines; I can see glistening cuff links from here. Diamond stud earrings. Gold-encrusted watches. Highball glasses filled with spirits, not cheap booze.
This is not a place that serves beer.
I squirm some more, eyes moving, never stopping.
Tall.
Dark.
Hot.
“Oh god,” I say on a heavy exhalation, dread lacing the two words.
Claire actually hears me over the noise, leaning in to ask, “Oh god, what?”
“There’s that douche from the other day.”
“Where? What douche?” Now Emily is listening, boobs pressed against my upper arm as she tries to hear the conversation.
I give her the background scoop, bringing her up to speed. “So when my grandpa died, he left me this valuable baseball card collection.”
“Super valuable.” Claire nods.
I roll my eyes. I love her to death, but she’s an interrupter. “He left me his card collection from the late 1920’s and early 1930’s and I’ve been selling them off, one by one.”
Claire interrupts again. “To start her own business.”
“I had this guy interested in one of them and I met him on Wednesday, not realizing he was a megadouche.” I pause, looking up at Noah. “He’s standing by the bar.”
Both girls crane their necks, eyes sparkling as they try to identify the megadouche.
“Which one?”
The gorgeous one in the dark navy shirt, fabric straining around his arms, threatening to bust open Incredible Hulk style. He’s laughing at something someone is saying, the silver watch on his wrist winking in my direction.
“The one—shoot, they all look the same, don’t they?”
Big. Brawny. Masculine.
The entire club suddenly reeks of testosterone.
Why does he have to be here? What if he sees me? Would he even recognize me? I look pretty good tonight as opposed to the athleisurewear I had on Wednesday.
“Let’s go over there.” Emily pokes me. “Please, please.”
Emily is single too, so I don’t blame her in the least; it’s not often men like this fall in our laps along with a legitimate excuse to approach them. Not walking over there, giving her a chance to introduce herself and flirt basically goes against girl code. It would be mean and wrong.
Ugh. Fuck my life!
“But he’s such a dick,” I argue, whining, but just for show, knowing I’m about to drag both our sorry asses over to the bar. Pretend to bump into him, say hello—then introduce Emily.
She makes a pouty face at me and I roll my eyes. “Emily, I’m wearing jeans.”
By the looks of it, I’m the only one.
“That guy there is wearing jeans.” She’s pointing to a man standing next to Noah. He’s a giant too, from what I can see in the dim lights. Blond. “Also, who cares? They let you in. You look fantastic—stop stalling.” She reaches over and pulls away a strand of hair stuck to the gloss on my lips. “Okay, now scoot your ass over—we’re going over by those fine-ass men.”
We scoot out.
We stand. Both girls fuss with their clothes, pulling at the hems of their short dresses, and I find myself fidgeting too, futzing with the gold loop on my belt. My off-the-shoulder blouse is fussy enough so I don’t stand out like a sore thumb, not too casual, not too dressy—though in here? The latter is not even possible.
My top is hot pink and tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans, a leopard belt woven through the loops. Black platform wedges no one can see add four inches to my height. Large, gold hoop earrings dangle from my ears, round and shiny and new. They were a graduation gift from my Aunt Caroline. I hook a finger through one—anxious—as the girls shove me toward the bar. It’s not that Noah makes me nervous; it’s the whole sidling up to an entire group of men that does.
They’re busy; I think it’s rude to interrupt, like so many other people seem to be doing. Every few seconds, men and women approach, intruding into their conversations, and I think it’s super impolite.
And yet…here we are.
Noah is ten feet away and hasn’t spotted me; then again, why would he? It’s freaking dark in this place, the only lighting for atmosphere, even the lights on the dance floor are dimmed. Above the bar,
