Page 11 of Billionaire Romance

6

Weaver

My hours of nightlife research have not prepared me for the scene I encounter at Le Bain, and it has little to do with my months of being a practical recluse. On a scale of one to ten, Le Bain is a twenty. It’s a total spectacle from the moment we walk in, and it is the exact right spot for me and Kate to spend our first night together.

Kate and I pile into the elevator with a gaggle of the most eclectic, the most stylish New Yorkers I’ve ever seen. Velma at the deli wears the same brown smock every night. My doorman always wears the same crisp green suit, so these club goers are a feast for my eyes. The woman in front of me is sheathed entirely in feathers. I’m squinting at the bizarre dress, trying to figure out if they’re glued to her or sewn onto some invisible mesh. Kate pokes me in the side as she sees my hand creeping out to touch her.

“No touching!” Kate scolds, grabbing my hand back, as if I were a child or a dog.

She’s right. I guess I need to brush up on my social skills. It has been a while since I’ve been out. I realize if I’d worn my plain, usual black cocktail dress, I would actually stand out amongst this group in ass-less chaps, what looks like a green screen suit, and a woman who’s wearing a completely bejeweled jogging suit. I can’t decide if the latter is worn ironically or not. Are jogging suits in? Is irony?

The elevators open up onto an enormous room. The lights are blue and pulsing, and immediately I feel like my body is buzzing with electricity. I can feel the steady strum of the music through the soles of my feet. The DJ is in the middle of the room, surrounded by dancers moving around him on the dancefloor. The club has floor to ceiling views of the city, and one entire side is open up to a rooftop deck and the chilly night air. A few brave, nicotine-craving revelers stand out there, their silhouettes dramatic against the New York City skyline. Kate squeezes my hand tightly at my side and I can hear her squeal a little. We look at each other with enormous grins and wide eyes.

“Drinks!” we say together, heading toward the bar.

The bar snakes down an entire side of the club, and it feels like Kate and I walk a mile before we can sidle up to it. Kate’s back is pressed against the back of man in a neon yellow zoot suit. He tilts his head back to her and tips his hat in greeting. We are so close to each other our noses are practically touching. It feels like the old days, like we’re back in college, as if we haven’t been separated for the past four months and our lives aren’t diametrically different. As if I’m not hiding an enormous secret from her.

The bartender comes up to us and we order shots. We don’t want to hold on to any drinks because we are definitely hitting the dance floor.

“What do we toast to? Pleather pants? Sequins? Getting loaded?” Kate shouts at me, trying to be heard over the impossibly loud beats.

“How about to old friends?” I offer, feeling a little emotional and grateful to have Kate by my side, again.

“Boring but ok. To old friends,” she agrees.

Neon yellow zoot suit had stepped away from the bar, and charcoal gray Prada suit has replaced him.

“Sorry to squeeze in so tight,” he says to Kate, who looks him over from head to toe, not very subtly.

Kate looks back at me and winks. “How about to old friends and maybe making some new ones tonight?”

“Whore,” I deadpan.

“That’s the spirit. Salut!”

We throw back the shots, and it goes down my throat like the burning fire of a thousand suns. I’m not a big drinker, and definitely not a big drinker of straight diesel fuel, so my head is swimming instantly. When my eyes stop watering and we’ve put down our glasses, Kate leads me to the dance floor.

Kate and I loved to dance in college, and since our majors in college were hotel management and hospitality, we joked that all our nights partying were really just homework and research. It doesn’t take us any time at all to get back in the swing of things. Even though I had a hard time walking to the subway in my heels, on the dancefloor I gain back my confidence quickly. The music is a pounding, constant beat, and easy to dance to. I start out timidly, feeling out the song, swaying my hips a bit and moving my arms by my side. Kate though, she throws herself right in. As if all the time she’s been spending at her restaurant has left vast amounts of pent up energy inside her. She’s practically careening. She dances up to me, and next thing I know, she’s dancing with another group of women on the other side of the DJ booth. By the time she’s made her way back to me again, I’ve really gotten into, dragging my hands up and down my sides, taking up more space and enjoying the feeling of my hair whipping against my shoulders and back, feeling like I’m part of this scene, part of something.

Gray Prada suit must have noticed Kate’s attention at the bar, because he’s heading straight toward her on the dancefloor. When he reaches her, he touches her hips from the back and starts swaying with her. She must have seen him coming, because she instantly backs into him and wraps his arms around her waist. His suit brings me back to that night in Paris with Chris. Remembering how he covered my shoulders with his suit jacket against the cool and damp Paris air, and later, the way I tied his hands with his tie and went down on him. I remember the feeling of the soft wool of his pants under my knees, the way he tasted in my mouth, and the hours we spent after, fucking in that cramped Paris studio. The small space filled up with the smell and sounds of our sex.

As the memory becomes vivid, I feel my body come more alive. I feel the silk of my dress moving against my body, the friction on my nipples. I run my hands through my hair, tugging a little bit to remember how he grabbed my ponytail and fucked me from behind. And then I remember the pull, the strong urge to not sneak out the next morning, or to at least leave him my number in case he ever made it to New York. But I didn’t do that, and you can’t turn back time.

WildCaptain. Out of nowhere he pops into my head, and I’m filled with guilt. Guilt for enjoying myself tonight and wondering what he’s doing. Guilt for thinking about Chris, as if I’m betraying him. Wondering if I have any chance of a relationship as long as I’m a cam-girl. Or if any man will ever want me after I stop camming. Maybe WildCaptain, I think. Surely, he doesn’t judge me. But does he want a relationship at all? Probably not since he’s set up this situation with me.

The thoughts are coming a mile a minute, and I dance harder, I focus on the lights, strobing from blue to bright white and back to blue. I listen to the pulsing music, and let it flow through my body, moving me practically against my will. I block out my thoughts and let my senses take over. Stay here. Stay now, I tell myself. I close my eyes and turn, letting my arms fly out and hair spin, dancing all my worries away. And then a hand touches my shoulder, stopping me.

I stand there stunned; not sure if I trust my eyes. Has the shot of diesel sent me into hallucinations? Did my fantasies conjure the man that’s standing in front of me, whose gorgeous mouth is moving but whose words I can’t hear? He’s pointing to himself, and nodding, but the music is blaring, and my ears are ringing from confusion. Because it is Chris in front of me. Paris Chris. Metro Chris. Fucked me until my eyes watered and my throat was sore from screaming Chris.

“Remember me? Chris!” he says. I can hear him now, and I think I nod, but I’m so dazed I just stand there dumbly, not really sure what to do or how this is happening to me.

“You remember me?” he says, now looking at me worried.

“I’m Weaver,” I shout. I can’t think of anything else to say.

“I know,” he shouts back. “Glibba vrom up to you.”

“What?” This is going nowhere. “I can’t really hear you.” I point up to the ceiling indicating the loud music, and then scrunch up my face and cover my ears.

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