Acts of Desperation(7)
“Shut up! He was hot.”
“He was no Jake. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“You’ll find your Jake and I’ll find my Keith…eventually.”
“I know we will,” I said through an exhale.
She looked at me and grabbed my coffee mug from my hand. “Ok, I’m sensing that we’ve hit a low, so now I’m going to insist on moving us along to phase two.”
“Phase two?” I asked.
“Retail therapy of course. Nothing can make a girl feel better like a new pair of shoes…or jeans…or perfume. I’m sure you’ll want something new for when we go out tonight.”
“So we’re going shopping and hitting the town.”
“Yes, we are. So get that booty upstairs and in the shower. I’ll shut everything off down here.”
“I take it you don’t have any functions this weekend?” I asked. Liz was a wickedly successful event planner. She’d started her own business a few years ago and people swarmed to her. She never advertised and got all of her business by word-of-mouth. If there was something to plan, she was your woman. Normally, her weekends were booked solid.
“It’s February,” she said. “People have had all their big parties already, but I’m planning a lot for the spring. I’m all yours this weekend.”
Liz and I hit the local outdoor mall down the road and spent hours rummaging through the sale racks at our favorite boutiques—you just can’t beat after-Christmas sales. When our arms were loaded with purchases, and we felt satisfied that we left no shirt unturned, we went to our go-to diner for lunch. After a delicious meal, we got a quick pedicure—Liz insisted on a little pampering—then we headed home to rest up for our evening.
****
“So where are we going?” I asked, peeking my head in Liz’s room.
She was swiping on an extra coat of mascara and was looking fantastic in her skinny dark jeans. The shirt she was wearing was her find of the day. It was a slinky black number that downplayed her ample bosom and had a deep slit in the back—classy, sexy, and daring—and it was less than twenty bucks. Knowing her, she’d be batting away swarms of guys by the end of the night.
“FB’s on West Sixth,” she said, perfecting her pout. She envied me for my long lashes and I envied her for her plump lips. Mine weren’t thin slivers or anything, but they were nothing compared to hers.
“Oh I love that place. The food’s fantastic.”
“There’s a new DJ spinning there tonight too that I want to check out. He’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“Do you ever stop working?” I asked.
“I’ve got my finger on the pulse baby. There,” she said, stepping back from the mirror and fluffing her platinum inverted bob, “all set.” She grabbed her little red purse off the bed and turned toward me. “Ooh! I love that shirt on you. Trés chic.” The low cut, sheer pink shirt I was wearing was my great find of the day at about ten bucks. I didn’t have nearly the bosom that Liz had, but what I did have, looked great in this shirt—it hugged my curves just right. “Turn around and let me see those jeans, I might need to borrow those someday.” They were new too but they weren't as much of a steal as the shirt. I spun around so she could give me the full once over. “I think we’re ready. You look hot! Look out city, here we come,” she said.
When we stepped inside the dimly lit, bohemian-style lounge, we were seated quickly and served a fresh round of fancy cocktails. I sipped on my Moscow Mule and looked past the heavy black velvet drapes that adorned the full length windows, and out onto the city streets. We snacked on a few appetizers before heading into the club. We took our seats on a mismatched set of Chesterfield sofas while the DJ got set up.
“Should I get us a fresh round?” I asked.
“I don’t see why not,” she said, looking at the crowd that was slowly trickling in.
I stepped up to the bar and ordered a couple dirty martinis. I turned around and focused on not spilling the liquid precariously sloshing around in the glasses—I should have just ordered wine because there was no way I wasn’t going to spill. I stepped forward with my attention focused on the drinks, and I bumped right into the arm of the person next to me.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I said, splashing vodka and olive juice on an oversized, masculine hand. I took a step back and looked all the way up the towering masterpiece. A shiver went through me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the cool air he’d brought in on his body, or if it was from staring into his beautiful green eyes. Everything about him was perfect: from the smell of his black leather jacket mixed with his cologne to the hint of stubble on his chiseled features—he was one hundred percent gorgeous.
What was odd though was the way he only furrowed his brow and stared at me before running his fingers through his dark, wavy hair. My heart was pounding, and I smiled nervously until finally, I had to say something to break the deafening silence. “I’m really sorry...I didn’t get too much on you, did I?” I looked down at the glasses and saw not much was missing from either one.
“No…,” he said still looking confused. “No, it’s ok.” He blindly reached for a napkin, never taking his eyes from mine, and dabbed the liquid off his wrist. “You…you need some help with those?”