Mogul
Page 36
I got the part of my dreams. And his wife is the producer.
It’s all messy and complicated and I’m confused and scared. This dating cautiously thing is not working for me. I cannot stop thinking about him. I’m happy. Too happy, when I’m with him. So happy that I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to tell me he still loves his wife. That he’s going back to his wife. Maybe his wife even hopes for that. I mean, look at my mom. Everything went to hell. She’d have done anything to get my dad back.
His wife knows more about him than I do. Like if he likes… to play Monopoly naked in the middle of the night or something crazy? She has an edge, an advantage over me. What if she cooked his favorite meal when they talked? Or wore his favorite color? And it makes me mad. Because I want this man all to myself and I don’t know if I could bear it if he let me go.
Will this end leaving me to spend the rest of my life comparing every other guy to him? Crushed and wanting a man who wanted someone else a little more?
But it’s not his fault that I’m bad at this whole casual thing. It’s not his fault that I… want more.
I sigh dejectedly. “Where are we going?”
“It’s Hilton’s birthday.”
“Hilton?”
“One of my friends. The one we bumped into at the hotel the other day.”
“Is it proper for me to be going?”
“I don’t care if it’s proper. You’re coming with me.”
CLUB
Sara
The club is sizzling when we arrive. It’s on the lower floor of a modern structure encased in glass, invitation only, with tons of classy cars parked outside. All the young and rich in the city are present, without a doubt. I force myself to hold my head high.
There are women in glittering white dresses, men in stunning black suits and black ties.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
“And yet you’re easily the most stunning woman in the room,” he says with a glance that reminds me of the way he made love to me very, very recently. He introduces me to the friends that come to greet him. “This is Sara.”
His friends look at me in interest as they shake my hand and I shake theirs back. I can tell they’re not used to seeing Ian with someone. Or maybe, with someone else. Especially considering he’s not yet divorced.
I squirm uncomfortably, but Ian squeezes my hand and I exhale.
The only way to survive the walk deeper into the room is to hone every bit of my attention, my senses, on the connection of our hands. My legs follow him inside. When we get deeper into the crowded room, the walls enclosing us flash with shimmering waterfalls and lights, synced to the loud music. There are dancers in cages suspended from the ceiling, a fluorescent bar to the right, and a variety of lounge areas where tables greet you, leading into the massive dance floor where there’s hardly room to dance among the moving bodies. Beyond the dance floor, more tables spread out as far as the eye can see. The backdrop is a stunning pair of velvet curtains, which are partly open to reveal a terrace outside.
Ian talks to one of the guards and points toward the back. As he continues leading me through the crowd, he stops a waiter and orders us drinks. Ian greets a few friends on the way, and all the while, his hand holds mine, saying, I got you.
I feel safer than I thought I would. I trust him. I took a leap of faith and I trust him. I wonder if he will ever trust me after having had a bad marriage. I vow to myself that somehow I’m going to win his trust, and his loyalty, things a man like him must value.
With the whole club circling around him, I realize he must not attend these sorts of events that often, because everyone is ecstatic to see him, men and women alike. I feel myself pulled to him like my anchor and my safety and my universe. And yes, there are a thousand eyes inside this place, and a thousand eyes were on Ian as soon as we walked in. I can feel the stares on me, bouncing from him to me, me to him.
Every fantasy I’ve ever had of finding the right man for me… none of those included the environment. None of those included me feeling as if I don’t quite fit—and yet how can it feel so right to stand beside him?
The glances are frequent and almost too heavy to stand. I feel judged, and vulnerable, but a lot of those stares—I begin to notice—aren’t mean. They are curious, as though they want to know more, like why we are together. I’m trying to smile and act normal when a young hostess comes to assist us. “Mr. Ford, would you like me to show you to your table?”
“Ian!” the blond guy we bumped into at the hotel a while ago calls.
“That’s Hilton,” Ian whispers in my ear, leading the way. Hilton’s date is giving me a frown and Hilton is looking at me like he’s seeing a vision.
“Well, well, well,” Hilton says. “What are you having?” He jerks his face to my empty hands.
“Nothing strong enough,” I admit, spreading my arms to show him I got nothing.
“How about Red Bull and vodka? Goes straight to your head.” He nods in full recommendation, blue eyes twinkling naughtily.
“I’m not having that. I want to be able to walk into my apartment, thank you.”
“Yours or Ian’s?” He grins.
I blush beet red and settle down in the corner of a banquette to leave room for Ian.
Ian slaps his friend’s back and wishes him a happy birthday. Alcohol is flowing freely, and so is the fun. There’s humming laughter, clinking glasses, and shuffling dresses, and the pounding music coming from the crazy dance floor. I’m enjoying it, drinking it all in.
“You know Ian has three sides, don’t you?” Hilton baits me. “His good side. His reckless side. And his side you don’t want to see.” He leans over the lap of the girl sitting next to him. “You better thank your stars you didn’t see him when that shit blew up,” he warns.
My heart squishes in my chest. A female voice calls, “Ian!”
A strawberry-blonde comes up to him flashing a white smile and looks up adoringly into his face. As the woman turns the full force of her charms on him, I want to be rational. He’s the hottest thing in the room, and being here with me says he is available. But he’s still got a wife. Ugh, this is not normal. But those women want a piece of my Dirty Workaholic, and I’m the greediest of them all. He stands to greet the woman and other people slap his back. Then his dark eyes meet mine and my heart swoons. I smile a little. But that’s when I overhear Hilton’s date complaining about me.
“Where did he find her? What does she have that’s so special?”
“Haven’t asked, but if you don’t want to say sayonara to being a good friend of mine, you’d better be nice to Ian’s girl,” Hilton tells her.
“Who says she’s his official girl?”
“I don’t know the specifics, but if you ask me, and I’m the birthday boy, she’s his girl tonight and by the way he keeps checking out where she’s sitting, she’ll be his girl tomorrow night, too. In fact, Loki and I have this little bet on how long it’ll last. We don’t remember Ford being this hooked on anyone for a long time,” Hilton says.
I stand and head to the restroom, where I stare at myself in the mirror. Okay, breathe. You knew this would happen. Not everybody is going to be happy. It doesn’t matter as long as you and Ian are okay. God, but I’d rather stick myself with a fork than endure those bitchy stares and complaints.
It’s all messy and complicated and I’m confused and scared. This dating cautiously thing is not working for me. I cannot stop thinking about him. I’m happy. Too happy, when I’m with him. So happy that I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to tell me he still loves his wife. That he’s going back to his wife. Maybe his wife even hopes for that. I mean, look at my mom. Everything went to hell. She’d have done anything to get my dad back.
His wife knows more about him than I do. Like if he likes… to play Monopoly naked in the middle of the night or something crazy? She has an edge, an advantage over me. What if she cooked his favorite meal when they talked? Or wore his favorite color? And it makes me mad. Because I want this man all to myself and I don’t know if I could bear it if he let me go.
Will this end leaving me to spend the rest of my life comparing every other guy to him? Crushed and wanting a man who wanted someone else a little more?
But it’s not his fault that I’m bad at this whole casual thing. It’s not his fault that I… want more.
I sigh dejectedly. “Where are we going?”
“It’s Hilton’s birthday.”
“Hilton?”
“One of my friends. The one we bumped into at the hotel the other day.”
“Is it proper for me to be going?”
“I don’t care if it’s proper. You’re coming with me.”
CLUB
Sara
The club is sizzling when we arrive. It’s on the lower floor of a modern structure encased in glass, invitation only, with tons of classy cars parked outside. All the young and rich in the city are present, without a doubt. I force myself to hold my head high.
There are women in glittering white dresses, men in stunning black suits and black ties.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
“And yet you’re easily the most stunning woman in the room,” he says with a glance that reminds me of the way he made love to me very, very recently. He introduces me to the friends that come to greet him. “This is Sara.”
His friends look at me in interest as they shake my hand and I shake theirs back. I can tell they’re not used to seeing Ian with someone. Or maybe, with someone else. Especially considering he’s not yet divorced.
I squirm uncomfortably, but Ian squeezes my hand and I exhale.
The only way to survive the walk deeper into the room is to hone every bit of my attention, my senses, on the connection of our hands. My legs follow him inside. When we get deeper into the crowded room, the walls enclosing us flash with shimmering waterfalls and lights, synced to the loud music. There are dancers in cages suspended from the ceiling, a fluorescent bar to the right, and a variety of lounge areas where tables greet you, leading into the massive dance floor where there’s hardly room to dance among the moving bodies. Beyond the dance floor, more tables spread out as far as the eye can see. The backdrop is a stunning pair of velvet curtains, which are partly open to reveal a terrace outside.
Ian talks to one of the guards and points toward the back. As he continues leading me through the crowd, he stops a waiter and orders us drinks. Ian greets a few friends on the way, and all the while, his hand holds mine, saying, I got you.
I feel safer than I thought I would. I trust him. I took a leap of faith and I trust him. I wonder if he will ever trust me after having had a bad marriage. I vow to myself that somehow I’m going to win his trust, and his loyalty, things a man like him must value.
With the whole club circling around him, I realize he must not attend these sorts of events that often, because everyone is ecstatic to see him, men and women alike. I feel myself pulled to him like my anchor and my safety and my universe. And yes, there are a thousand eyes inside this place, and a thousand eyes were on Ian as soon as we walked in. I can feel the stares on me, bouncing from him to me, me to him.
Every fantasy I’ve ever had of finding the right man for me… none of those included the environment. None of those included me feeling as if I don’t quite fit—and yet how can it feel so right to stand beside him?
The glances are frequent and almost too heavy to stand. I feel judged, and vulnerable, but a lot of those stares—I begin to notice—aren’t mean. They are curious, as though they want to know more, like why we are together. I’m trying to smile and act normal when a young hostess comes to assist us. “Mr. Ford, would you like me to show you to your table?”
“Ian!” the blond guy we bumped into at the hotel a while ago calls.
“That’s Hilton,” Ian whispers in my ear, leading the way. Hilton’s date is giving me a frown and Hilton is looking at me like he’s seeing a vision.
“Well, well, well,” Hilton says. “What are you having?” He jerks his face to my empty hands.
“Nothing strong enough,” I admit, spreading my arms to show him I got nothing.
“How about Red Bull and vodka? Goes straight to your head.” He nods in full recommendation, blue eyes twinkling naughtily.
“I’m not having that. I want to be able to walk into my apartment, thank you.”
“Yours or Ian’s?” He grins.
I blush beet red and settle down in the corner of a banquette to leave room for Ian.
Ian slaps his friend’s back and wishes him a happy birthday. Alcohol is flowing freely, and so is the fun. There’s humming laughter, clinking glasses, and shuffling dresses, and the pounding music coming from the crazy dance floor. I’m enjoying it, drinking it all in.
“You know Ian has three sides, don’t you?” Hilton baits me. “His good side. His reckless side. And his side you don’t want to see.” He leans over the lap of the girl sitting next to him. “You better thank your stars you didn’t see him when that shit blew up,” he warns.
My heart squishes in my chest. A female voice calls, “Ian!”
A strawberry-blonde comes up to him flashing a white smile and looks up adoringly into his face. As the woman turns the full force of her charms on him, I want to be rational. He’s the hottest thing in the room, and being here with me says he is available. But he’s still got a wife. Ugh, this is not normal. But those women want a piece of my Dirty Workaholic, and I’m the greediest of them all. He stands to greet the woman and other people slap his back. Then his dark eyes meet mine and my heart swoons. I smile a little. But that’s when I overhear Hilton’s date complaining about me.
“Where did he find her? What does she have that’s so special?”
“Haven’t asked, but if you don’t want to say sayonara to being a good friend of mine, you’d better be nice to Ian’s girl,” Hilton tells her.
“Who says she’s his official girl?”
“I don’t know the specifics, but if you ask me, and I’m the birthday boy, she’s his girl tonight and by the way he keeps checking out where she’s sitting, she’ll be his girl tomorrow night, too. In fact, Loki and I have this little bet on how long it’ll last. We don’t remember Ford being this hooked on anyone for a long time,” Hilton says.
I stand and head to the restroom, where I stare at myself in the mirror. Okay, breathe. You knew this would happen. Not everybody is going to be happy. It doesn’t matter as long as you and Ian are okay. God, but I’d rather stick myself with a fork than endure those bitchy stares and complaints.
