“Did you see Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome back there?” one of the men asks. His name is Carlos and he has brightly colored feathers embellishing his fire engine red faux hawk. “Giiirl, when I found out he owned this place, I said ‘Hell yes! Where do I sign?’ Papi had me wide open. I was ready to work for free just so I can look at that ass!” We all erupt with laughter, and I secretly sympathize with Carlos. Yes, Dorian definitely has that affect.
“But that one little chick can’t keep her damn hands off him. She was here all last week, while we’re trying to set up, chasing after him. Oooh, and she’s a mean little bitch too. Don’t let that pretty face fool you,” his friend, Jackson, chimes in. He’s tall and svelte and could easily be a male model with his long platinum blonde locks and tan skin.
The guys engage in raucous banter about their run-ins with Aurora while Morgan and I listen intently, exchanging the occasional glance and nod. We’re taking it all in, trying to find out what’s really going on with Dorian and Aurora.
“Well, I say we drink this free champagne, eat this free food and really get this party started!” their other buddy exclaims. His name is Xavier but he would rather people call him X. His hair is a bit more tamed- short, full and chocolate brown- being that he works in the governor’s office. But he makes up for it with vivid colored eye makeup that’s fashioned into a peacock. It looks like a true work of art and I’m in awe.
We all grab glasses of champagne and raise them in celebration. Soon after, the smooth sounds of jazz change to booming bass-lines and drumbeats and the real fun begins. We dance, eat, drink, and laugh until our sides hurt. Still, all I can think about is Dorian and if Aurora is occupying his bed tonight.
It’s nearly midnight and I am tipsy, feeling the fuzzy effects of champagne and Patron. Carlos and his friends know how to have a good time and we all promise to go out to Denver for a real night on the town soon. Morgan ushers me to her Mustang though I’m more than capable of making it there on my own. She’s worried about taking me home in fear that my parents may catch me stumbling in the house so I construct a text, informing them that I’m staying at her house. Her parents are more lenient with their little princess.
We head North, passing nightclubs and bars, bustling with music and laughter. I roll down the window and let the frigid air sober me up while Jay-Z pumps through the sound system spinning an evocative tale of his past and present, dreams and realities, life and death. I urge the hypnotic drumbeats to carry me to another place devoid of all my trivial qualms about my hopeless love life but my intoxicated mind refuses to abandon the nagging questions.
“Wait. Take me to the Broadmoor,” I command suddenly. Morgan is looking at me warily, probably thinking that I’ve had way too much to drink. “Seriously, Morg. I need to go to the Broadmoor.”
She gives me a pointed look, pursing her full, glossed lips. “What’s at the Broadmoor?”
I look at my best friend, conviction in my eyes. “Dorian.”
Without another word, Morgan makes a U-turn at the next light.
We pull up to the grand resort and simultaneously gasp at its splendor. It’s beyond gorgeous. And with spotlights illuminating the vast estate, it looks more like a modern-day castle than a hotel.
“So do you know what room he’s staying in?” Morgan asks.
“No,” I respond, sheepishly.
“Then how do you expect to get to his room? Hotels like these just don’t give away room information. People pay for discretion, Gabs.” Morgan obviously has had more experience with this stuff than I have.
I look in the back seat and grab the gift bags we received from the salon opening, emptying the swag into our purses. I open a nude lipgloss and give my pout a fresh, glimmering coat. Morgan grabs a comb and begins to work her magic, releasing my ringlets from the hair clip and letting them cascade down my back. She gives me a fresh sweep of blush and hands me her jacket. I shrug it on and after a second glance to ensure I’m presentable, I grab the empty gift bags, my purse and step out of the Mustang.
“Thanks, Morgan. You’re the best,” I smile sweetly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Now go get your man.”
I stroll through the entrance and enter the majestic lobby, careful not to look too awestruck at its brilliance. I bound gracefully to the reception desk to be greeted by a young man with freckles and fiery red hair.
“Hello, I am Mrs. Skotos. I’ve just flown here to surprise my husband for his birthday and I can’t seem to remember his room number,” I say confidently, showing him the gift bags.