So, instead, I try my best to fit in. Luckily, there has been soap opera worthy drama with my friends since we all started spending time together. And because of that, no eyes have landed on me.
Yet.
First there was the whole thing with Emmy’s sister being in a coma, followed by a kidnapping, followed by a wedding. Throw in her new husband, Ace, who kept a hidden identity before he proposed.
Then Claire had her first marriage followed by her fake engagement followed by her real wedding, complete with her big I’m actually a mother reveal. Her new husband Landon is a diamond tycoon and heir to a fortune ... even though he thought he’d lost it for a hot minute when we all traveled to London to surprise them.
For a day or two, I got nervous that once we returned from England all eyes would finally land on me, but McQueen, the other bad boy in this Rat Pack, took up where Landon left off. He fell in love with an Irish goddess-slash-MMA-fighter named JoJo and saved her from a crazy, murdery stalker.
Oh, and then he proposed before her first professional fight.
And that was just last week.
So, yeah, no one has had time to dig up any dirt on me.
Why would they? Like I said, I do my very best to fit in seamlessly, and make as many culturally relevant references as possible. Yep, I’m constantly looking at magazines, but it’s not for the celebrity gossip. I’m trying to figure out how to dress, how to joke. How to be.
But right now, sitting here on this plush velvet couch, with all my previously mentioned friends, I’ve apparently forgotten my mantra. Because Emmy and Claire are cracking up, watching me watch Jack. I bristle, knowing I’m the center of whatever they are laughing about.
“What?” I ask, looking around. The club is so loud I doubt they even hear me.
“You’re gawking, Tess,” Claire says, leaning over and speaking directly into my ear so I don’t miss her four-syllable observation.
“Oh,” I say, clamping my mouth shut, momentarily mortified.
Ever since we got back from London six weeks ago, Emmy and Claire have been teasing me about my crush on Jack. But they’ve been discreet about it, knowing I’d be embarrassed as all get out if he knew.
Like I said, I won the friend-lottery with those two.
“I wish you and Jack were together,” Emmy shouts. “Ashley is seriously a hyena.”
“A gorgeous hyena,” I add, cocking an eyebrow over at Ashley, who has been sitting a table away all evening with Jack’s agent and the fancy music producer that’s apparently been wooing him.
It’s crazy talk to call Ashley a hyena, even though her laugh does grate on me. Everyone knows Jack’s on-again, off-again superstar girlfriend is hotter than hell. And even if they weren’t together, I’m no competition.
I’m Tess ... a girl from Arkansas who likes BBQ and sweet tea. Not, you know, a Grammy award-winning diva.
On that note, the club goes nuts as Jack ramps up the tempo for what I’m assuming is the final encore of the night. There’s already been one. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ashley and Kirby leave the club.
A twinge of envy passes through my belly, knowing she’s headed backstage to her boyfriend. A boyfriend who probably bends her over backward to blow her mind.
Not that I’m thinking about sex with Jack ... I mean, not this minute.
Whew—is it just me, or is it hot in here?
Gah. Okay, of course I’m thinking about sleeping with Jack. I always am. His body is perfection: ripped, but not with meaty muscle like the boys I grew up with. Tattoos cover his arms—but, again, they’re soulful artwork. Quotes and thick black lines, hinting at a softer side to the man who always looks so secure, so damn in control.
His body is nothing like the inked-up flesh of the men back home. They all had full-color images covering their backs and chests, as if proving something with their tattoos. The bigger the better, maybe? I saw enough of them naked to know that wasn’t the case.
But, as confetti falls from the club’s ceiling, coating us all in tissue paper perfection, I’m brought back to the present. Can’t dwell in the past when the present is a dream. A fantasy. A life that really feels too good to be true, even if I don’t have a man like Jack by my side.
The strobe lights are cracking out, blinding us. We stand, laughing, dancing. Having the time of our lives.
McQueen hands me a flute of champagne, and I toast JoJo, who smiles widely, as brightly as the brand-spanking-new engagement ring on her finger. We stand on the couches in our tiny dresses as the night closes.
One of Jack’s greatest hits blares through the massive nightclub and I take a sip of the bubbly.
The song ends and the lights come on. It’s crazy late, the wee hours of the morning, but I don’t have to work tomorrow, so I don’t care. In Vegas two a.m. means the night is just ramping up, and I’m game for anything.