Hot Mess (12 page)

“Later, love. Gotta earn enough money to keep you ’appy!” He kissed her nose and started to walk away.

“Damien!” she called after him, and bit her lip coyly and nodded toward a bottle of some alcohol over the bar. He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and gave her a knowing smirk before pouring us two huge cocktails. My stomach gurgled at the thought of another drink, but I took it anyway. It would at least be good to have something to hold so I wouldn’t be standing with my hands at my sides like a soldier at attention all night. Jayla winked at her boy toy and then pranced away, me in tow.

Just as we sat down at a table, Chloe sauntered over carrying two drinks.

“Well, that didn’t go well!” she snapped testily.

“What happened?” I asked. “You got drinks, right?”

Before she could even register how lame whatever I said was, a photographer came up and motioned for us all to get together. In two seconds, Jayla and Chloe were in perfect Paris Hilton, hands-on-hips-arched-back picture pose as I fumbled for a place to put my drink.

“And…one, two, three.” He turned to show us the picture but Chloe said she looked like a velociraptor—whatever that meant—and made him take another. After getting her okay on that one, he thanked us and disappeared into the crowd.

“Who was that guy? Is that the paparazzi?” I thought the rich and famous hated photographers.

“Not really. He’s from Jossip,” Jayla said.

“It’s gossip?” I could barely hear her over the
“Can’t keep her little model hands off me!”
blaring from the speakers next to us.

“What?” she yelled back.

“Huh?”

“You wanna go smoke?” asked Chloe, interrupting my Three Stooges moment. Jayla nodded and motioned for me to come along.

“Oh, no thanks. I tried smoking when I was in middle school, because I thought that it would make me look cooler. But I really should have tried Accutane.”

More silence and then they turned on their stilettos and walk away. I called out after them, “It was just a joke. I was already on Accutane in middle school. Kidding, again!”

I watched as they disappeared into the crowded darkness, then settled into my seat at the now empty table. I watched a pack of gorgeous blond girls try to dance while simultaneously looking at themselves in the mirror
and
making eyes at a group of rich-looking guys in the corner. Although I doubt that these girls were really planning on meeting and talking to those guys. With all of the flashing lights, thudding bass, and people bumping into you, it seemed impossible to have a real conversation.

I realized that I had put my drink down at some point during my crowd scoping and hadn’t really been paying attention to it. Not wanting to get roofied, I headed back to the bar. I had no idea what to order, as I was pretty sure Jayla Juice wasn’t on any menu. I leaned into the bar, trying to act as natural as possible. A bartender who wasn’t Jayla’s Damien pointed to me and asked what I would be having. I totally panicked. “Um, just come back later. I’m still deciding,” I said, my nervousness totally audible in my voice. I got a weird look from the bartender. There didn’t seem to be a bar menu people were looking at, so I was completely unsure as to how I’d pick out a beverage. Why didn’t they just have a keg here?

A guy pushed me a little as he slid up to the bar. He barked, “Long Island, please,” at the bartender. So I yelled, “Yeah, same thing for me.” I wondered if I should have specified shaken or stirred, but before I could add that, I was handed a glass of the most rancid concoction I’d ever tasted. Does anyone actually like this crap? My vile beverage in hand, I decided to hide in the bathroom for a while. I doubted there would be a line. I mean, at twelve dollars for a drink, who can even afford to fill their bladder up?

As I moved through the crowd of hips swaying to JT, I tried to steady my drink and keep it from spilling all over. Every bump and splash was a solid chunk of my allowance spilling onto my wrist. I thought about licking up the spills, just to get my money’s worth, but if Jayla saw me doing that, she’d be so mortified that she’d never bring me out with her again.

I managed to make my way to the back staircase, and as I stepped down, I saw a few cameras flash. I turned to see long wavy blonde hair on the head of what looked like a twelve-year-old girl heading toward the VIP section. It had to be an Olsen twin.

I spun around to rush outside and tell the girls there had been an MK sighting. I was pumped to have an actual purpose besides being “Awkward Girl Who Makes Everyone Else Feel Cooler.” But as I turned, I slammed myself into a pair of broad shoulders and sloshed my drink all over Jayla’s shirt.

“Gahh!” I shrieked, and stamped my feet as I felt the alcohol seeping into the padding of my strapless bra. Before I could even take in the full embarrassment of the situation, someone was handing me a fistful of cocktail napkins and I was dabbing at my chest. I looked up to thank the napkin giver and melted at the sight of this guy—blond hair, green eyes, an easy smile, and perfect teeth. My jaw was practically unhinged it was open so wide. He was one of the hottest guys I’d ever seen not in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. And he was standing right next to me! And he was looking at me! And he was talking to me!

“I’d help you out with that,” he pointed to the stain on my chest. “But I usually like to buy a girl dinner first.”

And he was funny! Oh my God, he was perfection incarnate. This could be love at first quip.

Twelve

W
here the heck was Jayla when I needed her? What should I do now? I wished I had a secret earpiece that connected directly to her, like Ashton had on
Punk’d.
She’d make a hot director of my love life. But seriously, I needed to think like Jayla if I didn’t want to completely drown in my own club scene ineptness. WWJD? I had no freaking idea. Maybe call him “dahhhling” and then lick her lips until he bought her a drink? For a second, I pictured myself doing that. He’d probably think I had gum disease.

While my brain was carefully considering my next move, my mouth fearlessly lunged forward into the deepest depths of awkwardness without ever looking back. “Yeah, and I normally like to French a little before sliding into second base like that.” French? Second base? Was I in a fifth-grade game of spin the bottle? Could I be any more in high school?

“Second base?” he asked. I wanted to run and hide, but with all the roped-off VIP sections, it was like I was in a velvet prison with nowhere to go. Plus, with these mile-high heels, I’d probably just wind up falling down the stairs and breaking my neck. And there’s nothing sexy about a full body cast.

“Ha! That’s classic,” Mr. Tall Blond and Helpful laughed, and not in a God-I-can’t-wait-to-tell-my-friends-how-young-you-are kind of way. “I haven’t heard that since high school.”

Again, the mouth just started flapping without me knowing what was coming out. “Well, if leggings can come back, so can the bases, right?” I could not believe that I was having a real conversation with a hot guy in an awesome New York club. This was so
Sex and the City,
I wanted to pinch myself.

He nodded and smiled. A perfectly perfect smile. Not too perfect, like Nick Lachey dental-work-and-weekly-bleaching perfect. Jake Gyllenhaal perfect. And there were deep lines where his cheeks met his mouth that didn’t make me think he was old, just that he was a guy who smiled a lot. I liked that. And through his perfectly perfect smile came, “Just as long as the Bloodhound Gang doesn’t make a comeback, I’m down with the retro revival.” I nodded, though I didn’t follow. Was Bloodhound Gang one of those crump dancing groups? That was getting Wikipedia’d as soon as I got home.

“Let me buy you a replacement,” he offered, grazing my elbow slightly as he gestured to the bar.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. There’s still some left.” I shook the glass, which only had a millimeter of melty ice left in it. Why did I say no? Jayla made it seem like getting a guy to buy you a drink was the ultimate goal. Well, not the ultimate,
ultimate
goal, but still something that I should not just
let
him, but
want
him to do. I made a mental note to start thinking before speaking.

“Unless you’re planning on taking that straw and sucking down your shirt, there’s none of that drink left. Come on.” He put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the bar. His hand was big and certain, sending a ripple of tingles up my back. I tried not to shudder, and let him move me forward, glad that he wouldn’t be able to see my face as I blushed.

“A Jack and Coke, please, and…” He bent down, pretending to smell my skin, his nose almost rubbing my shoulder. I felt the pulsing tingles start again. “What’s that? A Ketel One and tonic?” Okay, when I find out that this guy is famous—anyone this hot has to be famous—and relive this story for Rachel, I’m just going to say we went to second base at this point. I mean, his nose was like only inches away from my skin. Totally counted.

I giggled, and then tried to turn it into a deeper, more mature laugh but just ended up sounding like a dog before it throws up. Even though a Ketel One and tonic wasn’t the fertilizer-and-soda special that I was drinking before, I said, “Exactly.”

I hung back, letting him order for me and ask the bartender to add it to his tab. He passed me my drink and I thanked him, trying to sound casual and not like this was the first time a boy had ever bought me a drink in my entire life.

New drinks in hand, we made our way to an empty booth, positioning ourselves beside a gaggle of gorgeous girls. I eyed the girls and heard my heart thud as it sank. My blond Wentworth Miller was totally going to do a one-eighty and spend the rest of the night gawking at these Pussycat Doll rejects. Me and my sopping tube top would get ditched. But instead, he leaned in close—those lips not even an inch from touching my ear—and whispered, “You good here?” I could feel his voice more than hear it, wet and soft. With a slight turn of my head, I’d be kissing those lips.

Instead, in an effort to win the Awkward Olympics, I jerked back suddenly. “Who, me?” I pointed to myself with a thumb, drawing more attention to the wet spot on Jayla’s tube top. “Yeah, I’m good. I mean I’m doing
well
. Good is an adjective and you need an adverb there. I mean,
one
would need an adverb there.” I couldn’t be more awkward if I started peeing myself right there.

Another so-sexy-it-has-to-be-illegal smile crossed his face. I wanted to take a picture of him, because I knew that with that grammar lesson, I wasn’t going to be salivating at that smile in person for much longer. “An English major, I presume? At Penn, I was a twentieth-century lit guy.” He was like the social Harry Potter—he could turn any of my blunders into legit conversations. Pure magic!

I nodded.

For the record, I had not just lied to him. That was simply avoiding the truth. Telling him that I was a barely eighteen-year-old high schooler would go over like a “yo’ mama” joke at an orphanage. And I had thought about being an English major in college, maybe. I mean, I hadn’t thought about
not
being an English major, okay? And I did read. Well, when I wasn’t watching reality television. Whatever, I wrote a lot and I was signed up for AP English next year. That counted. Plus, I was never going to see this guy again. Lying to him totally didn’t count. It’s not like I was cheating on the SATs or anything.

I took a big sip of my drink. The effect of the Jayla Juices was tapering off, and as awky as I was acting now, I knew I’d be a hundred times more odd if I allowed myself to sober up and fully overanalyze the situation in progress.

“You let me know when you’re done with that.” He pointed to my glass, his finger touching my hand clenched around the tumbler. I’m surprised I didn’t drop it, adding to the baby pool of mixed drink that was congregating in my cleave. “And we’ll find a place to get you a Caipirinha.”

“What’s that?” Again with the mouth flapping before the brain can think. A Caipiriniaian or whatever was probably something that a club-going twenty-two-year-old would know about. I might as well have asked what Bud Lite was.

“Oh, it’s this awesome drink they make in Brazil. I was there last year. I saved all of my vacation and lumped it together at the end of the year with the week of Christmas. After three weeks down there, I almost didn’t come back.”

I sat there, paralyzed by his hotness and charm as he gushed about his rain-forest hikes and all-night parties in a tone of enthusiastic appreciation that up until now I’d only heard guys use to describe boobs.

“Have you ever been to South America?”

It took me a second to snap out of my gaga-eyed daze to answer, “Well, no. But I did go to Central America.”

“Really? Where did you go? I bet you have wild stories.”

“I was in Costa Rica with my—” The truth was that I went to Costa Rica with my family when I was twelve. And the story about me popping a braces bracket on a corncob probably was not the kind of wild tale he was looking for. “—best friend last year, and yeah, totally wild time.”

And while I thought the goal of tonight was to wear shoes so uncomfortable that I couldn’t even concentrate on the emotional pain of the Brian breakup, I still couldn’t help but compare my man of the moment with Bridgefield’s resident fart-lighting expert. This new manfriend was so interesting. With Brian, if it didn’t have to do with either how lame studying was or how awesome having a girl to make out with all the time was, we probably never spoke about it.

“So, what do you do?”

What do I do? What does that mean? “Like for fun?” I asked, confused. I couldn’t tell him that I mostly just sat around in sweats, snacking and writing in a diary.

“No, like for work.”

Shit. Cold terror flooded through me. I’d rather tell him about the sweatpants-and-cashew-chicken evenings, because I really couldn’t tell him that I was a high school intern. “I work in marketing at a media-buying company in Midtown. It’s called MediaInc, you’ve probably heard of it. There are flat screens in the elevator.” I smiled. That sounded very believable, despite being a half lie.

He raised his eyebrows. “MediaInc? No way!”

I nodded. “Yeah, since graduation.
College
graduation, that is.”

Who knew he’d be this impressed? It must be the plasmas in the elevator. Boys love technology. I was about to start telling him about the telephone system—which was, like, from 2038 it was so advanced—but he interrupted.

“I work there, too! I can’t believe I’ve never seen you around.”

My face went slack. “What?” I could hear my stomach drop to the floor and splatter. “You work there? At MediaInc? Like, really work there? Full-time?”

“Yep, full-time. Benefits, 401K. All of it. That’s so funny that I’ve never seen you.”

As the nerves kicked in, so did my sweat glands, and I could feel the skin on my face was now shiny and moist.

“Uh-huh, hilarious.” Panic. Panic.

“So, the marketing department, eh? That means that you must work with Derek Dorfman? I’m in meetings with that guy all day long.”

“You know Derek?” I gulped at my drink. Even though it was mostly water at this point, I hoped that maybe whatever vodka was in there would knock me out or make me puke or do something to get me out of this situation. Spontaneous death would work, too. I could feel my entire body flush and perspire. I was a sweaty liar trapped in my own deceit.

In the midst of my panic attack, my purse started vibrating. Rachel was probably calling in a fluster. I didn’t think she’d even been in the apartment without me. I could imagine her phone call with the police.

“She’s gone missing. There are no takeout containers and the TV is off. I’m really scared.”

Thank God. This was a painless, not death-inducing, way to get out of the situation before my working-girl cover was totally blown. “Oh, sorry, I’ve got to take this,” I told him, pointing to my flashing phone. “Nice meeting you.”

I turned to dash away but he caught my hand. “Actually, we didn’t meet. I’m Colin Christensen, associate sales supervisor.”

“Emma Freeman…” He waited expectantly for my title. “Junior, um…media…coordinator.”

“I’m impressed. You’ve obviously worked hard since you left college. Where did you go, by the way?”

What was this, Twenty Questions? I wanted to just run and leave him hanging, but it’s impossible to not respond to a guy this foxy. I drew inspiration from my bag. “Brown.” At least I didn’t say “Clutch.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around the office, right?” he chirped.

I smiled up at him and nodded, then turned as gracefully as I could in Jayla’s foot smushers and wobbled away as fast as my strappy feet could carry me.

Great, I didn’t even have a real job yet and I’d already committed career suicide.

I flipped open my phone to call Rachel to tell her that she could call off the search dogs, but instead saw four missed calls from Jayla. I dialed her as fast as I could, hoping that she hadn’t left me there alone.

“Whurdafuckarlyou?”

Definitely Jayla’s voice, but I could barely understand what she was saying.

“Jay? Jayla? Hold on, I can’t understand you. I’m going to step outside so I can hear.” I pushed through the mob of beautiful people, and when I lugged the club door open, I saw her standing on the street corner trying to hail a cab. She was a wreck—mascara tears rolling down her face, dress straps by her elbows, and one shoe in each hand. If she’d just had some nipple showing, I’d have mistaken her for Tara Reid.

How could she have gone from the fabulous Jayla to this makes-Paula-Abdul-look-emotionally-stable pile of weeping couture and drippy makeup since she took off not even half an hour ago?

I rushed up to her, threw one arm around her in a hug, and held my other out to hail a cab as if I were a pro.

“Jinxy, what’s wrong?”

“I fucking haythis!” Her words were slurred, but understandable.

“Hate what?”

“This shit.” She motioned around the street corner. “Goinnoutto club evey nigh’. Getting fuckin’ left behind by Chloe the sec she meets a boy. Explaining to my father how I spent three hundred fuckin’ dollars in one night. I’m fuckin’ sick of it.”

The word “fuck” hadn’t been used this much since
The Sopranos
went off the air.

“Okay, we don’t have to do it ever again,” I said in my mom voice, rubbing her back. Of course, that was pretty meaningless coming from me, as I would never go out to a place like that without Jayla leading the way.

“Well, what else is there to do in this stupid town?”

Wait,
she
was asking
me
what there was to do in this town? I mean, it’s New York City! It’s the concrete glam capital of the world. There are entire books, entire
long
books, written about what to do here—where to eat, where to shop, what to see. It’s the background for every fabulous story there ever was. There’s so much more to this city than using Daddy’s Visa and getting ditched by friends. But how come I couldn’t think of one goddamned thing to do?

A cab finally stopped in front of us and I flopped Jayla in one side and limped my high heels over to the other side and climbed in.

“We could catch some Broadway shows?” I offered lamely. Even I knew this was a wretched idea. She shot me a look that said that she’d rather move off this island if the only thing to do in this city was watch the little guy from
Queer Eye
prance around in
Rent
. And with that, she passed out, leaving me to figure out how to drag her up to the apartment on my own.