Page 2 of Hot Mess
“It has nothing to do with you. I promise,” she says, slumping down on the other side of her open suitcase. “Mike is acting weird.”
Mike is Bridget’s fiancé and Supreme Overlord of Douche-landia. If the royal title I’ve secretly bestowed on him wasn’t enough of a clue to what I think of him, let me make it clear—I don’t like him. There’s something about Mike that I can’t quite put my finger on that annoys me so much.
I think it’s because he’s too perfect. Everything he says and does is done in such a way that it just feels off to me, like it’s all a façade. When I brought it up with Veronica one night over too many margaritas, she told me that I was overthinking it because I was such a mess that I couldn't understand the people who do manage to have their lives together. I couldn’t really argue her logic there, so I let it go for the most part.
“Is he working late?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He’s supposed to be meeting up with some of his co-workers for drinks tonight. But he didn’t pick up when I called him after we landed. Instead, he texted something about not being able to talk because the bar was too loud."
The urge to poke some holes in that lame excuse is tempting, but I don't want to ruin Bridget's night.
“Don’t let him ruin your time here. This weekend is meant for you to catch up with the girls and celebrate your last bit of singlehood before you get married.” I reach over and take her hand. “Put Mike out of your mind for now. You’ll talk with him later.”
“You’re right.” She nods. “I’m only going to focus on all of us. Tonight is going to be epic.”
With the help of Bridget and the other girls, I’m able to construct an outfit together to head out tonight. Beth loans me her short black romper that, when it's paired with Claire's black strappy heels, looks presentable enough to head out to the club. Veronica hands over her makeup bag, and Bridget puts soft waves into my hair. All in all, I don't look half bad for someone whose suitcase was sent to the opposite side of the country.
Beth and Claire head down before the rest of us, and we meet them in the lobby before walking down the Vegas Strip towards Club Dominion. The wait outside isn’t too long before the bouncer nods us in.
I’m looking to let loose tonight. This day has been filled with one sucky thing after another. I need to forget the chaotic reality of my life back home. Bridget and Veronica are my best friends, but I don’t plan on telling them I got fired just yet. I hate constantly living up to the reputation of “Messy Jessie” in front of them, even if they gave that nickname to me as a joke.
As we make our way through the crowd of people, we are all on the lookout for a table, so we can get this night going.
“I’m going to go get us some shots!” I tell the group and turn to make my way through the crowd to the bar.
There is no way I can afford this, but right now, I don't care. That's future Responsible Jessie's problem. Right now, Messy Jessie is at the wheel, and she’s determined to use this evening to turn her night around—starting with shots.
2
DYLAN
With the way the Vegas Strip is constantly evolving, new casinos and clubs popping up left and right, you’d think the people would vary in some way, but they’re always the same. The guys look like either rejects from Jersey Shore or frat douches that have used the phrase, “Do you know who my father is?” way too often. At the same time, the women look like they all shop in the same three stores and actively try to look exactly alike. For that, I don't like coming to Vegas, but this weekend I made an exception for a friend.
I’m only here and out at the club tonight because my buddy from college, Thatcher, is looking for some investors in his club, and I told him that I’d need to check the place out first.
From the moment I walked in, the place was packed, with only shoulder-to-shoulder proximity. It’s clear more than ever that a struggling business isn’t Thatcher’s issue. He's looking to expand. I don’t know the first thing about owning a club, but I doubt Thatcher is looking for anything other than a silent partner. When I asked why he wasn't going to a bank for the money, he gave some excuse about rather paying me the interest than “the man.”
Back in college, I spent more time day trading than going to classes. And with my competitive nature, it made me a self-made man before I even turned thirty. Managing to build up a nice little nest egg that exceeded many of the trust funds my college classmates burned through when they turned twenty-five—including Thatcher. At least with him, he burned through it with one expense when he sank everything into this club. And from the looks of it, he appears to have invested well.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Thatcher yells over the thumping bass of the music when he meets up with me at the bar.
“I didn’t think you’d find me in this crowd,” I yell back.
He smiles wildly and gestures to the people around us. “It’s like this nearly every night.”
“Impressive.” I nod and look around.
“I’ve reserved a table for you up in the VIP section.” He points at the tables that sit higher than the rest of the club.
I shake my head and point to the bar. “I think I’ll stick around here. There’s something about the experience of the average patron that tells you a lot about a place.”
Thatcher looks surprised when I don’t take him up on his generous offer. But sitting in the VIP section isn’t going to give me a clue about what a normal guy would think about coming to a place like this. And I do consider myself to be a normal guy despite the number of zeros proceeding the twenty-seven in my bank account.
“If that’s what you need to write me a check,” he jokes, but I don’t miss the flicker of uncertainty in his smile that makes me wonder if he’s not telling me everything.
A young kid, barely in his twenties, wearing a suit that looks like it belongs to his father, walks up to Thatcher. He leans in and whispers something to him. The smile slips off Thatcher's face, and he looks around nervously. “Tell my guests that I’ll be right there.”
“Everything okay?” I ask.
