Which was why when his feet finally began to move, he strode toward the Soho Grand Hotel. He intended to remind himself that he was firmly in control of his addiction and not the other way around.
Bypassing the high ceilings and optimistic atmosphere of the Grand Bar and Lounge, Oliver made for the Club Room, with its large photos of vintage films and artfully grouped sofas and armchairs. At six in the evening, the place was nearly full, and Oliver snagged the only available table near the entrance with a direct line of sight to the bar.
A waiter approached and addressed him by name. Although Oliver never drank alcohol, today he ordered a neat whiskey instead of his usual club soda with lime. Impatience burned in his chest at the waiter’s surprise. He didn’t often test his control this way.
The rage that had cooled while he’d walked through the late summer evening flared once again. The emotion was a destructive, living thing in his gut that stole his energy and ability to focus. It was the source of every bad decision he’d ever made.
While he awaited the drink, Oliver sent his gaze touring the bar in a desperate search for a much-needed distraction from the all-too-familiar need for the numbness that drugs and alcohol provided. Through most of his teenage years and into his early twenties, oblivion had been his only escape from the anger that fed on his soul. Once he’d gotten clean, he’d still grappled with the rage that simmered close to the surface. During his early days of sobriety, while he’d been learning how to cope with his darker emotions, he’d still needed an escape. With controlled substances no longer an option, he’d found a new kind of addiction. Hooking up with anonymous women for a quick, down-and-dirty fix in a random hotel room, bathroom or even alley had seemed like the perfect cure for what ailed him. Yet those fleeting encounters left him empty and out of sorts.
So he’d reined in all his destructive behavior and poured his energy into something positive and healing. Something that grabbed his imagination and let him grow into a world-renown artist. Photography.
When the waiter returned with the whiskey and set it before Oliver, he scarcely noticed. His attention was fixed on the couple that had just walked past him on their way to the bar. More specifically, his interest was snagged by the willowy, graceful woman with sable hair restrained in a low, sleek knot. She looked like a model dressed for a go see in black skinny jeans, a snug black top and lightweight bomber jacket. In her three-inch ankle boots, she topped six feet, inches taller than her companion, something that must have poked at the man’s ego, given his pushy handling of the woman as he directed her onto a barstool.
Oliver bristled as he noted the woman’s stiff posture. Why was someone with her level of sophistication and refinement wasting her time with such a bully?
The woman balanced a model’s portfolio on her lap as the man settled on her far side. Oliver had an unobstructed view of her profile. Even as he noted her sleek dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, suggesting she could be of Filipina descent, his hand moved automatically toward the bag beside him, fingers sliding around the camera inside. What stopped him from drawing it out and aiming the lens at the woman wasn’t a sense of propriety but something else.
He’d taken up photography in high school, observing people, capturing their essence with his camera, taking from them without giving anything back. Once he’d turned professional, he’d snapped photographs that won him great acclaim, but he viewed these as career achievements rather than personal wins.
This woman evoked a desire to appreciate her up close, without the barrier of a camera between them. He wanted to absorb her with his fingers and drink her in with his lips. To close his eyes and listen to the patterns of her voice. But for now, Oliver settled back and let his gaze follow her every movement.
She sat without speaking, her gaze fixed on the cocktail the man had ordered for her, never once reaching for the martini glass. Meanwhile the man slammed two drinks in rapid succession, each one spurring his rudeness as he berated her. The third drink spilled as he gestured with the glass, but the woman had become stone. Yet, despite her stillness, Oliver sensed she wasn’t cowed. Fury, not fear, made her cling to the portfolio on her lap.
Oliver watched their interaction in rapt fascination, wishing he was close enough to overhear their exchange. She wore no rings on either hand, so their relationship wasn’t a permanent one. Oliver was surprised how much this assumption cheered him. But a moment later, all he could feel was a sudden rush of fury as the guy slammed his drink on the bar, making the liquid slosh onto her. Not only did he not apologize as she began blotting her jeans with a napkin, but the guy got up from his stool and delivered yet another ultimatum. Both figures remained frozen while the man waited for the woman to reply. She left off drying her clothes and studied him with solemn eyes for several seconds before shaking her head. Obviously, this was not the response he’d been after, because he spat out a vicious retort and abandoned the woman where she sat.
As the man neared the exit, Oliver picked up his untouched drink and
