So he did his thing and onward.
For a guy like him, I was probably a memory.
I didn’t like this and yet I did. I was relieved and upset. It was odd. And these feelings weren’t fading. Not even a little.
Which sucked. Not just because they weren’t fading but because they were confusing as all get out.
I still wondered if he thought about me when he was doing a certain deed. After a few days of trying to convince myself I didn’t as well as trying not to think about it at all, and failing at both, I admitted to myself that I liked this idea even as it freaked me out just how much I did (which was a lot). However, it was highly unlikely a man like him ever needed his fist, as in ever, so it was also highly doubtful.
So I decided to go out, have a few drinks, dance and celebrate new sheets, a new comforter and new pillows. Without having to buy the phone, bed linens had been stepped up on my schedule of things I could buy. I got the good kind of those too, going way beyond what I would normally allow myself and doing it because I not only had the money but because Viv brought me a new client. An extra fifteen dollars every two weeks for a steady, Sunday manicure appointment. And for me, thirty dollars a month was awesome.
So celebration it was.
“You know, asking around, that Knight Sebring guy owns this club.”
This was Viv shouting in my ear as we walked into Slade, the trendiest nightclub in downtown Denver and that was trendy in a bizarre way where it wasn’t trendy just for a year or two but had been since I started clubbing when I was twenty-one. The cover charge was high but it was the place to see and be seen. It was uncanny since clubs went in and out but Slade stayed popular. So popular, when celebrities hit town, they hit Slade. This was because Slade had small, medium and large VIP seating that was cordoned off from the commoners. Movie stars went there. Rap stars. R&B stars. Broncos. Nuggets. They took their posses to their VIP sections, had their own cocktail waitresses and bouncers and didn’t see but were up on daises so they could be seen.
This was so rare, I had actually given headspace to this phenomenon and came up with the fact that Slade stayed the hotspot because every year it was closed down for a month and the entire inside was gutted and renovated. It was like getting a whole new club and yet it wasn’t. And it was always the best, the coolest, the hippest. A costly but clever ploy, I thought, and it worked.
Not to mention the cocktail waitresses were always gorgeous with amazing bodies, the bartenders were hot and the bouncers and security were huge, scary but all attractive so if you hit Slade there were other treats for both sexes. Not just hot music in a hip atmosphere with well-poured drinks in fantastic glasses but eye candy.
Further, there was a line to get in, every night, even weekdays, and whether you agreed or not it was the right thing to do, the bouncers picked and chose who got in. It wasn’t just about clothes and money. If you were gorgeous, you went to the front of the line. Then, if you looked like you had serious cake, you got in. All others could stand out there for hours and never get in so they’d learned over the years not even to bother.
We got in because Sandrine had her sheet of strawberry blonde hair, fake br**sts an ex-boyfriend bought her and her ability to say no to desserts all the time and therefore her body was slim and perfectly toned. Not to mention, there was Vivica, with her tall, slender frame, dark, flawless midnight skin, unusual tawny eyes, graceful giraffe neckline and perfect skull with her short cropped afro. And, lastly, apparently the new intel was me, who had a face that could launch a thousand hard-ons. Not a flowery compliment but still, it said it all even if it pulled no punches.
Once I noticed this (not, obviously, the bit about me since I didn’t know that until a week and a day ago), this had made me, for a six month stretch, swear off Slade. Sandrine, of course, wore me down and I lifted my ban.
So now I was back and had been back for a couple of years though with decreasing regularity.
Further, last Saturday I’d told both Viv and Sandrine all about Knight.
Sandrine’s comment was, “Hope he leaves you alone. He’s totally hot but he’s also a total ass**le.”
Vivica just stared at me and said nothing. This was her way. She tended to cast judgment only when she had all the facts even if, I found, one of those facts included the knowledge that some guy had sent “his boys” out to beat someone up for me. Still, it was one of the three million, twenty-two thousand, six hundred and eleven things I loved about her. That said, once she cast judgment, whether it was right or wrong (or whether I thought it was right or wrong), it would take torture to make her change her mind. This could get a tad bit irritating. But it was, as far as I could see, Viv’s only flaw. And since we put up with enough of them from Sandrine, it all balanced out.
Until I mentioned him, neither of them knew Knight Sebring.
But obviously, Viv had asked around. I wasn’t surprised. This was also Viv’s way. She tended to be curious and that curiosity would go into overdrive once a man gave me a thousand dollar phone and had my landlord beaten up to make me safe(ish).
“Really?” I shouted back.
She nodded. “Yep. Since it opened eight years go.”
Wow. Interesting.
Suddenly, I was happy that I’d pulled out my best going out dress. It was designer but I bought it at a secondhand shop. Black, skintight, two inches above the knee, one shoulder bare, other arm sleeveless, across the side it gathered to a big, opened hole that exposed the skin of my other side under the sleeveless arm from ribs to the top of my hip. It wasn’t hot. It was scorching hot. And part of that scorching was the obvious fact that, to wear it, there was no way I could wear underwear. I loved it. I’d paired it with spike-heeled, strappy sandals that were black but looked like they were coated with silver glitter. They didn’t cost the bomb, I got them on sale at a mid-scale shoe store but they were sexy as all heck.
“Did you, uh…” I was still shouting in her ear as we pressed through the bodies on our way to the bar, “learn anything else about him?”
Her eyes caught mine and she shook her head. “Nope. No one knows much about him except he’s Nick’s older brother. I think he’s thirty-four, thirty-five, got different ages on him but only those two. He’s not Nick’s biggest fan which means I’m leaning toward liking him. He’s also got a serious, kickass name. And he owns this club.”
Not a lot of information, some of it I already knew, but still interesting.
“Ohmigod!” We both heard Sandrine shriek and our eyes went forward to where she was powering through the club, cutting a swath for Viv and my passage, to see she’d turned back to us. “That ass**le is here!”
For a guy like him, I was probably a memory.
I didn’t like this and yet I did. I was relieved and upset. It was odd. And these feelings weren’t fading. Not even a little.
Which sucked. Not just because they weren’t fading but because they were confusing as all get out.
I still wondered if he thought about me when he was doing a certain deed. After a few days of trying to convince myself I didn’t as well as trying not to think about it at all, and failing at both, I admitted to myself that I liked this idea even as it freaked me out just how much I did (which was a lot). However, it was highly unlikely a man like him ever needed his fist, as in ever, so it was also highly doubtful.
So I decided to go out, have a few drinks, dance and celebrate new sheets, a new comforter and new pillows. Without having to buy the phone, bed linens had been stepped up on my schedule of things I could buy. I got the good kind of those too, going way beyond what I would normally allow myself and doing it because I not only had the money but because Viv brought me a new client. An extra fifteen dollars every two weeks for a steady, Sunday manicure appointment. And for me, thirty dollars a month was awesome.
So celebration it was.
“You know, asking around, that Knight Sebring guy owns this club.”
This was Viv shouting in my ear as we walked into Slade, the trendiest nightclub in downtown Denver and that was trendy in a bizarre way where it wasn’t trendy just for a year or two but had been since I started clubbing when I was twenty-one. The cover charge was high but it was the place to see and be seen. It was uncanny since clubs went in and out but Slade stayed popular. So popular, when celebrities hit town, they hit Slade. This was because Slade had small, medium and large VIP seating that was cordoned off from the commoners. Movie stars went there. Rap stars. R&B stars. Broncos. Nuggets. They took their posses to their VIP sections, had their own cocktail waitresses and bouncers and didn’t see but were up on daises so they could be seen.
This was so rare, I had actually given headspace to this phenomenon and came up with the fact that Slade stayed the hotspot because every year it was closed down for a month and the entire inside was gutted and renovated. It was like getting a whole new club and yet it wasn’t. And it was always the best, the coolest, the hippest. A costly but clever ploy, I thought, and it worked.
Not to mention the cocktail waitresses were always gorgeous with amazing bodies, the bartenders were hot and the bouncers and security were huge, scary but all attractive so if you hit Slade there were other treats for both sexes. Not just hot music in a hip atmosphere with well-poured drinks in fantastic glasses but eye candy.
Further, there was a line to get in, every night, even weekdays, and whether you agreed or not it was the right thing to do, the bouncers picked and chose who got in. It wasn’t just about clothes and money. If you were gorgeous, you went to the front of the line. Then, if you looked like you had serious cake, you got in. All others could stand out there for hours and never get in so they’d learned over the years not even to bother.
We got in because Sandrine had her sheet of strawberry blonde hair, fake br**sts an ex-boyfriend bought her and her ability to say no to desserts all the time and therefore her body was slim and perfectly toned. Not to mention, there was Vivica, with her tall, slender frame, dark, flawless midnight skin, unusual tawny eyes, graceful giraffe neckline and perfect skull with her short cropped afro. And, lastly, apparently the new intel was me, who had a face that could launch a thousand hard-ons. Not a flowery compliment but still, it said it all even if it pulled no punches.
Once I noticed this (not, obviously, the bit about me since I didn’t know that until a week and a day ago), this had made me, for a six month stretch, swear off Slade. Sandrine, of course, wore me down and I lifted my ban.
So now I was back and had been back for a couple of years though with decreasing regularity.
Further, last Saturday I’d told both Viv and Sandrine all about Knight.
Sandrine’s comment was, “Hope he leaves you alone. He’s totally hot but he’s also a total ass**le.”
Vivica just stared at me and said nothing. This was her way. She tended to cast judgment only when she had all the facts even if, I found, one of those facts included the knowledge that some guy had sent “his boys” out to beat someone up for me. Still, it was one of the three million, twenty-two thousand, six hundred and eleven things I loved about her. That said, once she cast judgment, whether it was right or wrong (or whether I thought it was right or wrong), it would take torture to make her change her mind. This could get a tad bit irritating. But it was, as far as I could see, Viv’s only flaw. And since we put up with enough of them from Sandrine, it all balanced out.
Until I mentioned him, neither of them knew Knight Sebring.
But obviously, Viv had asked around. I wasn’t surprised. This was also Viv’s way. She tended to be curious and that curiosity would go into overdrive once a man gave me a thousand dollar phone and had my landlord beaten up to make me safe(ish).
“Really?” I shouted back.
She nodded. “Yep. Since it opened eight years go.”
Wow. Interesting.
Suddenly, I was happy that I’d pulled out my best going out dress. It was designer but I bought it at a secondhand shop. Black, skintight, two inches above the knee, one shoulder bare, other arm sleeveless, across the side it gathered to a big, opened hole that exposed the skin of my other side under the sleeveless arm from ribs to the top of my hip. It wasn’t hot. It was scorching hot. And part of that scorching was the obvious fact that, to wear it, there was no way I could wear underwear. I loved it. I’d paired it with spike-heeled, strappy sandals that were black but looked like they were coated with silver glitter. They didn’t cost the bomb, I got them on sale at a mid-scale shoe store but they were sexy as all heck.
“Did you, uh…” I was still shouting in her ear as we pressed through the bodies on our way to the bar, “learn anything else about him?”
Her eyes caught mine and she shook her head. “Nope. No one knows much about him except he’s Nick’s older brother. I think he’s thirty-four, thirty-five, got different ages on him but only those two. He’s not Nick’s biggest fan which means I’m leaning toward liking him. He’s also got a serious, kickass name. And he owns this club.”
Not a lot of information, some of it I already knew, but still interesting.
“Ohmigod!” We both heard Sandrine shriek and our eyes went forward to where she was powering through the club, cutting a swath for Viv and my passage, to see she’d turned back to us. “That ass**le is here!”
