As I waited for the drinks, I tapped the bar with my fingers and hummed along to some random top forty song that was thumping through the place.
My patience wavered. Just as I was ready to cancel the order and head home, a flash of red gripped tight hold of my attention. Through the sea of men and lingerie clad women, my eyes followed the stunning brunette’s every step. Instant recognition flashed within me, and I took in a sharp unsteady breath the moment she turned around and I saw her face.
It couldn’t be.
I spun around and leaned my back against the bar allowing myself to get lost in the vision before me. My eyes, full of intrigue and lust, ran the length of her body several times; she was dressed in skinny jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin and caused me to ache in my pants and the red jacket she was wearing opened so subtly allowing a glimpse of her enticing tits. I was completely captivated as I took in everything about the girl in the red jacket.
As she dodged and weaved her way through the crowd, her wide eyes scoped out the room. Loose curls fell over her shoulder and swayed over the middle of her back. She looked so out of place amongst the lingerie covered women surrounding me, yet she was the only one holding my attention.
“Eden Rivers.”
At the sound of Ashlyn’s admission, I tore my gaze from my new obsession for the night and raised an eyebrow in question. “What did you say?”
“The girl you are staring at is Eden Rivers.” The smile gracing Ashlyn’s face was magnificent, and it took me a moment to realize she was holding out my beer. I grabbed the beer and lifted it to my lips desperate for some calm to sweep over me.
Eden Rivers.
“Fuck.”
I knew exactly who she was.
For the last four years I thought of myself as a walking contradiction. An enigma of society’s belief of what a twenty-four-year-old woman should be like. I am Eden Rivers; daughter, best friend, survivor, and tonight, on a cold November night in New York City, I was putting on my best mask and becoming the party girl everyone should be on their twenty-fourth birthday.
My best friend Tori and I had just spent four days driving cross-country, stopping at all the cliché road stops, taking honorary photos in front of inappropriate signs and landmarks, singing off key to hits of the eighties, and eating way too much junk but the fun had all but dissolved into a smoldering pit of unwanted torment the moment we crossed the New York state line. Now I was back in the city I had promised myself I would never step foot in again.
For the past four years, I had created a safety blanket in San Francisco. My life revolved around taking photos and getting lost in the escapism that it provided me. Most of my conscious hours were spent hidden behind a lens or sitting at my desk overlooking San Francisco Bay editing photos. The thing I loved most about photography was that I could create a different world, a different scene, simply by a few clicks of a button. It was my comfort, and the hundreds of photos I had taken was my therapy. Hiding behind my laptop and a camera allowed me to shut down the fear of being pushed into a situation I had no control over. Control was now everything to me—it was like the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart—and I needed it to survive. I controlled my life and the people I allowed to get close to me with such a strong shield. I needed that. It was crucial for my ability to function, and it allowed me to create a world that would allow me to find a purpose. It allowed me to be whoever I wanted to be, when I needed to be someone else. The scariest part of my new life was that I had absolutely no clue exactly who I was anymore. Who was Eden Rivers?
Pretending to be someone else was how I survived, and it seemed to be working for now. The best part was that it allowed me to go through life as a blank canvas, transforming into whoever I wanted to be when the need arose and tonight I would have to pull out the big guns—tonight I was back in New York City, I was back in nightmare territory and I had to give the impression that I was having a damn good time.
We stepped through the double doors of Delights, which was described online as a gentlemen’s club with high-class strippers and Victoria’s Secret-dressed girls at your beck and call. It would be the perfect place to escape for a few hours because what man would pay attention to me when there was buxom blonds and sultry brunettes wearing expensive lingerie right at their fingertips.
“Aren’t you glad we came out tonight?” Tori asked excitedly, bumping her hip against mine in the process. “We have so much to celebrate Eden! My girl is twenty-four, and there is every chance you will be surrounded by hot rock stars for the next few weeks. I have a feeling someone is going to get laid.”
Ahh yes, the very reason I had returned and no, it had nothing to do with the promise of getting laid, much to Tori’s frustration.
It happened three weeks ago when I was on my morning run along Pier 39. The crisp fall air of San Francisco blanketed my body and my mind was busily planning my day ahead which included two fashion shoots for a local designer. As I stopped, hunched over, gasping for air, I received an email. An email with the subject line: Meeting Request. The moment I opened it the bubble that I had created for myself in San Fran quickly started to deflate around me. I had read the email more times than I could possibly count. The words—we want you; amazing talent; rock bands; our magazine—were the words that stuck out, the words that seized my attention. It was an offer that was so unrealistic that I didn’t believe it to be real. This kind of opportunity had the potential to change my life. I still didn’t understand how they had come across my work, but I know that word of mouth was rife in this industry so I assumed it was from someone who had worked with me in the past. So what was the life changing opportunity I was offered, the one reason I had gone against everything I had promised myself and come back to my nightmare? Well it was the chance to shoot the cover and editorial for a leading music magazine that would take my photography global.
Anderson Publications was known everywhere. Fuck, I had been a fan of many of their magazines and spent a lot of time relaxing in the bath with a glass of wine and their latest issue, and the fact that they wanted me was unimaginable. The magazine they wanted me for was Bangs and Beats, which surprise, surprise, was located in New York…the one place I said I’d never return to.
So here I was in the midst of a gentlemen’s club in the belly of New York City with a meeting booked for the following week because I couldn’t fucking say no and I had a best friend who had told me I’d be stupid to reject the offer that was handed to me.
Story of my life.
I stood anxiously beside Tori, enclosed by the safety of women flaunting the bodies they had been blessed with and men whose hungry eyes were locked on every other woman but us. I sighed in relief. The tension in my shoulders escaped. Two things about this place offered the safety I needed. The first, knowing that I was the most overdressed woman in the place and second, that men with this kind of money were only concerned with the women shaking their goods in their faces. Yep, this was my safety net, and this was the reason Tori and I frequented strip clubs and highly exclusive clubs when we wanted a night out on the town. These kinds of establishments offered me the chance to fade into the shadows and not allow myself to get into a situation where I couldn’t control the outcome. Thank fuck I had a best friend who liked to party, no matter where it was.
“You know what? I think it’s time I let my hair down.” Even hearing myself allow those words to fall from my lips caused me to shudder in shock. It was my damn birthday, and I should be allowed to celebrate. Yep, it was my night. “However, that certainly doesn’t mean I am looking to get laid. You know that’s not me.”