But internally, my stomach is going nuts, and I am secretly craving a taste of something else. Something stronger than alcohol. Something sweeter than confection.
Something like Lukas.
A loud sound rings out in the empty room, almost making me jump out of my seat. I start to panic from where I sit, my head rotating on a rapid swivel, when I realize that the sound is coming from me.
It’s my cell phone in my wristlet. It’s ringing. It’s Linda calling.
I’m a piece of shit.
I’ve been putting off returning her phone call for days and now she’s resorted to calling me at the party. She knows I’m here… so why would she call?
It must be more important than the fashion emergency that I had previously assumed. I pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Elle? What the hell, girl? I’ve been calling you for days on end. Where have you been?”
I huff heavily. “In Tampa… trying to piece my goddamned life together. I’m sorry, Lin.”
Her voice softens. “Don’t be sorry for me, Elle. I have some bad news.” She hesitates.
“Looks like one of our pieces dropped out of the puzzle. Someone purchased the studio space we were buying.”
A long pause stretches out while I try to gather my thoughts. A minute passes. Two. Linda shows infinite patience.
I finally manage to find my words. “Wait… what? That can’t be… My offer on that space was pending.”
Linda sucks in a breath over the phone. “Not anymore. And as your friend, your attorney and your active representative, they broke the news to me a little over a week ago.
“I just didn’t want to break the news to you through voicemail or text. Just didn’t feel right.” She gives a small sigh, and it drops like a final axe, like the thud of a gavel, closing the case. Game over.
And there it is. That’s all, folks. Looks like I’m back to square one.
I don’t know what I feel. Hell… I’m not even sure what feeling is at this moment.
I’m too tipsy to process anything—too drunk to register any true emotions.
I wait for the additional kick to the gut, for the fiery onslaught of outrage to hit me, but neither one appears.
In fact, something totally unrelated starts to happen. I laugh.
The sound is almost hysterical, and I can hear myself cackling uncontrollably, but I can’t do anything to stop it.
I can barely hear Linda’s voice over the noise.
“Elle?”
“I’m sorry, Linda baby, but this is a party,” I squeak.
“Sure, I’m going to have to tuck my tail between my legs and go crawling back to my misery in Memphis. But tonight?
“I am fully fucking sedated. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get fully fucked as well. I’ll talk to you in person tomorrow.”
I hang up at the fading sound of my name, stuffing my cell phone back in the small pocket of the purse attached to my wrist.
I pick up my cupcake to take another bite. A minute passes before I consider what I just did. Shit. Did I really mean what I told Linda?
I just don’t know…
Maybe I’m using all of this hoopla to self-medicate. The party, the cupcakes… Lukas. It could all be a numbing method—a temporary anesthetic.
A large clatter from the adjacent kitchen interrupts my thoughts. I hear a voice soon after. A very distinctive voice.
I can’t avoid him. And if what I’m thinking really does apply, he may be just what the doctor ordered.
***
LUKAS
Despite being caught in a game of “Cat-and-Mouse” with the elusive Elena, I’m actually enjoying this party that we’ve arranged.
The drinks are cold. The women are hot.
But why the fuck doesn’t anyone here speak English?
I make a drinking motion with my hand. “White cognac,” I say. “White cog-nac.”
The kitchen staff stares back at me with blank eyes. I point to an empty glass on the counter. White… Clear…
They don’t understand a word I’m saying. Where’s the damn water?
They motion towards each other, speaking to one another in fluent French. I hear the word “tequila.”
“Tequila! Yes!” I slam an excited fist on the counter. “Tequila. I’ll take some of that.”
A chef in a large white hat nods, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of amber-colored liquid.
“Yes! No!... Not gold. Silver. Sil-ver.” I enunciate as if it will help them understand me any faster.
Ask me anything in Italian, and I’ll spit it right out. Talk to me in French, and watch my brain fry itself from the stress.
I start pointing at random staffers. “How about you? Ingles?” No, that’s Spanish. “Aleman?” Fuck. No.
What’s the French word for English?
Ang-something. Anglee. Anglass.
Ah! It’s Ang…
“Le monsieur veut savoir comment dire en anglais en français,” says a voice from behind me.
I wheel around to find myself staring at the “lady in red.” She raises her eyebrows, glancing quickly at me, and then back at the kitchen staff.
“Il veut aussi savoir si vous avez une liqueur claire.” Her French is impeccable, mellifluous.
The staffers exclaim simultaneously, throwing their hands into the air with mirthful enthusiasm. “Ahh, liquer clair!”
They talk excitedly. “Au début, nous ne savions pas ce qu'il voulait,” one of the chefs cries out.
“À un certain moment , nous avons pensé que peut-être même qu'il demandait des faveurs sexuelles.” He finishes the sentence with the same drinking motion that I used earlier.
Elena bursts out into laughter, prompting my eyes to dart between her and the staffer. She catches my narrowed eye.
“Something funny?” I ask.
She giggles, covering her mouth with a small hand. I realize that I’m the butt of some French-fried joke.
My anger is taking turns with desire, and the two jockey for position on the tip of my tongue. I don’t know whether to kiss Elena or curse her.
“They’re saying you confused them—that at one point, they thought you might be, uh… asking for sexual favors.” She makes that same “bottoms up” gesture.
Watching Elena do it, I realize how close the motion is to the act of sucking…
I bristle, getting ready to wipe the smirk off of the chefs’ grinning faces. They may not understand English… but they do understand the sudden anger that is radiating from my direction.
Their smiles drop.
The last chef to speak shakes his head at Elena, speaking even lower. “Aucune liqueur blanche.”
She nods ruefully in response. “Merci beaucoup, Messieurs. A bientot.”
She tugs insistently on my sleeve, pulling me gently into the next room. It’s quiet in this smaller space—with just me, Elena, and some extra chairs. In one of the chairs sits a swirly beige cupcake.
I turn to Elena. “That’s the second time you’ve rescued me tonight. Didn’t know you were as tired of the brown liquor as I was.”
She grins. “Who said anything about liquor? I was there for the extra cake.” She motions towards the small sweet that’s in the seat.
“And as the bride’s sister,” she continues, “I get first dibs.”
Her smile is genuine this time—real. It’s the first time she’s shown teeth since I’ve met her—teeth that weren’t involved in any snarling or growling at me.
Her eyes sparkle with uninhibited humor and when they do, my previous anger melts like butter. I am no longer pissed off; I am turned on.