The Duet(3)

The girl batted her overly mascaraed eyelashes at us. “Uh, yeah. We’ve been waiting here for ten minutes and you guys just cut the line.”

“Ladies, ladies. Cool it. I was the one who let them cut the line. Here you go, Brooklyn,” the bartender said, cutting the tension and holding out two martini glasses garnished with lemon peel and dipped in sugar. Yum.

We took the drinks, and I dragged Cammie toward a table in the corner before a brawl broke out. Cammie had much less patience with entitled yuppies than I did.

The lighting was dim inside the club, especially near the perimeter where separate tables were tucked away into little alcoves. Instead of chairs, there were miniature couches covered in rich brown velvet—a bit tacky for my taste— but they were so soft so who cares.

“You’re making me regret not bringing along Hank tonight. I didn’t think we’d need security if we were in the VIP section,” I said as we took our seats across from each other.

Cammie shrugged innocently before holding her glass out toward me. “Sometimes I just can’t stand the people in these clubs. I feel like we’d have more fun downstairs with people who don’t have poles up their asses.”

I laughed. “Well, to be fair, most of these people want those poles in their asses.”

That little comment pulled Cammie out of her funk. She threw her head back and laughed before sitting up and locking eyes with me.

“To sisters,” Cammie said, clinking her glass with mine.

“To sisters!” I yelled back.

…



Although that certainly wasn’t the last cheers of the night, it was definitely the last one I remembered. Our little hunky bartender had put so much vodka in that first drink that I was buzzed within minutes.

I didn’t remember the Brazilian underwear model introducing himself at our table and I somehow missed his name altogether. It was either Hector or Jorge. I tried to get Cammie to introduce herself so she could get his name, but she wasn’t playing along because she thought it was funnier if I didn’t know. The little cow.

As the night wore on, I was too embarrassed to bring it up again, but whatever, I just needed some sex; I didn’t need to know the guy’s name. I was on birth control and I had condoms. Not to mention, I recognized his face from billboards around town, so if he murdered me, Cammie could definitely avenge my death.

Around midnight, Cammie told me she was going to have my driver drop her back at the dorms. I didn’t want her to leave because I was having so much fun, but I really needed some alone time with Mr. HectorJorge considering he was attached to my neck. No really, he was like one of those suckerfish. I knew I’d be undoubtedly sporting a sloppy hickey the next day.

Cammie left after I’d given her a dozen hugs, and the second she was safe at home (I had her send me a selfie from her dorm), I turned to the model and laid out the plan.

He was pretty to look at up-close, like a Snickers bar. I looked at him and just knew I’d have one naughty night with him, enjoying all of his chocolaty-goodness, except without the guilt and the early-morning workout the next day.

“I need you to come home with me,” I declared, staring into his eyes, but not really seeing anything. How many drinks had I consumed? I thought I told Cammie to cut me off early?

“Okay. Let’s go,” he said, standing up and taking me with him. Blood rushed to my head as I stood and I had to squeeze my eyes closed for a moment or I knew I was going to throw up all over his pointy loafers.

“You have to go out by yourself first,” I told him as we walked down the stairs out of the club. Usually, paparazzi weren’t allowed in the back alley, but some of their cameras had crazy zoom abilities and I wanted to play it safe. “I’ll come out a few minutes later. Just wait for me in the limousine.”

“Whatever you want,” he said, running a hand through his gelled hair and pushing open the back door. A blast of fresh air hit me, sobering me up enough that, for a second, the idea of having a meaningless one-night-stand didn’t sound so appealing anymore.

I shoved that dumb thought aside. Thoughts like that were how I’d landed in this mess in the first place. One year without sex had been long enough. I was not about to test out the “If you don’t use it, you lose it” theory. Nope. My vagina was not going to disappear on my watch.

After an appropriate amount of time had passed, I held my jacket up to shield any stray camera flashes and darted for the limousine. Mr. Brazilian model was waiting for me inside, checking out the champagne and taking it upon himself to open every compartment.

“Want something to drink?” he asked as he popped the cork. I watched it ricochet throughout the interior, smacking the window and then bouncing back so quickly that he had to duck out of the way. Sheesh. The last thing I needed was for Mr. Model to lose his eye in the back of my limousine.